Heroic Measures (continued)

He was swiftly caught up in the chaos. He was able to fend off all but the most determined of the dark-clad beings by generating a recurring electrical field around his body. Unless they slipped in during the few moments when the barrier was recharging, most were either repelled or stunned by the charge.

A handful of them got through, but Walter was able to dispatch all but one of them with a bolt directed somewhere in the direction of their chests. The one who actually managed to get a hold of him fared far worse than his fellows, for he caught the full force of the charge as it left Walter’s body. From the force in which it was ejected from him, Walter guessed that a protective pulse must have fired at the same instant. He doubted that particular assailant would be rising again any time soon.

Once freed from his immediate attackers, Walter alternated firing his bolts between distracting the figures attacking the heroes and the swopping and aircraft. One of the latter spun almost directly downward, smashing down toward the edge of the crowd. Walter silently prayed that no one had been hurt as a result, but that prayer was the only thing he could spare before the next wave of enemies attacked.

It was clear to him that the heroes were outnumbered. While their dark-clad adversaries did not appear to be particularly shrewd in combat, it became clear that they were neither foolish nor stupid. More than a rudimentary intelligence was present in their skulls—assuming that was, indeed, where their brains were kept. He witnessed little in the way of strategic assaults; most of it appeared to be barely directed aggression. Effective, he noted, but not particularly efficient.

I guess you can do that when you have overwhelming numbers, he mused sourly as he incapacitated another one of the enemy beings.

He was growing tired. His previous exertion and stress, combined with his current adrenaline-fueled activity, were taking their toll. Each new blast required more and more effort. Even with the charged atmosphere around him, he found it increasingly difficult to generate an effective charge. His need rest—and soon—something that his enemies did not appear to require.

Okay, that’s just a bit cliché, he decided, using only the lagging physical strength of his arm to knock aside his next assailant.

A sudden hush fell over the mob. It felt like one of those awkward silences that can occur during a party, when all conversations reach a natural pause at once, but extended to a far greater scale. It was undeniably eerie and Walter felt cold sweat trickle down along his spine. Even the dark-clad figures remained still.

Walter looked up. The swarms of the aircraft, for the first time that evening, appeared to gather in a recognizable formation: all pointed in the direction of the crowd. They hovered there in position, as if staring down the heroes to see how might blink first.

The heroes did—after a fashion.

“Withdraw!” Westin’s voice screamed in Walter’s headset. “Withdraw! Regroup at Grid Del—“

The rest of the orders were drowned out by cries of confusion and frustration from both sides. Heroes attempted to push past the hordes and dark beings, a few of them deciding to dispatch as many of them as possible as they did so. Walter restrained himself in that regard, but did feel a warm tingle of satisfaction when he was forced to immobilize one who persisted in blocking his path.

He followed the crowd, assuming that at least some of them heard Westin’s orders fully. The interference had returned, creating a steady hiss like a deflating playground ball in Walter’s ears. Above him, the craft approached, picking up speed as they came. Even before they passed overheard, Walter felt the white-hot agony begin to return.

Staggering onward, almost completely blinded by the intense illumination in his mind, he had no idea whether he stumbled over fellow heroes and dark-dressed enemies. It was all he could do to keep moving, to not drop to his knees and surrender to the pain.

A flash of bright red pierced through his awareness. He tried to focus on it, but his eyes kept darting away, unable to fix themselves on that single location.

Red?

Unable to see the figure as more than a wavering blur, Walter could not tell.

“Walt?”

The volce, faint but familiar, penetrated the bright haze in his mind. Now, he was certain.

Walter turned in the direction of the sound, convincing his eyes to at least remain on the red-shaded blur rather than on a particular spot on it. It came nearer, until it nearly filled his field of vision. A hand rested on his shoulder, although he could barely feel it.

“Walt,” Red said again. His voice sounded flat.

Walter tried to manage a smile, not at all certain whether or not he had managed to accomplish the feat.

“Here,” Red offered. His voice sounded distant, but clear.

Red reached over and adjusted something on Walter’s headset. The haze began to fade from his mind. It was still present, but it seemed translucent now. He could make out shapes more clearly now, but few details. That it was Red’s face mere inches from his, though, he had no doubt. His friend smiled and Walter instantly felt much better.

“It’s not much,” Red said, frowning unhappily. “But it seemed to help some people some.”

Walter nodded.

Red’s relaxed a bit, but only slightly.

“Where’s Vivian?” Walter asked, surprised at how faint and hoarse his voice sounded.

Red’s head rose and he nodded toward the far end of the retreating crowd.

“Over there,” he said. “She’s fine.”

He looked Walter over for the first time.

“Better than you, I think.” His frown returned. “What happened?”

Walter shook his head, lacking either the energy or desire to recount the tale right then. Red looked as he if might persist, but then nodded and then Walter’s arm.

“Let’s get you out of here too.”

Heroic Measures (continued)

A hero dressed in vermillion, and trailing an immense cape, struggled against two of the dark figures. He was holding his own, it appeared to Walter, but just barely. It was a matter of whose strength faltered first. Walter saw another duo of aircraft turn and start their approach. He glanced back down at the beleaguered hero and, without consciously thinking about it, made his decision.

His arc caught one of the black-clad figures directly in the middle of its back. It froze, its spine—or whatever passed for one—curving backward as the wave of current immobilized it. A few moments later, it dropped to the ground like a severed tree branch, but continuing twitching uncontrollably.

Freed from a dual attack, the vermillion-clad hero made quick work of the other figure. His fist came up in what looked to Walter like a nasty uppercut. He then grabbed the stunned begin and sent him skidding like an oversized stone across several puddles before smashing against brick and iron patio fronting an Italian delicatessen. It remained still after that, as its companion now did.

Walter hurriedly raised his arm again and managed to release a bolt that caught the starboard wing of the aircraft on his left. It was enough, though, to cause the small craft to swerve, clipping its companion’s wing. The two craft collided, seemed unable to untangle themselves, and smashed into one of the top three stories of a law corporation building. Despite his distaste for most lawyers, Walter hoped there had been no one inside. Fortunately, unlike in the movies, neither of the craft exploded and Walter began to wonder what exactly they used for fuel. He turned his gaze forward once more.

The vermillion-clad hero offered Walter a grateful salute. Its mouth moved in what Walter interpreted as an expression of gratitude, but was unable to hear it due to the distance and the rain. Walter raised his hand to wave, but the hero turned, his cape flowing in a highly dramatic fashion, and dashed in the direction of the main fray. Walter stared after him dumbly for a moment before realizing that he probably resembled an idiot standing there in the rain with his mouth hanging open.

He spied a hero dressed in a bright red outfit, fighting about three layers deep in the mob.

“Red!” he shouted, waving his arm frantically overhead.

He grunted with frustration, realizing that his voice could barely carry past the sound of the rain and thunder, much less through whatever din was present in the midst of that chaotic jumble of combatants. The red-clad figure disappeared from view and, for a moment, Walter feared that he had been defeated by his assailants. He felt light-headed with relief when, long moments later, the hero reappeared further down in the crowd.

It might not even be Red.

The only way to know for certain, Walter knew, was to charge in there himself.

“I’m getting too old for this”, he remarked in a whisper to no one in particular.

His feet, though, disregarded the comment and sent him running toward the melee.

Heroic Measures (continued)

As he ran, Walter had visions of carnage and mayhem. Although there had been no indications that any of the three dead heroes he had found had died violently, his mind conjured up images that graphically filled in the gaps about their fates. Events continued in his head, moving to the scene of what he would find ahead: friends and colleagues dying one by one, slaughtered by the dark forces of their enemy.

As it was, he heard the sounds long before he recognized them for what they were. The scenes being played out in his thoughts had blotted out nearly everything else around him. He moved automatically, somehow avoiding the worst of the obstacles in his path. It was not until the noises ahead became louder than those in his head that he once again became aware of where he was.

Figures swarmed in a swirling mass of color up ahead. Intermingled with them were dark-suited figured emblazoned with iridescent symbols that Walter could not identify. There was no doubt in Walter’s mind which side was which.

Overhead flew the batwing aircraft. They swooped down in long, gliding strafing runs. Yet, as far as Walter could tell, they fired no weapons, dropped no munitions—they simply . . . flew. He knew that there must be something more to their tactics than that, but was still too far away to tell what it might be.

A hero clad in dark violet hues struggled against two of the dark-suited figures. He managed to repel one, knocking it away with sharp, thrusting kick. In that exposed moment, though, its companion leapt in, brandishing a weapon that Walter had never seen before. It appeared to be some strange cross between a scimitar and a whip. Whatever it was, the hero clutched at his chest, falling to the sodden ground with a silent grimace of pain.

Without thinking, Walter raised his arm and let loose with a bolt. His aim was slightly off, but close enough that it arced toward the creature, attracted by some metal element in its weapon. The creature spun, trapped by the current dispersing through the water at its feet, and then dropped like a weight to the rain-soaked asphalt. None of the other creatures appeared to notice and Walter charged forward.

He made about a half a dozen strides before two of the aircraft altered their courses and, as a synchronized pair, dove in his direction. Walter watched them, ready to roll aside when they attacked. Agony filled his mind as they approached and he dropped to his knees, his hands clenched into fists, reaching for his temples.

A blinding red rage filled him. Both of his arms shot outward. Two broad bands of blue-white charges leapt upward. Each struck one of the aircraft, creating a bright nimbus that danced along their surfaces. The crackling glow quick faded and both craft continued their descent, skidding along the street behind Walter, one of them plowing through an empty bistro patio, before they crashed to a halt against the façade of a downtown boutique. Mannequins toppled down through the shattered windows, landing in grotesque arrays across the hulls of the fallen aircraft, creating a scene that, if they had been real human beings, would have been devastating.

Heroic Measures (continued)

He shook the water from it, immediately wishing he had not, fearing that some might leak inside and short out it components. Its lights continued to glow and he breathed a soft sigh of relief. Lifting one of the earpieces to his ear, he thought he could hear something beyond the signal hiss, but it was too faint to be intelligible.

Starting to swear under his breath, he noticed that the volume had been turned almost completely down. Awkward in his wet gloves, he managed to adjust it. Raising the headset again, he winced, nearly dropping it, as a blast of sound assaulted him. More carefully this time, he lowered the volume and placed the headset against his ear again.

“. . . regroup . . . Grid . . . nine . . .”

“. . . surrounded . . . cut off . . . air support . . .”

Walter glanced toward the sky at this. Nearly all of the bat-like aircraft had disappeared from overhead. The few he could still see all seemed to be heading in the same direction: toward the area of the city’s administrative center.

“. . . damn it, we need . . . get back . . . cover . . .”

“. . . medical . . . needed . . . Alpha Eight . . .”

Walter tried to remember if anyone he knew had been assigned to Grid Alpha Eight. No names or faces immediately came to mind and he tried to determine where it might be in relation to his current position. He considered pulling out his GPS, but felt he was already moving in generally the right direction. Unless his memory was failing him, turning right on the next cross street would send him almost directly to the city center. To get there, he would need to cross through a park and small historical cemetery. He normally skirted the latter, particularly at night.

I’ll just try not to think about it . . .

Walter felt the knot form in his stomach anyway.

He snapped the headset into place over his hood, making a slight adjustment to the fit.

Wow, he had a small head.

Walter felt a small twinge of guilt at speaking—well, thinking—ill of the dead. He also tried not to think about the fact that it had been fastened around a dead man’s head just a short time ago.

“. . . Grid Gamma . . . cover . . . pinned down by . . .”

“. . . Two . . . down . . . where the hell is . . .”

Walter broke into a run. The voices coming over the headset were sounding, even through the interference, more and more desperate. He had already found three dead heroes; he had no intention of joining their ranks alone.

#

Walter traveled three more blocks, beginning to feel significantly winded, when he heard muffled sounds past his headset. The voices coming over it were also sounding clearer, with more complete sentences being audible past the lessening interference.

“Grids Alpha Nine through Twelve regroup . . . Grid Alpha Four”

“Grid Beta Four, medical assistance on its way, but delayed.

The instructions being issued from Westin’s team at the institute sounded firm and in control. Walter felt somewhat reassured, but still wanted to know what was happening across the rest of the city. He tapped the transmitter control, sending the recognition signal.

“Fever,” a voice sounded in his ear. “We’d lost contact with you. Do you have a report?”

Walter breathed a silent sigh. Fever . . . that was Ignacio Florenza’s alternate identity. Walter remembered his passionate celebration of his cultural roots, right down to the energetic dances of his ancestral country. Rumor had it that he had never actually set foot there, but that did little to temper his enthusiasm.

“This is . . . Sapphire Knight,” Walter reported. “Fever is . . .” it took effort for Walter to finish past the solid lump in his throat, “. . . dead.”

There was a brief pause before the voice returned.

“Acknowledged,” it said. “What is your position?”

“Seventh and Juno,” Walter replied. “I . . . don’t know what Grid that is.”

There was a long delay before the voice spoke directly to him again. Walter could hear distant conversations in the background, but caught no more than a dozen disconnected words.

“Proceed along Seventh until you reach McGrath. That will bring you to Grid Beta Eight. Join the team assembling there and await instructions.”

Walter stared down the indicated street. All he saw was more darkness and rain.

“Understood.”

“Be safe, Sapphire Knight.”

“I’ll do my best,” Walter murmured, and broke once more into a trot through the puddles.

Heroic Measures (continued)

He increased his pace, but still pausing to inspect the doorways that he encountered. The rain fell in erratic waves: slowing almost to a mist at times, and then pouring as if angels were dumping buckets from heaven. The variety did nothing to improve Walter’s mood, or to help dampen his growing unease. He peered ahead through the drizzle, trying to judge how much further it was before he reached the next street corner.

Nearly at the far intersection, he spied two figures huddled together under what appeared to be a bus stop shelter.

Probably transients, he thought glumly. Not smart enough to find real shelter somewhere.

From where he stood, he could make out no details; there were simply silhouettes against the backdrop of the night. He then regretted his silent assessment. Whoever it was, they might have no idea that all bus service had been suspended until the crisis—whatever it turned out to be—was over. Walter broke into a jog, heedless of the puddles underfoot now, relieved to see another living being out on the streets.

He stopped abruptly when he reached the overhang, grateful for the small respite that the narrow space gave him from the rain. He felt as if he had been out in the storm for hours—which, he realized, he actually had been. Turning to address the huddled figures, he froze, feeling a chill trickle along his spine that had nothing to do with the weather.

Each of the two figures was dressed in a dark outfit: one in black and the other in a deep crimson so dark it almost appeared black. Neither of them were homeless transients. Both appeared to be dead.

Walter recognized the one in the deep red outfit, but did not know her name. The other hero he could not remember ever meeting before now. His head craned backward, exposing his throat. The muscles of his jaw were slack, his mouth open, just like the first hero he had found. The woman, whose long strands of wet hair matched her outfit, had her face pressed into the shoulder of the dead male hero. Walter did not touch her, suspecting that he would find the same.

Again, he could find no obvious injuries. Nothing about their posture suggested a quick death from a suddenly snapped neck or vertebrate. Walter glanced around, but, as before, he suspected that he find nothing to tell him what had happened here.

He looked back at the two corpses. The woman appeared to have lost her headset. It might have fallen beneath her, Walter considered, but he did not want to move her body. Her companion’s headset, fortunately, appeared to be intact. Walter carefully slid it from around the man’s head, trying very hard not to think about the fact that his fingers, even separated by his gloves, was touching a dead man’s flesh.

Turning in his hands, he saw that the power and signal indicators were both light. It still had power and was capable of at least receiving signals. If nothing else, even if he could not report in, he might be able to find out what was going on.

Heroic Measures (continued)

He glanced up at the street sign, making a note of his location. Although he was unable to report in now, he wanted to remember where he was, so that he could tell someone later. He turned back toward the sodden form of the dead hero, bowed his head, and said a silent prayer. It helped a little, to bring some peace after finding the body. Walter was surprised to find that it provided him with some inner strength as well.

Turning his back on the doorway, Walter surveyed the empty streets once more.

How big were the grids again? About two blocks each?

He tried to remember what little he had seen of the map. An area of two blocks seemed about right, particularly given the size of the city and the small number of heroes available to be deployed. Moving either north or east should bring him in contact with another team.

Walter realized then that this man had been alone.

Where was his partner? Dead somewhere around here too? Or had he run off like lizard-boy did to me?

He looked around the street again, but the shadows revealed nothing. If the dead hero’s partner was anywhere nearby, Walter saw no obvious sign of their presence. He considered searching the other doorways, but noted that there were any number of other nooks and alcoves. It could take him hours to complete the search in this weather—and it might accomplish nothing. Meanwhile, his friends might be in the core of whatever battle might be taking place.

Watching rain drip onto the street, he decided on a compromise: he would continue on his planned path, but would check all of the doorways that he passed along the way. It would slow him down, but it also eased his conscience. Besides, he told himself, once he found someone else, they could signal for a more effective search. Plus, he realized, they would know who they were looking for.

Walter stepped once again into the rain. It seemed to have let up slightly, but that just have been him moving away from more distinct sounds of the water dripping from the building eaves. As he made his way along the sidewalks, he pointed his flashlight into the doorways as he passed. None of the shadows faded to reveal anything more than occasional clumps of sodden debris.

Thunder echoed overhead. He glanced upward automatically, before he could tell his instincts that he had already missed the lightning.

It seems to be moving off.

His head did feel just a bit clearer since he had moved away from the taller buildings. A dull ache and haze still resided in his mind, but he was finding it easier to ignore it. He made his way through the streets, beginning to wonder if he was travelling in circles, or was lost in a part of the city that he originally thought he had recognized, but was a different neighborhood entirely. Without a headset to follow the reports of the other heroes, he felt surprisingly alone and vulnerable.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter made it down the block, trying to avoid any more of the large puddles. That turned out to be more of a challenge than he originally would have thought. It had been pouring steadily, so there had been little chance for the rain water to drain off. Skirting some of the larger ones made his progress along the street slower than he would have liked—and it did not completely avoid Walter occasionally finding himself ankle-deep in a small pool of standing water.

He made it about halfway down the block when he spied something huddled in one of the doors. At first, he thought it might have been that stray animal taking shelter from the storm, but realized as he got closer that the shape was entirely wrong.

Oh great. Probably some homeless person . . .

Homeless and transient citizens were not a major problem for the city, but they did exist. Most of them, once identified, were taken to either shelter or hospitals that could care for them. Occasionally, though, new ones arrived or existing ones managed to escape detection or, as much as he hesitated to use the term, capture.

Walter approached carefully, ignoring the rain now. Whoever it was, they were probably not dangerous—at least not enough that he could not subdue them with a quick jolt. He hated to do it and silently hoped that it would not be necessary.

As came nearer, though, a chill traveled along his spine that had nothing to do with the weather. The figure was not huddled, as he had first thought. It was sprawled, as if it had collapsed suddenly on the trio of steps that led to the building’s door.

Walter slowed almost to a stop, studying the still form. It was impossible to tell in the dark whether or not it was breathing. Walter hesitated and then leaned closer. Lightning flashed overhead, briefly bathing the alcove in faint illumination. It was enough, though.

His body frozen with surprise, although he wanted to stumble backward, Walter stared at the once-again dark figure. Although he could not recall the man’s name immediately, Walter recognized the face from one of the heroes in the gymnasium. Its eyes rolled upward, exposing nearly all of their whites. The mouth hung slack and open. His body rested limply across the steps, as if it no longer contained any bones.

Walter leaned closer, noting the jagged metallic stripes along the sleeves and legs of the dead man’s outfit. He did not recognize the design. Walter looked the hero’s body over, without actually touching it, for signs of injury. He found none, but admitted to himself that it was difficult to tell in the rain. Walter wondered how long the man had been lying there.

He turned, remaining in a protective crouch, and surveyed the immediate area. He saw nothing but dark windows and rolling dark clouds. The silhouetted shapes of the aircraft passed overhead, but seemed no more interested in him than before. Whatever had killed this hero could still be in the area—or long gone. Walter could not tell. Some instinct told him that he was in no immediate danger.

Reaching down, he snapped the headset free of the man’s head. He felt a bit ghoulish doing so, but told himself firmly that the dead hero could no longer use it. It had a slightly different design than the one he had been issued, but the controls seemed to be the same. The left ear piece was smashed beyond hope of repair.

Probably when he fell, Walter told himself.

He lifted the other side to his ear. For a moment, he thought he heard it crackle with sound, but when he tried to listen more intently, it was silent. Probing at the controls produced no better results.

Probably shorted out in the rain.

Walter placed it gently down next to the dead man’s head. Turning, he surveyed the area again. Something had killed this man. He had trouble believing that the man had slipped and fallen in the rain. There was no point in looking for footprints: the rain had long since washed them away.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Facing down, away from the rain, he bolted toward the far street corner. He had made perhaps five strides before his foot came down firmly in a deep puddle. It sucked at his boot, but he managed to pull free with little effort. The other, even less pleasant, side effect was that it sent surge of water splashing up along his body. Most of it beaded off his suit’s waterproof surface. Some reached as far as his face.

Walter spat and coughed, nearly stumbling into the next puddle. He swore under his breath, spitting out what he hoped was the last of the foul-tasting water. After taking a quick look at the path ahead, he resumed his sprint, hoping to avoid any more of the wading pools.

He reached the other side of the street, pleasantly surprised to discover that a short awning shaded one of the windows there. It was not much, but it gave him small respite from the constant downpour. Wiping the water from his face, he took a look around.

This neighborhood was as dark and empty as the one he had just left. A bright flash illuminated the sky overhead, but it was several seconds before he heard the resulting thunder. The bat-like continued their passage across the sky, seeming undisturbed by either occurrence.

Walter saw that some of the buildings here had windows, but they all remained dark. He then wanted to slap himself when he realized why.

If the power’s out, then no wonder every window is dark. Idiot.

He tried blaming his slow recognition of the fact on the persistent haze in his mind. That rationalization made him feel a little better, but not entirely. Studying the windows now, he searched for the faint flow from a candle or flashlight. He saw none. Although he would have preferred to remain in the relative shelter provided by the awning, he knew that he needed to keep moving.

Looking up at the street sign, he tried to read it in the dark.

Was that McPherson?

That seemed right and, if it was, that told him that he was moving in the right direction. With a sigh, he stepped out from under the awning and into the rain.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Okay, so maybe nobody’s watching me after all . . .

He still could not shake the feeling, though, that he was being observed. Turning his eyes further upward, he saw dark shapes glide along the bottom of the steel-gray clouds. Whatever those aircraft were, they were still canvassing the skies of the city. They did not seem to be doing anything overtly aggressive. They were just . . . there.

Surveillance? Reconnaissance?

With the storm clouds masking the city from the sky, they would be a good alternative to images from orbiting satellites. Walter wondered if they were automated. It was difficult for him to believe that Dark Matter had that many followers that they could spare as pilots.

Unless they’re like clones or something . . .

He dismissed the idea immediately. Raynes would have warned them if he had thought that such a possibility existed. As far as Walter had heard, there had not yet been any successful cloning beyond the microorganism or organ level.

Turning his gaze toward the darkness of the street ahead of him, all he could see were the ripples from the raindrops in the ever-expanding puddles. They looked like scattered pools of oil. He could not help but stare at them, even though it gave him a strangely eerie feeling.

A few moments later, he managed to look away, looking once again into the distance.

Well, he told himself. I’m not accomplishing anything by just standing here.

With that, he headed off into rain.

#

Walter had already lost track of time; the darkness and rain were not helping. The blocks also seemed much longer as he fought his way through the rain. It helped—somewhat—to distract him from the continuing impact of the transmitters overhead. He was growing tired again and not certain how much longer he could manage to maintain his limited control over their effects.

The roads remained deserted. He still spied no one else as he surveyed the streets.

Thunder boomed overheard.

Whole battalions could hide in those . . .

He was not convinced that they actually were, but did begin to move more cautiously.

He reached Yeager and tried to remember which grid that street fell into. In his mental map, he knew that he was moving in the general direction of the institute building, but it would hardly be the straight line of flight that he had enjoyed on the helicopter ride.

Something darted from the shadows ahead. He froze, trying to make out its shape in the darkness. It was moving away from him. He caught another brief glimpse of it and saw that it loped through the rain on four legs.

Must be a loose dog or something . . .

Wolves and coyotes had been none of wander down from the foothills on occasion. It was unusual for them to do so in this kind of weather, but not unheard of.

Driven down by the thunder and lightning?

Walter remembered a beagle his family had owned when he was a young boy. In addition to leaving a trail of urine across the floor during thunderstorms, it would attempt to hide under beds, desks, or any other convenient piece of furniture. His father had not been particularly amused when they had been forced to lift a vintage stereo cabinet because the dog had gotten trapped beneath it during one of those incidents.

Whatever the creature had been, it did not seem to have been in any particular hurry. It had trotted easily across the intersection, not as if it were being chased or driven off. Walter decided to follow it, having no better idea of which way to head.

Preparing himself to dash across the street, he glanced upward. The bat-like aircraft were still gliding over the city. During his sprint across the four lanes of dark asphalt, he would be completely exposed in nearly all directions. So far, though, he had not seen the craft attack anything on the ground. He hoped that they did not elect to make an exception for him.

Heroic Measures (continued)

He took a moment to orient himself. Second Street was ahead, with Greene running perpendicular to it on the left. He had trouble remembering the one on other side, as it was an area of town that he rarely visited.

Porter? Hudson?

Not that it really mattered, he realized. Second was one of the main thoroughfares through the city, connecting to most of the important streets. He knew where he was; he just could not remember the name of the other street.

It must not be an important one, he finally decided, moving his thoughts to other matters.

Standing in the limited shelter provided by the eaves of the building, he tried again to remember how their grid system mapped to actual street locations. Knowing that his had been designated “Twenty-Three Gamma” did not help a whole lot, as he could not recall how the numbering scheme radiated out from there. The lingering haze in his mind did not help matters either.

Red had been sent to . . . Eighteen . . . Beta?

Walter shook his head, trying to clear it.

Was Grid Eighteen north or south from here? Or was that Beta?

He had no idea where Vivian had been assigned. Knowing Harrison, he probably would have kept most of the women—except maybe for Valerie—away from the direct front lines. Not that it mattered, for without the reports coming over his headset, he had no idea where the hot spots of conflict might be.

He paused in his thoughts to listen once more. He could hear little beyond the sounds of the rain. After a few moments, he realized what was missing. It was too quiet. There was not even the occasional reptilian hiss of vehicles driving through the water-soaked streets. The citizens of the city had been warned to remain inside or seek shelter. It seemed as though, for once, they had listened.

Despite their supposed absence, Walter could still feel eyes watching him. His skin tingled with the realization. He looked up, seeking windows or balconies, but could spot none on any of the buildings surrounding him.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter fell. He wondered if he . . .

His boot crunched against the ground. Pain shot up through his knees and then subsided almost immediately. He looked down, staring at the ground in numb surprise. He remained that way for several moments, as if expecting it to suddenly drop out from underneath him. It did not.

He looked up, but was unable to see the structure of the ladder above him. His head turned downward, his gaze fixing on his boots. A wave of embarrassment washed over the haze that persisted in his mind. He experienced a similar swell of relief that no one had been nearby to see his less-than-spectacular descent.

His legs felt as stiff as concrete, but his feet shifted along the loose surface of the pavement when he instructed them to move. That he also found reassuring.

Lightning cracked somewhere nearby, but not directly overhead. The brief interval before the thunder came, though, told him that it had struck within a few blocks of where he stood. The pain in his mind surged for a moment, and then slowly faded back to its previous level. Distancing himself from the transmitter by leaving the rooftop seemed to have lessened its impact on him.

He turned, located the glowing beam of the flashlight, and then headed toward it. Upon reaching it, he picked it up, noting that it had picked up several new scratches and small dents along the surface of its handle, but still appeared to be perfectly functional. He proved this by, while turning it around to inspect it, shining it directly into his eyes and temporarily blinding himself with a yellow-white glare.

Walter stood there, blinking in an attempt to clear his vision, mumbling curses at his own stupidity. Thunder sounded somewhere off in the eastern part of the city and he realized that he had missed the flash from the lightning because his eyes were otherwise occupied.

The brightness faded to a milky gray haze. He looked around, able to discern silhouetted outlines of objects near to him. Now that he had made it to the ground, though, he really had no idea what to do next. With his headset out of action, he could not receive updates on the situation in other parts of the city.

The area around him, he noticed, seemed to be unusually quiet. He heard the occasional rolling boom of thunder and the sounds of the rain as it dripped from the ledges and eaves of the buildings. There were no voices, though—nothing to indicate that he was other than alone.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Glancing upward, he recognized that his only other option was to climb back up to the rooftop and wait. He sagged against the ladder supports, certain that he lacked the strength to attempt it. Falling, he realized, required almost no effort at all.

It’s the landing that’s the hard part.

Walter rested his head against the vertical support, pleased to actually be able to feel the slick, cool metal against his forehead. He breathed deeply several times, almost sighs, summoning up the courage to complete his downward climb. Mostly, he found, he was simply tired and wanted this to be over with. He decided that he would figure out what to do once he was on the ground after he had actually gotten there.

Feelings the muscles in his upper arms protest, he slowly lowered himself until his feet were completely free of the last rung. He felt it scrape along his shins and then bump, much more gently this time, against his knees. Peering down through the remaining rungs of the ladder, he saw his boots suspended over empty darkness. He told himself that it was an illusion, that the ground lay only a few feet below. His feet did not believe him. It took an immense force of will not to kick them and try to force his way back up the ladder to relative safety.

With torturous slowness, he lowered his body past the next rung. He swung freely from the waist down now. The cold metal of the bottom rung pressed hard against his stomach. The street remained far below. Trying not to think about it, Walter lowered himself down the next rung.

His arms trembled with the effort as he clung to the sides of the ladder. The last rung ran across his windpipe, preventing him from hugging it close as he had the others. He swung his boot experimentally, stretching his toes downward, hoping to feel them scrape against the asphalt. They encountered only night air.

Walter knew that there was no way that he could pull himself back up again. He could dangle where he was for a short while, but he knew that, before long, his muscles would cramp and he would be forced to release his hold.

How tall was this building anyway?

He had gotten only the briefest glance of it as the helicopter had approached it, but his attention had been focused elsewhere, not on surveying his assigned landing spot.

Five stories?

He was certain that he had descended at least the distance of three of them as he had made his way down the ladder.

So . . . two more stories? At most?

Visualizing the approximate distance of the drop in his mind, he tried to convince himself that it was not all that far . . . if he landed correctly.

If.

Despite feeling the tension in nearly every part of his body, Walter lowered himself until he was suspended only by his grip on the bottommost rung. His entire body hung free of the ladder now. His arms, already punished by his deliberate descent, quickly began to scream protests about their working conditions. Swallowing hard, Walter released his hold, ready to flex into the landing as he had never done before.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Carefully, he lowered his foot again. It seemed to be a lot further to reach the next rung than he thought it would be. He breathed an audible sigh of relief as he felt it firmly underneath his boot and lowered the other leg to meet it. Pausing for a moment, he adjusted his grip on the vertical rails and wished for his head to stop pounding. It did not happen and his brain continued to feel as if someone had installed an overpowered subwoofer into his midbrain.

Hoping to distract himself from the agony that hovered just beyond the edges of his control, Walter focused his attention on simply locating the next step on the ladder. He was surprised at how much of his concentration such an otherwise simple act actually required. The strategy, though, seemed to work. At least it did until he found himself with one leg dangling downward far past the point where it should have encountered a ladder rung.

He swung experimentally, hoping to encounter the missing step somewhere along its arc. All he managed to accomplish, though, was to bang his knee against the vertical support. Gritting his teeth, but still managing to swear through them, he waited for the sharp pains to stop shooting through his kneecap. When they eased, he looked down, only to find a featureless darkness below him.

Adjusting his grip on the ladder, he turned his head upward. His eyes followed the lines of the ladder until they too disappeared into darkness. He knew that he must have descended more than halfway to the ground, cursing himself silently for not keeping count.

As if it would have mattered . . . How many rungs would it be to the bottom anyway?

If his brain was not threatening to explode with light, he might have managed a rough estimate based on the gaps between the rungs. As it was, though, he could only guess. He had a brief image in his mind of being suspended in mid-air, surrounded on all sides by endless dark.

That’s not too far from the truth . . . he considered sourly.

He looked downward again and then turned his head to the left, seeking out the beam from the fallen flashlight. He located it quickly, seeing its bright white-yellow beam shining across the asphalt like a distant lighthouse. Its beam, though, was not strong enough to reach his position. Nevertheless, he still found its presence comforting.

As he stared at it, though, a part of his mind snapped back into operation. The degree at which he tilted his head to view the flashlight beam was not as great as he had originally thought. That meant that he was fairly close to the ground, assuming that the darkness was not misleading his perceptions of the angle and distance. He tried to recall what the ladder had looked like when he had shone the flashlight on it from above, but finally conceded that he had been more interested in establishing its existence and location than in determining its length.

Heroic Measures (continued)

He peered over the edge, trying to spot the access ladder. He saw shadows and shapes that might have been the rungs, but they might as easily have been the lines of the masonry between the bricks. Lacking his flashlight, or any other reliable source of illumination, he suspected that his choices essentially broke down into taking a chance and hoping that he had located the ladder, or waiting until daylight. From his perspective, his chances of surviving either option were about equal.

Still staring into the darkness below, Walter waited for a flash of lightning to help light up the alleyway, however briefly, to give him some reassurance that he had chosen the right location for the access ladder. After waiting for long enough for the muscles in his arms to produce cramps, he rose and positioned himself on the ledge of the rooftop, dangling his legs over what he tried not to think of as an abyss.

Clinging with his hands and arms to the concrete barrier, he tentatively lowered his left leg, shifting his foot from side to side in the hope of it colliding with any part of the ladder. Instead, the only thing it encountered was the raw edges of the brickwork. With a sigh, he extended his leg further and tried again, wondering how long he could manage to hold onto the cement rim.

He repeated the process, lowering his leg about an inch further each time. Just about the point when he was beginning to wonder whether his ligaments would ever recover, his ankle rapped against something hard. It hit unexpectedly. Walter swore under his breath, trying to wish away the sharp pain that radiated up along his leg.

Gingerly, he pressed the toe of his boot against the spot where he believed the ladder rung was. It contacted something solid and he released more of his weight onto it. To his relief, his foot remained steadily supported and he shifted it so that it rested squarely on the rung. He brought his other foot down to join its twin, feeling with his right hand for the vertical supports.

He located it quickly, but not without rapping his knuckles hard against it.

I’m going to be covered with bruises by the time I’m done . . . and all of them I managed to give myself . . .

With his left handed gripped fiercely around the vertical post, Walter released his hold on the concrete edge of the roof and brought his other hand down to the ladder. He just waited there for a moment, catching his breath and trying to ease some of the tension from his muscles before continuing downward. It was not until he felt the aches echo through his body that he realized just how nervous he had been.

Heroic Measures (continued)

He angled the flashlight upward, so that its beam illuminated the side of the building. Passing it slowly over the concrete and masonry he finally spied the thin metal bars of the access ladder. It was located at the opposite corner of the building, but on this same wall. It was difficult to tell with the shadows whether or not the rungs descended all of the way to the ground. That concern did not particularly worry him, as he had been in that situation before, and he had rope with him this time, coiled securely in one of the pouches of equipment belt.

Moving the flashlight beam once more across the vertical surface of the building, he checked one more time for any signs of movement or activity. As he swung the flashlight back toward him, its handle slipped through the rain-slicked fingers of his glove. He clutched at it frantically, but the delay between his mental command and when his fingers finally consented to obey him was too long. The flashlight tumbled down into the darkness toward the street below, casting swirling patterns of light along the building walls as it fell.

Well, that’s just great . . .

His head started to throb again. The slight respite that he had managed to achieve through the help of Sen’s training was beginning to dissolve. He stared down into the alleyway, seeing a bright patch of light.

At least it didn’t break . . .

He looked toward the far corner of the roof, wondering he could safely make the descent in his current condition. A mild wave of vertigo passed over him.

You don’t have a lot of choice, Walter, my boy. It’s not like you can call for help.

His headset suddenly crackled.

“. . . regroup . . . all . . . grid Alpha seventeen . . .”

Walter remained still, trying to focus his thoughts to piece the words together into something meaningful.

“. . . perimeter . . . grid . . . seventeen . . . respond . . .”

Automatically, he reached up to the headset to report in. As his fingers tapped the control, it shrieked in the final death wail of tortured electronics. The world around him went silent for a moment, and then he could hear the sounds of the rain and wind once more.

Without thinking, Walter ripped the headset from his hood and slammed it to the ground. Pieces of it shattered away as it struck the rooftop.

Damn it.

He guessed that there must have some residual charge left in his body. It was not enough to mount any kind of attack, but more than sufficient to burn out the sensitive components of the headset.

Not that it mattered much, I guess.

Walter stared down at the ruined headset.

I’m definitely on my own now . . .

He clung to that thought for strength.

They might eventually find him if he remained here—when the battle was over and they began their search for bodies and survivors.

Like hell am I going to let them die out there alone!

A mental image formed in his mind of Vivian chased through the streets, going aloft, and then shot down by those bat-like aircraft. Every muscle in his body clenched with fury at the thought.

Red being pummeled like a rag doll, outnumbered by squad of monstrous, mutated beings . . .

Walter stumbled toward the ladder access. He no longer felt the rain. Lightning flashed from somewhere behind him, briefly silhouetting him against the rooftop. The thunder was a distant noise, sounding in his mind like far-off artillery. He reached the edge of the roof, leaning heavily against it as a new wave of vertigo passed through him. His legs threatened to transform into rubber, but he remained standing through sheer force of his will.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Static buzzed in his headset. He had thought it was the sound of the aircraft passing overhead before he realized what it was.

Tapping the controls did nothing to eliminate the interference. A few of channels were completely empty of any signal at all.

Maybe if I can get near the ground . . .

It seemed a reasonable thought to him. He was sure that, although the mind-shattering transmitters were not supposed to interfere with standard communication transmissions, all of the electrical activity from the storm itself certainly would. It might also get him out of the main jamming range of the aircraft.

With stumbling steps, he made his way over to the edge of the rooftop. He felt a little more steady with each step, but the motions felt automatic, as if someone else was using his body. When he reached the short barrier, he stopped and peered downward. He tried to remain as far from the rim as possible, not yet convinced that he would not simply lose his balance and topple over the rim, falling to the street below.

He had trouble making out any details in the darkness. Most of the streetlights remained out, so there was little reflected light to help illuminate anything that might be down there. Walter than remembered that, yes, he wore an equipment belt and, yes, it contained a flashlight.

Fumbling at his waist, he finally forced himself to look down at his belt so that his hands could locate the proper pouch. He swore silently at his continued lack of coordination.

Need to take out those transmitters . . . Soon.

The thought brought a renewed wave of pain and vertigo. His fingers spasmed and the flashlight fell from them, landing in the wet gravel at his feet. Walter swore again, using terms that he was certain that Abigail would not have approved of.

His fingers clawed for it, failing several times to manage a firm grip on its now-slick surface, sending it either sliding away from him or tumbling back to the ground. Under other conditions, Walter might have found it amusing. In addition to his sustained inability to adequately control his body, he was also tired of being wet. Despite the waterproof properties of his suit, he felt clammy and uncomfortable. Worse yet, he was becoming aware of an increasingly urgent need to find a bathroom.

At least I still seem to have control over that, he considered sourly, not at all eager to discover just how far that control might really extend.

Using a series of careful and deliberate movements, he finally retrieved the flashlight. He was grateful for the large control button, as it did not require much in the way of fine motor control in order to operate it. Its white beam shot out into the darkness, showing the falling rain in sharp relief. They looked like long obsidian needles dropping from the sky.

Walter pointed it down into the shadowy space between the buildings and looked down. He saw no one down on the street below. There was a large, sharp-angled shape that he assumed was a dumpster. Not far from it was a more random collection of smaller shapes he guessed were boxes or crates. Nothing moved, which reassured him somewhat.

Heroic Measures (continued)

He realized that he should probably hide or something, but the downed craft’s two companions took no notice of him, continuing on their mildly erratic path to . . . where? As far as he could tell, the small aircraft appeared to have no specific targets. They just seemed to keep sweeping skies overhead with no other purpose.

Airborne backup?

Lightning struck the tower of a corporate building two blocks ahead to the west. The small swarms of aircraft heading in that direction changed their courses, banking toward the north. Seconds later, Walter watched as lightning struck an ancient stone and masonry building that had, during its years in the city, housed newspaper offices and the management offices for cannery and textile companies. Something on its rooftop ignited in a brilliant white-yellow fireball.

Through the remaining haze in his mind, it took Walter several moments to believe what his eyes seemed to be telling him.

There is a pattern—they’re guiding the lightning.

It became apparent to him that whoever led the Dark Matter forces was taking no chances. As long as they kept the transmitters firing, a large number of the heroes would remain incapacitated or their control over their abilities heavily compromised. Walter knew, from personal experience, how concentration was required to keep ones powers under control. He was fortunate in that he could build safeguards into his armor, as a result of the nature of his power. Other heroes were not so lucky, as control over their superhuman powers was equal to their personal survival.

Seeing the swarm of ships continue to move across the clouds, Walter came to realize that there was little useful he could accomplish from the rooftops. He was only one man and there appeared to be dozens of the small aircraft. Taking out one . . . two . . . or even dozen more would do little to challenge their assault. He needed to be on the ground, assisting the other disabled heroes against whatever forces they faced down there.

He stood, one hand still gripped tightly around a handle on one of the access panels on the air conditioning units. His mind still buzzed with the energy from the transmitters. What he sensed of his body felt unsteady and weak.

Heroic Measures (continued)

He moved his concentration to his wrist next, flexing it slowly, and then moved on up to his arm to his elbow. His progress felt maddeningly slow. Distorted by his focus on inner awareness, he lost his perspective on the passage of time. For all he knew, hours could have passed since he began this attempt.

His eyes focused once more on the sky. The iron-black clouds it held seemed to be just a little bit closer and he realized that he was standing, leaning heavily against one of the air conditioning units. Bright streaks of pain still permeated his mind, but it remained now in the background, held somehow at bay by the strength of his inner focus.

The swarms of bat-like aircraft still soared across the sky. They were gathered in smaller groups than before, but they still flew in waves over the city. Each pass brought them closer to the tops of the buildings and to the streets below. A trio of them appeared to head directly for the building where he stood, still unsteadily, watching them come.

Walter focused his attention on lead craft, although it was difficult for him to tell for certain exactly which one that was, as they keeping shifting positions as they glided toward him. With what seemed like agonizing slowness, he raised his hand and took aim. As the selected craft passed overhead, Walter released a charge which, to his relief, appeared to travel at its usual lightning-fast speed.

A strange blue-yellow nimbus danced over the aircraft’s exterior. When its two companions leveled off on their descent vector, its trajectory began to resemble much more then wrong end of a bell-shaped curve. Walter watched it narrowly missed colliding directly with a building owned by a large insurance agency. It still clipped the edge of it with the point of one wing, starting it on an erratic spiral as it continued onward.

Walter lost sight of it as it headed down toward the street. The resulting sounds of its collision with the asphalt below were cut off by a new blast of thunder. Walter could not recall seeing the flash from the lightning strike that had preceded it, but then his attention had been pretty intensely focused elsewhere at that moment.

He became aware once more of the white haze that still lingered over his mind. The temporary protection provided by his earlier effort of focus was fading. The voices sounding in his headset, though, seemed to be regaining some of their clarity.

“. . . forces . . . grid Gamma . . . not . . .”

“. . . air cover . . . withdraw to . . . grid . . . nineteen . . .”

Walter gave up trying to make sense of it. However his mind might piece together the fragments of those messages, there is a high likelihood that they would not reflect the reality of what was actually transpiring out there. The last thing he needed to do right now was to head off in some direction hoping to be of assistance to some beleaguered hero and, instead, find himself solidly inside enemy territory.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Although he could still think through the faint haze of pain, he still had to fight the urge to just stop and grip the sides of his head with both hands. He tried to speak slowly and clearly, hoping he could be heard over the sounds of the storm.

“Grid. Twenty. Three. Gamma,” he managed to report through gritted teeth. “Verified strike. At—“

Lightning cracked overhead and Walter’s world instantly went white.

#

Beyond the white-hot agony that filled his mind, he felt the distant sensation of wet gravel pressed against his cheek. Gritty water splashed at his lips. Instinctively, he spat it clear, but it was instantly replaced by more. With what felt like tremendous physical effort, he rolled onto his back, away from the silt-filled water.

His face was now covered with rain, but at least that felt clean in comparison. The sensation actually seemed to help to clear his mind just a little, but enough that he could manage to form small, coherent thoughts.

Did I manage to report in?

He could easily imagine all of the other heroes nearby in a state similar to that of his own. If Raynes and Harrison were right, this would be the moment when the Dark Matter forces would mount their attack. He tried to rise, but just could not find the strength. So, grateful for the waterproof protection of his outfit—although the slimy sensation of the cool rainwater did manage to seep through it—Walter remained laying there in the rain and tried to make sense of the messages crackling through his headset.

Between the interference caused by the storm, and the fragmented reports being issued by dazed and stunned heroes, Walter could, at first, barely assemble single words into meaningful sentences.

“. . . blue . . . down . . . grid . . . seven . . .”

“. . . Alpha eight . . . eight . . . shadows . . .”

A loud squelch echoed through the headset, momentarily silencing the disjointed voices. He heard a faint sound, similar to thunder, but it kept to a regular cadence and seemed to be growing louder.

Walter looked up. At first, he saw nothing but dark clouds and raindrops that fell from the sky like crystal slivers. Then, he saw dark shapes, like the flat silhouettes of enormous bats, descending through the clouds. They soared across the night in packs, not quite in formation, descending toward the city.

Static hissed in his headset.

They must be jamming . . .

By now, he hoped, the various types of scanners and sensors that the heroes had put in place were detecting the craft. The accuracy of those devices had also been affected by the storm. With the additional jamming, Walter wondered what kind of readings, if any, they might be sending back to Westin’s team remaining at the institute.

He tried to rise again, trying to ignore the blinding haze that kept filling his mind. Turning his attention inward, as Sen had tried to teach him, he tried to focus his awareness on the mechanisms of his body. He followed it along the pathways within his being, to the muscles and joints of his arms and legs.

Bypassing the blocking flood of pain in his mind, he instructed them directly on what he needed them to do: to lift himself from the soggy ground and, if he could, attempt to activate the discharge plates mounted along his palms.

At first, nothing happened. His body remained inert on the rooftop, puddles of rainwater pooling around him. It felt like it was too much, too many movements to coordinate at one time. So, he focused solely on the fingers of his left hand, feeling a warm swell of pride and accomplishment as they twitched, scrabbling against the wet gravel.

Heroic Measures (continued)

“. . . in position at grid Gamma . . .”

“. . . still no signs of activity. All heat sensors . . .”

As advanced as he assumed their communications systems were, they were still at the mercy of interference caused by the ionized atmosphere caused by the storm itself, and worsened by the lightning strikes. Sudden bursts of shrill static made him glance up toward the horizon, seeing if he could spot the location of the strike.

“. . . no sign of entry at . . . grid . . .”

“. . . storm damage at our location: grid Delta four . . .”

Walter checked his watch.

Any minute now . . .

Their timetable, Walter knew, was based on the expected path and arrival time of the storm. There was no way to guarantee its precise onset, so Walter hoped that no one jumped into action without specific orders to do so, before they were ready.

“. . . it’s pouring here now, like someone’s dumping buckets . . .”

“. . . rooftops . . . grid . . . seventeen . . .”

Lightning struck somewhere toward the south side of the city. The resultant thunder took only a few seconds to reach him, telling Walter that it had been close. His skin prickled and he wondered how much that sensation was from his own apprehension, the increased charge in the air, or the first of the devices being activated not too far in the distance. Most likely, he concluded, it was a combination of at least the first two.

“. . . grid . . . nine . . . report . . .”

“. . . can’t see them . . . do you . . . send . . .”

The noises that came over his headset next sounded much less like static and a great deal more like at least one person screaming in agony.

“. . . nineteen . . . can you . . .”

“. . . debris . . . damage . . . no medical . . .”

A blinding white-yellow flash, followed almost instantly by an ear-ringing crack of thunder, momentarily washed out Walter’s vision in a vast, bright blur. Its target had been the building of financial offices two blocks away. Walter watched as something on its rooftop burst like a firework into copper-colored flame.

He nearly dropped to his knees as his mind was flooded by a wave of mental disruption. Although it was not exactly like vertigo, he still had trouble keeping his balance. The objects around him had edges too sharply defined to seem entirely natural. He forced himself to think, reaching for the transmit control on his headset. If he could not manage to speak, it would at least broadcast his location.

Heroic Measures (continued)

The helicopter had not completed its descent before the figure leapt through the open hatch, landing smoothly on the surface of the roof. An instant later, it was gone, gliding over the edge of the building like a snake and into the rain-swept darkness below.

“Hey—!“

Walter called out, stopping as he realized that he did not know the hero’s name.

The heroes had been assigned to each location in pairs. In the sudden rush to deploy them, however, there had not been enough time to notify every hero who their partner would be. As potentially confusing as that was, Walter considered that it might actually have been more efficient. It avoided the inevitable negotiation and trading of partners that would almost certainly wreak havoc with their carefully planned timetable.

Walter remained standing in the cabin hatchway as the helicopter hovered above the rooftop, still staring in disbelief into the deep shadows between the buildings where his supposed partner had vanished. A short burst of noise sounded against his ears. It was not necessary for him to decipher it through the static to know that it was an urgent command to exit the aircraft.

He leapt, landing in a low crouch on the rooftop gravel as he had been taught. The brief glow of relief and satisfaction was quickly dampened as he realized that he had managed to land almost precisely in the center of a deep and sizable puddle. Silt-laden water splashed against his face. It drained off, aided by the rain, leaving a moist layer of fine grit that coated his lips. He tried to wiped it away, but succeeded only in smearing it across his chin, nose, and nostrils.

Not an auspicious start . . .

Walter looked skyward, seeing nothing other than roiling masses of dark clouds. Thunder echoed from somewhere to the northeast. He turned to look, but saw nothing, having missed the lightning strike that had caused it. He guessed from its distant sound that it had been several miles away.

There’s still time . . .

Time for what, exactly, he did not know.

He tapped the control on his headset, turning up the volume, and tried to listen in on the general status updates. He supposed that he also should report that his assigned partner had run off.

What are they going to do? Have me try to chase after him? It’s too late to assign anyone else . . .

A flash of bright white light illuminated the rooftop from behind him. For an instant, the streaks of rain appeared to be trapped in stasis—long, dark lines descending like needles from the sky. He saw his shadow etched into the rooftop surface in that moment. Darkness reclaimed the night less than a heartbeat later.

Thunder boomed around him. Were it not for the minimal protection provided by the headset, Walter was certain that he would have been temporarily deafened. As it was, a faint ringing persisted in his ears for several minutes afterward. It made it even more difficult to focus on and decipher the voices that reported over that frequency.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Sounds crackled through the headset strapped around Walter’s head. He hoped that he was not meant to understand what was being said, as it was undecipherable over the noise of the helicopters and the roar of the wind through the open cabin door. Looking around, he saw that no one else seemed to be paying rapt attention to any instructions being issued against their ears.

The helicopter swayed in the strong winds. Walter gritted his teeth as he gripped the strap wound around his left hand. If he leaned forward, he could see the lights of the city pass beneath them, but he gave that up after only a few moments. The sight of the streets and building swaying beneath the helicopter brought on a wave of vertigo that forced him to clench his jaw tight to prevent witnessing an encore appearance of his dinner. After that, he kept his eyes pointed toward the floor, with occasional glances toward the dark indigo sky.

The speakers in his headset squawked again. This time, it was almost comprehensible. The two figures seated on the bench across from him, at the end furthest from the hatch, must have understood what it meant, as they stood up and positioned themselves on either side of the open hatch. The helicopter banked and dipped suddenly. Walter’s inner ear and stomach each lodged separate complaints

They angled toward a descent near one of the large financial services buildings in the main downtown section of the city. The helicopter came to a hover a few feet above its roof, kicking up waves of dust and gravel. The rain dispersed it quickly and Walter had a clear view as the two heroes leapt from the helicopter hatch and dropped into a crouch on the rooftop. One of them appeared to be dressed in a deep, almost iridescent blue outfit. The sheen could have been an effect of the rain, Walter realized, but it was still eye-catching. The other figure’s outfit was black, emblazoned with either yellow or white jagged stripes. It was difficult for Walter to tell for certain in the shifting reflections.

The helicopter rose and, turning toward the western part of the city, headed for its next destination.

#

Walter was alone with one other person in the cabin. He assumed that he and his remaining companion were intended to be the last ones dropped off, as no one had shoved him in the direction of the open hatch. That had been, as he recalled, the plan all along, but they had been warned that air traffic and the storm-force winds might require in-flight alterations of their planned course.

Turning to look at his companion, Walter saw the figure, dark in shadow, with its head bowed. An oversized hood shadowed its features. In the dim interior light of the cabin, Walter could not tell whether the face beneath it was male or female. They remained perfectly still. Their hands, clad in long, dark gloves, were clasped lightly in its lap. Walter wondered if its head might not be bowed in silent prayer.

Not a bad idea, actually . . .

He was about to close his eyes when his headset crackled loudly against his ears. He made out a few of the words, enough to tell him that his destination was coming. He rose from his position on the bench and then waited, still gripping the handhold, for his companion to rise.

For a long moment, the dark-hooded figure remained seated. Then, with a fluid motion that reminded Walter of a reptile, it rose from the bench and, without pausing to look at Walter, moved fluidly toward the open hatch. Walter watched, trying to suppress a shiver, telling him that it was only a reaction from the primeval portion of his brain.

Emerald Flight: Diplomatic Relations (continued)

Devereux shook her head ever so slightly before returning his smile.

As he approached her, his eyes casually swept the room, but remained nowhere for long. He seemed at ease with his surroundings, projecting an aura of polished self-confidence as he moved through them.

He was actually quite handsome. She noticed it, though, in an abstract sort of way: the way one might examine a celebrated work of art—noting its design and use of materials, but never really being moved by it. Devereux recognized it for exactly what it was: a veneer—a façade that concealed the real person and their intentions. These people were often the most dangerous.

She had met many such individuals during her career. The Special Ops branch was replete with them: it was an occupational hazard . . . and a necessity. Daniel did not quite possess it in quite the same way. The threat from him was not the unexpected blade between yours ribs—although she was certain that he had no qualms about inserting a proverbial knife on someone’s back if it suited his aims or might further his career. No, but it was still about probing for weaknesses in one’s opponent, seeking advantages that might be used against them at a future time.

None of this bothered her much. She was not here for information—and she knew how to guard herself. Daniel had invited her here—under the clear pretense of social dining. She knew how to guard herself.

“My apologies, Capt—Christine, for being tardy,” Daniel said, as he reached the table. “Something came up that I needed to deal with tonight—so that our evening would not be interrupted.”

Emerald Flight: Diplomatic Relations (continued)

Devereux checked the chronometer mounted on the bulkhead near the kitchen area. Daniel was nearly ten minutes late.

She sipped at her water, wondering how long she should wait. If he failed to show up at all, she had no intention of returning to her quarters and dining alone there.

Like hell am I giving up this view just because he can’t tear himself away . . .

Her eyes spied him in the hatchway. He appeared to be in no hurry, as if arriving late for a dinner date was nothing worthy of any haste on his part. Pausing in the hatchway, his eyes swept the interior, quickly settling on her. He smiled and strode to her, his pace increasing just slightly as he closed the distance between them.

He was dressed more formally than she was, Devereux noticed. It was not his dress blues, but a very finely tailored belted tunic and pants. On its breast, right above his heart, was pinned the crest of the Fleet Diplomatic Service.

Devereux shook her head ever so slightly before returning his smile.

“My apologies, Capt—Christine, for being tardy. Something came up that I needed to deal with tonight—so that our evening would not be interrupted.”

His tone oozed sincerity. Devereux did not buy it for a moment. Still, she nodded in understanding anyway.

Daniel seated himself and she immediately saw his eyes appraise her. Small movements in his expression suggested to her his assessment of her features as his gaze traveled along her face and down to the neckline of her dress. He seemed to find her acceptable, but not particularly exceptional.

Devereux took no offense at this, stifling a slight smile behind another sip from her water glass. She had not dressed to impress, nor for possible seduction. Her dress had been chosen first for comfort and second to provide clear evidence that she was female.

“May I?” Daniel asked, holding up the bottle of wine.

Devereux nodded her acceptance.

“I’d hoped they’d have an ’06,” he said. “But this ’08 will have to do.”

Pursing her lips into a slight smile, Devereux dipped her head slightly as if she had understood a thing he had just said.

She had many friends who were wine connoisseurs, but it was not an avocation that she had picked up—at least not with any degree of real interest. She did know that wine production in her native Quebec was far younger than it had been for most other regions on Earth. Other than for that fact, though, she chiefly knew what she liked and disliked by tasting it. There were a small handful of vintages she recognized, chiefly because they were associated with some particular memory.

This particular wine appealed to her, although she doubted that she would have noticed any significant difference between the ’06, this ’08—or a ’07 or ’09, for that matter.

She let it linger along her tongue, trying to guess at its various hints of flavors.

Citrus? And . . . pecans?

Realizing that Daniel was studying her curiously, Devereux swallowed the wine and set the glass down.

“It’s quite good.”

Daniel regarded her doubtfully, taking another sip from his own glass before returning it to the table.

Emerald Flight: Diplomatic Relations (continued)

“Chief Engineer?”

“Yep.”

“How the hell did you manage that?”

Daniel eyed his brother with open suspicion and even, Rusty thought, a small touch of admiration. Rusty just said back and tried not to grin, feeling uncharacteristically smug.

“What do you have on her?”

“Who?”

“The Captain,” Daniel explained impatiently, never taking his eyes from his brother’s face. “Devereux.”

“She recruited me.”

“Then you’d met her before?”

Rusty shrugged. “It’s a small galaxy.”

Daniel’s suspicion deepened. “It’s not that small.” He eyed his brother carefully, but Rusty’s expression gave away nothing. “She’s Fleet all the way . . . Not exactly your type.”

A small muscle tightened at the back of Rusty’s jaw.

“Like you would know,” he murmured aloud.

Daniel’s eyebrow raised with curiosity, but he said nothing.

“Have ever seen her with anyone?”

“Who?”

“Devereux.”

Rusty’s eyes narrowed as he studied his brother. The urge to take a swing at him grew stronger.

“No,” he said, cutting off the word. “Not since . . . well, not a long time ago . . . a long, long time ago.”

That’s one way of putting it, he thought wryly.

Seeing a puzzled look flit across his brother’s expression, he barely managed to completely a suppress a smile.

There. Figure that one out, you smug little bastard.

The two brothers sat in silence. Rusty waited while Daniel studied him, seeking clues that the meaning of that enigmatic statement. He did not even bother to stare back, but his eyes not leave his brother’s face.

“Well,” Daniel announced, finally breaking eye contact. “I’d better be going,” he said, rising from his chair. “Duty calls and all . . .”

Rusty granted him a faint smirk.

It always was about Duty with you.

Daniel hesitated a moment, looking his brother over again.

Probably wants a hug or handshake or something.

“See you around, Russell,” Daniel finally said.

“Yep.”

Daniel turned and headed out the hatchway. Rusty watched him go. It was not until several moments after his brother had disappeared into the corridor that he realized that his left hand had balled into a tight fist and was pounding slowly on the tabletop.

Heroic Measures (continued)

His vision began to blur. Objects that had been unnaturally sharp and vivid lost their definition, becoming hazy clouds of color. The boundaries of his body felt swollen and indistinct. Every one of his senses felt not so much overloaded as oddly muffled, as if layers and layers of something lay between them the sensations that he was experiencing.

“And . . . now.”

Benny’s voice was clear in his head, although even it too seemed faintly muffled.

Walter saw more than felt copper-white radiance erupt from his body. It glowed along the spine of the antenna and then flowed outward, traveling along the paths provided by the lightning-fed energy surges. On the adjacent rooftops, Walter saw bright flashes that he guessed were the other antenna devices being destroyed. The sound of their explosions was lost among the thunder.

He did not know how long he remained that way, his fingers wrapped like talons around the slender antenna post. Slowly, though, normal sensations began to return to him. He ached all over; even his scalp stung as if it had been seared. Weakness and vertigo washed over him. He felt drained, barely able to stand. Staggering, he found that his hands remained frozen in place around the antenna.

At first, he feared that they had been fused there by the energy that had flowed through them. When he tried to flex his fingers, though, they moved freely. He stopped their movement instantly though, for the agony that shot through them transcended any writing cramp he had ever experienced.

Thunder boomed in the distance and Walter began to wonder just how long he had stood there, motionless, while the energy flowed from him to destroy every nearby transmitter.

“The storm . . . has passed.”

Benny’s voice sounded oddly distracted, as if his attention was no longer solely with his father.

“You may remove your hands now.”

“I’m trying,” Walter responded aloud through gritted teeth.

He heard Benny chuckle sympathetically in his mind. The muscles within his fingers relaxed, released their hold on the antenna. If there was pain involved, Walter did not feel it. He silently offered Benny thanks on the chance that he was suppressing it.

His hands were just free of the device when a final arc passed between them and the antenna. For an instant, absolute silence filled Walter’s world. And then the antenna assembly exploded before him.

Walter had no memory of any flash from the explosion. He remembered the feel of gravel as it abraded his back as he was skidded across the rooftop. Things within his body snapped as he was slammed against the concrete barrier at its rim. He was grateful in that moment that it was there, knowing that he would have tumbled over the edge, most likely not surviving the fall to the street below.

The fall, yes . . . he considered wryly. But probably not the impact.

He lay there, broken against the tiny wall. His mind remained alert, but nothing worked. Every effort he made failed to result in the movement of any of his limbs.

“That was unexpected.”

Walter found it difficult to argue with that statement, but could find no strength to summon in order to offer a response.

“Dad . . . ?”

I’m still here . . . I think. Even his thoughts sounded weak to him.

Something like relief flowed across his mind.

“I have sent for help,” Benny said. “They are coming.”

An uncertain tremor echoed through his voice.

Walter realized that he felt nothing: no pain, no sense of anticipation—not even a faint sense of pride and accomplishment that he and his son—his son—had destroyed the brain-tearing devices. Walter tried to imagine the remaining heroes, now freed from the crippling effects of the transmitters, on the streets below ripping through the enemy forces. He tried . . . and failed, unable to find the energy to construct the mental collage.

Where almost unbearable light had been only a few minutes before, darkness now crept in along the edges of Walter’s vision.

“Dad . . .”

The edges of objects were turning fuzzy again. Instead of a haze of color, it was all becoming gray.

“Stay with me, Dad . . .” Benny’s voice held a strong note of pleading.

Walter closed his eyes, although not certain whether he had actually done so or that his world had simply gone dark.

Abby—your mother would be pleased.

“Dad.”

Tired, Benny. Need to rest. It’s been a long day.

“Dad . . . stay . . . here . . .”

I love you, son.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Thunder boomed around him. Walter felt the heavy vibration of it rather than heard it. The main storm front had moved past the core of the city. They were, Walter guessed, now within its eye. That meant the trailing edge would come soon, bringing with a renewed assault of lightning and water.

“We should hurry.”

His head turned, his eyes surveying the contents of the rooftop. They settled on what appeared to be a tall storage cabinet.

“There.”

Walter walked toward it, realizing that he could feel more about his movements now. Control of them, however, seemed to remain just beyond his reach.

He reached out and gripped the handle. It appeared to be locked. Walter waited for Benny to realize this and release his hold. Instead, there was a brief pause, and Walter felt the muscles of his arm seemed to surge and ripple as power surged through them. The handle and its lock shattered into metallic fragments.

The door swung open easily. Within it, its shape barely visible in the reflected light of the few remaining street lights, was a slender piece of equipment attached to a wide, conical base. Although it was not identical to the other ones he had seen, Walter recognized it as one of the transmitters.

“It would be best if you could hold it,” Benny instructed him.

Walter wondered why Benny was offering him a choice.

Why doesn’t he just . . . ?

“Because it must be your decision.”

Walter almost asked why—and then he knew.

He hesitated for only a moment and then his gloved hands reached for the slender post. He gripped it tightly and waited.

Thunder sounded again. Walter felt the metal case of the cabinet vibrate around him.

That one was close.

“Yes,” Benny agreed. “The storm is nearly here.”

The next echo of thunder physically buffeted him. At first, he thought it might have been the wind, the pressure wave that passed across him felt wrong for that. He thought it had gone, but the pressure did not ease. Instead, it continued to build. He could feel it growing both inside and around him.

Walter knew the sensation. He had experienced it countless times before. His body was building a charge, preparing to release it through the contacts on his fingers and palms. He felt strange, though, as if he had missed an important event that he had been anticipating.

It took him several moments to realize what it was: the energy should have discharged by now. There were limits on how much he could control it. There was always a point where he could no longer contain it and energy would crackle and flare from his hands, not always at his intended target. This time, though, something—some force—held it in, allowing it to continue to build.

Walter felt the charge dance along his body like a living thing, a caged and wild creature determined to be set free. His fingers clenched the antenna so tightly that Walter was certain that he might leave imprints in its metal. His mind was filled was haze and buzzed with a sound like an enormous swarm of distant insects. He tried to close his eyes. They felt dry and swollen. He could no longer focus clearly even on the objects in front of him.

Blue-white light, painfully intense, invaded his vision. Walter waited for the brain-searing agony that always followed.

The light faded abruptly, but left a bright imprint on his retinas that lingered for several minutes. He did not feel the pain. Walter could sense it at a distance in his mind, but knew somehow that it was Benny who was managing to keep it at bay. The sensation reminded him of the pain medication given to him when his wisdom teeth had been extracted. All the signs were there that it should hurt, but it did not, at least not once he stopped giving it any attention.

Indigo-violet lines of energy sparked from the antenna he still held, shooting off toward adjacent antennas on nearby rooftops, Walter guessed. Still, he hung onto it.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter was not sure what exactly he expected to happen. It began as the faintest tickle of sensation—a whisper in his mind. It felt like a light breeze passing over his thoughts, then grew steadily stronger, like an autumn wind.

“I’m here, Dad,” Benny said. His voice, although not faint before, seemed startlingly clear within his head.

The second presence within his mind gained more substance. It should have felt crowded, Walter thought, but it was more like placing another blanket on a comfortable bed. They existed together—joined, but separate.

Walter’s head turned and he saw his hand raised, its fingers flexing slowly. It took some effort, but he was finally able to recognize the sensations of their movement himself. He felt the light weight of the activation disc against his palm.

Why didn’t you ever do this in your body?

There was a long pause before Benny answered him.

“Because it wasn’t necessary.” He sounded vaguely perplexed by the notion.

Several remarks shot their way through Walter’s mind, but were interrupted by a sudden shift in his vision. At first, he thought he might be falling. He then realized that he was moving—walking, albeit it very slowly. Had he been in touch with his body, Walter suspected that he would have experienced some kind of vertigo. Instead, it merely made his mind dizzy until he was able to focus on what the images his eyes relayed were telling him.

He stopped a few feet away from the wall of the building. He could see the alternating patterns of lines formed by the bricks in the darkness.

“The rooftop would be better.”

Better? Better for what?

Benny did not answer. Instead, Walter saw his hands move down toward his belt, to the small device mounted near the buckle that controlled his boot jets. There was a long pause and Walter got the sense that Benny was sifting through his mind, learning how the jets operated.

You can’t just . . . float us up there?

Benny chuckled in Walter’s head. “Not unless you can,” he said. “It’s doesn’t work that way.”

Walter’s fingers moved and he felt an odd pressure beneath his feet. The wall in front of him began to move downward and he realized that he was traveling upward, toward the roof.

It was not the smoothest of landings, but they did make it safely onto the roof. The relief that Walter felt seemed doubled as his boots settled firmly onto the rooftop gravel.

“That was not at all what I expected,” Benny remarked, sounding curiously bemused.

It takes some getting used to, Walter remarked wryly.

While he agreed that they were an incredibly useful addition to his equipment, he rarely used them. Flying, even under his own control, was not among his favorite modes of transportation. He used elevators and stairs whenever he could.

His head turned, his eyes surveying the contents of the rooftop. They settled on what appeared to be a tall storage cabinet.

“There.”

Walter walked toward it, realizing that he could feel more about his movements now. Control of them, however, seemed to remain just beyond his reach.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter’s thoughts swam.

Trust you? He paused trying to gain focus on his thoughts. You can’t be Benny, he told the voice silently. Benny is in a hospital . . . asleep.

“I am,” the voice agreed. “Well, my body is anyway,” it amended with what sounded like a soft laugh.

That can’t be . . .

“It is,” the voice replied evenly.

There was a long pause and Walter began to think his imagination had finally released him.

“It’s difficult to explain.”

The pause this time was shorter.

“I need you to trust me, Dad.”

Trust you? Walter hesitated. To do what?

“We can defeat them, Dad,” Benny’s voice urged him. It bore a buoyant sense of confidence. “Let me use you. Please.”

Walter’s eyes turned toward his fallen comrades.

Can you save them?

“No,” Benny answered immediately. “But you can.”

Walter stared at the now-still figures of Red and Vivian.

How? I’m not . . .

“Through me,” Benny interrupted with patient calm.

Walter waited, but an explanation did not come.

I don’t understand.

“I can help you,” Benny said again. “If you’ll trust me.”

I still don’t understand.

“I need your body.”

Walter remained silent as he considered the request. He had heard of individuals, both heroes and villains, who possessed varying degrees of psychic power. There had been one, back before the accident that had transformed him, who had been called The Puppeteer.

According to the stories, he had taken over the minds of several heroes, turning them into assassins. Their targets had been key political figures of the time, as well as other heroes who had interfered with his plans. How The Puppeteer had finally been defeated in the end was not at all clear. Nearly all of the accounts Walter had heard conflicted one another in the details. The only item in which they all agreed was that The Puppeteer had been stopped. Since that time, no reports of his continued existence had proven to be true. It had happened long enough ago that most people assumed that he was now dead, or too weak to be a danger.

Probably hiding down in Ecuador or Peru—no, Argentina—like all those Nazis . . .

“No.”

Walter started at abrupt refutation of his idle speculation. It had been just that: a random remark, directed solely at himself, and yet Benny had heard it. The realization sent a chill through his mind. If Benny could read his thoughts, control his actions . . .

“That’s why I need you to trust me.”

You could just do it anyway—take over my body.

“Yes,” Benny agreed. His voice sounded weary. “But I won’t.”

How do I know you’re not controlling my thoughts now?

“I’m not,” Benny said. “I can even withdraw further—or completely—if you wish, while you consider it.”

Walter saw the limp forms of Red and Vivian on the pavement before him. They had already been defeated; there seemed to be little more harm that could be done to them.

“You would be horrified to know,” Benny said sadly.

Walter quickly shut away the images that to his mind. He did not know whether Benny had placed them there, or if they were of his own creation. It did not matter. He had made up his mind.

“Do it,” Walter whispered aloud.

He felt as though he should fling his arms wide, to open himself physically to what was to come next, but his body remained still, frozen of if formed from ice.

Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter tried to rise. His muscles obeyed him, but it seemed as if they took a long time to do so. It might simply be his perceptions, he realized dully. He felt disconnected from his body, as if it belonged to someone else, but still listened to his instructions. He did not hurt much, not yet, but fully expected to by morning.

If there is one . . .

He managed to turn his head, but it seemed to take tremendous effort. His skull felt swollen to gigantic proportions and carved from granite. The world turned very slowly as it moved.

Red lay sprawled out on his back. His limbs appeared to be intact. At least, Walter observed, they appeared to pointing at all of the correct angles. The frame of his visor, still fastened across his eyes, was fractured. Several slivers from the protective crystal band appeared to be missing from it.

In the dim light of the alleyway, Walter could not tell whether the slick reflections that he saw across Red’s body were from blood, or simply the sheen of Red’s outfit. He remained perfectly still and Walter could not tell whether or not he was still breathing. Walter wanted to go to his friend, to know, but his body refused to move.

Less than three feet away from Red, Vivian lay sprawled on her side, one of her arms draped out above her head. One of her wings was twisted, half-torn from its harness. She had never looked more delicate and vulnerable.

Walter saw that she appeared to be alive. She breathed in quick, short gasps, but seemed to be unconscious. He guessed this because she did not moan, nor did she make any sign that she recognized either his or Red’s presence near her.

He felt suddenly weak, but his body remained upright, as if some outside force held it there. The sensation grew no worse, but all he wanted to do was to rest, to close his eyes and . . .

“Dad?”

Silence reigned suddenly in Walter’s universe. He thought that he should be surprised, and then began to wonder if he was truly conscious. His eyes told him that he was still in the alleyway, but none of his other senses provided any opinions either way.

A concussion, maybe?

It was not difficult to accept that theory. The last thing he remembered was being tossed away—hard. He had collided with . . . something.

Probably the dumpster . . .

“Dad?”

The voice seemed to come from inside his mind. It seemed distant at first, but with a clarity that his ears could never produce.

Jerry?

Walter did not know whether his lips moved or not as he spoke.

There came a faint chuckle. It was light and full of good-natured mirth.

“No, Dad,” the voice within his mind said. “It’s me . . . Ben—Benny.”

A chill like an icicle sliding through his spinal column shot through his body.

I’m dead.

“Is Abby—your mother with you?”

“No,” the voice said, after a brief pause. “She’s not with me.”

Walter felt his heart sink. It was the first real sensation he had experienced since this . . . hallucination? had begun. He wanted tears, but if they came, he could not feel them on his cheeks.

She should be, he protested loudly within his thoughts. If ever there was an angel . . .

“I’m not in heaven, Dad,” the voice explained calmly. “And you’re not dead . . . at least not yet.”

Walter found the statement both reassuring and worrisome.

Not yet? So I might still die . . . ? Then he felt a smile grow inside him. Abby might be in heaven, then, after all.

“Dad,” Benny’s voice returned, carrying a gentle, but firm tone clearly intended to get his attention.

Walter waited and said nothing.

“I can help you,” Benny’s voice said. “But I need you to trust me.”

Help me? How? From injuries?

”More than that, Dad,” Benny said. “But you must trust me.”

His ethereal voice carried both a note of insistence and of pleading.