The Angel of Earth

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Two

The phone rang, actually causing Melody to jump a bit. Coral hurried into the den from the kitchen to get it, since Aaron was busy with his guest. After giving a perfunctory greeting and then listening for a moment, she gestured Aaron over. He sighed, just a bit, rose and moved to take the antique receiver.

Melody couldn't hear what was said by the person on the other end, but from the multiple changes in Aaron's demeanor and what he said in response, she figured the news was bad but not an emergency. Aaron finally finished, hung up, and stood for a moment with his hand on the phone. Eventually, he turned back to his guest.

"I'm afraid something has come up," he said, with a sad smile. He knew, of course, that Melody had more things to discuss with him. "A long time friend died a few days ago, and someone only just remembered to call me. The funeral is in a couple of hours. Would it be all right to resume after I come back? Say, around 2 O'Clock?"

"That will be fine," said Melody, though she was frantically rearranging her schedule in her head. The local time wasn't even Nine yet and Blackpool was due to return for her in less than three hours. She'd have to meet him and ask if he could bring her back later, or maybe he could just wait with her. Meanwhile, "I haven't been in Haven for a couple of years. I'm sure there's plenty to catch up on."

"Oh, yes," said Aaron, his smile broadening. "If nothing else, I'm sure Joe would be glad to tell you some interesting stories."

That was her cue to rise, gather what she had brought, and leave.

* * *

Melody hadn't been dissembling about there being plenty for her to do while she waited for Aaron to return. With help from Joe Blank, the reporter had little trouble filling the time. She met her husband as they had agreed and Melody persuaded him to have lunch with her at the town's cafeteria. Which was not difficult. That was one of the few public places where he felt comfortable with rolling his mask up enough to eat and drink. That was partly due to this being one of the few public places where doing so garnered only a small amount of attention, all of it polite.

However, after lunch Blackpool had work of his own to attend to. Melody saw him off and spent most of her remaining wait time in the town's library, researching and making notes. At 1:45 she gathered her items, and calmly walked back to Aaron's house.

Coral was no warmer the second time, though she was a bit more communicative with the reporter.

"You're in luck," said Coral, still unsmiling, as she opened the door shortly after Melody rang the bell. "He just got back. He's in his office. The one here."

She left Melody to find her own way. Fortunately, the layout of the home was familiar to her.

Aaron looked very different in the somewhat old fashioned, grey, three-piece suit and hat he currently wore, the outfit - like his house - being a bit archaic. The effect was so startling that Melody paused, about to knock on the open door, her hand stayed. At first because of the unusual sight. Then because he appeared to be talking to someone she couldn't see.

Aaron was standing at a window, the lower portion of which was open. As was the screen beyond. Melody needed a moment to see who - or, rather, what - he was talking to: A small, nondescript grey bird standing on the window sill.

"You need to stop teasing that cat," said Aaron, sternly.

The bird gave an irate chirp.

"I don't care if you think it's fun. It's not fun for you when you get caught. It's not fun for me when I have to rescue you. It's definitely not fun for the cat when I take you away from him. One of these times I won't be quick enough."

The bird gave another chirp, somehow managing to sound insincerely repentant.

"I'm just telling you to stop teasing the cat! It's not that hard. Just stop."

The bird glared at him, then leapt into the air and flew out the opening. With a sigh, Aaron closed the screen and the window and turned around. He seemed surprised to find that he had an audience.

"Uh, good afternoon," he said. "Oh; right. You wanted my informed opinion about some things. Well, if you will wait in the den, I'll be there as soon as I change."

"Well, not to change the subject," said the reporter, "but can you first explain what you are wearing? Especially that hat."

"Mannequin calls this my pimp hat," said Aaron, rolling his eyes. "I figured that for a funeral I should wear something more formal than my usual flannel shirt and jeans."

"You probably should have dressed in a more modern style," said Melody, grinning at his hat.

"The last time I tried to dress according to contemporary tastes, my wife accused me of depleting the zoot population."

The reporter had to laugh at that.

"I'll be in the den when you're ready," said Melody, still obviously amused.

Figuring she had a few minutes, Melody put her purse and notes on the coffee table and went into the kitchen to get some water. She forgot how quickly her host could move when he wanted to. Melody put her used tumbler in the sink and realized Aaron was already in the den. She hurried back into the room.

Melody could hear Aaron singing. "Do you know what it means, to miss New Orleans?" There was his usual "human" voice and three or four others - male and female - plus instruments. As she entered the den she half expected him to be making all the sounds himself, but he actually had a platter on his turntable and was singing with the recording, in just one voice.

He turned towards Melody as she entered and smiled at her, but kept singing. There wasn't much of the song left, anyway. He held his smile and a spread-armed pose as the last notes faded. Then he moved to the entertainment center and lifted the tonearm. The 45 record went into a sleeve and the sleeve onto a shelf.

"Now that I've gotten that out of my system," he said, smile morphing into a grin.

"Does this have something to do with the jazz tradition of playing upbeat music after funerals?" said Melody, remembering that while he wasn't actually from New Orleans his hometown of Baton Rouge wasn't all that far away, physically or culturally.

"Remember, I became interested in jazz when some people were still spelling it Jass." His expression faded a bit but was still evident as he moved to one of the couches. Melody took this as her cue to sit on the other one. "Actually, many cultures have such traditions. Happy or sad, music is considered essential for memorializing the deceased's life."

He sat after she did, and gestured at the papers she had already placed on the coffee table between them.

"Now, about The Protectorate..."

* * *

Most of what they discussed in the next forty minutes or so was which government agencies, businesses, empowered groups and even empowered individuals were most likely to act against The Protectorate, and why. During that time Coral said her good byes and left for her own home. Aaron actually seemed to relax a bit after she left. However, as the conversation wound down Melody noticed that her host seemed a bit agitated in spite of that. Or perhaps he felt more free to express himself because of it.

"Okay, what is bothering you?" said Melody, finally.

"Is it that obvious?" said Aaron, looking uncomfortable.

"To someone who knows you, yes."

"I'm afraid the burial service and speaking with other attendees afterwards brought something home. Or rather, brought back something I've thought about before."

He sighed and stood, suddenly restless. His mood rapidly changed from his usual, peaceful manner. He actually looked uncharacteristically furious.

"Nothing lasts," said Aaron, as he paced angrily. "Nothing sticks! I teach them and they do better for a while, then I have to start all over with the next batch!"

"You're still here," said Melody, quietly. "The problem is they don't live long enough."

She winced, remembering the grey hairs she had found that morning.

"We don't live long enough," she said, even more quietly. She sighed, and resumed at a normal volume. "The ones who learn are replaced by new people, who - like as not - have to be taught the same lessons. However, you're still here to teach them. As are a few others. None of this is new."

"Yet those of us who think long-term - empowered or not - need people like you," said Aaron, gently, his mood changing to something much less angry, as he turned to smile at Melody. "If for no other reason than to help us keep some of our focus on the here and now."

"Thank you," said Melody, beaming.

Aaron sighed again, and turned back to his bookshelves. Particularly, he looked at a book-wide gap in one section.

"Sometimes you just need the right timing."

"I sense a story," said Melody, eagerly. Which elicited a short laugh from her host. He turned back to her.

"About a century ago, I wrote a biography of Alexander Adams," said Aaron, wistfully. "Ragtime and jazz cornetist, composer, singer and band leader. Unfortunately, the time was wrong to be praising Black cultural figures in the United States. Some people were even saying he was a fictional character. Today his work - especially his music - is widely acclaimed. My book is... long gone. Even I don't have a copy."

"That's what the space is for."

"Yes. Someday..."

He turned back to the shelves, looking at the gap. He sighed again, then turned once more to Melody and again smiled.

"I think my new housekeeper has spoiled me. With her gone home the duties of host fall on me, and I'm failing in those duties. Would you like a snack and something to drink?"

"Yes, please. Actually, if you haven't had supper I could do with a sandwich. Though just water to drink." She laughed. "I got hooked on your town's water the first time I was here."

A polite fiction. The town did have good water, but she had recently been diagnosed as pre-diabetic and was supposed to stay away from sweets. Particularly including soft drinks, which her host favored. Melody actually was a bit hungry, and if it helped Aaron feel useful to provide food and drink...

"One healthy - and locally sourced - turkey sandwich, coming up. Dark meat?"

"Please."

While her host was in the kitchen, Melody rose to take a quick look around the room, which by now was nearly as familiar as her own apartment. She paid special attention to the neatly-arranged photographs. Then she noticed the sheet music on the piano's stand. Curious, she moved closer.

"'Felix Kept on Walking,'" she said, reading the title aloud. Which did little to enlighten her. Neither did a quick glance at the lyrics help. Though the slight yellowing of and the wear on the paper did. Hearing Aaron returning, she moved back to the coffee table.

"It's about an immortal cat with magic powers, who travels the world, having adventures," said Aaron, smiling, as he set out the coffee and cookies.

Of course he knew what I was looking at, thought Melody, with a slight smirk.

"That's very appropriate."

"Oh?" said Aaron, innocently. "How so?"

She had to laugh at that.

She then paused for a moment, to look carefully around the room.

"Some of these things are collectors' items," she observed. "Even without their... unique provenance."

"All of them are well cared for. I am not selling any of them. I certainly don't need the money. Neither am I currently in the mood to donate any more of my belongings to museums."

Melody definitely caught the "more" in that sentence, and made a note to pursue that later. Right now, though, she had something else on her mind.

"There's something I keep forgetting to ask you about, so I'm going to now," said Melody. "Where does your personal funding come from?"

"The house actually belongs to the town," said Aaron, easily. "I don't pay property tax, since I don't own the property. The citizens of Haven insist on providing this home, my utilities and even my food. So, my costs are close to nil. What little personal money I do need comes from donations and rewards."

Melody was far from finished, but just then came a knock on the door. Startled, she glanced at the clock ticking sedately over the kitchen doorway, and was a bit surprised.

"Wow, the time just flew," said Melody, as she followed Aaron to the front door, suspecting - correctly - that the source of the knock was Blackpool. "I'm still not finished with my questions."

"I don't have anything scheduled for tomorrow," said Aaron, nodding in greeting to the other empowered man.

The trio quickly agreed on a time for Melody's return visit.

* * *

Michael Schmierer watched patiently as the sky grew dark and the lights came on in the huge house. He knew the pattern of lighting use by now. As the evening progressed the illumination in the structure repeatedly shifted, in a largely predictable pattern. If the typical routine was followed tonight, they would go from those lights which were on being mostly downstairs, to about an even amount downstairs and upstairs, to the lights which were on being mostly upstairs, then nearly all the upstairs lights on with the downstairs completely dark, then only in a few rooms upstairs illuminated, then all would go dark. Mike made himself comfortable in the driver's seat of his car - which appeared empty and parked for the night in a wide spot on the shoulder across the road from the isolated mansion - and waited.

Many investigators - whether police or private - found this part of the job tedious. Mike, in contrast, welcomed these quiet nights, keeping watch, cameras, recorder and shotgun mic ready. Letting most of his mind go idle while he focused on watching for, well, whatever might be suspicious.

CornFed claimed his attraction to and suitability for such activities was due to having the instincts of an ambush hunter. Mike liked that idea.

His current job involved watching the country home of a wealthy California family which was famous - or infamous - for its eccentrics. For example, the current head of the family was a UFO enthusiast. The man had spent millions on "evidence" such as crudely doctored photos and scraps of material supposedly from "flying saucers" and "probes" (some of which looked like exotic sex toys). On the other hand, the man legitimately had some images and items which could not be conventionally explained. Mike's job wasn't to evaluate Gaspard's hobby, which the man could well afford. The PI was there to watch for signs of criminal activity. Over the past few weeks there had been multiple breakins at both public and private collections of this type.

Most of these invasions had happened at widely scattered locations all over North America, with a few in other regions. Several of the collections had been hit right after some mention in popular media. This particular one, which was known as the Gaspard Hoard, had been featured in a 3V show on unusual hobbies just four days before. This night was Mike's third on watch.

He really should have picked a different place to park each night. Unfortunately, the only suitable spot was the outside of a curve in the road, on a wide section of the gravel shoulder. It did have the advantage of a lot of screening vegetation at either end of the space, greatly reducing the visibility of anything there. As well as being in deep shadows in during most of the day, due to large, old trees looming overhead. In fact, the private property on which the mansion stood was situated between a forest and an upscale neighborhood.

The owner and gatherer of the collection, William Gaspard, wasn't concerned about the breakins. Mike had the feeling that such worldly worries held little interest for him. Besides, he had alarms and an automatic phone connection with a respected security company... which guaranteed an in-person presence within an hour! However, W. Gaspard's wife and oldest son had hired Mike as extra security. After all, the collection occupied a wing of their home!

The culprit didn't seem interested in the theft of the most valuable objects, though a few things had been taken. Market value of the items chosen for removal seemed irrelevant. Mostly the collections had been rummaged through but left otherwise intact. Whoever was doing this was also very good at avoiding conventional security. Perhaps through training; perhaps through a power. Unfortunately, they also weren't perfect. A few times the culprit had been interrupted in their strange pursuit. People had been hurt trying to stop him, some seriously. Two of those attacked by the burglar had died from their injuries. So, this was a potentially very serious situation. He - possibly she - was at least very skilled, and likely had powers which made them physically potent.

The husband/father knew his wife and son had hired Mike; the detective had made a point of meeting with Gaspard père, and representatives of the security agency which was supposed to respond if anything tripped the alarms. Mike had assured all of them that he wouldn't go onto the property unless he saw an immediate and clear need to. Since his watch point had a good view of the entire wing where the collection was located, if anything did happen Mike had a good chance of seeing it. He also had a car phone. As well as the phone number for the local sheriff's office.

Mike felt that the odds of anything happening here were very low, but he got paid for his time even if all stayed quiet. He actually hoped he wouldn't earn any hazard pay.

With the surroundings dark enough, now, that spotting him would be difficult, Mike rolled the driver's position window most of the way down. Onto the remaining tongue of glass went a padded clamp. Onto that went his big pair of night glasses. He was getting paid for this, after all, so he better do his job, and do it well.

* * *

"You're awfully quiet," said Blackpool - or John - as he and Melody go into bed that evening.

"I'm thinking about the future," said the reporter.

"You mean you're once again thinking about having children," said her husband, tone carefully neutral.

"Is that so surprising? Unlike Aaron and a few others we're both aging normally. I hate to bring up that old cliché about biological clocks..."

"I just don't think things are stable enough right now," said John, firmly.

"Aaron says they've never been stable," said Melody, wryly, as she pulled the sheet over her. "Seriously, though, if we wait for the perfect time, that's not likely to ever come."

"You have a good point," said John, with a sigh, as he fluffed his pillow. "I just don't know if I'm ready."

He could tell she wanted this. He gathered her hands in his, and kissed her fingertips.

"Yes, I will think about this. Seriously. I promise." He sighed as he held her. "Anyway, right now we both need sleep. You're going back to Haven tomorrow to finish your interview, and I'm your transportation."

Warning: Brief descriptions of torture.

The Angel of Earth

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Three

Walker limped down the hall as quickly as he could, his restraints rattling. Cuffs, ankle irons and chains, combined with his crooked legs made his progress slow. He almost cried, and from more than the pain; he had walked all over the world, including the full distance from the spring fed source of the White Nile to the Mediterranean. Now he was reduce to this hobble of short, quick steps. His captors were impatient; they didn't care that his impaired progress was due to their deliberate actions. It was his fault they had to wait. Everything wrong was his fault and they made certain he knew this. Walker moved as quickly as he could, visibly wincing repeatedly, hoping to escape worse pain by making clear the torment from his legs he was experiencing on this trip from his cramped, filthy cell to the interrogation room.

Fortunately, he was not beaten. This time. Perhaps he was simply successful in avoiding their ire. Or perhaps his obvious suffering and the grateful groan he gave as he sank into the hard chair in the dank, bare room were enough to satisfy their need to make him suffer. Or maybe the fact that his interrogator was not yet in the room was responsible. That last was definitely a violation of procedure. Normally, an interrogator would already be waiting, making a show of impatience. They kept varying the times between interrogations, and even the intervals when the light in his cell was on, to keep him from even knowing the time of day. Or how many days he had been here. Perhaps Walker's interrogator was late because this once he hadn't been correctly informed of when he was supposed to be here.

Whatever the reason, they simply locked his steel chain to the steel hasp welded to the steel table and left. They were a bit flustered because of the interrogator's absence, though that was difficult to tell with their carefully schooled faces. Faces deliberately chosen to be an assortment, so as not to give him any clue as to who held him.

Walker immediately became more alert, though he did not show this. There were still cameras watching him, even with no-one else in the room. This violation of procedure was... odd. They never left him alone, except in his tiny cell. A cell deliberately too small for him to activate his powers, even if his mutilated legs would have allowed that. Though he was not truly alone when he was in the cell. He was still watched, the cameras on constantly, no matter what the current state of the lights.

Walker was not an activist; not a protestor; not even very politically aware. He certainly had never taken overt action against a group. Any group. He was a professional traveller, who earned a good living writing and talking about his travels. Yet on his most recent trip, when he went to meet a guide, he was ambushed. As he stepped through the doorway of the hut an explosive charge under the rug just inside went off. This produced a blast deliberately designed to shatter his legs without killing him.

In the haze of pain which clouded the days following that event, he remembered being treated by doctors in some sort of medical facility, his legs put in splints. Either none of them spoke any of the languages Walker tried, or they were instructed not to speak to him, or near him. None would answer questions, or his requests for pain medication or even water. Not until he was brought to this prison and the splints were removed did he realize his legs had been deliberately mis-set, reducing his famous, world-traveling lope to a painful hobble.

Somehow, his captors - he still had no idea who they were, or if he was still in the same country or the even that same continent - had learned that without his ability to stride, he could not use his traveling powers. None of them spoke to him, either, except for the three alternating interrogators. They all spoke perfect, broadcast-quality American English. They also asked questions - the same ones, over and over - which were either completely mundane, such as where he was born, or complete nonsense. The last set included topics such as who he was spying for. Telling them he wasn't a spy resulted in beatings. He had quickly learned to ask for clarifications to their questions, and then to simply confirm their accusations.

This time, though... Walker didn't know why his interrogator was late. This was the first time he had been alone outside his tiny cell... It was definitely an opportunity... Though what if it were a trap?

Deciding to take a chance, Walker carefully eyed the length of the chain linking him to the table. Left alone in his cell, he'd spent the long hours trying to activate his power, to reduce the distance he needed to travel to start his stride. Did he actually have enough room, here and now? Had he improved enough?

He stood, pulling the chain tight, his arms extended. Not quite. He moved around the table towards end opposite the door, gaining a bit more room. Yes! As the door slammed open he stepped forward, actually moving towards the table, ignoring the agony in his legs. He also ignored the startled exclamations and shouted warnings from his captors. He was already beyond them, though in a direction they could not perceive. Futilely, they reached for Walker as his chains fell away, as he passed through them, his second step carrying him well beyond the building, his third taking him ten times as far.

Each step was agony, but he knew that if he stopped he might never start again. He was free, but still too close to his captors. Perhaps even deep within their country's borders.

His first priority was to go far enough to ensure his escape. Then he needed to find familiar landmarks. This latter was not a hugely difficult task, considering how much of the world he had seen since his powers came. He would simply travel in a straight line until he got his bearings. Where to go after that, though? Walker suddenly knew. With a surge of determination, he moved onwards.

* * *

The next morning Blackpool dropped Melody off in the same patch of woods in Haven's central park as before. She quickly made her way to Aaron's house. Coral was just as warm and social as in Melody's previous encounter, though she did admit - grudgingly - that Aaron was actually home.

"Good morning," said Aaron, as the reporter entered the den. "So far my slate is clear. Let's begin."

* * *

Melody returned from a bathroom break to find Aaron still sitting where she had left him on one of the couches in his den, only now there was a cat on his lap. The brown feline didn't give the appearance of letting Aaron up any time soon. Of course, the empowered man gave every appearance of also enjoying the process of skritching the cat. Though there seemed to be a sadness under that.

"I already know you know where to scratch," said Melody, amused. "However, you also appear a bit... melancholy."

"Their existences are so fugitive," said Aaron, gently, looking down as he stroked the appreciative feline. "Though they can live longer than dogs, it's still much less than even a normal modern human span. We should do what we can to make those lives fulfilled."

"Is that how you feel about us mere humans?" said Melody, quietly, sitting on the other couch, across the coffee table from him.

"Of course not," he said, looking up at her and smiling. "For one thing, it's much harder to have an interesting conversation with a housecat."

He looked again at the cat, his smile replaced by an expression of mixed contemplation and sadness.

"Also, they are incapable of understanding how short their live are. They live in an eternal Now. Their needs are far simpler, as well. Humans need more than mere food, shelter and companionship. Though those are needed."

He looked up at Melody, knowing from experience her interest in such subjects.

"Before my powers awoke, I was very bitter, and also very narrow of purpose. All I could see was some of the more blatant wrongs being done, and I was filled with rage and an urge to right them.

"Then I experienced a personal miracle: Empowerment. Everything seemed bright and fresh, my thoughts were clearer, better organized, better balanced. My bitterness was gone; though not the accompanying disappointment. I already knew many who had the same desires I had to make the world better. Some of them also became empowered.

"For many years after I gained my abilities, I didn't want to consider the larger picture," continued Aaron, looking both tired and annoyed. "I focused on individuals, though a lot of them. I even had arguments with other empowered, some of whom from very early on were insisting that we with heightened intellects should focus on the big problems of the whole world. It was just... too big for me to care about, then. However, I helped those whose attention was on larger things, and gradually became convinced they were at least partly right. I also helped them focus on the smaller things, when the need arose.

"For a while we made a huge difference. Then the world began pushing back. We persevered, and we succeeded, over and again, but each success came harder, and accomplished less. Still, we did succeed, and some of us continue making the world a better place to this day.

"In the process, though, we began attracting more and more attention. Much of it was undesirable, coming from people wishing to hinder us for what they saw as their best interests. Or to help us in ways we didn't want. That included a few of those we were actually helping. Some of that adverse attention was simply from people wanting to cash in on our abilities. Some was actually from people idolizing us, and expecting us to fulfill some illusion of an idealized reality they already possessed. A few were adamantly not just against us and our actions, but any sort of change in the status quo, and they fought hard against us. This even included some empowered."

"Isn't that the way it's always been, though?" said Melody, gently. "Well, except for the empowered part."

"Yes, but it doesn't need to be. It certainly doesn't need to be, now. In part it was realizing just how much was arrayed against us - social inertia, greed, shortsightedness, even entire armies - which caused so many of the empowered to decide to leave, in one way or another."

He shifted position on the couch a bit, looking thoughtful. The cat protested mildly.

"Keep in mind that while from the beginning I was unusually potent - especially physically - for someone empowered, that my abilities then were a shadow of what they are today. I was impressive, yes. I could fly, I was tough, I could throw flaming spears, I was very persuasive... There were many others at least as potent and a few considerably moreso. Most of my abilities were originally available only in my Malak form. Though those early abilities were quickly expanded and extended to my human form, and I soon even developed some powers which were unique to my base self.

"I also learned, and quickly increased my improved mental abilities. This rapid improvement was largely due to all the conflicts I found myself involved in. Those forced me - all of us in our group or in any similar situation - to stretch, and grow. However, even working with others likewise intending to improve the world, there was much which was beyond us.

"Don't get me wrong; we did improve things. The world is a significantly better place than it would have been without us. There are simulations showing multiple paths humanity might have taken, and most of those paths are worse. The majority of those possible worlds have more disease, more hunger, more corruption. With or without the empowered. It's just that this specific world where we live could have been - should have been - an even better place than it actually turned out, if things had gone just a bit differently. Something our simulations also show. We don't live in the best of all possible worlds, but it's far from the worst. For which we should be grateful, while striving to further improve things."

"There are those who will claim that you're saying nothing new," said Melody.

"They're right," said Aaron, nodding. "Philosophers and prophets have been saying we need to put aside greed and hatred for millennia. There are even modern analysts who claim some ancient cave paintings show such pleas. The best angels of our nature are constantly battling the worst devils of our nature. The primary difference which adding powers made - despite the claims by some empowered that they are 'beyond good and evil' - is that these abilities make acts of great good easier. Unfortunately, they also make acts of great evil easier."

The phone rang. Aaron sighed, and called out to Coral that he would get it. He put the cat on the sofa beside him - to its obvious displeasure - and excused himself to Melody as he rose to answer. After a brief and unilluminating conversation, he finished with "I'll be right there." Something not unusual for one of his calls. He put the old-fashioned handset back into the cradle, and turned to find Melody standing nearby, looking expectant.

"Walker just arrived at the clinic," said Aaron.

"Walker?!" said Melody, startled. "He's been missing for weeks!"

Aaron nodded.

"He was apparently being held somewhere. By people who tortured him. He's in bad shape, but came in under his own power and they expect him to recover. Anyway, I need to go check on the situation in person."

"Got room for a passenger?" said Melody, eagerly... though she had to quash a flare of personal distress at the "tortured" part. Even after many years and much therapy.

"Sorry, no," said Aaron, with a slight smile. "If he agrees to an interview later, we'll see."

"Well, Blackpool is due back soon, anyway," said Melody, yielding gracefully to the inevitable.

She followed him outside, and stood on the porch as he walked out into the street and changed. He became taller, his hair longer, his clothes turning into robes and his shoes into sandals as his grey wings came out. Long gone was the time when the reporter would reflexively shy back when Aaron became Malak. Now she observed the change eagerly. Melody wasn't the only one watching this transformation, either, or who continued watching as Malak took to the air, wings beating hard. Though she was the only one close enough that she needed to shield her eyes from the dust kicked up by the air blast from his takeoff. He climbed briefly for altitude, then once above surrounding obstacles abruptly blurred away, in the direction of his nearby clinic.

"Boss get a call?" said Joe, startling Melody out of her reverie.

She turned to him and nodded, then related what had happened.

"What would you call that sort of situation?" said Melody, not really expecting an answer.

"Around here?" said Joe, smirking. "Tuesday."

* * *

"We have him in the trauma room," said Dr. Sanders, the clinic's current emergency treatment expert. He was an older man, with dark skin and white hair. He was very good at his job, and new a great deal about helping people who were empowered. "I don't know where he was or who was holding him, but he and his clothes were filthy, the clothes were in tatters, his feet raw and bleeding, and his legs..."

"Any healers working on him?" said Malak, when Sanders paused.

"Yes. Free Bird and Fellow Spirit are already in there."

"Excellent."

"Short term, he needs treatment of active injuries, plus food, water and rest," said Dr. Sanders. "Long term, we're probably looking at corrective surgery on his legs."

"What it takes, Doctor," said Malak, firmly.

"In other words, the usual."

* * *

Meanwhile, back in Haven, Joe Blank had taken it upon himself to keep Melody entertained until her ride arrived.

"So, how is the Winged One?" asked Joe, as he and the reporter stood in the street. Fortunately, there was not much vehicular traffic.

"Busy," said Melody, rolling her eyes.

Joe smiled in amused understanding, then gave her an evaluating look.

"I hope you appreciate how much you mean to him, for Aaron to take time to speak with you like this."

"Oh, definitely."

"Maybe we should wait inside," said Joe, gesturing towards Aaron's house. "One thing we haven't completely solved is mosquitoes."

"They're not that bad," said Melody. "Let's wait on the porch, instead. If that's all right with you."

"Well, I'm not going to turn down a chance to share a porch swing with a pretty lady," said Joe, graciously.

They moved together to the hanging, bench-like swing on Aaron's front porch, one taking a seat at each end.

"This must be one of the most modern - and peaceful - small towns on the planet," said Melody, as they swung gently in the cool, evening air. Mostly thanks to Joe and his longer legs.

"Oh, definitely," said Joe, smiling and nodding, a hand around one of the supporting chains. "However, I think our sense of community is much more important than our advanced utilities. Or the deliberate lack of them, in some cases. We tend to think and act in a nearly unified manner. Oh, we'll argue about things ahead of time, but once the decision is made we all get behind it. Anyway, if I know Aaron he'll be back soon."

"You're probably right. Though I suspect Blackpool might beat him."

As if on cue, the black-clad figure came walking down the street through the rapidly growing shadows, towards Aaron's house.

"What did I miss?" said Blackpool. There were enough clues present - mostly in the postures and expressions of the people still milling around - from that hurried exit by Malak that determining something had happened was relatively easy. Even for someone without his keen observational abilities.

"I'll explain on the way home," said Melody, suddenly feeling tired. "Thank you, Joe, for keeping me company. Please give Aaron my best when he gets back."

"Will do."

The Angel of Earth

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Four

Michael Schmierer came fully alert at spotting some unusual movement, in the decorative shrubbery under one window of the wing of the mansion which contained the exhibit. He and the security company had tried to get the family to cut all plants taller than the mowed grass which were anywhere near the building, but this had been refused very firmly. As had the suggestion that the family install floodlights under the house's eves. Apparently, they considered their particular aesthetics more important than security.

Mike went to the large-lensed night glasses which were clamped to the mostly-lowered driver's window. These magnified the image but helped only a little with the brightness. Fortunately, the night was relatively clear and a half-full Moon shone on the scene. Mike absently cursed the restrictions which allowed light amplifying electronic devices for military use but banned them as "mad science" for civilians.

Just as he was about to decide that the disturbance had been in his imagination, the bushes moved again. A pair of black-clad hands then reached up to the window. They turned out to be connected to black-clad arms. Mike remembered that each of the large, swing-out windows had two magnetic alarms; one each at the top and bottom. Additionally, there were vibration detection alarms on each window, plus microphones inside connected to an alarm box, which would react to the sound of breaking glass.

Methodically, unhurriedly, the hands disarmed the magnetic switch at the bottom. The black-clad arms turned out to be attached to a completely black-clad figure, which stood and reached up to disarm the top switch. At this distance all Mike could tell was that the person was lean but athletic. The latches were jimmied, and the window opened, just wide enough for the figure to reach through and deftly disarm the vibration sensor. They then pushed the window further open and slipped easily inside. The only sign of their passage was the open window. Presumably left that way in case the burglar needed to make a quick exit.

Mike was already taking photos, bracing the camera against the upper edge of the tempered glass. He went back and forth between that and looking through the binoculars. The lens on the camera was also large and fast, and the camera was loaded with a very sensitive monochrome film, but he couldn't see the action clearly in the viewfinder. However, he could see enough to aim where he saw something with the binoculars.

Once the figure went inside Mike took a break from the photography to call the sheriff's office on his car phone.

"Yeah, I'm sure," said Mike, once he was talking to his contact. "Saw them through my night glasses. Slim figure, all in black. Foxed the alarms and jimmied the locks, rather expertly."

"That sounds like our phantom," said the deputy on the other end, reluctantly. "We have a radio car near there. We'll tell them to approach your location Code 1. You keep watch."

"Roger," said Mike.

The strange figure still had not reappeared when the patrol car pulled in behind Mike's vehicle, no siren or emergency lights, even their headlights off. It stopped and the driver got out and walked up to Mike's window.

"Any update?"

"I saw the suspect go in," said Mike. "Since then, nothing. Except for that window they left open."

"You keep watch. We'll look around the perimeter - quietly - and see if we can find their car."

At least this officer seemed to be taking matters more seriously than his boss.

"Careful. This guy's hurt several people and killed two."

The deputy smirked at that, and patted his holstered autoloader. He was a big man, a force veteran of many years, and understandably confident. The other deputy who got out of the car and joined him in a brief, quiet conference was a bit younger and a bit smaller, but equally confident. Mike just hoped they weren't overconfident.

Mike returned to his watch as the two men began circling the mansion. The pair had a good methodology. They kept to the roads around the property, staying outside the largely decorative fences, actually walking on the far side of the pavement with respect to the mansion, where they were difficult to see against the dark undergrowth beyond. They were going in opposite directions. Mike hoped they didn't shoot each other when they met on the far side.

They definitely had a good plan: Find where the perp would be heading after his B&E, catch him by surprise as he left the property and capture him. Then take the credit, of course. Mike didn't mind. This guy - or gal - was dangerous. If the situation got bad enough to require shooting, better the deputies than him.

Except the deputies weren't all that quiet. By closing his eyes and focusing, Mike could hear both of them. He didn't do that for very long at a time, though. Too much chance of missing seeing the exit of the perp.

Okay, did the intruder park on the same side as where they entered, for a shorter and quicker in and out? thought Mike. Or somewhere their vehicle could be more concealed, even if that meant a longer path?

One of the county cops soon walked past the place where the vehicle would have been parked for the shortest route. Not long after that, Mike could tell they were just about to meet on the far end of the mansion. Neither had stopped for very long. Either the vehicle was well hidden, or...

Mike came suddenly alert. The suspect had never taken anything bulky or heavy. He had only been seen near the target structure, almost always when leaving. He had always gotten away. How was unclear. Several people had reported following him out of a building or even around a corner inside, only to find him gone.

"He has powers," said Mike, quietly.

This was not a great surprise. In fact, that was already suspected. This realization, though, confirmed that suspicion, and perhaps gave an indication of which powers the person might possess. At least to Mike.

He knew that most people who had super speed could use it generally. That is, they were fast even at things like reading or fighting. Some people, though, could only use super speed to get from one place to another. Like Malak's fast travel mode. If this guy had super speed - even just for traveling - he wouldn't need a vehicle.

Mike mentally ran through several possible actions he could take. In the end, he remained where he was and kept watch.

Soon after his epiphany, Mike spotted the intruder exiting. He was, indeed, completely garbed in black and seemed to be empty-handed. He took a moment to look around after closing and realarming the window. Mike got several photos, but didn't have much hope any would come out. His camera, set to automatically bracket exposures, whirred and clicked, three times for each push of the button. However, even the shortest exposure was over a tenth of a second. Enough time for the suspect's movements - even though they were slow and cautious as the figure worked - to cause blurring.

Mike's photo opportunity ended when the figure ducked back into the shrubbery. Which was fine; he was nearly at the end of the roll. There was a short pause; then Mike saw a dark-clad figure shoot across the manicured lawn toward the closest road at incredible speed. Once on the pavement the blur made what appeared to be an instantaneous right-angle turn and sped off into the night.

* * *

"So then this phantom just... zoomed away," said the sheriff, looking dubious.

"Here's what the photo lab got from the pictures I took," said Michael Schmierer, handing him a set of large prints. "These are the best of those which actually came out. There were more good ones than I was expecting."

He handed another set of 8 X 10 glossies to the representative of the security company. Which had insisted there was "No penetration of the property." until the next morning, when the servants entered and found the exhibits "disturbed" then called the company.

"So, these, combined with the physical evidence and my testimony as to what I saw, give us a lot of new information about the modus operandi of the perpetrator," said Mike. "That includes confirming that the person is either a slim male or a woman who isn't showing much bust. Most likely the former. I even have a good range for height and weight. As well as that they definitely have powers. All in my written report."

That information was easily accepted by the Sheriff. The powers part meant he didn't have to work so hard to excuse his deputies for not noticing anything.

"Well, that's more than the FBI has," said the Sheriff, nodding. "Congratulations. We'll see that you get the credit when we spread this around."

"I'd rather you didn't," said Mike, with a rueful expression. "Not yet, anyway. I'm still after this person. I don't want them after me."

"Understood."

"Well, we aren't happy with your performance," said the representative from the insurance company. He rose and tossed his set of prints dismissively onto the Sheriff's desk. "For all we know you staged this whole thing!"

He stormed out, to confused looks from the other two men.

"I wonder if they're trying to get out of paying you," said the Sheriff, weakly.

"The family is paying me," said Mike, with a shrug. "Maybe he doesn't know that."

"Well, whatever his reason, thank you for the info," said the sheriff.

The PI sighed, and gathered his coat.

"Anyway, I'm gonna keep watch at the mansion for another couple of nights. Evidence from previous crimes is that the thief sometimes scouts through large collections - which this is - a time or two before deciding whether to take anything. He might be back."

"Just give us another call if anything happens," said the Sheriff. "We've been working on a plan to quickly put a net across every road out of that area if he's spotted there again."

"Might work," said Mike, nodding as he thought things through. "Just be sure there's a lot of give to the nets. You don't want to slice and dice this guy."

"If it's the same guy who has hurt and killed people in other locations, that wouldn't be a big loss. Don't worry, though, we'll use something elastic. They're less likely to just bust through it that way, anyhow."

* * *

Sometimes, people in certain types of work just need to talk as part of their jobs. Carl Gadding - Editor in Chief at the New York Glory - knew that very well. That was one reason he was lenient on how much time his employees took for break. Just now, though, the people having the discussion were in his office, and were there at his invitation. The current topic had wandered far from what he had called the meeting to discus, but some of the paper's best articles came from such brainstorming, so Gadding was also tolerant of the drift.

"There have been many empowered who have worked for the common good," said Melody, pointedly. "Some are still at it. Some, though, helped the world be a better place, then found a reason to stop. Usually due to burnout. They just didn't pace themselves. Some of those who quit eventually died, of various things, some stayed retired, some have returned to the fray. Some have even gone through several cycles of help for a while, rest for a while.

"Even Malak semi-retired as the Great Depression eased. Though he still spent much of his time helping those in need."

"Right now, though, partly in response to pressure for various governments, institutions and powerful individuals," said Sam, "there are few empowered who openly help people in trouble unless they - and I mean the empowered - have some sort of official support."

"It runs in cycles, as Melody noted," said Gadding, nodding. He decided they'd done enough brainstorming for now. "Anyway, I'm letting you folks know I have Redmund working on a story about those empowered who are currently fulfilling the role of public hero. Including the few actually in law enforcement. So we can have a comparison with The Protectorate."

"Ah," said Melody, expression thoughtful. "Yeah, he'll do a good job, and knowing that will help me focus on my stuff."

"When have you ever focused on anything?" said Sam, grinning.

"Anyway, I'm now up-to-date on what you folks are doing, and you're also up-to-date. So, get back to work."

* * *

As he half expected, two nights later Michael Schmierer again saw the dark-clad figure at that same window.

The Gaspard family was already talking about hiring a different security company. The agency with the current contract had made reassuring noises, and sent a team to check all existing measures and make sure they were working correctly. As far as Mike could tell, though, they had not installed anything new. By now, even William Gaspard was taking the matter of the mysterious intruder seriously. Why, his personal collection of irreplaceable evidence was in danger! Except for his odd hobby and a bit of upper-class snobbery, he seemed to be a rational person, and was not blaming anyone but the intruder for the invasion of his property two nights before. However, as the news spread of these odd thefts some members of extremist groups were blaming the US government, or even aliens.

One thing Mike and the security company were in agreement about was that Gaspard's plan to have armed guards standing ready over the display cases, filing cabinets and so forth was not the best course of action.

Unfortunately, that was the only thing they agreed on. In fact, both the local representative of the company - the man Mike had met at the sheriff's office - and his boss were trying to get Mike off the job. So far the Gaspards - father, mother and son - were agreed on giving the company another chance, but they were definitely on notice. Mike knew that he was also getting the eye. He had better be able to show more and better results than some blurry photos or he was also likely to be looking for another job, soon.

Therefore, Mike was again parked in the same spot. There had been no action the night before, and Mike figured that if the perp didn't return tonight he had moved on. Which meant Mike probably would, too.

One thing in his favor; the Phantom Zoom - as the intruder had been labeled by the local sheriff and the security company - might not know he'd been spotted two nights earlier. So far the information had only spread among local law enforcement, the insurance people and Gaspard's contacts among the UFO community. Therefore, if Mike played his cards right he should - should - be able to catch the guy by surprise.

Of course, if the intruder had his own contacts among the UFO community he probably did know the detective and the sheriff's office were after him. Even then he might decide to come back, for one reason or another. Including simply making a show of defiance. So, Mike kept watch.

When the costumed figure did, indeed, show, Mike quickly called the sheriff's office on his car phone. Then he moved to put his own plan into action.

The black-clad figure was using the same window. Which presumably meant he had approached by the same path, just too quickly to be seen. Mike got out of his car and walked quietly to the road on that side of the mansion. He stopped at the spot on the road where the figure had exited from the property before. There was an opening there in the decorative fence, something normally used only by landscapers. The PI scattered caltrops on the road where he expected - hoped - the Phantom Zoom would exit. Then he hid in the bushes on the far side of the road from the mansion. He just hoped there was no poison ivy or oak. The darkness in the bushes was too deep for him to see well.

Good thing I'm the patient type, Mike thought, as time passed.

Eventually, the dark figure exited, put the alarms back into service, and ducked into the shrubbery. Mike wasn't sure, but thought they might be carrying something.

As they had previously, the figure darted across the lawn to the road, impossibly fast. Unfortunately, they didn't seem to even notice the caltrops as they made the sharp turn to head along the road. Worse, the intruder kicked up several of the spiked tetrahedrons. Worst of all, some of them struck Mike.

The PI did a lot of swearing, at full volume, as he plucked the caltrops from his chest. They had all hit hard enough to not only draw blood, but to leave bruises. Fortunately, the spike portions were not very long. Also fortunately, the few which hit him all struck his chest. Not his face.

Mike quickly finished and moved back out on the road. He could hear similar swearing from not far away. He couldn't help but smirk a bit. It seemed the net set up by the sheriff's men hadn't worked any better.

Lights came on at the location of the trap, and Mike decided it was safe to head over and see what had happened.

"Hello!" he called out, as he approached. "It's Michael Schmierer! Any luck?"

"Yeah," came a gruff response. "All bad."

The Phantom Zoom had left a person-shaped hole in the net.

"Wow," said Mike.

Some of the deputies were scanning the area with their issue flashlights. Mike was about to get his own - better - light out, when another deputy started his patrol car and turned the headlights on. The Sheriff had taken Mike's advice; the net was made of nylon, which was very elastic. Only, it hadn't stretched much. The Phantom Zoom hadn't given it a chance to.

"No sense trying to chase 'im down at this late date," said the deputy in the car. "I radioed ahead, though. Maybe one of the other cars will have better luck."

"Hey, are you bleeding?!" said the deputy closest to Mike, shining his light on the investigator.

"Yeah," said Mike. "It's not serious. Basically, I got caught in the spray when our thief hit the road and hit the gas."

He made a mental note to go back and clean up the caltrops before the deputies could head that way.

"Well, this was a bust," sighed Mike. "He was carrying something, so he probably got what he wanted and won't be back. I didn't even get pictures, this time."

The Angel of Earth

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Five

Part of the job of a reporter is to keep up with what is happening. This meant local, regional, national and global. Whether something local - especially in the world's greatest city - would affect global matters or vice-versa was not always predictable. Therefore, The New York Glory subscribed to multiple wire services, both by teletype for the stream and online for looking up more information. As well, all the reporters and editors at the paper were expected to keep up both with what their own reporters were working on, and to have ties with the employees of other news services. Just now, Melody Gundersen was skimming international news on her office computer terminal. One specific item caught her attention, and warranted reading in detail.

The announcements about the progress being made at yet another Middle Eastern peace negotiation were not all that surprising. These things were usually preceded by hopeful promotion, and accompanied by optimistic progress reports, until they broke up with - at best - not having made things worse. This time, though, there actually seemed to be constructive negotiations underway.

Melody realized the likely reason why when she found, buried deep in a long list of names, mention of Aaron Labelle. He was simply designated "Special Advisor." He wouldn't even have to use his empowered charisma to account for the success of the negotiations. His knowledge of history, philosophy and religion and his ability to speak to each of the participants in their own language would be hugely persuasive without that.

"So that's what he's doing, lately," she murmured, as she read the teletype message. "No wonder he's been too busy to interview about all these sightings of angels."

* * *

Telephones were not allowed in the specially shielded chamber where multiple empowered geniuses worked on the quantum computer project. Recently a protective antechamber had even been installed in the hallway outside the door. Anyone entering or leaving had to close one door before the other would open. People who pointed out that this would slow emergency egress were ignored. There were no emergencies planned, after all. It didn't matter that this throttled way out was a violation of federal, state and local safety laws. The facility didn't officially exist, so there was no reason to follow those.

All communication in or out was by messenger, except the specifically chosen inputs for and outputs of the computer. Even phone messages had to be transcribed and hand carried by Repository staff. Just now, one staff member had entered the special room and was handing a note to CornFed. She read it, scowled, sighed, absently thanked the woman who had delivered it, and told the others she had a phone call.

She went through the mildly complicated procedure needed to leave the shielded room and went to her office.

"Julie! Hi, it's Mike. I have a favor to ask."

"Shoot!" she said, actually glad to hear from the PI.

He explained about the Phantom Zoom.

"Do you think you could use your machine to help find this criminal?"

"You sound like you're taking this personally," said CornFed. She was, as usual, dressed in her stereotypical midwest farm girl outfit of battered straw hat, ragged jeans shorts and a plaid shirt tied snugly under her ample bosom. Also as usual, she seemed completely oblivious to the effect this comfortable and familiar outfit had on those around her. "You said you're off the job. Why keep after him?"

"Of course I'm taking this personally," said Michael Schmierer, neutrally. "I have a reputation to protect. Even if you can only give me clues as to the next target, I can get points by warning them."

"We'll be putting Insight on operational duty, soon," said CornFed, chewing her bottom lip as she thought about the request. "It's just about trained. I'll see if I can ask about this criminal as a real-world exercise."

"Thank you! Give me a call if you get anything useful!"

* * *

The telephone call was for work purposes, but Melody was making it on her home phone. It was either that or stay late at the office, and she didn't think she could justify overtime for a single call. Not yet. If this phone interview yielded important information she'd probably apply for compensation from work. Though, these days, even interstate phone calls were so cheap that filling out the compensation form was hardly worth it.

Melody was very glad when Aaron answered his phone. She knew he was going home every evening after the negotiations he was supervising ended for the day. Previous calls, though, had been answered by his new housekeeper, or his answering machine. If it was Coral, she told Melody each time either that Aaron wasn't home yet - presumably he was either working very late at the negotiations or tending to some emergency - or that he was already asleep. Melody always called his personal line, and not the "work" number for his office in downtown Haven. She definitely would not use the emergency number for something like this. Melody would not tie up either of those lines for her inquiries.

Neither would she leave a request that he call her with Coral or his answering machine. Instead she would leave a message with either that her call was not urgent and that she would just try again later. Aaron and Melody were both busy enough that asking him to call back would likely lead to a session of telephone tag, anyway. Besides, she wanted to speak with Aaron when she was ready. That time was apparently now.

"What's all this about you blocking the harpoons of Japanese whalers?" said Melody, after the ritual greetings were out of the way. "As well as finding and removing ghost nets?"

"That wasn't me."

"The photos look just like you! Well, your angel form. I suppose you don't know anything about that entire small ship full of desperate refugees winding up in a European lake which has no direct ocean access, in a nation which just happens to accept all refugees who make it inside their borders, either."

"I have been very busy with other things lately," said Aaron, calmly. "Important and time consuming things. Unfortunately, I can't talk about them just yet."

Melody knew there was something going on with these "additional" appearances. Something likely involving powers. She was well aware that some empowered could produce duplicates of themselves, but wasn't certain - in fact doubted very much - that was what was happening here. Perhaps these "angels" were projections produced by Insight, the current version of the quantum supercomputer Aaron's group was working on. Which thought for some reason made her feel uneasy.

"Well, whoever these winged figures are, they're doing a lot of good," said the reporter, contradicting her own squeamish thoughts of a moment before. "Rescuing kidnap victims in Mexico, freeing political prisoners in the middle east, performing several types of emergency aid in several parts of the world..."

"That's good to hear," said Aaron, apparently quite sincerely. Melody could imagine him nodding. "The world can use all the help it can get."

"One of them also rescued all the fighting bulls from a Spanish farm which raises them, and set them loose on the Great Plains. The presumably same angel then rescued the bulls at an active bullfighting ring, also releasing them in the same location. Both actions have caused a huge amount of trouble, most of it due to the innate aggressiveness of those bulls."

"Well, they can't all be gems."

Melody figured that was all she was going to get out of him, at least for now. While he was generally an honest person, Aaron knew when to be vague and uninformative. Besides being very good at keeping secrets - his own and those of others - he was also a private person.

She reminded him that even he could use good press exposure for his work and bid him good night. He acknowledged this, and bade her good night in return.

* * *

"We found out who had Walker captured, and why," said Blackpool, when he got home a little later that evening. Even before he took off his mask, Melody could tell he was angry. "It wasn't because of where he'd been. It wasn't because of where he was planning to go. It was because the chief advisor to the President for Life of a totalitarian Eastern European nation told his boss that he'd heard rumors Walker was planning to go there. Which surprised Walker when he heard about this. He usually avoids such places."

"So, what will be done to them, now that this is known?" said Melody, unfolding her legs from where she'd been reclined on the couch, reading a magazine, and sitting up.

"All taken care of. The news hasn't gotten out, yet, but the dictator and his chief advisor are both mysteriously missing."

"Wait, what?!" said Melody, quite startled.

"Oh, it's not my doing," said Blackpool; or, actually, John, now that he had his costume off. "Not my jurisdiction, anyway. I heard from Walker when I visited this afternoon. He got the news himself just an hour or two earlier."

John smiled.

"Oddly, the staff at the clinic say he hasn't had any visitors today, except for me."

"That's doesn't sound like Malak or any of his people," said Melody, frowning. "Though... Did Walker have a name for whoever told him?"

"Nope. Says he didn't recognize the person. Though he and I both suspected at first that Mannequin might be involved. As I've thought about it more, though, I decided probably not. Whatever happened to those two is likely far more serious than Mannequin's normal methods. Still, I'd like to talk to them. Only, they seem to be avoiding me."

"Gee, I wonder why," said Melody, with a smirk.

"Anyway, Walker does have other friends. I suspect some of them arranged the disappearances."

* * *

Mannequin wasn't so much avoiding Blackpool as catching up with what was happening at their favorite haunts. Places all over the US and Canada which were used to seeing the pale, androgynous character were welcoming them back. No-one seemed to know where Mannequin got their money, but they paid cash and were a generous tipper. For example, a sandwich shop not far from where Mannequin spent a mostly unhappy childhood welcomed them back for the first time in weeks.

"Good afternoon, Charles!"

"Hey, Manny! Haven't seen you in a while! You wantin' your regular?"

"Three of them please. I'm feeling rather peckish. I also have a feeling that I'll need them, and soon."

The time was after the lunch rush, so filling the order only took a few minutes. Mannequin paid and dropped a good amount in the tip jar. However, as Mannequin left the sandwich shop with a bag of their favorite gyros, they saw that there was an arch of people waiting outside the door, blocking the way. People who were wearing similar costumes. Costumes which were borderline uniforms.

Mannequin recognized them as The En-Forcers a recently organized attempt by the federal government to create an alternate empowered team who were more under official control than were The Protectorate. This group had been forced on the Marshall's Service, which had provided minimal training, given them their nearly matching outfits and turned them loose. Mainly because the politicians were playing catch-up and wanted quick results.

"Mannequin!" shouted one of them. "You're under arrest! Surrender immediately!"

"Please resist," said Caper, the group's leader, smiling nastily. "Our orders are to capture you dead or alive."

"Okay, I surrender," said Mannequin, rolling their eyes, and noting that no charges were cited. As well as that the whole "dead or alive" thing went out with bad westerns. "Let's go."

"Huh?" said Caper.

There were several snickers, some coming from his teammates.

"Listen, I know arguing with you minions is useless," said Mannequin, tiredly and with a dismissive wave of their hand. "The only way to settle this is for me to talk to your bosses."

"Minions?!" said Caper, outraged.

"Can you change the orders? No? Then you're a minion. Let's. Go."

With witnesses who could testify to Mannequin's willing - even enthusiastic - cooperation, Caper had little choice. No matter how angry and frustrated the perp made him feel. Mannequin was loaded into the Marshall's Service prisoner van, bag of gyros and all. Fortunately to those with them, Mannequin was willing to share.

* * *

At the local federal building Mannequin was told they were not actually under arrest (hence the lack of charges at the scene) they were simply a person of interest. Then they were asked if they would agree to being questioned under lie detector. Mannequin immediately acquiesced.

"There's something wrong," said the lie detector tech, checking connections. "I'm not getting any readings."

"Oh, did you need those?" said Mannequin, innocently. "Sorry."

The instruments suddenly came to life. The tech looked momentarily confused, then shrugged and started the session.

He soon had to stop, because the machine was showing no change in Mannequin's vital signs, even when they were obviously lying.

So, the suits took over. They still interrogated Mannequin, in spite of the failure of the lie detector. The attitude of the questioners at the federal office - a mix of Marshall's Service, FBI and Foreign Intelligence Agency personnel, with members of the N-Forcers standing by outside the room - was that the lie detector was simply a formality; that they expected to be able to tell when Mannequin was being untruthful.

For the most part, Mannequin did tell the truth. When they lied, it was a blatant joke. From the questions, it was obvious the people performing the interrogation weren't actually interested in Mannequin, but wanted information on Malak and some of his crew.

Mannequin knew how to keep secrets. However, the questions weren't about things like the quantum computer research or the relief missions; things which Aaron and his crew considered important. As well as confidential. Neither did they ask questions about private information on the people involved in the work of Aaron's group. Instead the questioners asked about events which had nothing to do with Aaron or his aides. The suits seemed to think that the group was actually behind things like the recent disappearance of several dictators and infamous torturers. As well as a few things for which the involvement of The Protectorate was public knowledge. About those matters Mannequin simply told the truth.

"I don't know anything about that," was said by the subject of the questioning, over and over. Nearly as frequent was, "I only know what I heard on the news about that."

Finally, the group seemed to reach the end of their questions. Or maybe their endurance. They told Mannequin they could go.

"Well, I'm glad I ate my gyros on the trip here," said Mannequin. "You kept me so long I'm actually hungry again! I don't supposed you gentlemen would treat me to dinner for cooperating?"

Mannequin looked around expectantly, with a slight, though charming, smile.

"There's no food allowed in the interrogation room!" said one of the men, already angry that Mannequin couldn't help them. "Didn't you read the sign?!

"Oh, I never read signs," said Mannequin, airily. "They always have eyetracks all over them. Nasty and unsanitary."

They didn't seem to think that was important, and in fact were preparing to leave. Mannequin stood in a dramatic gesture.

"There is one important matter you haven't thought to ask me about," said Mannequin, voice pitched lower than before.

"Oh?" said one of the men, eagerly.

"Did it ever occur to you to wonder," said Mannequin, quietly, leaning in as if about to deliver some great nugget of wisdom, "why the cheese stands alone?"

Mannequin favored them with a wink and a smile and vanished.

* * *

The captain of the fishing boat - holding that position due to the fact that he was the owner and had passed a simple exam - was wearing his usual sour expression as he got out of his battered truck. No matter how much money the boat earned, no matter how well the crew did, he always looked like that. From his expression alone one would think his business was constantly on the verge of bankruptcy. Things weren't nearly that bad, but only because he cut corners. Including legal ones.

For example, when a patrol boat was seen approaching while his boat was illegally not only fishing at night, but in a protected area, he simply ordered the old, repeatedly repaired net cut loose and all lights put out. His boat then motored quietly away. He had, in fact, bought that old net from another boat with the expectation it would have to be cut loose. All the laws against abandoning nets - especially old ones, which did not decay as regulations required new ones to do - were for fools and do-gooders. The Captain was a smart man, by his standards, and knew how to make money. The loss of one old net and a night's illicit catch were negligible compared to the fines if they were caught. Fines he would have to pay at least part of, as owner of the boat. There were plenty more old nets and plenty more nights.

Despite his scowling expression as he walked onto the dock he was so busy congratulating himself for his cleverness that he needed several seconds to parse the scene at his boat. His crew were all standing around, on the dock, staring at the vessel. That they would wait for him without boarding and preparing to get underway was quite unusual, and he was planning to scold them for not having everything ready. However, he suddenly saw what they were staring at.

He took pride in the appearance of his boat. He was careful not to make it too noticeable, with bright paint and lots of chrome, the way some did, mostly in emulation of those boats which took tourists out to fish by line. However, he always wanted it to look clean and with as little weathering as they could manage. That appearance deliberately chosen to help keep the boat from standing out.

It did not look like that now.

In fact, it barely looked like a boat. It was covered with a huge amount of old, soggy net, still burdened with many dead fish.

With a jolt, he realized that this was the net he had cut loose the night before, heedless of how much damage it might do, drifting around loose. The captain/owner dramatically sank to his knees.

He had heard of this happening, to other boats. Why him, though? What had he ever done to earn the wrath of whatever sea gods had done this?

He became vaguely aware of men and women in uniform advancing towards him. He rose to his feet, his expression now finally changed, to one of outraged dignity.

"Excellent! Find out who did this and arrest them! Wait, what are you..."

"We have received evidence of multiple environmental crimes committed by those on this ship. As the captain, you are responsible for the crimes."

"I'm not the captain! I'm the owner! I'm not responsible! Release me and find the real culprit!"

He was taken away, still protesting.

The Angel of Earth

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Six

Melody arrived at the diner a bit early. The man the reporter was there to
meet was already waiting, but he was seated unobtrusively at the far end of
the counter, where he could see pretty much everything happening in the place.
Including who arrived. After Melody sat in the booth they had agreed on
beforehand he looked around carefully. Not in a paranoid, nervous way, but
casually, in the way of someone who knew what he was doing and who had good
reason to be careful. Satisfied she hadn't been followed, and wasn't being
watched, he joined her. The booth was in a back corner, with a good view of
the room and away from windows. During this slack time between the usual
periods for meals they had the place mostly to themselves.

"Mister..." said Melody, on a rising note. She pulled out her tablet and
surreptitiously set it to record, while pretending to rummage for her notebook
and pen in her voluminous purse.

"Call me the Recovery Agent," he said, quietly. He was average in height,
though he had a lean, athletic build. He appeared to be of Mediterranean or
Middle Eastern descent. He might simply be Caucasian with a good tan and a bit
of careful makeup. His English was London British with a middle-class accent,
though his vocabulary was a bit off for that. "Recoverer also works."

"All right, Recovery Agent," said Melody, with a slight smile. "There's only
one waitress on duty just now, so even with the lack of customers it will be a
while before she comes to get our orders. Let's start the interview while we
pretend to look at the menu. You somehow tracked down this lost painting..."

"It wasn't actually lost," he said, with a tired sigh. "The Nazis stole so
much, that people going through the voluminous, meticulous records they kept
are still making discoveries. I speak - and read - several languages, German
among them. I have an excellent memory and a knack for learning things. So
I've been able to help with several such cases. Anyway, a scholar I know who
has made a career of examining and organizing those old records contacted me
about this piece. We've worked together before.

"For the painting we're talking about, she found which high-ranking party
member had the winning bid in an auction of 'liberated art' which was held
after the fall of France. This event was a reward for their early party
support. I tracked that party member down. That was easy. He was still using
the same name and even proudly displaying his 'acquisitions' right up to his
death in the early Seventies. I discovered that his estate then quickly sold
most of the items which might be challenged, before the true provenance of
what was being sold could become public knowledge."

He stopped and smiled at the reporter, as the waitress approached. The pair
made their order - Melody making sure the waitress knew the meal was on the
reporter - and resumed after the younger woman left.

"Have you ever read or seen a movie version of The Maltese Falcon?"

"I take it from that remark that tracking down the location of the painting
subsequent to that estate sale was difficult," said Melody, dryly.

"This project took five years of work," said the man. "Oh, that was far from
the only thing I was doing during that period. Anyway, the last trace we could
find then was from the late Seventies. At that time the buyer was the oldest
son of a recently deceased, wealthy and influential Arab businessman. After
inheriting his father's estate, he went on several types of buying sprees to
celebrate getting control of the family wealth. By the time I confirmed that
the painting was still with that family he - the son and the last buyer of
record - had been dead for several years.

"Thinking, perhaps naively, that the family didn't know that the painting had
been stolen, I tried to contact them. They ignored me. I used several
different means, too, including getting the French museum which the Nazis had
stolen the painting from to send them a letter. Nothing."

"You might just have warned them," said Melody, who was familiar with similar
recovery efforts. "They could have sold it, or even destroyed it."

"Except that there are photos and videos of the family's luxurious homes made
since then. Some of which still show the subject painting. It wasn't in a
climate-controlled storage. There wasn't even glass over the painting. It
looked like it had obviously deteriorated, been badly restored, then allowed
to deteriorate again, since the last official photos, which were in the old
Nazi Party auction book. There were enough images I could even track the
changes through time, actually. Experts I spoke to said it was either beyond
easy restoration or soon would be."

"Ow," said Melody. "So, what was next? Legal action? I know there has been a
lot of that lately, but it is usually over things which have only gone missing
in the past few years. Stolen archeological items, and such."

"We did try working through government channels," said Recovery Agent. "That
is, the museum in France did. The Saudi family eventually - apparently feeling
the pressure - supplied documentation going back to the man who bought the
stolen painting at the Nazi auction. They claimed this provided the
provenance, and proved that the painting was legitimately purchased at every
step. Their stance was that it had been legally acquired by conquest, then
legally sold. They seemed to feel that settled the matter. The French
government was formally told by the Saudi Arabian government to stop pursuing
the matter."

"I don't imagine that went over too well in Paris," said Melody, dryly.

"Especially since the French government wasn't involved, except as an
intermediary. Anyway, that was when I decided to simply take it," said
Recoverer, in a matter-of-fact tone. "That wasn't very difficult. Their
security was good for a wealthy family home, but nothing like what you find in
a modern museum holding valuable art. I researched carefully, hired
trustworthy people, then performed the actual retrieval myself. We smuggled it
out of the country and took it straight back to the museum in France. They
were very appreciative. Even paid my expenses and gave me the reward they had
posted - and updated for inflation - since 1945, with little fuss."

"Then - few months later, after it had been professionally restored but
before it was put back on display - The Protectorate took it by force from the
museum," said Melody, trying to be neutral and failing. "Injuring several
staff members and patrons. Doing millions of Euros of infrastructure damage
and inestimable damage to other artworks in the process. As if that wasn't
enough, another branch of The Protectorate tracked you down to Brighton, where
you were taking a break with your wife and kids after another case, and
attacked you."

"They nearly killed me," said Recoverer, bitterly. "Ambushed me on a crowded
beach. They endangered my family! Hundreds of holiday goers were also put in
harm's way, dozens were hurt. If the police hadn't arrived quickly and chased
them off they probably would have killed me."

"There has been a major international diplomatic fuss over this," said
Melody. "I don't know if you've heard, but both Britain and France have both
filed formal charges against certain members of The Protectorate. So far the
US government is not only refusing to cooperate with Interpol, but claiming
the members of The Protectorate who are being charged were set up. That they
couldn't have committed such an assault and none of them were even in either
nation at the time. A different branch of the US government is
-contradictorily - saying the operation at the French museum was completely
legal since the painting had been stolen from the rightful owners and the
museum refused to even acknowledge this. As well as that the French government
had approved the operation! Finally, since that family got the painting back
they have been very, ah, grateful to The Protectorate."

"None of the political 'fuss' has changed things, of course," said Recoverer,
tone again carefully neutral. "Except that now the family have seriously
upgraded their security. Their primary attitude in this matter seems to be a
haughty, petty vindictiveness. They didn't really appreciate the painting
before, but now, well, if someone else wants it that badly they can't have
it!"

* * *

The crew in the cargo helicopter had been chosen for their loyalty to the
national government, as well as their reliability. This was not only
understandable, for the current mission it was necessary. Their assigned task
was to drop a barrel of explosives on a hospital, in an area held by enemy
forces. That the "enemy forces" claimed they were trying to liberate their
nation from a despot who had lost the previous two presidential elections was
irrelevant. That the building those in the helicopter were about to bomb was
the only significant source of medical care in the area was also irrelevant.
To those in the helicopter. Those on the ground had different opinions.
Unfortunately, they had few weapons. They watched in horror as the helicopter
hovered high over the building.

Those in the cargo compartment armed the fuse on the barrel bomb. They waited
until they were in a stable hover, high above the main building of the
hospital, then shoved it out the open doorway.

The barrel bomb exploded just below the helicopter.

The damage to the flying machine from the premature explosion was
significant. The pilot, seeing that indicators for both turbines were showing
immediate failure, used the last of their power to make a hard but survivable
landing in the hospital's parking lot.

The crew knew they were in trouble. They were down in enemy territory, with
little hope of rescue and only assault rifles and handguns for defense. Still,
they had those weapons and plenty of ammunition. With the rotor still spinning
down, the crew of the downed aircraft made ready to fight their way out of
enemy territory.

They never had the chance to even start the fight. Because it suddenly came
to them.

A literally screaming mob ran up while the soldiers in the helicopter were
still trying to recover from the impact of their forced landing. Before those
inside could exit, those outside had rolled the machine onto its side -
causing the still-spinning rotor to break into multiple, high-speed pieces -
and threw lit petrol bombs into it, through the open doorway. Only two of
those inside managed to leave the helicopter. Despite being armed, they were
literally torn to pieces by the mob before they could fire a single shot.

"We are so lucky that bomb detonated early," said one of the harried doctors
at the hospital, as he watched the helicopter burn from a second floor lounge
window.

"Not luck," said one of the orderlies, an older man who seemed perpetually
tired. "I saw an angel hurl a flaming spear at the bomb."

* * *

The massive ship cruised at high speed, crashing through the waves. Those had
been kicked up by the remnants of a storm the ship had bulled its way through
the night before. Now, the skies were propitiously clear, the winds dying
down.

El Presidente was proud of what his nation - what he - had accomplished.
Through multiple intermediaries, his country had purchased one of the last
true battleships remaining in the mothballed fleet of the so-called United
States. Completed too late for the Second World War, never used except for a
few shore bombardments in other conflicts, it had not been considered worth
preserving for historic reasons, and updating it for modern service was
politically untenable. For generations the huge ship was maintained in the
expectation that the huge - and hugely expensive - platform might be useful
for something. Eventually it was sold for scrap. To a legitimate business,
but one which was all too glad to get a lump sum for the nearly intact ship
instead of having to spend years cutting it apart.

The people of El Presidente's nation had been wealthy at the time of the
purchase, flush with oil money, and the diversion of funds had not even been
noticed. Neither had the diversion of the ship. Instead of being turned into
tools or car bodies, the massive vessel had been brought into a shipyard also
outside El Presidente's nation, to a facility long considered defunct, in
that same country. This one was also hungry for El Presidente's money. The
tools and skills there were appropriate for a ship of this age. In return for
funding to modernize that facility, the shipyard had performed the
refurbishment work on the battleship. Ammunition for the massive guns had been
acquired surreptitiously, also from legitimate companies which had purchased
the munitions for recycling. The original idea was to turn the battleship into
a powerful instrument of El Presidente's national defensive force, to
protect El Presidente's wealthy country from the depredations of others. The
work had almost been completed when the oil market crashed. Due in large part
to the mad energy-generating inventions of some empowered finally being
approved for adoption. El Presidente had made sure the battleship project
was carried through. He spent scarce funds intended for hunger relief to
ensure both that the work was completed and that those doing the work kept
quiet about it. As well as that the skeleton crew now on board was trained in
the operation of the archaic equipment.

He had forbidden adoption of those alternate-energy devices in his nation,
certain that oil would stage a comeback. It hadn't. Now his people were
starving, and he was being called upon to save them, with no money coming in.
Some were even saying El Presidente owed this to the people, that the hunger
and poverty were somehow his fault and he must help. The fools...

Well, he would have his revenge. All who had failed or betrayed him would
pay. They would be made to pay. The battleship was cruising under its own
power, with a full load of the fuel no-one else now wanted, far faster than
any freighter, and heading for one of the most important shipping lanes in the
Atlantic. He had already radioed his demands to the shipping authorities of
all the nations who were responsible for ruining his nation: Declare the
debts owed them null and void and put a trillion dollars into his country's
accounts or lose all their cargo ships in the Atlantic, along with what they
carried. There was no military force left on the Earth which could harm this
craft or stand against it, short of nuclear weapons, and they were too
cowardly to use those. Ordinary anti-ship missiles would barely scratch the
paint of such a mighty vessel, and the puny guns on modern warcraft were not
worthy of the term.

El Presidente stood smugly on the bridge, in the custom three-piece suit
which had been made for him only a few weeks before, something designed to his
specifications, to reflect his magnificence. Part of his smugness was the
knowledge that once the Americans and Europeans and Saudis capitulated and
wired the money, a large portion - in fact, most - of those funds would only
need a coded command from him to be forwarded to his personal Swiss accounts.
By the time anyone realized that his nation's coffers weren't reflecting the
amount they should, he'd be long gone. Once the deal was sealed, he would
leave the ship's captain in charge, with orders to return to home port to the
acclaim of millions, while he flew away in a seaplane, supposedly to finalize
the negotiations. All was ready for him to send that command then disappear,
to enter his well-earned retirement under a new identity. With, of course,
enough of the funds paid supposedly for the relief of his nation's debts and
food for hungry peasants diverted to keep him beyond wealthy for the rest of
his life.

He was daydreaming of how he would spend his long retirement in anonymous
luxury, when the battleship shuddered. El Presidente thought nothing of it.
He likewise took little notice of the sudden frantic activity of the bridge
crew. Taking care of any problems with the ship was their job, not his. He was
thrown painfully to the deck when the turret nearest the bridge exploded.

"Who did that?!" he demanded, and he hauled himself back to his feet. "I had
not authorized any activity of the guns! There was not even supposed to be any
ammunition in those, yet!"

There was likewise no crew in those turrets, yet, though that was not one of
his concerns.

The foremost turret likewise exploded. A huge blast from astern shortly after
told of the third turret meeting the same fate. All three were now obviously
out of action.

"What is going on?!" El Presidente demanded of the Captain.

"We're dead in the water! There were reports that the propellers had broken
off, letting the shafts spin free, then nothing! Now the power is off! All
over the ship!"

"Well... fix it! We have a rendezvous scheduled!"

Inexcusably, the Captain was not looking at El Presidente. In fact, none of
the bridge crew were. Outraged, El Presidente spun around to see what could
possibly be considered by them to be more important than him!

An angel hovered, its enormous, grey wings stroking the air slowly, stirring
the smoke rising from the ruin of the nearest turret. He gave El Presidente
a stern look, then vanished.

The Angel of Earth

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Seven

The UN officer hurried from his vehicle towards the ruin of the building, from which smoke still rose lazily in the setting sun. He was sweating from more than the tropical heat and humidity.

"Report," he said, after quickly exchanging salutes with the senior officer on scene.

"We got a report of an attack on the brothel," said the Lieutenant, his voice dropping in volume as he got the last word. "We thought the rebels had blown the place up, since they've repeatedly complained about the activities here. However, there's no bodies. The manager and his staff were found in the woods nearby, naked and dazed. The workers and customers we still haven't found."

"They've been found," said the Captain, tone deadly. "The customers, anyway. Downtown, chained naked to the central plaza fountain. Took a while for the police to verify their identities. We've got a national army General and three colonels, four governmental ministers from three different governments and a couple of ambassadors among those humiliated by whoever did this! Now, where are the girls?!"

Without them there was no income. Without income, the bribes to both those officials he couldn't deceive and local law enforcement would stop. Without those bribes, people whose job it was to enforce the laws, rules and regulations prohibiting exactly the activities which were part and parcel of the brothel's business would stop looking away.

"Nobody has seen them," said the Lieutenant, looking worried. "All the records are missing, too. When we finally found the safe and got it open it was empty!"

The Captain had a sinking feeling. As well as an overpowering sense of certainty. His operation had finally grown too large for someone to ignore. The girls and the records were likely in the hands of humanitarian investigators and the press, respectively. If that were true... Well, not only was his career with the UN peacekeepers over, but likely his freedom, as well. If he were caught. He resolved to execute his contingency plans as soon as he returned to his base.

Not realizing that his fake ID papers and bank account information were with the brothel records, instead of in his personal safe.

* * *

The police chief got off the phone and sighed. His community was a small incorporated entity not far from New York City, and often treated as a suburb of it. However, it was a distinct community with a distinct population. As well as distinct problems. He pushed back from his desk, rose and went into the squad room. His intention was to go to dispatch and have them tell all officers responding to a report of a rogue empowered to get back to their regular business. That the "emergency" was simply the last in a series of carefully staged pranks which had gone too far. The boy's mother - whom he had just been talking to on the phone - had spelled this out clearly, with enough details to be convincing, and offered to bring her son to the station. However, she was worried about her son or even herself being shot by the officers who currently had her home under siege.

The Chief pulled his office door shut behind him, and took three steps before consciously registering the scene before him.

Several people in colorful, distinctive costumes were talking with a plainclothes sergeant. The Chief of course recognized them as members of The Protectorate. The main man - The Grand Protector himself - was talking quietly but firmly with the sergeant. Neither The Grand Protector nor his people had spotted the Chief, yet. The sergeant was facing away from him, was focused on the visitors, and did not see his boss. Chief Stanford moved casually to the dispatch room, hoping to avoid the attention of the guests just now. He succeeded, entering the dispatch room without interruption.

"Tell Lieutenant Slaymaker to end the cordon," he said to the head dispatcher. "Everyone there is to get back to their regular duties. I just got off the phone with the mother of the suspect, a woman whom I know from previous incidents. She swears neither she nor anyone else in the house are being held against their will, despite what the 911 caller said. She also promises that she will bring her son in herself, as soon as all the officers withdraw. She just wants to keep this as low-key as she can."

"Right, Chief," said the middle-aged woman. "So, did the kid get swatted?"

"More like he was too convincing. He's a smart kid, but easily bored. I know him, too, and the father. The son isn't malicious; he just is very bright and overly fond of tricking people with what turn out to be harmless pranks. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to tell what looks like a full third of The Protectorate they aren't needed."

The head dispatcher smirked at that wording, then moved to a mic at an empty station. The Chief left the small room and went back out into the main one.

"What's the problem?" he asked, in a loud, firm voice, as he approached the group of intruders.

"We received a report of a rogue empowered man causing a problem," said The Grand Protector.

"We also got that report," said the Chief, nodding. "Fortunately, it turned out to be bogus. There was a prank, but no property damage and no-one hurt.

"So you aren't taking this seriously," said The Grand Protector, looking irritated.

"We took it seriously enough to track down the culprit and determine what was actually going on," said the Chief, with a calm he didn't feel. "There are no powers involved. I don't know who called you, but you aren't needed."

"We'll be the judge of that," said The Grand Protector, pompously.

He spun around and stormed out, the rest of his team following obediently. The Chief hoped that would be that last he saw of them, but had a sinking feeling it wouldn't be.

* * *

People sometimes speculated on how The Protectorate traveled. The group was large enough they actually used several methods. They had multiple ground and air vehicles - some designed by empowered geniuses - and many could fly. What few outside the group realized was that two of the members could teleport, and that one of those could take along passengers, and even cargo.

The group of costumed, self-appointed law-keepers appeared without warning on the front lawn of the prankster's home. The last two patrol cars were just leaving. Fortunately, the occupants of the rear one saw The Protectorate members arrive. The driver of that car pulled over and called in the event.

"Shit," said Chief Stanford, on receiving the news by intercom at his desk. "Tell the officer who reported that to stop them. Oh, and get Officer Harper there as soon as possible. Maybe they'll listen to another empowered."

Theodolphus Harper was the only empowered member of the city police. Swanson had been doubtful about hiring him, but in the three and a bit years of his employment Harper had proved useful in many situations. The Chief just hoped he'd be as useful in this one.

On the scene, The Protectorate members were marching towards the home when the police car pulled into the driveway, then turned left, going onto the grass to cut them off. The two officers quickly got out.

"You don't have any auth..." the senior officer of the pair began.

He was cut off by a gesture from The Grand Protector. Analysts later pieced together that this was a signal to SuperMind, who took control of both policemen, had them get back in their car and drive away. No-one there seemed to notice the minor sonic boom in the distance which occurred about this time.

Before the members of The Protectorate could resume their march to the front door of the suburban home, Officer Theodolphus Harper landed in front of them. He came in fast and landed hard, not sure what was going on with the two officers unexpectedly leaving in their car. However, something he saw in the back yard on his way to a landing made him both hurried and determined.

"Stop right there!" Officer Harper ordered, holding up his hand. "You have no authority to act in this case. There are no empowered involved. There were some harmless pranks pulled, and someone overreacted."

"No empowered involved?" said The Grand Protector. He didn't show it, but he was furious that this unknown empowered had arrived without him or any of his group noticing ahead of time. He would have words with them later, but right now his full attention was on this interruption. "Seems to me you're empowered, and you're trying to stop us from doing our jobs."

Theo knew he couldn't fight to the entire half dozen members of The Protectorate; not on his own, anyway. As he had flown in, however, he had seen the family from the home fleeing through a gate in the fence around the back yard. He was simply trying to delay these costumed rogues. Theo was caught completely by surprise by a punch from The Grand Protector. This sent him hurtling through the home like an artillery shell, across the back yard at an angle - spraying debris on the fleeing family - and into another home.

The Grand Protector was on him before he could even get back to his feet... if he had been able to get back on his feet. Later reconstruction would reveal severe injuries from that first punch. Theo was quickly struck several more times, about the head and face, driven through the floor and the concrete pad the house was built on, then through that into the compacted gravel and earth below. He was likely dead well before The Grand Protector was interrupted in his berserker attack. The elderly man in the house shot the big, costumed man in the face with a 12 Gauge 3" Magnum load of birdshot.

This did not cause The Grand Protector a serious injury, but getting small, high-velocity pellets in his eyes distracted him long enough for the old man and his daughter to wisely withdraw quickly. Indeed, The Grand Protector didn't see who had shot him, didn't even know he had been shot. He just knew that he suddenly had something in his eyes. He thought it was debris raised by his attack. That was enough to break his train of action.

His assault interrupted, The Grand Protector wiped his eyes, and scowled for a moment at the bloody mess he'd made of Officer Harper. He shook his hands clean, then rose gracefully into the air and flew back to the house where the suspect lived.

There he found that most of his team had forced entry and messily searched. Meanwhile, SuperMind stayed outside, in case more cops arrived.

"They can't find anyone inside," he reported to The Grand Protector. They had communicators, but he kept a mental "ear" on things, so asking him was usually good for a quick update.

"Tell them to level the place. That will bring him out of hiding."

Only, it didn't. With multiple sirens approaching, The Grand Protector called his people together in the front yard. He put the most favorable view on the mess they had made which he could.

"Well, that fake cop delayed us long enough for our prey to escape. We'll head back to headquarters and wait for the locals to find him again."

Gateway, their teleporter, quickly got them out of there.

* * *

"They can't cover up killing a cop in a US city!" said Sam, outraged.

"The Protectorate is putting their own spin on things, of course," said Gadding, as he held a council of war at The New York Glory that afternoon. "Their public relations arm says that 'everyone knows' there are no empowered employed by legitimate police departments, so of course the guy was a fake, no matter what city officials are saying now. Also, he was alive but unconscious when The Grand Protector left him. If he's actually dead, someone else did it. If Harper actually is dead."

The Editor in Chief threw a wire service printout on his desk in disgust.

"Skeptics are demanding to see the body. Then saying it doesn't look anything like Harper."

"This is crazy!" said Sam, throwing his arms wide in protest. "They can't possibly get away with this. Are the feds finally coming down on them?!"

"No," said Gadding, sourly. "In fact, they've ordered the city to drop all charges against The Protectorate. They claim that those are pure politics, a way for city officials to avoid blame for letting the original perpetrator get away."

"Someone has to do something about them!" said one of the other reporters. "Now they're murdering cops!"

"If the feds are still supporting them, I don't see who is left to go after them," said another.

"Most of The Protectorate are vulnerable to conventional weapons," said Melody, thoughtfully. "Several police departments have now issued shoot on sight orders and issued armor piercing ammunition for the rifles their officers carry in their patrol cars. I suspect this will result in a few dead members of The Protectorate... and a lot of dead cops."

"So the feds are still protecting them," said Sam, sourly. "Why?! Do they have something on some politicians or what?!"

"Whatever the secret to the immunity of The Protectorate, their situation is bizarre," said Melody. "The Protectorate is doing some good work, but they're also killing people. Including, now, a cop. Not all that far from here, either. Yet their publicity department either ignores the offenses, or minimizes them, while playing up the good works. So, The Protectorate know as an institution they're doing wrong but they keep doing it."

"I think it's more a case of the people on the team doing whatever the Hell they want, and their PR people trying to manage the mess they cause," said Sam. "Of course, the feds are acting just as crazy. Despite increasing calls to disband The Protectorate and even prosecute some members, the President and his people claim all that is politics. According to them, The Protectorate hasn't done anything wrong."

Melody rose and began pacing, obviously upset.

"Melody," said the Editor in Chief, "sit down. Please."

She did, though with obvious reluctance.

"I think you need to work on something else for a while."

"Are you telling me to drop my work on exposing The Protectorate?" said Melody, tone carefully neutral.

"No. I'm telling you to work on something else for a while. You've become so emotionally connected to the situation with The Protectorate that you've lost your objectivity. You can come back to them after a break. Meanwhile, others are working on The Protectorate. Find something else to do for a while."

"All right," said Melody, though again reluctantly. "In that case, I need to make another trip to the chemical Repository. I was planning on that, anyway, though later. Am I authorized?"

"I have no problem authorizing another trip," said the Editor in Chief, with a slight smile. "Your articles about what is happening there are very popular. I am a bit surprised you are still finding so much of interest there, though."

Left unsaid was that it might be better for her and the paper for her to be away from the office - and all of New York - for a while. Especially if The Protectorate took offense at her most recent exposés on their excesses.

"A large part of what I'm after this time is something I've written about before, but barely scratched the surface of," said Melody, passionately, actually leaning forward in her chair. "The history tied up in the empowered, especially the history of how they have kept each other in check. Individuals and small groups have occasionally been very influential in setting policy, for other empowered and even normal humans. Of course, what is even more impressive is how often the empowered - even in groups - have been surprisingly ineffective."

Sam and Gadding both nodded. Sam looked especially thoughtful.

"Despite what some of their proponents claim, empowered haven't solved all the world's problems. Though some of them have made a lot of improvements."

"All right," said Gadding, nodding. "You get the material, and do a good write-up with it. Some people have actually claimed that because we're criticizing The Protectorate, we're anti-empowered. That focus you're proposing will make a nice counterbalance to all the unfavorable material we're publishing on them."

The Angel of Earth

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Eight

Getting there was easy, since Blackpool was still in charge of the facility. He and Melody both took precautions to maintain the fiction that the two of them were not closely connected.

The staff at the chemical Repository - whether empowered or "just folks" - welcomed Melody back. Of course, part of this attitude was due simply to the change in routine she brought to the isolated facility.

After meeting and greeting the regular staff, Melody headed downstairs. The reporter mentally griped, and not for the first time, that the only elevator was reserved for cargo; which was mostly dangerous chemicals. Anyone who could use the stairs was expected to, since protective gear was required for using the elevator. Downstairs she encountered the persistent problem that no matter how many murals were painted on the walls, no matter how much sound absorbing tile was put on the ceilings, and no matter how the occupants tinkered with the ventilation system, the place was still dank, echoey and claustrophobic. That effect was likely more psychological than physiological, but it was no less real for that.

Melody was planning to first go to the room several levels down where the continuing project with quantum computing was underway. However, some sort of antechamber had been added outside the entrance, partially blocking the hall and completely blocking access to the room. There were also two armed guards monitoring passage through this. Once Melody explained that she was there to see CornFed, she got redirected to the empowered genius' office. CornFed was also very glad to see the reporter.

"It's so good to have someone familiar but not too familiar around," she said. She laughed. "I hope that was decipherable!"

"I think I got the gist," said Melody, a bit wryly. "I take it that Insight is at a critical phase. I also learned that Professor Edmund Bright is no longer part of the project."

"Oh, yeah; he left months ago," said CornFed.

"I'm a bit surprised. He kept threatening to leave, but didn't. So, he finally did?"

"Part of his problem comes from the fact that his first attempt at getting his Doctorate was rejected," said CornFed, with a smirk. "He never tried again, out of spite. He's had a chip on his shoulder ever since."

"Well, speaking of chips on shoulders, have you heard about the problems with The Protectorate?"

"Yes," said CornFed, her expression quickly changing, as if she were suddenly tasting something sour. "Not only from the usual sources, but Insight is giving not-so-cryptic warnings about that group. The fact that those are so plainly worded is especially worrying. I think the only reason we here at the Repository haven't had trouble from that group already is that they just aren't aware of us."

"Well, this place officially still doesn't exist," said Melody, now with a smirk of her own.

CordFed was about to say something when her intercom buzzed.

"Yes?"

"You have a visitor."

"Another one?!"

"I don't know anything about that. I just know that Michael Schmierer is here. Says he needs to talk to you."

"The private investigator?" said Melody, alertly. "What's he here for? More training?

"Actually, he called ahead. I just didn't think he'd get here this soon. No, he's having problems with an empowered criminal he hopes we can help him catch. No, I can't talk about that situation. Sorry."

Actually, you just did talk about it, thought Melody, smugly.

* * *

As it turned out, Mike had quite an audience for his request. Not only CornFed and Blackpool, but the visiting reporter and Aaron, himself, all with Mike's approval. They were welcomed, partly in the hope that one of them might have a useful insight.

When Mike finished making his pitch, the first response was from the oldest listener.

"Not aliens again," said Aaron, tiredly. "Do people never learn?!"

"What the perpetrator believes is irrelevant," said Mike. "I'm... The law is after them because they're committing criminal acts. That includes hurting and killing people, besides stealing."

"All right," said Blackpool, nodding. "Having Insight correlate what was taken from those 'alien' collections and using that to predict what this person seems to be after shouldn't be difficult."

"Which should yield probabilities for future targets," said CornFed, nodding. "I'll set that up."

"Thank you," said Mike, smiling his gratitude.

* * *

Though it was not her main purpose for being at the Repository, Melody definitely set aside time to speak with Aaron. However, she was primarily there for the dual purpose of getting bio info on many of the other empowered at the Repository - including Michael Schmierer, since he was unexpectedly available - and what they knew about the history of the empowered. Along the way, Melody was repeatedly reminded that most empowered were just people. People who could do incredible things, but still people. Sometimes the things they were proudest of were very mundane.

"It always smells so good in here," said Melody, as CornFed waved her over, during supper in the Repository cafeteria that evening.

For a while the two women ate in silence. After the edge had been taken off their hunger, however, the empowered woman broached a topic.

"You need to come by sometime and listen to us play, sometime," said CornFed.

"'Play'?" said Melody, pausing with a fork load of pulled pork almost to her mouth.

"We've got a Hell of a band," said Mannequin, smirking as they slid in beside CornFed. Who made a face at the intrusion, but accepted it in good humor. Even when Mannequin transformed into a duplicate of her. An exaggerated duplicate. Which took some doing. "How can it be otherwise when we have an angel on piano?"

"Aaron plays in your band? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. He's a music lover and has even composed some music."

"Well, Aaron is with the group about half the time we play," said CornFed, pointedly ignoring her inflated double. "Occasionally, though, Malak sits in."

She grimaced and spared the person beside her a sideways look.

"Mannequin is always there."

"I mostly just sing," said Mannequin, modestly, shifting back to their usual, apparently genderless state. "Everything from soprano to bass, whatever is needed."

* * *

Melody approached Aaron's office at the Repository a bit early, wondering if he would be there. He could easily have gone to deal with some emergency. However, his receptionist - a government employee, like all of the non-empowered staff, many of whom were also active or former military - smiled in greeting as the reporter approached, and nodded. However, he did not say anything. As she drew nearer, Melody understood why. Aaron was singing.

It was a hymn with a cumulative refrain; as each verse was sung, a line referring to it was added to the repeated part.

"Take my arms I still can reach you.

"Take my arms I still can reach,

"Take my eyes I still can see,

"Take it all I still believe."

The hymn ended, and all was silent for a moment. The receptionist sighed, then smiled at Melody.

"One of the perks of this job."

He used the intercom on his desk to let Aaron know that Melody was there, and was told to send her in.

She entered Aaron's Repository office, the pair exchanged greetings, and the reporter sat. Melody felt unaccustomedly uncomfortable for this meeting, since she knew she would be asking some awkward questions. She covered this by plunging ahead. Though she chose an innocuous subject for the start.

"According to CornFed and Mannequin you're in a band with them."

"Well, it's strictly an amateur effort," said Aaron, modestly.

They spoke for a few minutes about the band and music in general. Suddenly, though, Aaron gave a bit of a laugh and shook his head.

"All this talk about music reminds me of a problem a few empowered have," he said, with a sad smile. "Many who have their intellect enhanced feel that because so many things which used to puzzle them are now obvious and even easy to understand, that everything must now be obvious and easy to analyze, if they would bother to think about it. Only they usually don't. Or they don't think much about it. Because without knowing much about the situation they think it's simple and obvious and not worth their effort. A variation of the Dunning-Kruger Effect, I suppose.

"I remember this one, recently-empowered young woman I took under my wing - no jokes, please - in the Fifties. Her boost was primarily mental, and she had some of those peculiar blind spots I just mentioned. During one conversation she panned my interest in music, announcing that she had 'done' music. On further inquiry, she claimed she understood all of it in full detail of execution and motivation, and therefore didn't need to listen to it any more. I argued that music was too varied and individual in its expression for any one person to have a full understanding of it, no matter how intelligent. I also pointed out that the emotional impact could vary with the listener's mood. However, she insisted she understood all of music, full stop. I eventually learned that all she had done was analyze the show tunes her parents loved and had High-Fidelity records of. Nothing wrong with that; that field of music is extensive and quite varied. However, her exposure to other forms of music was very limited, and she had essentially ignored even that, since that wasn't what she was used to and it didn't fit her idea of what music actually was."

"I imagine you found some way to enlighten her," said Melody, who by this time had a good idea of how important Aaron felt a broad education in music was.

"I played her the original Duke Ellington, 1930 instrumental release of 'Mood Indigo.' Made when it was still called 'Dreamy Blues.' She appeared to be having a religious experience. I then played several other versions of that piece, some with lyrics, and she was astounded at the variety in the individual interpretations of the same piece."

Melody nodded, slowly and thoughtfully. Thanks to Aaron, she had herself heard this piece of music in several different versions and could understand the reaction, at least in those circumstances.

"You didn't come here to ask me just about music, though, did you?"

"Well, no. I've asked you about details of your life and activities as Malak before. Now I have a more general question."

"Shoot."

Melody took a deep breath, steeling herself. She wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer to what she was about to ask, but as a reporter she needed the information.

"Why didn't you - the empowered collectively and you personally - take actions to stop the Second World War?"

By now Melody had a good idea of what a group of empowered - or even just one with appropriate abilities in the right place - could do. The reporter knew the reasons they - including Malak - had for not intervening in some situations, but often still wondered why they had not helped with a particular problem. To Melody those events were history, but here was the chance to get the story from someone who had not only lived through them but in some cases participated in them. However, Melody was still a bit uncomfortable asking about this. She had pondered situations in the past where it seemed that certain of the empowered could and should have acted, and hadn't. She wondered why, and now worried that - in this case - the reason might reflect badly on people she had come to respect. Being an almost compulsively inquisitive person, however, Melody had finally decided to ask.

"That is a simple question with a complicated answer," said Aaron, with a tired sigh, ducking his head and running a hand over his short-cropped and very thick hair, before straightening and again resting his forearms on his crowded desk. "Keep in mind the fact that by the time I gained my power the seeds of discord which led to the Second World War were already sown. You can see examples of this in the Treaty of Versailles and the way it was enforced. Some people - myself included - actually did express concern over those events. Even then, most reasonable people - the majority of empowered minds among them - just didn't realize the situation was becoming as bad as it was by the mid-Thirties. Or, if they did know, think that there was any way it would get significantly worse. After all, too many people had too much to lose if there were another war.

"Much of the way subsequent events evolved was shaped by that sort of wishful thinking, a reluctance to believe in evil and neglecting the pervasiveness of simple, shortsighted self-interest. As well as by a lack of checking assumptions. Even those who were bothered by the punitive finish to the Great War - which included me - felt that sensible people wouldn't let things go sour again. Those few who were openly worried - empowered or not - were generally persuaded by the sensible people that things were getting better, so we focused on other problems. Like helping those left destitute and hungry by the Great Depression.

"There were also many empowered who thought that what was happening in Germany, Japan and other places were in their best interest, the best interest of their nation, or simply none of their business. Some empowered not only aided those changes, they deliberately concealed the extent of what was happening, including from other empowered.

"Throughout the Twenties and the early Thirties many of us - empowered and otherwise - were very busy dealing with personal, local and regional situations, and had little attention or energy to spare for larger matters. There was so much going wrong... we had little interest to spare for things we saw as purely local political matters in other nations. We often were only barely aware of what was happening outside our own immediate areas of interest.

"Remember, at that time, for most people, communication beyond their physically immediate social group was largely through print media, some of which was heavily censored and most of which was slow, plus the various forms of radio, and the occasional theatrical newsreel. All of which was subject to manipulation by governments and/or influential people.

"Finally, there was the problem that many of the stories about German atrocities from World War One turned out to be fabrications. As were many of the tales the Germans and their allies spread about French, British and Americans committing war crimes during that conflict. Many people - myself included - were determined not to be taken in by such propaganda again. The stories from the Thirties even well into the start of the Second World War of what the Nazis were doing were often too extreme to be believed by sensible people. Even things the Nazis, themselves, said, were dismissed. Sensible people would state 'Oh, that's just them pandering to their supporters. They don't really mean it. People wouldn't actually stand for that.' Even many Jews in Germany thought that way. Until things became blatant. By which time it was too late."

"I remember that quote from Pastor Martin Niemöller," said Melody quietly.

"You could also apply the parable of the frog in the pot. None of that excuses our - or my - disregard of the situation. I'm simply pointing out that most activists - empowered or not - were not aware in any detail of the anti-social activities connected with the rise of the Fascists, Socialists, Communists and Imperialists. Even for those who were, the information we had was that while there might be problems, they were local and being dealt with. Besides, they made the trains run on time."

He looked at Melody, to see if she got the reference. She seemed to, looking a bit puzzled but not asking for clarification.

"Of course, as we later learned, train service in Fascist Italy wasn't actually improved, and was often worse. However, because the government controlled the press they reported that the trains were running on time."

"Oh..." said Melody, in sudden revelation. "I know... I mean, I knew where the saying came from, but not that it was a lie promoting the Mussolini government."

"In many instances during that period, when concern was expressed about what was happening, people selected by the government being evaluated as sympathetic or unlikely to ask awkward questions or who were simply gullible were shown exactly what the particular bureaucracy being challenged wanted them to see. This included establishing model towns with actors or residents given special benefits for pretending to be happy with their treatment. This happened in many places besides Russia, Italy and Germany. Then there were the carefully edited newsreels. Pictures don't lie after all. Except that altered and staged photographs are almost as old as photography!"

Aaron sighed, and took a moment to compose himself. He was calmer, though still passionate, as he continued.

"For the most part, everyone - including in those nations where the atrocities were committed - simply accepted what they were told with little or no questioning, and even less criticism. Especially since they had plenty of problems of their own to deal with. They kept their heads down and went about their own lives. I know I was busy just trying to feed those I knew of with the greatest need. As well as deal with outbreaks of bigotry, oppression and greed in the US."

"Hunger in America," said Melody, softly. "As well as racism. Misogyny..."

"Exactly. Add to those the enthusiastic but ignorant search for 'scientific' treatments of the mentally ill; which were mostly anything but. Some even thought poverty could be cured by punishing the poor. I was focused on keeping my family safe, fed and clothed, and then on helping those less fortunate than most in and around Chicago. Even with my powers, those tasks took nearly all of my time and energy. The rest went towards working with others - mostly a small group of empowered I was associated with - on larger problems. Which generally meant conflicts with other empowered in the continental US, as well as dealing with corrupt officials. We almost never even considered anything in other nations, such as the rise of the National Socialists and increased Japanese aggression. Or the post-Imperial breakup of China into warring states."

"Things did get better most places as the Thirties progressed," said Melody, nodding slowly, "especially in the US."

"Yes. By that time I was... tired. I thought I could go easy for a while, relax and enjoy myself, be with my family more. Then, within a few years, I was busier than ever. By the late Thirties the Nazis were so strong - and even deliberately making their own empowered, at the cost of hundreds of lives for a few with useful abilities - I could see that my energies were better spent on other matters besides direct confrontation. Though I did try to draw attention to the atrocities."

"Even with all your power, you can't help everyone," said Melody, firmly.

"I'm still haunted by the screams of the millions I couldn't help." He gave her a tired smile. "Figuratively, of course."

"Of course," said Melody, not at all sure that was only figurative. She glanced at her notepad and suppressed a smile. His comment actually connected with what she had noted to ask about next. "One last question. How long have you been able to understand birds?"

At least she had startled him. He recovered quickly, and gave a wry laugh.

"Nearly ninety years," he said, his smile fading. "We were in our first actual house, in suburban Chicago. I was trying to finish some paperwork, when I suddenly heard what sounded like a toddler screaming for its mother. I went outside and quickly tracked the sound to a young robin, on a branch near the top of a tree."

He looked quite sad, now, and his gaze was distant.

"It was not quite old enough to be on its own, and looked bedraggled and very underweight. My brain somehow interpreted its cries as a human child screaming 'Momma, come back! I'm just a baby!'"

"Oh, my..." was all Melody could say.

"I tried coaxing it down with some mealworms - which I already had on hand as bait for fishing - but it was too wary. The time was late in the day and I had work to finish, so I figured I'd get a fresh start on helping the bird in the morning."

He leaned back in his simple, wooden chair and sighed, shaking his head.

"That night was unseasonably cold, with a driving rain. I don't know what happened to its mother - or father - but in the morning I found it on the ground, under that tree, dead of exposure."

"Oh, my..." said Melody, again. Even without using his enhanced charisma, such tales when told by Aaron carried a great deal of gravitas.

"I learned an important lesson from that," said Aaron, rallying. "Be careful in evaluating priorities. Active rescue situations come first. Usually, paperwork can wait, until those at risk no longer are."

The Angel of Earth

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Nine

The island had been claimed by a multinational group of empowered who called themselves The Eruption. They scheduled a press conference at the UN in New York, where the leaders of that organization and the group announced that they were the newest nation recognized by that body. A nation also named The Eruption, and made up entirely of empowered persons. Moreover, this was a nation which had sprung into existence full-blown on a new island. The speakers bragged that not only had the newly-born island previously been uninhabited and even barren, but that it hadn't even existed before their effort! This was correct; several members of The Eruption had combined their abilities to cause a volcanic seamount in international waters of the remote Pacific to erupt and build itself tall enough to stand above the waves. Work to enlarge their newly created nation was still underway, but was proceeding. Slowly.

Melody was there, of course, but was just one of many reporters covering the event. She was particularly interested in the leader of The Eruption, but had no chance to interview him. At least, not at the announcement.

"With our own nation, there is no limit to what we can do," said Clastic, their current and so far only leader, thanks to being the primary organizer of the group. As well as being the primary source of their new land. "All empowered are welcome here, regardless of their legal status in their homeland. When more arrive, we just make more land! Since all this is new, no nation has claim to it except ours!"

There were many people in multiple nations who already threatened action against this group. When legal experts noted that none of those making the threats were in nations which had prior claims in that area, the experts were shouted down by those making the threats. Removing this insult from the face of the Earth was more important than territorial laws!

There were some valid criticisms regarding the focus on empowered with no mention of allowing people who weren't to live there or even visit. The reply was that all the rest of the Earth was for the unempowered. Which did not go over well with most of those listening.

The UN's statement that the new nation known formally as The Eruption was a recognized member, was at best ignored by the new country's opponents. Many nations rejected this information with insults directed at the UN for spreading it. However, the builders (literally) of the new island had cleverly arranged mutual protection pacts with several countries before announcing the existence of their country. Those nations which objected to the very existence of the empowered would be fools to act against The Eruption. Unfortunately, many nations were run by fools. Some of those leaders were eager to prove this.

Fortunately, few of those making the threats currently had the authority to declare war. Even fewer were in nations with the ability to project significant force that far from their homeland.

* * *

The convoy proceeded slowly, in broad daylight. Neither of those was an option. The way was made more difficult by barricades, some deliberate and some simply the ruins of previous attempts at bringing relief supplies to those who so desperately needed them. Good lighting was needed to see their careful way, and headlights at night would have been even more noticeable than a slow convoy during the day. Attempts without visible lights on overcast, moonless nights using infrared viewers for the drivers and defenders had been tried, detected and attacked. As well, the rebels were more active at night. Not that the day was safe...

The General, watching the convoy, knew all of this. He was, in fact, responsible for most of it, including being able to detect infrared illumination. That had been done partly through stolen equipment, and partly through his own powers. Powers which he had never even confirmed to his men. Let them see his miracles, and wonder what else he might do

He could not let this convoy through; it would be bad for his image among his supporters, and among all those fighting for him. Therefore, he had arranged this ambush. A rare, daytime attack in response to a rare, daytime convoy. He raised his baton.

Before he could make the downstroke which would signal the start of the operation, a series of explosions rapidly raced along the top of the ridge behind which his forces waited. The blasts were large enough kick up a huge amount of dust and sand and gravel, and even sent several people - among them the General - flying.

Furious at this assault, the General quickly jumped back to his feet and scanned for the attackers. The startled convoy was now racing by, so quickly that his men could not regroup in time to make the assault before the vehicles were past. The fire hadn't come from them. It had come from above! Planes? No, this was a no-fly zone, which the UN forces observed even though it helped him far more than them. Artillery, then? From where?

He extended his senses. His abilities were not as overt as those of the more physically combative empowered, but they were very useful to a military leader. Just now, they were telling him to look up.

The General knew that was nonsense. There were no planes above - even if they weren't against international agreement, he'd hear them - and whatever had caused the barrage, it was over. Still, he'd learned to trust these empowered hunches.

He looked up... and froze. A figure circled lazily overhead, riding the thermals. Not a bird; a man with wings. That was all those with him could see, but the General could tell the man had long-hair, and was wearing robes and sandals. The wings, of course, attracted the most attention. Though definitely avian in general form, he could clearly see that the grey wings were unlike those of any bird, being partly dovelike but with a strong infusion of hawk. The base feathers where they attached at the small of his back ran down almost to his ankles, spreading to act as a tail.

The General stared. That had to be one of the empowered, but he'd lived his life in a fairly small area and rarely studied anything but what would immediately aid his desires to master and rule all around him. Who could this be? Was the intruder alone? If so, the General would crush him for his impudence.

Then he heard the murmurings. "Malak." That brought forward a memory, which made sense of the winged figure. The General's blood ran cold. If someone so powerful were opposed to him... No. Ridiculous. People with such power were myths. No, that figure must be some sort of drone, sent by whoever was behind the artillery barrage to intimidate his followers.

"Ignore that decoy," he said, as the winged figure continued to circle with no further activity. "Gather your equipment. We will regroup, and raid whoever they are foolish enough to give aid to. Move!"

Above, the winged figure heard the shouted words, and made plans.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the physical therapy section of the Aaron's clinic - also named, confusingly, Haven, which was why it was rarely referred to by name - a very special client was being treated by a very special therapist.

Mindful of the long, central feathers which acted as Malak's tail, Mini carefully climbed onto his back. She parted those long feathers, and literally sat on his rump. While this might be considered erotic under some circumstances, there was no salacious intent. Or, if there was, both parties kept that carefully in check.

Mini began massaging the thick layer of muscles above the small of his back, around his wing roots, over the truss-like extensions to Malak's pelvic girdle which supported his wings. Neither the bone structure nor the muscles were something found anywhere else in the animal kingdom, and would have driven both ornithologists and traditional human anatomists to distraction.

With the muscles now relaxed, Mini put the heel of one hand in just the right spot over Malak's spine, where his wings connected on either side. She put her other hand on top of it, and carefully leaned in. There was as gradual building of tension, then a sudden, loud pop. Malak grunted, and gave a sigh of relief.

Grinning, Mini repeated the process in a different spot on his spine. Over and over, always only where her treatment was needed.

"That was wonderful," said Malak, when she was finished. He rose, donned his robes, and changed to his human self. "Thank you, Liz. I don't know why, but that always works better when I'm in my winged form."

"Just part of my job," said the small, dense woman, grinning.

"Well, it's a service I need, and I'm glad you could fit me into your schedule," said Aaron, smiling. "No-one else here is strong enough to do that. Even the traction machines come up short."

"Any time, big guy," said the little woman, grinning. "It's nice to have a customer I don't have to treat as fragile."

"Well, now I feel fit for tonight's event. Thank you, again."

* * *

People in fancy dress and colorful costumes swirled around the ballroom floor in time to music from the live orchestra. Others, similarly dressed, socialized at various locations, including around a row of tables laden with food and drink. Everyone was on their best behavior. There was no alcohol allowed in the dance hall. Which hadn't kept some people from imbibing before the event, but anyone obviously drunk was skillfully diverted to a separate room with a free bar.

Melody had been reminded of the upcoming gala in one of her conversations with Aaron at the Repository. This was a charity fundraiser with a long tradition, lasting several hours on Labor Day, and even having live radio and 3V coverage for much of it. The bulky camera took up much of the space on the balcony, where the newspeople were located. Normally, such a high-society event would be covered by someone else at The New York Glory, and the society editor was, indeed, in attendance. However, he was a participant at the event, down on the dance floor, socializing. Getting assigned as the reporter who would actually cover the charity ball had been easy for Melody. She had dressed her best for it. Unfortunately, she was not able to show this off.

The event was big news, even in New York. It was more important for the notice it garnered for the causes it supported than for the actual money donated by those in attendance. Though that amount would definitely help the group of charities the event was held in honor of.

As usual for this particular gala, many of the participants were empowered who had for whatever reason found favor with the press. This included many in the entertainment industry. Crunch was here, as he had been many times before. Of course, the whole point of this event was to raise money for a conglomeration of charities. The more popular the guests, the more people who paid attention, and the more who donated.

Annoyingly for some - including Melody - the members of the press who were covering the gala were kept off the dance floor. In fact, they were definitely sequestered, in a balcony overlooking the event but separate from it. The isolation made them feel like second-class citizens. Melody thought that was a strange attitude, since the charities depended on the free publicity this event garnered for much of their money. All the newspeople on the job - reporters for newspapers and magazines, radio and 3V announcers sometimes going out live - could observe the participants, but not interact. The situation for them was very much "look but don't intrude."

The empowered actually down on the dance floor were clearly divided into two groups. By far, the largest faction was the group composed of those who were involved in entertainment, Crunch among them. The other was made up of empowered who usually avoided such public attention in order to focus on using their abilities to help others, but who were making an exception for charity. Malak was among those.

That didn't mean those in the first group didn't do anything to support those in trouble. Crunch, as one example, was known for his financial support of children's hospitals, as well as his personal, morale-boosting visits to the patients in them. That was why he had been included in the invitations for these fundraisers. It was also why, in fact, most of those from that group who were invited had accepted.

One of the more interesting - at least for some people, such as Melody - empowered entertainers in attendance was Margaret Lath. She was actually a part of the stage show which went on for much of the ball. She was an empowered poet, who could not only write fantastically well, she had something similar to Aaron's charisma. Hearing her read her works was... an unparalleled experience. Especially live. She was on stage early and left soon after her reading. Melody recalled that she was notoriously uncomfortable with public adulation. Which she definitely got here, tonight.

The second group, besides being much smaller, was also on average much older. Of course, that was partly due to the presence of Malak among them. Melody had to suppress a smirk at the thought that part of the reason this event was being held in such a large venue was his wingspan. She noted that he didn't do a lot of dancing. When he did, he was very good at it, but was given a lot of room by the other dancers.

The Master of Ceremonies was frequently announcing donations and pledges. Some were made in person, some by phone or even messenger. Those donations made by people at the Ball went through a slot into the large, armored box on the stage, beside the MC. The pledges were written very stylistically in a ledger on the MC's podium.

The whole program was quite entertaining for those participating. For Melody and the others who were observing it, the event was mostly boring. Because of this, many of the reporters were talking quietly among themselves. The man to Melody's left was a veteran of fund-raising events, but knew very little about the empowered. The man on her right claimed to be an expert on them. He did seem to have a lot of background information on the empowered.

"According to Dr. Wilde..."

"Wait... Doctor Bruce Wilde?" said Melody.

"Yes."

"I met him once," said Melody, nodding. "He gave a guest lecture at the college where I was studying journalism."

"I attended a few of his university lectures as a non-student observer," said the man, William Henderson by name. "I have to admit, most of what he discussed went over my head, but his conclusions were clear and concise."

"I've read some of the science articles about his work, but except for that one guest lecture years ago, I've never heard him speak."

"He stated as fact that many..."

Melody noticed that Henderson suddenly stopped and went wide-eyed. She quickly turned her attention to the dance floor below.

A large number of men and women - many of them masked and a few in costume - had entered the dance floor. They were all armed, most with rifles and shotguns. Which made them very much not a usual group of thugs and thieves, who preferred handguns they could stick in their pockets.

Most of the group quickly and efficiently surrounded those dancing and those watching on the ballroom floor, swiftly herding them into a corner. The new arrivals were very obviously holding the attendees hostage.

"All right people, listen up!" said the obvious leader. He was blatantly empowered, and actually looked like he was on fire. Though the flames surrounding him seemed to be without heat. "Yeah, that includes you, winged wonder. We here for cash and jewelry. Cooperate and nobody gets hurt."

Melody wondered if he new he was on live 3V. Well, he was one of those in costume. In his case that included a mask. Perhaps he did know. He didn't appear accustomed to wearing either the costume or mask he had on, and both appeared to be cheap.

The hoodlums appeared to be rather nervous, and wouldn't need much stimulus to start shooting. Melody was worried that some of the empowered celebrities might decide to take a hand. Given the edginess exhibited by most of the robbers that could lead to a massacre, even if the robbery were stopped. However, most of the empowered performers had never been in a real fight, and were obviously uncertain about going against men and women with rifles. Fortunately, even the tough ones realized that though they might have nothing to fear from guns, most of those there did.

Many took their cue from Crunch. Of the few empowered celebrities who had experience with real violence, he, in particular, had learned a lot in the past few years.

"Stay cool, people," said the strongman, sounding like he was heeding his own advice. "All they want is money."

On top of all that, Malak was radiating calm.

The newspeople on the balcony were likewise calm, but they were also indecisive. Most of them continued to perform their jobs through sheer inertia, though a few were paralyzed. Some seemed to think that because they were on the balcony, above the robbery, they weren't part of it. That they were mere observers and therefore in no danger. Melody knew better. She slowly slid out of her chair, until her head sank below the top of the balcony's low wall. On-one seemed to notice, even on the balcony. On hands and knees - wishing she had worn slacks instead of a dress - Melody moved carefully to the nearest end of the balcony.

She didn't feel a need to take photos, since not only were many photographers already busy documenting the robbery, there was also a 3V camera running a live feed to the associated studio. Instead, she sat on the floor of the balcony and took out her electronic document reader and set it to record sound. She then pulled out the auxiliary microphone, put it on the end of the low wall and plugged it into the reader.

With the microphone discreetly placed and the document reader carefully out of the way, Melody slowly raised her head and resumed watching the scene unfolding below.

With the celebrities - mundane and empowered - crowded into a corner and under guard the burning man moved to the stage at the front of the room. He lifted the massive vault easily from beside the startled MC and carried it to the entrance he and his men and women had forced. Melody noted that Malak had somehow maneuvered to the edge of the crowd of celebrities, putting himself - wings and all - between them and the robbers, while the burning man worked.

"Okay, boys, now get their jewels."

"No," said Malak, spreading his wings to protect the people behind him. "You've got close to a hundred thousand in cash there. Leave these people alone."

"Yeah, I know who you are, angel guy," said the leader of the robbers, only given a momentary pause. "If you know what's good for you and those behind you, you'll stand down. You saw how easy I lifted that safe."

Malak said nothing and didn't move. The other empowered - even Crunch - wisely followed his lead.

"You can't shield all of them," said the burning man, trying to sound reasonable. "Stand down or my guys start shooting. I'll make sure everybody knows it's your fault rich folks died without needing to, too."

Malak still did not move, did not speak. However, Crunch moved to his left wingtip, using his own, tough body to shield a few more of the normals. After a moment, a few of the other empowered likewise worked their way forward to put themselves between the thieves and their victims. The robbers stirred uneasily, but for the moment there was no further raise by either side.

"C'mon!" the burning man shouted, grinning. He might have been trying to show that he was in control, after that low-key display of defiance. He changed his stance, putting arms and legs wide. "C'mon, angel guy! I'll even give you the first move. C'mon! Do something! Come at me, or they all die!"

In a blur of motion, Malak materialized a spear and threw it. The bright-burning point stuck the challenger in the center of his chest and exploded, vanishing abruptly once its charge was expended. The man dropped, alive but his flames snuffed. They had apparently taken the brunt of the blast, but enough got through to leave the man badly injured.

"Is that it?" said Malak, his tone carefully neutral as he addressed the fallen man. "Do you have any objection, now, to your minions releasing the hostages and then waiting quietly for the police? I thought not."

* * *

With the rest of the thieves waiting quietly for the police, Malak healed the leader enough that he could go to jail, instead of a hospital. Meanwhile, the other empowered present disarmed and stood guard over the would-be robbers. Crunch occasionally taunted them. Though he also moved the armored donation box back onto the stage, putting it precisely where it belonged.

Despite attempts by the MC to work up the crowd after the robbers were taken away, the ball was quite definitely over... though not the news coverage. Helping kill the mood was the questioning by the police. Some of the detectives interviewing the wealthy people involved seemed to have a suspicion that this attempted theft was some scheme of theirs. Even a few of the reporters on the balcony with Melody were accused of being part of the robbery. She kept quiet, hiding her notes and the detachable memory module from her document reader deep in her purse. Fortunately, the police didn't go so far as to actually search anyone not obviously involved in the attempted robbery.

Things became even more complicated when agents from the Empowered Matters Agency suddenly arrived. They tried to claim jurisdiction, which resulted in a huge argument. In the end, at Malak's suggestion, the EMA took the one obviously empowered man - the one who had shown the flames - into custody and the New York police took the rest. This was a reasonable result, since the EMA had the means to contain an empowered human and the NYPD didn't.

* * *

After the ball was finally - if reluctantly - declared over early, Melody sought out Malak. Who looked both sad and angry.

"These powers can be used for so much more than fighting," said the bewinged man, sadly. "Yet fighting seems to be all that far too many empowered know."

"There's always conflict," she pointed out. "There will always be conflict."

"Even without powers, there doesn't need to be. However, some people insist on it."

He turned and walked away, exiting the building.

The Angel of Earth

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Ten

Melody was determined to get more from Aaron about the event, and she wasn't the only one. However, she had resources even the New York Police Department lacked. Getting Blackpool to take her once more to the Repository was easy. Catching Aaron there was harder. However, she made an appointment, and another and another, until she finally caught him. Except that she didn't encounter him in his office.

Instead, she caught Malak and Mannequin in the relaxation area, outside the Repository. This was roughly an acre of grass and trees, with picnic tables, permanently emplaced grills for cooking and even a bandstand, as well as several small gazebos. Despite early concerns about the ability of the very non-native plants to survive in this environment, they not only had, but were doing so well the relaxation area had been more than doubled over the years.

The entire installation for the chemical repository was on a flat area in a valley among the Rockies, on land which had been acquired for the isolated storage and disposal of dangerous chemicals. The relaxation area was in a part of the buffer zone around the Repository, just north of the actual walled compound. Everything on that pampered piece of ground looked new, including the grass. There were a few other people in the area as Melody walked towards her target, and almost uniformly they were smiling.

Two who were not smiling were Malak and Mannequin. Melody slowed as she approached the picnic table where they sat on opposite sides, leaning towards each other. The pair was obviously having some sort of intense but quiet conversation. However, when they saw Melody both waved her over. She had the distinct impression she was interrupting something, but that they didn't mind.

"So, keep in mind that reality alteration changes things, but not their history," said Mannequin, obviously finishing something the two of them were discussing.

"I think I understand," said Malak, nodding. "That would violate causality. A thorough rewriting could be used to create a mask over the previous reality, even affecting memory and objective records, but that is fragile. Additionally, as far as all our best researchers and theorists have been able to determine, the arrow of time can be shortened or extended - for relatively limited localities, such as a person or small group - but its direction can not be changed. Causality is still inviolate. So, no do-overs."

"No do-overs," said Mannequin, with a reluctant sigh.

"Hello, Melody," said Malak, motioning the reporter to take a seat at the table. "Come and join us."

"Hello, you two," said Melody, as she chose a seat which left her close to being equally distant from the two empowered. However, she looked at Malak. "I didn't get to ask you much about the charity ball and robbery last night."

"Ooh, I'd like to hear about this, too," said Mannequin, smiling. "Especially since I wasn't invited."

"There isn't much more to tell," said Malak, with a shrug. "I went there to help promote donations to several charities I support. Some thugs with an empowered leader tried to rob the place. From what I understand, he was in charge solely because he had powers."

He and Melody related the events in more detail to Mannequin.

"Maybe it's a good thing I wasn't invited," the pale, currently ungendered empowered said, impishly.

The other two definitely agreed, but diplomatically said nothing.

"I understand why you didn't take action until the hostages were threatened," said Melody, to Malak. "How did you make the decision on when to act?"

"The equation was simple and the math obvious," said Malak, with a shrug of the shoulders which barely moved his wings. "Their leader calls himself Flame Barrier, by the way, or maybe Flame Bearer; he wasn't very clear on that. What led me to act was when he suddenly changed from robbery to boosting his own ego."

"That's two of the classic sins, right there," said Mannequin, grandly.

"In this case, I quickly realized that he was so invested in his own greatness, that our small act of defiance had driven him into a murderous rage. Though he covered it well. If I hadn't... obliged him, he would have ordered those with him to fire on the hostages. At least some would have obeyed."

"I suspected it was something like that," said Melody, nodding. "I could tell he was angry, but not that he was that angry. Though towards the end, he did seem ready to do something drastic."

"Of that have no doubt," said Malak, gravely.

* * *

"I am looking for Blackpool," said Melody, as she approached the receptionist outside his office. "I asked around on my way here, but no-one seemed to know exactly where he is."

She was only mildly worried about possibly missing him. He was her most reliable means of transportation, but far from the only one available to her at the Repository. He was also almost as busy as Malak, in part because of his easy mobility.

"He got called to Washington unexpectedly," said Blackpool's secretary, one of the few women among the soldiers who comprised most of the staff.

"Washington," said Melody, startled. Then she was confused. "Wait; his boss is in Arlington."

"Yeah. He got called directly to the White House."

Melody worriedly chewed a bit at her bottom lip as she digested this bit of information. What was going on?

* * *

What was going on was a meeting in the Oval Office itself. Besides the empowered man there was only the President and a high-ranking political appointee, plus four Secret Service agents. Blackpool had the definite impression this meeting was just as much a rush for President Rogers as it was for him. Such a call would normally be handled through other channels, and the meeting almost certainly held in a different room.

Possibly explaining the unusual rush was the presence of the new head of United States Security, Stewart Hayers. He was reputed to be both impatient and opinionated. However, at first President Rogers did the talking, while Hayers looked on. Or, rather, glared on.

"We have received complaints that you are interfering with the work of The Protectorate," said the President.

"I'm not interfering with the work of The Protectorate," said Blackpool, startled. "My job at the chemical Repository is full-time and so far none of my duties have intersected with anything they have done."

"I don't want to hear any excuses!" snapped Hayers. "Stop your interference!"

From his expression, President Rogers shared Blackpool's evaluation of this outburst.

"I'm not making excuses," said Blackpool, looking directly at Hayers. "I'm not interfering with The Protectorate."

"Excellent," said the President, cutting off his head of United States Security. For a moment. The outspoken man quickly recovered.

"We are still getting complaints from them that the Empowered Matters Agency is interfering with their activities!" said Hayers.

Blackpool was starting to see what was going on. Even if it was based on a mistaken idea of who was boss of what.

"I work for the Empowered Matters Agency," said Blackpool. "I'm not in charge of it. Those complaints should be made to Sarah Eadgar, who is head of the agency. She's the one you need to talk to about that. Not me."

From the look on his face, the President had also realized what was going on.

"Blackpool is only in charge of the chemical Repository."

"Yes, but he's the one with the influence over policy!" said Hayers, who apparently would rather believe a middle-manager had authority well outside his pay grade than accept that a woman was actually in charge of a federal agency. Blackpool wondered what Hayers would do if he knew the empowered man were Black. Already standing, Hayers now moved closer to Blackpool and jabbed a finger at his chest.

"The Protectorate is not to be interfered with!"

Blackpool was starting to think the man could only speak in exclamations.

"Aaron LaBelle says..."

"LaBelle is well past his prime," said Hayers, with a dismissive gesture. "You look at the great men of history and they did nothing after they were forty."

Blackpool marveled at the fact that the person saying this was in his mid-thirties. Besides being demonstrably wrong.

"Until very recently, very few people - great or not - lived past forty," said Blackpool, dryly. "Those creative, contributing people who did live longer tended to remain creative and contributors to society until physical debilitation or death."

He decided to give examples this man might respect.

"Perhaps you'll recognize the names DaVinci, Jefferson, Harrison, Edison... it isn't being over forty which stops people from contributing to society, it's being dead, or too sick to continue. Also, keep in mind that Aaron is physiologically still in his twenties."

Hayers was obviously was not used to being contradicted. He looked to the President. Who sighed.

"You have your orders," said Rogers, firmly but with a carefully neutral expression. "Dismissed."

* * *

When he finally returned to his office at the Repository, Blackpool had an orderly locate Melody. This didn't take long; she was was actually waiting in the reception room just outside. When she went in Melody was disturbed by Blackpool's emotional state. She had rarely seen her husband so upset. Melody made sure the door was completely closed behind her. She was trying to think of something to say, but he spoke first.

"Did you find Aaron?" he asked, without preamble.

"Oh, yes. Malak and Mannequin were out in the relaxation area. However I heard Malak say he - presumably as Aaron - needed to head back to his office here as I was leaving."

Blackpool grabbed his phone and dialed the appropriate internal number. Presumably, Aaron answered.

"I think you need to speak with the President," said Blackpool, startling Melody, "as well as the new head of United States Security, Stewart Hayers; maybe a few others, as well. I don't know for a fact whether they have been influenced or mind controlled or are simply getting bad advice or what, but..."

"I get the idea," said Aaron, nodding even though Blackpool couldn't see him.

"Thank you. I literally didn't know who else to call. This requires influence, judgement and the ability to get an audience with the people affected."

"I'll see what I can do."

* * *

Though the current President might differ with the winged empowered man on a number of issues, he still kept up the recently-established tradition of making himself and his staff quickly available when Aaron/Malak requested to speak to him. This meeting - later that same day and again in the Oval office, with the landscape visibly getting dark outside the windows - had more people than the recent one with Blackpool. Including several times as many Secret Service personnel. However, as he had so often preempted his own boss, the President, Stewart Hayers now preempted Aaron Labelle as he was escorted into the room. Not even giving him time to take a seat.

"You've got some nerve, demanding an audience like this without even giving a reason! We're all busy men!"

Never mind that Aaron had requested instead of demanding, letting the President pick the time. Never mind that over a quarter of those present were women. Aaron decided to change tactics. Instead of approaching the topic slowly and diplomatically, he turned on Hayers. If the man wanted a quick presentation, he would get one.

"What do you want from me?" said Aaron, obviously irritated. "Perfection? You're not going to get it. I doubt it exists in the human population."

"Oh, but what about those who are more than human?" said the Hayers, smirking. As well as proving that Aaron had picked both the right tactic and the correct words to get to the heart of the matter.

"If you're referring to The Protectorate, they're far from perfect," said Aaron.

"Prove it!" the Hayers snapped. Doing exactly what Aaron wanted him to.

Aaron began citing serious, widely-known mistakes made by The Protectorate. These ranged from some made by the entire organization, collectively, to errors committed by smaller groups, down to problems caused by individuals. Malak even mentioned a few mistakes by The Grand Protector himself. These included several unprovoked assaults, some of which had ended in death for the other person. At least one of those deceased was a uniformed police officer. All these events were public knowledge, and should have been well known to the President and his staff.

Looking around, Aaron could see the politicians and political appointees present were looking... confused. The Secret Service men and women, as usual, were inscrutable.

"Those..." said President Rogers, actually looking pained as he spoke for the first time since greeting Aaron. He swallowed, shook his head, then seemed to recover. "Those don't count. We're talking about serious mistakes."

As if literally murderous rages weren't serous enough for the President.

"Like when The Grand Protector tried to straighten that steel beam on that damaged overpass and wound up ripping it from the supports on one end? Fortunately, traffic on both roads had been diverted to other routes when the damage was first discovered. Especially since he as so surprised he then dropped the beam onto the highway below. The structure and the highway running under it subsequently both needed repairs. Totaling millions of dollars."

That drastic error had been covered live on 3V. The whole nation - the whole world - had seen his blunder. The attempts to cover it up had included confiscation of some copies of the recordings. These efforts had only made things worse. Including bringing more attention to the event.

"That's..." said the President, haltingly.

The pained expressions were back.

"I think there's more at work, here, than simple bureaucratic unwillingness to face facts contrary to policy," said Aaron, gently. "You honestly can not think about The Protectorate's shortcomings, can you? WHO HAS CONDITIONED YOU THIS WAY?"

"SuperMind," the men and women of authority in the room chorused.

Aaron nodded, and sighed. Ignoring the stunned and confused expressions now on the officials' faces, he turned to the head of the Secret Service personnel present.

"I suggest you find some way to keep SuperMind from influencing people. As well as keeping him away from these specific people and all their aides. Meanwhile, I'll see what I can do about a longer-term solution."

* * *

Melody knew she was attempting something dangerous but with what Aaron had recently uncovered she thought it was necessary. She had not been able to find any reliable first-person accounts of anyone who had even attempted to enter without permission the facility where The Protectorate had their headquarters. Forget plausible accounts from people saying they had actually succeeded. That absence was very telling. Not only were there no believable reports of people succeeding, no-one had admitted to failing. Which meant those making serious attempts to get in there probably either were being held incommunicado by The Protectorate... or they hadn't survived the attempt.

Still, Melody Gundersen had never been a pessimist. There actually was a great deal of information on the defenses of the compound, though it was spread around and had to be assembled. Some of the information had been released by The Protectorate, themselves. Far more reliable was what had been acquired by people who had looked from a distance. Some from cars or planes. A few braver souls from the ground. Some had even been inside, as invited guests, like Melody, herself. All of this was technically legal, but even some of those who had planned such activities had not been heard from again.

Melody started her data gathering by making notes on what she had observed during her own visit. From there she moved on to the available photos and reports and plans. She thought she had a safe entry point. Nearly all the mentions of gaining access covertly had involved going in through one of the storm drainage culverts for the property. From what she had learned about the land, that didn't really need nearly that much storm drainage. Melody had a sneaking suspicion that the ditches and culverts ostensibly for storm runoff control had actually been installed to channel intruders.

She also knew that Aaron/Malak had been trying to get an appointment with The Protectorate for the past few days. Ever since his own trip to DC. Besides that, Melody had discovered the night before that Aaron had finally decided they were not going to see him through polite channels. He declared was just going to fly there, to their front door, that afternoon and walk in. Hopefully, that would provide a distraction Melody could take advantage of. Even getting the information directly from Blackpool - and persuading him to drop her off nearby - the reporter had barely had time to beat the winged man to the scene.

She hadn't seen him arrive, yet. Even if his arrival escaped her notice, Melody was certain there would be some sort of obvious disturbance when he approached the front door. Meanwhile, she was scouting around the outside of the boundary. She had no camera, no audio recorder, not even a purse. This trip she was traveling light, strictly looking the compound over from up close. She was making a mental map of the place, and taking the warning signs seriously. Signs which were far more numerous and obvious on the fence above the grated ends of the culverts. Some of those gratings looked like they had been recently repaired or replaced. Given what she had already determined, Melody thought those signs were an interesting bit of reverse psychology. Most intruders would likely think the builders had placed those signs there because those were vulnerable access points.

Melody - keeping well away from the fence - continued on, bent well over but not actually crawling, through the tall, heavy grass on the outside of the fence. Suddenly, she thought she heard something. She stopped. The other sound stopped.

Thinking that she'd either imagined the sound or that it was made by some small animal, Melody started moving again. She was glad she was wearing slacks and a long-sleeved shirt, but her back was beginning to hurt from being bent over. As were her knees.

She had only completed about half a circuit of the property - was not even to the main gate, where there was a closely mowed wide strip on either side of the access road and she'd have to turn back - when something loomed above the grass behind her, startlingly near. Something mechanical. Something armed.

Melody gave a little squawk of surprise. Partly at how something like that could have come upon her without more warning, but mostly that it was there at all. She was well outside the fence! Melody dropped and rolled even further away from the secure area, hoping to lose the machine in the tall grass.

The Angel of Earth

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Eleven

That tactic seemed to work. The thing stopped, then the part sticking above the tall grass scanned back and forth a bit, as if looking for her. Through the weeds Melody saw that the automaton was segmented, and could fold like a carpenter's rule. The thing unfolded the part with its, well, head further, sending the main sensor array higher. Melody knew that some of these devices responded to motion, and held still.

Indeed, for a moment it seemed to have lost her and she knew hope. The "head" scanned back and forth again, the machine clicking and whirring. Then, suddenly, its gaze turned sharply towards Melody and the machine fixed its camera eyes on her. She gave a small cry of fear as it raised an arm with a machine gun built in and pointed it at her.

Something was suddenly between her and the mechanical guard. There was a deafening burst of gunfire and the sound of slugs slamming into the object. It started to fall towards Melody. She rolled aside, as what looked like one of Malak's shields fell towards where she had been laying. It vanished before hitting the ground. The mechanical guard found her again, and swung the gun around.

Malak made a quick landing between the machine and Melody, and manifested another shield, his wings together behind him. Again, the attacker fired its machinegun. This time, though, Malak was supporting the shield and it did not fall after being hit. Melody scrambled to her feet and the two of them backed quickly away. With the advantage of the higher viewpoint she now had, she could get a better look at the device. Moving on treads, it rotated its entire body and started towards them. It stowed the machine gun arm, and one with a much larger weapon was deployed.

"Wow," said Malak, as he and the reporter continued backing quickly away, in a serpentine path. "That looks like a twenty millimeter autocannon. STAND DOWN."

The construct continued towards them.

"I don't think that's going to work," said Melody. She had felt a surge of relief when Malak arrived, but now was starting to worry again.

"I guess it must completely automated, then, with no-one on board or piloting remotely. Very irresponsible."

The 20mm cannon pointed directly at them. Again, Malak protected them with his shield. This time he also prepared one of his spears.

"That is so loud!" screamed Melody, hands over ears, as the shells hit the shield and exploded.

The shield held. Once the shooting stopped, Malak threw his spear. He aimed for the bulk of the guardian, which was between the treads. There was a sizable explosion. However...

"No secondary explosions," said Malak, almost casually, "and it's still moving."

This time he manifested three spears with flaming tips. They went high, middle and low on the machine. There were definitely follow-up explosions after this treatment. When the subsequent fireworks finally stopped, there was no doubt of success. The machine was in inert pieces, with smoke still rising from some of them as well as some places in the grass around it.

"Now I need to get you out of here," said Malak. The shield vanished. He turned towards Melody and reached out to lift her into his arm.

"Just make us both invisible!" said the reporter, quickly, as she moved to him. "I want to see what they do about this. You probably need to see that, too."

He thought about this for a while. Which for him meant much less than a second. Finally, he nodded. He moved beside Melody and wrapped them both in his wings.

"We are invisible but not desolid. Neither are we inaudible, so don't move and keep quiet."

They waited a surprisingly long time, but finally several men in Protectorate security uniforms arrived, hurrying out the gate on foot. They were heavily armed. They looked at the machine. Looked around at the mayhem associated with it. Then looked back at the machine.

"Another false alarm?" said one, hopefully.

"No bodies. It would take a tank or a cookoff to do that much damage. We would have seen a tank, even if it shot from long range. So, which do you think it was?"

"Damn grass," said one of the other men, kicking at and stomping on the growth to get it clear of the machine for a better evaluation of the damage. "Why don't they cut it?"

"Because then these things would go after every rabbit and squirrel," said the leader of the group. He scowled at the close-cut area nearby. "Which may be what happened this time, anyway."

"Looks like it'll have to be towed. Or broken down and carried back in pieces. Good thing it's near the driveway."

"It's already halfway disassembled," said another man, almost cheerfully. "Fortunately, they're modular and tend to come apart at the joins."

"Well, if the team weren't all out of the country on a mission, we could get one of them to move it to the shop," said the second man.

"If wishes were horses we'd all ride," said the leader, tartly. He pulled out his radio. "Yeah, looks like a false alarm, some needless shooting, probably at grass moving in the wind or a ground squirrel, followed by a cookoff. Send the truck out, will ya?"

Malak and Melody stood there, silently observing, until the parts of the mechanical guard were loaded onto a tilt-bed truck - using the built-in winch on the latter - and taken away. The human guards road the truck back with its crew. One of the last things the guards mentioned while within hearing range was that other mechanical guardians would have to be assigned to cover this one's part of the perimeter. The gate closed behind them.

"Well, looks like The Protectorate aren't here, anyway," said Malak, actually looking a bit relieved. He grinned at the reporter. "Though I do wonder what could require the entire team. Drop you off somewhere?"

"Back at my rental car, please," said Melody, tiredly. "Their security is more thorough, more aggressive and more lethal than anybody thought. There's no way I'm sneaking in. We both probably need to seriously rethink our approach."

"At last, you are learning wisdom," said Malak with a laugh, as - with both of them still invisible - he scooped Melody into his arms and took to the air.

* * *

The car was parked on a wide spot on the shoulder on a county road, well hidden by trees from the compound of The Protectorate. Malak put Melody down, and stepped back.

"Hold on a moment, please," said the reporter, as she saw he was about to leave. She made sure she still had her keys, then looked up at her rescuer.

"First: Thank you. I knew trying to get inside the fence might be dangerous but that machine was a complete surprise. Besides being blatantly illegal."

"Definitely," said Malak, nodding. "Its armaments are one more crime to add to their total. Besides that device using tech which is probably illegal in this country."

"That brings up something else they haven't been upfront about," said Melody, frowning. "Where are they getting the money for all this?"

"Donations from people they do favors for, plus using their powers for personal and team gain. I know some of them have had great success in the stock market."

"Wait... You knew this?"

"I did a lot of research on the group over recent weeks. Though I admit that much of it involved asking other people what they had discovered."

"Yeah, I got a lot of inside info from similar sources," said Melody, nodding thoughtfully. "A lot of it from other people investigating the group."

"Does Blackpool know what you're doing?" said Malak, his tone a bit accusing.

"Yes, but like me he thought staying outside the fence would be safe."

"Part of what I uncovered is that due to various pressures on the group, the have recently expanded their security measures."

"Oh. Well, that explains it. I guess..."

She gave vent to a gusty sigh.

"At any rate, thank you, again. I'm very glad you noticed the trouble I was in. You have my assurances I won't try this again."

"Good."

"I'm just glad this is really you, and not one of those fake angels." She gave him a quizzical look. "That is you, right?"

"Yes."

"So what's up with those duplicates?"

"Mannequin calls them my stunt doubles," said Aaron, with a grimace which conveyed both amusement and annoyance. "It's what most people familiar with powers call the Manifold Ability. It's not what Multi does, though. It's not that complete."

"That's new. For you, I mean."

"It was needed."

"Whoof," said Melody, suddenly sagging and partially sitting on the left front fender of her rental car, as reaction set in. She gave Malak a sick grin. "I wonder if going back in there would count as suicide."

"My contacts in the Catholic Church say that in such situations it's the intent which determines that."

"Hold on. I thought you were excommunicated decades ago," said Melody.

"For multiple reasons, none of which had anything to do with my faith or beliefs," said Aaron. "However, several Popes later my wife and I were reinstated. She even received Last Rites. Quietly. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some negotiations to get back to."

He turned away and took off, flying along the road below the treetops until he was around the curve.

* * *

"So that's what they were doing..." said Melody, the next day, when she read about the latest misadventure of The Protectorate.

"What's that?" said Sam, looking up from the book he was reading.

They were in the break room, where Melody had found a wire service printout someone had left on one of the tables. She had meant to just skim it while having a snack, but the story about The Protectorate had caught her attention.

"Seems they took the whole Protectorate into eastern Iraq to 'capture' Ningirsu."

"Is he that guy with the ancient Sumerian obsession?" said Sam.

"Yeah. Though it's more of an affectation, as far as I can tell. He realizes he's a modern person living in modern times, just empowered."

"'Just' she says," said Sam, with a grin. "Anyway, what happened between him and The Protectorate?"

"Well, one of the groups they split into to look for him actually found Ningirsu. They attacked before the others could get there, and he fought back. Very successfully. They had to withdraw, taking their wounded with them."

"Not bad," said Sam, nodding. "Of course, from what I remember he did take his name from a warrior god who combated demons and maintained the cosmic order. He's apparently pretty potent."

"Yeah, but while he was withdrawing, another Protectorate team found him. From what people are able to determine, he got hurt this time, but still drove them off. He's gone to ground somewhere, and they can't find him."

"I don't imagine King Reza was pleased about that," said Sam, his expression carefully neutral. "He isn't particularly fond of Ningirsu, but considers him a local problem. He wouldn't like outsiders coming into his country to attack someone."

"That's pretty much how the situation stands," said Melody. "The Protectorate says they were trying to bring an international terrorist to justice. Ningirsu says they were trying to assassinate him. INTERPOL says the only warrants they are aware of out for Ningirsu are for 'agitation' rather than acts of destruction, but they're from several countries.

"Anyway, three members of The Protectorate are dead and several others were injured. The Grand Protector has sworn vengeance, not even pretending any more that their goal is to capture their target for law enforcement. The Iraqi government has announced that The Protectorate were in the country illegally and are not to come back except to turn themselves in for trial."

"Like that'll happen," said Sam, wryly.

"I just hope this won't mean The Protectorate will up the ante by increasing their activities in other areas to try and cover over this failure."

* * *

The head of the project nodded as he received the report that all was ready. He stood dramatically on the railed platform, deliberately creating a photo opportunity for the few members of the press allowed at the ceremony. The act of the minion bringing the report to him was an event staged for the media. He knew the dam was ready. Despite interference from multiple other nations, he was about to order the bypass spillways closed, shutting off all but a trickle of the mighty river for however long was needed for the new lake to fill. He was a political appointee, given this position of authority partly as a reward, and partly to make sure the job was done and done right. Now he stood on the observation deck of the great dam, using binoculars to look left and right at how the river currently flowed through the two diversion tunnels, one on either side of the massive structure. Those flows would now stop, and the huge reservoir behind the dam would finish filling. Only the amount - which would be small at first - allowed through the electrical generating turbines would flow until the level reached the overflow spillway. The time had come perform his final act on this job.

Those downstream had protested, and bargained, and threatened, and appealed to international agencies. All for naught. Once the dam was full his thirsty nation would have all the water it needed. For electrical generation, for irrigation, even for extortion. If those downstream didn't like that, well, they should have built their own dams. All that tree-hugger whining about how stopping the water would ruin the fishing or whatever was not going to stand in the way of progress! The water belonged to them, now, and if those down river wanted some they could pay for it. He turned and called into the control room, his voice loud and firm.

"Close the bypasses!"

The order was acknowledged, and the switches thrown. Lights blinked, alarms sounded, and the water continued to flow through the bypass tunnels.

"I said 'Close the bypasses!'"

"We did!" said the chief technician. "I mean, we tried, but they aren't closing!"

The project head quickly moved inside, to the control panels. Except that he had no idea what all those lights and dials meant! He was a manager, not a technician! However, he did know how to give orders.

"Find the problem and correct it! We have a schedule to keep!"

Men were already working to do just that, but nothing they saw brought enlightenment, nothing they did made a difference.

"The gates are jammed," said the manager's second in command, an engineer who actually understood most of the details of what they were doing, here. "The motors draw current and try to turn, but they don't budge. We're trying to find out why. I could understand if one was stuck, but how did both... Unless there's some design flaw we missed."

"We missed nothing!" said the boss. "The problem is not in the design. It is perfect. Find what is wrong and correct it!"

Someone came to the assistant and diffidently said something in a low voice. The assistant angrily told him he was crazy. However, as the Manager watched, more and more people quietly reported the same thing.

"What is it?" said the Manager. "What is going on?! We're behind schedule! The President will be making his announcement to the press in moments!"

"They say..." The assistant swallowed, nervously. "They say that an angel was seen flying into each tunnel. That he would be out of sight for a while, then fly back out."

"Superstitious idiots! You will find the actual problem and correct it!"

They did actually find the problem... long after the Manager and those immediately under him were replaced for embarrassing the President, and then the replacements were replaced, and finally cofferdams were built to divert the water so the huge gates could be inspected. They turned out to be very thoroughly welded in the open position. By that time political pressure was mounting against the dam being filled. Though the military alliance of nations downstream probably had more to do with the subsequent changes in policy. Either way, the bypass gates were left as they were and the dam never exceeded twelve percent capacity.

The Angel of Earth

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Twelve

Melody kept her word. She did not try to get back into the headquarters of The Protectorate. However, there were other places associated with them which were - hopefully - not nearly as well protected.

The specific facility which drew the reporter's attention was an unfinished new branch of the company which provided the security devices for The Protectorate's facility. So far this particular installation was low-key and had largely escaped notice among The Protectorate's critics. Melody had discovered this installation while researching the machine which had nearly ended her life. The company behind the machine was also a major supporter of - and funding source for - The Protectorate. That company had spent a huge amount of money on a new facility supposedly intended to develop and test advanced security measures. The idea was to prove the advancements by using them at Protectorate facilities, then earn a profit through selling them commercially.

Melody had figured that, still being under construction, it would not be nearly as well protected as The Protectorate's property or - presumably - the company's main facility.

She had made sure that Blackpool knew where she was going. He hadn't liked it - especially after her recent close call - but had no serious grounds for objection. Especially given the occasional perils of his own chosen profession. He protested, but when she persisted he relented, though he urged her to be careful.

She was. Even though she considered the site to be low-key, Melody still took multiple precautions.

In fact, the construction site turned out to be so low-key that it was disappointing. There was a profound lack of security on the property. Even the heavy construction equipment had been left unlocked. There were security guards, but only two at night and they only patrolled every forty-eight minutes.

The building Melody currently explored was part of an apparently ordinary research business, only it was still under construction. Not only did Melody find nothing of interest in the layout, but as it was incomplete, she pretty much found nothing, period. The place was still just a shell. So why had she previously found cryptic notes that it was already being used to test newly developed security tech?

With a sigh, she headed back out the opening in the wall by which she had entered. However, she had to suddenly pull back and wait for the guards to pass.

Melody wondered why they always made their rounds together. As well as why they were both in a hurry to get back to their shack.

"We're late," hissed one of them to the other, barely loud enough for Melody to hear.

"They won't attack us," said the other, dismissively. Though he didn't slow.

"That's what they say, but have you seen those things?! I don't want to be outside when they're loose!"

They kept talking, but the also kept walking, quickly. Melody was now officially worried. Were those "things" they mentioned more automated security machines? Perhaps improved models of those was the next generation technology being tested!

She hurried out of the building and off the property. She could see the lights of Chicago in the distance, reflecting off low clouds. That didn't really offer enough illumination for her trip back to her rental car, even for her full-dark adapted eyes. However, she was not about to use her flash this close to the site. Despite her sense of urgency, once through the gap she had found in the construction fence Melody had to make her way slowly and carefully over the rough ground.

Finally, from the top of a low berm which had been built for a new interchange near the construction site, she could see her car. At first she felt a surge of joy, but Melody quickly tamped down on it. She could already see there was something wrong with the rental vehicle.

She half slid, half climbed back down to the rented vehicle, glad she was wearing slacks. Feeling safe - or at least safer - now, she pulled her flashlight from her right front pocket. With it set to low and tight-beam, she aimed it at her rental car from a distance.

She stared for a moment at the thoroughly wrecked car. Then quickly shone the light on the bare ground just past the gravel shoulder. Melody was a city gal, but even she was disturbed by the size of the tracks she saw near the ruined car.

She quickly doused the light and turned right. She was well out in the country - well, as she thought of this rural area - but there was a gas station with a phone booth just down the county road she had parked on. She set out, walking as quickly as the two guards she had seen.

* * *

The service station was closed, but as was the usual practice some of the outside lights had been left on. Melody hurried to the phone booth on the far edge of the paved area. The booth was also lit, revealing that it was operational. She left the door open to keep the main light off, and quickly dropped the necessary change into the slot. She dialed from memory, and got the switchboard at the chemical repository.

"This is Melody Gundersen and I'm in trouble." She gave her location, made the operator repeat it back to her, and made him promise to quickly pass the message on. "Something destroyed my car, I'm at the nearby gas station, but it's clo..."

Something moved in the darkness. In fact, through the glass wall of the booth the reporter saw several large, feral shapes coming slowly through the darkness, moving almost casually towards the pool of light around the front of the service station. They were coming from further down the road, in the direction of the main gate to the construction site. They were not in any sort of hurry, which was even more frightening than if they had been running towards her. Ignoring the voice on the other end of the line, Melody slowly lowered the handset, and left it swinging at the end of its cable.

The monsters paused for a moment. Then, suddenly, one of them leapt. Melody threw herself from from the booth. There was a huge crash as the thing slammed into the phone booth, shattering glass and bending metal. Fortunately, the noise and spray and collapse of the booth confused the creature which had leapt, and all that fuss seemed to unnerve those still in the dark. Melody carefully climbed to her feet backed slowly for the building. Then she remembered there was no-one inside. Instead, she diverted to the closest pump island, still backing slowly away. She reached it, about the time the other creatures came into the light and began to track her scent in a very unhurried fashion. The one which had jumped - which seemed unharmed despite landing on broken glass and jagged metal - joined them. They seemed momentarily confused by her change of direction, but quickly figured it out. In desperation, Melody grabbed the air hose connected to the pipe coming up through the concrete. The fuel pumps were off, of course, but there should still be compressed air.

Melody didn't know much about animals, but she could see that these half-dozen creatures were not natural. As well, they either weren't too bright, or they were overconfident. Perhaps they were merely inexperienced. Having finally found her current location by sight, they formed an arc and calmly advanced across the pavement towards her. Melody made herself wait until they were nice and close. Then she used the compressed air from the hose to blow dust and grit from the pavement into their eyes, sweeping the nozzle around.

This worked far better than she expected; the creatures backed away, making odd mewling sounds and wiping at their eyes with their paws. In fact, the tactic worked so well that Melody was able to use it several more times. After each use, the creatures took precious moments to recover, and hesitated to resume their advance. However, they did not give up, or retreat far.

Worse, the compressed air was running out. Apparently, when the employees closed the station for the the night and turned off the inside lights they also turned off the compressor, leaving only what was in the tank.

The hose gave one last, fading burst. Before the creatures could regroup, Melody threw the hose at them, turned and ran towards the road. She headed back the way she had come, heading for the overpass. Maybe they would focus on the hose long enough for her to reach the traffic on the main route. She hated to leave the light at the gas station, but the creatures had already demonstrated that the illumination was no deterrent to them.

Melody did't get far. Something slammed into her back, stunning her and driving her face-down onto the filthy pavement of the road. At first she thought she had been tackled by one of the creatures, but she quickly realized the impact was from an explosion. Because there were more in quick succession. She managed to roll over, and saw one of the strange animals destroyed by another explosion. The reporter winced as she realized how close some of those fiery blasts were coming to the pumps. Off for the night or not, they still contained flammable hydrogen gas and were connected to underground tanks of hydrated metal. The last two creatures, at the rear of the pack, suddenly turned and ran into the darkness. A winged figure landed between Melody and the closest set of smoking remains. Melody realized now that the particular beast the figure was examining had been destroyed first, and that the explosion which did that was what had knocked her down.

Though her ears were still ringing, Melody sat up and stared at her rescuer. Such a disregard for living things - even obviously manufactured living things, obviously designed to kill people - and basic safety rules was very unlike Malak. Yet when the figure turned towards her, that was who she saw. Only...

Melody already had a suspicion that the winged figure was one of Malak's duplicates, rather than Malak himself. As she got to her feet and dusted herself off, the winged man came closer. She had her suspicion confirmed when she saw the figure's face from up close. Though it looked like Malak, it lacked his, well, force of personality. The "angel" smiled and nodded at her, and turned away, spreading its wings. She realized he was going after the two animals which had run off.

"Wait! What do I do if more of them come here after you leave?"

The figure paused, turned back to her, manifested a spear and offered it to Melody, butt first. She reflexively took it. He smiled and nodded and turned away again, resuming course. He took to the air, dodging easily around the metal canopies over the pump islands, and disappeared into the darkness.

The spear felt strangely light. Ethereal. Not quite real. The burning tip even provided good illumination, as long as Melody held it high. She just hoped it would last until Malak - or, rather, his double - returned.

Melody backed into a corner formed by the wall of the main building and the section with the repair bays. She held the spear almost horizontally, the glowing point between her and anything which might approach.

* * *

Fortunately for Melody's peace of mind, Malak - the real one, apparently - arrived soon after that. With a sigh of relief, Melody put the spear down. The burning tip sputtered and went out, and the rest of the spear quickly faded. The reporter realized that she felt more tired than she was expecting, and wondered if she had been powering the spear. Keeping it manifested well after it would have otherwise faded, with her own energies. Or she could just be going into shock.

Such questions were pushed to the back of her mind, as Malak quickly checked Melody over and healed her relatively minor scrapes and contusions. Fortunately, due to the rapidity of the sequence events with the beast attack she was just starting to feel the pain of her injuries when he got there.

"Your duplicates have no judgement," she said, after thanking him for saving her, yet again. "They are also, well, rather more ruthless than they need to be."

"I'm sorry," said Malak, with a grimace. He sighed, having already noted how near the pumps some of the explosions had been. "I am only dimly aware of what they do. They are of necessity limited. A stop-gap."

"Did that one at least get all the guard animals?"

"Oh, yes."

"Okay. I assumed so, from the explosions in the distance. Though I'm wondering what the guards at the construction site think of all this."

"Which brings me to ask, what led up to all this?"

Melody sighed, and explained.

"Well, you seem to have been careful," said Malak, with a hint of amusement. "Mostly. Just unlucky."

"Hmph," said Melody, crossing her arms over her chest in irritation. Not only at the unexpected danger she had just been through, but at once again needing help to get out of it. "Oh, by the way, where's Blackpool? I was actually expecting him, coming out of the shadows somewhere."

"I presume back at your apartment, waiting impatiently for you to call, since it's well past quitting time at the Repository."

"Oops," said Melody, blushing. "I called the wrong number. Or something. I guess I just thought he'd be in his office. Forgot how late it was."

"From what I understand of the situation, you were rather rushed," said Malak, wryly. "Fortunately, I was working late at the Repository, and got your message immediately. I sent my duplicate, then got here myself as quickly as I could. Anyway, I'll take you home. If you're ready."

"Argh!! I just remembered; those things totaled my rental car!"

"A minor problem, all things considered."

* * *

"You're going to have to be very careful if you write this up," said Gadding, in his office at the newspaper first thing the next morning. "Unless you want to admit to trespassing."

"I'm going to make some notes about the company and the animals and pass them along," said Melody, tiredly. "Same as I did about my misadventure at the headquarters of The Protectorate. I figure some other investigative person can confirm those beasts and do an article on them. Anyway, something I need to do before that is call the car rental agency."

"Well, hopefully you took out insurance on the vehicle," said Gadding, with a slight smile.

"Oh, yes," said Melody, rolling her eyes. "Given the way my life is going lately that's standard. I will be as vague as I can get by with telling them what happened. Hopefully, just that I came back to the car and found it vandalized. Not lying, just... being careful about the details. Which are both embarrassing and could lead to awkward questions."

"Well, I'm glad you survived that misadventure. As well as that you have friends who can help you out when you get in over your head. Just to be clear, I want my reporters to risk the deep water. That's how we get some of our best stories. I just don't see this particular sequence of events leading to a story in the immediate future. We've already agreed to keep the information about Malak's duplicates confidential for now."

"He says the negotiations are in recess for the next few days. Which was fortunate for me. Aaron also told me I can mention the duplicates as soon as the talks are actually completed. He's too worried about the delicate state of the negotiations just now to want anything even remotely controversial about him coming into the news."

"That's probably the real reason he backed off from confronting The Protectorate," said Gadding, nodding.

"Could be. Or maybe, having learned just how ruthless they are, he wants the confrontation to be on ground he chooses."

* * *

The knock on the balcony's sliding door was not unexpected. Both Melody and John had a good idea of who was there before they looked, of course. Neither actually knew that many people who could fly, or climb walls unusually well, and only a handful of those people knew where the couple currently lived.

"Greetings, Malak," said John, as he unlocked the door (of course it was locked; after all, they did know a few people who could climb or fly, not all of whom were trusted) and invited the angelic figure in.

Malak changed back to Aaron rather than trying to squeeze his wings through the low doorway. He was warmly welcomed by both of the occupants of the apartment.

"I'm sorry to say that, as usual, I can't stay long," he said, after taking a seat on the couch and asking after the welfare of both Melody and John. "I'm supposed to be an expert witness at a school board meeting, here in town, later this afternoon."

"You're welcome to stop by our place again after you finish with that," said Melody, her husband nodding agreement. "John and I enjoy your company and from what I know of such events you'll probably need a break before you head back to Haven."

"I believe I will do just that," said Aaron, with a tired smile. "As much as I hate physical conflict, I actually prefer it to social conflict. Especially in situations where I really shouldn't influence people with my personality enhancements."

* * *

"Thank you for the prior invitation," said Aaron, as he once again sank into the apartment's couch, this time with a grateful sigh, later that evening. "It is proving prescient. Those people..."

"I hope you were at least allowed to make your point," said John.

"I made several of them," said Aaron. "Whether the people I made them to take them seriously is another matter."

He sighed again and shook his head.

"It was very difficult refraining from using my enhanced charisma to try and make an impression. They - nearly the entire board - were so certain they were right. It was like making a presentation for a pre-recorded response. An unfavorable one."

"Was it hard?" said Melody.

"Like pulling a thirty-two bottom plow," said Aaron.

"Sometimes I wonder which side God is on," said John, with a tired sigh of his own.

"God doesn't take human sides," said Aaron, firmly. "If we're not on God's side, that's our fault."

"Can you give us any details?" said Melody. "About the school board meeting, I mean."

"There was this one woman... She was supposedly just another board member, but even the president of the board yielded to her. Perhaps because of some external influence she possesses. Perhaps simply because she was loud and insistent."

"Yow," said Melody, a bit alarmed.

"I honestly didn't mean to provoke her," said Aaron, a bit embarrassed. "It's just that... she was so opinionated and so very, very wrong! She kept making claims about children's education which have been long disproven. When I cited hard data to disprove her claims, she simply declared that I was the one who was behind the times. She never bothered citing any studies or references; she just seemed to believe that because she said something it had to be true. The things she said! The woman actually claimed that play was bad for children! That it was too unstructured!"

"I'm familiar with the type," said Melody, dryly. "They're control freaks, and think that anything not strictly planned out ahead of time is wrong. Especially when someone else is doing it. Not simply a waste of time, but actively harmful."

"That was essentially her position," said Aaron, nodding. He sighed again. "I even pointed out that I was old enough to have seen what works and what doesn't. That held no sway with her, either. Anyway, I managed to stay through the meeting, satisfying my honor and at least partially satisfying the woman who asked me for the help. However, I left immediately after, instead of attending the buffet they had set up for the board members and guests. It was free food, but I just... couldn't deal with her any longer. Of course, from what I saw many of the other participants were also leaving early. Including some of the other board members."

"How did you get roped into that, anyway?" said John.

"One of the people objecting to the school board's proposed measures asked me to appear as an expert witness," said Aaron. "I don't think she had much hope I would be able to change things, though. She told me going in that the board usually made up its collective mind ahead of time then held these meetings to formalize the decisions they have already made. That any contrary comments by people they are supposed to be listening to are simply treated as, at best, based on ignorance."

"Well, that's over," said Melody, tone consoling. "You relax for a while. Would you like a snack or something to drink?"

She grinned.

"To make up for skipping the buffet."

"That would be wonderful, thank you."

The Angel of Earth

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Thirteen

The interceptor was a marvel of modern technology, capable of flying higher and faster than any other craft on Earth which was limited to airbreathing engines. Yet the only reason it was able to close with the target it had been radar-directed towards was due to that target slowing and descending. As if it were preparing to land. Or attack.

"Intercept Control to Intercept Leader," said the pilot's director, over the radio. Actually there was only one aircraft involved in the attempted interception, thanks mostly to budget cuts, but better to have their enemies think otherwise. "Craft is continuing on course, and continuing to descend and slow."

"Roger, Intercept Control," said the pilot. "I have its infrared track. Still nothing on my radar."

"Be advised that satellite and ground photos show it to be stealth grey and to have variable geometry capability. We see it clearly on our radar."

The ground-based radar was actually an older model, using a longer wavelength than the unit on the aircraft. The radar on the plane was so new, in fact, it often failed. As it appeared to have done this time. Direction from the ground, combined with the rather vague, wide-angle IR detector on the plane gave the pilot a general track to pursue.

"Intercept Control, are you certain this is not something entering the atmosphere from orbit?"

"It approached our border at a constant altitude and speed. It only began to slow and descend many kilometers later."

There had been such a rush to get the interceptor into the air that the pilot had not known any of this before. The few times he had been validly scrambled into the air in the past - that is, the few times which turned out not to be drills - he had wound up chasing space debris falling from orbit, or a suborbital demonstration by hostile neighbors. This current bogey's behavior was... unprecedented.

"Intercept Control, this is Intercept Leader. I am closing but the target is heading for heavy cloud cover. Visual identification may be impossible."

"Roger, Intercept Leader. Assumption is that target is hostile. Proceed accordingly."

Abruptly, the target slowed. More than that, it abruptly and sharply turned and began a steep, spiraling descent. The pilot of the interceptor overshot by a huge amount. What could maneuver like that?! The g-forces alone would kill a living pilot. It must be some sort of drone.

"Intercept Control, target is slowing and diving. I have no visual contact. Over."

"Roger, Intercept Leader. Radar shows the target is landing. Ground forces will handle it."

"Do you want me to orbit for a while, in case..."

"Negative!" said the controller, too quickly and loudly. "Return to base! Ground troops will handle it!"

Well, it was on the ground and there hadn't been any obvious result. That didn't mean it wasn't hostile. It might even be a carrier for a biological or toxin or radiological attack. Wondering if he were being set up to take the fall if the intruder escaped or proved undeniably dangerous, the pilot resolved to make certain he had a copy of his cockpit recorder's memory module before it was removed during ground servicing.

Only as he turned his craft back towards base did the pilot recall what lay below: The home of O Kai Ju. He felt a bit of a shiver, and pushed the throttle further forward. He now knew there were no troops being sent in. They weren't needed.

* * *

Malak - unaware of the attention his approach had garnered, or even that he had been noticed - landed on a hilltop whipped by wind and rain and looked around. His information was that the person he sought was in the only house on the north side of the hill. His destination was obvious; there was a single large home and a couple of outbuildings, all built on the slope below him. The rest was woods. Ignoring the storm, he began walking down the slope, unconsciously holding his wingtips out of the mud.

To say that O Kai Ju (Great Strange Beast) was aging gracefully was not correct. He wasn't aging. He appeared to be in his seventies, was actually almost twice that, but physiologically... he was not even close to the human he currently appeared to be. The son of a master carpenter, his life had been typical for a low-born craftsman in Japan early in the Twentieth Century. Through two world wars and several smaller conflicts, he had supported his nation, his Emperor. The whole time he had worked wood to the best of his ability. Then, during those last desperate days when it looked like the US was going to invade his nation, he volunteered for an experiment.

He was told only that the results would help to create supermen to defend the homeland. What actually happened in his case was the creation of a menace which was almost as much of a threat as the Americans. Even including their atomic bombs.

Fortunately, some of his nation's existing empowered were standing by, in case of just such an emergency. They were able to contain him until his mind - with his usual morality and conscience - could reassert itself. Which included resuming his usual form. Three days later came the unprecedented radio announcement of surrender by the Emperor.

In the decades since then O Kai Ju had been made a part of the newly-organized Japanese defense force, not entirely voluntarily. He learned to fight, despite his peaceful nature. Even back then he was respectfully called "the old man" by other members, including other empowered. Now, long retired, he lived in a home he had built himself, occupying the fleeting days in part with recreating on his small patch of land an era and lifestyle which had never truly existed, but which felt right to him. His main complaint was that his descendants never called, much less visited. Speaking of which, he was a bit startled when the telephone rang. However, he could tell that the caller was not familiar to him. They were not family, not a friend, not one of the government office numbers or names he knew. He had more important things to do than speak with some self-important official or, worse, someone trying to sell him something. He made the annoying bell go silent with a thought.

Just now, he was focused on a private exercise of the tea ceremony. He not only found this relaxing, he simply liked the taste of green tea. The "old man" enjoyed nuances beyond the palate of any human.

The storm had been going on for some time, and seemed to be getting worse, but he wasn't worried. He had built this house strong. Suddenly, there was a flash of lightning so close the clap of thunder came almost immediately after, causing the sturdy, ornate house to shake and its contents to rattle alarmingly. O Kai Ju had nothing to fear from even the mightiest lightning bolt, but - startled - he reflexively looked up. Then gasped, and rose from his ceremonial-grade matcha, and stepped back, staring in open alarm. Standing on the patio, in the driving rain, was Malak.

"May I come in?" said the angelic figure, his deep voice loud to be heard over the storm.

In spite of his surprise and wariness, O Kai Ju was still a good host.

"Of course."

The winged figure stepped forward and walked into the house, leaving the rain behind. Now perfectly dry, he bowed slightly to his host.

"Is that really you?" said O Kai Ju, carefully. "Or one of your duplicates?"

"This is as real as I get," said Malak, in his deep, calm voice, with a smile and a slight spreading of his hands and wings. He became more serious, bringing his hands together and his wings in. "You have been experimenting with safe methods of empowering people."

"As have you," said the other man, still wary.

"Yes. I was hoping we could compare notes."

While Malak was capable of deception, his normal mode of operation was open and honest. O Kai Ju relaxed.

"Of course. Will you join me in some matcha?"

"I would be honored," said Malak, with a slight bow.

* * *

"So, what have you got for me?" said Mike, into his phone's handset, after his secretary sent the call to his desk. "Anything new?"

"We're trying to get Mannequin to be more involved with the real world," said CornFed, in an apparent non-sequitur.

"Good luck with that," said Mike, rolling his eyes.

"We have gathered some new clues in the Phantom Zoom case, and we'd be very appreciative if you could ask Mannequin for help."

"So you hold back on the info unless I let Mannequin help?" said Mike, obviously upset.

"What?! No! Sorry, I should have made that clear up front. Maybe have broken what I said into two sentences. No, we will provide the information. We're just also asking that you help with this project."

"I'll have to think about that," said the detective, feeling decidedly skeptical. "Helping Mannequin, I mean. They have a reputation of not taking things seriously. Isn't Mannequin also wanted on a bunch of charges?"

"The attorneys on retainer for the clinic managed to get the charges dropped, once they were able to show progress in Mannequin's therapy. This is actually part of that therapy."

"I will take it under consideration," said Mike, carefully. "However, the entire Phantom Zoom project is still a personal interest. Paying jobs come first."

"I understand," said CornFed. "Just keep this in mind. Now, here's what we've found..."

* * *

Mike did keep the request to apply Mannequin in mind. He even called Blackpool to get the federal agent's evaluation of the project. To Mike's surprise, Blackpool was cautiously in favor.

"Even I have to admit Mannequin has made huge strides," said the manager of the Repository. "Though they're still a pain in the ass far too often."

* * *

The plainclothes cop who entered Mike's office a few days later shook hands with the man behind the desk and sat down in one of the guest seats in front of it. His expression was carefully schooled.

"We - the Los Angeles PD - have a case which we think involves powers, but we're not sure. The Empowered Matters Agency won't even look at it unless we can get some evidence of powers use. Which could be an expert opinion from someone whose opinion in such matters they respect."

Mike nodded. He'd actually been employed by the LAPD for such tasks before.

"Where and when?"

* * *

Later that day he met the same detective and some other Los Angeles police at the scene. There was, indeed, so much damage it was clear why the police strongly suspected powers were involved. On seeing the apartment, Mike was inclined to agree. There was a substantial amount of disturbance, some of it involving heavy pieces of furniture which would be difficult for someone without powers to even move. However, that was not proof. He decided so use this situation as a test case.

Mike therefore put in a call to Mannequin, and made an appointment to bring them to the apartment the next morning. The local police were not thrilled at this, but they had few clues and thanks to their experience with the Private Investigator they were willing to trust Mike's judgement. For his part, Mike just hoped the judgements of Blackpool and CornFed were sound in this matter.

* * *

With one plainclothes police detective assigned to show them around and two uniformed officers standing guard at the entrance, the pair of empowered were shown around the crime scene the next morning. Mannequin was on their best behavior, even looking more masculine than usual. The place had already been gone over by several groups of investigators, including the crime scene investigation crew. The detective guide made sure to explain what each of the small, numbered placards denoted. After the tour was done, Mannequin straightened and looked slowly around the room.

"Ah," they said, finally, pointing. "That mirror."

"Look but don't touch," said their guide.

"What about using powers?" said the pale figure, smiling. "Oh, don't worry. I'll leave it just the way I found it."

"Just what are you going to do?" said Mike, suspiciously.

"Hold on," said Mannequin, raising a hand and looking at the fallen mirror. "It's easier to demonstrate than explain."

The strangely dressed, strange appearing person moved to the broken mirror and crouched before it, frowning in concentration. For a moment the scenario was still. Then, abruptly, accompanied by appropriate, brittle sounds, the frame swung upright, the shards flew back together into the frame to form an intact mirror, which then leapt back onto its proper place on the wall. Mannequin moved quickly to the side, so the others could see what followed.

"Can't hold this for long," said Mannequin, actually sounding a bit strained. "Watch carefully."

What the mirror showed was not the current scene in the room. Instead, they watched as the fight in the apartment went through a fast rewind. Just before the start, the replay paused briefly, then went forward at normal speed, with accompanying sound. The apartment's renter opened the outside door. Three men shoved their way in.

"That's Dyer, a local gang leader!" said the detective, quickly, during the pause. "We didn't know he was involved directly in this. Though we did know that some of his goons were here, and probably involved with the fight and disappearance of Francescas."

There were harsh words between Francescas and Dyer, then a shove of the former by the latter. Francescas spun away from the shove and threw a punch in response, hitting Dyer, knocking him down. Dyer's men then attacked Francescas. Only he provided more opposition than they were anticipating. The brawl quickly became violent and frantic. Francescas kicked one of the men so hard he slammed into the apartment wall beside the mirror, which was shaken loose by the impact.

There were multiple gasps as the mirror fell and broke, ending the playback.

"Did everyone get that?" said Mannequin, looking tired. "Good. I don't think that would work a second time. Or would it count as the third? Well, never mind..."

"No powers, that I could see," said Mike, nodding. "Just big, tough men who know how to fight having one."

"All right," said the Detective. He turned towards one of the uniforms at the door. "Put out an alert for Dyer and his men. They are to be considered armed and dangerous, and their involvement in the disappearance of Francescas is confirmed."

He turned back to Mike.

"Maybe - just maybe - with this info we can find Francescas while he's still alive. Thank you."

* * *

The Pyrenees mountains were especially beautiful just now. The first snow had been accompanied by the first persistent freeze. Late in the day the Sun had finally burned through the clouds and provided just enough energy that the glaze of ice and snow had moistened. Everything was glistening in the late afternoon Sun.

Then the intruders arrived.

They appeared without warning, even to the enhanced senses of the members of the Emergent who made their homes there. However, those worthies did indeed notice the arrival when it occurred. All but one were well below the peak where the intruders appeared, most in the warmer caves. That one was Hanuman, who was in his usual location for meditation, on a bare rock at the top of the highest local peak.

Gateway's portal opened and the lead of the advance team hurried through, securing the small clearing where they appeared. The second team - slower, but with powers of greater reach - came out quickly behind the advance team. Behind them came the team's heavy hitters, including The Grand Protector, himself.

"Secure the area," barked BlasterFX, The Grand Protector's usual field commander. "Locate the target!"

"If you're looking for me," said Hanuman, calmly, "I'm right here."

That might have startled them. For whatever reason, several of the intruders opened fire on Hanuman, with weapons and powers. Soon, everyone with a ranged attack had joined in. Everyone but The Grand Protector. He leaped into the air.

"Cease fire!" he yelled down to his troops, even his great voice barely heard over the commotion of the battle. Then, to Hanuman, "Surrender!"

"It's a little late for that," said Hanuman, who appeared not only unharmed by the barrage but untouched. Somehow, his quiet voice carried to everyone there. "You have already attacked me. Without provocation, I'd like to add."

Hanuman had no interest in fighting these people. However, while none of them were his equal, together they were pressing him. Their telepath in particular. More annoyed than anything, he quickly formed a plan of action to rid himself of this annoyance. All he had to do for the first part of his plan was wait for their leader to grow impatient. From what he knew, that would not take much in the way of provocation. Hanuman decided not to wait. He stood, and stared at the flying man. His armor and sword appeared, in a deliberate goad of The Grand Protector by Hanuman.

The Grand Protector snarled, pulled back, took a moment to build a charge, then fired a ferocious energy blast. When those in his group could see again, all that remained where Hanuman had stood was a cloud of greasy smoke. There was also now a half-molten crater in the rock at the top of the mountain, glowing a dull orange.

"Smoked him!" shouted The Grand Protector.

He landed, and his team congratulated him and held a brief celebration. The only downside to their victory being that several of them had headaches, presumably from the sudden change in altitude. SuperMind in particular seemed to be having problems. They headed home, triumphant.

Watching from concealment on a nearby peak, Hanuman scowled briefly, then quickly instituted measures to prevent being tracked again. He expanded those to include his allies in the Emergent, some of whom were already hurrying to the scene of the battle. He let them know he was unharmed. Then he considered for a bit. Finally, he sent a message to Aaron. If these idiots thought Hanuman was a threat worthy of lethal force, other potent empowered would also be on their list.

The Angel of Earth

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Fourteen

"You finally caught him?!" said CornFed, impressed.

"Her, actually," said Mike. "Which was only a bit of a surprise. Yeah, we finally caught her and just now got permission to tell folks who helped. Though what was a surprise is that she's a raving looney, and violent on top of that."

"Psychologists and mental health advocates all over the world are wincing at your diagnosis," said CornFed, dryly. "However, we can discuss that later. Please continue."

"We figured the Phantom Zoom was just self-deluded, but she's 'way beyond that," said Mike, not sure what CornFed was talking about. "Also, though I am a bit reluctant to admit it, her capture was largely thanks to Mannequin. Both for their analysis about the most likely next target, and their advice on how to catch and hold the suspect. Anyway, we still don't know her - the Phantom Zoom's - legal name, but are working on it."

"Good work; my congratulations to both of you."

"Well, without Blackpool and the Empowered Matters Agency we wouldn't have been able to acquire the materials for the improved net so quickly. Without your help and the clues spotted by Insight we wouldn't have had the information we used to figure out where to put it. The local police there helped us with the installation and capture. So it was definitely a group effort."

"Thank you. Still, you two organized everything. Catching her is good work and very good news."

"Speaking of news, word about this capture is already spreading, even though an official public announcement hasn't been released! I hadn't realized just how much attention the Phantom Zoom and her crimes were getting. I've already had multiple requests for interviews. Several from that lady reporter in New York who is so interested in Malak."

"She probably wants to interview the prisoner, too," said CornFed, laughing.

"Very insistently."

* * *

Mike didn't like the location where he currently found himself. Of course, he was currently in a federal prison. Worse, it was a maximum security prison. Worse than that, it was the only one in the US with a wing intended to hold dangerous empowered. Worst of all, that wing was where Mike was now walking down a hallway. He wasn't alone, either.

The place was cramped. The walls, ceilings, floors and doors were laced with inertium, at enormous expense, which meant the size of everything was kept to a minimum. However, this material stopped people from phasing though and blocked a few other powers... though far from all. Of course, the reinforcement also added greatly to the strength of the structure. The people in charge of this part of the facility were very cagy about what other means they used to hold empowered and protect both the other population of the prison and the guards. From what Michael was feeling, though, there were definitely other measures in use. Fortunately, he was there as a visitor, and not an inmate. That only partially assuaged his unease.

This wing of the federal prison was actually run by the Empowered Matters Agency. The rest of the facility contained a fairly mundane assortment of rapists, robbers, kidnappers, murderers and just plain antisocials. Michal Schmierer and Mannequin were there as guests of Blackpool. He, in turn, was allowed entry - with his carefully vetted guests - due to being an employee of the agency in charge of it. Even he had to ask for permission ahead of time. That Blackpool's two guests were instrumental in capturing the latest inmate of the wing had helped them only a little in gaining access.

They stopped outside the door of a particular cell. As soon as their guide opened the peep window the woman inside began screeching insults and abuse at them.

"See?" said the guard. He winced. "And hear? She's still in there."

"You were right," said Mike, nodding to Mannequin. "All we needed was a better net."

"A stronger, more elastic net, made of synthetic spider silk," said Mannequin, almost preening at the praise, "and spring-loaded tensioning reels which would give the net more yield. Followed by quickly putting the stunned perpetrator in inertium manacles. Result: Bingo!"

"We already have multiple requests for interviews," said Blackpool, turning to the guard. "So far we have turned down all of them. However, we can't keep that up much longer. You can expect me to return with more guests, and soon."

"The cell is holding," said the guard, calmly confident. "Check with the warden, but I don't see any reason not to let people talk to her. Let them see first-hand just how crazy the Phantom Zoom is."

* * *

"Well, while I was not intending to garner government support, I can't claim it's unwelcome," said Mannequin, airily, as they again approached Phantom Zoom's cell, this time as part of a group escorting Melody Gundersen. They were currently answering questions from the reporter.

"You should be grateful for that," said Michael. He turned to the reporter. "The method we used to capture the Phantom Zoom was mostly Mannequin's idea. So they're getting a lot of credit among certain people."

The small group stopped at the appropriate cell. The guard with them knocked on the little door covering the cell window.

"Hey! Janine! Make yourself presentable! You've got guests."

Her real name - Janine Sawyer - had been discovered just the day before. She refused to confirm that this was actually her name, but she did answer to it.

"This cell won't hold me for long!" she shouted, as the cover was opened. "My space masters will set me free! Neither will your trick net stop me again!"

"Without those 'tricks' your career would have come to a sudden and likely fatal stop," said Mike, after moving to the window. "There were people already talking about things like stringing inertium wire across the road at your neck height."

That news would have at least given most people pause. Not her.

"That wouldn't work! My space masters will save me as long as I keep serving them!"

"Are you serving them now?" said Melody, peeking around the edge of the window, in an attempt to get something which wasn't shouted, dogmatic denials.

That, at least, did finally stop the noise.

"Now, what's this about aliens?"

"They aren't aliens," said Janine, slowly and clearly, as if to a not particularly bright child. "They are the original inhabitants of Earth. They magnanimously left to make room for subsequent intelligent species. Only they got humans, instead! They killed the dinosaurs for less!"

Melody could definitely emphasize with those who doubted that most humans were actually intelligent. However, that was not what she was here to discus.

"So what's their plan? To recruit empowered to reshape humanity? Or just to get rid of us?"

What followed was a rapidly delivered, incoherent and disjointed rant about the general terrible state of the world and the horrible actions of a few specific people, sprinkled with a bizarre mixture of bits and pieces from established religions, cultish beliefs about UFOs and the empowered, and things Janine had apparently come up with on her own. One of the few things Phantom Zoom was consistent about was to put the blame for her actions on others. Especially Malak.

"If it weren't for him, the Great ReWipe could have happened much sooner. He keeps trying to

things instead of letting it all come crashing down so the space masters can start over!"

"So they gave you powers to help with their work," said Melody, making a valiant attempt to follow Janine's revelations.

"No, you idiot! Well, yes, they gave me powers, but all powers come from them! It's just that most people they give powers to refuse to admit that!"

"You are inconsistent," said Melody, stunned by the woman's delusions. "First you say the aliens - the space people - are the bad guys; then that they'll rescue you, out of the goodness of their hearts."

"They are not 'bad guys,'" said Janine, scornfully. "They aren't 'good guys' either. They're helping me because I'm doing their work. They are above good and evil."

"Aaron says he can prove mathematically that..."

"Fuck his math!" Janine screamed, interrupting the reporter and lunging at the window, causing Melody to pull back in reflex. "I hate that false angel! That cock sucker is the supreme deceiver, a modern Lucifer!"

"He and his clinic have helped me greatly," said Mannequin, speaking for the first time, sternly and in defense of his friend. Then, more sympathetically, "I hope he'll be able to help you, as well."

"So instead of just killing me, like you falsely bragged you could, you save me as a sacrifice to your fallen angel!" she shouted. "I will not be captured! I will not be held! The space people know I've been trying to contact them and will come to save me! Let's see how smug you are then!"

"So what were you looking for in those collections?" said Melody, trying to continue to sound politely inquisitively, but finding that increasingly difficult. "A space radio?"

"Proof to show others!" Janine cried. "Proof of the true origin of their powers, to shove in their faces! Proof, so that more will join the holy crusade! As well as empowering devices the space people might have left behind. To make myself stronger and to keep the wrong people from getting powers!"

"You're already pretty powerful," observed Melody.

"Yes, but still not enough to fight Malak! No! But I'm smart, and they dismiss me at their own peril!"

"Why would you want to..." said Melody.

"He's set himself above us mere mortals," shouted Janine, ignoring the reporter. "He does all this goody-goody stuff but it's like a billionaire spending a tiny fraction of his money on famine relief! He doesn't really care!"

Mike wondered if the woman could end a sentence with anything other than an exclamation mark.

"You haven't seen him agonizing over the things he can't do," said Melody, passionately. "He's pretty much the opposite of how you're painting him. It tears him up inside that he can't do more!"

"You have been taken in by his act! Not me, though! I can see him for what he truly is! The bastard is going down! They'll make sure of that, when I talk to them and tell them how dangerous he is!"

"Your space friends," said Mike, now sure of her limited punctuation.

"You've never met him, never spoken with him," said Melody, determined to defend her friend. "How can you judge him without knowing him?!"

"I haven't been taken in by his powers of persuasion!" the madwoman shouted. "Well, no more of that, for anybody! I've taken measures to end all that! I don't need the space people to do it, either!"

"What have you done?" said Blackpool, his voice deceptively calm.

"I have arranged for others to fight him. People who are both powerful and already seeking to destroy him."

"She's delusional," said Mike, dismissing any threat the speedster might pose. Blackpool silenced him with an upheld hand.

"He thinks he's so smart!" the Phantom Zoom continued. "So does The Grand Protector! I'm smarter than all of them! I sent messages to both to meet for peace negotiations. With any luck they'll kill each other!"

Blackpool immediately turned, ran to a shadow and disappeared into it. Much to the alarm of the guard with the group and, later, his superiors.

* * *

"Well, I suspected that invitation was some sort of setup," said Aaron, when Blackpool told him about the Phantom Zoom's actions. The were in Aaron's office at the Repository. The older man was sitting while the man in black was standing in front of his desk. "I wasn't going in unprepared. This, though... I wonder if there's any chance of using this information to bring The Protectorate down..."

"You seem very confident you can bring them down," said Blackpool.

"Hanuman's evaluation is that some of them are quite strong in their powers, but none has any great depth of application."

"Which means?"

"Some of them are very powerful, and they have a wide range in their powers, especially as a group, but they haven't learned... flexibility in application. Depth of use. As Mannequin puts it, they aren't thick enough."

"From what you told me about Hanuman, he and you and Ningirsu and a few others - including Mannequin - transact on levels The Grand Protector and his cronies - most people, in fact - are oblivious to," said Blackpool, trying to be helpful.

"A good way of describing it," said Aaron, nodding. "By the way, that list includes you, lately. Though only to a small extent so far. I don't believe any of The Protectorate operate on those levels. That will be a big help."

"They seem rather determined to end you," said Blackpool, sounding doubtful. "Even with that advantage, I don't like the odds."

"You are probably correct," said Aaron, with a tired sigh. He looked at the federal agent. "As they did with Hanuman, they will likely make a surprise attack with as many members as they can muster for the task. They seem to have learned not to split their forces, following that debacle with Ningirsu. Since it is widely known that I defeated Hanuman, The Protectorate are likely to have all available members come after me in one force. Do you have any suggestions for how to equalize this situation?"

"I honestly don't think you can avoid a fight," said the man in black, after a few moments of thought. "They have their claws dug too deeply into too many important people. Even without their mentalist's influence. They are already bragging about 'bringing justice' to Hanuman, despite a few rumors going around that he is still alive. Following that 'successful' operation by quickly defeating you would likely bring even more support, and silence more critics. They probably think they'll even sway the public support you have to their side.

"However, with help from myself and some others you should be able to choose the battleground. I suggest the open area just downhill from the chemical Repository."

"Are you sure?" said Aaron, startled.

"Yes. They almost certainly will catch up to you, eventually. We just arrange to have that happen at a time and place of our choosing. We can have several empowered of our own waiting to help if you need it. You know the terrain around here. The Repository itself should be unaffected by anything short of a direct assault."

"That could work," said Aaron, nodding thoughtfully. "We should start right to work organizing, though. The Protectorate could be here at any moment."

"I have one thing to do first."

* * *

Blackpool used a shadow outside the prison for his return, to avoid causing additional alarm. He presented himself at the main entrance, and went through the necessary protocols required to be brought to the office of the assistant warden in charge of the Empowered Matters Agency Special Holding Facility wing of the prison as quickly as he could. Finally, he was approaching the appropriate door, beyond which he found chaos.

Professional interrogators of prisoners were realizing their tactics might be worse than nonproductive against people who considered themselves free citizens. The fact that they were required to operate in their boss' office for this interrogation was further hampering their work.

"How many times do I have to tell you that we don't know how he did that!" yelled Melody.

"Actually, I don't exactly know how I did that," said Blackpool, as the door opened and he stepped into the room. "I acted on an impulse, and it worked. I haven't had time to figure out the details of how and why, yet."

Melody was obviously furious, at least partly at him. Well, he would deal with that later, after they got home. Mike was obviously irritated. Most worryingly of all, Mannequin seemed completely unconcerned.

"They've been interrogating us since you left like that!" said Melody.

The assistant warden for this special wing was not happy with the unapproved exit, through powers, from a supposedly power-proof facility. However, the fact that Blackpool - a long-respected special agent of the Agency - had returned to try and explain the situation helped him accept it.

"I expect a full report from you on how you managed to exit our facility using powers rather than your feet," the assistant warden said, sounding irritated.

"Agreed," said Blackpool. He gestured at those who had been with him. "They, as implied, know nothing about that. So, are they cleared to leave?"

"All right," said the assistant warden, reluctantly. "Get them out of here. In fact, all of you get out of here."

* * *

They managed to keep quiet until they were outside the prison wing's structure. They were actually in the guest parking lot, standing beside Michael Schmierer's car, before any of them spoke again.

"Did you get to Malak in time?" asked Melody.

"Yes. Fortunately, he was already suspicious, and checking on the presumed peace message. By the way, Mannequin, he'd like to see you back at the Repository."

"Roger," said the seemingly genderless figure, snapping a proper military salute. "Can you give me a lift? That's quicker and easier than making the trip on my own."

"All right," said Blackpool, tiredly. "Mike, thank you. I'm sorry you had to get caught up in the mess I left behind."

"Not a problem," said the private detective, smiling as he shook hands with the man in black. "Just remember this next time I need a favor from the Agency."

"Will do."

"I need a ride, too," said Melody. She smirked. "If you can manage two passengers at once."

"Not a problem," said Blackpool.

"Ooh!" said Mannequin, changing into an exaggerated duplicate of Melody. "We'll be shadow sisters!"

"Let's go," said Blackpool, the tiredness back.

The Angel of Earth

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Fifteen

Aaron was actually working in his office at the Repository when the alert came in. The Middle East negotiations he had been a part of were finally over, much to Aaron's relief. He had been heard to joke that his feathers could now grow back, since he'd been pulling them out in frustration. He was currently spending all his time not used for dealing with emergencies here, in the Rockies. Even for some of the crises which required Malak's attention, he could use his duplicates. In addition to feeling a need to wait here for The Protectorate, he found having a military secretary to help deal with calls and mail - on top of his crew in Haven - very useful. Aaron was even sleeping most nights at the Repository. He made sure this was widely known, to avoid causing problems at Haven through his enemies. Blackpool made sure the whereabouts of Aaron/Malak were even more widely known. Including, by surreptitious methods, to The Protectorate. He had actually passed along far more than that. The advice the group received - provided through a string of intermediaries - was that if they arrived in a certain spot by a specific route they would not be detected until they moved out from it. All of which was pure fabrication.

Aaron was at his desk in his Repository office, a couple of hours after local Noon, when his phone rang. This was only a few days since he and Blackpool agreed to try and arrange for The Protectorate to attack where they wanted.

"Here they come," said Blackpool, over the phone line. "Clear radar signature. Otherwise running silent. No radio chatter; no transponder."

The weather was mostly clear, with only a few, high clouds. The area they had set up for the landing was in the lower part of the same valley in which the Repository was stationed near the head of.

Aaron had been surprised at the number and variety of empowered he and the federal agent were able to organize in just a few days. Mostly due to the work of Blackpool. Apparently, many people wanted to help Malak and/or wanted a piece of The Protectorate. All Blackpool had to do was let certain folks know that Malak needed help against that group, and quietly tell other people that there was a chance coming up to legally bloody The Protectorate's collective nose. Aaron thought his friend might be overdoing it. However, when he realized there were three hypersonic VTOL transports landing in the level area a few klicks downhill from the Repository he felt impressed with Blackpool's foresight. Even with Insight helping predict the response by The Protectorate, Blackpool had come uncannily close to matching their number. On top of that, the group he had assembled probably exceeded their opponents' total power level.

Blackpool insisted on going in first, and alone, after the hostile team began to debark from their vehicles. To give the intruders fair warning. As well as to allow the other defenders time to get into place.

The members of The Protectorate were fanning out in their accustomed order, preparing for an advance on the Repository, when their preparations were interrupted. Blackpool suddenly jumped onto an exposed boulder, between the leading edge of their formation and their destination.

"You are in violation of an FAA restricted air space," he called out, his voice quite loud though he had no obvious amplifier. "Reboard your craft and leave immediately! This is a restricted location!"

He was not only shouted down, not only jeered, but fired on.

Blackpool dove for the shadow at the base of the boulder, and reappeared in a deliberately curtained corner of the control room in the tower at the Repository. He moved quickly to the bank of radios and grabbed a mic.

"All volunteers, advance!"

At his barked command, people hidden among the rocks which lay between the Repository and the landing site stood and started toward The Protectorate force.

This included not only the empowered who had offered to help with this fight, but also some of the soldiers from the Repository. In fact, there were more of the men and women in uniform, and they went first, rifles out and ready. Their approach gave a bit of pause to some of The Protectorate, but not to their leader. Sneering, The Grand Protector contemptuously lifted into the air.

"I am supreme!" crowed The Grand Protector, beaming as he hovered above his array of forces, his hands spread as if to deliver a benediction. "I am over all. Bow down before me and bring me Malak in chains, or die!"

None of those advancing on his allies bowed. Therefore, he fired one of his energy blasts at the closest group of troops. The bolt was deflected by Malak's shield.

The angelic figure - already high above the battleground - became visible as his shield faded.

"If you want me, here I am!"

Immediately, The Grand Protector changed targets, and began firing at Malak.

* * *

Meanwhile, Blackpool was on a different radio, reporting the activity to his superiors. Mainly to be on the record. He wasn't just giving a play-by-play of the action - which he could view through the tower windows - to the people on the other end, he was also explaining his own motivation.

"The Protectorate are violating basic laws and Constitutional safeguards. The primary purpose of those protections is to shield the wrongly accused from the overly zealous and opportunists. They have repeatedly demonstrated they are both."

"Sir?" said one the the soldiers in the control tower. "You better look at this."

"This" was the radar, which normally was used to monitor both aircraft and the weather. According to what it currently showed, a major storm front was forming right over the area of the fight.

"Oh, shit," said Blackpool, dread rising. "One of The Protectorate is a weather manipulator."

Which one, though? There was nothing about this in the records!

Malak and The Grand Protector were definitely not the only combatants. They were not even the only ones on either side who could fly. Despite them both starting out well above the others involved, their maneuvering soon separated them, as others got in the way. Partly of this crowding was due to all the flyers being forced lower by the rapidly growing and lowering cloud cover.

The heat of the battle also often required that their attention be on something besides each other. Malak found himself repeatedly being diverted from his fight with The Grand Protector to aid his allies. The Grand Protector was also called on to help those of his team who found themselves in trouble. He didn't like this - and didn't always respond - but found himself devoting more of his attention and energy to attacking troops and defending people on his side than to annihilating Malak.

One of the first interventions Malak had to perform was putting his shield between a female archer from The Protectorate and some of the regular troops from the Repository. What made this particularly necessary was that her arrows exploded much like Malak's spears. He recognized her as Łuczniczka, who had taken her public name from a Polish legend

"This is not a fight you want," said Malak, in a loud, firm voice, as he landed between her and her targets and spread his wings.

"Pretty sure it is," said Łuczniczka, with a smirk.

She deftly drew and nocked an arrow, pulled the bowstring back and loosed in a smooth, quick sequence. Only she wasn't quick enough. Malak charged two spears. One took out the arrow; the other hit the ground at Łuczniczka's feet. She was literally thrown through the air by the resulting explosion. At the very least, she was stunned and out of the immediate fight.

"Zabby!" yelled a man in a white and steely blue outfit, who was fighting near her.

He turned his attention from icing non-empowered troops in place to Malak.

"Hey, you!" yelled Frosty. "Chill out!"

Malak swept his left wing around to block the icy burst. He then flexed it, sending shards of ice flying and making his attacker duck.

"How many have you killed with that attack?" demanded Malak, his tone as icy as Frosty's blast. "How many have you mourned?"

He advanced on Frosty, obviously angry, a spear with a brightly glowing tip forming in his hand.

Someone popped in behind Malak. He was already reacting when that person hit him at the base of his right wing. His passive sonar only gave Malak a short blip of waring. Then, the attacker was gone.

Combat teleporter, thought Malak.

Someone with that ability was one of the most dangerous people on the battlefield. The strike hurt, which was surprising. In fact, Malak decided he wouldn't even try take to the air again until he could heal himself. In the meantime, he had to deal with at least Frosty and the unknown person with the rapid sequential teleport ability. The latter also had what might have been armor-piercing strikes.

He again used his left wing to intercept a freezing blast from Frosty, the insulating value of his feathers helping greatly with this. As expected, the speedy teleporter took advantage of what he presumed to be Malak's distraction and popped in behind him. Malak spun around, swinging his ice-covered wing, flexing it as he moved to send ice shards hurtling at the attacker.

The teleporter, a slim man, was caught by surprise. He shied back and reflexively shielded his face from the spray. Malak continued the spin and caught him in the torso with the wing, to send him hurtling away. Malak continued that spin, until he came far enough around to hurl the readied spear at Frosty. Both attackers were now out of the fight. Malak took a moment to heal himself, then spread his wings to again take to the air. He didn't make it.

Malak suddenly cried out, and visibly sagged. Not far away, an innocuous-looking man suddenly became taller, as wings sprouted from his back and his clothes changed to robes and sandals. Malak quickly straightened, and looked at the source of the power drain. Mr. Average, for his part, had an odd look on his face. A look of... revelation. However, he, too, quickly recovered, shaking his head and getting back to business.

For just a moment the two winged men glared at each other across the battlefield. However, before the allies of Mr. Average could take advantage of the presumed halving of Malak's power, the rogue suddenly rolled his eyes back into his head and fell over, his recent changes reversing.

"Bit off a bit more than he could chew, I reckon," said Mysterious Pete, smiling, his presence revealed by the collapse of Mr. Average. "Not used to his new powers, yet. Made him easy prey for an attack from behind."

Malak tossed a quick salute of acknowledgment to the serape-wearing, barefoot man and jumped back into the fray.

There was a flurry of activity to Malak's right. He took off, and provided close air support for several non-empowered soldiers being hard pressed by a costumed pair from The Protectorate. With them both down, he again prepared to fly higher and re-engage The Grand Protector. Again, he was interrupted. This time by a sudden burst of mental static.

Malak shook this off, and decided that finding the source of the psionic attack took priority. Diving a bit to fly low and fast with wings outstretched, Malak swept his gaze around the group until he came to the mentalist, standing alone near one of the transport planes. He knew of SuperMind by image and reputation. Now that he'd had a sample of the man's power, he realized that the telepath's abilities had been underreported. No wonder so many government leaders had fallen under his sway. He felt a surge of rage at this violation of mental sanctity.

"You," said Malak, turning towards him.

The simple mental blast had been less effective than SuperMind had assumed it would be. SuperMind therefore actively tapped into Malak's thoughts, looking for what the older empowered planned to do and for a lever to use in controlling him. He had never considered that someone with a greater than human force of personality might have a greater than human force of will. With a corresponding greater than human capacity for anger.

SuperMind gave a cry of mixed pain and alarm, grabbing at his head as he quickly broke contact. He still had enough awareness to note that Malak had landed and was walking unhurriedly towards him, obviously furious.

"Your schemes wouldn't have worked if others hadn't already been selfish and at best neutral in regard to following the law," said Malak, minimizing the man's achievements in corrupting so many. "That includes your teammates. You, though... You saw that they were willing to use their powers for their own, short-sighted benefit and pushed them into doing just that. You not only made them go further, faster than they would have otherwise, you coordinated those abuses committed by the team and influenced those in government who might have reined you in."

SuperMind looked frantically around. His usual plan of staying away from the physical fight meant there was now no-one close to come to his rescue. He began backing uncertainly away from the approaching figure, towards the planes.

"Nowhere to run," said the angelic figure, tone ominous. "Nowhere to hide. Your powers useless against me. What will you do?"

SuperMind was arguably the biggest threat The Protectorate presented. That was because few people - empowered or not - had a defense against his power, and it had no visible effect combined with a considerable range. Malak very deliberately guided him into an action which would take him out of action for the foreseeable future.

SuperMind turned his powers on himself, turning off his mind to avoid a situation he could not deal with. He collapsed.

Malak quickly checked to make sure the plainly-dressed man was actually, and only, unconscious. Then, with a sigh, he rose and turned back to the battle.

Several members of The Protectorate, hurrying towards the planes in response to SuperMind's desperate call for help, now stumbled to a halt in confusion. Perhaps realizing for the first time in months that they had been acting very out of character. At least, very unlike how they thought of themselves as acting.

The Angel of Earth

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Sixteen

The Grand Protector was not one of those currently having an attack of self awareness with the defeat of SuperMind. In fact, he didn't even seem to notice this event. He continued to attack targets on the ground.

However, several other members of The Protectorate were suddenly surrendering, or were simply no longer fighting. Many appeared dazed. Even the sudden bout of bad weather was starting to fade. With that reduction in active attackers, many of the defenders were left free to focus their attentions on The Grand Protector. That he noticed.

The Grand Protector pulled back a bit, looking irritated at all the hostile attention he was receiving, and began preparing a truly massive power attack. He decided to use his disruptor effect. This was his greatest offensive ability, and not only in magnitude. This attack was no mere bolt or blast of energy, but a pandimensional twistor. Something which could shred matter at the particle level. Malak sensed the attack's nature as it built. He quickly headed for the other empowered man, but saw he couldn't reach The Grand Protector in time. Malak instead materialized one of his shields in the way as the attack was loosed. The shield vanished as the blast hit, but the attack was also thwarted. The Grand Protector looked... annoyed. He turned, found Malak, and glared at him.

The Grand Protector tried again. This time he flew in the direction of his prime target, but climbed above him, and focussed his full attention and energies on the angelic figure. There were bystanders on the ground beyond Malak, so he couldn't simply dodge. Malak didn't know whether The Grand Protector selected that angle deliberately or not; the result was the same either way. Malak materialized his shield, which was not actually a physical object and therefore would not shred; it resisted the attack directly as power against power. Malak also held it with the top tilted away from the source, so that the beam hit and reflected upwards. Even holding it with both arms and leaning in, the shield was still shoved backwards, and it shoved him backwards. Fortunately, the beam was reflected harmlessly into the sky, where it punched through the uncertain clouds and dissipated after a short distance.

"Coward!" yelled The Grand Protector. "Take your punishment like a man!"

The huge empowered raised his hands again, but was interrupted by an attack from below. He dodged the thrown rock and - seeing that Malak was acting only on the defensive - dove towards Crunch.

"What are you doing, just hovering there?!" screamed Blackpool, as Malak materialized a spear but didn't throw it.

"I'm building a weapon," said Malak, staring into the distance as the point of his spear grew brighter and brighter, "with The Grand Protector's name on it."

Crunch dodged The Grand Protector's physical attack. The latter swooped up again, intending to resume his actions against Crunch. However, others now resumed targeting him, with everything from gunfire to power blasts. The Grand Protector climbed higher. He began building a charge, intending to wipe out the core of those attacking him in one, massive strike, even though several of his own allies were still mixed in among them. He put his hands together, a glow building between them.

He saw something bright, approaching quickly, from the corner of his eye. The Grand Protector dodged by reflex. However, the spear tracked him and struck anyway. The resulting explosion knocked most of those on the ground below off their feet. Once people could see again they saw the smoking figure of The Grand Protector tumbling towards them, his once-colorful costume blackened and shredded.

An angelic figure caught him, and carried him towards the ground.

Once on the ground, Malak knelt beside The Grand Protector, healing him enough to ensure that he would survive to stand trial. The big man currently appeared to be both unconscious and defenseless. Fortunately for those still involved, with his fall the fight was finally and decisively over. With several of The Protectorate already down or surrendering or simply abandoning the fight, and with their leader so resoundingly - and obviously - defeated, the few remaining active combatants among them simply... stopped.

* * *

Professor Bright looked the situation over in his visualizer, and sighed. He felt both angry and vindicated about the showdown between The Protectorate and Malak's people, as he shut off his equipment. Despite Aaron's grand words that these powers should be used for more than fighting, that was how he almost always addressed problems. Just as Bright, himself, had predicted. Well, Bright could and would do better.

* * *

Aaron met with Dr. Creedmore two days later, at the Haven Clinic in Indiana, in the doctor's office. The physician was the head of the institution's research division. Aaron was looking forward to this meeting. He had a hunch some of his ideas - and the work of many people - were about to pay off.

"Some good news," said Dr. Creedmore, as Aaron was expecting. "The Santa Clara drug has proven safe when used as directed, and effective both at extending life and helping people develop any latent powers they might potentially have. Though it does the last slowly."

"That's the drug being developed by that medical research center in California?" said CornFed, attending via previously arranged conference call.

"Yes," said Dr. Creedmore. "Now, if we can just keep the federal government or even the UN from banning it as too advanced..."

"I'll worry about those things," said Aaron, firmly. "Doctor, you just keep up with their progress on the drug. Let me know if they need anything, including funding. CornFed, you work with the rest of the brain trust for best application."

* * *

Malak again appeared on Melody's balcony. He transformed into Aaron as she quickly let him in. He moved to her couch and settled into its familiar comfort with a tired sigh.

"My husband is going to be thinking we're having an affair," she joked, as she performed her duties as host.

"Coming here to speak with you was actually his suggestion," said Aaron, with a slight smile. "He knows I value your insights."

"You do seem... pensive," said Melody.

"You'd think I'd feel relieved, with so many problems resolved, lately," said Aaron, frowning and shifting uncomfortably. "Especially with almost all of The Protectorate captured and held for trial. However, besides my own, uneasy feeling that there's at least one additional shoe to drop, Insight is back to giving cryptic warnings. Worse, most members of the Protectorate are claiming in their defense that they were influenced by SuperMind. They'll likely get light sentences."

"Except the Grand Protector, who is bragging about his offenses and loudly claiming that he is above the law," said the reporter, nodding. "There's more to your mood than that, though. What's really wrong?"

"I just... I have done so much lately, not just in this matter but with many other problems. In spite of my powers - even the new ones - and decades of experience I still feel... overwhelmed at times. As well as lonely. There are so few empowered who are at my level. Most of the people, empowered or not, who work with me are too intimidated to be friends."

"You could go join your friends, at that other planet they found," said Melody, quietly. "You might be less lonely."

"Earth is the least lonely place in the universe."

"Then keep that in mind. Now, what's really bothering you?"

"I just have this nagging feeling that there's more to come, and soon," said Aaron, making vague gestures. He dropped his arms and sighed. "Maybe I've just been so busy lately that I can't believe I have a short time to relax. However, I am concerned enough that I am warning people."

"I'll do what I can," said Melody. She tried to lighten the mood. "Maybe I'll finally get powers, and will be able to help you more directly."

For some reason, Aaron's expression immediately became more neutral.

"Remember, you have a smaller chance of empowerment than the general population."

"What are you talking about?"

"I thought you knew," said Aaron, appearing a bit puzzled. "They tested you the first time you were in our clinic. On average - for the entire world - people have a roughly 15% chance of empowerment, assuming they have the optimum exposure to a triggering substance. You're actually a bit under 13%. Also, that chance does not mean the person will survive the toxic effects of the empowering chemical. That survival rate depends on other factors, and is mostly independent of the chance of activation."

"Oh," said Melody. "I actually didn't know that. It doesn't really change anything."

She laughed. It sounded refreshingly honest and genuine.

"You know I was joking about getting powers. I don't think I'd even want them."

Again, his expression became mysteriously neutral. Melody wondered if he were worried about disappointing her.

"You are mature beyond your years," said Aaron, grandly.

They spoke - just sat and talked - for over an hour. Finally, though, Aaron had to leave.

"I'm afraid duty calls," he said, rising.

"The world doesn't deserve you," said Melody, also standing and leaning forward to take both his hands.

"Perhaps I just feel I deserve a better world," said Aaron, with a smile. "After all, I live here."

* * *

Meanwhile, even with the incapacitation of SuperMind, many were carrying on with plans to "deal with" Malak. One group in particular, now finding themselves on the verge of losing their influence in the US government without SuperMind's backing, was feeling desperate.

"He's unstoppable!" said the man with the crewcut.

"No," said his boss, a rather large and somewhat overweight man, someone obviously used to having others do things for him. "He had help with The Protectorate. Including government help. Which we can no longer count on. At least, not openly. We do still have friends."

"So what do we do?"

"We start a quest. A quest for some way to stop Malak. If we can kill or - even better - capture and humiliate him, his forces will crumble."

The big man made an expression of disgust. With the recent reversals, that meant getting out and actually speaking with lessers himself. Well, if it would lead to getting rid of Malak...

* * *

The federal prison often saw odd visitors. This was no surprise, since it was the only US medium-security facility intended to hold a certain type of empowered criminals, people with powers who weren't deemed physically dangerous. These special guests were there seeking to speak with an inmate who had already been in the prison for a while.

MechMaster had never seen these particular men before, but he knew the type. Especially the one he immediately pegged as being in charge. Slimy, self-important people - male or female, he'd found little difference - who thought their desires were more important than any law or anything anyone else wanted. People completely without empathy or even introspection; who didn't know or care why they wanted something, they just knew they wanted it. People who wanted him to make something for them. They'd present an offer they thought he'd jump at, assuming that he would eagerly do their bidding. Because that was what they wanted him to do.

They would probably start with implied threats. Fully aware they had no power to fulfill them. However, they'd expect him to cower before them. Then they'd offer him a presumed way out.

"Evan Grimes?" said one of the men, the one with the crewcut. He was likely the chief flunky of the man in charge. That status being being confirmed not only by the big man's far more expensive suit, but by the fact that he promptly took a seat while the other two stood, one on either side. He also had the attitude of someone used to having others do the work for him. The flunky smiled. "You're in a lot of trouble Evan."

"How so?" said MechMaster, unconcerned.

The man pulled several folded sheets of paper out of his suit jacket. He opened them, and read from a list of offenses, most of which MechMaster had already served the time for.

"Now this," he said, looking up from the papers. "Did you really think you could get away with robbing from the Gold Reserve?"

"I have an IQ of 350," said MechMaster, calmly. "Obviously, I did. Though I'll point out that there was no actual robbery. All they got me for was planning one."

"Oh, there was a lot more than planning, involved. You illegally acquired information, then recruited and trained a team."

"Even then, they only got me because one of my people turned out to be an informant."

"Doesn't matter. Since you've been in here they've uncovered your involvement in a lot of other stuff. Enough to put you away for good."

Okay, there was the threat. Now would come the offer of a glimmer of hope. MechMaster kept a neutral expression on his face. He'd find out what these idiots wanted, first, before sending their ambitions crashing into ruin.

"However," said the "boss," speaking for the first time, "if you cooperate we have enough pull to get your sentence cut. If you cooperate."

Uh-huh. Right on script.

"What is it you want from me?"

MechMaster was careful with his question, keeping his tone and expression neutral.

The third man produced a manilla folder from inside his suit jacket and put it on the table. It was unlabeled. MechMaster reached for it but stopped short. Taking it could be seen as a sign of compliance, and used against him later. Instead, he made a show of hesitating.

"Are you offering a full pardon?" said MechMaster, raising an eyebrow.

"A full pardon," said the bureaucrat, nodding, and obviously lying. At least, it was obvious to MechMaster. "Just do one little thing for us."

He pushed the folder a little further across the table towards the prisoner.

"Build us a weapon to kill an angel."

MechMaster pulled his hand away as if the folder was hot. No longer playing the game, he folded his arms across his chest.

"I have nothing against Malak."

So that was it. No, thank you. Even if he thought he could make use of these idiots for some purpose, that winged empowered was poison.

"He's gone rogue," said the crewcut, obviously feeling he needed to offer something which could serve as an excuse for MechMaster to work against Malak.

"Yeah, I've heard that before. If he's after you, that means you deserve it. I've got less than two more years. I can do the time."

"You'll be doing a lot more than two years if you turn us down," snapped the crewcut.

"You're threatening me," said MechMaster, amused. "You're actually threatening to violate the law and the protections of the Constitution to punish me for refusing to do your bidding. Just like every other two-bit tyrant I've ever come across. I'd tell you to go fuck yourselves, but you're going to do that anyway. It's how your kind always finish."

He leaned back in his chair, taking its front feet off the floor, and put his hands behind his head. Casually balancing on the two rear feet of the chair. This show of casual agility intended to remind them of who - and what - they were dealing with.

"Go ahead. Try it. Try to make things worse for me. I'll still be here. Probably bored enough to take you down if you actually are that stupid."

* * *

The boss was furious and making a show of it, storming out of the interrogation room. However, he was not so furious that he forgot important things. He turned to the warden, who was still waiting in the hallway after personally escorting the VIP to speak with MechMaster.

"Destroy all the recordings made of this meeting," the boss snapped.

"Yes, sir," said the Warden.

He would, of course, do no such thing. The Warden kept a neutral expression of his own as he escorted the man - who had presented himself as an important person at the Department of Justice - and those with him back to their waiting limo. Destroying such evidence was a serious offense. Just ordering it be tampered with in any way was a federal felony in and of itself. The very fact that this man would give such an order was more than enough justification to keep the audio and video records of their interaction with MechMaster very well protected.

* * *

"We have other fish to fry," said the heavyset man, confidently, as they drove away. "We'll find some way of reeling that winged freak in."

The Angel of Earth

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Seventeen

"What's that?" said Blackpool, as Aaron entered his office at the Repository, letter in hand.

"It's from Harold Petersen, one of my contacts in the US Justice Department. He says several agencies - including yours - are pooling resources to build a dedicated empowered detention facility."

"I knew there was word about that going around," said Blackpool, nodding slowly, "but not that they had put aside interagency rivalries and actually started building the place."

"That could be deliberate. What brought them around was your unauthorized exit from the empowered wing of that federal prison. They have decided to start from scratch, and build something even you couldn't exit from."

"Yes, I can see how they might be reluctant to tell me about that," said Blackpool, wryly.

"Anyway, Harold is involved with the project and has invited me to come and look things over during construction. I think they want my advice on how to make such a place truly escape-proof."

"That's probably not possible. They can't even make prisons escape-proof for people without powers."

"I know," said Aaron, with a slight smile. "Still, it would foster goodwill among those agencies for me to go there."

"I'd like to see the place, too," said Blackpool, grinning under his full-face mask, "but I doubt I'd be welcome."

* * *

Malak came out of his high-speed flight mode well above the agreed-upon location for his arrival. He could see an improvised parking lot below, with fairly ordinary cars and trucks left in a somewhat orderly fashion on the bare dirt and gravel. As well as someone obviously waiting for him. Nearby, work was underway, with heavy construction vehicles doing various earthmoving tasks. There was a lot of dust, in spite of recent rains. Fortunately, the wind was currently blowing away from the parking lot. Malak spread his wings and lost altitude rapidly in a tight spiral.

"I thought I'd be meeting Mr. Petersen," he said, after landing near the person in the suit. Who was wearing a hardhat and carrying another.

"He may be here later, but I am your assigned guide for this project," said the man, smiling. He offered his hand. "John Johansson."

Malak shook hands, while resisting his natural reaction to such a generic name.

The facility was still under construction, but well underway. Enough that Johansson could show him what lay beyond the concrete lined opening to a below-ground section already completed, though not equipped. Malak donned the proffered hardhat without complaint; only a silent observation that his head was likely far sturdier.

"Sorry; regulations," said Johansson, with a slight smile and a shrug.

He led Malak to a battery-powered vehicle. Sitting in this with his wings out was a bit awkward, but Howard had noted that Malak was the person they wanted to see. Perhaps just for show, or moral support. Fortunately, the trip was short.

The cart approached what at first seemed like the entrance to an underground garage. However, after descending a considerable distance the two-lane tunnel opened out into an enormous and somewhat irregularly shaped chamber. Johansson stopped their vehicle near the middle of the vast room and exited. Malak followed as the man led the way out onto the bare and somewhat loose dirt in the middle of the well-lit chamber.

"We picked this location because of a large, dry cave with little native life," he explained, gesturing broadly at the huge room. "Once we reach that part of the construction, we'll build facilities down here for the worst cases. The excavation of this chamber was the first part of the project, though. If we couldn't take it back to sound rock far enough to put the highest-security cell block in here, there was no use continuing. Fortunately, we were able to. It's being left mostly alone, for now, while work proceeds on the surface."

Indeed, there were only a few hard-hatted workers in here, and they didn't seem to be doing much except staring at Malak. Something he was very much used to.

"Now, if you stand right here, you can hear and interesting sound effect."

Johansson carefully positioned Malak; then, smiling, he began backing away. Perhaps it was hubris, but Malak simply stood and watched as the man withdrew.

"We have and are installing measures which would be enough to hold even you!" said his guide. "For example..."

He gestured, and the hardhat suddenly gave a loud, distracting buzz. With his more-than-human reflexes Malak had time to sweep it off his head, before excruciating pain erupted in his sandled feet. Two of the workers in the huge chamber advanced on Malak, carrying what looked like giant fishhooks with wooden handles, as Johansson continued to back quickly away.

Malak cried out, and reflexively tried to pull away from the pain. That, though, only made the sensations worse. He looked down, to see that glowing hooks had curled out of the ground and around his feet, the barbed point of the right one actually piercing his flesh, going all the way through the sandal. Both hooks went back into the ground. Whatever of his flesh the glowing metal touched smoked and sizzled.

That was all the opportunity the pair of advancing men needed. They activated their own weapons, which began glowing like the hooks on and in Malak's feet. These they hooked into Malak's wings.

Malak screamed as the glowing hooks wielded by the men bit deeply into his wings, preventing advance or retreat. He went to his knees, trying to phase, but the barbed hooks held him. As the first pair retreated more men closed in, carrying additional glowing hooks. Malak's Adaptation power was trying to adjust his body to tolerate the hooks - the glow - but failing. Those responsible for preparing this assault had evaluated and planned for anything which he might do to free himself. Anything but what he actually did. Malak changed into Aaron.

With his wings no longer there, those two hooks fell harmlessly to the ground. This left only the hooks through and around his feet, greatly reducing his agony. Mostly able to think, now, he materialized his shield behind him, then formed a spear in each hand. These he threw ahead to the left and right respectively. The resulting explosions threw the men approaching from his front off their feet. Meanwhile, the shield protected his back.

Aaron closed his eyes, in spite of the pain thinking far more quickly and clearly than any of those attacking him or watching the effort from afar. This form was, indeed, somewhat weaker than his angelic variation, mainly due to lacking those mighty wings. However, there was an ability he had only in this form, one which he rarely demonstrated but which had served him well down through the decades. An ability to absorb, analyze and manipulate energy.

Aaron tried to absorb the foreign energy of the hooks, but it was too alien, too antithetical to his very nature. Instead, he quickly changed tactics and simply repelled it. Its incompatible nature now worked in his favor, making this easy. That done, he reached down - crying out yet again as the glowing metal attacked his hands - and yanked the hooks from his feet. The barbs of the right one passing backwards through his flesh were especially painful, but Aaron was of the "yank the bandage off quickly" school. He pulled so hard and fast that the mechanical devices which had manipulated the hooks came with them, trailing power and control cables and sparks. He tossed the now-dead hooks aside, then took a moment to heal himself. That done, he straightened, ready to deal more decisively with his attackers.

Malak's wings sprang out and he swept them in a circle as he spun. Attackers all around were sent hurtling through the air, including those who had thought themselves out Malak's reach. Some managed to briefly brush their glowing weapons against his feathered appendages, but none of the hooks bit in. Malak wasn't going to let that happen again. With the closest attackers now down, he began forming and launching spears.

One of Malak's spears found one of the cameras which had been hastily installed in the chamber to watch the attack. The spear destroyed it and the cable. In fact, the charge followed the wires back to the control room. What havoc it wreaked there Malak would find out later. For now, he used wings, spears and shield to disable all those in the chamber, making certain none were still able to fight.

That done, he flew down the tunnel to the left, where Johansson had fled. He was on full alert, and watching for traps and attacks. However, he found none. Apparently, whoever was behind this had been so certain of their hooks they didn't think a backup plan was necessary. They had almost been right.

Despite Malak's speed, Johansson made it far enough down the hallway to reach the first side room. He was frantically trying to close the door to it as Malak approached. Malak slid to a stop and used his left wing to slam to pocket door back into its recess. Knocking it off track in the process. A quick look inside revealed no obvious escape route. A bit longer look told Aaron - in spite of the damage done by the charge from his spear - that the monitors, desks and other accoutrements were all portable gear brought in and installed just for this action against him.

"Don't move," said Malak. "I'm already contacting Blackpool. He'll alert the Empowered Matters Agency. All of you will wait right here until they arrive."

There were multiple cries of protest and defiance against this. Mainly from people who claimed they were simply observing. However, the man who had brought Malak to the trap was closer and therefore better heard. He had lost his hardhat somewhere during the chase, now revealing his crew cut hair.

"The pain should have been unbearable!" he yelled. As if the fact that the angelic empowered man had escaped was an inexcusable wrong committed by him.

"Do you think," said Malak, quietly, "I am a stranger to pain?"

People from the Empowered Matters Agency arrived in short order, being already on site. They were mainly there to provide security for the construction workers and equipment at this stage, but they were, indeed, federal agents with arrest powers. Malak quickly explained what had happened and stepped aside.

"You are all under arrest," said the senior member among the agency personnel who had so quickly arrived.

"Now, hold on!" Johansson tried to explain, "this is all a misunderstanding! We were just demonstrating our prisoner control technology - something Malak had agreed to - and he panicked when it was more effective than he was expecting."

"That doesn't explain how you are on the site with forged documents!" snapped the older man. He turned to Malak. "We were already on alert, 'cause someone found Harold Petersen bound and gagged in a storage shed. Oh, he's fine, the worst of it was he had both legs fall asleep. He told us ahead of time you were coming to visit, and also that he was supposed to meet you himself, so we were wondering where he was. He didn't know anything about these jokers."

* * *

"They still haven't found out his real name," said Melody, to Aaron, later, over the phone to his home in Haven. "His fingerprints aren't on file, which puts the lie to his claim of working for the government."

"That's more than they've told Blackpool. He is trying to get a telepath in to see Johansson, since he's not cooperating at all with the investigators," said Aaron. He sighed, and Melody could almost see him rubbing his head in that endearing habit of his. "The prisoner wouldn't be told that there was someone reading his mind, in case he's had training in how to resist. Just have the usual interrogators - who won't be told, either - ask the usual questions. Any reasonably talented mind reader would pick up what he thinks but doesn't say. However, for whatever reason the people in charge of Johansson are reluctant to allow Blackpool to be involved."

"Well, I hope this is the other shoe you and Insight were expecting."

"Somehow, I don't think so." He sighed again. "No, I have a feeling there's something big, still coming down the pike. This incident - and whatever follow-up comes in response - is closer to business as usual. Though rather more effective than most attempts against me."

"That people would still hate you after all you've done," said Melody, with a sigh of her own. "Some of whom even blame you for the problems you solve."

"I didn't start this fire," said Aaron, sounding calm but determined. Perhaps even quietly angry. "However, I have done what I can to fight it. In spite of interference from those who did start it! As well as those who mistakenly welcome its deceptive warmth!"

"Well, just be careful," said Melody, a bit alarmed at that anger. "We need you around. No matter how much some people might disagree with that."

* * *

"We're not finished yet!" the big man declared to the handful of men with him in the small, comfortable room. That he would be reduced to holding such a meeting in his own den! "That bastard cost me my right-hand man, but I have others to help me. Some of you are here, but there are also others elsewhere. One of you will find someone who can build a trap which will hold Malak!"

"We all have a shared goal," said one of the other men, more quietly but with equal determination.

"I may have something," said a third man, a bit tentatively. "There's a scientist who claims to have developed a barrier which completely isolates things from the universe. I don't pretend to understand the physics, but it should let us capture Malak."

"Set up a meeting!" said the big man, emphatically.

Meanwhile, reports continued to come in of emergencies both natural and man-made, around the world. Some of which saw an angelic figure arrive to help.

* * *

The "scientist" was rather unkempt and a bit absent-minded. Which was fine, as long as he could deliver. The loss of so much of the big man's resources to the damnable false angel made doing this work harder, but not impossible. Unfortunately, the current prospect for making a trap which would hold an angel was being explained by someone who was barely coherent.

"You have to know the dimensions of the box before you can be certain you are thinking outside of it."

"Uh, yes," said the well-dressed but obvious flunky. This was the man from the small group meeting at the big man's house who had told them about this "scientist."

"Well, in defining the box, I came up with the idea for this project, to remove things from the box," said the beaming man, who was actually a top theoretical physicist. "While applying the mathematical tool of extremal surfaces to model an evaporating black hole, a strange thing happened. Early in the evaporation process, I found, as expected, that the entanglement entropy of the boundary of the extremal surface split what was inside from the rest of the universe. There are no hairy singularities. There was an absolute boundary between the inside and the outside, which was the majority of the universe. On the other side was a here-there-be-dragons realm about which the boundary had no information. The position of the quantum extremal surface was highly significant. It was located just inside the horizon of the singularity I was examining."

"You still haven't explained how this thing can hold Malak," said the heavy one, whom Dr. Pynchon had by now identified at the person in charge. He seemed irritated, bordering on angry.

Dr. Pynchon repressed an exasperated sigh. He had already explained. However, from his previous experience with people like this he could tell that the bossy individual suffered from an exaggerated impression of his own intelligence and education. Ignoring the fact that this man had sent his people to Pynchon to solve a problem beyond him, he would perceive any sign that Pynchon did not consider him at least an intellectual equal as criticism. Dr. Pynchon also had learned - the hard way - that people like the big man did not react well to criticism. No matter how well deserved. So, he needed to offer a simplified explanation.

"It's... it's a discontinuity in the structure of space," said Pynchon, trying desperately to find an analogy which these simpletons could envision. He had a sudden inspiration. "It's like a snow globe! The surface of the globe consumes no energy, but it is a barrier between what's inside and what's outside. In the case of the extremal surface, the only significant energy expenditure is in establishing the surface, with just a trickle needed thereafter to maintain it. The contents are irrelevant to that energy requirement. What's inside is completely isolated from our universe. The path integral closes to unity!"

He'd had them right up to that last sentence. Fortunately, what he'd said before that was enough.

"So it will hold him?" said the big man, hearing what he wanted to hear. "Excellent!"

* * *

Preparing the trap was not only expensive, it was absurdly difficult. They had to build and test this new technology, making sure it worked. Then they had to find a place where they could bait Malak into it. Finally, though, the trap itself was ready. Now, how to apply it...

Several plans were discussed in regard to this problem; most were discarded out of hand. Pynchon had no part in these discussions. Indeed, except for calls asking about the practicality of several locations and an occasional monetary benefit from the big man's henchman, he had no contact with the group. The physicist knew vaguely what they wanted his device for, but had little concern about that. He finally had the necessary funding to test his idea! Also, it wasn't like they could use the device to harm anyone. All it could do was isolate them.

Eventually, the plotters decided that the way to get Malak to come to them was to leak that their boss was holed up in a country mansion one of them knew about. There were multiple locations in and around the building where the device could be concealed. While its range was limited to roughly 125 meters there would be plenty of opportunity to capture Malak with it.

"What do we do if he shows up with friend?" said one of the men.

"We grab all of them!" said the big man.

"What if Blackpool or someone else shows up and not Malak?"

"Then they find nothing, and we reset the trap somewhere else!"

The Angel of Earth

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Eighteen

They needed three attempts, each with a different method of providing the bogus information, before Malak himself arrived at the location the conspirators had chosen. This was a clearing in woods privately owned by a politician who had repeatedly opposed efforts to reign in the empowered. This way, whatever happened with the capture of Malak, the big man could have petty revenge against the woman.

* * *

"I may have some information on that group behind the attempt on you at the prison construction site," said Melody. She was on the phone with Aaron, who was at his office in Haven. The reporter gave a short laugh. "You need a teletype or something. I wasn't sure this was important enough to call you at work."

"It sounds like it is," said Aaron. Not mentioning that he had several volunteers who checked various teletype newsfeeds to keep him appraised of world events. He even had a direct feed from the White House. The latter only recently installed, at the chemical Repository. "Please, continue."

"Are you familiar with Dolores Springer?"

"Definitely. One of my few overt supporters in the US Congress."

"A groundskeeper for one of her properties reported unusual activity on a little-used section of land she owns. Something she didn't authorize. There were contractors renovating a carriage house. They showed the groundskeeper the work orders. They seemed to be properly filled out, but Congresswoman Springer knew nothing about them, even though her signature was on the contract! By this time the workers were gone, of course.

"I needed some digging to uncover that one of the owners of the company doing the work is owned by an anti-empowered businessman. The groundskeeper discovered they've also been installing some sort of unspecified equipment in the woods nearby."

"That does sound suspicious, though I don't see any connection to the prison attack," said Aaron, nodding even though he knew she couldn't see him. "Perhaps a clumsy attempt to discredit her and/or other empowered supporters. It definitely needs to be investigated."

"Yes, but I'm swamped right now," said Melody. "I told Blackpool, but he said he can't look into it any time soon personally, and his bosses don't think it's suspicious."

"I, fortuitously, am at the moment free of urgent commitments," said Aaron. "I'll let you know what I find."

"Just be careful," urged Melody.

"Don't worry. Once burned, twice shy."

* * *

Malak was not incautious. He approached the location invisibly and indirectly. Whatever work had been taking place on the property seemed over by the time he arrived. Malak saw no-one else in the area. The old carriage house had been modified into a dwelling most of a century before. He didn't go inside, but from what he saw of the outside and through the windows the work had simply been to make minor repairs and update the living quarters. So, he would next check what had been done in the woods.

The second location was not difficult to find. There was both a fresh footpath and vehicle tracks from the drive at the carriage house into the nearby woods. At the apparent focus of the activity there the ground had been disturbed and carefully resodded. However, the diggers hadn't even tried to match the natural growth which they had disturbed, just put down the same sort of sod which had been placed on the damaged part of the lawn at the carriage house. Most likely, the people who had done the work hadn't known the purpose of the job. They had simply been told what to do by someone who had never been there. The result was obviously a trap. One which Malak did not approach.

Still invisible, from ground level at what he assumed was a safe distance from the disturbed area, Malak produced one of his duplicates well above. He had it fly in, circle the trees overhead, then descend. Though expecting a trap, he was still surprised at the suddenness of the activity this produced, as well as the range at which it occurred. The duplicate vanished - with a substantial disturbance - while the doppleganger was well above the ground, taking some overhead growth with it. Interestingly, though it was faint, he still had contact with the duplicate.

Malak waited patiently nearby, remaining invisible. Within moments two men arrived to check the results.

"Whoah. I think it worked," said one, pulling up a piece of sod and brushing dirt away from something. "This shows around a hundred kilos in the trap, and that's pretty close to what we know Malak is."

"We got 'im!" crowed the other. "First we call the Doc, so he can verify. Then the boss. He'll notify the big boss."

* * *

Over an hour was needed for "the Doc" to arrive, and check the trap. The two men enthusiastically assured him they had seem Malak fly downwards toward the trap, and suddenly disappear when they triggered it. The "boss" arrived soon after. After receiving assurances from the Doc, he contacted his boss. Who arrived in just under another two hours.

During this time Malak received a few calls for assistance on his earpiece, but none were major and others covered most of them. He had been sure to alert the necessary people ahead of time that he would be busy for a while. He remained motionless, invisible, near the site.

The heavyset man was skeptical.

"How do you know he's in there?"

The minions repeated what they had observed.

"Can we look, to make sure?"

"No," said Dr. Pynchon, firmly. "Of course not. Not unless you want to let him out. If we could see what was in the containment that would mean it wasn't working. The only thing we can measure is the change in total mass. Said change being consistent with Malak's known mass."

"What if it's not him, though?!"

"Boss, he hasn't been seen anywhere in the world in several hours," said his immediate underling. "Despite calls for help directly to him."

"So we got him," said the big man. He abruptly did a little dance. While chanting, with increasing breathlessness, "We got him! We got him! We got him!"

"So, uh, what do we do with him, now?" said the underling.

"Let 'im starve!" shouted the big man, triumphantly.

"He can supposedly do without food," said the Doc, helpfully. "Air, as well."

"Then let him die of loneliness! I don't care! We got 'im and we're keeping him bottled up!"

"Uh, actually, we only need to let this run for a few hours to confirm that the discontinuity is complete," said the "Doc," looking increasingly uncomfortable. "There's no reason..."

"As long as we keep the power on, he can't get out, right?" said the upper boss. "Well, we'll make sure it never goes off. We'll install solar panels and everything!"

"No need to go to all that trouble," said Malak, becoming visible and stepping out into view. "By the way, I've already called law enforcement. The word I have is that they're parking at the carriage house and getting out of their cars to come here."

"No, that's not possible!" said Pynchon, incredulous. "That was a complete barrier!"

"You neglected entanglement, which generates instantaneous, nonlocal events," said Malak, speaking of his contact with the duplicate, though well aware that the physicist might well take it otherwise. "Your device creates a discontinuity in space-time, but space-time is not the base level of reality. It emerges from the underlying plenum."

"Ah!" said Dr. Pynchon, eyes widening in revelation. "Of course! A true stasis would require a stoppage of time, as well!"

"Would somebody please kill these idiots before they bore me to death with their technobabble?" screamed the big man.

"You are not killing anyone," said Malak, looking around sternly to reinforce this. "In fact, when the people I called get here you will all surrender peacefully. That includes you, Dr. Pynchon, unfortunately."

"I can make a good case for being in fear for my life if I didn't do what they said," he replied, seeming unconcerned. He offered his hand to the angelic figure. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry I took part in this. I am also very glad you figured a way out of it."

"As am I," said Malak, gravely taking the physicist's hand.

* * *

That was definitely not the end of the matter. After the big man was arrested, he and his people were thoroughly investigated. He turned out to be named Gustav Humboldt.

"No wonder he never gave his name," said Blackpool, dryly. His tone turned angry. "Well, at least we now know who crewcut was working for. Another group which is violating the law. By taking upon itself the task to remove the 'threat' of the empowered. Humboldt, by the way, is a grandson of German immigrants, yet he is outspokenly anti-immigration."

"If you don't mind, I'd like to be in on the his interrogation," said Aaron. "I have... questions for him."

"Understandable," said Blackpool. "They tried to have you, well, taken out of service, after all. However, neither of us should be involved in the initial investigation. I'll try to get you access to him later in the process."

* * *

Eventually, Blackpool and Malak were, indeed, allowed to question Humboldt. Mostly because the official interrogations were completed and the overall investigation into his activities well underway. When they did ask questions of the man, the two empowered were on one side of a table, with four federal law enforcement interrogators from three different agencies. On the other were Humboldt and his three attorneys. The interview was of limited utility for Blackpool and Malak.

Mostly, the lawyers stated, flatly, that their client would not answer the questions asked. For the rest they required clarifications. A few Humboldt simply didn't want to answer.

Getting him to explain his motivation was difficult. The questioners had to remove any mention of illegal acts, first. When Humboldt finally did explain himself, the result was an incoherent ramble of conspiracy theories, long-debunked ideas about evolution and simple greed.

"Oh, this is rich," said Malak, finally. "You are part of an elitist group which exists to remove the influence of the empowered. Yet you ignored The Protectorate, one of the most intrusive and dangerous empowered groups which have ever existed. You are also anti-immigrant, even though you are no more than three generations from immigrants."

"They did our work for us!" the man screamed. "Now we have to do it ourselves!"

"No comment," said Blackpool.

* * *

"Well, that was unproductive," said Malak, as he and Blackpool walked down the corridor towards security station afterwards.

"Actually, it was very productive," said the federal agent. "You have to know how to interpret, but he gave us a lot of important information."

They soon reached the yard outside the public front to the building. Malak spread his wings with a grateful sigh.

"Well, give Melody my regards."

"She again sends her apologies for sending you into that trap."

"Well, I actually didn't enter the trap. Partly because she also urged me to be careful. Anyway, I'm off to help with hurricane relief in India."

"Good luck."

* * *

That evening, as part of the day's wrap-up, Blackpool had a meeting at the Repository with the Brains Trust, as he mentally labelled those working on the quantum computer. He considered their interpretation of what the device reported to be more important that what it actually said. Which, despite years of work on that device and its predecessors, was still not giving messages in plain language. For any language. However, one thing was clear; official opposition to the empowered in the US was increasing. Despite the elimination of the influence of SuperMind.

"You would think that with SuperMind captured and too drugged to use his powers, that the influence against us would stop," muttered Blackpool. "Instead, it seems to be getting worse."

"You think that's bad," said CornFed, sourly, "Insight has gone from indirect but decipherable, to cryptic, to gobbledygook! Some of the other researchers are starting to mutter that we need to scrap it, figure out what's wrong, and start fresh with the next iteration!"

"That seems the logical action," said Multi, firmly.

"I think it's just as confused by the continuing problems as we are," said CornFed, glaring at him. "It predicted things would get better, as we did, and doesn't understand why they haven't. Meanwhile, we can't enlighten it. So it is increasingly confused."

"I'm going to check on some of the last coherent warnings it gave," said Blackpool. "Maybe I'll find something connected with them which explains the change in content."

* * *

Aaron got a semi-panicked call from Melody that evening.

"Blackpool is missing," she said, without preamble, as soon as he picked up the receiver in his den in Haven. "He told people at the Repository and his agency he was going to check on some things - without any specifics, naturally - and nothing since then. I'm starting to get worried."

"I'll do some checking of my own and get back to you," promised Aaron.

* * *

Melody was surprised to hear the knocking on her balcony door not long after. She was not surprised that the person knocking was Aaron.

"I should take you to the Repository," he said, looking worried. "I don't have anything firm to offer about your husband's absence, but the fact that nobody - including Insight - can find him is worrying. There's also a concern expressed by several people that whoever targeted him might come after you next. If you're there you will be better protected and able to participate directly in the search. You should pack a bag for a few days."

"All right," said Melody, after a few seconds of hard, quick thinking. "I can call my boss tomorrow and let him know. Just give me a moment. I'm really glad right now I don't have a cat or plants."

* * *

Taking a trip in Malak's arms was always an event. Unfortunately, Melody only seemed to go through the experience when there was a dire need. Once at the Repository Aaron made sure she was settled into the guest quarters he had arranged for her before allowing her any visitors. This gave Melody a chance to recover from her abrupt change of location and compose herself.

Melody's friends at the installation were both serious and supportive. Even though most supposedly did not know that Melody and Blackpool were married, they were very concerned for her, as well as him. They gathered together in the small living room of her cabin that same evening.

"I suspect that some members of the Protectorate who are still free are behind both Blackpool's disappearance and Insight's confusion," said CornFed, scowling as she paced an irregular path around furniture and occupants.

"They aren't all in jail," said Multi, nodding. He was seated, and seemed much more calm than her. "Most are, and their properties - including bank accounts - have been seized, but there have been persistent clues that the feds didn't get all of either."

"Why go after Blackpool, though?" said Melody, also seated, almost desperately. "He was hardly involved in taking them down."

"Well, he was pretty involved," said CornFed, pausing to put a hand on the reporter's shoulder. "After all, it was his idea to lure them here, for the big fight."

"Also, whoever is behind this might have decided to go after him first," said Mannequin, for once serious, "as a warmup for going after Malak."

"I still think it's Humboldt's friends," said Melody, firmly. "They still haven't all even been identified."

"We're checking all likely suspects, as well as looking for signs for Blackpool directly," said Aaron, managing to sound confident and reassuring. "We'll find him. We'll also find whoever is responsible. Just keep in mind that he might have gone to ground on his own."

"Thank you," said Melody, actually sniffing a bit before putting on a brave face.

"I still think you better continue staying here for now," said Aaron.

"No argument," said Melody.

The Angel of Earth

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Nineteen

"This is definitely worrying," said CornFed, in the computer room, the next day. She glanced up at the holographic model overhead, then at the latest analysis printout in her hands. "Not only is Blackpool missing, but Insight is growing increasingly unstable. It's worse than useless in trying to find him."

"Almost as if it's helping to conceal him," said Multi, thoughtfully.

The other staff members on the project received the information about Insight with varying reactions. These ranged from disappointment to gratification.

* * *

Meanwhile, Aaron was trying to distract Melody. Mostly by revealing things she should be interested in, but hadn't heard from him yet. Fortunately, overall the world was quiet just now. However, the situation with Blackpool had Aaron pensive. Something the reporter noticed and asked him about when he fell quiet, as they sat in his office at the Repository. He gave a heavy sigh.

"It's just that there's so much to do, so many problems which need solving. I feel... burdened."

"I remember that one of things you were hoping for after Isight started working right was taking a long vacation."

"More than once, I have been tempted to just... fly away. Perhaps take up residence in some isolated place, like the aptly named Inaccessible Island."

"Like those empowered on their artificial island."

"Only with less company," said Aaron, quietly.

"I hate to... press you, but John is still missing."

"Let's ask Insight and its team if they can provide any clues, again. Maybe they have it straightened out, finally. However, right after that I have to run an important errand."

* * *

Even with one friend missing, and another friend hurting, Aaron still had duties. One particular duty was connected with his recent work at the peace conference. He had made a promise to eliminate a problem affecting a large and important part of the world.

The Rif Mountains were younger than their neighbors to the south and west. Much younger. Still, they had withstood the ravages of time for tens of millions of years. However, this one rocky projection in the northern portion of the range had not withstood the Warlord's machinations. He had ordered the peak leveled, and a major antiaircraft and antiship installation constructed. Located at the northwestern end of the mountain chain, where it overlooked the Straights of Gibraltar, its radar saw all and its missiles ensured the Warlord got his demanded toll. Officially, it was for piracy protection.

Though no work of man was indestructible, so far the Warlord's had withstood all attempts to remove or even silence it. Mainly because he had started small and gradually escalated his demands. He was planning a similar facility in the Anti-Atlas Mountains, which would overlook important trade routes in the eastern Atlantic. With the precedent set by his first such installation, getting the powers that be to accept the second would be much easier. He and his country were already wealthy from this work. Soon both would be very wealthy.

The intruders appeared through a hole in space, which was the only warning of their arrival. Taking a lesson in part from The Protectorate, they came through in order. Scouts in the lead, then people with ranged attacks, then the real heavy hitters.

"By international agreement," shouted Malak, who was in the last rank through, to the confused staff at the facility, "this site is to be evacuated then destroyed. You have ten minutes to grab what you want to save."

The result was more confusion. Except that someone with authority was not confused and quickly sent half the armed, military guards on the base hustling towards the strange visitors. Malak sighed.

"This is not negotiable. The negotiations are over. Leave, now."

A man in a much fancier uniform than those worn by any of the others came storming over.

"You will leave immediately! This is sovereign ground!" he yelled in proper, British English.

"Which we have been given authority to clear by your government," said Malak.

The soldiers and workers shifted uneasily and began looking meaningfully at each other. The Warlord was unimpressed.

"No, you have not! I am the authority here and I agreed with no clearing!"

"The president of your nation agreed to this," said Malak, his calm in stark contrast to the Warlord's bombast. There were cultures where bombast was considered appropriate in some situations. From the reaction of the guards this was not such a situation. They appeared very uneasy. The Warlord didn't.

"President?! That fool? I put him in power to handle the paperwork for me. If he can't do that, I will take him out of power!"

"Such threats likely being why he confirmed what his negotiators at the peace conference agreed to."

"Peace conference," said the Warlord, blankly. "What conference?"

"The international conference which primarily involved the Middle East, but which also covered much of the Mediterranean and western north Africa. Specifically, the threat to international shipping this installation presents!"

"The people of this nation will never stand for this," snapped the Warlord. "This facility guards them, and brings wealth to them!"

"Wealth which has not reached them, since you have kept most of it for yourself. The rest has gone for bribes used to keep your faction in power. No longer."

"You will leave immediately! You hold no menace for a military force and have no authority beyond intimidation!"

"Is he threatening us?" said Lady Dragon, with a smirk. "Please tell me he's threatening us."

"One of the conditions I agreed to at the peace conference," said Malak, loudly, making clear that he was addressing everyone there, "was doing something about the threat this place presents to the peace of the region, if it continued to impact legal shipping traffic. This was one of the few things all the participants wanted, including those representing your nation. So, remove your people and all personal items. We're going to destroy everything and reseed the land."

"You can't do that!" shouted the Warlord. At his gesture, the guards moved closer, forming an arc around the strange visitors. Behind the newcomers was a small, open space then a sharp drop.

"Sure we can," said Mannequin, also smirking. "Did you miss the memo?"

"Though they are being facetious," said Malak, to the would-be dictator, "our purpose here is quite serious. After what happened last Thursday your forces will no longer be allowed to have a base here. It's either us, or conventional military, but you will be removed. Trust me; we'll be a lot gentler."

"Fire!" screamed the General, quickly moving backwards.

The fight was far from as decided as those ignorant of the abilities of the empowered present might expect. Neither was it as one-sided as those who knew what potent empowered could do might have expected. However, several of the enforcers - including Malak - were military veterans. So were those who had taught the other empowered involved in this operation. They had been trained and they had practiced... even Mannequin. They knew the key to victory was to quickly close and get mixed in with those defending the base. Which is exactly what the attackers did.

Rainbow had changed to gold, perhaps in sympathy for Malak wearing his golden robes for this attack. All those involved in the effort were definitely taking it seriously. Even Lady Dragon. One lucky shot could end a life. Though for every empowered involved in the project that would require both a very lucky shot and quite the bullet.

Still, even with the confusion naturally involved with such a fight, it was soon over. Mainly because Malak's first action was to grab the Warlord and take him desolid, leaving his uniform to fall to the ground. With that man standing naked and screaming on the roof of his administration building, and Malak and a few others flying high cover, the defenders quickly gave up. Especially when it became obvious that the victors were being careful not to kill anyone. Though some on both sides were left hurting.

Soon, all those who had actively fought against the operation were restrained, including the Warlord. After his surrender, he was allowed the dignity of his underwear, pants and shirt. Though only after those were examined by TechnoDodger. Meanwhile, the wounded on both sides were healed.

"Now," said Malak, lifting off again and looking around, "LEAVE!"

Though they had already been told they could take personal items, many didn't bother. They left. There weren't enough vehicles for all of them, but most simply headed down the footpaths leading to and from base. Very quickly.

TechnoDodger was soon joined by a few others with similar talents, who were brought in after the seizure of the facility was completed. They supervised the shutdown and demolition of the equipment. At their recommendation, the missile warhead explosives and their solid propellants were dispersed and safely burned. Then, super strength, telekinesis and many other powers were used to reduce the equipment and buildings to useless rubble. This was pushed over the edge of the artificial plateau. Malak and a few others made certain this material blocked easy foot and vehicle access to the plateau.

Then came the hard part. Rich earth, some it already heavy with local plants and other life, was placed and strategically tamped, the latter action to help the transplanted soil resist erosion. Native species were seeded. Over this went a coarse, open mesh, with openings made to accommodate the existing plants. This geotextile was made of biodegradable material, which would actually become slow-release fertilizer. Finally, some additional mature plants including a few trees from multiple, nearby plateaus and valleys were planted through the mesh.

"The land is fertile and should recover swiftly," said Malak, looking around from the air above the former radar and missile station. He landed, and addressed his assembled team. "Okay, those who fought us have been delivered to the capitol, the equipment has been destroyed, the area has been replanted. Very good work, people. All that's left is to bring in inspectors approved by the treaty panel to document everything, and we should be done, here."

"If not," said Lady Dragon, her enthusiasm for violence only partly assuaged, "I, at least, will be back."

* * *

Melody was constantly being impressed by the people at the Repository. Not only the efforts of the Brains Trust either. Blackpool - she felt a pang as she thought of him, something she quickly quashed - had created an effective bureaucracy and filled the positions with competent people. His second in command - currently a Major Brampton - ran things on a daily basis, with the understanding that his superior might be away for long periods. The fact that the current absence of his boss was unexpected was only a minor problem for him. Though it was definitely a concern.

Neither was Blackpool's absence much of a problem for those working on the quantum computer project. Blackpool generally left the supervision of that to Aaron, anyway. However, even after Malak's work in northeast Africa was finished and he returned to Repository - with all of his team - Aaron had other obligations. For one thing, he had to conduct the mission debriefing while the memories were still fresh. Something many of the participants objected to.

Melody was in Insight's protected and shielded computation room room, waiting to see Aaron and hear what he might say about the problems the project was having. However, even after the debriefing, even after some of the other members of the operation came to the room, he remained absent.

Melody was surprised at how many empowered were currently in the large chamber. As well as who was there. Arguably the oddest was Mysterious Pete, whom she knew of but have never met before. Some speculated that he was CornFed's father, since he also affected stereotypical Western garb. Well, except for being barefoot. His features were difficult to read, mainly due to being difficult to even see. There was evidence he was one of the few empowered who actually preceded the Haymarket Event. However, he had never confirmed or denied any speculation as to his origin.

The main reason so many were there - many of them only peripherally involved in the project - was Insight's current incoherent state. Discussions over the what, the how and the why were often loud and emotional. One small but especially vocal faction was in favor of immediate termination of the project. Some of the members of this group even advocated violence against the machine.

"Despite the name, inertium doesn't stop inertia!" said Multi, his volume and passion causing the rest of the room to become quiet. "Just smashing the thing on the floor a few times would do it!"

"Are you mad?!" yelled CornFed. "You'd destroy years of work!"

"That's better than letting it ruin the world!" said Multi. "You can't deny that's a possibility! We're already seeing changes around the globe which we can attribute to no other source!"

That was news to Melody! As well as very alarming. Could that be why there had been so many nearly successful attempts against Malak and a few other activist empowered lately? Some subtle, quantum-level influence from Insight? Is that what had happened to Blackpool?

"If those changes are even real they are incidental!" CornFed shouted, as if volume alone could make her point. "It just needs to learn!"

A huge, confused argument broke out. Sides were quickly formed. Roughly half of those in the chamber were in favor of destroying the device, most of them wanting to do that then and there. The other half wanted to let it continue, hoping it would learn to behave. There were only a few who were neutral, Mysterious Pete and Melody among them.

The loud discussion died raggedly as Aaron finally walked into the chamber. He looked at the box. Looked up at the display. Then looked around the room at the assembled empowered geniuses.

"It's not coming from here."

He turned began walking out.

"Shit," said CornFed, stunned. "There's another system."

Melody was about to say something, when everything stopped. Darkness flooded in, consuming everything.

* * *

In Haven, every long-term resident suddenly stopped whatever they were doing and looked around, certain that something both dire and important had just happened. Then, as one, they proceeded quickly to the center of town. Others followed less immediately, some simply out of curiosity, but most of them because they were now also feeling the need.

The Angel of Earth

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Twenty

Melody screamed in mindless fear and rage against the all-consuming dark. There was no texture to it, no substance; it wasn't even black. Just nothing.

Then, a glow appeared. Pure, white light flowed outwards from a lone figure, leaving the reporter sobbing in relief at being real again.

After several moments, she was able to tell that the luminous figure had glowing wings. Melody realized that this was Malak, without the pretense of the mortal guise; there was no material shell, here and now, just the pure being. She remembered the legend of Semele. Melody couldn't look away; she just hoped she could survive seeing this glory.

More light joined the first, from another glowing figure. Then another, and another. Soon there were five sources of light. No! Six! Six glowing figures stood guard against that consuming darkness. Each of those subsequent five had various tints in various amounts in their glow, but for each of the sources their light was strong and mostly white. People who had fallen around Melody began stirring, rising. She, herself, finally found the strength to stand.

"What... happened?" Melody asked, her voice hoarse from screaming, as the glow spread outwards from the individual figures and then pushed beyond the walls and ceiling. She could see, now, they were still in that huge room. Or was that "back"?

"Someone nuked the facility!" said CornFed, outraged. "Then... did something...

"I sensed the attack too late to stop it," said Malak, once again at a bearable brightness of being. "I was barely able to protect the lives within. Then that... nullification followed. Apparently intended to ensure that any survivors were removed."

"So, we're alive," said Mysterious Pete, his own glow also still obvious. "How do we stay that way?"

* * *

Professor Edmund Bright was not happy. The realization by those at the Repository that theirs was not the device causing the changes had forced his hand. Still, his response - necessarily crude due to being rushed - had been successful. The Repository and those in it were gone. Now, he just needed to consolidate. Quickly. Starting radially from his headquarters, as he had so long planned.

Soon the world would be a true tabula rasa, and his real work could begin.

* * *

"Are you all right?" said Malak, having moved close to Melody.

"This..." She swallowed, sighed, and after a moment was able to continue. "This... crisis is far better than the nothing which hit us."

"You were aware?" said Mysterious Pete, surprised and impressed. "Interesting..."

"What... happened?" said Melody, with a pleading gaze at Malak.

"Bright," said Lady Dragon, spitting the name. She was also still glowing. "With his machine."

"He doesn't know we're still here," said Mysterious Pete, nodding. "He'll proceed with his other plans, now. Which gives us a chance to stop him."

"He's already started," said Lady Dragon, looking into the distance. "It's slow, for now, a detailed examination of what is already present before destroying it, but he will soon move more quickly. His machine is learning, and will take up more of the task."

"You must go there at once!" said Mysterious Pete, to Malak. His manner was urgent, almost desperate. "We can hold here, in this place, where he cannot look and doesn't even realize still exists. You are the one individual here who can reach Bright quickly and stop him! Go! Hurry!"

"Why not let him do his work?" said Malak, quietly, looking into that same distance. "Let him wipe the globe clean. Once he's done we and a few other enclaves I'm detecting can displace him and rebuild the world properly."

Melody couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"You have to save them!" she shouted, astounded at this from him, of all people.

"Why?"

His question was not cynical nor angry nor even tired, but more like a teacher addressing a student.

"Because they can learn!" said Melody, slowly, nodding as she realized what he wanted. "Because they can learn to be better! We still have a long way to go, but humans have been slowly improving themselves for tens of thousands of years. Something you taught me! So, don't give up on them now!"

"Excellent," said Malak, smiling at her. "Yes. If you will excuse me..."

He didn't even wait for her "Of course."

* * *

The source - the center of the disturbance - was obvious. At least, it was to people with a certain type of perception. Malak decided to simply head straight for it. After one, brief diversion.

Normally, when Malak became desolid the surrounding world was still visible, just faded, ghostly. Now, as he left the protected area of the chemical Repository, he noted that this usual view was obscured with what seemed like static. As if all reality were under scrutiny by something inimical and destructive. Something antithetical to reality itself.

He flew first over his clinic, then over the nearby town. He was relieved to see that both were protected. Like the chemical Repository, they were islands of calm and comparative normalcy. Flying into the bubble around the town was a sudden relief from the burden of resisting what was happening outside. Malak saw that the townsfolk were either already gathered in the town square or rapidly headed there. Joe Blank and a few others were the foci of the protective aura being generated by nearly all the long-time inhabitants and even a few who had only been there for a short time.

Malak became visible, circling briefly over the town center, letting himself be seen by those below. A cheer went up. Their surge of faith was bolstering as well as daunting. They trusted him to find the problem and correct it, even though they could not directly perceive it yet. Malak would do his best to live up to that faith.

In his fortress, wearing the special helmet which provided two-way communication with his creation, Professor Bright sensed the resistance to his changes presented by Haven and a few other places. This was expected. There were many who would blindly object to his improvements simply because they were changes. A very few would even be able to resist. They would be eliminated in their turn, as the changes Bright had programmed reached them.

Of more concern were the few of the empowered who had sensed what was happening, and were heading for Bright's fortress in the Ozarks. That, too, had been anticipated. Even though they could not have known of the location ahead of time, there was no way to hide it, now. The protections he had already established would take care of them. If not, Bright was prepared to step in and handle them, through Indigo. That would mean diverting his attention from actually supervising the changes, but such events would only slightly prolong his project. Soon the world would be all his.

Malak again became invisible and desolid as he flew out of the protective bubble around Haven. Once well away from there he activated his fast movement ability and sped toward the source of the disturbance.

There were defenses, of course. Barriers physical and psychic, passive and active, to prevent anyone from approaching. Ghosts and phantoms assailed him, the screams of a million damned souls pierced his ears. He ignored them. They were obviously unreal; he had heard the real thing far too often to make that mistake. When the mental assaults failed a line of... something inimical projected from his destination, sweeping around, leaving smoky webs trailing in the static-filled veil as it sought him out. Malak dodged it and continued on. However, the closer he got the more difficulty he had in avoiding that beam. He now therefore manifested his shield and took the attack head on. Its nature immediately changed, adding a sensation of tearing, searing destruction to the previous effects. This encountered the shield and narrowed down, focusing on Malak. Who pressed more quickly onwards, knowing time was short.

* * *

Bright sighed tiredly, turned the work over to Indigo again and relaxed; with the initial scanning done the machine could operate on its own for now. The expansion had begun; all was being unmade according to the initial stages of his plan. The dome of protected reality around his fortress would remain while the nullification wave proceeded radially outwards. In mere hours it would cover the Earth, leaving a pure world behind it. Then he could literally remake it all in his image of a glorious paradise. For now, though, this homogenization would be enough, would buy him the time needed to work on the details. He had hoped to have all this done before starting, but his enemies had forced his hand. However, now all his enemies were gone, or as good as. Those he had chosen to include here, in the unchanging center, would be the seeds of a new population.

Some of them might be required to take on roles they would not like. For example, most were male, and rebuilding the population would require a large percentage of females. Perhaps they could take turns... If there was too much objection, Bright could use Indigo to give them an attitude adjustment. All for the greater good he had planned for them.

Oh, well, that was for later. Just now, they were celebrating, unaware of anything except the immediate success. His minions cheered, especially those on the parapets. They could see the long-promised changes taking place.

Bright heard the alarm from Indigo, and grabbed for the helmet, too late. The cheers died in a crash and flare as a massive explosion struck near the top of the dome. Those inside were still recovering from that shock when a grey-winged figure landed at the perimeter. The figure set itself in the still-unaltered world outside the expanding dome. Beyond the blank, bland reality Bright's first stage was leaving in its wake. Donning the control helmet for Indigo allowed Bright to confirm the worst. Somehow, Malak was already inside the outer defenses Bright had erected, and even the inner, active measures. All that remained between him and what lay beyond was the wall of change, itself.

Malak leaned into that invisible discontinuity, sparks and smoke erupting where his hands touched it. He grunted, and heaved, and the expansion shuddered to a halt.

"BRIGHT! STOP THIS!"

Inside, Professor Bright quickly resumed full control of Indigo. There was a deep groaning sound, as if the whole world was in pain. The dome shuddered and grew outwards a bit further. Malak was pushed back, his sandals digging grooves in the rock, sending fragments of stone hurtling. The winged figure heaved, and again the expansion stopped.

"It's not too late! Your plan will doom every living thing on Earth! Stop this!"

The minions were panicking, with Bright not much more controlled.

Malak could see the ruin of the land between the walls of the fortification and the current position of the discontinuity. The affected ground was stripped bare of all which had lived, of all detail, of anything larger than dust, leaving only a featureless layer of powdered rock. The living soil had been converted to something plain and inert. As if there had never been any life there; only aeons of weathering. Malak was determined that this devastation would go no further.

Bright again ordered the dome to expand. It shuddered a bit, but stayed as it was. Bright scowled, not sure what to do about this situation. He couldn't order any sort of mundane attack on Malak. Nothing physical would go through the dome intact. Light would, but it would be altered and diffused by that passage. Even clearly seeing Malak and what lay beyond him was difficult. Bright's only recourse was therefore Indigo. How to apply it, though? He could just wait out the false angel, who had to tire eventually, but...

His train of thought was interrupted; Malak was speaking again. Bizarrely, it sounded like he was in the same room as Professor Bright!

"You have the power to remake reality to your will, and all you could think to do with it in ridding yourself of potential opposition was to emulate a nuclear bomb."

"You were plotting against me!"

"In fact, everything you have done with this power has been destructive and reactive," said Malak, sternly. "In your first act you destroyed the Chemical Repository!"

Though he rarely lied, in this case Malak thought the deception necessary. If he fell, only those at the Repository and a few other locations would be left to stop Bright. Better to let the madman think he had succeeded in that task.

"I got rid of all those dangerous chemicals!"

"Which were already well on the way to being safely incinerated. Instead, you killed over a hundred innocent people and actually dispersed some of the chemicals."

"It was necessary! Those researchers could have warned you of my efforts. Anyway, the leaked chemicals were destroyed by the subsequent nullification!"

"You committed mass murder to cover a lesser crime."

"It's for... for the good of humanity! You stand in the way and must be removed!"

"I am here in spite of your attack. How does the result justify your act now?"

"That is on you!"

"You sound like every petty tyrant and spoiled child I've ever met. You feel you are allowed to do anything to fulfill your desires, say anything to justify your acts. Then, when you are frustrated in your efforts, you rant about how unfair it all is and how your failures are not your fault. You will never be satisfied, because you don't even know what you actually want!"

"You are nothing!" screamed Bright, desperately. "You will be removed! The world will be made a better place! A perfect place!"

"How can it be perfect when you don't know what perfect - or even better - is?"

"Indigo knows," gasped Bright, feeling the strain of directing the effort against Malak while arguing with him. "It knows!"

"You aren't sounding so good. You're physically human, despite your enhanced intellect. Even though your machine is doing most of the work, you're still straining to keep up with the situation. I bet your blood pressure is soaring, and your blood sugar is plummeting. Your neurotransmitters are being depleted rapidly."

"I... am fine!"

"Part of the problem is that you won't trust the machine. Rightly so. What you built has no judgement, and cannot actually generalize from what it learns. That means you must monitor everything it does which is not strictly routine. Since so much of what you're doing is non-routine you are overloaded. Right now, how many are dying in disasters - natural or manmade - because of your obsession with stopping me? People either of us could save if we weren't fighting each other? Me to defend myself and my friends and allies from your attacks. You because you're terrified I'll stop your efforts. If you had just been open about..."

"Shut! Up!" screamed Bright, rallying.

"I had hoped to convince you," said Malak, sadly. "I see, now, that is futile. Very well. To throw your own words and intent back at you, this is on you. I have diverted your attention long enough to find you."

Outside the dome, "Malak" disappeared. Inside the dome - within the paranoid Bright's concealed secure room, where even his own minions could not reach or even knew the location of - the real Malak pulled the helmet from Bright. Without hesitation he smashed it on the floor.

Professor Bright screamed at the sudden disruption. He grabbed his head, and looked around desperately. He first found Malak. Then the destroyed control helmet.

"No!!" screamed Bright. He surged to his feet... and collapsed.

Malak quickly knelt beside the fallen would-be god and examined him. Bright was dying from multiple, small brain hemorrhages. Malak, with no hesitation, immediately healed him. As he stood, Malak suddenly became aware that without his double holding back the expansion, the dome was growing again. He quickly located Indigo, and took the breadbox-sized quantum device in his hands, lifting it high. He seemed to hear it whispering to him, tempting him. Refusing to give in, Malak threw it down, smashing it, as well. He then looked around, with more than eyes and ears, prepared to repeat his action it that were needed. It was not. Malak sighed, and relaxed.

"...Always... your problem..." said Bright, determined to be right, even if the effort took his life. "Focusing on the... individual... instead of... the big picture."

"For which you should be grateful," said Malak. "Now, if you'll excuse me, with this settled I have other important but less urgent problems to attend to."

* * *

Back at the Repository, the destruction of Indigo was immediately obvious. There were gasps and moans of relief all around, among those in the shielded computation room. The chaos in the display above them cleared.

"I feel like I been rode hard and put away wet," said Mysterious Pete. However, he was grinning. Tiredly. "It was all worth it, though."

"The greatest threat this world has ever faced has been neutralized," said Lady Dragon, nodding solemnly.

"Sometimes I feel that my continued existence is justified," said Mannequin, also nodding.

"It is safe to assume Bright has been dealt with, then," said CornFed. "Oh, and Melody, I found yo... Uh, Blackpool. I mean, Insight did, as one of its first acts once the interference ended. He seems to be on his way here."

"Quite correct," said Blackpool, entering from the corridor outside the computation room. "Malak found me as soon as Indigo was destroyed, and I brought us both here. Though I needed to make a brief detour to pick up another costume."

"He is largely unharmed," said Malak, coming in right behind the rescued man in black. "He was held naked in a room where all the walls and the ceiling and floor glowed, so there were no significant shadows he could access."

The others there turned towards the voices, some prepared to make various comments. However, all instead fell silent.

"What?" said Malak, puzzled. Blackpool simply smirked through his mask, as he stepped away from the older empowered man.

"Your wings..." said Melody. "They're white!"

Malak extended his right wing and looked at it.

"Huh," said he, for once obviously nonplussed. "They don't... feel any different."

"Looks like someone had a Gandalf moment," said Mannequin, shifting into an older, bewhiskered form, complete with robes.

"White wings, huh?" said Blackpool, grinning through his mask as he hugged Melody. "You couldn't get some nice, handsome, ebony ones?"

"Sorry," said Malak, looking uncomfortable. He cleared his throat. "At any rate, Bright is momentarily disabled and his device is destroyed. However, we need to get people there to secure Bright's facility. Quickly."

Despite the activity - which included organizing a group for Gateway to take to fortress - the masked and cloaked figure found a moment to speak privately with Melody.

"While I was held by Bright," he said, quietly, "I thought - and rethought - about several things. If you're still willing, I'd like to start a family."

"Oh, definitely," said Melody. She took a quick look around, and gave her husband a hug and a brief but very passionate kiss.

* * *

There was a huge amount of cleanup involved with the stoppage of Bright and his machinations. Once the immediate crisis was over and Bright's minions were rendered harmless by volunteers from the Repository, most of the work involved Blackpool and his agency. Also, while some of the efforts against the empowered indeed turned out to be the result of Bright and his efforts - with and without Indigo helping - not all of them did. Indeed, there was a reaction against those who had stopped Bright, mostly from people who had an erroneous idea of what he had intended.

Fortunately, most of the developments following the destruction of Indigo were not bad. Indeed, Aaron scheduled an important meeting with Melody at his home in Haven just over a month later, where he delivered some important news.

"You remember me talking about looking for - and eventually finding - my grandson?"

"Yes," said the reporter, sensing there was much more to the tale than this. "You very carefully didn't say much about that."

"For good reason. You see, Louis, discovered something," said Aaron, quietly. "Something which apparently evaded all other researches into empowerment. Something which I and a few others - including Louis - have subsequently been pursuing."

"Spill!" said Melody, eagerly.

"Only if you agree to keep this confidential until given clearance to reveal it," said Aaron, with a slight smile.

The reporter fidgeted and fumed, but after several seconds agreed.

"A person can become empowered without a trigger chemical," said Aaron. "The process requires much longer - perhaps taking years - and still not everyone with the potential can become empowered. At least not yet. However, it does work. This method is also vastly safer than the more common one, of course."

"How... I know some of the tales - folklore, really - about people gaining power from meditation or religious rituals, but..."

"Those methods might have been successful occasionally," said Aaron, nodding. "However, that success would have been as much by accident as design. Also, the subject must be capable of empowerment."

Now it was Melody's turn to nod, slowly.

"Additionally, several of the researchers have discovered that this process can be aided with sub-triggering doses of some drugs. One of these drugs also holds the promise of extending human life. Giving people time to work towards empowerment, instead of having it suddenly thrust upon them."

"Fantastic," said Melody, unable to prevent a grin from spreading across her face. "I can see why you want this kept secret for now. Aside from preventing a rash of 'magic mushroom' events, you want to head off government interference."

"Exactly. I'm only telling you this now so you can keep a watch for any tell-tale signs that someone less cautious might have made the same discovery."

"Gotcha. And: Will do."

"Thank you."

"Now, as you probably guessed from the parcel I brought, I have a reason of my own for wanting to see you."

She retrieved the paper bag she had laid on the floor.

"I have a present for you," said Melody, pulling something out of the bag. "It is, unfortunately, only a modern, authorized printing from microfilm, but it's still a hard-bound copy of something you once told me you missed. I can still see the gap between books on your shelf."

Aaron took the tome, a glint of tears in his eyes as he read the title.

"Alexander Adams: A Life in Music. My God..."

"There are certain advantages to having contacts all over the world."

The pair spoke for a long time before Aaron finally called a halt.

"I can go without sleep for long periods; you can't," he pointed out. "Especially in your condition. Also, tomorrow is a workday for you."

Melody tried to refute his wisdom - and his perceptions - but was foiled by her own yawn. She gave a tired laugh.

"All right, all right. Take me home, then."

They stepped outside into the gathering darkness, Aaron shifting into his winged form. A surprisingly short time later, he was depositing her with superhuman deftness onto her own balcony.

"One more thing," he said, as the reporter unlocked the sliding glass door.

"Yes?" said Melody.

"The past is over and the future is yet to be," said Malak, quietly. "What we have - where we live - is the present."

He smiled.

"Don't get me wrong; I greatly appreciate having such an extended life. My parents taught me to appreciate history, and I have seen a lot of it. I have even participated in some of it."

Melody nodded, slowly.

"I guess we're all - no matter how enhanced - living one day at a time." She winced. "Except that for that friend of yours who is stuck at super speed. Though I guess even he is living life one of his days at a time."

"As the great philosopher put it 'Eternity is a very long time, especially towards the end.'"

The Angel of Earth

by

Rodford Edmiston

Epilog

A being of light moved through the empty canyons of the ancient metropolis, the only sounds those of wind and waves and the occasional bird. It flitted along, the waters below reflecting its glow.

The illuminated figure moved a bit lower, so that it now maneuvered among the flooded structures, noting that such long-time landmarks as the Empire State Building still stood unaffected. This was largely due to specific efforts to protect these icons. The entire former city was now a nature preserve, had been for thousands of years. Except for those few buildings deemed of enough historic importance to seal against the slow rise of the sea, nature was allowed to progress unopposed. The entire island on which the Statue of Liberty stood was currently protected by a high, sturdy dike, for example. Pumps - ranging in sophistication from motor driven pistons to circuitry drawn on the floor of the lowest level - took care of rain and leakage.

How much longer this effort would be deemed worthy the figure didn't know. Hopefully for a considerable time. For nostalgia's sake, if not for any practical reason.

Naturally, there were no signs of human activity. There hadn't been humans living anywhere near here - anywhere on the entire Earth - for centuries.

The vague, glowing form lifted above the buildings and hovered for a moment. Then it moved to the mooring mast on the Empire State. There it solidified into an angelic form, which held casually to the ancient steel.

Malak looked over the scene. Not merely the flooded - and soon to be flooded - portions of what had been by some accounts the greatest city ever to grace the surface of the Earth, but well beyond. The whole coast - every coast - had been affected both by the rising seas and the abandonment.

Malak was in a quiet, philosophical mood, contemplating the slow changes to the world over what to the planet was merely the recent past. However, that mood was interrupted by a distant call. A message from beyond the atmosphere.

"You're going to be late for the ceremony," came the missive.

"You young people are always in a hurry," said Malak, amused.

"I'm over 99% of your age."

"Young people," Malak repeated, amused. "Don't worry. I'll be there, and on time."

He transformed again into his glowing state and shot away, moving quickly, now, but still staying relatively near the surface. He was glad to hear from his old student, and very glad she had made it. Not just to the gatherum, but to here and now. There had been times when he hadn't been certain about Melody, but she had continued to pleasantly surprise him. As had humanity as a whole.

Beyond the boundaries of New York, outside the area preserved for - hopefully - the next large chunk of eternity, Malak soared above the forests and long abandoned habitats. Actually, all of Earth could be considered a park these days, with most areas left to grow as wild now as they had before humans. Few indeed were those who could even still be counted as human, even among the trillions who lived someplace other than Earth. Malak mused on the changes he had seen, as he finally began to climb.

There had been some tough and doubtful times, but they had made it, collectively and in some cases even individually. Malak rose into the sky, the air growing thin, heading for the meeting. Marveling for the first time in a long while at no longer being the only one who could do this.