Heroic Measures (continued)

The interior was dark, even darker than Walter had expected, given that it was still full daylight outside. Looking up, he saw that all of the upper windows had also been blacked over. He found that to be a bit unusual, as it was unlikely that anyone would be peeking inside from that level—unless they could fly . . .

. . . or wanted to make sure that no light got out.

Red turned on his flashlight, shining it into the deeply shadowed interior. Walter activated his own, passing its beam along the floor in front of them. Behind them, Vivian followed closely, but did not unfasten her own. Walter wondered whether the tales about her eyesight were true.

“Are there any lights?” she asked, quickly dispelling that rumor in Walter’s mind.

“I don’t think their electric bill’s been paid up in quite a while,” Red responded with a soft chuckle. He widened the beam on his flashlight, but it helped little to dispel the darkness surrounding them.

“There must be a delivery door, something we can prop open for more light.”

Red nodded his agreement. “Good idea,” he said. “Do you remember where it is?”

Walter tried to remember the exterior layout of the building. He did not remember seeing any kind of wide rollup door the night he had been here, but that did not mean that there was not one. For a warehouse this size not to have at least one seemed ridiculous. Even the drugstore had one next to its back door.

“I don’t,” Walter admitted. He peered into the dark depths of the warehouse interior. “I’d guess it was on the east side of the building, though.”

That made sense to him, as he did not recall seeing any on the side that faced Cass Avenue. Red remained still for a moment, apparently getting his bearings, and then turned and headed off on a diagonal to their right. Walter and Vivian followed slightly more than a pace behind him.

Walter swept the beam of his flashlight along the path in front of them, hoping to avoid any unseen obstacles in the dark. At one point, Red stopped and played his own beam across the interior.

Walter heard Vivian make a strangled gasp. He turned to see her eyes opened wide as she stared down at the floor immediately to their left. She looked quickly away, swallowing convulsively.

At first, Walter thought it was dusty wad of paper, left behind long ago by some unknown occupant of the place. Only when he looked closer did he realized that it was a medium-sized rat, long since dead and desiccated. Before Walter could speak, to reassure Vivian, Red kicked it away into the darkness. It made the sound of dry paper as it slid into the shadows.

Walter shot Red an irritated look, but he had already turned his back on them and started to move ahead again. Walter gave Vivian an apologetic look. Vivian returned it with a weak smile and moved in closer to Walter.

Walter wished she had not, because he could smell her perfume now. It was perfect. It was exactly how he had imagined she would smell.

Probably because I’ve smelled it before, he told himself.

“Are you two still back there?”

Red’s shout interrupted Walter’s thoughts, for which he was grateful. Making sure that Vivian was following him closely, he headed in the direction of Red’s voice, certain that he could see the glow of his friend’s flashlight.

Heroic Measures (continued)

The warehouse looked different in the daylight, Walter realized. Even the narrow alleyway seemed ordinary. It contents lacked any mystery in the filtered light of day. The entire block of buildings looked rather drab and disused. A layer of dust covered nearly everything, lending further proof to the claims of the two investigation teams that had both reported that the area did not appear to have been significantly disturbed for quite a while.

Walter had not been back since the night of the original incident. Most of what he recalled of the area came from his memories of that night. The surroundings pretty much matched what he remembered, but a few of the details were off.

Probably because I was here at night . . . and it has been a while.

“Let’s use the side door,” Red suggested.

Walter nodded in agreement. They might as well use the door we he supposedly saw something.

“Right here,” Walter said as they reached the small concrete pad outside that led to the door.

The door was as he had remembered it. The windows remained opaque even in the daylight, providing no more clues to its interior than the night he had witnessed the mysterious glow.

“This is the place?” Red asked, looking around the area.

Walter nodded. Vivian squinted toward the sky, studying the ledges and rooftops.

“Nothing on the rooftops?”

Walter shook his head. “Nothing they could find.”

Vivian frowned, looked at the door, and then again at the sky.

“I’ll take a look,” she said.

She shrugged out of her jacket, handed it to Walter, and let her wings unfold.

“I’ll be right back,” she told Walter with a wink, and launched herself skyward.

“I think we should stay together—“ Walter said, trailing off she disappeared as a silhouette on the rooftop across from them.

“She’ll be fine,” Red said. “Help me with the door.”

Walter pulled on the handle, despite knowing full well that it would probably be locked. As a result, he was not surprised when it did not budge. He studied it then, wondering if they should try to force it open.

“Walter?”

He looked up at the sound of Red’s voice.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Walter replied. “Why?”

“You seem . . . distracted.”

Walter gave his friend a questioning look. Red reached over and plucked a device from one of the compartments on Walter’s equipment belt. Walter looked down at it with a puzzled expression, and then accepted it with chagrin.

“I’m just . . . worried about Vivian.” He glanced quickly toward the rooftops.

“Uh huh.”

There was something in Red’s expression that was both serious and teasing. Whatever he might have been thinking, though, he kept to himself for the moment.

Walter placed the small device over the door’s keyhole and pressed the button on its face. He waited while it clicked and whirred softly, doing its work to reset the tumblers to unlock the door. It would also detect if an alarm system was active. Walter would have been surprised if that indicator had lit up. This place once claimed to have a security system—the sticker on the door said so—but Walter doubted that it had been activated in a very long time.

A loud click sounded from the device and green light glowed on its face. Red gave Walter a thumb’s up and popped the device free. He switched it off and handed it back to Walter. Walter looked it over and then returned it to its place on his belt.

Red reached down and pulled on the handle. It turned freely now.

“See?” he told Walter with a grin. “Better living through technology.”

“If you’re a cat burglar . . .” Walter murmured.

“No cats here,” Red replied, surprising Walter that he had heard. “Just a bird.”

He started to push open the door. Both of the young men froze at a sudden noise that was not the expected sound of un-lubricated metals rubbing together. They each turned, smoothly moving into a combat posture, to face the figure standing there.

#

Vivian stared back at them, wide-eyed and blinking.

“You’re not happy to see me?” she asked with an almost deadpan impishness. It only a moment before she lost control and giggled. “I just thought I’d drop in.”

Walter glared at her. “Vivian . . .”

“What did you find?” Red asked coolly, moving stiffly back into a more casual stance.

“Nothing,” Vivian replied. “Well,” she added quickly, “Not nothing: just air conditioners, lots of gravel, and the occasional dead rodent. Nothing that looked out of place.”

Red nodded, seeming unsurprised by her report. “We’d better check inside then.”

He opened the door further. This time this heard the expected screech of rusted hinges and moved inside with Red in the lead. Walter followed immediately behind him. Vivian took one last look at the rooftop of the building opposite them before entering.

Heroic Measures (continued)

“It’s a good idea,” Red agreed, although he appeared oddly reserved. “I don’t think we’ll find anything new, two teams have already been through that place, but it’s worth a try.”

Vivian studied Walter, a different set of concerns on her mind. “Walter?” she asked. Her voice was filled with quiet concern. “Are you okay?”

Walter looked back at her with a weak smile. He had been prepared to shrug and lie, telling her that he would be fine. Red would not believe it, he knew, and he doubted that Vivian would either—even if she said nothing.

“No,” he conceded with a sigh.

Neither Vivian nor Red said anything, both giving him time to decide to explain on his own.

“They think I’m a spy,” Walter said, just letting the words tumble out. “A Dark matter sleeper agent.”

Vivian’s eyes widened with surprise. Red frowned.

“They told you that?” he asked Walter.

“No,” Walter admitted. “At least not out loud.”

“Then what makes you think that?” Vivian asked.

“Because they believe that there are operatives among us,” Walter explained. “That’s what they were trying find out.” He stared dejectedly at the carpet. “Now there’s this weird gap in my memory.” His eyes looked up again. “What would you think?”

“But they let you go out,” Vivian said. “And back to the warehouse.”

Walter nodded impatiently. “But not alone.”

“That’s standard policy,” Red retorted.

“Oh?” Walter replied somewhat combatively. “And how many times have you gone out alone on patrol?”

Vivian looked abashed, but Red’s expression stayed firm.

“We all have,” Red admitted. “There’s rarely enough heroes go around for us to double up on routine patrol. You know that.”

Red’s eyes remained fixed on Walter’s.

“Did they tell you who to take?” Vivian asked.

“No,” Walter conceded after a moment. “But they knew I’d pick Red.”

He saw the sting from his statement in Vivian’s eyes as soon as it came out. It was too late to take it back, he knew, sensing that an apology would not even be enough. It did not help that it was true. He had selected Red first and, if he could have brought only one person with him, he would have chosen Red first over Vivian. He liked Vivian—a lot . . . but it was . . . complicated.

“Now just hang on a second,” Red interjected.

His voice carried a sharp note of command. Both Walter and Vivian watched him now.

“No one,” Red stated firmly, “not the Professor or good ol’ Doc Hansen, told me to keep an eye on you, Walt.” He took a deep breath. “They wouldn’t have let you out if they were ready to believe that you were a spy.”

The three of them exchanged glances. Vivian seemed to find Red’s explanation reasonable. Walter still struggled with it. Red watched him, fiercely meeting his eyes as if daring Walter to challenge it.

“They might still be watching us,” Walter insisted, but with little of his earlier conviction.

“They might,” Red agreed. “But probably not. With everything else that’s going on, I doubt that Raynes or Harrison would be willing to spare the people just to keep that much of an eye on one man.”

“Isn’t it possible,” Vivian added, “that they’re more concerned that you might have some kind of . . . episode at the warehouse, based on what you told us? And didn’t want you alone when it happened?”

Walter sagged slightly, breathing a sigh. That, he had to admit, did sound like Raynes. Give him a chance to face his demons, provide him with backup, and get him away from the base until they figured out what was really going on. It fit the pattern of the professor’s clever solutions to complex problems.

“Yeah,” Walter answered quietly. “It’s possible.”

He stared down at his feet, and then at his hands, surprised to discover that they were balled into tight fists.

Wow. This really is getting to me.

Forcing his hands to unclench, he flexed his fingers, feeling them tingle with relief. He looked up at Red.

“I’m sorry.”

Red nodded and then cocked his head dismissively. He gave Walter cocky smile that did far more than words to ease Walter’s anxiety.

Walter looked at Vivian next.

“And I’m really sorry.”

She stared back at him. Her eyes were bright and Walter was afraid that she might cry. Somehow, instead, she managed to smile. It radiated across her face and something inside Walter dissolved.

Damn, he thought. If it weren’t for Abby . . .

Their eyes remained locked together until Red’s voice broke through. Walter had no idea how long it had lasted.

“We really should get going,” Red said. There was a light-hearted laugh in his words that Walter could not recall having heard in a long time. “I know how you hate to still be out when the streetlights come on.”

“Yes,” Walter agreed, turning to Red with a grin. “Dad might ground us. Again.”

He offered Vivian his hand. She took it lightly, but let him help her stand. Her smile remained radiant. Walter tried hard to ignore the warm glow in his stomach.

Heroic Measures (continued)

“I don’t know,” Walter whispered.

He looked down at his hands. They looked the same to him as they already had. He now wondered, though, whether he might have been secretly programmed to use them to kill someone.

“Neither do we.” Raynes looked grim. “I don’t think we dare try it again,” he said. “We got lucky this time. The next time . . . I’m not so sure.”

Walter looked over at Hansen. The physician’s expression was equally sober. Walter was not sure that he would be willing to volunteer for another attempt even if the two men had any hopes of its success.

“Okay,” Walter said, willing to ask the question that no one else in the room seemed to want to. “What do we do next?”

Raynes and Hansen exchanged an awkward glance. Walter waited, but neither man said anything. He grew increasingly nervous.

If they want to put me under observation, why don’t they just say so?

Walter decided to see if he could force their hand, to get them to admit that they believed that he might be a danger and needed to be contained.

“I’d like to take another look at the warehouse,” Walter said.

“We’ve already been over it thoroughly,” Hansen objected.

“Good idea,” Raynes countered, to Walter’s surprise. “But take someone with you.”

“I’ll take Red,” Walter offered, after taking a moment to recover from the unexpected agreement with his proposal. “And Vivian, if she’s available.”

Raynes nodded his approval. “She is.” He looked toward Hansen and then back at Walter. There was a firm set to the lines of his jaw. “But I want you wearing a remote medical monitor,” he said. “Just in case.”

Walter slowly nodded. It made sense, particularly given what had happened under hypnosis.

Hansen rose from the chair.

“I’ll prepare one.” To Walter, he said, “But you’ll need to stop by the infirmary before leave.”

“Okay,” Walter agreed. “I will.”

Hansen left while Walter remained seated on the bed. Raynes appeared to be deep in thought over some matter.

Probably me, Walter thought. I’d better get out of here before he changes his mind.

Walter rose and Raynes’ eyes tracked toward him for a moment.

“Good luck, Walter,” he said, still somewhat distant. “I’d like a full report.”

“Yes, sir.”

Walter left the apartment, leaving Raynes still seated, working through his thoughts.

Heroic Measures (continued)

“What happened?”

Raynes looked both uncomfortable and troubled by Walter’s question. He glanced at Hansen, who merely stared back at Raynes without saying a word.

“We’re not sure,” Raynes admitted. His looked apologetic, but Walter could hear the frustration buried in his tone.

Walter waited to see whether Raynes would volunteer any more information. When the professor said nothing for several moments, he tried again.

“You did manage to hypnotize me?” he asked. “I think I remember that much.”

Raynes nodded.

“What happened then?”

Raynes glanced at Hansen again, which did not exactly put Walter at ease. Hansen looked grim, but nodded. Walter could not help but notice that as physician tried to covertly prepare an injection.

Raynes took a slow breath and then began.

“You went back to that night at the warehouse.”

Walter nodded slowly. He remembered that night. The vague images that he recalled when reawakened matched those memories.

“Something happened there,” Raynes said. “Something we don’t understand.”

“I know,” Walter responded, a little more impatiently than he intended. “We went back,” he recalled. “And there was nothing there.”

Raynes’ expression grew even more troubled.

“But there was,” Raynes said quietly. He took a slow, deep breath and then looked at Walter. “Walter,” he said. “Something happened to you out there at the warehouse that night. We don’t know what.”

Walter stared at Raynes. The professor obviously believed what he was saying, but it did not match Walter’s recollections of the event.

“When we got you to that point in your memory,” Raynes continued before Walter could interrupt, “we hit incredible resistance.”

His eyes remained fixed on Walter’s. Walter had no doubt that the man was telling the truth.

“Incredible,” Raynes repeated with emphasis. “Something blocked you from remembering anything coherent from that point on.

His gaze moved to a point just over Walter’s shoulder. Walter could tell that he was reliving those moments in his thoughts.

“We . . .” Raynes hesitated, licking dry lips. “We attempted to take you deeper,” he went on, “hoping we you find a way to get you past whatever block had been put there.” He took a slow breath and looked at Walter again. “We were wrong.”

After a moment, Raynes’ eyes moved away from his. Walter could see how conflicted the man was.

“You went into what amounted to cardiac arrest,” Raynes explained.

“Your heart stopped,” Hansen interjected bluntly.

Raynes’ eyes flashed a brief warning at Hansen. “We were able to resuscitate you,” Raynes went on, “and bring you to the infirmary. The rest, I think you know.”

Raynes looked deeply thoughtful. “Whoever did this wanted to make sure that you didn’t remember whatever it was you saw there at the warehouse.”

“I don’t,” Walter admitted irritably.

“Exactly,” Raynes nodded. “At least not now, not yet.” His mouth formed a grim line. “The real question is: Why did they leave you alive at all?”

“They’ve killed heroes before to keep their secrets,” H stated coolly. “Why not you?”

Walter felt a cold knot form in his stomach.

They still think I might be a spy.

#

Walter looked at Raynes and then over at Hansen. Both men regarded him evenly. What Walter saw them appeared to be more like curiosity than suspicion.

But still . . .

Given the tale of what had happened to him while under hypnosis, Walter was starting to believe that there might actually be something to the possibility that he might be a sleeper agent.

Childtime: Lacking Evidence

Hartnett entered the evidence storage area, wondering why it always looked like one from the previous century.

Probably because that’s when it was built, he decided. And who cares what a storage room looks like, regardless of its purpose.

There were several metal workbenches in the approximate center of the space. Various pieces of equipment were littered across them, as if an entire class of children had taken apart their computers and then left most of the parts behind. That might not be too far from the truth, Hartnett decided, as the storage area was one of the possible stops during public tours of the facility.

He saw no one else present, nor did he hear the sounds of someone working among the rows upon rows of barely adequate shelving. Walking quietly, for no real reason that he could explain, he began moving through the aisles of stacked plastic crates and fiber boxes.

Hartnett studied the containers, trying to decipher the cryptic labels that were attached to the front of each one. He could figure out the dates, but most of the remaining data printed there was a mystery.

Job security, I guess, he mused as he continued his silent survey.

“Yo,” a voice called out from somewhere behind him.

Hartnett turned to see Chung, one of the more senior techs approaching from around one of the banks of shelving.

“Hartnett.”

Chung greeted him with a friendly smile. He started to offer Hartnett his hand, but then seemed to realize that both of them were filled: one held a partially unwrapped sandwich, the other was wrapped around a mug of what might have been coffee.

Chung’s eyes darted along the shelves.

“You’re not usually down here,” he said. “Looking for something?” He took a large bite from the sandwich as he waited for Hartnett to answer.

“Yeah . . .” Hartnett hesitated, studying the storage racks again.

Chung watched him expectantly, munching as little too loudly on his sandwich.

“I was looking for the evidence packets from Juarez’s . . . case.”

Chung looked thoughtful and then his expression turned flat.

“Oh, right,” he said, almost mumbling. “Your partner.” He began walking along the rows of shelves. “Are they re-opening the case?” he asked, curiosity brightening his fallen demeanor.

“Not yet,” Hartnett replied. “I . . . just wanted to check on something.”

Chung studied Hartnett again. For as moment, Hartnett thought he might ask to see some kind of formal authorization. He saw the tech decide with a mental shrug.

“Sure,” Chung agreed noncommittally. “I think we still have it.”

He picked up a tablet from a nearby bench and entered something into it. His eyes scanned the results. He then murmured a string of syllables that made no sense at all to Hartnett and began looking along the shelves.

I knew there was a secret code, Hartnett concluded with wry amusement.

He followed Chung along the narrow aisles of thin metal shelving. The tech hummed softly as he surveyed the labels. He tapped the surface of a few of the containers, but kept moving down the row. About three-quarters of the way down the third aisle, Chung stopped and Hartnett nearly collided with him. Chung checked something on his tablet and then reached for the container.

“Yeah,” he said. “This is it.”

He turned and carried it back to a bare spot on one of the workbenches. After double-checking the container identification number again, he unsealed it and stepped aside so Hartnett could examine its contents.

The container nearly filled with a collection of transparent pouches of assorted sizes, each hermetically sealed. Affixed to each one was a smaller version of the label found on the container, along with some additional information. Harnett knew these to be evidence identification code, linking them to both this specific container and any case—or cases—that the evidence might be associated with.

As he sorted through the bags, Hartnett was able to identify the contents of some of them immediately: Juarez’s shirt, the bloodstains on it now faded to a rusty brown; some ragged strips of paper, probably receipts from then-recent purchases; his dark brown shoes, mottled with dirt and dust. He fought back the memories, both of that night and from many of the days before, when Juarez had still been alive and young and . . .

Hartnett lifted a pair of small packets. There were nearly identical except for the details on the label adhered to each one. Each contained flakes of what appeared to be rust or paint of a similar color. Hartnett knew them to be blood samples from the crime scene, long since nearly dried to dust. Holding them up toward one of the lights, he studied them, even knowing that they would reveal nothing to him through his unaided eyes. He was aware of Chung watching him curiously.

“Juarez?” Hartnett asked.

“Probably,” Chung replied with a shrug. “You can check the tag.”

Hartnett squinted at the label, but, as he had expected, it told him nothing useful. Picking up a patched-up field scanner from one of the nearby benches, he switched it on and ran the beam over the label. The scanner’s small display lit up with tiny lines of data.

Hartnett shook his head. “Not Juarez,” he said, speaking more to himself than Juarez. “Possibly from the ones who got him, though.”

He frowned as he continued to read the short stream of data.

“These were never entered into evidence,” he said, looking up at Chung. “Do you know why?”

“I just collect the samples,” Chung replied, trying unsuccessfully to mask his annoyance with an attempt at light humor. “It’s up to the labs upstairs to process them.”

Hartnett sighed and then nodded. He was not going to get anything else useful from down here.

“Can I borrow these?” He wiggled the two packets slightly in the air.

Chung answered with another shrug. “It’s fine with me. I doubt anyone else’ll be looking for them any time soon.”

Hartnett slipped the packets into his side pocket. “Thanks,” he said, somewhat distractedly. “You can put the rest back.”

He turned and headed toward the stairs. Behind him, Chung shook his head in perplexed bemusement and began sealing the container.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Dr. Hansen.

Walter felt a curious swell of relief at being able to identify a name with a face.

He turned his head to find an older man with graying hair studying him intently.

Professor Raynes.

Seeing Raynes there put him both at ease and on alert at the same time. Walter could not recall many occasions when the professor had looked so concerned and serious. Trying to open his mouth to ask, he found that it felt as though it were stuck together with mucilage. It felt dry as well, but he could not figure out how he would swallow the water even if he were given any.

“Vital signs stable,” Hansen reported. “Pulse still slightly elevated. Electric potential still higher than normal—for him.”

“How high?” Raynes asked.

Hansen checked one of the displays before answering.

“Well below discharge levels.”

Raynes looked visibly relieved. He gingerly placed a hand on Walter’s arm. When nothing untoward happened, he gripped it a little more firmly.

“Welcome back, Walter.”

He smiled and then released Walter’s arm. Walter barely felt the contact. He tried to return the smile, but had no idea whether or not he succeeded. Briefly, he had a mental image of his lips pulling back in a death-like rictus. He blinked it rapidly away, silently praying that his real expression had not mimicked it.

Raynes’ reaction was neutral. He patted Walter’s arm and looked toward Hansen. Walter felt better, although he wondered whether he had managed to form any expression at all.

Welcome back?

The import of Raynes’ words suddenly struck him. He was in the infirmary now, not in the professor’s cozy little parlor. That meant . . . that meant something had gone wrong during the hypnosis—very badly wrong. He felt a knot form as he considered that the professor had not simply been being polite upon his return from his hypnotic state.

He tried to remember what he had seen then, but the images that he was certain had been so clear just minutes before were now jumbled and fading. Each one he tried to grasp dissolved like mist in his mind.

Maybe I need another round of hypnosis to remember what I saw under hypnosis?

The notion made his head want to spin again. It did not, but Walter was not certain whether that was because of his improving mental state—or his own strength of will.

“I want to keep him under observation for the next several hours,” Hansen said.

Walter assumed that he was speaking to Raynes. He turned his head to look. As he did so, though, he found that he was growing increasing tired and, once again, having difficulty focusing. His anxiety must have showed, for Raynes moved back into his field of vision and smiled reassuringly.

“That’s just the sedative,” Raynes told him calmly. “You’ll be fine.”

The sedative?

But hadn’t they given him one before . . . before he had . . . done something.

Walter closed his eyes and drifted quickly into a dreamless sleep.

Heroic Measures (continued)

His back rested on something solid, but he knew that had not stopped moving. Shapes still flashed past the edges of his vision. They seemed to be gaining clarity, but not enough to provide him with any recognition of his environment.

Movement around him slowed. It shifted again in sharp, sudden motions and then stabilized. The small dot of light danced across his eyes once more, but its brightness felt less acute, less painful.

“Monitors,” a voice said. It might have been the same one as before. He could not tell over through ensuing clatter. “Fifteen cee cee’s of . . .”

Walter could not make out the syllables that followed over the renewed racket. He was not certain he would have comprehended them if he had. Hands touched him again. The contact felt like sandpaper against his skin, but it was a distant sensation, as if he were dozing off as it happened. The sting against his upper arm he felt distinctly. He turned his head to look, realizing with faint surprise that it now seemed willing to obey his instructions.

He saw a syringe being removed and looked quickly away. His neck and shoulder muscles cooperated that time as well. Someone dressed in a medical gown had their back to him, turning to adjust whatever equipment was connected to the wires attached to his body. Walter felt a sudden swell of panic.

It faded almost as quickly as it formed. The features of the room around him took on recognizable forms, but he still found it difficult to remain focused on any one item, any one thought.

Drugged? The needle . . .

He expected to fall asleep at any moment, forced by whatever was in the injection to lose consciousness. Although determined to fight it off, Walter closed his eyes, railing silently at himself for not being stronger.

A moment later, he opened his eyes. He realized then that it had been only a moment or two later. The room has detail now. He recognized it as one of the private treatment rooms in the base infirmary.

Uh oh. The private one. Did I pick up some kind of plague?

The assistant to his left turned, gave him a quick glance, and then looked toward someone on Walter’s other side.

“Doctor . . .”

Walter turned his head again to follow the medical assistant’s gaze. An older, dark-skinned man stood there, reading from a tablet in his hand.

Heroic Measures (continued)

“Walter . . .”

How do they know my name?

He turned his head in the direction from where he thought he heard his name being called. The world spun again, but the kaleidoscopic lights were not as bright.

“Walter . . .”

The sound of his name was a snake-like hiss. He tried to remember . . .

“Walter . . .”

He had felt this way before. Not exactly the same, but it felt a lot like . . .

A searing orange-white blast seared his mind. Everywhere, his skin tingled, but it was unlike any similar sensation he had ever experienced. The light faded, becoming the hue of a bare incandescent bulb. It dimmed to a smoldering wash of gray. Darkness formed at the edges, moving inward to consume his vision. The voices, barely audible before, crested in pitch and sharpness, but he still could not understand them. As they diminished once more, consumed by the darkness, he was certain that he still heard his name.

“Walter . . .”

The sound of it was like a whisper carried on a breeze: there for a moment, and then carried away until it could longer be heard.

#

Light flashed across Walter’s eyes again, but it was only uncomfortable, not painfully bright. It seemed to change location, moving across his vision like the pendulum arm of a metronome. Sounds grew more distinct. He definitely heard voices from somewhere very close by. His name was mentioned, clearly, more than once.

He blinked, realizing that his eyes were closed. The light shrank to a distinct bright dot. It passed in a tight arc across the path of his vision. He closed his eyes again as the light shone directly in his pupils, and then reopened them when it seemed the light had passed.

“He’s come back,” he heard someone say. The voice seemed familiar, but Walter could not, at that moment, assign a name to it.

“Walter.”

There was no denying the relief carried in that voice. A face came into view. He tried to focus on it, but his eyes refused to fully obey his wishes. Walter thought he saw a look of deep concern on it, but it moved away before he could be certain. Another one replaced it. This one had slightly darker skin seemed . . . older. It remained in place a little longer before it, too, moved out of Walter’s view.

Walter tried to turn his head to follow it, but it felt as though the muscles in his neck and shoulders had become disconnected from the nerves that drove them.

“I want him in the infirmary now,” a harsh, slightly accented voice said from somewhere on his left.

“No,” it sounded again, responding to some unheard query. “Your questions can wait.”

Blurs of movement surrounded him. Walter thought perhaps the darkness would take him again. Instead, there were distant sensations of what might have been rough movement. The world around him did shift and turn, but not in the swirling way it had done before.

“Quickly, quickly,” the voice came again.

Walter’s surroundings moved again, but in what appeared to be a steady stream in a single direction.

Am I falling?

It did not feel like any falling he had ever done.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter studied the window pane again. It remained as dark and black as before. His gaze traveled along its frame, but found nothing out of the ordinary there but a few flecks of peeling paint.

Where had that light come from then?

Turning around, he surveyed the wall opposite the door. There was nothing remarkable about it either: simply bricks, mortar, and dust. Other than for the lack of a door, it was nearly an exact twin of its opposite side. If the light had come from there, and then been reflected off the windows, Walter could not find where it might have originated from. Looking skyward, he searched for another possible source of the strange glow: a streetlight, rooftop lamp, or even the moon. He found nothing.

He had just begun to turn back when light blossomed in his mind. The world spun like a lightning-bright kaleidoscope and he stumbled—or thought he had. He could not tell whether it was the world that spun, himself, or both.

After that, his memories of those next moments grew increasingly fragmented. His vision was like staring through shattered glass. He found himself unable to focus, confused over the passage of times. Only seconds might have passed before he regained any steady sense of himself, although it could as easily have been several minutes.

Walter sagged against the wall. He managed to remain on his feet, grateful for the thick layer of his uniform between him and the masonry wall. Nasty scrapes along his arms and legs would have been his reward otherwise.

His vision cleared, although it took him several moments to be certain that it had. Everything around him remained as dark as it had been before. The occasional gray-green spot floated across his vision, but he recognized those for what they were: lingering artifacts from having temporarily been blinded.

Blinded by what?

He heard voices again. They were more distinct than before, or at least closer. He still could not quite make out the words and wondered if they might be in some foreign tongue. They swirled just in and out of his awareness, eluding him when he tried to focus on them.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Even with the flashlight, the shifting shadows played tricks with his depth perception. The shape of the door seemed to shift location. He gave half-serious consideration to the notion that someone was toying with him, randomly warping the distance between himself and the doorway.

Suddenly, he found himself in front of it. He breathed a soft sigh of relief when he saw that he held the beam of the flashlight pointing downward and not up, pointing at the window. He switched off the flashlight, but held his finger on the activation switch, and tried to peer into the window.

It seemed to be opaque. The darkness behind the window appeared solid, as it had been heavily tinted or painted over. That struck Walter as odd.

Why have a window there, if you aren’t going to use it?

He supposed that there could be some kind of blind there as well, drawn only at night. It did not seem to look right for that. He thought that he would be able to make out the texture of the fabric beyond the window. Unless it was pressed right up against the glass, there would be a least a small gap where any reflected light might show through—and he was certain that he had seen something glowing from where this door was.

There was nothing there now. Silently praying that the glass was not rigged a touch sensor for the alarm system, Walter gingerly pressed his fingertips against the glass. If it was warmer than it should have been, he could not detect it through his gloves. Whatever had caused that glow had apparently not generated much heat, or had not been active long enough to leave any behind.

He removed his fingers from the glass and studied the black pane of glass again. He could just barely make out the outline of his reflection in it. If he had not known it was him, he would not have been able to identify himself in it. At least, he really hoped that it was him, and not someone else staring out at him from the dark interior.

Heroic Measures (continued)

The faint yellowish-white glow returned. It seemed to shift and pulse, as if it were underwater.

A strange place for a window, Walter thought to himself. Unless you really enjoy the view of brick walls.

It then occurred to him it might not be just a window. It was perfectly logical for a door that led into that alleyway to have a window in it. Despite its questionable view, there were several good reasons why someone might want one.

The dim glow had faded. Walter raised the flashlight again. Very slowly, he moved its beam along the wall. He paused several times, not wanting to accidentally shine it into the presumed window and alert whoever might be inside to his presence.

He found the door after a few more minutes of careful and methodical searching. It appeared to be metal and slightly wider than most doors Walter had seen.

For deliveries, maybe?

Walter looked at each entrance to the alleyway and decided that it was too narrow for a delivery truck of any significant size makes it was through. He turned back and aimed the flashlight toward the door again. It took him a moment to find it, but there it was. From where he stood, he could not tell whether or not it had a lock, but he guessed that it almost certainly would have one. The only way to know for sure, he decided, was to take a closer look at it himself.

He stepped into the alleyway, slowing occasionally to see what lie ahead in his path. While he had not seen any rats or other rodents scurry away under the beam of the flashlight, that did not mean that they were not there. He really wanted to avoid stepping on one and killing it. Or, even worse yet, one that had not been alive for some time. Even the notion of such an encounter made him feel queasy.

There was plenty of debris underfoot to provide one with cover. Some of the stacks, consisting of what appeared to be crushed cardboard boxes, were large enough to house entire nurseries of the critters. That did not bring Walter much in the way of comfort either.

Heroic Measures (continued)

He placed his hand against the bricks that lined the right edge of the window frame. He felt nothing, but was not particularly surprised by that. It was not unreasonable to expect that whatever force causing the window to vibrate might not be strong enough to disturb the masonry adjacent to it.

Walter removed his hand from the wall and studied the dust now sprinkled across the surface of his glove. There seemed to be nothing special about it. None of its grains sparkled or glowed mysteriously. They were ordinary dark specks. He brushed them away and looked up along the edge of the building. From what he could tell, this window appeared to be the only one affected by the unknown, if barely noticeable, force. Had it been just a bit darker, or he had not been slightly more alert because the mysterious sound, he probably would not have noticed it.

Slowly, keeping a steady eye on the building, he moved toward the next set of windows. Neither of them appeared to vibrate as the fifth one had. This section of the building also seemed . . . quieter, although he could not recall noticing an audible sound near the fifth window.

Maybe something subsonic? Or too muted to be heard, but powerful enough to be felt?

The second explanation did not make rational sense to him, but Walter had seen enough probable things as a hero that he refused to immediately any possibility. He also knew that he was hardly an expert on that subject, as his degree barely touched on that area of physics.

He reached the end of the building and peered into the narrow alleyway that separated it from the upholstery shop. It was unlit and completely dark. The small amount of light at its opening came from what was reflected from the street outside.

Walter was about to turn away when he caught sight of a faint glow coming from a location just past the middle of the alley and about halfway up the building wall, about where a window would be. It faded quickly and Walter was not entirely sure that it had not been a spot dancing in his eyes, a result of his still-present fatigue. He blinked, squeezed his eyelids closed until they began to tear, blinked again, and then stared into the alleyway once more.

Nothing.

All he saw was the same black emptiness that he had seen before. Still, his curiosity would not release its hold on him. Almost without realizing it, he slid the small flashlight from his belt and activated its beam. He aimed down the middle of the alleyway and then played it along the two opposite walls. Other than for cobwebs and some small bits of scattered debris, he saw nothing of any particular interest.

Walter turned off the flashlight and began to slide it back into its loop on his belt. Had he been looking down, instead of ahead into the renewed darkness, he might have missed it.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter peered into the night. He saw no signs of the movement. The only sounds came from traffic on the surrounding streets. After waiting several seconds to be certain that was all he heard, he took a deep breath and then started down the twin steps. A moment later, he froze.

There it is again.

He looked upward to find that silhouetted leaves of the tree above were almost completely still.

Okay . . . so it’s not the wind.

Once again, the faint sound had been so brief that he had no idea where it might have come from. Turning slowly, he surveyed the street again, paying particular attention to the windows and dark alcoves of the doorways. He saw nothing unusual and bowed his head wearily.

I’m too tired for this . . .

Swinging his head slowly in an attempt to shake away some of his fatigue, Walter stepped back onto the sidewalk. He paused, looked both ways down the street again, and then moved off in the direction that headed toward home. It would take him past one of the two warehouses.

The least I can do is check it out as I go by.

With that silent promise, Walter began walking down the street.

When he reached the first of the warehouse windows, he slowed his pace and tried to glance inside. The windows were dark and so heavily layered with grime that he had no desire to try to rub some of it away. He continued on past the second and third windows with similar results, with the exception that someone had, not very recently, traced a vulgar suggestion involving someone named “Tracy” into the thick dust.

The fourth window provided as little insight into the warehouse’s interior as had the previous ones. For a moment, Walter thought he saw the faint flicker of light inside, and then realized that it was a reflection of the light from across the street. He passed the fifth window almost without a glance, but then stopped when he thought he saw light from within the warehouse again.

It was not a reflection again, as he first thought. Instead, it came from the movement of the glass. It appeared to be vibrating slightly, just enough to make the panes seem to shimmer. Walter placed his fingertips, and then his palm against one of the panes. He could tell nothing for certain, though, through the thick material of his gloves.

He stepped back and studied the other windows again. As far as he could tell in the dark evening, none of the other windows were vibrating in the same way. Whatever was causing movement of the glass within this particular windows seemed to be localized to the end of the building.

Walter looked around for an entrance, but saw none. There were two additional windows ahead of him on this side of the warehouse, before the building ended at a narrow alleyway. Beyond that was an upholstery store that also advertised used furniture. Probably stuff people never paid for or picked up, Walter guessed, before turning his attention back to the mystery of the vibrating window.

Heroic Measures (continued)

It did not sound quite like gunfire, but he knew his training under Harrison and Westin that a combination of strange acoustics and a silencer could easily confuse his auditory sense. Still, it was something out of the ordinary. His curiosity won out over his fatigue—but just barely.

It’s on the way home anyway, he reasoned. It was mostly true, even if investigating the noise did take him two blocks over from the more straightforward route to his house.

His path took him through a neighborhood on Cass that he did not recognize. He had heard of it, of course, but he could not recall having spent any time here. It was, in many ways, the archetypical example of “nondescript” surroundings. A few small businesses were present on either side of the street. All of these were closed and dark. There were also two medium-sized warehouses, each located at opposite ends of the street. Walter could not tell whether either had been abandoned. Neither one of them had that feel, but with no lights on in their interior, it was difficult for him to tell for certain.

On the corner, were Cass met Traynor, there was a drugstore that had definitely been abandoned. The windows were covered with thick layers of grime and dust, although curiously enough, none of them appeared to have been broken.

Its main entrance actually opened diagonally onto the corner. Two curved brick and concrete steps led to a deep exterior foyer that ended at the single front door. Walter crouched in its deep shadows there, grateful to have a space large enough to crouch comfortably, his back supported by the masonry wall. He waited there, listening, but the sound was not repeated.

A few times, Walter thought he heard voices. They were little more than ghostly echoes, though, so he could not be certain that it was not just the breeze passing through the sycamore trees.

After several minutes of this, and an increasing concern that he might nod off right there in the storefront alcove like a vagrant, Walter listened hard one last time and began to rise to his feet. He was only halfway out of his crouch when he heard it.

He froze, listening again. It had not been the same sound, but definitely the sound of something. This time, also, he was certain that he heard faint voices. They did not seem to be whispering. Instead, they appeared to be distant, or else muffled by the layer of brick and masonry that fashioned the exterior of most of the buildings on this block.

Heroic Measures (continued)

He had been with Vivian and a hero he had never met before who went by the name of Gorgon. Walter thought he had heard that his real name was George, but he was not certain whether that was accurate, nor whether that had been his first name, last name, or both. The three of them had been assigned by Harrison and Westin to disrupt a planned skirmish between two fiercely rival street gangs.

“Normally”, Harrison had told them, “I’d just let them beat each other’s brains out and clean up the mess later. Less fuss all around, and fewer of them for us to deal with later.”

“This time, though,” he had gone on, “they’ve decided to play their games near a dense neighborhood of families. The City’s had enough of young kids becoming collateral damage in these little turf wars.”

Walter found it difficult to disagree. He had seen young children caught, literally, in the crossfire of these conflicts too many times. Even though many months had passed now, he still had too vivid of memories of a young child, not quite three years old, dying in Vivian’s arms as she all too quickly bled to death. A ricocheting shot had blown a quarter-sized hole in the young girl’s skull. There had been nothing anything of them could do. They had learned who had fired that particular bullet. Walter, later, determined that was probably for the best, as he was certain that not even he would have demonstrated much restraint in apprehending them.

The heroes had been outmatched and outgunned. During the initial standoff, Walter and Vivian had wondered aloud what Harrison had been thinking in sending only the three of them. Gorgon just looked grim. For Walter could tell at the time, that seemed to be his usual expression. Even Kenniston, with his actual stone face, was easier to read.

Walter had never been sure if it had been a miscalculation on someone on the council’s part, but the trio’s arrival had quickly turned from an imminent rival turf war into an ambush against the heroes. Attempting to take down their common enemy, it turned out, had been of greater interest than whatever the original goal of the conflict had been.

More than once since, Walter wondered sourly if that had been Harrison’s intention all along.

It would have been nice to warn us . . .

Things began to look very ugly very fast. Iron-Clad arrived soon after, summoned by Vivian, and matters suddenly became very much settled in the heroes’ favor very quickly.

By the end of it, there had been no serious casualties. Nearly all of the members of both gangs had been arrested, with a large number of those needing a detour by the hospital first. Recovery might not be particularly painful for most of them, but it was likely to take a while.

“It’s real tough to hold a knife or a gun with your hand in a cast,” Iron-Clad had rumbled through his helmet.

Walter felt sorry for those gang members who had experienced close encounters with Iron-Clad’s hammer—but only a little.

Heroic Measures (continued)

“Walter?”

Raynes’ voice interrupted the flow of his thoughts without diverting it completely.

“How are you feeling?”

Walter considered this for only moment. “Fine,” he said. “Sleepy . . . a little.”

“That’s very good,” Raynes responded softly. “Are you experiencing any pain or discomfort?”

Walter conducted a quick mental inspection of his body. Nope, he decided, nothing felt uncomfortable. He felt mildly drowsy, though. It felt something like the feeling he got on a warm summer afternoon, and yet was not like that at all.

“Walter?”

He blinked, and then realized that he must not have answered the question aloud.

“Yes,” he replied, and then considered that he might have answered it wrong. “No,” he said, starting again. “No pain.”

“Good,” Raynes said.

Was that relief in his voice?

“Okay, Walter,” Raynes told him. “We’re going to get started now.”

“Okay.”

Walter was pretty sure that he had actually spoken aloud that time. When a few seconds passed and Raynes did not prompt him again, he felt more certain.

“Walter,” Raynes began, “I need you to think back to that night at the Promenade.”

Walter thought back to that night. He tried to form the image of it with his thoughts. The scene built itself slowly, like an online photograph resolving itself to maximum resolution. Suddenly, it was sharp there in his mind. Every detail felt strangely acute.

“I’m there . . .” Walter whispered.

“Tell me what you see.”

#

Seven weeks earlier . . .

Walter moved through the streets, trying to stay to the shadows. It was not so much that he was seeking concealment in the hopes of a capturing a criminal, as it was that he was exhausted and simply did want to be noticed. The thought that some elderly citizen might see him and ask that he help rescue their cat from a tree, or express a few firm words with their noisy neighbors upstairs, was almost too much for him to bear.

Some nights, he pondered tiredly, being a hero’s not all it’s cracked up to be.

He was tired, and his feet hurt. His boots, while stylish and highly protective, they also needed much better arch supports. Even without looking at his watch, he knew that it was probably long past time since Abigail had gone to bed. There would be no loving foot massage tonight; he was on his own.

Just before reaching the corner at Third and Cavanaugh, he paused in the cover of a deep doorway and rested for a moment.

No wonder so many of the heroes are so young. I’m only in my twenties and look at me. I can’t even imagine being . . .

His weary musings were interrupted by a sharp metallic echo. The sound faded quickly and was gone. He lifted his head, trying to remember which direction it had seemed to come from. The noise might have been nothing of import; his intuition was telling him otherwise.

Emerald Flight: Star Wing

- 1 -

Captain Christine Devereux was bored. It would never do for her to allow her crew to know it, but she was certain that many of them shared her state of mind.

There are only so many drills you can run, and so much maintenance you can do, but they realize you’re just looking for ways to fill the time.

She, herself, had spent more than three straight hours completing administrative paperwork that, despite having Elizabeth as her Executive Officer now, she knew that only she could do. It was repetitive, mind-numbing, and she had reached the limit of her tolerance for it for the time being.

One of the advantages of being the Captain, and ostensibly on duty twenty-four hours a day, was that she could leave the ship in command of another senior officer and leave the bridge during her scheduled shift hours. As she well knew, she was always just an intercom call away.

Devereux rose from her chair. “Lieutenant Hawkes,” called her to Tactical Officer. “You have the bridge.”

“Yes, Captain.”

His acknowledgement was sharp and immediate. Devereux wondered, not for the first time, whether the man ever got bored or tired.

He’s an android, she thought, again not for the first time. I know it.

“I’ll be in my quarters,” she added, moving away from the command station. “And then Cargo Hold One.”

Hawkes nodded. Devereux could almost see him mentally calculating the approximate times when she would arrive in each location. Fighting an urge to shake her head with bemusement, she left the bridge.

Twenty-three minutes later she was in the ship’s makeshift gymnasium. Although it had been tempting to just remain in her cabin, she reasoned that heading to the gymnasium as she had planned had three distinct advantages: it was something to do, it would force her to get some exercise, and it would get her away from the personnel reports for a while.

The intercom chimed a little more than halfway through her fourth mile on the treadmill. Hawkes’ faintly accented voice came over the speaker.

“Captain, this is the bridge.”

Without slowing, she reached over and tapped the control on the bulkhead in front of her.

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

This had better be good. If he’s just calling to report a drop in the drill response times, I’ll have him on sanitation maintenance for a month.

“Captain,” Hawkes replied. “Our long-range sensors are picking up a series of small objects to starboard just at the range of our instruments.”

Is it my imagination? Or is there a hint of excitement in that man’s voice?

“Asteroids?”

“Impossible to confirm at this distance, Captain.”

“How long will we be in range?”

There was a brief pause before Hawkes answered. Devereux guessed that he was checking with Pyrafox at the helm or Elizabeth at the main Science station.

“Approximately twenty-two minutes.”

Devereux considered this for a moment. Something currently just at the range of their sensors would mean a significant change in their course heading. Still, she thought, they could make up the time easily, if necessary.

It’s not as though anyone is expecting us to be anywhere any time soon.

“Maintain current course and speed for now,” she ordered them. “I’m on my way.”

She took a cautious sniff of herself as she stopped the treadmill and jumped from the platform. While her personal aroma could hardly be mistaken for a field of flowers, she did not believe that it would be overwhelmingly offensive. In any case, there was not enough time to shower and make it to the bridge in twenty-two minutes.

When she arrived on the bridge, she found Hawkes standing near the helm console. The left of the three main bridge displays showed a computer-enhanced image of the data being captured by the starboard long-range sensor array.

“Still no better guess?” she asked as she moved toward them.

She saw Pyrafox’s vulpine nose wrinkle as she approached. She offered him a silent apology.

“No, Captain,” Hawkes reported. “But there is definitely mass of some kind out there.”

“Nothing on any the charts?”

“No, sir,” the helmsman responded. “But this area has only been very lightly explored.”

Devereux frowned, trying to make sense out of the false-color images on the screen. Nothing about it looked familiar to her, nor was her intuition screaming for attention. It niggled at her faintly, but then it often did that whenever they encountered anything new and unknown.

“Helm,” Devereux announced. “Change our course to intercept.”

“Aye, Captain,” Pyrafox responded.

His fingers danced over his console. Devereux was certain that she heard the faint click-click of his claws as they moved across its surface.

“Course change completed, Captain.”

“ETA?”

“We should be within nominal sensor range in eighty-six minutes,” Hawkes reported.

There was an audible sniff from the direction of the helm station. Devereux managed to suppress most of a smile.

“Lieutenant Hawkes,” she said, turning to the Tactical Officer. “You have the bridge—again. I’ll be back shortly.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Devereux turned and headed for the main hatchway that led off the bridge. She was not certain, but she thought she heard Pyrafox breathe a faint sigh of relief at her departure.

I’ll remember that the next time we’re caught in a rainstorm on some distant planet, Lieutenant, Devereux thought with wry amusement. Once out in the corridor, she permitted herself a quiet chuckle as she headed back to her quarters.

Heroic Measures (continued)

There was a long moment of silence.

“Is that it?” Walter finally asked. “Are we done?”

Raynes’ eyebrows rose slightly, clearly surprised by Walter’s question. He glanced over at Dr. Hansen and then back at Walter.

“Actually, Walter,” he said, sounding a bit sheepish, Walter realized, “we hadn’t quite started yet.”

Walter felt a cold knot in stomach.

“Then . . .” he swallowed hard. “Then what was that?”

”That,” Raynes repeated with emphasis, “is a good question.” He studied Walter for moment. “I assume it was a flashback to your days in the hospital after your . . . incident, something that happened there that being here reminded you of.”

Walter nodded slowly. “It was,” he said. “From when they tried to test me and . . .” he swallowed hard against the resurgence of the memories.

Raynes reached over and patted Walter’s arm. “It’s okay,” he told Walter. “We don’t need to go there right now.” Watching Walter’s eyes, he asked, “Do you still feel up to finishing this?”

Walter nodded with only the slightest hesitation. He was not about to let Raynes down. Besides, he had to know.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe it’d be a good idea to let Dr. Hansen administer that sedative?” Raynes suggested without any hint of coercion. “It’s entirely your choice, though.”

Walter glanced toward the polished tray and then looked away.

“Yeah,” he agreed with a sigh. “Maybe we’d better.”

He closed his eyes tight as he saw Dr. Hansen reach for the tray and waited to feel the prick of the needle in his arm. In his personal darkness, nothing threatened him but his own fears. He almost had not dared to close his eyes, afraid that he might once more find himself inside the bright white chamber, but he feared the needle more than he feared returning to that room.

Forcing himself to take deep, controlled breaths, Walter felt Dr. Hansen swab alcohol on his arm. Its cooling effect spread quickly and, as it turned out, was the most discomfort Walter experienced.

For a moment, and it seemed to him that several of them had passed, Walter began to wonder if there was a problem, or if Dr. Hansen was waiting for just the right moment to inject him. He had no understanding of these things, so his imagination was more than happy to fill in the blanks for him.

“All set,” Walter heard Dr. Hansen say.

He opened his eyes cautiously. The physician was turning away to return the syringe to its place on the tray.

Dr. Hansen turned back to Walter and checked a spot on his arm.

Probably where he injected me.

The twinge he felt then Walter knew was almost certainly imaginary.

“Just relax,” Dr. Hansen said. “It’ll be a few minutes before it takes effect.”

Walter did as he was told and settled back in the chair. He tried to relax, attempting to focus on anything besides what was going on inside this room. It took some effort, but he finally managed to begin filling his mind with other images: the hot fudge sundae he was going to treat himself to when this ordeal was over, the annoying indicator light that kept turning green on his dashboard that the mechanics could not recreate, Abigail in that pale green summer dress with the . . .

Heroic Measures (continued)

As Raynes and Dr. Hansen prepared him for the hypnosis session, Walter experienced an increasing sense of unease. It was only through a great deal of willpower, along with occasional glances at Rachel’s well-formed figure, which prevented him from descending completely into panic. He did not quite understand why it was affecting him so deeply.

Raynes had explained the procedure to him.

“Walter,” Raynes said quietly. “All I need you to do is just sit back, relax, and focus on my voice.”

There really was nothing to it. All Walter needed to do after that was to answer the questions posed to him. Everyone else had to do all the hard work.

The professor had promised him that they would use the mild sedative that Dr. Hansen had prepared only if it became absolutely necessary. It would only be used if they were unable to get him into, as the professor had stated it, “a proper receptive state”. Walter could not decide whether he was more nervous about the effects of the sedative itself, or the needle that would be used to deliver it. Fortunately, Dr. Hansen laid it on a small polished metal tray, along with a handful of other items, out of Walter’s view.

It was the not the sight of the tray itself, but the metallic echo it made when Dr. Hansen placed it on the short table, that triggered Walter’s memories—and explained for him the reason for his growing sense of dread.

For a moment, the comfortable, if dimly lit, office was replaced by a sterile white and chrome chamber. The lights were too bright and there were wires—wires running his body to large pieces of equipment that were programmed to . . .

“Hold it!” Raynes’ voice intruded into his vision. And then, a bit more quietly, “Not yet.”

The blinding light faded and, along with it, the stark white walls of the chamber. Walter was once more back in the office, its lighting still dimmed.

Where they done? Was the hypnosis over?

The experience had not been anything at all like what Walter had expected.

“Walter,” Raynes asked. “Where were you?”

“In the room under the hospital.”

“Which hospital?”

“The one,” Walter answered slowly, trying to recall its name. “The one after the accident.”

Raynes nodded and whispered something Walter could not hear to Rachel. She made a note on her tablet.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Raynes closed the folder in front of him. “All right everything, we’ve all got things to do.” As people began to rise from their seats and leave, he spoke again, “Walter, can you please stay a moment?”

Walter lowered himself back into the chair. A hollow sensation began to fill the space in his stomach. He waited silently while the others left, glancing occasionally in Raynes’ direction, but never quite meeting his eyes. Curious glances were passed his way, but he ignored them all. Red tapped him on the shoulder as he passed, giving him a quick wink before exiting.

After checking to be sure that everyone had gone and the door was closed, Raynes turned back to Walter.

“I’m sorry about that, Walter.”

Walter stared back at him, puzzled. It was not Raynes fault. If anything, the man had defended him in front the other heroes. Walter felt it should be he, not Raynes who should be asking for forgiveness.

“It’s okay,” Walter responded, somewhat tentatively.

Raynes stacked the other folders neatly in front of him.

“I know you’re a bit nervous about the hypnosis procedure tomorrow,” he said to Walter.

He spoke very matter-of-factly, not even attempting a smile to reassure Walter. Walter took this as a sign that Raynes was taking the situation very seriously.

Does he think that I might really be a spy?

“Rest assured,” Raynes continued, “that the room will be secured and the only people present will be yourself, myself to ask questions, Rachel to take notes, and Dr. Hansen to monitor your physical responses.”

It still sounded like a crowd to Walter, but he felt much more reassured knowing. He trusted Raynes and Rachel completely. Anything he might blurt out while under hypnosis he knew they would keep under the strictest confidence. As for Dr. Hansen, Walter trusted him too.

It’s just that he has the bedside manner of, well . . . a desert cactus.

“I appreciate that, sir,” Walter said. “Thank you.”

This time Raynes did offer him a smile. It actually made Walter feel better than all the words Raynes had spoken to him.

Raynes nodded once. “Of course.” He lifted the stack of folders. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Raynes rose and exited the conference room, leaving Walter alone.

Walter stared at the closed door for several long moments before rising himself. Raynes had done a great deal to help settle his fears . . . except for one.

What if it turns out that I am a spy?

Heroic Measures (continued)

Although he only caught Harrison doing so, Walter was certain that everyone else in the room was now casting furtive, suspicious glances in his direction. Walter wondered whether he should resign—or at least asked to be removed from the active roster until the matter was settled.

“In the meantime,” Raynes continued, “Walter will remain on active status until a substantiated reason is provided that warrants other action.”

Both Harrison and Westin looked displayed. Walter was certain that he say similar reactions from one or two of the others as well.

Harrison rose. “Are you insane?”

Raynes stared back mildly.

“Letting a possible spy and saboteur walk around free?”

“By that logic,” Sen offered calmly, “anyone of us might be suspect.”

“Then test everyone!” Harrison shouted.

Raynes regarded him evenly. “I intend to,” he replied. Walter was not quite certain, but he thought he read the faint hint of a rebuke in the professor’s tone. “As soon as possible—and practical.”

His gaze remained on Harrison.

“In the meantime,” Raynes went on, “I will not restrict the freedom of a member of this team until there is verifiable evidence that we should do so. Not, Mr. Harrison,” he added, “based on solely on suspicion.”

Harrison blew out a breath in frustration. He dropped back down into his seat.

“For the time being,” Raynes concluded, “we will place the critical and sensitive areas of the building under full security lockdown status until this matter is resolved. Mr. Westin, please see to it.”

Westin and Harrison exchanged a quick glance. Walter could read no meaning in it, but it signified something.

But who will watch the watchers? he wondered.

As quickly as the question arose in his mind, he shoved it away. Down that path led to a paranoid madness that he simply did not want to deal with. He glanced over at Red who, despite the unsettling news that they had all just received, was sitting very calmly in his chair. Nothing in his friend’s expression betrayed the least bit of grave concern. When Red turned toward him and flashed him a quick smile, Walter found that reassuring and began to relax—just a little.

Heroic Measures (continued)

“I wish I had better news,” Raynes began, looking sincerely unhappy. It was not an expression Walter show often on the professor.

Using the moment to gather his thoughts again before continuing, Raynes activated the projection system above the conference table.

“Based on what we know now,” he went on, “they may have been operating underground for many, many years—possibly even decades.

A series of data charts appeared on the displays.

“It’s not clear what their ultimate goal is,” Raynes said. “Until recently, they’ve stayed mostly off the radar, engaging in activities that normally wouldn’t have attracted notice on an individual basis.”

“What changed?” Red asked.

“Our best guess,” Raynes replied, “is that Sapphire Knight’s accidental appearance,“ he gave Walter a quick wink, “at the Promenade disturbed something crucial to their plans.”

“Like what?”” Westin asked.

“We don’t know,” Raynes conceded gracefully.

“What?” Harrison cried out incredulously. He glared hard at Walter. “You don’t know what you saw there?”

Walter unconsciously backed away at Harrison’s outburst. Before he could speak to defend himself, though, Raynes interjected himself.

“Walter submitted a complete report.” He fixed his gaze on Harrison. “There’s nothing it provides that’s an obvious clue.”

“What about un-obvious ones?” Harrison countered. His eyes glanced at Walter and then back at Raynes. “Did you try hypnosis? Drugs? We have interrogation—“

“Walter,” Raynes interrupted, “has consented to controlled hypnosis in attempt to bring forth any details he might have missed.” He took a slow breath and looked at Walter apologetically. “It might also reveal that he has been tampered with.”

“A mole?” Westin gasped. His eyes turned toward Walter in a suspicious gaze.

“That’s what we hope to find out,” Raynes replied.

Walter looked at Raynes in disbelief. The professor had not told him this yet. He then remembered Grant’s description of sleeper agents and felt a chill journey down his spine. Although the idea of going under hypnosis completely terrified him, he was now even more motivated to get it over with.

I don’t feel like a spy. But then I wouldn’t, would I?

Those silent questions brought him down the logical path to the next one.

What if I am?

Heroic Measures (continued)

“Dark Matter forces have assembled at two keys areas in city: Archer Park and Kirk Avenue, near the university.”

Archer Park, Walter knew, was in the part of downtown that included the main Civic Center. It was far from City Hall, though, which he found odd.

“What we don’t know,” Harrison continued, “is how they assembled in those locations so quickly, and without being noticed until it was too late.”

Although Sen said nothing, Walter noticed the oriental man’s expression become grim.

“We’ll divide up into four teams,” Harrison said. “Combine Charlie and Delta teams from our original five.”

Nods of understanding passed around the table. Now that the action had started, Walter could see that there was little doubt that Harrison was in command. Things might have been had Raynes been present, or he might have deferred to Harrison for his military experience and expertise. There was no way of knowing since Raynes’ location was still unknown.

Did the enemy have him? Walter wondered.

“Alfa team to Archer Park,” Harrison instructed them, activating the holographic map display of the city. “Bravo to Kirk Avenue.” Two dots began blinking on the map. “Charlie/Delta, I want you on patrol. Recon the entire city. I want to make sure we aren’t missing something else. Echo Team remains here to oversee operations.”

Walter had to think for a moment to remember which team he had been assigned to. He had not given it a lot of attention, believing it to be one of Harrison’s paranoid preparations

Harrison paused to survey the faces around him. “Are those orders clear?”

There were universal nods of understanding from around the room.

Harrison nodded in return. “I want real-time status updates. Don’t wait, no matter how trivial you think it might be. Got it?”

Nods answered him from around the table.

“Move out.”

Harrison remained standing. A buzz of anxious conversation filled the room and then faded into silence as everyone filed out. Walter was one of the last to leave, trying to make his way through the throng to catch up with Red. Reaching the doorway, he paused. Turning back to look at Harrison, he saw the nearly blank expression on the large man’s face. He did not look scared, he appeared . . . Walter was not certain. Numb?

Walter could not imagine Harrison being frightened, much less be willing to admit or show it. He wondered, though, whether Harrison had ever really wanted to be in charge.

Well, whether he did or not, the crisis is here at hand.

As the door closed behind him, Walter said a silent prayer for Harrison . . . and for all of them.

Heroic Measures (continued)

“We’re not ready!” Westin insisted, interrupting Walter’s memory of that conversation.

Any responses were interrupted by a loud, trumpet-like blare. It was Harrison who reacted first, staring down at the conference table in startled disbelief. It took a moment for Walter to realize it, but he was staring at his phone. The military-sounding fanfare sounded again before Harrison picked it up. Even as he did so, it looked to Walter as though Harrison would have preferred to being handling a venomous snake.

“Harrison.” His tone was all business, although, Walter thought, curiously flat.

His face played through a parade of expressions, all of them held tightly in rein.

“I understand,” Harrison finally said.

Walter noticed that Harrison’s eyes were unfocused as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the call, clearly processing whatever information he had just received. With a slow, deliberate movement he closed his phone and placed it carefully on the table in front of him.

His expression was as close to utter shock as Walter could ever remember it being. He swallowed noticeably before he addressed the others at the table.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. His voice was a hoarse semblance of its normal self. “It would appear,” he said, “that we are at war.”

Stunned silence was ended by an immediate uproar. Nearly everyone spoke at once, demanding answers to their questions. In the vocal tumult that followed, Walter could not be certain who was asking what.

Harrison raised his hand for silence. Everyone’s eyes turned to him, but their voices did not go silent. Harrison was calling for quiet, but no one heeded him. Several of the council members had their own phones out, desperately trying to gather more information from their own contacts.

It was Grant who finally put an end to the commotion. He raised both fists and slammed them down against the top of the conference table. Walter was certain he heard both wood and granite crack. The echo that followed brought a wave of a quiet in its wake.

Several members looked at Grant in amazement, and then turned back toward Harrison, who seized the opportunity to speak while he still had it.

Heroic Measures (continued)

“We don’t have enough intel!” Harrison shouted.

“We’ll never have enough intel,” Red countered. “You know as well as I do that no plan, no matter how good it is, survives first contact with the enemy.”

Walter thought he had heard that phrase somewhere before, but could not place where. He guessed that it might have been from some history class, sometime, mostly likely when he was paying much less attention than he should have.

“Be that as it may,” Westin countered. “If we don’t go in there with as complete of knowledge as possible concerning their facilities and personnel, then we might as well just march up to them now and get the slaughter over with.”

Vivian and Red almost rolled their eyes in unison at Westin’s dramatic delivery.

“The longer we wait,” Red insisted, “the more entrenched they’ll be. They’ll be better prepared and more likely to have further compromised our ranks.”

Walter nodded. He shared Red’s concern in that regard. Although they believed that they had purged themselves of all enemy operatives, Walter suspected some still remained among them. Harrison had even gone so far as to suggest that there might even be “sleeper agents” among the ranks of the heroes.

He had asked Red what those were, but it was Grant, surprisingly, who answered him.

“Deep cover agents,” he said. Seeing Walter’s questioning look, he went on. “Operatives prepared so they no longer remember their original identities,” he explained. “Through hypnosis, psychoactive drugs . . . other techniques.”

Walter guessed from the large man’s expression that Grant had some personal experiences related to this.

“They’re programmed to ‘wake up’ when a code phrase, or something other trigger, is used.” Grant continued. “That’s what makes them so hard to detect. The trigger can be anything from a code word, a date, musical notes, an odor . . . almost anything can be used.”

For the next several days, Walter had studied every member of the council and staff he encountered, wondering if they might be such an operative, embedded by their enemies. Additional gathered intelligence might give them the answer to that question, but the odds were against it.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter said beside Benny’s bedside. He noticed with surprise that his son’s face had started to spout noticeable stubble. He did not remembering reading anything about that in the daily report from the care center.

He’s becoming a young man.

Walter sighed.

One trapped . . . wherever it is that he is.

Even with Isabel’s purported insight, he had never allowed himself to give up hope that somehow, someday, his son would find himself free from whatever imprisoned his consciousness.

Walter took his son’s hand, as he had so many times before. It was clean and the fingernails were neatly trimmed. Walter made a mental note to leave a note and some other small gesture of his gratitude. He suspected that Isabel might have something to do with it; the staff feared her in some not entirely inexplicable way. He was still grateful.

“Son,” Walter said softly, gently rubbing his son’s fingers with his thumb. “Something’s about to happen.”

He stared out toward the window, seeing the sunlight, but not the world outside.

How do I explain this to him?

“There are good things in the world, Benny,” Walter said quietly, but loud enough that he thought his son could hear him. “And there are bad ones.”

He took a slow breath, trying to gather his thoughts as much for his own sake as to find the right words to explain it to his son.

“I’ve always tried to be on the side of the good things, Benny. Truly I have. I don’t know if I’ve always succeeded, but I tried.”

Walter’s eyes traveled to the television set mounted high on the wall. On its screen, muted, were scenes from one of the cable news channels. From Walter could tell, it looked like yet more trouble from one of the countries in the Middle East.

See what I mean?

He looked back at the comatose figure of his son.

Maybe you’re the lucky one . . .

He did not really believe it; he never had. What his son had was not a life. It was little more than an existence. But he did live and, for Walter, that had always been enough.

“Sometimes,” Walter began again, “when bad things happens, good people have to do whatever it takes to keep the bad things from winning.”

He swallowed against a sudden hard lump in his throat.

“Son,” Walter said. “I might not be back again. If that happens, I need you to know that I love you and that, however it ends, I did what I could to try to make it a better world for you and your brother.”

Walter realized that tears were streaming from his eyes. Instead of wiping them away, he let them fall. They might be the last ones he ever shed.

He knew that Benny would be taken care of. Both Raynes and Isabel had promised him that. That neither of them might survive the ongoing onslaught was something Walter refused to consider.

Benny’s ongoing care would be more than sufficiently funded. It would last until he eventually died of some natural cause. A portion of the remainder had been pledged as a donation to this institution; the majority remainder to an organization that performed research into brain injuries similar the one Benny had suffered.

Walter squeezed his son’s hand gently and then placed it back at his side.

“I need to go now, son,” he said quietly.

He rose and placed a light kiss on his son’s forehead. For a long moment, he stared down at Benny, wishing he had more to say, but there were just not any more words.

Finally wiping the tears from his cheeks, he turned and left the room without looking back.

Heroic Measures (continued)

“That’s enough!”

Sudden silence once again fell across the conference room. Heads turned now to stare at Red.

Walter had not known that his friend’s voice could carry like that. He certainly had provocation enough, Walter conceded.

Red took a long, deep, trembling breath, trying to regain some measure of self-control. Everyone present at the table gave him that moment, casting only the quickest of glances at the other colleagues at the table to see how they were reacting to the outburst.

“Our friend here in the metal armor is right,” Red said in light and quiet tone that everyone there knew was forced. Walter had never before seen his friend so agitated.

“Friend,” Red repeated. “Colleague. Comrade-in-arms. And arms we’re going to need.” He took another long breath. He appeared calmer, more in genuine control now. “And cool heads. Or, as our lead-lined companion here has said: we are doomed.” He emphasized the last three words with a short breath between each one.

Red paused to let that sink in. It really was not all that different from what Grant had said just a few minutes before, Walter realized, but the force with which Red delivered the same message seemed to have the desired effect.

Embarrassed murmurs wavered along the table. Even Uriana appeared to be mildly abashed.

That takes some doing, Walter thought.

“There are three things we need to do,” Red stated, clearly more in control of himself now. “First, we need to determine the location of Dr. Raynes. It’s possible, although unlikely, that our enemy has him.”

Uneasy looks crossed several of the expressions around the table. It was a notion that Walter barely dared to entertain himself, dismissing it immediately as a symptom of the burgeoning sense of paranoia growing among the members present in the conference room.

“Second,” Red continued, “we need a solid tactical plan.” His eyes went to Harrison. “Whatever personal issues I might have with Mr. Harrison,” he admitted, “he is the best one among us to provide that.”

There were reluctant nods all around the table. Uriana scowled, but eventually nodded her agreement as well.

A long pause followed.

“What’s the third thing?” Grant finally asked.

“Lunch,” Red replied mildly. “I don’t think well on an empty stomach.”

Heroic Measures (continued)

“I’m certain that Rachel must know where she is,” Walter offered.

Nods of agreement appeared around the conference table. An equal number of uncertain looks joined them.

“Then I suggest that one of us ask her,” Red persisted.

At first, no one moved. When several seconds passed, still none of the others at the table took action, Red blew out a loud sigh of disgust and reached into his pocket. It came out empty and he scowled, almost sneering in frustration.

“Walt,” he said, taking a slow breath. “Give me your phone, please.”

Walter removed it from his pocket and passed it over to Red. Red stared down at his palm and then back at Walter. It was a basic, old-style cellular phone. Walter tried not to blush. He knew that almost all of the other heroes had switched to so-called “smart” phones, but he had not been convinced of the need for such a complex device—much less spending that much to own one.

Red shook his head slightly and then flipped open the phone. He tapped Rachel’s contact number into the keypad and held the phone up to his ear. While he waited, he glared at various faces throughout the room.

A few moments later, Walter watched his friend exercise a great deal of control as he lowered the phone from his ear. Walter had the impression that he would have preferred to have slammed it down on the tabletop.

“There’s no answer.”

“Why didn’t you leave a message?” Grant asked.

Walter barely managed to suppress a chuckle at the look Red granted the large, dark-skinned man.

“I don’t know what this is all about,” Uriana announced.

Heads turned. She had everyone’s undivided attention.

Her gaze turned toward Westin. Her eyes narrowed and her expression turned to stone.

“It’s you,” she said, starting to rise from her chair. Her voice was low, heavy with implied threats. “You’re doing this so you can take over.”

A shocked silence filled the conference room. Westin looked at Uriana as if she had gone mad. His eyes widened as she left her chair and began to approach him. If his reaction was a carefully calculated one, Walter thought, it had been cleverly planned.

Heroic Measures (continued)

“Our numbers are about evenly matched,” Walker said.

“But they won’t play fair,” Harrison countered. “They don’t care what happens to any civilians along the way.”

“When has that been a problem for you, Harrison,” Red asked the man, giving him only the slightest glance. It was said without rancor, but carried the weight of truth.

“We can’t,” Harrison insisted. “Not if we want to win.” He leaned forward, eyeing those around the table who had opposed his recommendation. “If we don’t win,” he said, his voice low and heavy with insinuation, “then everyone else loses.”

An uncomfortable quiet fell over the meeting room. Walter suspected that the others, like himself, were considering just how far they were each willing to go in order to win the impending battle. It was a question that, until now, Walter had managed to defer. Being a hero, he knew, set him up to make moral choices, but the impact of a wrong one did not usually have such wide-ranging consequences.

“We haven’t lost yet,” Grant said.

His voice, although not loud, carried across the room. Everyone present turned their heads in his direction. He had their full attention. That he spoke at all surprised Walter. Despite his unquestioned abilities as a member of a team on the street, he rarely took part in discussions of council policy. To Walter, he was the epitome of the “strong, silent type”.

“But if we are not united as one, we might as well surrender the fight now.”

While his words offered no solutions, it did, Walter realized, put what was perhaps their key problem into focus. If the heroes were not of one mind behind a single plan, even if it ultimately turned out to be the wrong one, they had little of defeating their greatest enemy.

“It is so,” Sen agreed softly.

Harrison glanced quickly around the room. Walter thought he saw the reflection of a trapped animal behind those eyes. He wondered if anyone else saw it. Westin looked uncertain, his gaze darting between Harrison and certain other members of the council, as if silently pleading for guidance and support. Walter tried to track who at the table he looked toward, but the man’s eyes moved too quickly for him to follow with any sense of confidence.

“What about Dr. Raynes?” Walter asked.

Uriana shook her head. “Nothing yet,” she replied. “There’s been no sign of him since he adjourned the council meeting last week.”

“And that doesn’t disturb anyone?” Red blurted out. “Raynes goes missing for a week and no one thinks that’s worthy of concern?”

There were a series of glances around the table. It was certainly unusual, although Raynes had deliberately dropped out of sight before. Walter found it difficult to swallow, though, that he might do it at such time of grave crisis. The implication was then that someone, acting alone or as a member of a small conspiracy had purposely redirected any inquiries into Raynes’ whereabouts. In some ways, it was almost a more troubling issue than the larger one they all faced.

Heroic Measures (continued)

“We have to assume that the entire Cabinet has been compromised,” Westin said.

Harrison nodded in vigorous agreement. He gnawed absently on a thick unlit cigar. Walter could not understand how he did. They smelled bad enough when lit, but to purposely chew on one? He looked away, turned his attention back to the discussion at the head of the table.

“If that’s the case,” Walker mused aloud. “Then we have to assume that any intel that we received from those sources is suspect as well.”

Several of the others at the table nodded their agreement.

“That puts quite a different spin on things,” Red interjected. “Since we don’t know who or what information we can trust.”

Raynes looked grim. It was an expression that Walter had rarely seen on the professor’s face. That meant the situation were serious indeed.

“There could even be agents among us,” Westin announced.

His gaze swept the others in the room. People around the table cast uncertain glances at their colleagues. Even Walter began to wonder which of the people there might be the one who might betray them all.

“Not anyone in this room,” Raynes stated with a confident firmness that Walter found immediately reassuring. “But,” he amended with far less conviction, “it’s possible that there is one—or more—within the organization.”

“That could make it most difficult,” Sen offered quietly.

Raynes nodded.

“If even a hint gets out that we might be onto them,” Red said. “They might go deeper into hiding . . . or worse.”

“Exactly,” Raynes agreed.

“What are we waiting for, then?” Harrison growled impatiently. “Let’s lock the place down and start a search.”

“Subtle, Raleigh,” Red remarked with obvious sarcasm. “Subtle.”

“For now,” Raynes said. “We do nothing.”

Harrison opened his mouth to retort. Raynes held up a hand to forestall the protest.

“Now that we know what we’re looking for,” he went on, “I’m going to have the security and access logs analyzed for any suspicious activity. If their agents are good, then suspect we won’t find any, but I want to be thorough.”

“For the time being,” Raynes said, his gaze sweeping across those present around the table. “This stays within this room.

“That’s it?” Harrison finally exploded. “We just sit around and wait?”

Raynes met his glare with a steady one of his own. “You will take no action until you hear from me.” He waited for Harrison to look away before addressing the others again. “I have an idea, but need to confirm a few things,” he said. “I’ll contact you when I’m ready.”

Uneasy glances were exchanged around the table, but nothing more was said.

Raynes nodded firmly, gathered his things, and left the conference room.

Walter watched him leave. As the noise level increased around him, he wondered whether coming out retirement really had been such a good idea.