Masks XXVIII: Old School

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Two

Vic put the case with the bulk of her armor in its usual place near the door. The new helmet - which didn't fit in the case yet, though it hopefully would after some modifications to the latter's padding - was plugged into the charger. It still had some power left, and had helped at the substation, but now was almost exhausted. Vic was glad the batteries had lasted long enough. She then moved to the couch and sank onto it with a grateful sigh. She was mildly amused when, just a few seconds later, the ShagShark robot sweeper finished its cleaning, and sang its "Happy Little Robot" song as it plugged in to charge.

Wonder when I'll get armor which will do that?

"Dinner's ready," said Michelle, poking her hear around through the doorway into the combined kitchen/dining room.

Vic's wife saw that she wasn't responding, and came all they way in from the kitchen, where Michelle had just finished making their evening meal. This evening it was supposed to be Vic's turn for chores, but doing the paperwork involved with the call to help the Denver Police Department at the substation had required her to get home late. Actual work took precedence over chores, even when it was just bureaucratic record keeping. Michelle had finished her own work at Curl Up and Dye while listening to the situation at the substation unfold over their recently-acquired police scanner. After a bus ride home Michelle found a message from her wife that Vic was at the Bureau's office at the federal building, finishing the follow-up tasks for the action and arrest. Vic was almost an hour late leaving work for home, thanks in large part to that.

"Just let me get changed," said Vic, rising with reluctance from the couch. "I'm wearing one of the armor's bodystockings under my clothes."

"So this guy at the substation..." began Michelle, following as Vic ambled to their bedroom.

"Allan Cuvier," said Vic, as she stripped. "He's being transferred to the closest Bureau holding facility. In fact, he's already on the way. The paperwork for that move is one reason I'm late. He was completely unknown to us before this, in spite of using his powers at his job for several years. At least, according to him. The follow-up investigation will find out if he's telling the truth."

"So, he was upset over being a super in a civilian job and not getting credit for doing super stuff. So he used his powers to act out in an obvious way to get attention, then sat down to wait for you."

"Not me, specifically," said Vic, as she pulled on fresh panties. Vic noted that she needed to shave, and smiled in anticipation, since Michelle usually helped her with that. The panties were followed by slacks and a t-shirt. No bra. No socks. Michelle sometimes complained about how rough the bottoms of Vic's feet were, but Vic still hadn't found shoes which were fully comfortable. That was one of the problems with having prehistoric feet. "Someone from the Bureau. I pointed out that if he had a grievance about his employer he could have simply filed a complaint. He hadn't thought of that."

Michelle Peltior was much darker of skin than her wife, with a full head of curly hair, though with dark eyes similar to those of Vic. She was a bit taller and curvier than Vic. She appeared to be a several years older than her spouse. In fact, they were very close in age. Michelle was definitely enjoying the show her wife was giving.

"You were also saying you would soon have some news about the theft from the property room, when you called at lunch," said Michelle, as the pair finally headed for the kitchen. "I want to hear more about that."

"Oh, yeah. Well, while none of this is classified, please don't repeat it. The FBI did a quick check of the property room and the secure vault inside it. Turns out the current, computerized list omitted a bunch of stuff which people remembered logging in or just knew was there, and which now can't be found. I don't have any details; this is mostly FBI stuff. There's also an old, hand-written list which no-one even realized they still had, until one of the older employees finally remembered it and thought to look for it. Much of the stuff on that old list is now gone. They think. Special Agent in Charge Dianne Colby told us that they plan to do an actual, thorough, physical inventory to check."

Vic and Michelle took their plates to the stove and began filling them.

"The current computer list also showed things as still present which we now know were taken out and sold on the black market. Like that ballistic vest which was assigned to me and was used by someone involved with a robbery. So, a lot of items are now thought to be missing, but they aren't sure, yet. Unfortunately, two of the people who were in charge of the property room are also now missing."

"How old was that written list?" said Michelle, as they sat at the table, bringing their plates. Their tumblers already had ice, and there was a pitcher of fresh-brewed tea on the table.

"About eleven years. It was last updated right before the computerized inventory was considered reliable enough that they could print that out if they needed a written record. They were just lucky someone found a copy of the old list. That is enough time for a lot of stuff to have 'disappeared.' Those same two guys were working in the property room that whole time."

"Well, I'm glad you're in for the night," said Michelle, as she gathered spaghetti on her fork. "The forecast is for rain for the next few days."

* * *

"More rain," said Cal, sourly, looking out the only window in the office shared by all the local Bureau of Special Resources workers. "This is turning out to be the wettest Winter on record."

"My farmer grandfather likes to say that no matter how much rain you have now, you're only three weeks from a drought," said Vic, her tone philosophical.

Their boss picked that moment to walk into the medium-sized room. Since all five of the people whom he managed were crowded into this one room, everyone in the Detroit office of the Bureau of Special Resources knew he was there and would soon know what he wanted. At least him actually coming down the hall like this meant that whatever it was couldn't be too serious, or he would have called the target of his attention to his own, small office.

"Vic, the FAA called. They finally finished examining the wreckage of Lightning Wire's plane. They'll present their findings in the warehouse where they have it stored at three this afternoon. I want you there."

* * *

The old airport hangar was at least out of the rain and wind, even if it did produce odd echoes from what the weather was doing. It had previously been used for storage, and all the items displaced for the reconstruction of the crashed aircraft had been stacked in the rear third of the space. The pieces of the plane in which Lightning Wire and their pilot had died were laid out on the concrete floor, arranged in a physical relationship close to what they would have had before the accident. Nearly the entire aircraft had been recovered.

There were several other people there besides Vic, from three other federal agencies and the local police department. All were known to each other except for the FAA tech, who was a specialist from out of town. He introduced himself, then started straight into the official explanation of what had happened to the plane.

"It was negligence, on the part of the aircraft owner," said the tech. "There was a known problem with the wings on this model of plane. The FAA sent out a bulletin about this, detailing the approved fix, five years ago. The change was not made to this plane. So one of the wings came off in flight."

"We were told they must have hit something in the air, to leave that dent," said Vic, confused.

"I don't know who told you that," said the FAA expert, "but we only just finished our examination of the wreckage. No, the only thing they hit was a sudden wind shift of some sort - probably a downdraft - and the wing came off. The dent came later, from impact with the water."

"Our investigation..." began the police Captain.

"Should not have started until we finished ours!" snapped the FAA tech. "To reiterate, this model of aircraft had a known problem, a problem which was not corrected in this specific plane. They lost the outer part of a wing, outboard of the port engine nacelle, because of that problem. The pilot had time for one, brief Mayday call, then likely lost consciousness due to the g-forces involved in the plane spinning out of control. The bent prop tips and wing dent are the result of hitting the water."

"So there was no plot," said the Captain. He frowned. "Unless someone loosened the nuts..."

"There were no signs of tampering," said the FAA man, firmly. "Also, the parts were riveted together."

"Or someone somehow knocked the plane out of the sky with a gust of air..."

"The weather was known to be gusty, and there was nothing on radar which hasn't been accounted for. Why are you trying to make this more than some sort of tragic accident?"

"People hate accidents," said Vic, with a sigh, when the Detroit police captain didn't reply. "We're all going to be accused of covering up the real cause of the crash."

"I've been through this before," said the investigator, his tone now sympathetic. "You're right; people want a direct cause and effect. Saying that the crash was caused by the owner's negligence of proper maintenance and unwillingness to spend money to fix a known problem won't satisfy them. It's still what happened."

* * *

"Wow..." said Blue Impact, as the three members of Tricorne looked around the main room of the Operators' lair a few days later. Vic didn't find it strange in the least that two of her three best friends wore masks in public.

The place was much better lit than during Vic's first visit; the current property owners had been cleared to use the lights in the concealed rooms, and even the plumbing. The old lair was not part of an actual museum, yet, but that was coming. The reconstruction project for the property was still in progress. This meant that the plans for this entire floor had to be changed with the discovery of the lair, but that work was almost completed. In just a matter of weeks this would be a small museum, entirely focused on the Operators. Meanwhile...

"They are nearly finished with the renovation," said Vic, as the members of Tricorne continued to look around. "They even drained and relined the old railroad tunnel to Canada, under the Detroit River. That means that a customs inspection station had to be installed at each end, which the respective governments didn't appreciate having to do. Oh, and you landed on the new helicopter pad on the roof, so you know about that being added."

Blue Impact nodded as she walked over to the radio table.

"You know, Operator 3 was supposedly a gadgeteer, specializing in early forms of electronic communication. This gear supports that."

The four of them had entered through the "Emergency Exit" into this largest room of the lair. The hole in the wall through which Vic and Detective Wight had originally entered had been expertly turned into a large window frame by the contractor. There was no Plexiglass in it, yet, but that was coming.

"Not so early," said Gadgetive, also affected by their environment, but more analytical and aware of the history of technology. "They already had many commercial AM radio stations, facsimile machines which worked over the telephone lines, teletypes, even primitive TV..."

"I'm just glad we weren't the ones who had to do the initial exploration of this place," said Energia, cutting her off. She grinned at Vic.

"Hey, I was part of that, and we didn't encounter anything dangerous," said Vic. "Well, outside the armory. Which we expected to be dangerous."

"Yeah, and you just know that if we had been called in there would have been some sort of super confrontation."

"Maybe," said a grinning Vic, who was well aware of the troubles Tricorne had experienced in previous explorations. "Though that giant, stone, shrunken head in the trophy room was more than enough confrontation for me, thank you. Especially since it has a surprised look frozen on its face. How did it get that way? How did they even get it in here?! There's nothing in the journals about it!"

"Ooh, ooh, I want to see that!" said Gadgetive, suddenly eager.

"It's on the tour," promised Vic, her grin widening.

The four of them went from room to room, with Vic playing guide. All parts of the lair had been put back in order by the conservators, based on the videos, still images and notes made by the initial explorers. This work was necessary, due to the place being vandalized/searched by persons still unknown. The only things now missing were the team journals and the contents of the arsenal. All of which had fortuitously been removed before the place was tossed by the felonius searchers. Replicas of the notebooks and weapons would be put in place before the museum opened, but that was still at least weeks away, even though the official opening of the renovated Michigan Central Station was in just a few days. Once this floor was ready the public would still not be allowed inside the lair. Instead, they would look through new windows in the thick, reinforced concrete walls of the Operators' headquarters. Most of those windows were currently being cut into the walls. Like the hole into the lair which had bee accidentally opened by the workmen during the demolition phase, they would be evened and framed. Though that would remain the largest.

After the lair was ready to serve as part of a museum, only caretakers and the occasional scholar would be allowed inside. This preliminary tour of Vic's was therefore a rarity, cleared by the owners of the building and the State Archeological Society.

Tricorne found the entire lair worthy of examination, but the trophy room garnered the most attention. All the items were still in place, though they had received some preliminary conserving. This mostly consisted of a light dusting.

"We need a trophy room!" said Gadgetive, suddenly both inspired and envious.

Energia was staring at the multi-tonne stone shrunken head Vic had mentioned, speechless.

"So, that hatch leads to the train yard and the subway?" said Blue Impact, pointing to the round door in the floor of the room.

"Yeah. Both now derelict."

Vic opened the hatch and showed them the long drop. Which she hadn't seen before, either, but had been told about. Like the other original doors into the lair, this would be fitted with a secure lock before the museum opened. For now, the only security was alarms in the access tunnels below, and the impressive climb. Plus a steel bar which prevented the handle of the floor hatch from turning when in place. A bar which Vic made sure to replace once the curiosity of her guests had been satisfied.

"The Operators never had an actual team vehicle," said Vic. She suddenly remembered something. "That reminds me. Is there any chance you'd sell the Bureau your small apergy vehicle?"

"Sorry, no," said Gadgetive, flatly.

"It's a prototype," said Blue Impact, more sympathetically. "It takes a gadgeteer to keep it running."

"Rats," sighed Vic. "I cover a large area, and only have ground transport. Well, keep our need in mind if your team ever needs money. Maybe you could build one just for us."

"You have a car and a bicycle," said Blue Impact, smiling. "Maybe you should add a motorcycle."

"Still only ground transport," said Vic, sighing again. "This is a big city, and there's just me - with some help from Lady Green - to cover it."

She resumed the tour. The members of Tricorne were suitably impressed. Especially with the large bathroom.

"One big one instead of several small ones," said Energia, thoughtfully. "Hmmmm..."

"I'm glad you could spare the time to show us all this, especially on such short notice," said Blue Impact. "It means a lot more, coming from someone we know."

"Well, I am your official liaison," said Vic, grinning. "I'm just glad you could stop by on the way from helping with that supervillain attack in Chicago. Lady Green and I are the only masks currently in this town. So having someone else in the business to talk to - even just for a little while - is something I value."

"You don't wear a mask," Gadgetive pointed out.

"Well, we better get back to the flyer before the meter runs out," said Energia, with a grin at her literal-minded teammate.

"You aren't flying back on your own?" said Vic, looking at Energia.

"Not today. Weather's too nasty."

"I can understand that," said Vic, nodding. She looked at Blue Impact. "Which is another reason why the motorcycle idea is out. I already have a hardtop car."

Masks XXVIII: Old School

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Three

"Turkey Jerky?" said Cal, reaching over to hold out a bag to his office mate.

"Thanks," said Vic. She gave a huge sigh as she accepted some of the smoked meat.

"You seem down."

"It's just... there are so many things which are just... hanging. The 'You're Arrested' mask murders, the identity of whoever hired those guys to steal the balance blades, the mastermind behind the fake volcano and that radioactive android at the Super Combat islands..."

"I may not know much about crime solving," said Cal, "but I do know a lot about problem solving. I think that's why Drake asked for me, when he was put in charge of this branch of the Bureau. One of the things I know about solving problems is that sometimes you have to put a particular problem aside for a while and work on something else."

"Heh. That might actually work. I'll try and focus on something besides those troubles for a while."

* * *

As a follow-up to the "death van" attacks - which Vic had been instrumental in stopping, and which hadn't actually killed anyone - a representative of the Bureau of Special Resources had been asked to meet with two people from the city. One of them was a man from the Mayor's Office, and he was accompanied a plainclothes detective representing the Detroit Police Department. There was also a man from a private business. The company the last worked for wanted clearance from the Bureau and Detroit police to destroy the house where the van builders/operators had been based. The company needed this formal go-ahead despite the fact that all evidence had been remove long before. Vic had volunteered to formalize the examination and approval. Partly because she had been involved in the capture of those behind the van. However, she also had not been inside the house before today and was curious about it. Partly Vic was here so she could get out of the office and away from unsolved cases.

The hideout proved disappointingly like any other empty house. The only remaining standout feature it had was that it was the last structure standing in the neighborhood, left untouched until the court cases against the young perps were settled. Which they finally had been, due to plea bargaining. However, the method being used to demolish the houses was unfamiliar to Vic.

"You're using fungus?!" said Vic, once they were back outside. She was a bit distracted by the pieces of heavy equipment already working on the remnants of some of the neighborhood houses.

"To break down the wood, mold and wallboard, and a few other things," said the man, who represented a company selling methods to safely remove the hazards presented by the many damaged buildings in the Detroit area. Some of which were actually left over from the riots in the Sixties. "Some of the fungi specifically eat the glue holding things together. Others attack other kinds of binders. Such as some of the fibers in most carpets, for instance. Others sequester heavy metals; and so on. Any structure which the city says is beyond saving, we seed with our engineered varieties of fungus. They can't survive sunlight or even too much fresh air, so they won't spread beyond where we put them. They don't spread through the ground because there's nothing there they are designed to eat. In just a few weeks, this whole house will be nothing more than a pile of compost."

"So it literally digests old buildings," said Vic, still sounding uncertain.

"This stuff turns water-damaged wood and many other construction materials - including anything held together by any of the common glues - into compost," said the man, proudly. "If we need to, we rip holes in the roof to let the rain in. The fungus does all the rest. It also devours mold contamination. All that will be left untouched is the metals, minerals like glass, most polymer items and any ceramics, such as the commodes. We will sift out that stuff and recycle it. Remember, most soil is just sand with organics mixed in."

"What if it starts, uhm, digesting something it shouldn't?" said Vic. "Say, the spores are blown around on a cloudy day and hit a new place under construction?"

She seemed far more concerned about what could go wrong than did the two men from the city. To be fair, they likely had already been through all this, since the company had been seeding abandoned buildings in Detroit for over a year.

"It can be stopped by a specific anti-fungal agent, or any of several ordinary detergent solutions."

"Sounds like a plan," said Vic, nodding. Though she thought the man was overselling the product.

"This isn't our first restoration," said the representative of the biochemical company, sounding confident. "We first tested this in small communities hit by Katrina. We've improved the fungus and its application with every subsequent disaster where lots of buildings have been damaged and abandoned. We did booming business after the Shilmek war. The government even approached us about weaponizing our fungus to attack Shilmek fabrics or whatever, but the war didn't last long enough for us to even finish the preliminary studies."

Vic looked around the dying neighborhood and sighed. She had come out here in part to get away from her problems. Instead, she was feeling a bit depressed. She remembered that night, with the helicopter and the multiple police cars and the EMP. All that was left, now - at least that showed - was this one house and empty, overgrown lots with piles of what looked like loam. At least the farm, beyond the fence, was little changed. Though the fields had been plowed recently. Maybe. Vic wasn't sure. Spending a few Summers helping her - at the time his - farmer grandfather was a long way from being an expert on fields.

"Well, we're through with the house," said Vic, oddly tired. "If the city is okay with it, go ahead."

"Oh, we're definitely done with this entire neighborhood," said the minor city official present, cutting off the Detroit PD Detective. "We have someone interested in turning this into a horse farm."

"Once more, commercialism drives activity," said Vic, drawing strange looks from the police detective and city official. The company rep seemed to not only understand her, but to approve of what she had said.

* * *

Vic was more glad than usual to get home that afternoon. She was starting to wonder if she had chosen the right career. However, even before she could get out of her office clothes, her wife intercepted her. Michelle looked unusually pleased about something.

"Well, I spent part - a small part, actually - of the money that deceased customer left me. Didn't even amount to the interest accrued for the past year."

Michelle grinned as she held up a hardbound book, previously behind her back.

"Malcolm 'Dutch' VanDemeer and Lawrence Hawthorn have collaborated on a multi-volume history of masks. I paid into their fundraiser, and am actually going to get a fancy version of each book as it ships from the publisher. So I get them before the book stores do or even before Amazon. Each volume will contain a lot of material from their combined experiences, as well as the various diaries and journals of the masks they knew. That includes things from the private records of the original Night Master!"

"Wow!" said Vic, eyes going wide. "Having met both those guys and heard them talking about what they did and saw in the Thirties and later, that promises to be... revelatory. I wonder if they did this because of the journals for The Operators being published. Though why did they have a fundraiser? They both have plenty of money."

"Advanced publicity, if nothing else. Though hearing you talk about them made me want to get this as soon as possible. I wanted to wait and read it together with you tonight, but when I came home and found the package waiting I just couldn't resist skimming it."

Michelle opened to a bookmarked page and read:

The Cliff House in San Francisco, sometime in 1937:

"Just what do you mean, by 'you folks'?" Judson the tiny woman.

"How long has it been since you had a cold?" asked Fen, jabbing in his direction with her fork. "Or any other illness? I'm willing to bet several years, at least. I'm also willing to bet that your bullet wound was completely healed in about a week, and that after the first day it hardly bothered you. That you have better vision and hearing than most other people. That things most folks find difficult you find easy, and that things they find impossible you find merely difficult. I have already remarked on your youthful appearance, and you on mine. Shall I go on?"

"I hadn't thought about these things in a while," said Judson, slowly, as he nodded thoughtfully. "There was a time when it seemed to me that there was, indeed, something special about me. I didn't follow up on the concept, though. It seemed... immodest. I also had more urgent matters to attend to."

"You're what I refer to as a Type One," said Fen. "Young Janis is a Type Three. Dutch is a Type Two."

"How many of - 'us' - are there?" asked Judson, intensely curious. As well as noting that she didn't say what category she fit into.

"At least several thousand, scattered across the world, and the number is increasing," Fen informed him. "In fact, it is increasing far faster than the world's population. Some of that increase is likely simply due to the improved ease of communication, so we know about more of them. Also, I have traced - with varying degrees of certainty - some of these characteristics back several generations. Speaking of which, it tends to run in families. You ought to hear Dutch talk about his grandfather on one side and his great aunt on the other."

"Then this 'something' is hereditary," Judson said, thinking of his own mother and half-sister.

"I don't know," Fen admitted. "Some people seem to be born strange... while others may have strangeness thrust upon them."

Judson rolled his eyes at her paraphrasing of the Bard.

"Anyway, some people seem to be able to do more than others practically from birth, while others live normal lives for decades, then suddenly discover that they can start fires with a dirty look, or something equally odd."

"No-one knows what is causing this?"

Fen was quiet for a long moment, then sighed and shook her head.

"That is one of the things I hope this study will reveal."

"So, these abilities run in families, and there are more people who have them every year," said Judson, when she didn't elaborate. "That sounds distressingly like evolution."

"To some extent," Fen agreed. "However, even people who had unusual abilities twenty years ago have them more strongly, now. Take me, for instance. When I first demonstrated telekinesis it seemed like a miracle that I could lift a twig with thought alone. Today, I can lift more than my own weight."

"That explains something I noticed about your loft," said Judson, nodding. "The kitchen counters and table are built to your height, but the upper cabinets are situated at the normal level above the floor. With nary a stool nor stepladder in sight."

"That was very observant," said Fen, sounding pleased. "You are the first person to notice the discrepancy. Or at least the first to comment on it. Yes, I can put things into or bring them out of the cabinets with telekinesis. Or I can levitate myself. The latter takes a great deal of effort, though."

"Something very disturbing just occurred to me," said Judson, his tone the sort which most people would use for discussing a minor quirk in the weather. "Regarding Big Eddie..."

"You think he might be one of us."

"He is unusually large, unusually strong, and unusually good at controlling his criminal empire."

"He may have whatever it is that makes us different," said Fen, with a shrug. "Or he might just be big and strong and smart. You can't blame everything on this."

"Still, if he is..."

"It might explain why you and everyone else have had such a difficult time getting rid of him."

"How do we tell?" Judson asked. "How do we determine just who is one of 'us?'"

"With some people it's obvious," said Fen. "We do seem to have distinguishing features, though those are not always something physical. Ever meet someone who had 'the look of eagles?'"

"I take your point," Judson replied, remembering several individuals he had known who qualified.

"Then there's whether they have any persistent debilitating injuries, or ever get sick, both of which would tend to eliminate someone from our rather exclusive club," Fen continued. "Also, if someone can place a hex or do something else which should be impossible, that is a dead giveaway. As for being certain, well, my research might reveal some specific factor which can be tested for."

* * *

Melody closed the book and looked expectantly at her wife. Somehow, during her reading the pair of them had migrated to their new couch.

"Wow," said Vic, as the other woman finished. "Now I'm wondering if Conrad Kostinos is, as the book puts it, 'one of us.'"

"Maybe. As it also says, maybe he's just smart. Of course, being smart, by itself, doesn't guarantee success, and Conrad Kostinos has been very successful."

Melody opened the book a different marked page to read another excerpt, also from 1937:

"Inventiveness runs in my family, though not necessarily practicality," said Fen, chuckling. "One cousin, around fifty years ago, decided he was going to build a sidesaddle bicycle. What scared people was that he almost succeeded."

"Okay, that's funny," said Vic, grinning. "That cousin sounds like a failed gadgeteer."

"That's only a couple of excerpts," said Michelle, closing the hardback with a clap. "You really should read this."

"It's amazing how much she got right back then," said Vic, thinking about what Michelle had read to her. "Though she also got a lot of stuff wrong or only half right."

"Hawthorne, later in the book and later in history, also writes about being the other sex, through his shape changing," said Michelle, giving Vic a pointed look.

"Been there, done that," said Vic, with a sigh. "Though it was only once in my case, and involuntary at that. Still disturbing."

"I'm almost finished with this. You can have it next."

"Okay, okay!" said Vic, laughing. "Geeze, you had me at 'Malcolm VanDemeer and Lawrence Hawthorn have collaborated on a history of masks.' Also, that sounds like a lot more than just 'skimming'! When did you find time for reading that much?"

"Well, reviewers and others have published excerpts - samples, I guess - so I already had a good idea what to read you for some parts."

Masks XXVIII: Old School

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Four

Vic and her boss were meeting one of the archivists working to examine and conserve the Operators' lair and its contents. The three of them were all currently seated in Drake's small office.

"We finally heard from a family member of one of the Operators," said the archivist. "She's a great-granddaughter of Captain Sticky, and an Internet influencer. She uses the online name Hannah Anna Banana."

"Ow," said Vic, wincing. "It's not even that popular of a song."

"Song?" said the archivist, obviously puzzled. "Never mind. We verified through several means that she - real name Caroline Anders Tomlin - was actually Captain Sticky's descendant. Including by looking at her DNA."

"So what did she say?" said Drake. "About the publication of the journals, I mean."

"That it's ancient history and none of her business."

"Well, I disagree with the first part of that evaluation," said Drake. "However, I'm glad she doesn't care."

"Though I bet that changes if the sales of the journal make money," muttered Vic.

"That is unlikely," said the archivist. "That she would change her mind due to money, I mean. The whole family is very wealthy, thanks to Captain Sticky's inventions and careful investments."

"Well, that's one more hurdle cleared," said Drake, nodding. "Thank you for the information."

* * *

"Another line of storms is supposed to move across this part of North America this weekend," said Vic, looking at the Weather Underground site on her work computer, on a Friday a few mornings later. She sighed, and continued with a sour tone. "The front is supposed to get here late Monday, maybe early Tuesday morning. More work for emergency crews and super teams. Probably for the Bureau, too. Though my abilities aren't suited for that sort of work."

"Well, cleanse your palate with this: They're bringing back Doc Wilson's Whiz-Bang Antifungal Ointment," said Cal, smiling, from where he sat at his desk next to Vic's. "Stuff hasn't been made since a then-new FDA administrator decided to crack down on 'patent cures' in the late Sixties. It took an Act of Congress to get it made legal again. However, you'll now need a prescription for it."

"My farmer grandfather was irate when the government made the parent company take it off the market," said Vic. She gave a short laugh. "He was still complaining about it when I was a kid, decades later. Mainly because _his_ father complained about it. My great-grandfather said it would cure both humans and livestock, so naturally 'they' made it illegal, and my grandfather echoed him."

She gave another short laugh, an ironic one this time.

"About the only thing both my grandfathers agree on is their hatred of 'government overreach.'"

"Yet here you are, working for the federal government," said Cal, with a smirk.

"Ah, but the Bureau of Special Resources is seen as a rogue agency," said Vic, with a matching smirk. "Just ask most Congresscritters. Or either of my grandfathers."

The storms were still coming, but at least her coworker had lifted her mood. A bit.

* * *

The next Monday morning briefing was more interesting - and more pertinent to those in attendance - than usual. Not just due to the oncoming storm, either.

"We have some new information on Conrad Kostinos, probably aka John Mark," said Drake. "He bragged a few times that he was a descendant of Washington McAndless. That he inherited his long life from him."

"The Old Prospector?" said Cal, obviously impressed. "Wow. Isn't he still around?"

"Yeah. What I'm saying is, that if Conrad Kostinos had an ancestor with the genes for some sort of super-type longevity, he could still be around, too."

Drake let them digest this for a while.

"We have managed to contact McAndless and arranged to have a conference call with him. Later today, in fact."

"Well, whatever else you do," said Cal, tone wry, "don't call him 'Wash M'Hands.' He hates that."

* * *

"Not one of mine, that I know of," said McAndless, when asked over the phone about Conrad Kostinos. He sounded crotchety and querulous, as he had for well over a century. "Only kin I know of in that area wuz Louise McAndless Colditz, and she died donkey's years ago."

"Wait. She was the mother of Emil Colditz," said Drake, startled. "The kidnapped boy from 1923."

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" said Vic, looking at her boss. "That when they didn't get the ransom, instead of killing the boy they handed him over to their boss. Who renamed and adopted him."

"I heard about that mess, but months later," said Washington. "Sad situation. Probably what killed Louise so young. I wuz real sorry about it. Kept thinkin' I could'a done something if'n I'd just heard about it sooner. Couldn't think of what, though. Don't know anything about him being adopted by Kostinos, though."

"Well, thank you for this information," said Drake. "I can't think of any further questions just now, but I'll get in touch if I do."

"Be sure to let me know what you find out, too," said the Prospector. He gave a humorless laugh. "If any of you are left after those storms get through with you. They're supposed to get pretty bad in your area late tonight."

"Do you think he knew?" said Vic, after the old man had rung off. "I mean, did Kostinos know he was actually Colditz? Or maybe still does know..."

"Irrelevant for our purposes," said Drake. "We might be able to ask him, if we can find him."

* * *

Despite being on the job for several years - and having a masters degree - Vic was still learning. Her best teacher turned out to be her boss. Something he proved again before sending those he supervised home that afternoon. Well aware that if the storms that night were particularly bad he might not see any of them for a few days.

"Look for connections," said Drake, speaking in the common office of the employees - most of whom had not worked in crime before starting here - but looking at Vic. "Organized crime must interface in some way with legitimate businesses, or what they take in is worthless."

"So watch for money laundering," said Vic, nodding. She grinned. "Perhaps even literally."

"Laundries have, indeed, been used for that purpose," said Drake, straight-faced. He looked around the office. "Now, everyone go home. Pay attention to the weather reports. Don't worry about coming in tomorrow if things get bad."

* * *

"Sometimes I envy the Dragon's Hand," said Vic, lounging back on their new couch, enjoying a quiet evening with her spouse before the storms hit. "Back when she was active in the Thirties and Forties she did things like punch out tanks and jump off buildings for fun."

"You have definitely punched out supers who were at least as tough as tanks," said Michelle, pointedly. "Also, don't you jump off buildings for fun?"

"Yeah, but I cheat."

"How do you know she didn't cheat?"

"She also convincingly disguised herself as a boy," said Vic.

"Different times," said Michelle, literally waving that point away. "She needed to disguise herself to protect her family and friends - like so many masks today - and people in general were more accepting of males - even boys - as costumed adventurers back then. Even after she retired - in the late Forties - to settle down and raise a family there were still people who insisted the Dragon's Hand must be male. When she published her memoirs people said that Janis was just stealing the real Dragon's Hand's fame for herself."

"You've been studying," said Vic, grinning.

"You talked so much about her that I figured I better. Besides, Dutch and Lawrence write about her a lot in that book. Very favorably, too. I get the feeling both had a crush on her, but were too intimidated by her to act on it."

"I'm only to the second chapter," said Vic, defensively. "I'm just... very busy."

"Well, if the storms are really bad tonight, you should have time for reading over the next few days."

"'If...'"

* * *

Randy and Karen Devon stood with one of their two children in their back yard, watching the lightning illuminating the distant clouds after dusk. The forecast was for strong thunderstorms, and several areas west of them had already been hit. Some with tornados. As often happened, the front was both angled and curved, and was arriving here a bit before places to the north and northwest. The air was still, but they could all sense the storm brewing in the distance.

"It would go through at night," said Karen, sourly. "We won't be able to see anything coming, and have to rely on radio, TV and Internet warnings."

"It's time like these I envy my niece," said Randy, quietly, as he looked at the clouds coming over the horizon, visible thanks to the lights of the city to their west. "She can _feel_ the electricity in storms."

"Yeah, yeah," said Sarah, rolling her eyes. "It's a big storm, yadda-yadda, Energia can feel it, yadda-yadda..."

"Respect your cousin," said Randy, firmly. "She's older than you and a lot more experienced."

"Roy is only a little older than me and not experienced, but you say I have to respect him!"

"Because he's your older brother," said Karen. She looked worried. "I just hope he gets home from his job soon. I don't like him being out driving in this weather."

"Howcum he gets a van?" said Sarah, with all the passion of an eleven year old who perceives an injustice.

"He has a driver's license," said Karen, tiredly, having been over this with her multiple times. "Besides, you can fly. You don't need a van. Just don't fly without wearing a mask, and be careful about people not seeing where you take off from and land at."

"Yeah, yeah..." said the youngest member of the Devon family.

She started to say something snarky, but sirens began sounding, cutting off Sarah's retort.

"Uh-oh," said Randy. "We better get inside and check the radio."

"That's so old-fashioned!" yelled Sarah, as they hurried indoors. "Use the Internet!"

Her parents actually did both, as well as turning on the TV. As it turned out, a tornado had been detected as part of the approaching storm, picked up on infrasound sensors and radar. However, the worst of the storm - the part with the tornado - was supposed to pass north of them. Randy told his wife and daughter to get to the storm shelter in the basement, anyway.

"I'll watch for Roy, and bring..."

He was cut off by his son arriving. Roy seemed completely unconcerned about the storm. He parked the van in their garage, made sure the door was starting down, then wandered in an unhurried manner into the kitchen. Where the rest of the family was waiting impatiently for him.

"What's going on? Why are those sirens..."

"In the shelter! Now!" shouted Randy, ushering the three of them towards the stairway down, at the back of the kitchen. "I'll explain once we're safely underground."

Digging a subterranean storm shelter as an extension to their basement had been trivial for someone with Randy's powers. He'd even let Roy and Sarah help expand it when they got their own powers, partly as training. Concealing the entrance had been only slightly more difficult. The small chamber deep under their back yard had an independent power supply - high-efficiency rechargeable batteries - and air recycling, as well as an Ethernet cable for an Internet connection. As Karen closed and secured the door into their basement shelter Randy booted the laptop kept in there.

"Remember when I developed a reaction to the glue in the masks I was using?" said Karen, mostly to get the children's minds off the situation.

"Yeah," said Randy, absently, as he called up the weather forecast. "Even though it was supposed to be hypoallergenic."

"Have either of you kids had any kind of irritation like that?"

They both responded in the negative.

"So, this storm is actually a big thing?" said Roy, looking surprised. "At work they said it wasn't. They wouldn't even let us go early."

"I'll have to speak with your boss," said Karen, her tone promising much.

"No, don't," said Roy, quickly, now looking worried. "I mean, it kind'a blew up fast, didn't it? He was probably basing that on old data."

"Regardless, now that you're here we're hunkering down and waiting out the storm," said Karen, firmly.

"What about helping people hurt by the storm?" said Sarah, almost whining.

"We start helping _after_ the storm passes," said Randy, as firmly as his wife had made her earlier statement. "We can't do anything about the storm itself, but as soon as it is by us we go out and help. Now, does everyone have their costume, or at least a mask?"

"Uhm, I don't," said Roy, appearing uncomfortable. "All that stuff is in that hidden compartment in my room."

"I do!" shouted Sarah, before her parents could say anything in response to this.

The girl struck a ballerina pose and twirled around rapidly. Suddenly, with no additional drama, her outfit changed. She stopped spinning and struck a pose. She was now fully costumed, including mask.

"See?"

"How did she even _get_ that?!" said Randy, stunned. "It was a gift from the Crystal Oracle! A gift to _me_!"

"Why don't you go ask it?" said Karen, irritated. Actually, she was frightened of the storm, but trying not to show this.

"I'm not sure I could even find it. I drove and walked there and back, but that was... in a different timeline. Though I guess I could ask Tiger, next time he's in the area..."

"Anyway, I keep my main costume and a stack of masks in here," said Karen. She realized that she had raised her voice, because the wind sounds from the storm had increased enough to be loud, even in the shelter. "Assuming you _do_ want to help, Roy, and that the house holds together, you'll have to get your costume and a mask later. Meanwhile, we do the hardest thing we can do. Which is wait."

The wind noise grew even louder.

Masks XXVIII: Old School

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Five

The four Devon supers - in costumes and masks, with Randy transformed into Template - didn't do much cleanup or rescuing after the storm, though they did some. The worst of the winds and rain had missed their area, and most of the damage they saw involved trees in saturated ground giving way due to the strong winds. The family's methodology was simple: They flew around while listening to emergency radio communications on their ear buds. Once they found a situation where they could help - whether by radio or through their own searching - they hurried to do so. They turned out to be almost the only masks working in their area. The members of the quartet were definitely the only people in costume whom they saw.

Template carried a shrunken Colossa plus Roy while Sarah flew alongside. Sarah, as befitted her costume - inspired by her favorite Americanized anime - called herself Princess. Roy still hadn't settled on a mask name, but was leaning towards Royal. This somewhat fit his costume, an old-fashioned formal, long-tailed jacket, with black pants, gloves, top hat and mask, something which looked like it could have been handed down to him by the Black Mask, himself. Whom Roy had actually met. Apparently, the older super had made a significant impression on the young man.

Remarkably, while there were many "Princess" somethings and "Royal" somethings in the registry, both names without modifiers were available.

Together the family of supers moved a few trees and large branches, mostly to clear blocked roads. Template also had Royal use his energy control to make sure any wires were dead before she moved them. She was invulnerable, of course, but there was no sense taking chances, when Royal could do this from a safe distance. He could even trip the cutouts if that were needed. The two adults considered this to be largely a training mission for the kids, helping them understand what they could do in an emergency. As well as what they shouldn't do. Perhaps most importantly, the children were taught how to apply their gifts to help people.

Although Template was stronger than Colossa even at her largest, there were circumstances where the latter's size at full growth made her more suitable for handling large objects. This became particularly obvious when they had to deal with a certain huge, old oak tree which had been felled by the winds. The official rescue workers were glad to see them. Cutting up the tree was slow going, and the only person still directly affected by it was... impatient.

The tree had toppled onto a house. Though there was little damage - only the leafy top had actually hit the structure - part of the roof had collapsed and the wreckage and tree limbs were blocking access to an upper-floor bedroom where an elderly woman was trapped. Fortunately, she was both unharmed and communicative. Very communicative. Colossa hopped to the ground from her perch on Template's head and expanded to her full size.

Working with the rescue experts, Colossa - now many times typical human size - supported the trunk while the other three in her family used their powers to remove the leafy upper portions. That way they could see what needed to be done next, and how to do it. This also gave the non-powered rescuers room to use their chainsaws. Roy's powers were especially useful after they had the tree away from the house. He was able to transmute part of the scrap wood into a large sheet of dense, water resistant paper which would keep any further rain out until proper repairs could be made.

In a very short time they reached a stage where the four supers could move on and leave the rest to the experts. Though the old woman was heard to ask loudly why they couldn't "put everything back the way it was" before they left. Colossa quickly explained that the unions didn't want them doing carpentry, which seemed to satisfy her.

As they flew away, though, one member of the quartet voiced his own criticism.

"I am really glad I don't have to change into a girl to use my powers," said Roy - or Royal - with a critical glance at Template.

"What's wrong with being a girl?!" demanded Sarah - or Princess - gleefully.

"Would you want to change into a boy?"

"No! Boys are icky!"

"I hope that settles that," muttered the miniaturized Colossa, as she settled back into her perch on Template's head.

* * *

Fortunately, the storm also spared Detroit most of its fury. There were some limbs and a few entire trees down; some blocks were without power; some streets were closed due to flash floods. Overall, though, the city had gotten off lightly from the tempest.

However, there were far more sources of danger than wind and rain.

"Do you remember that the judge in charge of the case of the two problematic cops claimed that they had threatened him?" said Drake, to Vic, in a private meeting in the boss' office the day after the storm. "He was found dead in his study by his housekeeper this morning. Shot multiple times in the back. Probably by someone who used the noise of the storm to cover the sound of the shots. Maybe of the killer's approach, too. There are no signs of a struggle. No evidence the judge had any warning."

"Ow. I'm... well, not surprised, but..."

She floundered, at a loss for words.

"The two cops had their bail revoked and the city of Detroit has asked for federal help with the investigation," said Drake, picking up the thread of the announcement when Vic stalled out. "By the way, the city is still officially supporting those police officers. The FBI and the Marshal's Service are the main agencies working the case, but we may be asked to assist them. Just a heads up."

* * *

"You wanted to see me?" said Sarah, as she entered her father's office.

"I did an inventory of the supplies in our shelter after we used it," said Randy, sternly. "The breakfast bars had been replaced by a box of Taco Crunchies cereal."

"Why are you blaming me?" she whined, even though he hadn't actually blamed anyone. Yet.

"You're the only person in this family who likes that... junk."

"Taco Crunchies aren't junk!" said Sarah, with the conviction of a true believer. "They're great!"

"No, that's Frosted Flakes," said Randy, to her confusion. "Listen, the emergency supplies were put there for emergencies. Don't mess with them!"

"Yes, sir," said Sarah, with a sigh.

* * *

Vic and Drake were indeed invited to a joint meeting of the local FBI and Marshal's Service to discus the assassination of Judge Wapakoneta. Detroit's head coroner gave the initial presentation. An FBI profiler then translated.

"Someone put six slugs into the judge's back, as he was sitting at his desk," said the FBI woman. "The first two hit the spine, just below the base of the neck, from a range close enough to leave powder residue on his clothes and the top of his chair's back. The bullets hit very close together. The first shot likely killed him instantly, with the second being fired immediately after it. A double-tap. The rest were fired more deliberately after he slumped forward, from a bit more distance and at a different angle, and were probably insurance. Or maybe a message. None of the bullets hit the Judge's chair. The first two shots were just over the top of the chair's back, leaving the powder burns on the leather; the other four were at an angle and from further away. The city wants state and Federal help with this investigation, since it involves both civil rights and the murder of a local judge. Because the original case involved someone with powers the FBI wanted to include folks from Special Resources.

"The judge was shot enough times that we were able to reconstruct a full set of rifling markings on the bullets," the FBI profiler continued. "We quickly determined that the bullet diameter was .357 and the type of bullet was a modern, jacketed hollow-point. Each projectile likely started at 158 grains, and was probably made within the past decade. The impact velocity was low enough that even those modern bullets barely expanded. So when someone found an old, First Series Detective Special with a two-inch barrel, in .38 Special, ditched in a storm sewer near the scene, we immediately tested it. It gave us a match for the rifling marks on the bullets. The empty cases were still in it, which confirmed that the cartridge was a modern .38 Special commercial load, one specifically intended for use in guns with short barrels. We also recorded the chamber markings on the cases and the firing pin marks on the primers. Unfortunately, the gun and the cartridge cases had all been wiped clean, so we didn't get any prints. Somebody was being thorough."

"A snubby in thirty-eight Special?" said Drake, frowning. "That combination is a rather traditional hit weapon. Not an assassination weapon; a close-up hit gun. That type of firearm is, as the name for the model of the gun you found implies, an old-school plainclothes detective's weapon, and also a traditional concealed carry gun, and so on. So we may be looking for an old cop or an old mobster. Of course, it's also a popular throw-down or throw-away gun even today."

"Yeah, those old-style guns can often be picked up cheap, since these days they are seen as unsafe, 'cause of the fixed firing pin on the hammer," said one of the older Deputy Marshalls at the briefing. "They are still effective, though. There were a lot of 'em made, and they were in use for a long time."

"Still are in use, some places," said the profiler. "I think they were manufactured until the mid-Nineties, with some updates along the way, like a transfer bar safety. The murder weapon was an old gun, though. The serial number was obliterated, but we're trying to bring it out. The lab boys say there's a better than even chance, but it won't be a quick process."

* * *

The assembled Detroit SWAT teams were getting roughly the same briefing from their overseer, Captain Anders, at roughly the same time. However, when the Detective reached the part where he described the murder weapon, Officer Magrum raised his hand.

"No, Doug, it does not take Glock mags," said his superior, tiredly, without needing to hear the question. "It's a revolver."

There was some general laughter. Magrum jerked his hand down and sat, stone-faced, through the rest of the presentation.

Afterwards, however, he confronted his superior on the way to his office. Who told Magrum to be quiet until they were in that office, with the door closed.

"Nobody will tell me why they think it's funny if I ask what kind of magazines a revolver takes! I'm tired of it!"

"Because except for a very limited few revolvers - like the Dardick - they don't use magazines!" yelled his boss.

"Then how do they shoot, huh?!" said Magrum, pointedly. "Where do they keep the bullets?!

"Get out of my office," said Captain Anders, tone low and deadly. "If you're tired of being laughed at, learn how guns work. Meanwhile, I'm tired of _you_!"

* * *

"That man has a head full of unwashed socks," said Anders, tiredly. "Ignorance can be cured, but this guy doesn't want to know anything! Isn't there any way to get rid of him?"

"How do you think he wound up here?" said his assistant, Lieutenant Danville, with an equal lack of energy. "Despite our strict criteria. I don't think there's anywhere left you can transfer him to."

"He refuses to recover his empty magazines! 'Why bother; they'll just give us new ones. These are all used up.'" Anders groaned, and held his head. "He seems to think that the magazines are factory-loaded and can't be refilled."

"He is a good shot, though," said Danville, a bit reluctantly. "That's why he got the sharpshooter position in SWAT. Of course, his belligerent ignorance is why he's always stationed away from the action. The other SWAT officers don't like him any more than you do."

* * *

"Wanna go out for dinner?" said Vic. "We can try that new place, near that nightclub we like, then go clubbing after. The Free Electron Band is the lead act the next few nights! They are guaranteed to leave blisters on your eardrums!"

"I'm all right with staying in tonight," said Michelle, barely looking up from the cosmetology magazine she was reading.

Vic wondered if she were sick. Normally, with a build-up like that, she would make a joke about not having her spouse's regeneration. Then came a dread feeling... that Michelle was aging, while Vic was not. That she was losing her energy for both such entertainments and such retorts.

"Are you all right?" said Vic, sitting herself next to Michelle on the couch and taking her hand.

"Uh, yes," said Michelle, surprised by Vic's solicitous attentions but not minding them at all. She put the magazine down. "I just don't feel like going out tonight. Besides, Megatherium is playing at the same venue next week, and I'd much rather hear them."

Still, she didn't talk much while they prepared their evening meal. Even after supper that evening, Michelle seemed unusually pensive and quiet.

"Is something wrong?" said Vic, again suddenly very attentive. As well as concerned. Even if the problem was not that Vic wasn't aging - after all, Michelle was only in her early thirties, so that was unlikely so soon - what if Vic had unknowingly brought home something impacting her health home? Some bug or toxin which she wouldn't even notice, thanks to her super healing?

Michelle shifted uneasily, then sighed.

"For a long time I was worried that after I stopped finding things to teach you about being a woman that I would no longer be useful to you," said Michelle, in a quiet voice.

"I love you," said Vic, actually feeling relieved. "Yeah, it's nice when you teach me things, but I married you because I love you. It's not about being useful."

"Oh, I realized that pretty early," said Michelle, grinning, a bit more like her usual self. She gave Vic a kiss on the top of her head. "It's still nice to hear you say it. However, I also like to feel useful in our relationship."

"Well, you're a lot better cook than I am," said Vic, trying to inject a bit of levity.

"Don't I know it," said Michelle, rolling her eyes. "You under-season everything."

A bit relieved, but also still worried, Vic made a point of being extra affectionate for the rest of the evening.

* * *

"One of the local papers had an editorial about Lady Green and me and said that Detroit had never had super protectors based here before," said Vic, a couple of mornings after the storm. She arrived in the office a bit before Cal, and had to wait for him - and for him to get settled in at his desk - before bringing this up. "I know that's not right; at the very least they had the Operators in the Thirties and Forties, right? You'd think the recent news about their lair being discovered would have put awareness of them in the mind of the editor."

"There were more than just them," said Cal, firmly. "Though I can't say anything about what the editor should know. I also can only think of one Detroit mask before the Operators, though, and he was a myth. People can't even agree on what he was called. However, The Black Swan began operation in the city in the late Fifties. The Crimson Heron may have been her daughter; she is more recent, but also retired, and hasn't been seen since the late Seventies."

"What is it with supers having a color in their name?" said Vic, not quite complaining. "Even one of the Intrepids has Black in his name."

"Black is the absence of color," said Cal, straight-faced.

"You know what I mean."

"The Black Swan wasn't Black, either. She was Native American. Forget what tribe."

"Still not what I mean."

"Let's see... From the Thirties to the Eighties I think that's about all that were actually in Detroit. In other parts of Michigan you had Domino Damsel, Drachpfinel, Tie-Breaker, Boiardi and a few others. Two of those didn't even have secret identities; they were like you, and went by their own, legal names. In Chicago you had Höflmayer from the mid-Thirties into the Eighties. None of those had a color in their name."

"Okay, maybe me thinking that a lot of 'em had a color in their mask name was just confirmation bias," Vic admitted. "You can't deny that Lady Green has a color in her name."

"Got me there," said Cal, grinning.

They both - along with the others on the small office - looked up as Drake came in.

"Need you to get suited up," he told Vic. "We have reports of a rogue super at a mall. Lady Green is on the way, but you need to get there, too, as soon as you can."

* * *

"Turned out to be a guy who discovered he could literally make others dance to his tune. He had a problem that as soon as he stopped playing they stopped dancing, but he still managed to grab a bunch of small items at several stores."

"So, a music-based form of mind control."

"Apparently. As soon as I damaged his concertina the effect ended. Only...

"'Only?'"

"When we first got there we were given a vague description, from a guy who called the concertina the perp used an accordion," said Vic, angrily. "Caused us no end of trouble finding the guy. We were looking for a much larger instrument, and he could hide what he was actually using under his coat. We didn't twig until he started using it again. "

"Witnesses," said Drake, with a tired sigh.

"Except this witness was a cop!"

"Magrum, again?"

"Yep. On a food run for his unit. Lady Green really let him have it. He was completely unrepentant; claimed there was no difference."

* * *

Things were quiet at the federal building for a few days. Until one of the FBI agents made a special pitch to the head of each agency. His meeting with Drake was typical.

"We've restarted our annual charity ball, and are looking for volunteers," he said, after gaining entry to Drake's office. "We already have several lined up, but are inviting all federal agencies to participate."

"Who do you have so far?" said Drake.

"The chief of our motor pool is the DJ and organizer of the dance contest, which is the biggest part of the event," said the FBI guy. "For that function he goes by Brake Master Cylinder. Then there's our lead motor pool driver, who has an unpronounceable Russian first name and is usually called Pickup Andropov. He provides the transportation for any celebrities who participate. We also have several chaperones and people lined up to stock the snacks and drinks. However, we can always use more help."

"I'll spread the word," promised Drake. "No guarantees."

Masks XXVIII: Old School

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Six

The Monday morning briefing at the Detroit office of the Bureau of Special Resources was always interesting. This one was especially so. Only partly due to having two special guest speakers.

"According to analysis of the evidence - including the power company's security video - from the shooting at the substation, the shooter used a Colt Monitor," said the Detroit Police Lieutenant. "This was the civilian version of the original BAR. Don't know where the shooter got it. It's chambered in .30-'06, and has a 20-round detachable box magazine. All of which fits the evidence from the scene. That's an actual light machine gun, firing a powerful cartridge, and makes modern assault rifles look like pop guns."

"No wonder it sounded so loud," said Vic, nodding slowly. "That's another old gun, too. Where are they getting these?!"

"Could be a cache someone found or remembered," said Drake, with a shrug. "More likely, they were among the items from the FBI property room which went missing. Keep in mind that the same vault was also used to store any weapon the local FBI office was issued but didn't use often. We can't be sure, since the hand-written records are unreadable in some places and in others they used names or terms which aren't standard. Wherever whoever is behind these shootings is getting them, those old guns are almost impossible to trace. Even the factories can only at most tell us what store they were sold to, and that was often over ninety years ago for things like the Monitor. The FBI bought several Colt Monitors in the Thirties, so this could easily be one of them. Weirdly, the two guns we know the most about in these crimes are both collectors' items and worth a lot of money. Which probably means that both shootings were personal, and not mercenary."

The next guy up was also from the city's first responders, but a different branch. He was also less verbose.

"Someone stole an ambulance," said the Fire Marshal.

"They what?!" said Vic.

"Yeah," said the Fire Marshal, with a nod and a sigh. "An EMT ambulance, to be specific. No matter how many times we tell people they don't carry much in the way of narcotics, hopeful addicts believe they're rolling pharmacies. So be on the lookout for an abandoned ambulance. It'll probably be in an unlikely place, since it hasn't already been found. It was probably trashed by the thieves when they couldn't find what they wanted inside.

"Anyway, we're alerting all law enforcement agencies in this area."

"In other news," said Drake, after the Fire Marshal sat again, "the Supreme Court of the United States has upheld the lower court ruling that the use of super detectors without a warrant or defensible probable cause is a violation of the 4th Amendment protection against unreasonable search and seizure."

"That's good news," said Cal, before Vic could comment. "Should prevent a bunch of false positives. I mean, people being arrested or suspected just because they get a positive reading."

"Hopefully. Don't count on this ruling to stop the abuses, though. Keep an eye out for violations and report them to me. I'll make sure they get forwarded to the right people."

Vic wondered if Drake had mentioned this item at this time so the Lieutenant couldn't later deny being told about it, but said nothing.

* * *

That afternoon, in the building's break room, Cal was echoing Vic's complaints about the transportation problem of getting around Detroit on missions. He didn't understand why "antigravity" vehicles weren't more common than helicopters.

"For one thing, a helicopter can autorotate to generate lift and land safely if it has an engine failure," said Vic, who had not only heard about this from Tricorne but even had it covered in courses at college. "A direct-lift vehicle, like a rocket or an apergy pod, will just drop without power. Which is why most of the pods have two power generating units and many have three. As well as two or three lift modules."

"You'd think someone else would have practical fusion besides Dr. Device. It can't be that hard. I mean, Ike Kenniman figured out fusion by studying rocks from space," said Cal.

"That's a myth, actually," said Vic. She had also heard this from both sources. "The monoliths get their energy from catalytic fusion of the hydrogen in water, yeah, but they release neutrons in the process. Many of the survivors of the initial infestation got radiation poisoning; some even died from it, and not the silicon depletion. Ike Kenniman's process is aneutronic."

"Uh..." said Cal, looking blank.

"That means it doesn't induce radiation. So it's clean and safe.

"Also, the Lunies have fusion generators. They just focus on big ones. Ike pretty much has a monopoly on small ones. For a very good reason. It's hard to do."

"Back to work, people!" shouted Drake, as he entered the break room they shared with some of the other agencies in the federal building.

Several federal employees not under him jumped up and left quickly. However, those present who were under him stayed where they were, leaving the break room to just those three from Special Resources. Though Cal and Vic looked at Drake.

"We have another five minutes," said Cal, who had seen the grin on his boss' face and knew he was joking.

"All the more reason to hurry."

Belying his own words, Arnold Drake sat with his two employees.

"Anything good in the vending machine today?"

"I bring my snacks from home," said Vic, holding up the remains of a ham sandwich. "Had to use the refrigerator for this, or the mayonnaise would spoil."

Well, she did count as a super taster.

"Ditto," said Cal, holding up a bag of sliced carrots. "Need cold to keep 'em crisp."

"I would have healthy people working for me," said Drake, still grinning.

In the end he had just a cup of coffee. He also made small talk for nearly ten minutes, actually running the pair over the official end of their break time. Neither complained. Finally, foamed polystyrene cup empty, he pushed back from the table.

"Well, I guess we all three really should get back to work. There's a lot to be done, and not just because there's still some cleanup from the storm left to do. The Detroit Police told me, just after lunch in an official call, that they are expecting a data dump on the Kubiac crime family, including what Kostinos has done with them over the past few decades. So, we need to clear our figurative plates and get ready for action. Most likely first thing tomorrow."

* * *

Michelle did not like hearing this, after Vic got home that evening - since it likely meant even more late nights for her wife - but took it gamely. Indeed, she was actually curious about something else involving local criminal activity.

"Have they found the van, yet?" said Michelle, concerned. "The missing ambulance, I mean..."

"Not yet," Vic replied. "Like the Fire Chief told us, since it hasn't already been found it's probably well hidden."

"How did someone steal an ambulance, anyway?"

"Both EMTs went inside on a call, leaving the ambulance unattended. The engine was off, the cab was locked, one of them had the keys and they were in a supposedly low-crime neighborhood. Somebody got the door open and the engine running and just drove it away. Probably with help, to close the rear doors and reduce the amount of time needed."

"Wow. Was it a legit call?"

Vic looked startled.

"You know, he didn't mention that. It would figure if it wasn't, though. Makes a lot more sense that a theft like that would be planned out and set up than that it would be just an impulse crime. I'll bring that up with my boss tomorrow morning."

* * *

There was a meeting a day and a half later, in the office of the relatively new Commissioner of Police for Detroit. Captain Anders - head of the Detroit SWAT - was there because one of his people was there, though waiting outside the office. Having seen who that was, Anders had a very bad feeling about the outcome of the meeting.

"Did you know that Martin Harmody contacted us, saying he had inside info on Conrad Kostinos and the Kubiac crime family?" said the the Commissioner.

"Yeah," said Captain Anders, warily. "SWAT - that is, I was told that in confidence, in person by Lieutenant Danville, and I didn't spread it around. I was told in case we had to rescue him. So I could be prepared."

"Well, he - Harmody - was found in an alley this morning. With a thirty-eight caliber bullet in his upper back. Fired at a distance from something with a short barrel. Perp probably emptied his revolver trying to hit a running man at a distance with a snubby, and only got him once instead of making multiple hits. However, that turned out to be enough. He was barely alive when he was found and died before the ambulance could get there. We're still looking for the other bullets."

"Damn."

"Yeah. We immediately got a warrant for his place but the first officers on the scene say that his computer is missing."

"Damn," Captain Anders repeated.

"As I noted, he was still alive when he was found, and tried to tell the man who found him where the files were."

"Who found him?" Captain Anders already had a pretty good idea, considering who was there with him. Though that man had been left to wait outside the office while his boss was briefed first.

"Magrum," said the Commissioner, reluctantly.

"That figures. The SWAT team he's on was responding to a report of shots fired. Magrum was supposed to use the fire escape to get to high ground. Now I know why he never got there."

Captain Anders scowled.

"Not that he told me..." Anders muttered.

"Great," muttered the Commissioner, in turn.

"What does he say about the matter?" said Captain Anders.

The Commissioner's main assistant, Lieutenant Harvey Danville, also present for the meeting, was the one who replied, looking at a small notebook.

"Well, when asked, he said that Harmody's last words were 'It's on the dark side of the Moon.' As noted, though, we had to ask him if Harmody said anything. Getting the guy's full statement took persistence. He just didn't think giving a report about the matter was important, since he - Magrum - didn't shoot him."

"Did you ask the Lunies about that?"

"Yeah. They said 'When?'"

"What?!" said Captain Anders.

"No, 'When?' The guy I spoke to explained that the part of the Moon which faces the Sun changes with the Moon's rotation. That it has days, just like the Earth, only longer, since it rotates with respect to the Sun about every 29 days. So, when was it dark on which part of the Moon?"

"When Harmody died?" guessed Captain Anders.

"Could be, but that still leaves a huge area facing away from the Sun. You know; in the dark. The Moon has a huge amount of surface area, most of it still unexplored. Which leaves unanswered how Harmody got the data there and how the Lunies didn't notice. Most likely he didn't mean what he said literally, but what did he mean?!

"So we have a puzzle to figure out," said the Commissioner of Police. "I just hope there's more to it than what I've already heard, or we may never get the information."

He sighed, and pushed a button on his intercom.

"Send Magrum in."

The sharpshooter was in his dress uniform, and he saluted the Commissioner smartly.

"I want you to tell me exactly what Harmody said to you. That is, in that alley, as he was dying."

"Well, he was pretty weak," said Magrum, confidently. "However, after a couple of attempts he clearly said 'It's on the dark side of the Moon.' Then he repeated it. Then he died."

"You're sure those were his exact words."

"That's exactly what he said," said Magrum, nodding. "'It's on the dark side of the moon.' Twice."

"He didn't say anything else?"

"No, sir. Nothing else."

"What about those attempts before he actually spoke?"

"He didn't make any sounds. Just tried to."

"Looks like we have to do this the hard way," said the Commissioner, with a sigh. "Okay, you two are dismissed."

After Magrum and his boss left, the Commissioner turned to Lieutenant Danville.

"I do not need problems like this so early in this job. Breaking this crime syndicate would make my career; letting this slip through my fingers could make my tenure in this office one of the shortest in the history of Detroit."

He jabbed a finger at his assistant.

"I want you, personally, to supervise tearing Harmody's place apart. If he thought it was important enough to try and tell us where the data was with his last words, he must have made a copy and left it somewhere. Talk to his friends, check his safe deposit boxes, have someone watch in case he mailed it to himself. You know the drill."

"Yes, Chief," said Lieutenant Danville. "I'll go straight to my office, organize the search, and get over there myself as soon as I do all that. There's already uniforms there, standing guard."

Masks XXVIII: Old School

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Seven

The Commissioner's assistant was a detective with many years on the job. Lieutenant Danville knew when to just stand back and watch. Right now, he was watching a team of expert searchers methodically go through Harmody's apartment, one section at a time. They weren't having much luck, but were barely started on their exploration of the several rooms where the gangster had lived his solitary life for the past few years. They began with the desk where the computer had been. There was nothing behind the desk, or on the bottoms of the drawers, or inside the desk once those were removed. The searchers moved on.

However, as well as knowing how to watch, the detective also knew how to look. As the CSI team worked elsewhere in Harmody's den, something caught Lieutenant Danville's eye.

The veteran detective walked over to the shelves where Harmody had stored his music CDs. There, under P, was a particular jewel case. It looked perfectly normal. The detective pulled the case out, opened it, and smiled.

"Found it," said Danville, calmly, holding up the clearly labeled DVD.

* * *

Again, there was a meeting in the office of the Detroit Commissioner of Police. Again, Officer Magrum was present, dressed in his finest, with his boss. The Police Commissioner's mood was an odd mixture of anger, frustration and satisfaction. Magrum seemed bored.

"Why did you say that Harmody's exact words were 'It's on the dark side of the Moon'?" demanded the Police Commissioner of the apparently calm Magrum.

"Because that's what he said."

"We know, now, that he must have said 'It's in The Dark Side of the Moon.' Why?! Why did you swear it was something else?!"

"Because that doesn't make any sense!" said Magrum, almost shouting. He was only just starting to realize that he was in trouble. Except that he knew he had done nothing wrong! Of course, that lack of culpability didn't mean they wouldn't try to blame something on him. He'd been through that before!

"Yet that was exactly where we found it! In the CD case for the album The Dark Side of the Moon!"

"I don't know anything about that," said Magrum, defiantly, now more certain than ever that he was being blamed for something which wasn't his fault. "I told you what he said!"

"Only you didn't, did you?!" said the Commissioner, barely holding in his anger. "You just admitted that. Well, this is the last straw; you're fired, and I don't care how many people in Human Resources that upsets. For willfully lying as part of a police investigation. One which involves a murder. You'll probably face charges, too."

Magrum finally became excited, showing a mixture of anger and fear. Mainly anger.

"You can't do that! I told you what he said! I didn't do anything wrong!"

"Already started the paperwork."

"Well, I'll take you down with me!"

He glared at the others in the room, including Captain Anders.

"All of you!"

He stormed out.

* * *

"He what?!" said Anders, back in the Commissioner's office the next day.

"He's making wild claims to the press about our SWAT teams acting as assassination squads," said Lieutenant Danville, looking both tired and as if he had eaten something which was severely disagreeing with him. "He also produced an old computer power supply while he was being interviewed, waved it around and claimed it was the hard drive from Harmody's computer. That the Detroit police had actually found the computer but weren't interested in what it contained, and in fact threw the computer away. That he subsequently managed to extract the 'hard drive' and read what was on it. He's claiming that the reason we didn't want to find it is that it has proof of his claims."

"I bet he picked the power supply because it was the biggest thing in whatever computer case he opened," said Anders, tiredly.

"Nothing he says is substantiated, of course," said the Commissioner, "and his accusations are outrageous. He's actually claiming that we - that is, members of the Detroit SWAT unit - killed - executed - a bunch of people. That he saw another SWAT team member shoot Victoria Peltior while she was helping us with the sniper at the old Packard plant, a few weeks back. He says he reported this but we 'lost' the report."

"We caught the guy who shot her," said Captain Anders, confused. "After Magrum himself shot the guy. A guy who was probably there specifically to shoot Peltior. Said shooter was later murdered to keep him from talking. He wasn't a SWAT team member or part of the police force or even from this area!"

"Yeah, but Magrum is claiming that the sniper was working for the city as a SWAT member, and that he - Magrum - was fired for shooting the guy to stop him from finishing off Peltior. Some of the local reporters have taken what he's saying as gospel and are 'investigating the claims.'"

"I bet that crazy bitch Candace Ornoth is one of them."

"No bet," said the Commissioner, with a tired sigh.

"Well, even with Magrum making trouble, it was worth it," said Lieutenant Danville. He had, after all, come here to report directly to Commissioner after seeing for himself what had been found on the DVD. "That disc is turning out to be a gold mine of information about Kostinos' organization. Of course, the first thing we did was make copies and widely distribute them. We even sent one to the FBI.

"Unfortunately, the contents aren't sorted in any way. He just saved items to the disc as he got the information. Harmody had apparently been doing this since becoming a member of Kostinos' inner circle over a year ago, maybe as insurance. Still no idea why he turned against Kostinos. There's so much stuff it's taking our people a long time to work through it and figure out what's important."

"Good news, anyway," said the Commissioner. "I hate that Harmody died - and we're still checking on how it got out that he was about to inform on Conrad Kostinos - but at least we have that information. Good work."

"Well, Harmody did most of the work," said the computer guy who was there with Lieutenant Danville. He was a member of the Detroit Crime Scene Investigation team. He gave a careless shrug. "We're just reading what he put on that DVD. By the way, that disc was last written to just a week ago. Harmody didn't even encrypt anything on it. I guess he figured that whoever found it would either need to read it quickly if they were good guys or they would just destroy it if they were bad guys."

* * *

"People forget - or maybe never knew - that neutralizers depend on the Rukh-Benet Hypothesis, which goes back to the Thirties," said Vic, quietly, to her boss as they waited for the presentation in the auditorium of the Detroit Police Department's main building to begin. "Even though their explanations for what they described were proven wrong, the effect those two discovered still works to counter powers. Well, active ones. Their work also laid the foundation for regeneration tanks."

The topic had come up because of Drake mentioning that all the federal LEO offices in the Detroit area were about to be issued new neutralizers.

"I did not know that," said Drake.

"Yeah," said Vic, nodding. "The guy who taught us about neutralizers at Ramsey even had some of the original pieces of equipment used by Rukh. Though most of it can't be handled without protective gear, since it is still radioactive. They were a lot more casual about that stuff back then.

"Anyway, as soon as governments officially admitted that super powers existed, they started looking for a way to control them. They eagerly latched onto the work of Rukh, Benet and those who assisted them and followed up on what they did. Not realizing they would need another decade before the first working neutralizers would be produced, and that each of those units would take up a large room. Not unlike the computers of that era."

The murmur in the auditorium quieted as the Detroit Police Commissioner walked to the podium.

"Good afternoon. I have called this meeting to discuss a recent dangerous event involving a super. It appears that Trinity has returned. He was seen flying over downtown Detroit. Sometimes quite low."

Vic was shocked, and she could tell that Drake was, as well. The explanation given ahead of time for the briefing was that there had been some sort of super-related radiation incident, which was why the two of them were there. As well as reminding Vic about the work of Rukh and Benet.

Trinity was a former nuclear-powered hero, named after the first atomic weapon test. He was a scientist who was fatally irradiated in a critical mass accident and became basically an atomic zombie, as had at least two other supers of that era. His powers eventually drove him insane, and he later turned villain. One who had an unexplained antipathy for Detroit. Trinity was destroyed by a group of heroes in the early Sixties. All of those involved in his defeat suffered some degree of radiation poisoning as a result, two of them dying of super cancer a few years later. The location of that final battle - which fortunately had taken place in the desert near Jackass Flats - was still unhealthy for long visits.

The Commissioner had video and still images - some of the material showing signs of ionizing radiation damage - which he presented to the assembled law enforcement officers. Some of what he put on the big screen behind and above him showed overt property damage and injuries. Only a few showed the distinctive blue and black costume of Trinity, and none of those images were clear.

"Another radioactive android?!" said Drake, in a low voice, echoing what Vic and likely some others in the large room thought.

"When a mad scientist finally solves a problem he or she wants everyone to know," said Vic. She sighed. "Of course, sometimes they just want to make use of something they worked hard to achieve and finally figured out."

"I think the activities of this one are intended to divert our attention away from the Conrad Kostinos investigation," said Drake. "Ignoring the fact that all law enforcement agencies are already involved with multiple investigations at once."

That this was likely not the actual super known as
Trinity was something the Police Commissioner obviously knew. That was also something which he made clear. However, whether this was the original or a duplicate, a human super or an android, there was an associated radiation hazard which needed to be addressed. The Commissioner began going over a plan to contain that radiation hazard.

"Y'know, 'Nukula' never made another appearance after destroying that plane," mused Vic. "Neither did 'Afterglow,' following his appearance in that volcano. They could all be one android, reconfigured."

"A sex-changed, atomic android?" said Drake, sounding doubtful.

"Well, most androids don't have a sexual identity," said Vic, amused. "Or any real identity. Or real personality. Andrea Kenniman being an exception."

"Not long after appearing here, Trinity was spotted over Seattle," said the Commissioner, after finishing describing his plan of action for dealing with the menace. He gave exact times for Trinity's last appearance over Detroit, and when he was first noticed over Seattle. The interval between those times was not large. "He could be back here soon, or never show his face here again. We'll just have to wait and see."

After the meeting was dismissed, Vic and Drake continued discussing what they had learned on the way to his Bureau-issue car.

"Well, there aren't that many radioactive supers left to copy," said Vic, philosophically. "Whoever is behind these will soon either start repeating, or move on to something else."

"Trinity could supposedly travel at the speed of light," said Drake, thinking over that bit of information. "If that's not him... Even Evangeline 'Jet' McCartney, the fastest known flying super now active, would have had trouble making that trip in that short of a time. There could be two of them. If it is an android that fast, capturing it would be very difficult."

"Or maybe the inventor teleported it in some way," said Vic. "More likely, it could have just made a suborbital flight, not needing air."

"Yeah, even the aliens we have contact with don't have practical teleportation."

"The whole world - the whole universe - is waiting for Niven-style teleporter booths," said Vic, tiredly. "Anyway, I suspect this android - if it is an android - was built by somebody with a connection to those super combat islands. Someone who probably has a base in that area. Which is likely why it was seen in the northwest. It was heading home."

* * *

Vic - in armor - had just finished dealing with a very low-level super who had tried to rob a bank when she was confronted by reporter Candace Ornoth.

Vic was on her way back to her car, intending to drive to the police station where the perp was being taken, for the follow-up work. Ornoth and her camera operator stepped around the rear of a van, blocking Vic's path. Neatly ambushing the federal agent. Vic realized, belatedly, that the van bore the markings of the TV station Candace worked for.

"I am here on scene where super enforcer Vic Peltior just apprehended a super felon calling himself Nitrous. So, where is your partner today?"

"Partner?" said Vic, knowing better but letting herself be drawn in anyway.

"Lady Green. She's nowhere to be seen."

"She works for the city," said Vic, ignoring the rhyme. "I work for the federal government. We sometimes work together but we're not partners. I was only here because the cops on the scene realized the perp was a super and asked the Bureau for help. I helped arrest him because he was a threat to the public. Last I heard, Lady Green was working a bad traffic accident downtown."

"I wanted to get both of you together to talk about how the analysis of the Lightning Wire plane crash was changed," said the reporter, her tone implying that Lady Green's absence were somehow Vic's fault. "How do you justify taking the blame from someone knocking the plane out of the air, and instead declaring it an accident?!"

"That wasn't actually up to anyone local. We got new information, from a qualified aircraft accident investigator. His analysis surprised us, too, but he's an expert with an experienced crew. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

The reporter ignored the hint and actually moved closer.

"Lightning Wire chartered that plane because you and Lady Green impounded their bus!"

"No, we didn't. That was the Detroit Police."

"Don't try sophistry with me!" said Ornoth. "You work for them!"

Vic didn't think that what she had said counted as sophistry, even if the other's cause and effect statements had been true, which they weren't.

"No, I'm a federal agent. As I just told you. I don't work for the city. Talk to them."

"They said to talk to you!"

"That's typical," said Vic, with a tired sigh. "No. Lady Green and I were asked by the city to help the Detroit city and Michigan state police with the stop, because Lightning Wire's members were all supers."

"That's a lie! They were normal people!"

"Tell that to Lady Green, who got injured by one of them. Now, if you don't have anything real to talk about, I have work to do."

"What about the Detroit SWAT gunning for you?" Ornoth shouted to Vic's back. She was ignored.

Masks XXVIII: Old School

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Eight

By the time Vic finished her part of the paperwork at the police station, Candace Ornoth's segment had aired. After the first few iterations, parts of an interview with Lady Green - made by another reporter - were woven into the segment. The editing of the combined segment increased with each iteration. Eventually, few of either interviewee's answers were for the questions the reporters asked in the videos. Vic knew nothing about any of this until she got back to the office. Where her boss intercepted her in the hallway on the way back to her desk, case with armor in one hand, helmet in the other. Drake didn't look happy.

"My office. Now."

Vic, confused, followed Drake.

"Close the door," he told her, as he seated himself. Vic did so, then took a seat in front of his desk, case beside the chair, helmet on top of case. "You're not supposed to give interviews without official approval."

"This is the first I've heard of that rule," said Vic, completely off balance socially. "Also, I haven't given any interviews lately."

"What about the one you gave Candace Ornoth earlier this afternoon?"

"I thought that was more me answering a few questions from a reporter on the scene of an action, instead of an interview," said Vic, now even more confused. "You said that was okay."

"Not with you and Lady Green interacting to make the Detroit police, the Michigan State police and the FAA look bad!"

"Lady Green wasn't even there. As I told Miss Ornoth, she - Lady Green - was busy helping with a traffic accident."

"Wait... You're sure she wasn't there?!"

"Well, yes," said Vic, now completely confused. "It would have been nice if she had been there; she might have been able to stop Nitrous without..."

Vic stumbled to a stop as her boss began swearing. She felt glad when she realized he wasn't swearing at her.

"Well, Ornoth did say that she wanted to talk to both of us about the Lightning Wire plane crash," said Vic, when Drake paused for breath. "Did she talk with Lady Green later and edit the two sessions together?"

"You could say that," said Drake, dryly, his normal state of self control now restored. "Though, now that I think about it, it sounded like a man asked Lady Green some of the questions. Yeah. I think you - everyone, actually - were a victim of bad reporting."

Vic's boss sighed, and shook his head.

"Sorry. I should have known better than to accept appearances where modern media are involved. They must have edited the two segments together in the studio. Badly."

"No problem," said Vic, glad she wasn't actually in trouble.

"Just... be careful not only with what you say to the press, but how you say it." He sat back. "So, how is the new helmet working out?"

"Very well, in spite of the increased bulk," said Vic, relieved at the change of subject. "I've only had it a few days, but so far it's doing quite well."

"Good. In the meantime, I have a request from the city about where we got your powered armor."

"I don't wear powered armor," said Vic, confused.

"That's what I told them. I don't think they believed me."

"We also get what I do have from the Bureau. Well, except for the few components still left from my original suit. Those are all commercial products, already available to civilians or police departments. So is much of what the Bureau provides. What makes them think I have powered armor? I mean, I wish..."

"We can barely afford regular armor for you," said Drake, outraged. Though whether at the city or Vic she couldn't tell. "Why do they think we have money to throw away like that?! Especially since they already know exactly what you have!"

Okay, at the city. Which was, again, a relief.

"Different branches, I guess," said Vic, with a careless shrug. "Of the city government, I mean."

"Yeah..." said Drake, tiredly. "It's not unusual for one hand to not know what the other knows. Government branches are infamous for not talking to each other. Okay, get back to work."

Vic didn't know why Drake seemed to be in such a distracted mood. She was just relieved to get out of there.

* * *

Two days later Vic was glad to note that Drake was far more collected. They were sitting together in the auditorium of the federal building. Since he'd said no more about the topic, Vic assumed Drake had clarified the armor matter with whatever branch of the city government had mistakenly thought she had powered armor. The combined interview had also been taken off the air, though only after Drake called the station and mentioned bringing the matter to the attention of the Bureau's attorneys. As well as hinting that Vic's helmet had recorded the ambush interview.

The event was a meeting of federal LEOs, called by the local FBI office's Special Agent in Charge Dianne Colby. She let them know ahead of time that she had news about Kostinos. Everyone there knew her; once started, she got directly to the point.

"They were dragging a part of the river after an anonymous tip that a body had been dumped just upstream. Instead, they hooked something heavy which wasn't supposed to be there."

"The missing ambulance," guessed Vic.

"Got it in one," said Colby. "The city doesn't appear to be interested beyond finding the ambulance; they weren't even planning to recover it, after divers checked it out; it was, after all, obviously beyond repair. However, the FBI recovered, impounded and investigated it. Now, we and the Marshals are trying to get warrants for all properties known to be owned or rented by or in any way associated with Conrad Kostinos."

"What's the connection?" said Drake, frowning.

"From clues in the ambulance and things in Harmody's files we believe the vehicle was stolen to transport Kostinos. He's known to be very elderly and is apparently quite frail, though still firmly in charge of his empire. Unfortunately, we know neither origin nor destination for the trip. Only that he likely needed medical attention and the trip was apparently planned in too much of a hurry to arrange a private ambulance. So they stole one."

That made sense. They had already verified that the 911 call which brought the ambulance had been for the elderly mother of a member of the Kubiac crime family. A woman with known health issues, though the EMTs couldn't find anything wrong with her on that call.

"I guess that makes sense," said an FBI guy near the front.

"We figure that even if we can't locate Conrad Kostinos at one of his properties, we can at least find some information on him and the Kubiac crime syndicate," said Colby.

* * *

The old mansion was dark; the utilities, including electricity, had been off for decades. The pipes had been drained and the place thoroughly mothballed in anticipation of future use. It was echoey, empty even of furniture, which had been moved elsewhere, and the least sound reflected from the plaster and lath walls and ceiling, and the tastefully decorative hardwood paneling. These sounds made the place rather spooky. However, the old slate roof was still keeping the rain out, so the interior was pristine, if a bit musty. The FBI men and women searching the structure made their way around by flashlights, accompanied by a drug dog and a cadaver dog and their handlers.

These professional people were there on serious business, but still had to admire the structure's architecture, especially the woodwork, the finish of which was well darkened by age. The drug dog got several hits, but all the secret compartments thus revealed were opened and found to be empty.

However, the cadaver dog got a strong hit at the door between the legs of the sweeping, double grand staircase facing the main doors in the entrance hall. This door - barely visible due to the afternoon light hitting the rear of the house - turned out to open into a large storage space which went under both parts of the huge staircase. This storage space was almost empty, containing only a few old trunks and pieces of furniture, as well as dust and cobwebs. However, the dog went straight to the rear of this space, directly opposite the entrance, and began pawing at the panelling which lined the oddly-shaped room. The FBI searchers quickly found a hidden door. Once that was opened, they discovered beyond an entire, concealed suite. This was sparsely furnished but outfitted with numerous pieces of art; however, what took and held their attention was a body in a hospital gown, just lying on the floor. It hadn't even been positioned respectfully, but appeared to have simply been dumped on the hardwood floor. Nobody advanced any further until the photographers got their shots.

"Wow..." said the dog handler, as he rewarded his charge and looked around.

"I'll say," said the photographer. "I don't know much about art, but even I can see that some of these paintings and statues are valuable."

"This whole set of rooms, though," said the handler, straightening and still looking around. "It's like a museum. Or a time capsule. Some of this stuff..."

"If you can't take it with you," said the leader of the small team, firmly and more loudly, "you should donate it to a museum."

"Well, from the way the body was just dumped in the middle of the floor," said the handler, "whoever put him here didn't have any respect for this old man or the art."

* * *

This time the meeting with Special Agent in Charge Colby was in the Bureau's small Detroit main office. Since there was a super connection - if a distant one - and with only a few people in the local Bureau branch this was the quickest and easiest way to update all of them. Drake, of course, was also present.

"DNA tests and baby footprints from his birth certificate confirmed that the deceased was, indeed, Emil Colditz," said Colby. "Aka Conrad Kostinos. Probably aka John Mark, nemesis of the Operators. Neither type of test was quick, or easy, though of course we put a priority on both. Autopsy says he's been dead for over three years. As well as that he was murdered, and the body recently moved. He was killed with a single bullet to the back of the head, then put somewhere dry and cool, so the body was well preserved. The projectile was too damaged to get rifling marks, but the bullet was probably a modern, jacketed hollowpoint of about 158 grains and .357 inches in diameter, fired at close range and moving at a low velocity. So a .38 Special and not a Magnum. Probably shot from a short-barreled revolver."

"A standard-pressure .38 Special cartridge fired from a snubby," said Vic, nodding slowly. "Using a modern commercial load designed for a short-barreled gun. Just like what was used on Judge Wapakoneta, and Harmody. Which reminds me, have you told the Police Commissioner about this?"

"No," said Colby, firmly, her tone strongly suggesting that she didn't plan to. "The mansion where we found the hidden rooms is well outside his jurisdiction. We haven't found the murder weapon, but Vic's analysis seems correct.

"We also found illegal items and records of illegal transactions at some of the other places where the Kubiacs lived or did business," continued Colby. "Enough that we're already making arrests and seizing property, largely under the RICO Act. We even found a cache of weapons at one warehouse, including the BAR from the electrical substation attack. The old Kubiac family mansion is located on a large estate well outside the city and has been empty for years. It was even placed on the national register of historic places due to age, elegance and style. It was originally built by an industrialist, and purchased by the Kubiacs in 1932, after the industrialist ran into financial trouble due to the Great Depression. By the way, the FBI Art Crime Team says some of what was found in the hidden rooms was taken by the Nazis before and during WWII. Most of the rest went missing up to five decades before that. None seems to have been acquired after about 1950, with the mansion being closed about a decade later. The items include some pieces our experts determined to be fakes, but good ones."

"So we can't say the Kubiacs - or at least one person working for them - didn't have good taste," said Cal, nodding.

"A different gun was used for each of the other shootings," said Drake, thoughtfully, "the shooter each time disposing of the one used after wiping it. That all could have been done by the same shooter, or by two or three different shooters. We'll probably never find the murder weapon for this crime, though. Too much time has passed since the deed was done, and we don't even know where it happened."

"That's our evaluation," said Colby, nodding. "We'll probably have to find the killer to know for sure. However, the FBI's lab should be able to give us a better date of death soon. That will help."

"That's why they wanted not just an ambulance," said Cal, suddenly, "but a disposable one. If they were stopped, they would have just opened the doors, shown the cop the corpse hooked to machines spoofed to give bogus noises and lights, and claimed they were transporting a sick, old man."

"Probably have gotten away with it, too," said Drake, nodding. "Most people - cop or not - won't risk interfering with the medical treatment of someone like that. At night, with artificial lighting and the body set up to look alive but comatose and likely mostly covered, including with an oxygen mask over the face..."

"The preliminary estimate for when he died was well before the ambulance was stolen," said Colby. "However, the vehicle was most likely disposed of the night it went missing. Which was likely the same night the corpse was moved. We're checking the odometer mileage, but it appears to have been disconnected right after the ambulance was stolen."

"So Kostinos has been dead since not long before the satchel with the old ransom money for young Emil Colditz was found," said Vic. Now she was frowning, in deep thought. "Why the sudden move of the corpse, though? If he hadn't been discovered in three or more years, what changed to make them want to move him like that?"

"If we can figure that out," said Colby, "we'll probably know who killed him."

"So, who took over from Kostinos?" said Cindy Larsen.

"Since he was supposedly still alive, no-one," said Drake, wryly. "Though his aides have apparently been giving orders in his name for years since he died."

"A ghost has been running one of the biggest local crime families," said Cal, quietly. "For the past several years. Like Alexander and his generals."

"We'll need to watch for who does what, once this gets out," said Drake, nodding slowly. "Especially once we get a good date for when he died."

"Yeah," said Vic, with dark enthusiasm. "Anyone who claims they spoke for Kostinos after that will not be looked on kindly by anyone in that crime family. We just might finally get a break in all this mess."

"This may be why Harmody decided to inform on the family," said Cal, suddenly. "He found out that he'd been lied to, and that Kostinos was dead."

"A lot of crimes are solved through simple, hard work," said Drake, sagely. "Sometimes, though, they are solved by simple, human greed or fear. Or feelings of betrayal."

* * *

"Well, that's another mystery solved," said Drake, a couple of days later, as he spoke to those in the shared office of the local branch of the Bureau of Special Resources. "The FBI, the Marshals and the BATFE are unanimous, and the Detroit PD is reluctantly coming around to their viewpoint. Most of what was missing from the FBI's property room turned out to be ballistic vests. The BAR and a few other firearms were actually from the Detroit Police property room. The old revolvers - and there were still several left in the cache the FBI found - may have been Kostinos' private property, since we haven't found any other source for them."

"Wait," said Vic, holding up a hand. "You mean that all that work recreating the inventory..."

"Well, it wasn't wasted," said Drake. "The FBI now has a complete inventory of what is actually there and a pretty good idea of what used to be there and is now missing. However, with only a few exceptions, all the old guns from that cache turned out to be items which the local police department was issued or which they confiscated decades ago. When the items were actually stolen remains unknown."

"So who took the items out of the Detroit PD's inventory?"

"It was almost certainly an inside job. Maybe by somebody disgruntled that the old Mayor was voted out. The former Police Commissioner and some of his cronies went with him and are being investigated in connection to all this. They took a lot of people with them, and a lot more were upset over the change."

Masks XXVIII: Old School

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Nine

Michelle walked past the bathroom, stopped, reversed and looked in through the open door. She saw her wife staring into the mirror over the sink.

"I didn't think you were the narcissistic type."

"My dad likes to joke that noses run in our family," said Vic, sadly. "Mine did look a lot like his, before; it's smaller, now, and a different shape."

"I think you have a cute nose," said Michelle.

Vic just sighed.

* * *

Laurie hated deception. However, to avoid awkward questions she always assumed the form of an old, human woman to deal with the actual owners of the property. She also reminded herself, firmly, to move more slowly and cautiously than her usual quick, fluid manner when in this guise. As she did this time, when the owners called her in to discuss "something important."

She thought at first they were going to tell her she was being let go. A prospect which filled Laurie with dread. She could easily move into the Marsh with no-one being the wiser, but Laurie was used to the conveniences of her home in the modernized carriage house where she had lived for many years. They were no longer necessities, but Laurie was - as she willingly admitted - spoiled by them.

"We have some news about a decision we made in connection to this property, which affects you," said Mr. Anders, her words doing nothing to assuage Laurie's concerns. "We are retaining this estate and the marsh, but someone made us an offer we could't refuse about the land upstream from here."

Well, that was disturbing, but not nearly as disturbing as the news could have been. Laurie felt a cautious relief.

"I'm sure you know that developers have been trying to acquire that land for decades," said Mrs. Anders. "I hate that someone finally succeeded; however, Michaíl Tsirogiannis and Gianfranco Becchina have bought some of the land in the watershed for the Mystery Marsh property. They have plans to turn it into a subdivision."

"They have a reputation for respecting the environment," Mr. Anders added. "Hopefully, that means that there will be little change downstream. Including in the marsh."

We'll see, thought Laurie, sternly.

* * *

The call came in just after Vic got home. She had plugged the helmet into the charger - Vic still hadn't adapted the carrying case for the new helmet - and just done the same with her Bureau-issue brilliant phone, when the latter rang. The ring was for a text message and not a live call, and Vic almost decided to check it later. However, her sense of duty took over and she opened the message.

It told her to report to an electrical substation - the same one where she had arrested Allan Cuvier - to check out a suspected super holding it hostage.

Vic wondered if this were some sort of delayed message. She didn't recognize the name of the sender, but it came from the Detroit PD, and had the current date, with the time it was sent being just before the end of the PD day shift. Which meant it had been delayed, but not by much. She sent a text asking for more information, but got no reply. Most likely, the sender had already gone off duty.

Vic was immediately wary. Allan Cuvier had been sent for psychological evaluation, and was still in Bureau custody. She would have been notified of a release or escape. If someone were causing trouble at the substation - which had taken two days to be fully repaired - then any threat now was likely to be from a copycat. That was entirely possible, of course.

Vic called one of her police contacts, who was on duty but turn out to not be available. The captain who had been in charge that night she captured Cuvier was not available, either; he was still on sick leave, which made sense. He had been shot in the arm by a thirty-caliber machine gun, after all. Vic contacted the police dispatch and requested assistance at the substation. She was told that she would get it. That was only slightly reassuring, because Vic was also told there might be a delay, due to this being a busy night.

Still, the call had come in through legitimate channels and she had to answer it. She did take the precaution of notifying her boss about the call. Unfortunately, he was at home and apparently not answering his brilliant phone. Vic wound up leaving a message on his voice mail.

"Gotta go check something out," she said to Melissa, going into the kitchen and giving her a quick kiss. Vic didn't supply her wife with any further details. There was no sense in worrying her. Besides, she didn't know many more details.

Vic returned to their den and opened the case with her armor. She stripped to her underwear, right there in the hall. Vic put on the undergarment and the armor except for the helmet; then hurried to her car. At least she had the charger cords for both her helmet and phone at the ready, now. She had even used them on the trip from office to apartment. So her electronics would be topped off on this trip.

* * *

There was no police presence when Vic arrived at the substation. Another warning sign. A call to dispatch provided the repetition that this was a busy night. Vic was told that the first available units would be sent in a few minutes. Still, Vic was confident that even if this were some sort of setup she should be able to handle it. At the very least, she felt that she needed to take a look around.

Normally, Vic would have approached such a situation from above. However, that was not possible, here, due to the transmission lines and overhead equipment. Instead, Vic parked out of sight half a block away. She approached on foot the side entrance she had used before, making good use of the cover in the area. She didn't see anyone.

The lock she broke her first time here had been replaced. However, everything else was the same including the corroded chain. Vic pulled that tight and chopped down, breaking the chain. This caused some noise but not much. Vic eased the gate open, making sure to quietly close it behind her. Given the lack of lighting at the gate, the broken chain would likely be unnoticed unless someone looked closely.

Vic crept carefully toward the spot where she had found Cuvier. Sure enough, she saw half a dozen armed and armored men waiting, hiding behind various pieces of equipment. She thought there were others present, as well. There was no nearby police chatter on the radio. In fact, all her helmet radio produced was a sort of muted hum, which she knew from previous experience was created by all the electrical activity in here. Vic decided to pull out and wait for backup.

As she began quietly backing away, though, her helmet speakers gave a loud squawk. At the same time, her helmet display flashed, then went clear. All this had barely registered, when she realized - through her sense of perception - that something was hurtling through the air towards her.

Vic immediately went into a diving shoulder roll. She popped out of this, intending to land on her feet and run. Unfortunately, while she was still in the air Vic was hit by a shockwave. This threw her into the case of one of the large devices in the substation.

Grenade! was her thought, a bit late.

It was a concussion grenade, rather than fragmentation, but still dangerous. Thanks to her armor, Vic was more affected by the impact with the transformer which halted her involuntary flight than she was by the actual blast. Neither cause her much trouble, thanks to her armor. She dropped, rolled, and leapt to her left, where she sensed movement.

Two of the men were moving in at a run. Vic's jump towards the men caught them by surprise. She chopped down with both hands while still in the air, the blunt impact transmitting through their soft body armor. She broke one man's shoulder, and at least stunned the muscles and nerves of the other's; they both dropped their weapons and the one on her right fell to the ground. One of those longarms appeared to be a standard M-16; the other was some sort of futuristic blaster.

Vic still planned to run, but there was now gunfire, as some of the other men she had spotted came out of concealment to attack Vic from the near distance. Most of this was from assault rifles, but there were also beam weapons, of several types. Including ordinary lasers. Vic blurred into action, closing with the attackers then kicking, punching and throwing. In just a few seconds the only person left standing besides Vic was the presumed leader. He was standing a bit apart from the others, directing the action.

He stared at Vic with increasingly widening eyes behind his safety goggles as she charged. As frozen as he was she probably could have just pushed him down and flex-cuffed him. However, Vic was not in a mood to take chances. He went down hard.

Vid barely had enough of the fiber-reinforced polymer restraints for all of her attackers. Once they were restrained, she then tried to call for backup and ambulances.

Unfortunately, her armor's built-in com system was fried, as was her brilliant phone. None of the guys who had attacked her had phones on them, either. She did discover a case with a gadget, near where the leader had been hiding. A gadget with a directional antenna. Vic figured that was the EMP device. With a sigh of resignation, Vic began bodily hauling the eleven men to the main gate of the fenced-in area. Fortunately, enough people had called 911 about the disturbance (and the resulting power outages) that DPD response was swift.

"Whoah..." said the first officer on the scene, as he got out of his unit. "What happened here?!"

Realizing that without power she had no PA function in her helmet, Vic dumped the fourth pair of assailants near the gate. She then manually unlatched and removed her now useless faceplate.

"Federal agent," panted Vic. "I hope you have keys for this entrance."

"Ah, no," said the wide-eyed officer. "I'll call in to make sure someone does, though."

"I asked Detroit Police Dispatch for assistance before I went in," said Vic. "Are you telling me you didn't get told about this?"

"I better let my sergeant answer that," said the officer, suddenly concerned.

* * *

"I heard you were in another fight," said Michelle, her concern clear despite the clipped sound on the cell phone Vic had borrowed. "On the scanner."

"My armor was torn all to Hell, but I'm all right," said Vic. "So it did its job."

"Thank God," gasped Michelle.

"I should be home as soon as I give my preliminary report to the cops," said Vic. "We can sort out why I was called and why I didn't get any support tomorrow."

"I'll keep your supper warm."

* * *

"Well, you seem to have annoyed someone," said Drake, when Vic delivered her full report of the fight at the substation, in his office the next day. "I suspect this was left over from the previous administration for the city. What I mean is, that someone in power who didn't like your attitude towards the previous Mayor and Police Commissioner and decided to punish you for it."

"After the Mayor was voted out," said Vic, numbly.
"Not sure I believe it."

"Well, whether that is what happened or not, that will likely be the reason those involved give," said Drake. "Meanwhile, we and the FBI are checking everything."

"I'm just glad they didn't think to go after Michelle," said Vic, fervently.

"Be aware that if those behind this do go after you again, they may try to get to you through her."

"Ow. Time to put in that armored door. What do the attackers have to say about why they ambushed me?"

"Same old story," said Drake, sourly. "At first they denied everything, even that they were there! We wore them down with evidence against them, until they all admitted they were there and had illegal weapons. We eventually managed to get one of the suspects to claim they were part of the 'Your arrested!' attacks. Once one of them said that, most of the others - some reluctantly, some boldly - confirmed that. The contacts they gave us for those who provided the equipment and their orders were all fake, of course. As was the initial text asking for your help. The FBI is investigating how this was done, but so far we have few answers. For example, we still don't know how they spoofed a Detroit PD ID on that message, and why your calls for assistance didn't go through. To them or to me.

"You know, they have been doing this a lot, lately," said Drake, sitting back a bit. "Setting up ambushes, I mean, instead of simply taking advantage of a situation like they did initially. That is, encouraging individuals to try and kill a superhero and making them a member if they succeed. Lately, they've been assigning targets, and providing information on when the targets might be vulnerable. The only change this time from one of their usual assaults is that they ganged up on you. However, the consensus is that they are, indeed, part of that 'You're Arrested!' movement. We do think it likely that in this case the miscreants were pointed at you by someone outside the base group."

"They also had advanced energy weapons," said Vic, pointedly. "As well as armor-piercing ammo for their assault rifles. I'm just glad they didn't hit me very often. The few times they did hit my armor they really tore into it."

"That, unfortunately, is not new with these attacks. Other super attacks attributed to the 'You're Arrested!' group have also had one or the other. Some of the energy weapons are Shilmek. Others are mad science gadgets. As was the EMP device they used to kill your helmet. Which reminds me, the FBI techs were able to get it working, again, as well as your phone. I also had Brade put a rush on the replacement parts, including a backup helmet."

"The important part of all that is that now the 'You're arrested!' group is also supplying advanced weapons for use against supers."

"Looks like it," said Drake, with a grimace. "Their success rate has fallen, lately; they may think that all the easy targets have been hit. These specific people - those who attacked you and those who supplied their equipment - also seemed to think that you wear powered armor, and that if they could disable that with a strong enough EMP you'd be helpless. Trapped in an immobile suit."

"So all we have to do is find out who in city government thinks I wear powered armor," said Vic, sourly. "Yeah, that's all."

"Well, maybe. They could have been told this by someone outside the government - maybe a consultant - who could have been told that by someone else."

"Someone like Rokuro," said Vic, feeling a chill.

* * *

"Well, the super PAC missed this completely," said Blue Impact, sourly, glaring at her computer's monitor. "As if super-rated fabrics and such weren't already expensive enough, the feds have now put a surtax on them! Especially the imported materials!"

"There's a new tax on the materials used to make super costumes?!" said Energia, confused and outraged. "That's..."

"Several people have noted that this is very similar to the sumptuary laws of Fourteenth Century England," said Blue Impact. "Proper super outfits are expensive, mostly due to the materials. Taxing those materials - which are primarily used for super costumes, with few other applications - amounts to a tax on being a mask."

"So we make our own," said Gadgetive, shrugging.

"Spoken like a true gadgeteer," said Energia, rolling her eyes.

"There's already talk about passing an additional law requiring a special permit to sell or even work with such materials," said Blue Impact. "Not unlike the tax stamp required to sell distilled alcohol. Only this isn't just a permit to sell the materials. It's a permit to have them."

"So we'll make new ones," said Gadgetive, with another careless shrug. "New materials, I mean. The most common ones we have are several years old, anyway."

"That will work short term," said Blue Impact. "The people behind this law don't care about the materials; they just don't like supers, and will pass as many amendments as needed to make the new materials just as illegal as the current ones."

"That doesn't work with narcotics," said Energia, as unconcerned as Gadgetive. "What makes them think it will work with fabrics?"

"Two things. Most legislators don't pay much attention to the effects of the laws they pass; they just respond to voter and press demands, pass the laws and move on. Assuming they have solved the problem. They also think that if 'hero' masks violate the law every time they put on a costume, 'the people' will turn against them. Not realizing that most people won't see it that way. In the meantime, though, it's an excuse to harass anyone who wears a costume. If you can't prove on the spot that you're in compliance, they can arrest you and put you on trial. The burden of proof is then on them to prove you haven't paid the tax, but since breaking this law would be a felony..."

"It could be used to arrest any costume-wearing super on sight," said Energia, now sounding worried. "If they were found to be using the banned fabric without a receipt or whatever and were convicted, they would forfeit their legal ID protection and be outed in public."

Epilog

The man was rather ironically young, actually much younger than I was expecting. We met at the small building I'd had constructed where the old and blocky office had stood. He seemed to take personal offense at the fact that I'd had the new, very small structure put up with my own money on my own property. Of course, like many archeologists, he seemed to take any deliberate change to the landscape as a personal offense.

"This will have to come down, of course," he huffed. "We're going to excavate this entire area. That building was here for over a century, and we need to study everything left."

I wondered how he'd react to the British attitude about history, where buildings which were only a little over a century old were considered new. Where you could have an Elizabethan restoration of a Tudor building on Saxon foundations over Roman ruins erected on an Iron Age fort which was built on a Stone Age butchery. All put there because of the view. With the excavation of any of those prohibited by the presence of modern utilities. Which reminded me...

"Ah, no," I told him. "There's nothing left here. Even the utility connections to this building are new, put in for the public restrooms. I made sure everything was removed from inside the existing poured, concrete foundations of the old building, first thing. It was all put in that big pile you can see in the northwest corner of the park. If you want to sort through that, feel free. However, the only thing currently inside the foundations is fill dirt, brought here from elsewhere."

"You dug it all out?!" said the man, outraged. "That means there's no provenance, no context!"

"Well, at the time I wanted to make sure there was no danger," I pointed out. I actually understood his pain. I had an interest in history and prehistory, after all. "I was already planning to make this area a playground and park. If you wanted to examine what was left of that building - which wasn't much, I assure you, and most of what was inside the foundation had fallen there from outside the old building - you should have said something sooner."

I was in my base form, which was the ID for which I owned the land. Though I could probably have been there as Lorraine, naked, and he would have barely noticed that there was anything unusual about me. He was that focused on his mission. Also, this was California...

"We didn't know anything about the demolition until it was all over!" he said, as if their ignorance was my fault.

"My offer stands," I said, unsympathetically. "Take it or leave it."

In the end, he took it.

* * *

"Bugs?!" said Vic.

"In the phones, the Commissioner's intercom, the walls, the lights... No wonder the bad guys knew about Harmody. The FBI found dozens of listening devices in just the preliminary search. Some had been in place for years. Many probably weren't even working any more. Though some appeared to have been put in place since the new Commissioner took over."

"Well, that explains a lot," said Vic, nodding. "Hopefully, our work will go smoother, now."

"Hopefully."

"Uhm, you did have them check here..."

"Of course. Also, the FBI checked the rest of the federal building. We're clear."

* * *

The new Intrepids' base had some of the best computer facilities in the world. Not only because of the massively parallel system currently housing Bunter but because of its connections to important data centers.

"You've been doing a lot of work on the computer, recently," said Bowman, as he once again came across the Black Mask sitting at a terminal like a cloud of darkness, starting intently at the screen. "What's up?"

"I'm doing research. Do you recall how old were the rocks the Moon Scouts dug into?"

"About 4 billion years. They're part of the Acasta Gneiss of the Slave craton in northwestern Canada."

"Yes. About the same age as that crater where Janos Rukh found that semi-stable transuranic element."

"Well, those rocks were about half as old as the Canadian rocks and the crater was even younger," said Bowman, frowning. "What's your point?"

"You know the Marligt were digging in the Gobi desert, in the Thirties," said the Black Mask. "They were in an area where - according to my research - the oldest rocks are less than three hundred million years old."

"Yeah..."

"The paleontologists thought the extensive excavations were due to the aliens were attempting to create a base for conquest," said the Black Mask. "That they were intended for foundations and underground facilities. What if they were actually looking for something? What if the reason they left was less because the paleontologists caused them so much difficulty, than that they didn't find what they were looking for?"

"Like what?"

"What if aliens with near-miraculous technology were after something we - and even they - might see as actually miraculous?"

"The Marligt were looking in the wrong place."

"Yes. I suspect they were after the same thing as the Moon Scouts and that computer on the Moon which empowered them, but the Marligt picked rocks which were too young. Much too young. Though, thanks to their unfamiliarity with terrestrial geology, they didn't know that. Presumably, they would have learned if they had persisted."

"So what were they after? That semi-stable transuranic Rukh found?"

"Possibly. That element is now believed to be what remains of some sort of advanced power plant, possibly from a spacecraft.

"So, I think we need to examine the hole the Moon Scouts made. We know there have been multiple alien excursions to Earth, and most in retrospect do not appear to have been acts of conquest. What if they were all looking for some remnant of an ancient civilization? Something which fell to Earth long ago?"

"That wouldn't necessarily be in rocks of that age," said Bowman, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I mean, any artifacts would not necessarily be as old as the rocks they wound up in. The crater Rukh found was made in rocks which were already old when the meteorite hit. So maybe whatever they were looking for was caught in our gravity and fell here much later? That would explain why the Marligt were in the central Gobi, and why the Moon Scouts didn't have to dig very deep. Whatever it was would have been in a crater which at the time of the impact was on the surface. Then later that filled in. Also, the Earth has active geology. Things do fill in, and wash downhill, and move around due to plate tectonics. Even glaciers move things, as was recently demonstrated with the t'melk creatures off Greenland."

"Exactly. I have largely exhausted my suitable knowledge in this search and would appreciate your help in further research. Perhaps together we can determine what everyone was after. As well as whether any of it is left."