The Bulletproof Adventures of Damian Stockwell: Triple-Barreled Edition
Date: 2016-04-19 04:00:00+00:00
Description: “Fast-paced, blood-pumping, heart-pounding, head-shaking adventure.” Raised from birth to be a force for justice, Damian Stockwell has spent his entire life honing his body, mind and fists to combat the evils of the world. He travels the globe on a quest to confront those evils and punch them in the face. At his disposal are a vast fortune, an endless array of gadgets and an army of friends including Bertrand, his loyal and lethal valet. The Triple-Barreled Edition includes three of Damian Stockwell's most harrowing adventures Horror in Honduras (Book 1) Stockwell’s friend has gone missing in

The Bulletproof Adventures
of Damian Stockwell

TRIPLE-BARRELED EDITION

Benjamin Wallace

Copyright © 2016 by Benjamin Wallace. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by J Caleb Design

Formatting by Polgarus Studio

Table of Contents

Horror in Honduras
Terrors of Tesla
The Mechanical Menace

Horror in Honduras

The Bulletproof Adventures
of Damian Stockwell

Benjamin Wallace

Copyright © 2016 by Benjamin Wallace. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Crystal Roznik.

Illustration by Teren Mabry.

* * * *

Join Benjamin Wallace’s Readers’ Group to get a free novel and learn about the latest releases and giveaways. And, because it’s cool.

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* * * *

DEDICATION

For Sam, Sam, Brandon, Chris, Jess, Matt, James and everyone else who helped create the Stockwell mythos when we were just stupid kids.

Prelude

He collapsed. Partially from exhaustion, mostly from the native-hewn dart in his leg. The jungle floor welcomed him with the smell of rotted vegetation and the dampness of a billion drops of rain. It struck him hard.

His panic overcame his shortness of breath and he turned on to his back and stared up at the seemingly impenetrable jungle wall. How he had run so far was beyond him.

There was sound and no sound. A maddening silence that reverberated in his mind as his widened eyes struggled to see through the vines and trees. The pounding may have been coming from his chest. He had run for what seemed hours and his heart crashed at his rib cage to be let free, to abandon the body and continue running, but his leg said no.

He risked a glance from the darkness to his leg. The barb had fallen free, but it still hurt. The pain was unjustly disproportionate to the wound. Had the barb been poisonous? Even now, as the blood rushed through his veins, was a primitive toxin nearing closer to his heart?

A crack; it was unlike them. They had moved silently upon him in the growth of darkness. He had heard nothing until the whistling of the blowgun. It was only then, once he had been struck, that they appeared—dozens of them, stepping as if from the shadows to surround him. Each warrior dressed only in a sparse bit of cloth about his waist and a hideous mask before his face. They moved like the dead, silent and wraithlike, as they closed the circle about him.

Had it not been for the now useless rifle he carried, he would have fallen earlier. Blazing round after round into the throng of natives, he had cleaved a path to freedom and let the jungle envelop him.

Now they emerged, the jungle’s darkness providing no hindrance in their pursuit. One by one the demon faces of the masks appeared around him, staring with sightless eyes into the opening where he had fallen.

He summoned his will to live and stood on his near useless limb. Grasping his rifle by the barrel, he screamed, though the masks had no ears, “Come, you godless heathens! I’ll shatter each one of your ugly faces!”

Not one of the masks moved or even blinked. There was only silence in response. Then a whistle shattered the still. He grabbed his leg and fell to the foreign soil. His breathing slowed. His taunts were a weak spill from his throat.

Weak, like an infant trying to lift a rattle that some cruel uncle had filled with lead, he pulled his right arm across his chest and lifted his head.

“Dam. Dam.” The words drifted past his teeth as he lost control of his lips.

He couldn’t move. The paralysis took from him the will to resist. From the jungle emerged a dark shadow. What dim light broke through the growth revealed an object in the shadow’s hand. The shadow moved closer and held forth the object; a carved death mask, chiseled from nightmares. The shadow placed the mask upon the fallen man’s face.

Through these horrible eyes he saw bright flashes of light, a prism of pain. Then all became dark. All was quiet. He saw nothing. He heard nothing. He felt nothing. Yet he moved.

1
The Giant Awakens

Damian Stockwell, captain-of-industry, PhD, man-of-action, awoke entwined in frilly, pink sheets. Lace curtains hung from the bed’s canopy and filtered the early morning light into a soft glow as it began to break through the window.

Years had passed since he had experienced any transition between asleep and alert. Through dedicated practice and sheer force of will, he had trained himself to be fully aware of his surroundings the moment his eyes opened. The ability had saved his life countless times. Cowards were not uncommon in the world and they would sooner strike the helpless than confront a conscious man.

There was no danger here. He lay in the comfort of a luxurious bed next to a gorgeous woman. He looked to the lady sleeping next to him. Blonde hair covered her features, but he knew them well. Beneath the golden locks were the delicate cheekbones and fine skin of a woman that lived amid the parties and pleasantries of high society. Behind the closed lids were the rich brown eyes of the woman he loved.

Beautiful and peaceful, she slept; her chest rose and fell with even breaths that signaled a restful slumber. Her tranquility stirred in him a thought to wake her; together they could relive the passion of the night before.

There were two ways to subtly awaken and arouse a woman that did not require a beachfront setting or diamond jewelry. The first involved the pollen of an exotic flower that grew only on a peak in Tristan da Cunha. Properly harvested, the flower’s scent excited the more delicate portions of the female mind and released a flood of hormones and desires into her body. Through thorough laboratory testing, he had learned that the effect was almost identical in nature to when a woman sees a man cooking in an apron. He did not have this flower or an apron.

The second method, however, required no flora or cooking utensils. It required nothing but a precise and gentle touch. He had learned of it years ago in the ancient city of Timbuktu. The city had been the final destination in an automobile race that had taken him across the sands of the Sahara. Crossing the finish line had led him not only to victory in the Timbuktu in ’32 rally, but also to the city’s legendary library.

Timbuktu’s rich legacy as a trading hub had brought more than spices to its walls. The trading of books had led to its development as a center of knowledge unlike any other in the ancient world. East met west and ideas were traded freely. Books, parchments and scrolls recorded this exchange of thought. This lore was stored in the library and protected throughout the centuries.

In a dusty corner of the mud walled building, somehow dustier than the others, he had found an ancient Mali script that shared the secrets of the forbidden arts. Casting glances over his shoulder, he had unrolled the scroll and scanned it quickly, committing the ancient text to memory in both its native language and English. He did not want to risk a mistranslation. Considering the delicacy of the subject matter, he feared that an error in his linguist’s tongue could result in injury. Someone could lose an eye or, at the very least, a great deal of dignity.

Many of the sordid details in the scroll were an affront to his gentlemanly character. He led a forthright life of decency and much of what he read in the vulgar scroll challenged what he believed to be morally right. Yet his scientist’s mind had compelled him to read the text in full as his thirst for knowledge was insatiable and an understanding of other cultures, even their depravity, could one day mean the difference between life and death. So, he read each passage carefully, skipping none but those that made reference to “engorged like a water laden camel.”

Now, back in New York, the lace curtains turned yellow sunlight into rays of pink that fell upon his lover’s face. He recalled a singular passage from the scroll and moved his right arm across the rising chest of Dahlia Singleton. His fingers found the ninth rib on her left side—the side closest to her heart.

Proper pressure and rhythm applied between the ninth and tenth ribs would wake any woman in a state of desire. The wrong rhythm, the wrong pressure or the wrong location, and the object of one’s desire would awake in a fit of giggling.

Damian had found the proper cadence hidden within the passage itself. The verse, if read in Mali, relayed to the observant reader the proper measure that brought passion. He repeated it to himself once in the native tongue and placed his finger on her rib.

He tapped. An alarm sounded. Dahlia giggled and slapped him across the face, never waking from her slumber.

Stockwell looked to his wristwatch. The alarm continued and the face of the dial began to flash red. It was not loud, but this quiet warble had stolen his attention from the sleeping beauty before him and disrupted his rhythm. The watch face flashed twice more before it became a pulsing crimson. It throbbed slowly like the final heartbeats of a dying man.

His fears had been confirmed; he did not begrudge his lapse in attention. Damian Stockwell slid from the pink, frilly sheets and moved quickly about the room, gathering his clothes. A black tuxedo jacket was hung neatly across the back of a chair; the rest of his attire was scattered about the room and he set about collecting the pieces. As he retrieved his outerwear, he turned each article inside out, converting the formal wear to a worker’s uniform. The navy blue cotton was wash-worn and sooty in places.

Dahlia stirred. Her manicured hands reached out for him and felt the empty space next to her in the bed. She awoke within a haze of sleep. Sitting up, she saw Damian dressed in the costume and fell back into bed searching for a pillow. “Dam. No more games. Not now.”

“I’m afraid this is no game, my darling. I’m needed and I’ll not risk tarnishing your reputation by having anyone see me leave here.”

She found the satin pillow and drew it across her face. “Okay.”

“I regret that I must leave at all.”

“It’s okay,” her voice drifted away.

“I wish I could stay, but it’s a matter of life or death.”

“It’s fine, really.” She tried to roll away and back to sleep.

He stepped silently up to her and pulled the pillow from her face. Her skin was radiant. Even half asleep she was full of life. He leaned in and kissed her deeply. He felt her tiredness evaporate as she reached up and embraced him. Her kiss was full of a passion that no ancient Mali trickery could conjure.

Lifting her from the bed into his arms took little effort. He matched the passion in her lips. Regretfully, he concluded the kiss and set her back into the bed.

She looked at him and sighed, “Oh, Dam. You’re all man.”

“I know. Can I borrow your mascara?”

•••

Costume alone is not a disguise. The mere application of accessories and makeup serve only to cover a man, not transform him into another. The simple application of cloth and cosmetic could be learned by any novice in a theater group, but for a disguise to pass beyond the lights of the great white way, it took an artist dedicated to the craft of subterfuge.

Given the proper time, Damian Stockwell could transform his thick six-foot-four frame into that of an elderly matron, hunched at the shoulders and suffering from the gout. But, the intensity of the light on his wristwatch indicated that he did not have such time.

Rubbed briskly between his fingers, Dahlia’s mascara had provided the right amount of coal dust he required. Separated from the petroleum jelly and applied to his face, the dust matched the soot upon his clothes and brought unity to the physical aspects of his disguise.

It didn’t take much. A single unsightly blemish, he knew, would contrast from his striking features and draw attention from his presence. One distraction was all it took. Under interrogation, he doubted that even the most observant fellow would be able to identify the color of Stockwell’s eyes—striking silver-blue.

As he rode down in the elevator car, he donned the rest of the disguise. It went far beyond appearance. It went beyond the physical and into his very being. Stockwell did not merely dress in a dirty blue shirt with the name Tom embroidered across the chest; he became Tom.

Damian’s shoulders sank; Tom was meek. Too timid to ask for a raise, the man lived in squalor with his wife, three beautiful children and two ugly ones. Damian frowned; Tom loved his children, but by working two shifts to pay for rent, food, and makeup for the ugly children, he never had time to see them. Guilt measured against obligation but he was powerless to change the situation for Tom was an honorable man and he had to provide for his family first and address his own needs second.

A mechanical chime sounded and the elevator operator announced that they had reached the ground floor. The doors opened and he stepped into a bustling lobby.

Damian smiled through Tom’s frown. He was delighted to see the mass of people. He had always believed that the more people there were around, the easier it was to go unseen. Being another face in the crowd, while difficult for Damian, was something to which Tom had grown accustomed.

His footsteps were absorbed by the plush carpet. This was fortunate as Damian limped; Tom had a bad leg. Tom told people that the affliction was the result of an old war wound but, in truth, the limp came from a near fatal foxtrot misstep in the ’20s.

Damian crossed the room, excusing himself as he went; Tom was polite, if not confident. His apologies were mumbled and spoken with his head down. Still, no one noticed him. As always, Damian had chosen a disguise appropriate for the setting. The wealthy and well-reared patrons that filled the lobby were trained to ignore someone dressed as a plumber. Should Tom try to make eye contact, they would avert their gaze. Should he try to converse with them, they would signal for security. Not fitting in was the perfect way to disappear.

Damian stopped to pick a piece of trash from the floor; Tom was fastidious. It wasn’t that Tom abhorred litter, but he had once received a reprimand for ignoring a gum wrapper that had been dropped on the floor and he feared a repeat of the incident. He could not afford to jeopardize his job. Should he find himself in the breadline, Jenny would undoubtedly leave him. Damian shed a tear; Tom wept. Tom loved his wife dearly and wished he could provide her with a better life. He had failed her as a provider. Of course, she wouldn’t see it that way. She still loved him after all of these years. He was the father of both her beautiful and ugly children and he would always be the man of her dreams.

Dropping the litter in the trashcan, Damian exited through the revolving door; Tom struggled against the weight. He put his shoulder into the door and grunted as he shoved. Tom worried that he was getting weaker. He had always been able-bodied and strong, but lately he feared he had contracted something that was sapping his strength. It made him panic to think that it was anything serious—the fear of leaving Jenny and the kids behind was too much. Shrugging his shoulders, he self-diagnosed the ever-growing weakness as a cold and pushed through to the other side of the revolving door.

The air was bitterly cold, but the warmth of the doorman’s smile was genuine and Tom matched it.

“Good day.” Tom’s voice was gruff, shredded and raspy. He lit a cigarette and drew deeply the fine tobacco. Damian never smoked, but all of his disguises did.

Murray MacDonald stood proud in his uniform. Brass buttons blazed in the rays of what early morning sun managed to break through the buildings of New York. Golden braids adorned the shoulders of the wool jacket that he had buttoned high to keep out the winter cold. The sentry was old but still capable of ushering on the hobos and unwashed masses from under the building’s canopy.

“Good morning, Mr. Stockwell. I sent Henry for your driver.”

“Beg your pardon, sir. The name’s Tom.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stockwell?”

Damian drew deep on the Camel hoping to aid the raspy voice. “Not Stockwell. Tom. I’m the plumber; there was a problem on fourteen. A plumbing problem. They called me in to clear things up.”

The doorman appeared puzzled.

“Which I did. Because I’m the plumber.”

One long look and the doorman laughed. “Oh, you really had me going, Mr. Stockwell.”

“Dammit, MacTavish. How did you know it was me?”

“I’m sorry, sir?”

“The disguise. How do you do it? And every time? This particular disguise has fooled master criminals, newsmen, and even my own mother.”

Murray appeared shaken. “My apologies, sir. Perhaps you just have a certain aura about you.”

“No. That can’t be it. My aura is also disguised as a plumber.”

“A lucky guess then, sir?”

Damian Stockwell put his hand on the old Scot’s shoulder and smiled. “I don’t think so, my friend. Luck favors the weak-minded. And you are not weak-minded.”

The doorman smiled and stood a little taller.

“So, it’s not luck then. It must be that leprechaun magic. Isn’t it?”

Murray MacDonald shrunk inside his jacket. “Sir, that’s Iri…Yes, sir. That must be it.”

Stockwell chuckled deep and rich. “Of course it is. Now be a good chap and forget you saw me here this morning.” Stockwell shook the doorman’s hand and deposited a large bill in his white glove.

“Of course, sir.”

A black and silver Duesenberg pulled up in front of the building. Its vast stretches of chrome stole the gleam from the doorman’s brass as it rolled through the rays of light. The valet, tall and broad-chested, stepped out of the limo and walked around the vehicle to open the door for his charge.

Stockwell slapped the doorman on the back. “Thank you for your discretion, MacTavish.” He then turned his attention to the valet. “You can relax, Bertrand. It’s me.”

The valet nodded and Stockwell stepped into the car.

Once inside, Tom was forgotten. The problems with the man’s family and his ugly children were his own. Like the seamless transition of dawn, he shed the persona of the miserable plumber and became Damian Stockwell—doer of good.

The valet slid into the driver’s seat of the luxurious limousine.

“That doorman is a good man, Bertrand.”

The Frenchman peered into the rearview mirror. “Oui, Monsieur. MacDonald is a good man.”

“No detail escapes his eye. A very observant fellow, that MacTavish. Almost as observant as myself.”

Outside the car, Murray MacDonald gave Stockwell a white-gloved finger. Stockwell continued, “I feel better knowing Dahlia is under his watchful eye.”

Bertrand checked his blind spot. “Oui, Monsieur. What is our destination this fine morning?”

Damian stared at the pulsing dial of his wristwatch. The intensity had not faded. “Home, Bertrand.” Stockwell held up his watch so the valet could see the glowing face. “Our help is needed.”

“Oui, Monsieur.” Bertrand pulled away from the curb and maneuvered gracefully into the morning traffic. If called upon he could unleash the full power of the limo’s retooled engine and overtake any target or lose any tail. Few drivers in the world could match the Frenchman’s skill behind the wheel. He could play the powerful and silent engine with the skill of a musician.

As the car glided through the early morning Manhattan traffic, Damian Stockwell removed the physical elements of his plumber’s disguise and pondered the glowing watch. The dial was designed to communicate a vast array of signals using various colors. Blue indicated that all was well. This calming hue was used in the field when verbal signals or thumbs up were rendered ineffective due to distance or darkness. Yellow meant caution. Like a traffic light or the flash of evil in a cat’s eyes, this color was meant to warn of a possible danger. Green meant dinner.

But red—red was the color of pain and signified that someone was in grave peril. The dial’s only shortcoming was that it could not identify a point of origin. Damian had compatriots around the globe and each was entrusted with an identical communicator. Remarkably, the signal could have come from anywhere in the world.

He glanced frequently at the watch, hoping it would transition to blue. But, the crimson dial did not change. Whoever had called him was still in peril. There was no use in speculating which of his associates had sent the distress call. Questions would be answered when they reached his office. Though the device itself was ignorant to the sender’s location, the distress signal also broadcast a coded radio transmission. This information would be sent by relay stations around the world to his office where it would be decoded.

He would know soon enough who had requested his help and to where he should rush to their aid.

Wiping the soot from his chin removed this final element of the disguise and restored more than Damian’s dashing good looks. It enabled his personality to become dominant again and he could dedicate his full faculties to the problem at hand. Evil beware.

2
A Stranger in the Shadows

He watched from across the street. Hidden in the shadow of an oak tree and concealed by a staircase, he watched from beneath the brim of his hat as the Duesenberg arrived at the five-story brownstone. The glint from the chrome had arrived moments before the car, warning him of its presence. He retreated further into the shadows.

The sight of his prey surprised him. The man’s stature had not been misrepresented. He had thought for certain that the profile had been an exaggeration. The language they had used to describe the target had sounded like hyperbole. Who could truly be that big? The dossier’s contents had described a man that was larger than life itself. He had questioned the description: thick like the trunk of a tree, arms like coiled pythons, a chest the breadth of a man’s reach. Impossible. Seeing him now, however, it was clear that the report did little justice to the titan that emerged from the vehicle.

He was tremendous. Well over six feet in a world of much shorter men. The distance between his shoulders could not be much less. As the blond-haired giant strode to his doorway, passersby were pulled from their own focus. Couples stopped talking. Newspapers were ignored. It was as if this man’s mere presence had created a gravity that attracted attention.

He watched Stockwell smile and greet several of the pedestrians before moving to the entrance of the brownstone. There the giant stopped and turned to survey the street.

He ducked behind the stairwell. Did he see him? He couldn’t have. The staircase hid him. Concealment gave him courage and he inched closer to the edge of the stairs to look back across the street.

Stockwell’s glance landed on nothing. It merely passed over the street. He continued to smile and greet those on the sidewalk.

This gave the man comfort but, still, the giant’s glance was terrifying. There was no malice in the steel gray eyes—far from it. Perhaps it was this fact that made the base of his neck tingle as if it had been lit upon by a spider. He knew the man was scanning the street, noting changes, discrepancies, and the people strolling by. But, it had been so casual, so natural that it had caused him pause.

He felt the package under his arm and unconsciously stroked the brown paper wrapping. This brought him comfort and he felt some relief. His plan was not without risk, but if the man in the house suspected nothing, then the only time he would have to lay eyes on Damian Stockwell again was to confirm the kill.

The Duesenberg pulled away from the home. The valet had departed, as was routine, to park the car. Stockwell disappeared through the front door.

He waited for a few moments, keeping a careful eye on the door and windows of the five-story home. There were no eyes in the windows. Since Stockwell had entered, foot traffic on the sidewalk had resumed its normal pattern. After several moments, he was confident that the street was not being watched.

Stepping from behind the staircase, he held the package tighter under his arm. Nondescript brown paper was sealed in twine. The sender’s address was a clever forgery. The recipient was labeled as the house across the street.

Looking both ways, he stepped onto the residential street and crossed quickly to the door of the brownstone. He set the package down and prayed that the plan would work. After seeing the man, the idea of having to kill Stockwell on his own frightened him.

He rushed back across the street to the safety of the stairs and had just settled into his shelter of shadows as the valet returned.

His attention had not been on Stockwell’s companion. The driver was almost the size of Stockwell himself. Not as broad, but tall and thick, the valet would prove a formidable opponent for anyone.

The man in the shadows smiled. The plan would work.

The valet walked up to the front door, picked up the package, and entered the sanctuary of Damian Stockwell.

•••

Bertrand studied the package in his hands. Had his employer not seen it on the stoop? It was unlike him to miss something. Bertrand shrugged; the distress call would have his employer’s full attention.

The Frenchman read the address; it was from a movie studio in California. This explained it being left on the stoop. Damian held little fascination with motion pictures, but the feeling was not mutual. Though he had made it clear that he would never allow his name or likeness to be used for a feature picture, the studios persisted. Stockwell’s adventures were the perfect fare for exciting films. As such, the studios were always trying to woo him. Gifts and pleas arrived often. It was not unusual that these offerings were delivered in the arms of the studio’s latest starlet. But, Stockwell wouldn’t yield. He would send the starlets back in the morning with the gift in hand and a “thank you but no thank you” note.

It was no wonder that the silver screen wanted his blessings. Stockwell’s adventures were epic in scope, harrowing in tone, and always morally sound. It was for exactly this reason that the man declined both movie deals and interviews. A life such as his was not for the meek or feeble. Fearing for their safety, he did not want to expose impressionable youth to such excitement. To see his exploits glorified would put ideas into their young minds. Ideas would become dreams and dreams would become mistakes.

Whenever a proposal arrived, the result was the same. Stockwell would dictate a note claiming that he was flattered but found no interest in their “make believe fantasies” and the gift would be returned.

This package would be no different. It would be opened, commented on, and sent back with no blessings given.

Bertrand tucked the package under his arm and moved through the halls to the radio room. There he found Damian adjusting the dials on a large cabinet. It stood seven feet tall and its surface was covered with switches and knobs. In the center of the machine was a circular glass screen. The screen itself was only a small part of the device but it was this that commanded Damian’s focus.

A warm hum emanated from the rich wood casing. A series of squelches and squeals joined in the chorus of technological tones as Damian adjusted the controls.

Bertrand addressed his employer, “Have you located the problem, Monsieur?”

“Not yet, Bertrand. It still takes some fine-tuning. Hopefully Philo will have the kinks worked out in the next version.”

Bertrand nodded. Philo T. Farnsworth was a brilliant young mind that Stockwell had encountered at the Franklin Institute in Philadelphia a few short years before. Farnsworth’s presentation on something he had called television was met with skepticism from the audience. Damian Stockwell, however, had always put a great deal of faith in science. He knew that a powerful imagination mixed with sound reason had the power to change the world. Damian had seen beyond Philo’s vision and contracted the inventor to develop Stockwell’s worldwide transmission network. They had called it DamVision; DV for short.

Once the distress signal in the watch had been activated, a camera and a microphone began to transmit sound and images across the private radio network that Stockwell had secretly installed around the globe. Every signal was directed to the DV where Damian could decode the message and react accordingly. Bertrand still marveled at the brilliance of it all.

“What have you got there, Bertrand?” Stockwell had not looked up from the dials but had somehow noticed the package under the valet’s arm.

“A package, Monsieur. It was on the stoop.”

“Hmmm. I didn’t see it when I came in. Who’s it from?”

“Hollywood, Monsieur.”

“Ha, those folks can’t get enough of my tales. But, still, they never learn. Well,” Stockwell stepped away from the monitor, “open it up and let’s see what their latest attempt to win my approval looks like.”

Bertrand smiled and set the package down. He pulled a penknife from his pocket and cut the twine. His excitement built as he tore away the paper.

“Careful, Bertrand. It’s not Christmas. We’ll want to reuse that paper.”

“Of course, Monsieur.” His excitement had gotten the better of him. The packages often contained autographs from Hollywood’s biggest stars, props from famous movies, and even personal pleas and pledges of love from the town’s leading ladies. Despite his employer’s lack of enthusiasm for the silver screen, Bertrand was an ardent fan. He spent his free evenings in the center row of the cinema soaking in the flickering light of the world’s greatest storytellers.

He opened the box inside the package. He jumped. A horrific tiki mask stared back at him. Carved with jagged edges into the wood, the sneer alone gave the brave Frenchman pause. He felt violated by its gaze. Eyes like black-glass stared into his soul. He was hesitant to pick it up.

“Hmm. There’s no note. I guess we can’t return this one.” Stockwell pulled the mask from the box. “It’s a ghastly thing. They must be trying to do a story about one of my South American adventures.”

“Perhaps you will reconsider this time, Monsieur?”

“Ha,” Damian slapped his friend and fellow adventurer on the back. “That’s my Frenchman. Lured by the thin veneer of the cinema. I know you’re a fan of these moving pictures, my friend, but I feel I have a responsibility to the world. I can’t have my exploits exploited. Impressionable children would be in the audience and I will not be responsible for their attempts to mimic me. You’ve been with me for years, Bertrand. You know how dangerous my life is. My anecdotes alone could injure thousands.”

“Oui, Monsieur.”

“You know better than anyone the degree to which I prepare myself to combat villainy. I train vigorously to outfight the forces of evil and study vigorouslier to outsmart them. If anyone went up against them without proper training or education … the results would be disastrous.”

“Of course. You are right, Monsieur.”

“Of course I am.”

“Still, to one day see Hollywood, that would be something, non?”

“Of course, my friend. And I have no doubt that one day our paths will lead us there. But, in the meantime, we have work to do.” Stockwell dropped the mask back into the box, smiled at his friend and returned to the DamVision monitor.

“It’s coming in now, Bertrand. We’ll have answers in a moment.”

Bertrand stared at the mask. Transfixed by its horrid features, his face began to mimic the fearful expression carved into the wood.

“Come, you godless heathens! I’ll shatter each one of your ugly faces!” The voice from the DV was clear. The panic played in the radio room as if the victim sat with them. The fact that it could have been transmitted from another hemisphere was another remarkable achievement for the man they called the Man of Marvels.

Damian recognized the voice that echoed through the room. “It’s Simmons, Bertrand. Simmons is in danger.”

Bertrand had heard the audio play, but he was not listening. He reached for the mask and felt the grain of the cold, dead wood. Grooves cut deep in the surface created shadows within even the smoothest areas. It was indeed horrific but somehow irresistible.

“Dam! Dam!” The voice on the DamVision pleaded for help as the image finally began to appear. It was fuzzy at first. Stockwell’s fingers flew between knobs and switches and with each twist and tweak, the picture became clearer.

“Sinister cowards,” Damian swore at the screen as the scene in the jungle unfolded.

Bertrand pulled the mask from the box and held it before his face.

The adjustment Stockwell made to the dial was imperceptible, but it brought into focus the final view of Peter Simmons. “Oh, my …” Damian uttered and turned towards his valet. “Don’t put on that mask!”

But, it was too late. Bertrand set his face inside the mask. Through the soulless black eyes he saw bright flashes of light, a prism of pain. Then all became dark. All was quiet. He saw nothing. He heard nothing. He felt nothing. Yet he moved.

3
Through the Mask Darkly

Though still in an experimental stage, the DamVision monitor had revealed the final sight that Peter Simmons’s eyes had beheld. A hand had extended and forced upon the wounded man a horrific mask with soulless eyes. The chiseled expression upon its face was one of agony—a man screaming, not in pain, but from the consciousness of a growing and unstoppable madness.

Black and white images quivered with atmospheric interference, the machine’s weak link was not the technology but the earth itself. Well-defined shapes blurred as the mask passed over the lens of the communicator that was strapped to Simmons’s wrist. The image was lost completely for a moment but reappeared as the villain’s hand, now free of the mask, retreated from view.

There was only the night sky. The small lens in the watch registered the stars beyond the thick canopy of the jungle. The only movement was the swaying of the branches before the stars. Stockwell envisioned the thickness in the jungle air as he waited for the camera in the wristwatch to give some other clue to his friend’s final location. He was all too familiar with the oppressive humidity of the world’s jungles. His photographic memory went beyond images and sounds. His skin crawled with the sweat that a jungle produced. This seeping sensation was dotted with the memory of the myriad of bugs that would land on his skin. He brushed at his arms as he peered into the monitor.

The world was full of wonders. Beauty could be found even in the driest desert, the deepest caves, or Detroit. But, jungles were his least favorite of the world’s environments. It wasn’t the danger present in the creatures, the plants or the rivers. It wasn’t that everything seemed to exist just to kill a man. It was the ick.

His vow to thwart evil, however, took him to jungles more often than not. Hiding from the eyes of the world was easy in the tangle of vines and webs. Villains often chose to hide deep in these dark places that dripped and crawled with yuck.

The shift in the camera was sudden. At first, Damian assumed one of the attackers had seized the device from Simmons’s wrist. Each was constructed of gold for both functional and boasting purposes and would fetch a grand price in any corner of the world. Moments later it became clear that the device was still strapped to his compatriot. The camera movements were smooth as Simmons somehow found the strength to rise to his feet.

Stockwell watched his friend pull the barbs from his leg. It had no doubt been a poison on their tips that had brought him down. But, any poison capable of falling his friend could not have worn off so quickly. The man would be lucky if such a toxin did not stop his heart. Despite his deduction, Simmons began to rise. As the weakened man stood, the perspective of the watch gave Damian one last glance at the pursuers.

For a brief moment, beyond the focal point in a dark blur, Stockwell could see the outline of several men. Each wore a horrific mask identical to the one thrust at Simmons. Then the watch turned as Simmons peered into the dial. Staring back was the horrific visage that Bertrand now held in his hands. Simmons disabled the watch.

Damian had tried to shout to his valet, but his warning came too late. Bertrand stood silently before him, staring through the dead glass of the mask’s eyes. The shark-like lenses permitted no light to pass and he could not see the eyes of his trusted friend and servant.

“Bertrand?”

The Frenchman was still. His hands had fallen to his sides. His body had gone rigid. He stood like a plank in the center of the radio room. He made no move to acknowledge Damian. It was as if the Frenchman simply wasn’t there.

“Bertrand!” Even as he rushed to his friend, Stockwell’s incredible mind raced through a thousand explanations for the man’s sudden inactivity. There were chemicals and gases that would have such an effect but the mask had not been in place long enough.

Simmons had succumbed quickly to the mask’s control and Damian was certain that Bertrand would undoubtedly suffer the same fate if the demon’s face was not removed. Stockwell dashed across the room with blazing speed.

The kick to his face was faster.

Bertrand’s right leg caught Damian under the chin and snapped his head back. The strike forced him back into a shelf of radio equipment. The devices he and his team used to communicate scattered across the floor as the shelf collapsed.

Stockwell straightened and looked to his friend. Bertrand seemed unmoved by the attack. He stood rigid in the center of the room.

Damian rubbed his square jaw and focused on the problem at hand. “Bertrand. You’ve got an ugly look about you that I will now slap from your face.”

The mask stared back in silent mockery.

“How dare you say nothing.”

Stockwell launched at his friend.

The rigid posture vanished. Bertrand fell into a defensive stance that Damian knew all too well. Inside the massive man, there was a shudder. He stopped cold.

Bertrand possessed a control over his emotions like no man Stockwell had ever met. It was that professional demeanor that made him the perfect valet. But, under the calm exterior lurked the dangerous spirit of a vicious savateur.

The pair had first met in combat and Stockwell had seen first-hand Bertrand’s savate skills employed to devastating effect. He had developed an immediate respect for the man. It’s true that many friendships begin this way, but Bertrand and Damian had been on opposing sides.

Stockwell had fought on the side of good. Bertrand was under contract to a Parisian crime lord known only as La Grenouille. The two titans had collided and fought to exhaustion.

Though slightly smaller in stature than Stockwell, the Frenchman had delivered a punishing assault using a combination of savate and judo. Damian had been forced to use a variety of combat systems to find openings in the Frenchman’s fury.

The fight had continued for an hour, spilling from the crime lord’s hideout and into the streets of Paris. Not since Napoleon had trod with tiny strides had the cobblestones of the city been witness to such great warriors. Stockwell exhausted his extensive knowledge of martial arts, boxing and throwing things during the encounter. Had it not been for a well-placed portrait artist, Stockwell could not even honestly say that he would have defeated the Frenchman.

The altercation had ended with a total of three broken bones, one angry French portrait artist and the hiring of Bertrand as his personal valet. He had employed the man out of respect, but also as insurance that he would never have to face Bertrand’s savagery again.

But, now his friend stood before him, ready to unleash his brutal fighting skills.

Stockwell calculated his chances. He knew that it had to be the mask that had caused his friend to strike. Therefore, his attacks would focus on removing the mask. If this could be done quickly, they may avoid endangering the good people and portrait artists of New York.

Damian dropped into his own defensive stance. His technique was of his own creation. On his many adventures around the world, he had studied with the great masters of several exotic martial arts. Over the years he had selected the finest techniques and incorporated them into his own martial art—Damitsu.

Proven in countless fights, he had never doubted the system. But, now he knew it would take all of his skill and strength to defeat his friend without killing him. It would not be easy or painless. For the first time that he could remember, he did not envy himself.

Bertrand burst forward. Knees and feet blurred as he quickly closed the distance between them.

Stockwell was on the defensive. Every hand and foot he had was employed in blocking Bertrand’s strikes. Bruises formed quickly on his forearms and shins as they collided with Bertrand’s relentless offense.

The Frenchman was fast. Faster, even, than Stockwell remembered. Lefts and rights, fists and feet, blended together in the air before him. Damian was forced around the room as the valet tirelessly launched blow after blow. He could do nothing but leave his motions to his reflexes.

Cursing, he reeled back. It had taken the promise of a large salary and the death of an underworld chief to attain Bertrand’s service—all with the intent of never having to fight the man again. Now, even the threat of terminating his employment would not be enough to stop the vicious valet.

Damian was driven back into the DV cabinet. The jar set the device to replay. Simmons’s voice pleaded over the speakers, “Dam. Dam.”

The great adventurer dove to the right as Bertrand struck. The fist missed him by inches and continued through the vacuum tube of the DamVision set. Sparks flew. Blood flowed. But, Bertrand continued his attack—unfazed by the shard of glass now protruding from between his knuckles.

The glass grazed Stockwell’s cheek and drew blood. His lethal friend had become even more deadly. He could no longer wait to unleash his own offense. He rolled behind the DV cabinet and brought the apparatus crashing down between the two of them.

The obstacle gave him the fraction of a second he needed to change the tide of the fight. Employing a combination of boxing and elements from the Canadian Combato defense system, he stepped forward with a series of jabs and crosses. The techniques had proven unstoppable in previous encounters; Bertrand, however, exposed several flaws in the system as his powerful strikes and kicks continued to slip through Stockwell’s offense.

His own blows landed with little effect. He felt muscle yield as he struck. He knew that he was connecting with full force, but there was no response, no cries of pain, no “ughs” of agony, from the valet. Blows such as these had knocked out cattle, but the Frenchman kept coming.

Damian was knocked back against the radio room’s door. Bertrand struck again with a straight right. Damian caught the fist but it drove with the force of a cinderblock thrown by a gorilla holding a grudge. The shard of glass from the monitor dug deep into Stockwell’s hand. Ignoring the pain, he grunted as the power of the strike drove his own hands into his chest and his body through the door.

The solid core splintered as he crashed into the fifth floor hallway. He rolled to his feet in time to deflect a left foot and absorb a right in his ribs. He felt nothing break. His ribs had held, but he made a general observation that most of him was starting to feel squishy.

A quick onslaught of knees backed him to the head of the stairway. He slipped over the banister and began to descend. He needed distance. His initial fear had been defeating Bertrand without injuring his friend; now he was struggling to remain on his feet.

The Frenchman seemed unstoppable. The mask that had robbed him of his humanity seemed to increase the speed of his movements and the power behind each strike. Punching through the glass tube of the DV had also proven that his nerves were no longer in control. Bertrand was tough, but no man, not even Stockwell, was immune to pain such as that.

Bertrand continued to punch without hesitation despite the glass shard impaled between his knuckles. It was as if the foreign object did not even register.

The Frenchman leapt over the railing and landed in front of Damian midway down the flight. The raving mask stared up at Stockwell. He became enraged at the inanimate face that had taken his friend from him, but he did not scream, he did not swear. He dove.

Colliding headfirst into the valet’s chest, the two crashed and rolled down the stairs. For a brief moment, Stockwell found his hand on the mask. He pulled at its edge and he felt the mask begin to give.

An elbow crashed into his solar plexus. The breath was forced from his lungs as the point of the elbow began to grind up into his ribs. His reflexes moved his hand from the edge of the mask to the elbow before he could stop them. He cursed the human body’s weak nervous system as the pair crashed to the bottom of the stairs.

Damian released his grip on Bertrand and rolled to his feet.

Bertrand had already recovered and launched a kick that sent Stockwell crashing into an accent table in front of the fourth-story window.

He reached behind him and grabbed an item from the table. He brought it up as a shield as the masked valet pushed his assault.

Bertrand’s left fist destroyed the vase.

Shattered glass, water and daffodils showered down on Damian’s head.

He grabbed another as the valet’s right came crashing down. The crystal erupted and spread across the floor. The following moments were filled with a flurry of punches and the rhythm of shattering crystal, ceramic and glass while water fell and flowers filled his hair.

Stockwell soon ran out of flower receptacles. Bertrand’s knuckles were bleeding profusely and laced with the shards of broken vases.

Despite this, Bertrand seemed unaffected. His pain threshold, while normally high, had seemed to rise to superhuman limits. But, now he paused. The Frenchman’s chest heaved and Damian could hear muffled pants from behind the mask. Its effect seemed to have power over nerve and muscle but not over the engine that drove the body. Bertrand stood, hands up, ready, but still. He was tiring.

Stockwell looked into the dead eyes of the mask, then to the shattered remains of the vases on the floor.

Damian shrugged and tossed the remainder of a vase back on the table. “Bertrand, you will owe Mrs. Landry an apology. She is not going to be happy when she sees this mess. Really, Bertrand, this is just sloppy.”

The valet burst back into action. His right foot flew above his head and came crashing towards Damian. Stockwell jumped out of the way and watched as the Frenchman’s powerful leg drove through the accent table that had held the flowers.

“All right. Mask or no mask, that’s coming out of your pay.”

Bertrand grabbed a leg from the broken table and swung it wildly. Damian ducked, weaved and fell over multiple times dodging the swings. He scrambled backwards and stood in time to catch a foot in the chest.

Damian flew down another flight of stairs.

Bertrand jumped down the flight.

Stockwell rolled as the Frenchman’s knee landed where his head had lain. He spun and swept the legs from under the possessed valet.

Bertrand landed hard on his back with little effect. He sprung to his feet and unleashed a flurry of kicks that drove Stockwell across the hall as the adventurer struggled to defend himself.

“Damn your fantastic feet, Bertrand.” Damian stood with his back to the door and caught the Frenchman’s left foot. The Frenchman’s right foot caught him in the chest as the valet spun in the air and delivered the flying kick.

The door shattered as he flew into the trophy room.

4
Welcome to America

Outside on the street, tucked into the shadows of the stairwell, the stranger watched the brownstone. It had not occurred to him that there would be no way to know if the valet had completed the job.

It was clear that it was the driver that had tried the mask and not Stockwell himself. The mask’s instructions were simply to kill Stockwell. If Damian had placed it on his face, there would not have been the resulting commotion by the window.

Aside from the flurry of activity and sound of shattering glass, he could not tell what was happening in the house. He believed in the power of the mask. He dare not doubt it. But, he would have to verify Stockwell’s demise before departing the city. What if the valet failed? To fail in his mission would mean death. If he couldn’t prove that Stockwell had fallen, it would be better to flee than return.

He had to know. He had to enter and see the body for himself.

Stepping from the safety of the shadows, he pulled the collar of his coat high. No one knew him in this country, but the nature of his work made his palms sweat. He wasn’t cut out for all of this sneaking around. In his country it just wasn’t necessary. Just give him a name and a squad of several men and the name would be on a tombstone in no time. No fancy planning or trickery needed.

He darted across the street. Traffic was light, but the snow and slush concerned him. He’d never tried to move across it and had already slipped twice since arriving in the city. Hopping onto the sidewalk confirmed that his fears weren’t unwarranted. His feet moved from underneath and he landed hard on his lower back and slid across the sidewalk into a pedestrian.

The man was young and toppled onto him. Arms and legs flailed as the two slid together into a pile of trash set out for collection. There they stopped.

The young man jumped to his feet. The stranger struggled to find solid footing on the frozen concrete.

“Watch where you’re going, you jerk.”

He wanted to apologize for his clumsiness but did not know the English words.

“First day with your new feet, ya chump?”

He got to his feet but continued to slide. He spat out apologies in Spanish as his feet shuffled back and forth.

“A foreigner? That’s un-American, ya bum.”

“No quise hacerte daño.” He slid once more and grabbed the young man for support. With his hands on the man’s collar, he finally found his balance on the ice and smiled. “Gracias.”

The young man struck his hand from the jacket collar and punched the stranger in the face. The strike sent him sailing onto his back and sliding across the sidewalk.

“Lousy Greek.” The young man straightened his collar and continued his walk.

The stranger sat up and stood slowly to his feet. The ice was thinner here and enough concrete broke through to make his footing sure. “Hey you, ugly American.”

His English was badly broken. The accent was thick, but the young man heard. He stopped and turned. “What did you say to me, goatbanger?”

The stranger said nothing. His English was limited. The only other thing he had learned before he left for America was “you’re very pretty” and it didn’t seem applicable here.

“That’s what I thought.”

“You’re very pretty, you ugly American.”

“That’s it. You’re not even making sense but I’m going to kick your ass anyway.” The young man rushed in and swung.

The stranger ducked and drove a solid fist into his stomach.

The young man let out a breath of air as he doubled over.

The stranger pulled his hand back, reached into his coat and pulled a mask identical to the one he had left in the package on the doorstep and placed it on the man’s face.

Ignoring the pain in his stomach, the young man stood up straight with arms at his side. He was rigid. His anger had vanished.

The stranger smiled and leaned in close to the young man. He didn’t know the English words for take a walk. But with the mask in place, he didn’t have to. He whispered the instructions in Spanish into the man’s ear and the man complied.

The young man turned and stepped into the street just as a truck pulled on to the avenue.

It tried to stop but slid on the ice and plowed into the young man. The thud was sickening. A woman screamed. People rushed to his aid.

They would not find the mask. It had disappeared in a puff of green smoke.

The stranger moved further down the street. No one could resist the power of the mask. If the command was to kill Stockwell, Stockwell would be killed. There was no need to check. No one could resist its control. He would just wait for the chaos that was sure to erupt when the world’s second richest man was found murdered.

5
The Vicious Valet

The room was clean and cold. Glass cases and marble flooring gave the room the austere atmosphere that it deserved. Along the walls and in displays were the memorabilia from Stockwell’s greatest adventures. Some were as simple as uniforms crafted for the henchmen of diabolical dictators. Others were grand and domineering statues taken from their lairs. Weapon racks were everywhere and contained everything from spears and sticks to complicated advanced devices that madmen had sought to use for their purposes of world domination.

No element was out of place. Every item was kept clean and dusted thanks to the dutiful Mrs. Landry. The floor was spotless; spotless until Damian crashed through the door and sent splinters scattering across the marble.

“Seriously, man. Enough with the doors.” He stood and rushed the masked valet.

Bertrand swung the table leg. It went wide. Stockwell’s counterstrike caught the valet in the face. There was a thud as his fist collided with the mask. Two more quick strikes had little effect on the emotionless face. Each hit sounded with a thunk. The hollow sound puzzled Stockwell and distracted his marvelous mind long enough for the valet to land another kick.

Damian landed on his back and slid across the highly polished marble floor deep into the trophy room. He squeaked to a stop at the base of a trophy case.

Bertrand kept coming.

Damian stood and rushed in amongst the exhibits. Perhaps in the maze of displays he could gain an advantage on the machine-like man that stalked him.

Tools, weapons and vehicles of deranged madmen from across the globe filled the room. Though he appreciated the opportunity and any advantage it may provide him, it was a dangerous place to have led a possessed Frenchman wearing a creepy mask that seemed bent on killing him.

Bertrand dropped the club and moved to a weapons rack. In its display were several African spears Damian had brought back after defeating his, what the newspapers had called, “Nemesis in Natal.”

The long spear cut through the air with a confusing sound. The shaft warbled like the flexing of a strip of sheet metal while the spearhead produced a shrill whistle. The combination of the two sounds made it difficult to judge the speed of the missile.

Stockwell dove for a totem pole he had saved from “The Inuit Incident” hoping the carved animals would shield him.

The tip of the spear embedded itself in the face of a smiling beaver and sheared a tooth from the carving. Stockwell tried to pull the weapon free and turn it on his murderous friend, but the blade had buried itself too deep between the beaver’s over-pronounced teeth.

Bertrand threw another spear. The warble roared and the whistle screamed across the room. Stockwell slid behind a monolith that had been a key clue to the “Evil on Easter Island.”

The spear struck the rock and threw off a cascade of sparks as it was deflected far out of Damian’s reach.

Bertrand grabbed another spear from the rack.

Stockwell cursed himself for not bolting the weapons down or mounting a “do not throw in the house” sign on the rack itself. Weaving in and out of the various trophies, he rushed across the room. He leapt over a bed of nails from the “Insanity in India,” vaulted over a pommel horse from the time he faced “The Genocidal Gymnast” and slid behind a gong that had been the centerpiece of an evil emperor’s lair in “That Thingapore in Singapore.” The papers weren’t always clever.

The third spear struck the gong just as he stopped behind it. The sound was deafening. In the cavernous room, the ring bounced off the polished floor and metal displays. He clasped his hands over his ears and fell to the ground. Then he saw it. The reflection in a giant mirror that had once been the property of “The Vain Villain” showed Bertrand grasping at his own ears behind the mask.

Damian Stockwell kicked the gong. This sound was louder than the spear strike and sent Bertrand to the ground. He kicked it again, jumped to his feet and ran to the “Chaos in Camelot” display and grabbed a shield from a suit of armor. Behind the safety of the shield, he advanced.

The gong faded, Bertrand recovered and returned to the spear rack. He hurled one missile after another at the approaching Stockwell.

The impact of each was not slight. The shield bucked in his hand with every strike, yet he advanced quickly, deflecting spears until the South African weapons rack was all but empty.

Bertrand held the last spear in front of him and the two warriors collided.

Stockwell battered and bashed the Frenchman with the shield as the valet struck against the metal with the spear.

The weight of the shield and the force of the blows tired both combatants. Even the influence of the mask could not overcome the tremendous fatigue both men suffered.

Bertrand dropped the spear and tore the shield from Stockwell’s hands. The Frenchman lowered his head and drove his shoulder into his employer, lifting him from the ground as he charged across the room.

The charge ended at the window. The sill caught Stockwell just above the waistline. His back and shoulders shattered the glass. He grabbed the mask and placed his foot on the valet’s chest. A powerful shove forced the Frenchman back as the mask finally released its hold. The momentum carried Damian’s arm out the broken window. His grip on the mask had been tenuous, and despite the force of the kick, it had struggled to remain in place and weakened his grip. The mask sailed out into the air above the street.

It never struck the road. It dissolved in midair. One moment the mask had been whole and hideous. The next it was a flash of green mist and it was gone.

Stockwell cursed. In his lab the mask would have revealed its secrets.

Bertrand groaned.

Damian grabbed him by the elbow and helped him stand. “Are you okay, my friend?”

“It feels like someone tried to rip my face off.”

“That was me. You’re welcome.”

The valet looked confused as he surveyed the trophy room. Then he held up his bloodied hands. The pain began to show on his face.

“Monsieur, what is this? What happened to my hands?”

“Well, you punched a lot of glass and things.”

He winced as he touched the glass shards protruding from his hands. “Mon dieu. What is going on?”

“I don’t know, my loyal friend. But, we’re going to find out. You’ll want to tend to those hands before we head to Central America.”

“Where in Central America?”

“I don’t know. I was still examining the DV when you put your fist through it.”

“I did what?” The Frenchman was shocked. “I remember nothing except looking at the mask in the box.”

“You don’t remember putting on the mask and going all Frenchy crazy on me?”

The Frenchman shook his head. He blushed to hear of his actions.

“Hmmm. I’d already deduced that the mask had an effect on your nervous system, but this sudden amnesic episode must mean that it made you stupid as well.”

“I do apologize, Monsieur.”

“No apologies are necessary, my friend. Aside from putting on the mask and trying to kill me, none of this is your fault. But, we must get to the bottom of this. It’s a shame the mask disintegrated and took its secrets with it.”

Stockwell bit his lower lip as he thought. His mind was awash with possibilities—chemical formulas, motives and cultural references flooded his mind. He needed a distraction to concentrate. Damian crossed the room and pulled a first aid kit from the shelf. Without a word, he set to removing the shards from Bertrand’s hands. Exercising caution to prevent nerve damage, he tweezed and stitched each laceration until the valet’s hands were clear of debris. He treated the wounds and wrapped the hands. By the time he was done, he had formulated a plan.

“Bertrand, call the club and see if Williams is in.”

Bertrand held up his hands. The gauze wrapped his hand with the thickness of a boxer’s gloves. “Monsieur, how should I call?”

Stockwell rolled his eyes. “Use the phone, Bertrand. You shouldn’t be such a luddite.”

Bertrand sighed. “Oui, Monsieur.”

“Oh, and while you’re on the phone, call down to the warehouse and have them prep the plane. We’ll be flying out today.”

“Oui, Monsieur. May I trouble you for a pen?”

Damian pulled a pen from his pocket. “It’s not that much to remember, Bertrand.”

“Non. I just need it to dial.” Bertrand gripped the pen in his teeth.

Stockwell shook his head and laughed, “Ah, you French. So weird.”

Bertrand mumbled something. The pen in his mouth made it hard to understand. He turned to leave the room.

Stockwell called him back. “Bertrand.”

The Frenchman turned.

“It’s good to have you back on my side, my friend.”

Bertrand smiled, nodded and disappeared into the stairwell.

Stockwell turned his attention out the window. What could have caused the mask to evaporate like that? And what was that flash of green?

•••

He had seen the flash of green from across the street. And, once he saw his target lean out the window, he knew his plan had failed.

How could the mask have failed? Fear crept into him as he realized that he may have to face this legend himself. He tried to shake the feeling as he walked down the street to where he had parked. Before getting into the driver’s seat, he moved around to the trunk and withdrew a large case.

He sat the case next to him in the passenger’s seat and opened it. There were four masks left. Four chances that he would not have to try and kill Damian Stockwell himself.

6
Hey, Lady

The valet had been beaten. Everything he knew about the Frenchman had made the man the world’s best candidate to defeat Damian Stockwell. His skills and proximity had made him the perfect choice to don the mask. But, he had failed. If he wasn’t strong enough to beat the famed adventurer, who would be?

The foreigner had driven through the streets of New York aimlessly, looking for someone strong enough to beat the man that many cultures called the White Demon. After an hour, it became clear that only a circus strongman may possess the strength necessary and there were none strolling the streets this day.

He had all but resigned himself to performing the murder himself. A cold spot had begun to form in his stomach. His hand shook when he raised it to wipe the nervous sweat from his brow. Fear had been in the back of his mind ever since he had received the dossier that held Stockwell’s name. Now it grew as he turned and drove back towards the townhouse to perform the hit himself.

The closer he got, the worse he shook. He was a block away when the shaking forced him to pull over.

The sedan lurched as he pulled to the curb. His shaking hand found the window crank and turned furiously. Cold air rushed into the car and beat back the sweat that had begun to drip down his face.

He took slow, deep breaths and whispered comforting things to himself.

He reminded himself that he had killed plenty of men—that this was no different. But his instincts could not be convinced. Damian Stockwell was no ordinary man. He was a legend.

He leaned closer to the cold air that drifted in through the window. He had never known a winter this cold—the dry air was as foreign to him as the cold itself. He was accustomed to dampness, and longed for the humidity of his home’s still air. Still, its chill was comforting and the air carried something more.

The sound was unmistakable. It was a voice that sounded his deliverance. The words were sweet to his desperate ears.

“Yeah, baby. Shake that ass!”

The sound had come from around the corner. He leapt from the car, cautious this time of his footing, and ran to the street’s corner.

What he saw caused him to smile. There were four of them and they were perfect.

Each man was burlier than the last, if arranged in the proper order. Their faces were chiseled and tanned. Their muscles were massive and toned. Their sandwiches were ham and cheese.

The four men sat perched on a stack of bricks with their lunches spread across their laps. Steel thermoses sat uncapped and at the ready. The biggest man was the one with the voice. The brute would point at a woman walking by, lean in to his coworkers, whisper something and then shout.

A long-legged brunette was his next target.

“Whoa, baby! With legs like that you should be in pictures. Or my bed.”

She huffed and quickened her pace.

He shouted after her, “My bed pays better than pictures.”

The others did not join in on the catcalls. They would only laugh and encourage his comments. They’d help choose his targets and try not to choke on their ham and cheese sandwiches as he insulted nearly every woman who passed the construction site. The women did their best not to respond and simply hurried on their way.

This only encouraged the men.

A woman carrying a stack of books received, “Hey, baby. Wanna teach me how to read … in my bed?”

Another woman strolled by with her dog and drew a comment.

“Whoa, girl. You could put me on a leash … in my bed.”

A tall blonde, her arms filled with shopping bags, grabbed his attention.

“What’s in the bags, baby? Uh … in my bed.”

The calls were usually attribute specific but he had a standard list of calls for those that fit no particular profile.

“Yo, Momma! Wanna see my pile driver?” With this he pointed to the site’s pile driver. Variations of this played out with sledgehammer, iron girder, jackhammer, fire hose and four-ton crane—basically anything big and long.

The foreigner watched them from the corner of the building.

The men sat beneath the framework of a skyscraper in progress. These steel-skeletoned giants seemed to spring from the city like ironweeds. As the city had grown on the world stage, it had grown in height and the buildings of the great metropolis dreamt of touching the stars like the citizens themselves.

The men had no doubt help set the steel, haul the bricks and drive the rivets that kept the building still in the high winds of its great heights. Together these men had swung hammers, wielded rivet guns and carted wheelbarrows full of brick. And, together, they would defeat the White Demon.

He reached into the bag and pulled out one of the remaining masks.

“Hey, honey. Those legs go all the way up?” The large man chuckled as his lunch-mates laughed.

“Yes, they do, asshole!” the random target fired back.

The simple fact that she had responded startled the man. Bullies were never prepared for a strong target. Perhaps because he was convinced it was true, or simply to save face, the worker shot back, “That’s friggin’ weird, lady.”

He stepped over a barricade and walked towards the men who were still chuckling. “Pardon.”

One of the other workers spoke up, “What’s with the accent?”

The others joined in.

“Doesn’t sound like you’re from around here.”

“He talks funny.”

The largest of the men turned his attention from insulting women and dropped to the ground. He walked over to the foreigner and pointed. “What do you want, little man?”

Little? He was a tall man in his own country. But, standing before this mountain of a man, he did feel small. Regardless of his stature, he had always been quick. Before the rest of the crew could set their thermoses aside, he struck the man in the stomach. The large construction worker doubled over and the little man placed the mask on the worker’s face.

The other three were now on their feet.

“What do you think you’re doing, senior?”

“Leave Tommy alone.”

“You got a lot of nerve coming to our country and slapping a mask on a guy when he’s entertaining the ladies like that, fella.”

Tommy, for his part, stood quiet and still.

The other three workers surrounded the foreigner.

He said nothing, but reached calmly into the satchel and pulled out another mask.

One of the laborers grabbed him by the collar. Tommy sprung to life and grabbed the laborer by the arm.

“Tommy, let go. This guy’s a creep.”

Tommy said nothing. He squeezed.

“Geez, Tommy. You’re breaking my wrist.”

The laborer let go of the foreigner’s collar and turned his attention to Tommy. He tried to pry the hand from his wrist, but the iron grip would not give.

The other two jumped in to help. The smallest large man grabbed Tommy around the neck while the other tried to help pull his friend’s wrist free.

The foreigner smiled as he watched the situation unfold.

Tommy had shifted his weight forward and thrown the man from his back to the ground. The man landed with a thud and gasp. He received the next mask.

With silent obedience, the construction worker stood from the ground and took a mask from the foreigner. He placed it on his friend.

The last worker was still caught in Tommy’s grip.

“What did you do to them? What did you do to my friends?”

The foreigner said nothing. He pulled the last mask from the satchel and stepped forward.

The worker spit in his face—a useless act of defiance. The three masked construction workers grabbed him and pulled him to the ground.

“You bastard. What are you doing? What do you want?”

He leaned in close with the mask and smiled. “You kill Damian Stockwell.”

7
Detour of Doom

He had found both his suit and his valet laid out in his room. The suit was in the center of the colossal four-poster bed. Bertrand was in the center of the floor.

Stockwell crossed quickly to the medicine cabinet and retrieved a vile of smelling salts. A person fainting in his bedroom was not an uncommon occurrence and he was fully prepared for the event. That it was a man that had collapsed … now that was different.

Damian waved the putrid smelling odor under Bertrand’s nose. The Frenchman’s face twitched, but he did not wake. He waved the sal volatile once more beneath the valet’s ample nose. The twitch was larger but he still did not rouse.

He pocketed the salts and slapped Bertrand hard across the face.

“Zut alors!” The valet sat straight up and swung at Stockwell.

Damian dodged the reflexive strike and grabbed his friend’s shoulder.

“My friend, you passed out. I fear it is the loss of blood.”

Bertrand raised his hand to his head. He winced at the pain and looked at his hand. Thickly bandaged, the Frenchman was shocked to see blood trickling from the dressing. “It should have stopped by now.”

“Damn the cloud of green.” Stockwell stood and began to pace the room. “This is no doubt an effect of the mask. Had it not disintegrated, I would know more about the cursed thing.”

Bertrand grabbed the edge of the bed and pulled himself slowly to his feet.

“Bertrand, you shouldn’t do that.”

“Non, Monsieur. It is okay. I have the strength.”

“No, I meant grab the sheets like that. You’re bleeding like a stuck French pig, um, uh, cochon. And those sheets are Egyptian cotton.”

“My apologies, Monsieur.” Bertrand released his grip and sat back on the floor.

Stockwell offered his hand and helped pull him to his feet. “Dahlia picked them out.”

Bertrand struggled to stand. “They are nice sheets, Monsieur.”

Stockwell waved his comment off, “It’s just … that … you know … women.”

“Oui, Monsieur. Women.”

They each forced a laugh since neither understood the joke. Bertrand doubled over. Stockwell, moving with an unexpected speed, caught the Frenchman and eased him onto the bed. His friend was weak.

“I’m sorry, Monsieur. It must be the losing of the blood.”

“Of course it is, my friend. I’m sure it had nothing to do with me beating you soundly this morning.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Well, you were wearing the mask and all. But, it was pretty impressive.”

The proud Frenchman hung his head.

“Hey, there’s no need for that, Bertrand. You were pretty good too. You were all kicks and punches and, my God, you hate vases.” Stockwell laughed.

Bertrand did not respond.

“Come on now. Chin up.” Damian lifted the Frenchman’s chin. “We’ll find Simmons and there will be plenty of people to defeat. You’ll feel better. There’s no need to mope.”

Bertrand’s eyes were closed.

“Oh, you’ve passed out again.”

Stockwell set his friend back into the bed and checked his vitals. Assured that his friend was just resting, he grabbed the suit from his bed, the luggage from the door and stepped into the master bath.

He returned to the room, called his private doctor and arranged for him to tend to Bertrand. He hung up the phone and stepped into the wardrobe.

He dressed quickly in durable, loose-fit clothing and pulled his wallet from a drawer. These actions, though seemingly meaningless, had armed him for anything that the forces behind the demon mask could muster. Inside each piece of clothing was hidden an assortment of tools and weapons that even the most perverse frisker would have trouble detecting.

Damian opened one final drawer and withdrew a .45 automatic. The pistol was polished to a mirror finish. Even in the low light of the closet, it gleamed. Some tools needed to be seen. He dropped the weapon into his duffel bag and made his way to the garage.

Stockwell kept an extensive collection of automobiles at his downtown warehouse but always had two on hand in the brownstone’s garage. The polished Duesy sat in stark contrast next to the marred body panels of a Model B Ford. Dents and scratches went unattended with intent. In fact, many of the blemishes had been placed on the car’s body intentionally. Mechanically, the Model B’s V-8 received no less attention than the Duesenberg’s or any other car in his collection. The engine had been reworked. Stockwell had spent hours over the disassembled engine block fine-tuning its performance. He had tripled the output to nearly two hundred horsepower and there were few cars on any kind of road that could pass the Model B.

Even with its powerful drivetrain, the outward appearance was its greatest asset. Like a fine disguise, the car’s blemished body served as camouflage enabling it to hide amidst the cars of the city. No one would look twice at the Ford expecting to see one of the world’s wealthiest men behind the wheel.

Stockwell flicked a switch on the garage wall. A whir filled the room as the garage door rose. He tossed the duffel into the back of the Ford and fired the powerful engine. First gear was engaged with no resistance. The transmission had seen as much work as the engine. He rolled forward into the alley.

Behind him, the door would reach its apex, hang for a moment and close automatically. His lawyers were working on the patent.

The Ford pulled from the alleyway and blended into traffic like a plumber in a hotel lobby.

The March sun passed through the Ford’s dirty windshield. Winter had clung to New York like a needy child that would just stand there in front of their parents with their arms outstretched and saying, “Up, up.” The roads were clear but the banks had yet to melt away completely.

Stockwell had pulled out of the alleyway to find his southward path blocked by construction barricades. There were no workers present but it wasn’t unlike the city to place barricades ahead of the work.

He turned north up the street and planned to double back to the club. Bertrand had called and was informed that Williams would be in for the afternoon. If anyone knew where Simmons had ventured, it would be the club’s outfitter.

A block down, he turned right and the city rose up in front of him. New York had grown at a ridiculous rate before the depression. Even now it seemed as if some new high-rise was going up on every corner. Stretched across the city were the frames of new buildings. American steel was building American landmarks at an astounding pace. He smiled—proud to be a part of the American dream.

The next southbound street was barricaded as well.

Damian’s suspicions were triggered. He was one of the world’s smartest men but even he knew that his guts were to be trusted over the mind’s weak rationalizations. Several times he had been forced to disregard reason and logic and embrace an unscientific, unexplainable feeling from deep inside himself.

On all but one of the occasions, trusting his instincts had saved his life. The other time led to a moment of great embarrassment and a potential international incident. In the end, the diplomat had gotten his clothes back and all was well.

This was different, however. The construction barriers seemed to be directing him. Leading him into a trap. He decided to let the trap play out. He’d play their game. The mask’s self-destruction had robbed him of the only clue to its mysterious origins and unexplainable control over Bertrand. He would play right into their hands. Then he would grab their hands and make the perpetrators punch themselves in the face until they told him what he wanted to know.

The barricades forced him south at the next intersection. They obviously weren’t trying to keep him from his club. They were leading him somewhere else.

He could see no other barricades on the road in front of him. The trap must be on the street. He would be vigilant.

•••

The foreigner almost missed Stockwell. He hadn’t necessarily expected the Duesenberg, but the Model B had been a surprise. He would have missed his target completely had it not been for the blond man’s striking appearance.

Even concealed within the Model B’s cabin, women pointed and swooned as he passed by.

The commotion had drawn the assassin’s attention just as the Ford made its first turn. Stockwell did not appear to find the barricades suspicious. He smiled.

8
Construction Catastrophe

Traffic had been moving smoothly until Damian reached the construction site. There it slowed as the cars moved around a jackhammer operator in the middle of the street. Cabs and trucks rolled past him as Stockwell inched the Ford forward, waiting for an opening in the adjacent lane.

While waiting for his chance to merge, he began to concentrate on the mask. Since Bertrand had been throwing punches and spears at him, Stockwell hadn’t been able to study the mask’s features for more than a few moments. Still, he had trained his mind to turn quick glimpses into detailed images. It required tremendous concentration and silence, so sitting in New York traffic in front of a jackhammer made the process more difficult.

He pulled his lower lip into his teeth, chewing gently. Despite the hammer, he was intent on remembering the details of the mask that had possessed his valet and forced him into a bloodthirsty rage. He closed his eyes.

The features of the horrid face began to appear in his mind. Black, soulless eyes were at the heart of the nightmare. Creased brows dove inward to the bridge of a wide nose giving the mask an angry appearance. Pointed cheekbones drove up into the eye sockets. Large, cracked teeth filled the giant maw of a mouth. At first he had remembered the mask as a single color but now his mind’s eye’s memory revealed that he had been mistaken. Greens, reds and yellows were present on the mask, but they were not bold. The colors were washes—muted and swallowed by the texture of the mask itself.

The mask had clearly formed in his mind. He would never forget the image now. Though, he hoped to never see it again.

Stockwell realized the jackhammer had stopped.

He opened his eyes.

The mask was staring at him. The same horrific mask that Bertrand had donned was now set beneath the hard hat of the jackhammer operator.

Damian’s eyes narrowed trying to pierce through the black lens that blocked the construction worker’s eyes. Then he saw it. A flash of light rippled across the soulless eyes of the mask and the man sprang onto the hood of the Model B wielding the jackhammer.

He drove the bit into the hood of the car and activated the pneumatic ram. The steel bit tore through the hood and engine block before Damian could put the car into gear.

Stockwell pulled open the door only to have it forced shut by a pile of bricks. Another worker, in another mask, had plowed the wheelbarrow full of masonry into the door. Stockwell lunged for the passenger door as the worker on the hood leapt onto the roof of the coupe.

Damian slid across the bench seat just as the bit of the jackhammer plunged through the steel and perforated the roof.

Instinctively he drew his weapon and pointed it at the roof. He hesitated, reminding himself that these men were under the control of the mask and not their own conscious mind. Though they were trying to kill him, they were not the enemy. He holstered the 1911. He would have to stop them with his bare and mighty fists.

The bit drove through the roof again, missing Stockwell’s shoulder by mere inches. Another crash sounded from the passenger door. A cement mixer had been rolled into the street and now barricaded him into the car.

Stockwell rolled into the backseat as the construction worker on the roof probed the front end of the Ford with the powerful jackhammer.

The rear window exploded and covered Stockwell with glass. The sledge that had destroyed the window swung again. This time it was aiming for his head. He dropped to the floorboards as the front windshield exploded and a hose was thrown into the car. The smell of gasoline was unmistakable. He didn’t have much time before they would ignite the car.

The sledge continued to swing through the windshield in wide arcs. The jackhammer dove in and out of the cabin with growing speed. But, its points of entry were becoming systematic and predictable.

Damian could feel the fuel soaking into his shirt. It wouldn’t be long now. He had to act.

The jackhammer retreated. The sledge swung. He drove his right leg up and caught the hammer’s head with his foot, wedging it between the roof and his powerful legs.

The jackhammer drove through the roof and into the head of the sledge. The massive vibrations shook the sledge from the wielder’s hand. Damian didn’t let the hammer fall; he caught it flat with his left foot and held it against the roof.

He felt the jackhammer operator begin to withdraw the pneumatic tool. He knew the operator had to be tiring. He had punched dozens of holes into the roof of the car and the physical strength it took to lift the hammer from an unstable surface was about to work in Stockwell’s favor.

Protected by the thick head of the sledge, Damian drove his left leg up to the roof of the car as the chisel tip entered. The unexpected resistance forced the jackhammer into the operator’s chin. Damian saw the worker above him fall to the ground and heard the idling jackhammer bounce around the roof.

Two of his assailants were now unarmed. He had to move.

Stockwell rolled into a crouch. A glowing rivet landed on the rear seat. The red hot metal sank into the fabric and began to smolder.

Damian dove as flames began to dance. He launched himself through the shattered remnants of the rear window. Glass shred fabric and flesh but he cleared the car as the rivet’s flame ignited the spilled fuel.

The Model B, lovingly made to look like crap, exploded as Stockwell rolled across the concrete. The blast shattered nearby windows. The men in the masks reached to cover their ears. Like Bertrand in the trophy room, the sound had weakened the masks’ hold on them.

Unfortunately, there was no time to exploit the situation.

Flames spilled around him as he dove for cover. His fear was not so much the explosion but the fuel soaked clothing he was now wearing. He rolled again to subdue any flames that may have formed. Content that he was not on fire, he stood and charged back on to the street.

Any effect the explosion had on the workers had worn off. Damian figured that the mask’s control dominated not only the conscious mind but other subconscious functions as well. Much like it dulled Bertrand’s pain, the control elicited also controlled the person’s balance. It wasn’t as if their balance needed aid. These men’s lives and livelihood depended on their ability to walk the narrow beams and girders of the iron giants they constructed. But, heightened by the mask’s control, they would be almost impossible to throw. Judo was out. The ability to use leverage against these men would be not unlike trying to throw a wall over one’s shoulder. He would have to meet brute force with the same.

It would be clenched fists versus the iron tools and sinew of the men who were building America—good men, no doubt, when the effects of the mask did not possess them.

It was a remarkable device to say the least. And it held answers. Damian Stockwell strode back into the fray, determined to defeat the men set against him and retrieve one of the demon tiki masks intact.

The man that had shattered the rear window was closest to him. His sledge taken, the man had pulled a large wrench from his tool belt.

Damian could not strike the mask for fear of activating the self-destructive flash of green. The man’s head was protected by a hardhat; his body was covered in a thick canvas jumpsuit. Even his fingers were protected deep within thick canvas gloves.

The only exposed part of his body was his throat which lay behind the flashing chrome of the wrench.

The man wielded the tool with the precision of an experienced knife fighter. The wrench whistled by Damian’s head as he ducked, the tool’s motions driving him closer to the burning hulk of the Ford.

Any closer to the car and his fuel soaked clothing would combust. He had to change the direction of the fight.

Stockwell rolled under a wide swing and came to his feet beside the man. He dove for the worker’s neck.

The worker was quick with his backhand. The base of the wrench caught Damian on the cheek and forced him to the ground. Had he not been so close to the worker, the head of the tool would have struck him unconscious.

He ducked under a swing and struck back. He landed several punches in succession in the man’s midsection. Each drove air from the man’s lungs but was unaccompanied by the familiar grunt that came with the pain of being struck in the abdomen. Stockwell was sure that the final punch of the combination broke a rib but, again, there was no sign of pain or effect. The mask’s control was final, right down to the man’s nervous system.

The foot of a steel-toed boot crashed into Damian’s chest and threw him back onto the ground. He used the momentum to roll further away from the fire.

His hands were screaming. Holding them before his eyes, he could see that the furious blows he had administered against the canvas jumpsuit had shredded his knuckles.

The worker moved towards him unabated. The jackhammer operator had moved in behind him holding a screwdriver like a killer’s stiletto. The worker that had dumped the pallet of bricks had been thrown back by the car’s blast and was just now getting to his feet. His arm was on fire.

Stockwell had to help. The mask’s pain killing effect could leave the man disfigured or handicapped for life—if it didn’t kill him first. He had to move fast.

He dodged a stab from the screwdriver and drove his shoulder into the construction worker. Even a superhuman sense of balance is useless to a man when his feet are no longer beneath him. The worker was driven from the ground and into a swing of the wrench.

Stockwell moved from under the falling man and rushed toward the flaming worker. He couldn’t get near the man to help him without risking bursting into flames himself.

The worker saw him through the soulless black eyes of the mask and started towards him. He had no weapon other than his flaming arm. He rushed towards Stockwell; air fueled the fire as it spread to the elbow.

Damian backed away.

The worker swung his arm widely, enraging the flames. Strikes flew by Damian’s head, threatening to ignite his jacket. There was no time to remove the coat. There was barely time to back away.

He risked a glance behind him and found what he needed. A thick water hose sat on the ground next to a cement mixer.

Stockwell backed towards the mixer and allowed the man on fire to get closer.

It seemed a single focus to apply the burning arm to Stockwell’s jacket. The man struck only with his right arm. Still, the punches came fast, each missing Damian’s head by inches.

A quick series of strikes came. On the third strike, Stockwell made his move. In one fluid motion he spun to his right and dropped the lever on the cement mixer. He had positioned himself right in front of the spinning device.

The force of the punch carried the worker’s fist deep into the mixing cement.

The fire was doused. The man was stuck.

Stockwell had no desire to remove the man’s arm, so he hit the switch on the mixer and stopped the blades from turning. The worker became focused on pulling his arm from the slurry of the cement.

Stockwell reached for the mask, hoping to remove it without the green mist taking another clue from him. But, as soon as he got close, the worker turned and stared at him through the dead eyes. The black lenses rippled quickly from the tear duct outward and the worker’s efforts changed. He stopped trying to remove his right arm from the mixer and began grabbing for Stockwell with his left. He grabbed Damian by the collar.

Stockwell looked back into black void of the eyes and saw movement in the reflection of the mask. He pulled his knees to his chest and placed his full weight on the worker’s outstretched arm. The grip may not give. But, even a man possessed could not hold Damian’s concentrated weight at arm’s length.

Stockwell hit the ground the instant the board struck the mask in the face. The board exploded, the mask disintegrated and the worker fell unconscious with his arm stuck in the cement mixer.

Stockwell dove under the mixer and came up on the other side. Wrench and Screwdriver had caught up. Screwdriver had swung the board intending to finish him. Now the worker lunged over the mixer. Stockwell grabbed his coveralls and pulled him along.

The man tumbled over the mixer and Damian made a grab for the mask. It slid off the worker’s face and into his hand.

“Ha.” Stockwell held it up to examine it. But, it was only there for a moment. A green mist enshrouded the mask and it disappeared before his very eyes. “Damn!”

Stockwell pulled his hand back. The mist had burned his fingers like scalding water.

There was a clunk, a clang and a ping from the mixer.

The man with the wrench left dents in the mixer barrel as he cleaved at the air.

A burning rivet landed in the dirt at Damian’s feet. It was only now that Stockwell saw the fourth worker up in the structure itself. Several stories up, the man stood near the rivet furnace with a pair of tongs and hurled a third rivet towards him.

The searing red bolt flew directly at his head. He ducked in time and scrambled from behind the mixer. He had to end this before he burst into flames.

He moved deeper into the construction site as the worker with the wrench ran to keep up. Damian ran deftly up a pile of lumber as the worker scrambled after him.

He reached the top of the pile and leapt for an exposed girder.

The worker reached the top of the pile.

Damian kicked him in the shoulder and spun the worker around. Hanging from the girder, he locked his legs around the man’s neck and lifted him from the ground.

It was a risky move. He didn’t want to break the man’s neck, but as he had figured, the mask saw an opportunity to kill Stockwell and the worker dropped the wrench and grabbed Damian’s legs. The masked worker began to kick and spin, trying desperately to pull Stockwell from the girder.

But Damian’s grip was firm. He raised his legs and pulled the massive construction worker closer. He wanted a closer look at the mask’s fastening system. There had to be something, a trigger or relay that caused the mask to self-destruct when removed.

He saw nothing. There was no strap holding the mask in place.

For the first time, Stockwell thought that maybe there was something more to these masks. Something mystical. His inner skeptic had always served him well, but now he began to doubt that his skepticism could be trusted.

The worker began to kick harder—using his weight to try and tear Stockwell from the girder.

Damian twisted the grip on his legs. His knee roughly bumped the mask. There was a slight hiss and it fell from the worker’s face. It was gone before it hit the ground. Only a green mist floated in the air.

The worker stopped struggling and looked up at Damian.

“Who are you? What’s going on?”

“My name is Damian Stockwell and you’re about to have a minor fall.”

Stockwell released the construction worker and the man collapsed down upon the stack of lumber. The distance was not great and only resulted in a twisted ankle.

Damian released the girder and dropped to the ground beside him.

Tommy writhed in pain. “What did you drop me for?”

“I didn’t want to break your neck.”

“What the hell is going on here? Last thing I remember is looking at some hot little dish.”

“You and your friends have been under the influence of another. You’ve spent the last few minutes drilling holes in my car and trying to kill me.”

The man’s face said it all. He had no recollection of the fight. “That’s a little hard to swallow, mister.”

“Maybe, but you’ve been an unwilling pawn in a madman’s game. A game called Kill Damian Stockwell.”

“Whatever you say, lunatic.”

“Are you sure you don’t remember anything else?”

Tommy thought for a moment. It was obvious the process took some concentration. “Nah, that’s all. Well, I remember a flash of light. That’s it.”

Stockwell nodded. “One of your friends is stuck in the cement mixer. The other should be laid out behind it. Get them to safety and call this number.” He handed Tommy a card. “Tell them everything you remember. They’ll also cover any injuries you incurred while getting your ass kicked by me.”

Tommy looked at the card. It simply said 1.

“What’s this?”

“That’s my phone number. A Frenchman will answer. Be nice.”

“Man, that’s not a real number.”

“It is. I’m number one.”

With this, Stockwell rushed back up the pile of lumber and leapt to the girder. He pulled himself up and made his way into the framework of the high-rise.

There was one mask left.

•••

No. It couldn’t be! How had he managed to defeat the workers? With the aid of the masks, these brutish thugs had been brought to peak levels of strength and endurance. They should have been unbeatable.

He watched from above as Stockwell tore apart the three construction workers. There was still the fourth up in the girders, but what chance did one have where three had failed?

He couldn’t wait. He would have to kill Stockwell himself. Unzipping the satchel in full, he revealed a secret compartment that housed the separate components of a deadly sniper rifle. He crouched on the makeshift plywood flooring of the fifth story and set to assembling the weapon. He hoped to have a clear shot before Stockwell reached the riveter.

•••

Stockwell ran along the girders of the first story and took a series of rickety ladders to the fourth. He hesitated at the foot of the ladder to the fifth floor.

He knew the riveter would be expecting him and, considering his accuracy from the fifth floor, the man would be unable to miss at such close range. Damian had little choice. There was only one way up. He quickly devised a ridiculous plan, removed his fuel-soaked jacket and rushed up the ladder.

He rolled onto the plywood base of the fifth floor. A rivet flew over him. Had he been standing it would have struck his head. He didn’t expect it to be long before the second rivet flew.

Stockwell leapt to his feet and draped his jacket out like a matador’s cape daring the bull, taunting the beast.

The second rivet was already on the way.

Stockwell caught the near-molten metal in the folds of his jacket. He spun like the matador, balled the coat around the red-hot rivet and threw the garment at the riveter.

The jacket flew towards the worker and burst into flames.

As the fireball approached him, the riveter brought his arms up to shield himself. Aided by the rushing air, the fuel soaked jacket burned quickly. It was all but threads and embers when it landed on the masked construction worker. The fire had consumed itself in a flash. The jacket was all but harmless, but, unfortunately for the riveter, Stockwell was right behind it.

Damian dove into the man and drove him against a steel column. The worker lunged forward with surprising speed, but Stockwell was quicker. He caught the man by the neck and drove his head into the steel, knocking the worker unconscious. The man’s body dropped to the floor. The mask was still intact.

Stockwell finally had a chance to examine this devil’s mask without the wearer trying to kill him. This, he knew, would make the examination easier.

Damian leaned in close. The face on the mask was similar to the others. The expression was horrid, like a man in pain trapped in wood. But, was it wood?

There was a grain on the mask, but, as Damian studied it, he realized it looked unnatural. It was too consistent. Damian reached slowly to touch the mask, careful not to disrupt its hold on the worker’s face.

The report triggered his reflexes and he pulled back his hand.

The sniper’s bullet shattered the outside edge of the mask. It didn’t splinter; it shattered. The green mist hissed from the bullet hole.

Stockwell reacted with haste. In one move he swiped the mask from the unconscious worker’s face. The man had been spared the bullet; he did not need to suffer burns caused by the mist. He grabbed the worker’s belt and rolled them both off the edge of the fifth floor.

A second bullet splintered the plywood a moment later.

Stockwell’s shoulder wrenched in pain as he caught the bottom edge of a girder. The extra weight of the worker caused a tremendous jar on his arm and he struggled to hold the edge with a single hand.

“Throw him!”

Stockwell looked to the ground below him. Tommy and the other two workers were dragging a large tarp into position below him.

“Just make sure he clears that girder!”

The three set up in a triangle around the canvas and pulled it taught.

“We’ve got him, Mr. Stockwell! Just toss him this way.”

The jarring catch had robbed him of any momentum. He had to build up a swing. And, he had to hurry. He could sense the sniper repositioning.

One mighty swing and he heaved the listless body of the construction worker into the air. The unconscious man cleared the girder with ease and the men on the ground scrambled back to place the canvas under their plummeting friend.

He landed with an anticlimactic whump. The tarp broke the fall and the workers began to move to safety behind a pile of bricks.

Damian drew his Colt, kicked his legs and dropped to the girders of the third floor. He charged with nimble feet, balancing without effort across the ribs of the steel skeleton. He leapt across spans that would have caused experienced high walkers to pause and made his way closer to the sniper’s position.

Rifle rounds screamed by him and ricocheted off the steel so close that it would appear to the men below that Stockwell’s speed alone was causing the sparks at his heels.

As he neared the sniper’s nest the rounds were fired with haste. Accuracy waned as the shooter traded care for speed. The sniper was beginning to panic.

Damian reached the ladder, struck two rungs and propelled himself to the fourth floor. He ascended the next two floors quickly and arrived at the sniper’s previous position.

The assassin was a coward. He had hidden behind the innocent. He had struck from a distance. Now he ran.

As Stockwell gained his footing, the rifle clattered to the plywood flooring. The assassin backed toward the edge of the building.

“You cad!” Damian brought his Colt to bear on the man. “You corrupt others to bring harm. There is no fouler kind of criminal than the coward. Now, we’re going to talk about this voodoo mask of yours.”

The assassin stepped from the edge into nothing.

9
Leap of Faith

His name was Billy Coldwell and he had just been hurled from a building ledge into a tarp. Woozy and bewildered, he emerged from a state that he couldn’t quite explain. His mind felt as if it were fogged over. Recalling the last few moments was difficult. There had been movement—that much he could recall. Muscles ached as though he had been exerting himself but the last thing he could remember was a coworker offering him a hand and pulling him from a canvas tarp.

Taking the nearest hand, he stood on weak legs. His coworkers were shouting about something. Had he heard gunfire? Hands waved frantically at him as his coworkers screamed, but their voices were muted. The sounds around him echoed. The headache was worse than a hangover.

His friends’ motions were becoming broader. They wouldn’t stop screaming.

Billy took a deep breath. Clarity rushed back to him. Time was still missing but sound became clearer. That was a gunshot. His friends were ushering him to safety.

“Move, Billy!”

“Get over here, you dumb bastard!”

Awash with awareness, his predicament became clear. His friends were taking cover behind a pallet of bricks. Panic told him to join them. He was finally in control of himself and he moved to take shelter.

That’s when the assassin landed on him.

•••

The man Stockwell had thrown to safety had barely gained his footing when the assassin crushed him to the ground in a selfish attempt to break his own fall.

Damian heard the pain in the man’s gasp as he was driven back to the ground.

The assassin rolled from the once again unconscious man and struggled to his feet. Injury would be all but impossible to avoid from such a fall and it showed in the criminal’s gait. An obvious limp slowed the man and the still conscious construction workers looked to take advantage of the weakness as the three men emerged from their pile of bricks.

Damian held courage as the most admirable trait a man could possess, but he cursed the workers as they had placed themselves between the villain and his Colt.

The men closed on the criminal. He was confident they would detain their manipulator, but he feared that their gruff nature may cause them to dish out justice on a level so harsh that the perpetrator would be unfit to answer questions.

He needed to intervene quickly.

A rope dangled several feet out over the construction site. He could not discern its purpose—its anchor was out of site somewhere high in the structure. It could be nothing more than an unsecured rope left carelessly dangling over an edge or it could be run through a pulley and attached to a hefty load capable of bearing his weight.

Stockwell leapt.

He felt frayed fibers dig into his palm as his body, momentarily parallel to the ground, brought its full weight to bear on his grip and the rope. The impact was minimized when the rope did not completely hold his weight.

His decent was rapid but not without resistance. The rope was run through a system of pulleys. Whatever load sat on the other end did not equal his weight, but was significant enough to slow his descent.

The ground approached; he looked back to the would-be assassin and the construction workers. They were closing in on the stranger.

The largest worker, Tommy, struck first. He held the shovel in his hand like a baseball bat and looked more than capable of giving any pitch a ride. The blade, coated thick with wet cement, was heavy and would be impossible to deflect. If the villain could not dodge the strike, he would be in a coma for weeks and of little use to Stockwell’s investigation.

The assassin made no attempt to dodge. Instead he dug into his coat and pulled out a weapon. It resembled a gun only from the presence of a grip and a barrel. Large cylinders were mounted under and behind the barrel. Piping of some manner led from these to what he could only call the breach.

When the trigger was pulled, the weapon didn’t go “bang,” it went “kachunk.”

A green mist exploded on the head of the shovel. Physics seemed inapplicable. The shot did not drive the shovel back or strike it from the construction worker’s hands; it simply dissolved the blade into nothing. Like the green mist that had stolen the secret of the masks from him, the shot caused the head of the shovel to disintegrate.

Twice more the deep “kachunk” of the weapon sounded as the construction workers scrambled back behind the pallet of bricks.

A fourth shot removed a quarter of the stack as it turned the kiln-fired brick into a green sludge that slowly oozed to the ground.

The perpetrator took aim again.

“Coward!” Damian screamed. He now cursed his slow descent—safety be damned, he needed to be on the ground now.

The shout had drawn the villain’s attention and he turned the contraption on Damian. The green mist flew at him like a blast from a hose—emerald wisps coiled around the stream of acid and quickly dissipated into an ethereal green fog.

Damian tried to scramble lower down the rope, but every time he let go, the weighted ropes pulled back up. Through tremendous effort, he was able to lower himself only a couple of feet. It wasn’t much but it was enough that the acidic volley missed his hands and coated the rope above him.

There was no sizzle, no foam of reaction, the rope did not fray and stress. The section of the rope coated with the green liquid simply disappeared as he watched.

Gravity took hold of the giant man and yanked him to the ground. The fall was thirty feet, a distance he had survived many times, but the last ten was through a stack of shipping pallets. Cedar boards splintered as his body crashed through the pile.

Damian Stockwell tore his way out of the collapsed stack of wood and twisted nails. He grunted, threw the bulk of the pile from him and turned to face the villain.

He was gone. Vanished like an object struck by the mysterious contraption that had melted the brick and disintegrated the rope. Stockwell ran into the construction yard half expecting to see a shroud of green mist where the man had stood. But there was nothing.

“What foul mixture of science and wizardry is this? How can a man just vanish?”

10
Just Another Vagabond

Apparently the man had not just vanished. No, he had walked away slowly. The construction crew explained how Damian had been struck unconscious for a brief moment when he collapsed through the pallets and the criminal had limped off into the streets of New York.

Tommy continued to catch Stockwell up, “Oh, and I called your number. It took the guy forever to answer.”

Damian nodded. “Bertrand has had a rough day. I kicked his ass this morning and I think it hurt his pride a bit.”

“Yeah and he was pretty hard to understand. Is he retarded or something?”

Stockwell nodded. “No, he’s French.”

One of the others spoke up, “I’ve got a cousin that’s a retard. He sounds French.”

Damian ignored the remark, “What did Bertrand say?”

“He said that he would be on his way soon.”

Stockwell looked at his watch and to the street. He then shook his head. “When he gets here, tell him to never mind.”

“When he gets here tell him to never mind coming here?”

“Exactly. Tell him never mind, that I’ve gone ahead to the club and to meet me there. Evil waits for no man and I can’t have that maniac running all over New York. I’ve got to get to the bottom of this mystery.”

Stockwell didn’t speak another word. He ran off through the construction site and towards his destination.

•••

The exterior of the Vagabond Club was nothing special. The entrance was a set of nondescript double doors at the top of a small flight of stairs. No doorman stood by. No canopy adorned the entrance. There was little but a small bronze plaque set beside door with the address to denote its presence in the greater city of New York.

It sat in the middle of a row of buildings that joined at their property lines. These neighbors dwarfed the single-story structure as they each rose up several stories above West 69th Street. All in all, the club looked like an unimportant building. Damian smiled. He liked it that way.

He strode up the steps, pushed open the double doors and stepped inside a small foyer. The room was empty save for one man sitting behind a counter.

“Good morning, Mister Stockwell.” The clerk noted the torn nature of Stockwell’s clothes. “It looks as if you’ve had a rough morning. Should I summon the tailor?”

“There’s no time. Is Williams in?”

“He’s just arrived.”

Stockwell reached for the door and turned the handle. It would not turn.

“Unlock the door, my good man.”

“Sir, I’m afraid I can’t let you in without proper attire. You’ll need a jacket to enter the club.”

“But, I was forced to immolate mine in self-defense.”

“I’m afraid those are the rules.”

“I keep a spare in my quarters. Let me in and I’ll don it.”

“I’m sorry, sir. As you know, we have one available to loan.”

Stockwell approached the desk. He stood to his full height and towered above the little man behind the desk. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are aware of who I am?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Stockwell. You’re the man that needs to borrow a jacket.”

“Open this door.”

The little man behind the desk crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

Stockwell smiled and dove for the counter. Through scientific study and generous amounts of field research, he had proven conclusively that uppityness could be cured through a large dose of throttling. He always enjoyed the applied sciences.

He had not even reached the young man’s throat when steel bars slammed down before him. The walls of the small foyer whirred and clanged as the oak veneer panels were pushed by hydraulic arms into a defensive position around the clerk.

Stockwell’s hands grasped the steel. He glared at the clerk and shook the bars. They would not give. “Curse my inventive genius.”

The clerk smiled from behind the safety of the cage. He leaned forward and pushed a switch on the desk. There was another whir from within the walls of the small room. A panel retracted and a mechanical arm extended holding out the loaner jacket.

Damian dropped his head, pulled it from the arm and put it on. It was far too small. It was tight across the back to such an extreme that he could not put his arms down for fear of rending the material.

There was a whir and a clack; the door to the club opened. Damian took a step toward the door then paused. Without turning, he addressed the clerk. “You’re a good man, my boy. You’ve done your duty. I’ll remember this.”

With this said, Damian stepped through the door into the grand ballroom of the Vagabond Club. The floor gleamed. Mosaic artisans had spent months installing the separate tiles that formed the intricate pattern surrounding the club’s crest in the center of the ballroom. Surrounding the crest’s fierce eagle were the words vagus, calleo, recursus.

Stockwell uttered the phrase to himself, “To roam, to know, to return.”

The atrium opened four stories above him to a series of skylights that sated the room in winter light. Each wall was covered in a mural that reached to the ceiling. And, each panel depicted a different scene from Greek mythology.

Icarus had always been his favorite. Even now, despite the awkward fit of the jacket, he stopped before it and admired the work. As it rose through the atrium, the mural portrayed Daedalus and his son’s imprisonment on Crete, the construction of feather and wax into wings and their initial flight. Near the skylights, Icarus rose too close to the sun, despite his father’s warnings, and the wax melted and he plummeted into the sea.

This tale of hubris spoke to the inventor in Stockwell and served as a reminder that despite his genius, his clever faculties and his inventive nature, no technology could ever master the forces of nature if it was made like crap. “Wax.” He snorted. “Idiot.” He focused on the image of Icarus flapping his arms. Stripped of their feathers, it was a useless gesture. Though futile, Damian admired the boy’s gumption. Never give up. Never stop flapping.

Stockwell saluted the boy with a flap of his own arms.

The jacket ripped across the back.

“I can mend that for you.” Williams’s voice was always jovial.

Stockwell turned to greet him.

Before Damian could speak, Williams gasped at the mighty man’s appearance.

“Dam, you’re torn to shreds. What happened?”

“I picked a fight with a building.”

“The building won, I see.”

“We’ll call it a tie.” Stockwell had always found the club’s outfitter pleasant and there was no man on earth better at his job. Should any member of the club need anything, Williams would find it and have it delivered anywhere on the planet. If it couldn’t be found, Williams would design it and construct it.

“Come with me, Dam. I’ve got some thread in the shop.”

“Don’t mind the clothes, Williams. I’m here on an urgent matter.”

“It must be if you don’t mind looking like that. Walk with me to the shop and tell me what I can do for you.”

The pair crossed the atrium to a set of double doors that led to the next building in the Vagabond Club complex. Though only the doughty foyer was labeled as such from the street, every building on the block comprised the clubhouse. In each building members could find all they needed to pursue adventure, exploration or relaxation.

Williams held the door as Stockwell passed into the club’s dining room. The steak was world class and the menu constantly evolved as adventurers returned from their global excursions with exotic recipes that were gleefully given to the chef and shared with the other members. The Vagabond Club’s kitchen was on the forefront of culinary excellence and would no doubt draw rave reviews from critics if it were open to the public. But the kitchen was open only to members and their guests.

“I hate to ask you into the shop, Dam, but we’ve been busier than usual and I can’t afford to spend much time away.”

“Why is that?”

Williams shrugged, “Hitler. No one knows what he’s going to do. We’ve got people pushing up their plans to get ahead of the chaos or take advantage of it. Got my guys working around the clock prepping gear.”

The couple continued through to the trophy room. The massive wood paneled room dwarfed Stockwell’s personal collection. Animals and artifacts hung from the walls and resided within cases. There was no corner of the Earth or period in history that went unrepresented in the room.

They entered beneath a set of elephant tusks that crossed above the entrance and instantly felt the warmth from the fire in the massive hearth.

Williams waved his arm across the room, “See?”

Unlike the dining room, the trophy room was filled with members. It served not only as a museum but also as a communal room. Multiple seating areas drew the crowds here. Large upholstered chairs provided a comfortable place to converse; a place to share stories, some true, most embellished through retellings and whiskey—a large oak bar ran the entire length of the room. The furniture’s comfortable construction made the room a perfect place to waste away hours in camaraderie. It also made it a popular room to grab a quick nap during research sessions.

Many members sat alone and poured over texts and documents, each searching or planning for their next expedition. Surrounded by the trophies of senior members, the juniors found inspiration in the setting. The established members found glory and often sat near their own contributions to the décor hoping to draw conversation from the younger hopefuls who had yet to put their skins on the wall.

Now every seat was filled. Charts that weren’t being studied were being used to shield the light and allow for a moment’s sleep.

Williams continued, “All the boats to Europe are about to be filled. I hope you’re not heading that way.”

“No. South, actually.”

“I thought you hated the jungle.”

Before Stockwell could answer, a small man covered in soot burst into the trophy room. His eyes darted around the room until he spotted Williams. He scrambled across the trophy room and almost tackled the man.

“Blast it, Roman. What’s with you? And what have you done to your eyebrows?”

The little man felt at his forehead, adding more soot to his face. “There was a little accident with the bush cutter.”

“What kind of accident?”

“It exploded. A little.”

“Dam, I’m sorry. I’ve got to see to this.”

“I understand. Go get some eyebrows on that guy. I’ll wait here. Send for me as soon as things stop exploding. We need to talk.”

Williams followed Roman back across the room, patting at embers that still smoldered on his coveralls as they went.

Stockwell checked his watch. Time wasn’t something he could afford to waste but an explosion was an explosion. The upper floors of the building held apartments for out-of-town members. Damian kept one himself. Like the others in the room, he often found himself in a chair by the fire digging for clues in texts from the club’s library. He rarely gave into sleep during these periods but found it convenient to have a bed nearby just in case.

There he kept a change of clothes. After a drink, he would change and hope that any fires the outfitter had to deal with were extinguished. The bartender saw him coming and placed his regular drink on the bar.

Damian lifted the rocks glass to his lips and was about to drink when he heard a fumbling at the Trophy Room’s door. The doors shook but did not open. There was a banging and some muffled cursing from the other side. When the doors finally opened, Stockwell was delighted to see Bertrand enter.

He waved the Frenchman over and ordered a second drink for his valet.

“Good to see you, friend. What was with the door?”

Bertrand held up his bandaged hands. The gauze was fresh and rolled over itself several times to create a medicinal mitten. “The doorknob. It was difficult.”

Stockwell chuckled. “Still. I’m glad you made it, my friend. After leaving you this morning, I was attacked by several men under the same ill effects of the mask that you wore. I’m still not sure what we’re headed for, but it is certain to be a grand adventure.”

The bartender set Bertrand’s drink on the bar. Stockwell grabbed it and offered it to the Frenchman.

“Let’s drink to adventure, Bertrand.” Damian held out the drink and Bertrand closed his gauzed hands around it. Stockwell released it and reached for his own drink.

Unable to use his fingers, Bertrand’s rocks glass slipped from his hands and broke on the floor.

Stockwell looked at the mess. “That’s just sloppy, Bertrand.”

The Frenchman hung his head.

Stockwell shot his whiskey and stood. “I’m going to change. Then we’ll get to the bottom of this ‘where Simmons went’ nonsense.”

He stepped away; Bertrand ordered another drink and requested a straw.

•••

Stockwell and Bertrand entered the shop. The facility occupied the corner building in the Vagabond Club complex and still smelled like explosion. The shop was comprised of several vehicle bays and multiple workbenches in an open area. An office and an equipment room filled the remainder of the space.

Williams was yelling at several men dressed in coveralls as they scurried over the charred hulk of what Stockwell assumed was the bush cutter—no doubt another need based creation of the mechanical genius.

“Get these panels off and check the wiring. When that tank burst, it could have melted everything. Hurry up! This thing needs to be on a banana boat to Puerto Cortés in the morning.”

“Williams.”

The outfitter turned and smiled. He felt the fabric of Damian’s fresh shirt. “Ah. You look much better now.”

Damian pulled the mechanic’s hands off his chest.

The mechanic smiled.

Damian let them go. “We need to talk.”

Williams surveyed the work on the bush cutter and seemed satisfied that he could step away. “Of course. My apologies for the delay. One of our members is expecting this rig next week and explosions tend to ruin timetables.” He waved them towards the office and offered each of them a coffee. They accepted and sat.

Damian sipped at his coffee. Bertrand fumbled the cup in his bandages and dropped it in his lap. He yelped in French and backed into a table. The bump knocked several papers from its surface. They scattered on the floor.

“Bertrand, please. We’re guests here.”

Williams handed Bertrand a shop rag. “What’s with the golden gloves, Bertie?”

As Williams dabbed at the Frenchman’s lap, Stockwell began to gather the files.

“Don’t worry about him. We’re looking for Simmons.”

Williams shook his head, “Dam, you know I’d do anything to help you. But, you wrote the rules yourself. If a fellow Vagabond doesn’t want to be found, I can’t help you find him. Simmons asked that his position not be disclosed.”

“I’m certain that was before he sent the distress call asking me to come to his assistance. Do you know where he is?”

“Of course. He’s requested a great deal of equipment. But, I can’t tell you.”

“I understand the rules of the charter, Williams. But, this is a matter of life and death.”

“Dam, you made me take an oath when I took this position. ‘The praise and prize of each member’s adventure is due to them alone. As is the risk they embrace.’ You made me memorize it, remember?”

“Of course. And I admire that you are a man of your word. Now tell me where he is.”

“If I shared his location with you, we’d be no better than the Explorers.”

Damian chuckled and shook his head. “The Explorers, ha.”

“Did you know they’re still trying to get their silly little flag to Everest?”

Stockwell laughed heartily. “Won’t they be surprised when they get there.”

“How’s that?”

“I wrote my name in the snow up there three years ago.”

Williams laughed briefly then smiled, “I wish I could have seen that.”

Stockwell shook off the amusement and continued to pick up the stack of papers. “Look, Williams, my friend is in danger. I know he’s gone into the jungle—judging by the light in the transmission I’m assuming it was somewhere north of the equator. I’m not concerned about what he’s after, I just need to find him.”

The outfitter sighed and crossed his arms. His gaze wandered back to the shop as the workers began to strip the bush cutter’s exterior panels.

Stockwell smiled, stood and placed the papers he had gathered back on the table. “Thank you, Williams. You’ve been a tremendous help.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“It was in what you didn’t say that said what I needed to hear.”

“What?”

Damian turned to Bertrand, “Call the hangar and have them fuel the Grumman for a flight to Puerto Cortés, Honduras.”

Bertrand held up his bandaged hands.

Stockwell placed a pencil in the valet’s mouth.

“Then call Cole Dalton at All-American Banana and tell him to expect us.”

Bertrand left the shop after fumbling with the doorknob for a moment.

“It was that glance, wasn’t it?” Williams stood and pointed to the vehicle bay outside the office window. “You knew the bush cutter was for Simmons?”

“Oh. Um … no.”

“Then how did you know about the banana company and Puerto Cortés?”

Stockwell picked up the top folder from the dropped stack. “It was in here. It says deliver to Peter Simmons, Puerto Cortés, Honduras.”

“And Cole Dalton?”

“Cole’s an old friend. He now runs the AAB operation in Honduras. If anyone can help me find Simmons, it’s him.”

“Unbelievable.”

“You held true to your oath, Williams. You’re a good man. Even if you are a little sloppy with your files.”

“Dam, you’re amazing.”

“I know.”

11
Face to Face

He didn’t like the harbor. The ships rose too high. Their steel hulls formed caverns that closed in around him and choked out the ambient sounds of the city leaving only the grunts of the longshoremen and clanking of the hoists. It felt too distant from the rest of the world.

He moved quickly through the shipyard chasm and his eyes moved as quickly as his feet. They took in everything before and behind him, searching for an unseen foe that might use the setting to their advantage. Even with this cautiousness he moved with excitement. Witnessing Stockwell’s fatal fall meant that he could finally return home and be done with this winter’s cold.

Docked at the far end of the pier, the ship that had brought him to the cold and foreign land was preparing for departure. Crates hoisted by block and tackle swayed perilously overhead as they were loaded onto the deck of the ship. He didn’t know what was in the crates. He didn’t care. His only concern was the small berth that had been reserved for him for the voyage home.

The crew recognized him and did nothing to stop him from stepping onto the gangplank. His grip on the ropes that lined the walkway was solid and he moved quickly up the boards despite the presence of ice. He was eager to return to warmer climates, to the jungles. He stepped quickly but was stopped at the ship. A figure sat at the transom with his leg across the entrance. He did not look up when the assassin approached but focused instead on a small piece of wood in his hand that had been whittled into the shaped a small totem. His other hand held a large knife, generally considered too unwieldy for whittling. A wide-brimmed hat hid has face in shadow as he spoke.

“It is done?”

It was good to hear his native Spanish even if it was tainted with a foreigner’s accent. He responded, “Yes, sir. It is done.”

The man did not remove his leg. He pushed back in his chair and continued to shave details into the totem. “How did he die?”

“A fall from a great height. He defeated many men, but in the end it was the city that killed him.”

“How many men?”

“Five. Including his own valet.”

“I warned you not to underestimate him.”

“I did not. But he was formidable beyond my estimation.”

The man ceased carving and held the wood before his eyes. Unsatisfied, he placed the carving under the blade again. “That’s kind of what underestimate means.”

“How could anyone know of his abilities? His strength? It is beyond compare.”

“I told you that he would not be easy to kill.”

“He wasn’t. But, he is dead.”

The man dropped his leg and stood. On equal footing he would dwarf the assassin, but standing above him on the gangplank, his height was even more imposing. He set the totem down, but held the knife firmly in his hand.

“Is he?”

The assassin nodded with more than a little pride. He had killed the great Stockwell.

“No. He is not.”

The news took from his face the color that the cold had not. He stammered his response, “How … how? That’s impossible.”

“He trains for the impossible.”

“I saw him die.”

“You saw him fall. Others saw him walking into his precious social club.”

“How could I know that he …”

“The file I gave you should have prepared you for the impossible.”

“Those stories could not have been true. I assumed they were myth. Legends dreamed by others. There is no way that those …”

The man lifted the knife and the assassin began to sweat in the cold of air of New York Harbor.

“I … I’ll kill him, but I need more men. I need more masks.”

“I gave you six.”

“It wasn’t enough. I placed them on strong men. They became stronger. But, he pulled the masks from their faces. He beat them soundly.”

The man stepped forward.

The killer stepped back and lost his footing on a patch of ice. His grip on the ropes were all that prevented a plunge into the frigid waters. He fell to his knees. “Please. I will kill him! I just need more masks.”

The man unbuttoned his pea coat and reached inside. “I only have one left.”

He pulled out the mask and bent down to the groveling killer.

“No. No. Please.”

The tall man placed the mask on the killer’s face and the pleas ceased. The assassin stood, his lost balance corrected by the effects of the mask.

“Now. Are you going to kill Damian Stockwell?”

The man in the mask only nodded.

“Good. Step back on to the boat and let’s go visit the engineer. We’re going to make sure that mask doesn’t come off.”

12
Dance of Death

The Duesenberg rolled wide around a corner and drifted into the oncoming lane. The honk of a horn sent it dodging back onto the right of the road. Traffic was thick with trucks that rumbled and rattled their cargo to destinations in the city from the warehouses that lined the street. There were few passenger cars in the district.

“Your driving is off today, Bertrand.”

“Oui, Monsieur.”

“Striking one of those trucks would put a quick end to our trip.”

“The bandages do not make the wheel easy to hold, Monsieur.”

“How long will you hide behind those wounds, Bertrand. It’s unbecoming of you.”

“It has been only today.”

“Yes, but all day.”

“Oui, Monsieur.”

Brick warehouses lined the streets. Only the age of the bricks distinguished one building from the next. Even the company signs that hung from each were identical with only the printed names setting them apart. The names themselves were not dissimilar as each seemed to focus on shipping.

Stockwell watched as the placards passed: Universal Exports, Vel Verde Imports, Hidalgo Trading Company, Bengali Imports, Coronado Shipping. Each was the same. All but the final warehouse on the right.

It dwarfed the others and made its direct neighbor seem small in comparison. Even now the Hidalgo Trading Company sat in the shadow of DamIndustries. Not often given to fits of pride, Stockwell grinned proudly.

The Duesenberg stopped silently in front of the warehouse. After a few moments of fumbling, Bertrand pulled open the door and Stockwell stepped into the street. “Get the bags, Bertrand. I’ll check in with Harrison.”

The Frenchman nodded and moved to the trunk of the car where he continued to fumble with latches.

Stockwell had not reached the top step when the door was opened by a stocky man in a crisp blue uniform. His face did not match the fastidious nature of his clothes or the polish of his badge. In sharp contrast to his fancy uniform, Albie Harrison was extremely average.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Harrison. How have you been? How’s the family?”

“I don’t have a family, sir.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Harrison shook his head and stepped aside to let his employer in.

“Any action of late from next door?”

“Nothing from next door, but things have gotten pretty exciting around here.”

“What kind of excitement?”

“I still can’t believe it myself. A couple of nights ago, I was sitting in the office like I normally do when I heard a clicking.”

“Like the drawing of a pistol’s hammer?”

“No. There was lots of clicking. But all together…it’s kind of hard to describe.”

Stockwell nodded with interest. “I understand.”

“At first I thought nothing of it. You know? It’s just a clicking. Things click all the time. Hell, even sometimes my knee clicks when I get up too fast. But, the clicking, it keeps up and it keeps getting louder. I thought maybe it was one of the machines.

“So, I start looking around the warehouse to try and find the noise. I check the hangar, I check the lifts, I even looked in the hoods of all your cars. But, no clicking.”

“And you’re sure it wasn’t coming from my antique bomb collection?”

“Oh, I’m sure, because when they tick I just run. I finally found where the clicking was coming from.”

Stockwell rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t the boiler again, was it? That thing just won’t stay not broken.”

“No, the boiler is fine. The clicking was coming from outside and it wasn’t a clicking after all. It was a snapping.”

“Like the breaking of a man’s femur?”

“No. Like the snapping of a man’s fingers. I looked outside and sure enough …”

“Someone was snapping his fingers.”

“No. There was lots of guys snapping their fingers. About fifty of them and all at the same time.”

“Whoa, that’s creepy.”

“No. Well, yes, but it gets creepier.”

“How?”

“Well, I said there about fifty guys, young guys—kids really—and half of them were up the street dressed in red and the other half were down the street dressed in white and they were walking down the street towards each with murder in their eyes.”

“Murder?”

“Murder. There were eyeing each other up like they were going to rip each other’s hearts out, take that heart home and then make a sandwich out of it or something and eat it.”

“That’s the look of murder for sure. I’ve seen it many times. They must have been running at each other and screaming with bloodlust.”

“No. They were walking really slow like and not saying nothing. Just snapping.”

Stockwell shivered. Evil took many forms in this world. At least if a killer was rushing you while screaming you knew it was safe to shoot them. This slow step approach was unnerving. Just hearing about made him hate the slow walking potential murderers.

“Really slow like. But what’s stranger was they were walking together. Every stepped matched—all fifty of ’em. And they walked in step with the snaps. Every snap was a step. Just like this.” Harrison backed away from Damian and hunched over. He snapped with each hand and slowly marched towards the adventurer. “Just like this. It was just like this.”

“Harrison, that is disturbing. I hope you called the police.”

“No. There was no time. Because they finally got close to each other.”

“Was there bloodshed?”

“No. It was … it was …”

The security guard was struggling for words. What he had witnessed must have been horrific. Stockwell grabbed him by the shoulders and tried to shake the words from the man. “What happened, man? What did you see?”

“They finally met, right in front of the warehouse. Right in front of me and they pulled out knives like they were going to kill each other … then they … they danced.”

“Danced? With each other?”

“No. Well, some of them did, but it was like them girls, the Rockettes. They all danced together but not like together, together. They all moved the same way—spinning and twirling and all the time snapping.”

“My God. You said some of them danced together?”

“No. I mean yes. They were the ones with the knives. They looked like they were trying to kill each other, but they were dancing so much that they couldn’t stab each other right. And, if one came close, the other would jump back way out of the way and his buddies would catch him and then throw him back into the fight.”

“It’s horrific. At least they stopped snapping.”

“No. They kept snapping. The whole time snapping.” Harrison paused—lost in the horror of that night. “Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can still hear the snapping.”

“Harrison?” The guard was no longer speaking to him.

“And that snapping is coming for me. It’s the snapping of fifty men. And they all want to dance with me.”

Stockwell never liked to yell at his employees, it hurt his throat, but this called for drastic action. “Harrison!”

The guard snapped from his waking nightmare and looked at his boss. The man looked a little confused as if he had just returned suddenly to place that was unfamiliar to him.

“Yeah, boss?”

“What happened next? After the dancing and knives and the … knife dancing?”

“Oh, I shot at them.”

“You shot at them?”

“Well, I didn’t have a hose to turn on them, sir.”

“Harrison, you can’t just go shooting at kids!”

“Why not?”

“Well, you make a good point there. Was anyone hurt?”

“No, they scattered after a couple of warning shots and I doubt they’ll be back.”

“Why do you say that?”

“After I shot at them, I yelled, ‘and don’t come back.’”

“That’s a solid plan. Good work, Harrison.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Is the Goose ready?”

“Yes, sir. Bertrand called and I’ve got her all fueled up.”

“You’re a good man, Harrison. Do me a favor and help Bertrand with the luggage. He’s been whining about his hands all day.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harrison left the office as Stockwell paged through the daily reports. Aside from the notation that the Goose had been fueled and the dance/stabbing had been foiled, there was little of note in the ledger. The only other entry marked the delivery of a package that was being kept in the office safe.

Stockwell crossed the Spartan office to the large Mosler safe. He had made it a point early on to never learn a safe’s combination. Instead of memory, he relied on sensitive fingers to feel the tumblers align. Without watching, he spun the dial left, stopped and spun in back to the right. A third spin of the dial and twist of the handle opened the safe door. It was the second package he had received that day in a nondescript brown paper wrapping.

The first had led to his attempted murder at the hands and feet of his friend and set the duo on a course that put many lives in peril. The second could easily do the same.

Without a sound, the Mosler’s door opened. The package had been dropped on the top shelf without caution. Damian carefully removed the package. After having seen the assassin’s weapon in action at the construction site, he envisioned a clever postal bomb that would disintegrate the recipient like the stacks of bricks.

He examined the address label and his concerns vanished as he tore at the paper. A smile grew on his face as the paper fell away to reveal a box marked as originating from the Smith & Wesson Performance Center. A close friend in the center often asked Stockwell to field test new innovations and he was always eager to oblige.

Inside the box was a note:

Dam,

I know how you’re fond of warnings shots. Thought you might like to give this a try. It holds eight rounds of .357. That’s seven warnings and one I told you so. Please let us know how it performs.

-Carl

The revolver was massive and the metal was raw. This suited Damian’s immediate needs perfectly. Often the high shine found on many of his firearms served to unnerve his enemies. With this bizarre mask situation, however, Stockwell preferred that the first light they see come from the muzzle flash.

He tucked the revolver into his waistband and moved into the hangar as Harrison and Bertrand dragged the luggage in the doorway.

The cavernous warehouse served as a launch point for all his adventures. As such, it was equipped with everything needed to battle evil no matter where it should occur. Several vehicles lined the eastern wall. Custom built motorcycles, heavily tuned cars and reinforced trucks, each sat before a door that led to the streets of New York. He moved past these to a staircase that led up to a series of catwalks suspended from the ceiling. This system of walkways allowed him to cross over the Hudson River which filled the center of the warehouse. Docked along the channel were several boats and the Grumman Goose that would take him to Honduras. The floatplane’s range and landing flexibility made it the ideal adventurer’s plane. But, he also thought the machine beautiful and elegant. It sat at the ready for him to call upon her when needed. He treated her with delicate care and a soft touch, but she could be pushed to the extreme and ridden hard when he demanded. He had christened the aircraft the Dahlia. It could also be loaded from the rear.

Admiring the plane from above, he crossed over the catwalk and descended to the far side of the warehouse. Chain-link fences formed several storage cages along the western wall and he made his way to the largest one and opened the door.

Wooden chests lined the cage. Damian opened the cabinet doors to one and revealed a series of drawers. Each was labeled with a caliber and he quickly found the .357 drawer and pulled it open. Every round had been made to his specifications by the same man that sent him the new revolver. He pulled out several boxes and shut the door.

The round had stopping power; that was undeniable. However, this was the first time that he knew a weapon would do him little good. All but one of the men that had tried to kill him today wore a mask that had robbed them of their humanity. Those that wore the mask could not be blamed, and therefore shot, because of their actions. His instinct told him that he had not seen the last of the horrific mask.

For a moment he considered placing the weapon aside but his instinct also told him to be prepared. And, even though they were now at odds, his instincts were never wrong.

Another cabinet revealed a selection of holsters and gun belts. After trying several pistol holsters and finding each a poor match for the large revolver, he pulled a rifle scabbard from another cabinet and took it to a workbench. The pistol was almost half the length of a rifle and within a matter of moments he had worked the leather scabbard into a form fitting holster for the test weapon. He dropped this and the ammo boxes into a canvas duffle bag and left the cage.

As he moved along the edge of the dock, he inspected the exterior of the Dahlia. He smiled. She had been through rough weather and several fire fights, but the old girl always kept her figure.

Bertrand had boarded on the far side of the plane and began stowing luggage. Stockwell carried the canvas duffle to the cockpit and began his preflight check. The Frenchman joined him and took the copilot’s seat.

“Are you ready, Bertrand?”

Bertrand nodded.

“Then, it’s off to adventure.” Stockwell turned the engines over as the remotely controlled hangar doors began to open. “It’s a long flight, my friend. But I’m kind of looking forward to no one trying to kill me for a while.”

That’s when the man in the boat opened fire with a machine gun.

13
Red Rockets Glare

Bullets slammed against the Dahlia’s hull in rapid succession. The large caliber slugs marred the thick windshield and sparked as they struck the skin of the cockpit. Stockwell and Bertrand sat calmly as the muzzle of the assassin’s Thompson automatic flashed repeatedly.

Bullets scarred the windshield with deep crevices but the panel did not shatter. All of the glass in the plane was comprised of Damite, a specially formulated polymer that retained the transparency and weight of glass but adopted the strength and resiliency of steel.

Between muzzle flashes, Damian could see that the man’s face was hidden by the horrid expression of one of the masks. This did not surprise him but it did disappoint him. The reaction on a gunman’s face when they first encountered Damite was something he always enjoyed.

Robbed of this pleasure, Stockwell grab the throttles and shoved them forward to the stops. The Dahlia’s engines roared as fuel and air rushed together to explode in a barely contained rage. Deafening noise filled the hangar. Flames spit from the exhausts like anger from the snout of a mad bull. The props spun with furious abandon and the blast from their motion blew back into the hangar. Cages rattled, papers fluttered and the plane began to creep slowly forward into the Hudson.

The gunman reloaded and emptied another magazine into the skin of the plane before suffering a jam in the drum. Stockwell smiled as the nose of the plane emerged from the hangar.

“What is it you are doing?”

“Bertrand, we’re going to run over that boat.”

“What if he is an innocent man?”

“The gun is new and the mask is new, but it’s more than the face and weapon that make the man. His posture. His poise when firing. This is the assassin from the construction yard returned to finish what he tried to start back there at the yard.”

Bertrand shook the confusing statement from his mind. “What if you’re wrong?”

“Wrong? Ha. I’m willing to bet his life on it.”

The Dahlia cleared the hangar and Stockwell began to turn the craft. He stood and removed his thick winter coat. Its down would restrict his movements. The leather sling containing the Smith & Wesson went across his back.

“Take the wheel, Bertrand, and cripple his vessel.”

Bertrand held up his bandaged hands.

Stockwell smiled back and held up his fist. “That’s right, my French friend. Dukes up. It’s time to show this cad that evil will get him nowhere.”

Bertrand sighed and tried to grip the yoke with the gauze mittens. “He is getting away.”

Stockwell looked back out the windshield. The wooden sport boat had throttled up its own engine and was moving quickly into the river.

The Dahlia cut through the boat’s wake. Its deep hull design was rated in seas up to five feet—the wake was barely noticeable. Bertrand worked the rudder with his feet and finished the turn by pulling in behind the boat.

“We’ve got him now. He won’t be able to outrun us for long.” Stockwell dug into a supply bin and pulled out a length of rope. “Take out his craft and I’ll pull him from the water.”

“He’s coming back.”

Stockwell turned back to the cockpit. The wooden sport boat had indeed turned and was heading back towards the plane. Damian could see the muzzle flash of the Thompson but the boat was well out of effective range.

“What is he doing?” Bertrand continued to wrestle with the yoke as the plane accelerated.

“He means to ram us.”

“Like we were trying to ram him. Good.”

“True, but a head-on collision could cripple the Dahlia as well. This would prevent our departure. Go faster, Bertrand.”

“We cannot.” Bertrand nodded to the throttles.

The Dahlia was not far from gaining lift, but it would be close.

As the two vehicles drew closer in proximity, bullets began to once again splash off the hull and windscreen.

“C’mon, Bertrand.” Stockwell leaned on the throttles as the Frenchman pulled back on the stick. The plane began to bounce as Bernoulli’s principle began to take effect.

The boat sped closer.

The Dahlia’s nose lifted and dropped back into the Hudson. The resulting splash took some of the much needed momentum.

The boat was less than a hundred yards away. At full speed it would surely damage the hull of the amphibian.

“Zut alors. We will not make it in time.” Bertrand’s bandaged hand slipped from the flight yoke. The resulting action drove the left pontoon into the water. Stockwell was almost thrown from his feet. More drag. Less speed. They were almost out of options.

“We have one last chance. Let’s just hope Dr. Goddard’s device works.”

Stockwell grabbed the captain seat and steadied himself. He reached above his head and flipped a switch. A hum from the back of the plane signaled that the cargo ramp was lowering.

“Frenchman, grab that stick!”

Bertrand grabbed the yoke.

The boat was 150 yards away.

“And don’t forget to jettison the rockets because there’s a pretty good chance they might explode.” Stockwell hit two more switches. There was a whine and then a fwoosh as two liquid fueled rockets, one beneath each wing, erupted in to a burst of flame and acceleration.

Bertrand was thrown back into his seat as the Dahlia plowed through the river casting huge plumes of water into the air. He fought to hold on to the yoke and pull it back to his chest.

Stockwell was running. The paragon of fitness dashed through the cabin, his mighty legs driven by trained muscles and a desire for justice.

The boat was upon them. Bertrand forced more give from the yoke than he thought possible and the nose began to rise. The rocket propelled plane broke from gravity’s feeble grip and took to the air as the sport boat raced under the v-shaped hull.

The pitch of the plane drove Stockwell faster to the Dahlia’s tail. He placed one final step on the cargo ramp and propelled himself into the air. He hung for a moment between the plane and the river before gravity took hold and pulled him towards the frigid winter waters of the Hudson.

Time slowed. He knew it to be a trick of the mind. Adrenaline coursed through his system. Nerves fired faster and the world around him crawled. He looked down and saw the wake of the plane rushing forward. He tucked and rolled in midair. In the middle of his acrobatic maneuver he saw the boat enter his vision.

Despite the rush of prop wash and the wake of the Dahlia, the gunman had not lost his balance. His hands were still on the wheel of the craft and he was in control of the boat. The dead eyes of the mask, however, were turned toward the plane that he had failed to strike.

Damian completed the somersault in midair and aimed his feet like a weapon before driving like a cast stone into the man’s chest.

The gunman fell to the right as Stockwell collapsed to the rear deck of the wooden craft. The assassin had kept his grip on the wheel and the fall resulted in a violent turn that took the pair into the wake of the plane.

The boat leapt from the water and landed on its side, perilously close to capsizing.

Stockwell dropped toward the water, only to be caught by the gunwale.

The assassin released the wheel and the boat turned violently back to the right. Stockwell rolled to his feet in time to block the butt of the Thompson as it soared toward his head.

The assassin responded with a knee to Damian’s solar plexus and doubled the titan over. A haymaker landed on the back of his neck and drove him back on the decking of the boat.

•••

Bertrand had not been fully prepared for the sudden takeoff provided by the rockets. His grip on the yoke had been tenuous before and only by wrapping his arms around the stick had he been able to lift off. Now, the Dahlia was moving faster than he could ever remember.

Beneath the wings, the rockets continued to burn, adding thrust to the flight. Bertrand wasn’t sure if the props were even contributing to the forward motion. Damian and Goddard’s system had never been tried before. In fact, the rocket scientist had tried to talk Damian out of it saying it was “too dangerous,” “an unnecessary risk” and “something only an idiot would even considering doing.”

Damian had insisted and now Bertrand was behind the wheel of the first rocket powered Goose in history. The honor aside, Bertrand was terrified as the fuselage shook around him. Grumman had not designed the craft for this. They couldn’t have. This didn’t really exist.

The liquid fueled rockets drove the Goose into the sky at an angle the Frenchman didn’t think was possible. He had to level it out and release the rockets before they overheated. He pushed against the yoke, trying to force the nose down. Now the rocket’s thrust fought against him.

Every muscle in his abdomen strained as he fought to lean up from the seat. Bertrand grimaced as the stick crept toward the dash and the Dahlia’s nose slowly began to level out. It was several moments before gravity was pulling at his feet instead of his back. Once free from the mighty grip, Bertrand was able to gain control of the craft.

He checked his position and was surprised to find how far the rockets had taken him from the boat. And where was Damian? He had last seen his employer running towards the rear of the plane.

Bertrand turned to look for him. The cargo door was down. Had he fallen out?

The plane still groaned from the force of the rockets, but it responded when Bertrand coaxed it into a wide right bank over the island of Manhattan.

Out the window, he saw the boat that tried to ram them moments before. It was wildly out of control.

Bertrand had known Stockwell long enough to understand what had happened. Somehow, Damian had gotten on the boat and was no doubt the reason it was out of control.

He pushed the plane harder into the turn. The airframe protested with groans and squeaks. The rockets were a burden now but would be a blessing as soon as he was able to straighten out … if the Dahlia held together.

The Grumman Goose was all but perpendicular to the ground and Bertrand looked through the copilot’s window to the streets below. What a site he must have been to the people in Manhattan—a silver banshee screaming flames above the skyscrapers.

Despite the beating she was taking, the Dahlia held together and leveled out on course with speeding boat below. So desperate to climb moments before, Bertrand now pointed the nose back at the water, hoping to get close enough to the boat to help his employer.

Cityscape quickly changed to water as the Dahlia roared back over the river. Bertrand’s focus was single-minded until he heard the buzzing. Even then, he ignored it. The alarm, no doubt, was caused by the toll the rockets were putting on the airframe. There was nothing he could do about that now.

It was only a moment later that Bertrand remembered what Stockwell said about the rockets exploding. He quickly engaged the autopilot and searched for the rocket engine release switches. He found them above his head next to a flashing red light that was labeled, “explode.”

Bertrand reached up to hit the switch. The gauze enshrouding his hands prevented him from doing anything but mashing the control panel. The buzzing came faster. Bertrand mashed. He mashed the panel harder and accomplished nothing.

The buzzing was near constant. The Frenchman screamed and brought his foot over his head. It connected with the panel.

•••

Teak met face as the haymaker drove Stockwell to the deck of the boat. He rolled quickly as the Thompson began to chatter. His leg drove the barrel of the gun up into the air and sent the masked assassin back into the cockpit of the craft.

The boat veered right and Damian used the momentum to get back to his feet. He rushed the gunman, grabbed the weapon and drove it against the would-be killer’s chest. Stockwell stepped in closer, restricting the gun’s movements.

The assassin launched out with knees and elbows as the two men struggled for control of the submachine gun.

Stockwell absorbed these strikes and fought back with his own, kicking at the man’s instep and knees. He glared into the soulless eyes of the mask and cursed its effects. This coward was smaller than he and weaker, no doubt, without the aid of the mask. What was its secret? How could it affect a man’s nerves and muscles as it did?

He had to get a hold of one without it self-destructing.

Stockwell scored a knee to the masked-man’s ribs. The force doubled his opponent over and twisted the Thompson free with such force that the weapon flew overboard and splashed into the river.

The grim expression on the mask lurched forward and drove itself into Stockwell’s face. It hit like a 2 x 4. The massive man stumbled back. There was a roaring in his ears. Had he been struck so hard?

The roaring grew louder and he realized that it wasn’t in his head. He turned to see the arrival of the Dahlia just as the rockets released from the plane.

“Bertrand!” Stockwell screamed and dropped to the floor of the boat as the rockets slammed into the water on either side of the craft. The Dahlia screamed overhead as the remaining fuel in the rockets exploded.

Geysers of river water erupted forty feet in the air and the boat was blown from the water. Stockwell could hear the wooden hull cracking from the blast as it was lifted from the river and threatened to turn stern over bow.

The boat was now vertical and Damian was rolled forward. His massive frame hit the seats and stopped. At this speed, if the boat flipped, it was sure to strike him. The resulting blow would, at best, render him unconscious and drifting in the frigid waters of the Hudson.

The bow hit the water first. The tip of the boat dragged a channel in the water. If more of it caught, the resistance would flip the craft.

Stockwell grabbed on to the seat hoping to maintain his grip if the craft should turn on him.

The bow skimmed across the water for what seemed minutes before the weight of the outboard pulled the stern back into the water. Timbers sheared from the boat as the blasted planks tore away. The boat slowed as it took on water. Though the engine still drove it forward, it began to wobble due to the hull’s fractured integrity.

It was difficult to stand. The craft lurched from side to side and grew more violent with each moment. Stockwell had finally pulled himself to his feet when the boat struck Liberty Island.

14
Inside Lady Liberty

Amid a thousand splinters and the bursting snaps of wooden planks, Damian Stockwell soared through the air. He had always savored the sweet taste of liberty. His moral code was more or less built around the idea that all men should be free to pursue their own desires unfettered by the shackles of man or nations. But, Liberty Island tasted like dirt. He landed hard at the base of a retaining wall in a pile of loose soil.

He spit the taste of liberty from his mouth and stood ready to defend himself from the assassin. If he could recover so quickly from such a remarkable wreck, he had no doubt that the mask’s effect on the man’s nervous system would enable him to recover even quicker.

No attack came. Perhaps the crash had shaken free the mask’s mysterious hold. The man would still be dangerous, but without the heightened senses and added strength, he would be easier to take down.

The bank of the island was small and there was no place for the killer to hide. Where had he gone? Had the scoundrel even cleared the boat? Or was his villainous body still trapped in the heap?

Stockwell inched back towards the wreckage, his incredible imagination moving ahead of time. He pictured the assassin, still bearing the mask, bursting from the crashed sport boat with vicious silence to continue the assault. Damian had faced all manner of horrors in the course of his adventures: man at his darkest, creatures at their most mysterious, beasts in their most rabid states—he was afraid of nothing. But when things jumped out from out of nowhere, it kind of made him jump a little. Sometimes he shrieked, but it was a manly shriek of surprise and not fear. He stepped back away from the wreckage and wondered if there was a stick somewhere around that he could use to poke it with.

A scream of terror came from Lady Liberty’s platform. Several more followed and it was clear that the masked assassin was not in the boat but that he had fled into the park and was terrifying the innocents that wanted nothing more than to pay their respects to the lovely lady.

Damian sighed and turned away from the boat. Several quick steps and a mighty leap took him up the retaining wall and into the park. Liberty Enlightening the World rose above him, her patina skin a beacon for the denizens of the world that sought freedom from oppression, hunger, tyranny and colder climates. Every time he saw the glorious woman, his heart swelled with pride that the world was as attracted to her as he was.

But, now people scattered from her. They ran in horror from the pedestal that held her up for the world to see. Frightened citizens cowered in her shadow behind benches and trash receptacles. They fled from the statue’s entrance with screams that pierced his very patriotism. This could not be happening.

As others ran from Lady Liberty, Stockwell dashed through the plaza and into the visitor’s center. The crowd had thinned but screams persisted. He rushed to the observation deck elevator. The doors were closing but he saw inside the hideous mask and several frightened visitors being held at gun point.

“You cad!” Stockwell’s voice boomed in the small foyer.

The man in the mask turned the weapon on Stockwell. The Thompson had been lost to the water and Damian wished he was facing down the barrel of the .45 automatic instead. The strange weapon from the construction site was in the assassin’s hand. He pulled the trigger.

Damian rolled out of the way as a stream a green liquid shot from the elevator and into the lobby. His actions took him out of the way but the green liquid landed on a replica of the statue’s face. The left side of her face dissolved.

Names, slurs and insults came rushing forth to Stockwell’s tongue. The rage he felt was unlike anything he had experienced before. He turned back to the elevator to let this coward have it, but the doors had closed and its ascent had begun.

Stockwell rushed across the lobby and slammed into the doors. Though he knew it was futile, he beat his fists against the steel. The car behind them was gone.

He eyed the entrance to the stairs but did not take them. Even at peak condition he knew that he could not beat the elevator to the top and today he had already crashed a boat, jumped from a plane, been shot at, been dropped from a building and kicked a lot of ass.

There was still one last ass left to kick and he would need every ounce of strength he had left. Stockwell sat. A bench in the lobby made for a comfortable perch with a clear line of sight to the elevator door.

Long ago he had learned to never waste a moment. Time was about the only thing he could not buy more of and it angered him when he found himself throwing it away on wasted actions.

Forced to wait for an elevator’s return so that he could pursue a possessed killer to the top of the Statue of Liberty was precisely the kind of time that should not be squandered.

Often he used moments between gun fights to put his mind against problems he sought to solve in the lab. World hunger, medical breakthroughs, whiter whites—his endeavors were numerous and, more times than not, the epiphanies arrived in these unrelated times. It was crucial, he believed, to step away from a problem to better understand it.

In this particular case he would use the time to clear his mind of his rage. If directed, it could be a powerful ally but that was not how anger worked. Anger was a liability in the fight against evil. One’s own rage conspired with the enemy against him. The assault on the public and Lady Liberty’s face had tapped into that anger and released it upon him.

Tibetan monks had instructed him in the art of meditation. Introspective thinking mixed with rhythmic breathing often led to a clearer mind. The monks had told him that it aligned his spirit with the world and brought all things in to balance. Though he had proven all of the techniques to be scientific in nature, the public still looked upon the practice as spiritual mysticism, so when discussing the practice he simply referred to it as Damian’s Thinky Time.

He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. The anger faded. Then it came back and he got angry but it quickly faded again. He turned his now calm mind to the situation at hand.

The last few actions of the madman had taken him by surprise. Withdrawing into the statue was out of character for the masked killers. They had always attacked, never retreated. Even this crazed killer had tried to ram the Dahlia, which would have meant death for himself. There was only one answer to this puzzle. The assassin knew what his target had already survived and that there was no way to beat him on level ground. The killer would use the confines of the statue and possibly the statue’s height itself to try and kill the famed adventurer. The assassin would be done running now. He would be lying in ambush.

The elevator rose to shoulder level of the great statue. From there one could descend back to the ground via a system of stairs or ascend to the observation level at the crown. A third possible avenue existed up the statue’s outstretched arm to the torch. Damian had been to the crown many times but never to the torch. That section had been closed for more than twenty years—ever since a cowardly saboteur had detonated an arms warehouse on the neighboring Black Tom Island. The resulting explosion had thrown debris and shrapnel into the city and the statue. Lady Liberty’s robe has absorbed a great deal of it with little concern. But the shoulder had been impacted in such away that it threatened to fall. Since that day, visitors had not been allowed to view the world as lit by the torch of freedom.

Regardless, the doors would open at only one point and he would be an easy target for the waiting gunman. There was no way to access the elevator shaft. All he could do was board the car and wait for the trap to spring. But, he had a plan.

He reached over his shoulder and pulled the large revolver from the sling. He smiled. It was important to have a plan.

The one draw back to Damian’s Thinky Time was that he often lost track of time. This time was no different. The elevator chimed its arrival. The doors slid open and Stockwell’s rage returned.

On the floor of the car were several bodies. Parts of each had been melted away by the devious device of the masked gunman. Vapors still rose from the victims as Stockwell stepped inside and adjusted the controls that would take him into the trap.

15
Head and Shoulders

Stockwell took refuge in the corner of the elevator as the doors opened. He expected a stream of green acid to jet into the car the moment it arrived but there was none. He stepped onto the metal flooring of the statue’s shoulders. The area was empty. Ahead lay the staircase to the observation deck. It spiraled up into the statue’s face and led to the crown. Those with a fear of height or claustrophobia would find its design overwhelming.

Wind blew against the skin of the statue and transferred the sound to the interior. The dull roar made it difficult to hear anything, but over the din he recognized the sound of weeping. It was coming from the crown.

Fear for his own safety was never a part of his plans; even now he knew that there were people in need of his aid. He bounded up the spiral stair at such a speed that he was fighting not only gravity, but centrifugal force as well. The low railing would do little to keep him on the staircase should he lose his balance. And, beyond the rail was a straight drop to the feet of liberty.

He was ten feet from the crown when the coward revealed himself. The masked killer stood at the foot of the stairs that led to the torch.

Stockwell condemned the man for his actions. “You’re not supposed to be there. That section is closed to public access.”

The stream of acid struck the railing and Stockwell’s handhold evaporated. His massive frame rolled over the side of the stairs. He plummeted ten feet before grabbing the rail of a lower flight. The grip was solid but there was no telling how long before another jet of acid would take it from him.

The bulk of the stairwell separated him from his attacker and the assassin fired blindly. Kachunks preceded each blast and they began to come quicker. The green acid struck everywhere. It slowly ate away at the staircase but also contacted several of the girders that supported the statue itself. Green mist began to fill the area. Stockwell had to put a stop to this.

There was no clear shot. He held the massive revolver in his hand but could not find the killer in its sights. More green ooze struck more of the copper skin and daylight began to appear inside the statue. He had to do something, but what?

The gong. During his fight with Bertrand, the banging of the gong has disrupted the mask’s influence momentarily. Stockwell surveyed the area. There was nothing but steel and copper.

He felt the staircase shift. The acid had eaten away at enough of the supports that it was about to collapse. There was no gong in the statue so he would be forced to settle for the next best thing.

Stockwell raised his .357 and fired a round in the back of the statue’s face.

The resulting boom was thunderous. The report bounced off the copper skin and multiplied. The clang of the shell added to the cacophony and created a ring that even Stockwell felt.

He pulled himself back on the staircase. Though he was gripping his ears, the villain was quickly regaining his composure.

Stockwell fired again and again the assassin writhed in pain and grabbed at his ears. Damian rushed back down the stair firing a new shot every time the killer pulled his hands away from his ears. The killer struggled to climb the stairs to the torch and managed to scramble ahead of Stockwell’s line of fire.

Damian reached the lower platform and ran to the base of the stairs. The assassin was waiting at the top with the devious weapon pointed at Stockwell’s feet. The kachunk told Damian to leap out of the way but the assassin was a step ahead. The green liquid landed at Stockwell’s feet and spread in a puddle. Damian fired the eighth and final shot from his .357 as the floor beneath him fell away. He dropped.

He caught himself on the newly formed hole. The residue of the acid burned through his shirt and ate at his skin. His feet dangled out the armpit of the glorious statue.

His final shot, thrown off by the drop, had struck the canister on the strange weapon. It erupted and sprayed its contents on the side of Lady Liberty’s wrist. Daylight poured into the narrow passageway.

The assassin opened the door at the top of the stairway and ran to the torch.

Stockwell grit his teeth as he tried to ignore the acid burns and lifted himself back into the statue. He slid the empty gun back in its sling and surveyed the damage. The Statue of Liberty had been ruined, defiled by the crazed madman who had left himself nowhere to run.

He needed the assassin alive. He had questions he needed answered, but it was going to kill him not to kill him. Stockwell stomped up the stairs. The noise echoed with every step he took. He was no longer trying to disrupt the mask’s effect. He just wanted the villain to know he was coming.

Damian Stockwell burst through the door and the killer was upon him.

He landed on Stockwell’s back and locked an arm under the goliath’s chin. Stockwell rolled forward and tumbled the assassin onto the platform. He had reversed the hold and now had the killer by the throat.

“I want answers, you fiend. And, I’m going to get them.” Stockwell grabbed the edge of the mask and pulled. It didn’t give. He gave several tugs and it remained in place. Stockwell examined the mask trying to see what held it firm. The others had been difficult to remove but this one was impossible. That’s when he saw it. This one was different. Several bolt heads protruded from the surface of the mask.

Stockwell looked at his hand. His palm was covered in blood. Someone had bolted the mask to the killer’s face.

“My God. What evil have I encountered.”

The killer took advantage of Stockwell’s distraction and leapt to his feet. Stockwell dropped into a defensive stance. The wind itself was an opponent at this height. Gusts threatened to blow both of the men from their feet. The platform was sturdy, but the railing had not been maintained since the observation deck had been closed. It was a perilous setting with a ruthless opponent. Stockwell smiled. The fight was on.

A flurry of fists struck for Damian’s head but this man had not had the training of his valet. The punches were fierce but unskilled. Stockwell’s Damitsu blocked and provided a counterstrike for every punch thrown. He was merciless and with each blow he made sure the cad knew why he was beating him.

The first blow put the killer on his heels. “You’ve murdered the innocent.”

Another sent his head crashing into the torch. “You’ve violated Lady Liberty with your spray.”

Stockwell caught a punch and pulled the killer in close. “And, you made me shoot Liberty in the face.”

The killer dove forward and tried to drive the mask into Damian’s face. Stockwell stepped to one side and caught the man by the hair. He spun and drove the man into the torch mask first. The hideous face ruptured. Green mist began to seep from the eyes and mouth of the horrid expression. The horrible face began to dissolve and the assassin began to scream.

The pain must have been unbearable. The corrosive gas that was designed to consume the mask had nowhere to go and rushed over the man’s face.

Stockwell backed up as the killer grasped at the mask. Somewhere between the strike and now, he had regained conscious thought.

The mask disappeared and what was left was inhuman. Melted skin boiled and puss ran from blisters and obscured the killer’s eyes. Bloody metal bolts protruded from what was the man’s face. He continued to scream and began to flail. Stockwell reached to stop him but in his pain the killer backed too close to edge and fell from the torch of Liberty Enlightening the World.

Damian rushed to the edge and watched the man fall. Shortly before he struck the ground he became fully aware of his situation. Stockwell could see it in what used to be the man’s face.

16
Out of Town on a Rail

The long flight to Puerto Cortés was spent, in part, coordinating the repair efforts of the statue. Lady Liberty would have to be closed to the public for the better part of a year. Though it disheartened Stockwell to deny her beauty to the common man, it was more important that her promise live on for future generations and that her blazing torch of freedom would light the world’s way for years to come.

The battle inside her robe had put the glorious girl in jeopardy. The chemical from the assassin’s weapon had weakened the infrastructure in several places. Parts of her skin had been burned through completely. The arm that bore the torch threatened to collapse. She stood more now out of principle than of girders.

Upon reaching the ground, Stockwell had rushed into action and made several calls to branches of DamIndustries. Within an hour, construction crews had arrived to stabilize the statue. From the Dahlia’s radio telephone he continued to arrange her repair. Locating and processing copper and iron was only a matter of coordinating the proper factories, though he called several clients personally to let them know that their orders had taken a backseat to freedom.

Damian set the phone on the receiver, took his place in the pilot’s seat and sighed.

“It is done?” Bertrand had dutifully watched the instruments while his employer was on the phone.

“Yes. I’ve called Tombstone and the funding is arranged. The factories will be running double shifts for the foreseeable future, but Lady Liberty will be stronger than ever.”

“It is quite commendable, Monsieur, that you would do such a thing.”

“A man must pay for his mistakes, Bertrand.”

“But it was not your fault.”

“Of course it was. If not for me, he would never have crashed on the island.”

“But, you could not have known.”

Stockwell stared into the night ahead of them. The thrum of the engines was calming to him. Their constant buzz meant progress. Few things frustrated him more than sitting still; especially when a friend’s life was in peril. The mighty adventurer shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. She stands for everything great in this world, my French friend. This you should know as she was a gift from your nation to ours for being so amazing. I cannot let a symbol as powerful as her become endangered.”

Bertrand’s eyes returned to the dials for a moment then back to his employer, “Monsieur, the cost must be enormous.”

Stockwell shrugged and turned his eyes back to his copilot. “Wealth is just another benefit of being raised in a pitchblende mine. It afforded me great strength and great wealth. Not everyone can be so fortunate. It’s my duty to give all of my blessings to the world.”

“Perhaps now I could ask for a raise?”

Stockwell laughed and stood from his seat. He put his hand on Bertrand’s shoulder. “You’re a good friend, Bertrand. You know just how to make me laugh. You and I are too alike; we live for the adventure, the thrill. Money means nothing to us. I’m going to get some rest. Let me know when we reach Puerto Cortés. It’ll be good to see Dalton again. It’s been too long. Maybe he can help us crack the mystery of Simmons’s disappearance.”

“Oui, Monsieur.”

“Good night, my friend. Until tomorrow when the adventure continues.”

•••

The Dahlia lay down easy in the calm waters of Puerto Cortés. Her buoyant pontoons nestled gently into the waves and she rolled calmly to the dock.

Bertrand had roused Stockwell from a peaceful sleep half an hour outside of the coastal city. Damian had quickly performed a morning routine of stretching and calisthenics that were designed to invigorate and awaken his muscles, his mind and all five of his senses. Once the routine was complete, he took the yoke and set the plane down in the harbor.

Bertrand moved sluggishly to the hatch when instructed to toss the shore man a line, but the Frenchman complied. Bertrand had flown through the night, or more precisely, allowed the plane’s autopilot to fly through the night. The valet struggled with the door and the mooring line but managed to toss an end to the harbor crew.

Gruff Hondurans pulled the Dahlia fast to dock and the two men disembarked. Stockwell’s powerful frame filled the plane’s doorway as he looked out into the city. The port city was almost four hundred years old but little of the original colonial buildings were visible. Fruit storehouses, housing mostly bananas, obscured any view beyond the docks. The town had exploded over the last thirty years thanks to the influx of American investment. The fruit companies had modernized the port and brought transportation to the Central American nation in the form of extensive rail lines. These lines plunged into the city delivering the lifeline of commerce.

It was for this reason Stockwell had called upon his old friend Cole Dalton. As the local head of one of the major fruit growers, he had access to the trains. And Stockwell needed to move inland fast.

Stockwell and Dalton also shared a history with Simmons. If Peter was indeed in Honduras, he would have certainly checked in on his old friend. If anyone knew what Simmons was looking for in Central America, it would be Dalton.

Damian stepped onto the dock and made his way to customs while Bertrand unloaded the bags.

To call it a customs office would be culturally sensitive. The hut was at the end of the dock and leaned a little to the left. The ill-fitting door was open to allow the ocean breeze in. Stockwell braced himself as he entered. He held governments in high regard, but he had little use for red tape and it seemed customs houses were held together with it.

Low level officials often possessed a good deal of unnecessary swagger and he wanted to preclude any potential bravado. Damian stood to his full height and entered through the door with authority. “My name is Damian Stockwell and I declare that I am here.”

There was no one behind the desk. The customs hut was all but empty.

“And I declare,” a voice behind him spoke, “welcome to Honduras.”

Stockwell turned and saw his old friend and compatriot Cole Dalton leaning across an open doorway on the opposite end of the shack. Dalton possessed a tall and slender figure that caused his head to brush the doorframe despite the lean. A wide-brimmed straw hat hid his eyes and the majority of his face.

“Dalton, it’s been too long.”

“Dam, it’s good to see you.”

Stockwell had no shortage of friends in this world. Among them he counted the members of the lowest castes and the highest ranks of the elite and powerful. He could find a dear friend in any corner of the world. Each was unique. Yet, Cole occupied a special echelon of friendship. Most of his acquaintances were indebted to Damian in some fashion—usually owing their lives to the grand adventurer. With Dalton, the slate was clean. The two men had saved each other’s lives so often over the years that they had quit keeping track and merely settled the respective debts with a drink. They had shared adventures around the globe in the pursuit of justice and right and though it had been years since they had seen each other, the small talk was accomplished with a glance, a nod and a punch on the shoulder.

“Ouch. Where are your bags, Dam?”

“Bertrand is fetching them.”

“Bertrand? Thought he would have wised up and left you long ago.”

“Hardly. Bertrand is as loyal as ever.”

“He’s a good man. I’ve got a bunk for both of you at the plantation.” Cole stepped toward the door. “We should get going. The bugs get thick at dusk.”

Stockwell pointed to the empty desk.

“I’ve given them the day off. I figured it would be easier for you this way.”

“Look at you. Cole Dalton, a man of influence.”

Cole chuckled and gestured to the door. “Hardly. I’m just a humble farmer. Now, c’mon. My train is waiting for us.”

•••

Damian Stockwell sat in an overstuffed armchair and drew on a cigar so thick that it scared shadows away with every puff. Artwork hung from the walls, the sweet taste of cognac hung in the air and, despite the constant transition the car made from rail to rail, the private train car was relatively quiet. “I’m getting one of these.”

“I don’t know how I ever lived without one.” Cole Dalton dipped the tip of his cigar into his drink and set it back in his mouth.

“Bertrand. Remind me that I must get my own train.”

There was no response from the Frenchman but a soft snore.

Dalton chuckled. “Poor fellow seems a bit tuckered.”

Stockwell grabbed a rolled up newspaper and rapped the dozing valet on his foot. The snoring continued.

“Bertrand?”

“Oui, Monsieur.” Bertrand could not even open his eyes.

“Remind me that I want a train.”

“Oui, Monsieur. You want a train.”

“Not now, Bertrand. Later, when …”

The Frenchman’s snoring resumed. Stockwell chuckled.

Dalton laughed. “Dam, it’s good to see you.”

“I know. And look at you. Look at this place. Surrounded by luxury and loyal employees. And, from all appearances, a well-trained security force. You’ve done good, my friend.”

Dalton couldn’t help but smile. “Of all our adventures, of all the treasures I’ve chased, who would have thought I’d find my fortune in fruit?”

“I’m proud of you, Cole.”

Bertrand’s snore interjected.

“Dammit, Bertrand. Don’t interrupt.”

“You worked him too hard, Dam. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this business it’s that you can’t mistreat your workers.”

“Bertrand? The old boy’s got it easy. Today was just especially long. I had to kick his ass this morning and then he flew us here. He’s earned his rest.”

“You beat him?”

“That’s actually what brought us here.”

Bertrand’s snoring grew louder.

“I don’t understand.”

“I received a distress call yesterday from …”

Bertrand snorted and the volume of his snoring increased.

“I received a distress call yesterday from …”

The Frenchman rolled over and the buzzing filled the private car.

“You see, there was this …”

Bertrand’s snoring developed a whistle.

Stockwell leaned forward in his chair and rapped the Frenchman across the shins with the paper. The valet opened his eyes briefly.

“Mind the schnoz, man.”

“Je suis désolée.” Bertrand turned his back to the men.

“You’ll be désolée, all right. I’ll make you désolée like you’ve never been désoléed before. There’s a whole level of désolée that you’ve never even experienced.”

The snoring resumed at a lower level. Stockwell raised the paper.

Dalton reached out his hand to stay the strike. “Dam, please continue.”

Stockwell leaned back in his chair. “Simmons has disappeared.”

“Peter? How do you know this?”

Stockwell pointed to the gold watch on Cole’s hand.

Dalton smiled and nodded. “Still, I saw Peter a few days ago. I don’t think he’s missing. He set off into the jungle with three of my men. He said not to expect him for at least a few weeks.”

“So, he was here.”

“He was using the plantation as a base camp for an exploration.”

Stockwell pulled a pen from his pocket and began to draw on the newspaper.

“I’m sure he’s fine, Dam. We both know that Peter can take of himself. Do you remember that time, with the pygmies, when Peter …”

Stockwell thrust the newspaper in Dalton’s face. Dalton jumped at the sight of what Stockwell had drawn. His depiction of the horrid mask was precise. The pain-raked expression, the soulless eyes, every detail had been captured in the field of the crossword puzzle.

“You know this mask.” Damian knew from the man’s reaction that he had indeed seen the demon face before. Horrid as it was, it would not elicit a start such as Cole’s from the image alone.

Dalton nodded.

“This mask arrived in a package for me yesterday. Bertrand placed it on his face and tried to kill me. Several more masked men then attempted to burn, drop, crush and stab me. Simmons now wears this mask.”

Stockwell had never known Dalton to hesitate. Countless battles and an equal amount of dangers had never taken the man’s words before, but now, Cole paused.

“What is this mask, Cole?”

Dalton’s jovial humor faded, he crushed out his cigar and hung his head.

“What is this horrid face?”

“That is the mask of Zipacna.”

“That’s a stupid name.”

“That’s his name.”

“It’s very hard to say.”

“But, that’s what they call him.”

“I’m going to call him Zippy.”

“Zipacna …”

“Zippy.”

“… is a Mayan god. That horrid face started appearing a few months ago. At first it was left as mere vandalism on the grounds of the plantation. Then men began to whisper fears in the fields that they were being watched. I dismissed it as native superstition, but, soon after … they started disappearing. It began with one or two workers a week. Sometimes we would see them return along the perimeter of the plantation wearing the very mask you just showed me. Now, a couple of workers go missing each night. They return aggressive … almost mindless, and recruit more men. It is a cult, Dam. You measured my wealth in loyal employees, but they have been abandoning me for the promises of some mysterious leader. And I fear what has become of them.”

“Are they violent?”

“Only if confronted. Then they attack as if possessed. They hold no reason in their minds. It’s as if their very self has been erased and replaced with the spirit of that demon mask.”

“Do they attack the plantation? Maybe it was built on sacred ground. Old gods hate that.”

“No. The men simply disappear. The ones that remain are terrified. They say that those who do not follow Zipacna’s …”

“Zippy’s.”

“… call will be drawn in by the crust of the earth itself and brought into his fold. I don’t know what to do, Dam.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

Dalton smiled and shook his head.

“My friend, there is no shame in asking for help. I know what you’re capable of and there’s no one I would rather have beside me in a fight. But there are some things that even you or I cannot not handle alone.”

“You mean that?”

“I mean, mostly you. I think I’d be all right.”

“We tend to handle things ourselves here in Honduras. We’ll take care of Zipacna.”

Damian smiled. “Zippy. What was Simmons looking for?”

“Gold. The old fool wouldn’t listen when I told him there was none. There’s nothing in the ground here but bananas. Down here they call them yellow gold.”

“But, gold is yellow. So, what do they call gold?”

“Gold.”

“Clever.”

“Peter insisted there was gold here.”

“Are we still talking about bananas?”

“No.”

“I follow.”

Dalton’s head sunk. “I shouldn’t have let him go.”

Stockwell knew all too well the guilt Dalton was feeling. Even though he himself had written the rule, “The praise and prize of each member’s adventure is due to them alone. As is the risk they embrace,” into the Vagabond Club charter, he still wrestled with the idea of not helping a friend avoid peril.

“I’ve failed, Dam. I’ve failed my friends. I’ve failed my workers.” Dalton drew a heavy breath. “I’ve failed everyone. They would rather hide behind the face of a long dead god than follow me.”

Stockwell stood and put his hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “We’ll get them back.”

“No. They’ve already decided. There is no turning them back. Each man who wears the mask has become a soulless devil. I’ve been forced to have my men shoot the cultists on sight. I fear what would happen if their numbers grew. They could threaten the whole of Honduras.”

“Cole. There’s something you don’t know about the masks.”

The chatter of submachine fire sounded from above. There was a tremendous bang and the private car was tossed to one side. Stockwell was thrown from his feet. Bertrand fell from his chair. The snoring stopped.

17
All Aboard are Doomed

The private car felt as though it would tip off of the rails. Artwork fell from the walls. The plush chairs slid across the floor tearing the silk carpet as it went. All three men were thrown against the wall. The force of the impact was enough to wake Bertrand and render Cole Dalton unconscious.

Teetering for more than a few seconds, the car balanced at the point of weightlessness. It would take nothing to push it over. There it hung for a perilous moment before finally swaying back into place and dropping heavily on the rails. There was a deafening squeal as the wheels found their place on the tracks.

Bertrand rushed to the window and pulled back the curtain.

Stockwell, pinned by one of the chairs, kicked away the furniture and moved for the door at the rear of the car.

“There are many of them. All on horseback. And, they all have the masks. And they all have …”

Stockwell opened the door. Before he could step onto the transom, a bladed wooden shaft imbedded itself in the door.

“… spears.”

Stockwell ripped the shaft from the door and moved over to Bertrand. “Don’t be ignorant, Bertrand. That, my friend, is an atlantl.”

Bertrand rolled his eyes. “My apologies.”

Gunshots continued to ring out.

Stockwell held up that wooden weapon. “If they’re hurling these, it must be Dalton’s men that are doing the shooting.”

Bertrand peered out the window. “They do not carry guns.”

Stockwell dropped the atlantl shaft. “We must stop Dalton’s men from killing Dalton’s former other men.”

“But, they are attacking us.”

““These are innocent men, Bertrand. You know better than anyone that the mask has tremendous power over weak minds. These men are not attacking us. It’s the doing of their demonic evil overlord—Zippy.”

Bertrand shrugged.

“There’s no time to waste.” With this, Stockwell bent down and snapped the legs from an overturned table. He hoisted the tabletop and moved to the door. With one fluid movement, he opened the door and leapt across the transom to the next car. He landed with his shoulder in the door and knocked it from its hinges. He stood and examined the tabletop. Three atlantl shafts had penetrated deep into the varnished surface.

Stockwell tossed the tabletop back across the void to Bertrand who failed to catch it because of his bandaged hands. The valet shot Damian a cruel look in French.

While Bertrand struggled with picking things up, Stockwell turned his attention to the men in the car. There were two uniformed men. Each was armed with a rifle and both were firing on the train’s assailants. They shot with a cadence of trained soldiers.

“Cease fire!”

They did not cease firing.

He grabbed one of the men by the shoulder and pulled him back from the window. “I said stop shooting! The men out there are innocent.”

An atlantl shaft tore through the drapes and struck the other man in the shoulder. Blood erupted from the wound as he grabbed at the wooden shaft. He fell away from the window and the rifle clattered to the ground. He screamed in pain, the other soldier pulled away from Stockwell and resumed firing.

Damian pulled the man away from the window. “Son, you need …” Stockwell drew back as the rifle butt swung near his face. It passed so close under his nose that he could smell the oil on the weapon. The young security guard pointed the rifle at Damian.

“We have orders to shoot these crazies on sight. You have no idea the trouble they’ve caused.”

“But, son, they aren’t crazies, they’re just not in their right mind. They’re innocent men. You need to stop firing now.”

“I take my orders from Cole Dalton.”

“Cole Dalton is all knocked out.”

“Then his standing order stands and we will defend this train at any and all costs.”

“Okay then.” There was no warning. No signs were telegraphed, but in less than a second Stockwell held the rifle in his hand and the security was knocked out on the floor.

“I’m sorry, son. You’ve forced my hands.”

“Merde, merde, merde, merde.” Bertrand came crashing into the car with the tabletop. Several more wooden shafts had stuck into its surface.

Stockwell pulled one out, “Ah, see, Bertrand? This is a spear. You can tell because, unlike the atlantl, there’s no place for the sling.”

“They are all equally pointy.” Bertrand looked to the men on the ground. “What happened here?”

“They wouldn’t listen.”

“So you stabbed him?” Bertrand bent over to tend to the wounded man.

“No. Well, I guess this one, the knocked out one, didn’t listen. This fella just didn’t duck.”

Stockwell peered out the window. Bertrand had been right. There were nearly three dozen masked men on horseback charging toward the train. Each brandished a primitive weapon. These ranged from the atlantl and spears to daggers and cane knives.

“You’re right, Bertrand. There are many. And … are they naked?”

The men on horseback were bare-chested and bronze from the sun. Their muscles were taut from years of working on the plantation and each was barefoot. Damian watched for a moment and his repulsion faded when he spotted loincloths on the riders.

“Oh, thank goodness for that. I can’t stand fighting naked men.”

Bertrand placed both of his bandaged hands on the shaft and pulled it out of the man’s shoulder. There was a rush of blood, a scream of relief and a weak “thank you” before the man passed out. “He will be okay for now.”

Quick clomps of hurried unshod footsteps moved across the roof of the car. The two friends followed the sound from the rear of the car to the front.

Bertrand stood. “This is not a good thing.”

Stockwell pointed to the men on the ground. “These men won’t listen to reason, Bertrand. They’re too loyal to Dalton. And, they’re afraid. We’re going have to stop this ourselves.”

“Oui.”

“Now, we have masked men on the roof and security in the cars. I’ll take the security team, you take the half-naked natives up there.” Stockwell moved to the door. Bertrand stopped him.

“Wait.”

“What?”

“Why do you get the men in the cars and I have to face the half-naked ones?”

“You don’t like my plan?”

“Non.”

“Would you rather flip a coin?”

“Oui. We should flip a coin.”

Stockwell reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter. “Okay. If that’s what you want. You flip a coin.” He tossed the coin to the valet who tried desperately to catch it.

•••

Light gleamed off the silver coin as it bounced and bobbled between Bertrand’s bandaged hands. He stumbled around the car turning, twisting and chasing the airborne currency before he was finally able to catch it between his two gauze-covered palms. The valet laughed and looked to Stockwell.

He was gone. The door to the next car was open and Bertrand could see that Damian had already incapacitated the men. He was heading for the next door, making his way to the engine.

More footsteps sounded above him.

“Merde.”

The valet moved to a window opposite the attacking force and kicked out the glass pane. He leaned outside and found rail above him. Though it caused him great pain, he reached up and grabbed the rail. He pulled himself up and rolled onto the roof.

His hands bled through the bandages. It hurt to ball them into fists. It caused such pain that he wondered if all the glass shards had indeed been removed by Damian or his physician. The doctor had warned him that it would not take much to cause nerve damage to such badly cut hands and he should be vigilant to use them as little as possible.

Bertrand stood and looked around the roof. Several masked warriors surrounded him as two more pulled themselves to the top of the train.

The valet sighed and raised his battered hands. He did not ball them up. He could not use them to strike but he would need to for balance.

The first warrior charged. He moved in swiftly waving a vicious looking cane knife. The large flat blade caught all of the sun and caused it to glow.

Bertrand spun and swept wide with his leg and knocked the feet out from under the would-be killer. The masked man landed on his back. Bertrand kicked again and sent the warrior over the edge of the train. He knew that he needed to protect these men’s lives, but Stockwell had said nothing of broken limbs.

Before the others could charge, the Frenchman was back on his feet. He stood calmly and tried to peer through the soulless black eyes to see if the attacker really was a man in control of his own faculties. He could see nothing but the lifeless eyes.

Decades of practicing the game from Marseille enabled him to form the perfect savate stance even upon the moving train. As the car swayed back and forth, the Frenchman stood motionless awaiting the perfect moment to strike.

He did not have to wait long.

They all rushed him at once, each wielding a different weapon. Cane knives, rock hammers, machetes—all manner of tools flashed at him as he sprung into action. He was able to use his bandaged hands to deflect blows despite the pain that it caused him, but it was his legs that provided the offensive. Moving in conjunction with his hips, his right leg drove like a piston through the knee of the first masked man.

The attacker dropped instantly. The mask willed him to rise, but a shattered knee was a shattered knee and as the man tried to obey the command of the demon mask, he toppled over the side of the car.

Bertrand landed a second kick square on the chin of another attacker and dislodged the mask. It flew from the worker’s face and dissolved into a puff of green mist. Perhaps the man would have realized what had happened and joined the valet in the fight, but the kick struck the nerve cluster on his chin and dropped him to the ground unconscious.

Two more attackers rushed the valet. Quick footwork and a leg sweep sent both over the edge of the car. The final attacker slashed with a machete. Bertrand intercepted the blade with the reinforced sole of his shoe. Damian insisted he wore shoes appropriate for a valet, but Bertrand had seen to it that even his driving boots were prepared for a bout of savate. With the blade deflected, he delivered a final kick straight to the man’s jaw.

The masked warrior fell unconscious.

Bertrand could see that the mask had come dislodged, but it still rested on the man’s face. Green mist began to escape from the hideous mouth. On the flight, Stockwell had recounted the fight inside the statue and mentioned the disfigurement of the assassin. The Frenchman could not accept such a fate for his attacker. He stepped quickly to the fallen fighter and kicked the mask from his face moments before it dissolved.

The men defeated, Bertrand scanned the area. Behind him, the train was still pursued by men on horseback. Ahead, more masked killers stood on the top of the train cars making their way to the engine. The Frenchman sighed and leapt to the next train car.

•••

Stockwell dashed from car to car, silencing the rifles in each. He gave them each a moment to cease firing, but the men were loyal to their orders and none accepted his offer to “drop it or get kicked in the face.” Though he made short work of each man, he felt he would have to compliment Dalton on their training. It was the exception that a security force was so well trained. These men were some of the finest he had encountered. Despite this, they caused him little trouble as he took each down.

As he moved to each car, he heard the scuffle of battle above him on the roof keep pace. Occasionally he saw a body drop to the ground. Damian smiled. Though his hands were useless, his friend was still a fearsome opponent. The Frenchman’s footwork above beat a rhythm into the ceiling that could be felt below.

As Stockwell progressed, so did the tune of violence above him. At this rate, the pair should reach the engine at the same time.

Damian crashed through another door. The atlantl and spears had ceased. Stockwell assumed that the raiders had boarded the train or fallen behind. What he assumed was their attempt to derail the train had failed. Their only option was to seize the engine car and try to run it off the tracks.

He increased his pace and cleared two more cars of security guards as they fired into the roof at the footsteps they heard above. Every guard was the same. Local men, they were bronzed skin, dark haired and possessed brown eyes that grew wide as Stockwell apologized for beating them into submission. It all began to feel redundant until he reached the final car.

The guard was the size of a gorilla and stood almost to the height of the ceiling. He fired a .45 automatic into the roof.

“Cease fire. That’s my friend up there.”

“The Cult of Zipacna is on my train.”

“Bertrand will take care of them. He’s very … kicky.”

“Kicking is too good for these traitors.”

“Stop now or I’ll be forced to stop you.”

“Try it, little man.” The guard pulled another clip from his belt and moved to reload the .45.

Stockwell grabbed a plate setting from a nearby table and hurled it across the car. It landed true in between the gun and clip.

The guard grunted in frustration as he dropped the plate.

Damian crashed into the mountainous man with all of his fury and the guard toppled to the ground.

The large Honduran shoved Stockwell off of him with such force that the intrepid adventurer landed on his feet. The guard grabbed Damian’s ankle and pulled his feet from under him.

Stockwell rolled back into a defensive stance as the guard attacked.

It had been his experience that large men such as this did not strike with fists, they rarely kicked, they merely sought to grab and squeeze the life from their opponents. This man was no different.

Large hands grasped for his neck. Stockwell dropped beneath the grapple and struck the man above the groin and triggered a reflex in his diaphragm.

Air rushed from the large man’s lungs as he doubled over. Stockwell rolled onto his back and drove both feet into the man’s chin. The guard stumbled backwards on the brink of unconsciousness but did not succumb. His hands flailed for support as he fought for balance and found the edge of a table. A fierce tear later and the tabletop was in his hands. With a tremendous growl, the guard drove his own head through the solid wood and snapped it in two. He came at Stockwell with a splintered plank in each hand.

The air around the boards shrieked as it was torn by the flying wood. Damian was forced back as he ducked and dodged the makeshift cudgels. They drew closer with each pass and he was running out of room. As he scrambled, he felt blindly for anything that he could use as a weapon. There was nothing.

He rolled back as one of the boards came crashing down. His only hope was to get to the doorway. The frame would limit the strikes the guard could employ and give him a fighting chance.

Damian sprung to his feet and opened the door. There stood the somewhat groggy but awake Cole Dalton.

“Humberto, stop.”

The massive mauler ceased his attack at the order of his employer. He dropped the boards but did not move.

“Let him pass.”

Humberto grunted and stepped aside. Damian could explain the effects of the masks later. Dalton undoubtedly trusted his actions. Stockwell dashed past the guard. He had to protect the engine from the invaders.

He rushed into the tank engine. The engineer fired. A bullet ricocheted close to Damian’s head. He dropped into a crouch with his palms out.

“Lo siento.” The engineer lowered the gun.

Damian could tell the man was frightened. He nodded to accept the apology and spoke to him in his native Spanish. “It’s okay, my friend. I’m here to help.”

A look of relief crossed the man’s face for but a moment.

A hiss passed overhead and the engineer grabbed for his throat. He pulled a small barb from his neck, looked at it for a moment and fell to the ground.

Stockwell looked up through the open roof and saw the attacker. His mask was different than the others. In place of the hideous grimace, the lips of the mask were puckered as if to draw water from a stream. The figure above placed something in the lips and removed his hands.

Damian moved behind the bulkhead as another barb spit from the mask. It bounced harmlessly off the steel. He rolled for the engineer’s gun. As he drew to fire, a well-tailored boot wrapped around the mask’s face and struck the spitter into the engine bay.

Dalton and Humberto rushed through the doorway.

“Hold him, but do not remove his mask,” Stockwell yelled as he checked the pulse of the engineer.

Humberto grabbed the man by the throat and held him over the passing landscape. The masked man struggled against the firm grip.

“No! I need to examine that mask.”

Humberto could not hear or did not care. The man’s legs kicked as he struggled at the grip of the massive guard. Humberto was smiling.

“Dalton! Tell him to listen.”

Cole would trust him. The two had been through too much together.

Dalton nodded, “Humberto, set him down.”

The large Honduran was not happy but nodded his compliance.

There was a shrill whistle and Humberto screamed as a barb imbedded itself beneath his eye. He lost his grip and the masked man fell free from the train and to the ground below. Humberto pulled the barb from his eye. The massive Honduran stumbled. He reached out for support but could find none. He collapsed to the floor.

“Dam, what is going on here?”

“He’ll be okay. The darts are not fatal.”

“Why did you beat up all of my men?”

“Your workers are not traitors, Dalton. They are victims of …”

“Zipacna.”

“Zippy, right.”

“No.” Cole Dalton pushed passed Stockwell and pointed through the thick glass of the engine. There, ahead on the tracks, stood a massive figure draped in flowing robes and wearing a mask twice the size of the attackers. The figure did not move, but stood firm in front of the oncoming train. “Zipacna.”

Stockwell’s eyes narrowed and he breathed the maniac’s name. “Zippy?”

Dalton pushed Stockwell aside and grabbed the train’s throttle. He pushed it to its forward and the engine let out a blast of steam.

“What are you doing?” Stockwell grabbed for the lever.

“He must die.”

“No. We need him alive if we’re to save these men.” Damian reached for the brake.

Dalton pushed him back.

Damian reached in again.

His friend pulled a gun. “I’m sorry, Dam. He must be stopped.”

Together the two men had faced down the grim killer that was the Madman of Macau. As a team they had stopped the horrific Cannibals of Calcutta. And only their combined bravery had been enough to put a stop to the mystic killings of the Abomination of Albania. Never had he seen terror in his friend’s eyes. But, there it was. It was fear that had pulled the weapon, not his friend. It was fright that forced Dalton to open the train’s throttles.

“Dalton, don’t.”

“Stay back, Dam!”

Bertrand dropped from the roof of the car onto the gun in Dalton’s hand and knocked the man to the ground. The weapon discharged and shattered the engine’s windscreen. The Frenchman pinned Cole to the ground and Stockwell leapt for the brakes.

He pulled the lever back and let up on the throttle, but it was too late. The powerful steam engine was moving too fast.

Bertrand stood and looked through the window at the imposing figure of Zipacna. Dalton stood and screamed at the Mayan god as his locomotive barreled down upon him.

Stockwell watched in amazement. The engine was upon him and still the villainous Zippy made no move to clear the tracks. “He’s mad!”

Soon there was no time. Even if he had been the one standing in its path, Stockwell could not react fast enough to dodge the train. Zipacna was going to be run down and no force on Earth could stop it.

Then, the moment before impact, the large robed figure erupted in a cloud of green mist. His form disappeared in the cloud of emerald haze. The mist splashed against the front of the train and dispersed into the Honduran countryside.

The three men stared in silence, each not wanting to admit what they had seen. For a moment there was only the chug of the engine until Bertrand spoke.

“Mon dieu. That was creepy.”

18
A Worn Out Summer’s Evening

Whether he was ashamed of his actions or “sleepy” as he claimed, Dalton retired to his quarters immediately upon their arrival at the plantation. Stockwell wished to speak with his friend further but had learned when to give the man his space.

The fear he had seen in Dalton’s eyes worried him. Together they had faced horrors unknown until the point they were known. In their experience together they had discovered that no matter how supernatural occurrences seemed, in the end the events exposed a rational explanation. Whether Dalton had forgotten this or if he had let his perceived failure cloud his judgment was not clear. Few men were as loyal as Cole Dalton and seeing his workers succumb to the “supernatural” could have had devastating effects on his psyche.

Stockwell swatted at a mosquito that had made the poor decision to land on his neck. This is when it occurred to him that the environment could have played a part in Dalton’s collapse. It was miserable in the jungle and he had been here for far too long. He had worked hard to build his business and probably needed a vacation.

Once this mystery was solved and Simmons was rescued, he would see to it that Dalton returned to the States for a well-deserved and much less humid rest.

Humberto had recovered from the poisoned barb. As Stockwell had suspected, the poison was not lethal but merely induced a temporary paralysis in its victim. The engineer, a much smaller man than the monstrous security guard, was awake but still groggy from its effects. The large Honduran had simply recovered angrier than before and had been tasked with showing Stockwell and Bertrand to their quarters.

The main plantation home looked as if it belonged in the American South more so than Central America. White columns supported the roof over a large porch that surrounded the palatial home. The large estate held both the working offices of the All-American Banana Company and the executive’s residence.

Dalton’s quarters occupied the entire third floor of the mansion. Damian and Bertrand were shown to separate rooms on the west wing of the second floor.

Stockwell’s mind was flush with questions from the day’s events and he needed someone with which to volley theories. After seeing to his luggage, he crossed the hall to Bertrand’s quarters. The Frenchman had passed out on the bed, having barely crawled inside the mosquito netting. He still wore his clothes.

“That’s just sloppy, Bertrand.”

Still, his loyal companion could have been on to something. Rest was a weapon in the fight against both evil and weariness. Though he had slept on the Dahlia, fighting a well-trained security force had worn him out as well. Now, having seen the full force of the enemy, he knew he would need every advantage to emerge victorious in this particular skirmish against the forces of evil.

“Sleep well, my friend. You’ve earned your rest for the day.”

The Frenchman did not stir.

Stockwell looked at his friend. Blood soaked his bandaged hands and threatened to stain the white linen sheets. Damian sighed and moved to the luggage. Bertrand always carried a doctor’s satchel wherever they traveled. Stockwell found it and removed several rolls of fresh gauze and a bottle of iodine.

“What would you do without me to take care of you, Bertrand?”

Damian pulled back the mosquito netting and rolled his friend over to tend to his wounds. Bertrand’s eyes were still open.

“Bertrand?” At first Stockwell thought the valet was playing him. He half expected a smile to emerge. But there was no alertness in the valet’s eyes. Stockwell snapped his fingers several times and received no response. He slapped the man several times across the cheek. Still only a vacant stare gazed back at him. That’s when he saw the tiny barb sticking from the Frenchman’s neck. He pulled it free and examined it. Bertrand had not passed out like some goldbrick, he had been drugged.

Damian trained his senses as much as his impressive muscles and now they served him well. In the dark beyond the open window was a masked figure with terribly pouty lips. The dark wood of the mask blended into the shadows and did not move. Had it been anyone else, the figure would have gone unnoticed.

“You coward!” Stockwell’s booming voice did not shake the man in the window. Instead, the hideous face leaned in closer and blew. There was a pffft and a thwip.

Stockwell intercepted the barb with Bertrand’s hand.

The mask blew several more times unleashing a slew of poisoned needles into the air from the blowgun integrated in its face.

Stockwell was a blur of motion as he swung Bertrand’s hands. He intercepted each dart and dropped the valet’s limp limbs.

The mask was out of ammo and the figure faded into the darkness of the night.

“Not so fast, perpetrator!” Damian leapt across the bed and scrambled for the window. He became momentarily entangled in the mosquito netting and hopped a few steps to shake it free from his leg.

The sheer fabric would not release its hold.

Stockwell so loved justice that even this mere hindrance drove him into a rage. He kicked his leg violently left and right in the hopes to shake free from the net’s hold, but its grip was too entwined.

Damian screamed and gave a mighty tug. The fabric ripped at the bed post and the grand adventurer was free again. He rushed to the window and peered into the darkness.

There was no moon this night and the multitude of stars did little to light the ground below him. Still, he leapt. He soared from the second story window with the netting trailing behind him. Landing with a roll, he absorbed the force of the fall and converted it to forward momentum. His feet beat craters into the fertile soil as he dashed across the manicured grounds of the plantation home. His eyes were open for the slightest movement. His ears were attuned to the faintest sound. There was a large crash directly ahead of him as the masked man charged into the jungle.

Stockwell crashed after him. The jungle canopy blocked out even the faint starlight and he was forced to rely on his hearing to continue the pursuit. Bare feet against harsh ground made a distinctive sound. He focused only on this and blocked out the sounds of the insects, the movement of the animals in the treetops and a ripping sound that he couldn’t quite identify.

The footsteps were getting fainter. The blow-gunman was increasing his lead. The mask’s effect on the man’s nervous system had once again put Stockwell at a disadvantage. For a moment the sounds of feet against bare earth and foliage turned to that of someone running on gravel. Then they disappeared. Stockwell charged on, instinctively swatting branches and vines from his path until he could no longer hear anything.

He stopped and stared into the darkness while straining to hear any sound made by man. There was a distant crash and Stockwell dashed towards it. To his surprise, he emerged in a clearing. Before it could register, he had also tripped on a railroad tie.

The massive man of good fell to the ground on a set of railroad tracks. His befuddlement lasted only a moment as he realized how close he had come to becoming his own downfall. He had caught his fall with his right arm and almost landed on his fist. The same right fist that held the poisoned barb. It had been a mere inch from puncturing his chest.

He rose to his feet and stood silent and still. There was no sound around him. He had lost the masked man. It enraged him that he had no one to blame but himself, but Bertrand was still unconscious on the bed. Once resigned to this fact, he examined the rail line. They had not been in place long, the rails still shone free of rust. They were too narrow a gauge for a passenger or freight train. This track had been laid for a special purpose. He intended to discover it. Tracks always led somewhere and he hoped that these would lead him to another clue in Simmons’s disappearance and the origin of the horrid masks.

19
Train Tracks Bound for Nowhere

The tracks were level and the ground beneath them packed well. This was no amateur setup. Stockwell moved down the line stepping from trestle to trestle, always aware of the sounds around him. At any moment the masked man could reemerge with a new face full of poisoned darts.

His gait and demeanor, however, were purposefully set to draw the man out of hiding. To the casual observer, Stockwell appeared to be a pre-teen strolling the tracks for lack of something better to do. Occasionally, he walked the rail itself foot-before-foot acting as if his balance was in jeopardy.

After twenty minutes, the bait was taken. Stockwell was skipping a trestle with each step when he heard the noise behind him. The footfall itself made no sound. It was a slight shift in the gravel that caught his attention. Stockwell pivoted and sprung his own trap.

“Aha.”

There was a deafening roar.

“OhGodbigcat!”

The jaguar, black from head to toe, leapt. The slight moonlight shimmered off the pitch black fur like strands of silk drifting through the air. Its claws were extended; its teeth bared.

The two-hundred-pound beast crashed into him and the two collapsed to the ground with Stockwell underneath. He looked into the jaws of the creature as it roared its intent. The beast’s face was so close to his own that he could smell the rotting flesh of an earlier kill.

Damian grabbed the predator by the neck and rolled. The pair moved across the tracks and broke apart. The distance was not enough. The jaguar’s ability to leap outshone his own. There was no tree Stockwell could climb that would provide a sanctuary from the fierce predator. The trees were its hunting ground as much as the jungle floor.

The two circled each other, staring into one another’s eyes seeking an opening. Damian could see the arrogance in the cat’s eyes. It had always sat atop the food chain and feared nothing. As Stockwell studied the cat’s movements trying to anticipate the attack, the beast merely looked at him as dinner.

Damian crouched low. Conventional wisdom said that one should try to look as large as possible to frighten the creature into a retreat. But, this creature did not know fear. There was nothing in the jungle that could be considered a threat to this savage apex predator. There would be no scaring this beast.

Stockwell was ready to protect his head. The jaguar had a disturbingly unique attack amongst big cats—it would often forgo the victim’s neck, skipping the jugular and opting instead to pierce its victim’s skull with its large, sharp fangs.

The cat roared, possibly hoping for a reaction from its prey. Stockwell kept his stance. He did not flinch.

The cat sprung. Coiled muscles launched the six-foot beast through the humid night air and the cat landed upon Damian, dragging them both to the gravel bed of the tracks.

The jaguar went for its killing strike and bit for Stockwell’s head.

Damian brought up his hand and shoved it deep into the hunter’s mouth.

The cat let out a startled chirp and backed away from its prey.

Its face stretched. Its mouth opened and shut rapidly as if it was trying to speak. It coughed several times, let out a yelp and fell over onto the railroad track.

Stockwell rose to his feet and approached the fallen beast. He reached down and scratched behind its ears. “Good kitty.” Damian crouched and reached back into the cat’s mouth. He pulled out the barb and tossed it into the jungle. He hefted the cat onto his shoulder and stepped off the tracks.

A rare black jaguar pelt would be quite the trophy for most men, but Stockwell respected everything in this world that tried to kill him. He couldn’t leave the cat on the tracks for fear it did not wake before the next car passed. He found a tree nearby and set the jaguar in the crotch of two branches. The big cat would rest peacefully and awaken confused, possibly hungry, but unharmed.

The cat’s presence had done two things. One, it had startled him, and two, it had confirmed that the masked warrior was not close. Had two men been in the area, the cat would have remained hidden.

Stockwell quickened his pace. There was no telling how deep the rail line went into the jungle. The sooner he found the source, the sooner he could get out from among the bugs.

He jogged at a brisk pace for more than an hour before he wondered if he had chosen the wrong direction. He stopped for a moment and sat on the rail, the cool steel was a welcomed sensation and he lay down to place his face against it. He hated the sweltering heat of the jungle.

A moment later he placed his hand on the rail. It was faint, but there was a vibration on the track. He placed his ear to the tie. There was definitely something approaching. Whatever was causing it was either very distant or much smaller than a train. A moment later Damian had his answer.

The exhaust of a v-twin engine drifted around a bend in the track. Damian stepped off of the rail line and ducked into the jungle. The bugs instantly set upon him. He slapped at each carefully enough to kill the offending insect but not make contact with his skin and give away his position.

For the first time since setting out, the jungle around him was illuminated. A small headlamp on the vehicle made shadows dance but could not penetrate deep into the foliage. The vehicle was a motorcycle that had been converted to ride on the tracks. Stripped of its tires, the rims connected directly to the rail. Jutting from the side of the bike, an arm extended to the far rail to provide balance.

It moved quickly around the corner. The rider was hunched over the handlebars to increase his speed. As he passed, Stockwell could see the mask on his face. The bike moved out of sight and was soon out of earshot as well. Damian stepped back onto the track.

“Brilliant. That explains how they get around so fast.”

Stockwell resumed his jog. The track went unchanged for another mile. There he found a spur line that ran off into the darkness. He could only guess where it led.

He increased his pace. How long had he been following the tracks now? The sun was beginning to make its presence known. The blackness of the jungle changed into several shades of blackness. He was miles from the plantation and with no end in sight.

Around the next bend, the end came into sight. Stockwell stopped and muttered, “Well, that’s not what I expected at all.”

The sun rose behind an ancient Mayan temple. Little of the structure was visible as nature had seen fit to reclaim the pyramid with thick vines and invasive roots. The outline of the pyramid could barely be distinguished from the rainforest beyond. Stockwell had visited many pre-Columbian sites and his trained eye estimated the size of the construction. He had never seen a temple on this scale. The interior chambers could hold untold treasures had it remained undisturbed, but an opening at its base proved that he was not the first to discover the site. The vines had been cleared and the rail line ran inside.

Stockwell stepped off the tracks and approached the entrance with caution. There were no guards visible but the jungle hid many secrets. He found cover and observed the temple for several minutes before moving in.

The interior of the temple was a mix of the old world and the new. The chamber was lit with incandescent bulbs powered by a generator that hummed in the center of the room. Intricate carvings lined the stone walls and depicted stories that had been lost to antiquity. Though he was unfamiliar with Mayan symbols, Stockwell quickly recognized the temple’s central theme.

“So this is your place, Zippy.”

At the center of each carving was one figure—Zipacna. Each wall told a tale. The rear wall depicted two groups of people. On the right, the masses offered tribute. On the left they placed nothing before the god. The wall to the right showed the bounty for the faithful as Zipacna opened the earth and poured riches upon them. The wall to the left showed the penalty for insolence. The ground had opened up beneath them and people screamed as they were swallowed by the earth.

“You’re quite the pill, Zippy.”

The ancient carvings stood in stark contrast to the rest of the chamber’s contents. Several more of the converted cycles were lined up against the wall. Power cables ran across the floor and down a hallway. Lights were placed every twenty feet, and, still, Damian could not see the end of the hallway from the chamber—it ran too far and too deep.

Stockwell turned to the carving of Zipacna. “Mind if I show myself around?”

He crept down the hallway. The grade was steep and declined two to three feet for every ten in length. The floor was ancient stone and he walked softly to keep his footsteps silent. The noise would carry forever inside the temple and he was not yet ready to make his presence known.

After a hundred feet, the path turned right. Stockwell continued on for another seventy-five yards before the tunnel wound left. Fifty feet later, the stone floor turned to earth. The stone walls turned to shoring timbers. The tunnel wound twice more. A sudden hiss stopped him. It came from the tunnel ahead. It sounded like a burst of steam. A crash followed. A few moments later he heard the sound of toil.

He reached the end of the tunnel and it all became clear. The temple was an adit. Zipacna was the Mayan earth god and his temple led to this—the tunnel opened up to a massive cavern filled with masked workers digging for gold.

No less than five dozen stood in a pit. Without a sound they bent over and picked up nuggets from a pile on the ground. They placed the precious metal on a conveyor belt which ran further into the cavern. As Stockwell watched, he wondered how the gold was torn from the earth. None of the men held picks. There were no drills or jackhammers evident. The mine was eerily silent.

The men finished scrounging the floor of the cavern and all but one climbed from the pit. The remaining worker approached the wall holding what looked like a flamethrower, but the tanks on his back were larger than any model Stockwell had seen. They were massive and he doubted that any man could hoist them if not under the influence of the mask.

The worker aimed at the cavern wall and released a stream of green fluid. Damian recognized it as the same substance discharged from the assassin’s weapon. The stream spread across the wall and instantly began to hiss. Before his eyes, the acid ate away the rock and earth.

The worker ceased firing. The wall continued to hiss and decay. The liquid turned to a green mist and drafted towards the roof of the cavern. Where rock had been, gold dust fluttered to the ground like snowflakes. Larger nuggets dropped from the wall and the workers moved back into the pit to collect the gold.

This impossible chemical was a breakthrough in science. Stockwell mused that it would be worth more on the market than the gold that was being pulled from the mine. Whoever was behind this insidious plot had obviously lost all sense. Throughout history gold fever had driven many mad and the brilliant mastermind of the horrific masks was no different.

The mining was not concentrated in a single pit. The operation was enormous. Wooden gangplanks and scaffolding littered the massive cavern. Teams of masked men worked together to spray the acid and collect the gold. Others still were set to various tasks.

Some pushed ore carts. Others constructed more scaffolding from rope and timber. In the center of it all a group of men mixed chemicals into a large vat that boiled with an eerie green glow. Each man was focused solely on his job—the masks demanded it. This focus served Damian and enabled him to move about the cavern without much scrutiny.

He kept to the shadows of the walls and explored the workings of the cavern.

He passed a series of men sorting through the rubble on the conveyor belt. They tossed out any rock that had not been dissolved by the acid wash and left only gold running down the belts to awaiting ore carts. Another group constructed more masks that would in turn possess new victims and turn them to slaves. He moved closer to the assembly area and observed.

As he suspected, the masks were not solid. Each was hollow, the face merely a veneer of an element he could not place. When the pieces were assembled, the workers attached a small hose fed by another tank of acid. When the worker released the hose, there was a small pfft that told Damian the contents were pressurized. Once filled, the mask was turned over. A separate worker approached with a mass of wires soldered to a small board. It was set into the back of the mask and bolted in.

The magic had been revealed. It was science after all. Once several masks were assembled, another slave loaded them in a tray and left the area.

Stockwell followed this man to a darkened corner of the cave. The masked laborer disappeared into a redoubt. For the first time since entering the temple, Stockwell heard a human’s voice. It was weak and raspy. It was barely human at all.

“You coward. You can’t …”

There was silence. A minute passed before he heard the voice again.

“You can fight this. You can ….”

Silence once more.

Stockwell entered the tunnel. Back in the shadows he could see a masked man tied to the cave wall. He hung limp at first but suddenly sprang to life when the mask was removed. He began to plea.

“Please. Fight the …”

The worker placed another mask on the prisoner.

The shackled man fell silent once more. The worker removed the mask and reached for another. He was testing the effectiveness of each.

The prisoner became conscious once more. This time he lunged forward to the length of his shackles and growled at the man.

Stockwell charged in. The man on the wall was his friend, Peter Simmons.

20
Met Up with a Mayan

Quality assurance was the worker’s only task and, aside from falling to the ground unconscious, he did not react when Damian kicked him in the head.

Stockwell grabbed one of the new masks and pulled a knife from his pocket. He flipped open the blade and punched a hole in the mask’s veneer. The gas sprayed instantly and he pointed the puncture at the chains that held his friend to the wall.

The thick-gauged links snapped without a sound and Simmons fell to the floor of the cave. Stockwell grabbed his friend and helped him to his feet. Simmons rose but was otherwise unresponsive.

“Simmons?” Stockwell slapped his friend’s face.

“Get away. Get away. Fight it. Fight it.” Simmons babbled to himself and slumped to the ground.

“Simmons, it’s me. Dam.” He tapped the man’s cheek. “Simmons?” Repeated exposure to the mask’s hypnotic effect had taken its toll on the man. Simmons was awake but hardly alert. His eyes were open but they did not focus. “Let’s get you out of here, old friend.”

Damian lifted Simmons from the ground and draped the man’s arm over his neck. He checked the man’s feet. Simmons supported his own weight but was still unaware of his surroundings.

“Fight it. Fight it!” Simmons began to scream. His madness would make sneaking out more difficult than it had been sneaking in. Stockwell looked up and saw what Simmons was shouting at.

The entrance to the tunnel was choked with masked workers. They were no longer occupied by their errands. Each looked at him with soulless black eyes but did not move. Their sheer numbers made moving from the tunnel impossible. Stockwell was trapped.

“You men can fight this. It’s not you. I know it’s not you. The mask you wear has not robbed you of free will, only buried it deep in lies and science. If each of you look deep inside, you can find that spark that will overtake its power. You can be free men.”

There was no response. They only stared and stood as human roadblocks between Stockwell and freedom.

“I’m warning you men to move.”

Without a sound, the center of the tunnel emptied. Workers filed with drill like precision to the side of the cavern walls and formed a pathway of creepy stares. Stockwell was used to being obeyed but even he had to admit that he was surprised that the men listened. He shrugged his shoulders, assumed it was his commanding presence that had moved the men and helped Simmons down the pathway.

“No!” Simmons cried out, his knees buckled and he fell to the ground.

“Simmons, this really isn’t helpful. I know I didn’t tell you but I ran a long way to get here. I fought a cat. I could really use some help.”

Simmons scrambled back on all fours into the cave.

Stockwell turned and found himself staring into a cloaked chest. He looked up at the hideous face; it was the same as on the temple walls.

Stockwell nodded. “Zippy.”

The large figured loomed over the mighty adventurer. For a long moment he was silent. Then a raspy voice, low and powerful, emanated from the mask.

“These men are not free. They obey my will, not yours.”

“And who are you to enslave these men?”

“I am Zipacna, lord of the Earth’s crusts. I have dominion over the crops, the wells and the riches you see here. And I will soon have dominion over you, the mighty Damian Stockwell.”

Damian smiled, “Oh, you’ve heard of me. I must say I’m a little shocked since I don’t hang out in the Earth’s crust much these days. I’m really more of a surface man myself.”

“Silence, mortal.”

Mortal? “Hey.”

Zipacna turned and walked slowly out of the tunnel. “Bring them.”

The workers flooded in and the tunnel closed once more. Stockwell raised his fists and grit his teeth. He charged into the throng of bodies.

They closed in on him. He landed only one strike before he found his arms pinned. No one had restrained him, but the crowd was so thick that he could not move. He struggled to free himself but the mass of people had swallowed him. His arms were pinned to his side. His feet were lifted from the ground. Even his chest was constricted and he found himself struggling to breathe.

Each worker stunk of months in the mines. Perspiration dripped from their bodies and mixed with the filth that had accumulated from their labors. Stockwell was repulsed by it all. He hadn’t had this much gritty, sweaty flesh pressed against him since he had faced the Sadistic Sumo of the Sudan.

The crowd moved and carried him with them. He quickly realized it would be a waste of energy to struggle against the mob. He would need to bide his time. Damian stopped struggling and began biding.

Behind him, Simmons struggled and screamed. What horrors this man must have been exposed to in his time in the cave. To have one’s mind taken repeatedly from one’s own control was sure to drive one mad. Then, to throw him into a group of sweaty half-naked men … the mind could only take so much.

Like the digestive tract of a snake, they passed the pair to the front of the mob. Stockwell and Simmons were dropped next to each other at the feet of Zipacna. Stockwell stood. Simmons collapsed.

“Your friend knows his place. Kneel before me.”

“I don’t do the whole kneeling thing.”

Zipacna wheezed. The sound was weak behind the mask but it sounded like a panting. Stockwell soon realized it to be laughter.

“I think the air in here might be getting to you, Zippy. You may need to see a good ear, nose and throat guy.”

The Mayan god stepped closer. Stockwell’s impressive stature did not even rise to shoulder height on the massive figure. Zipacna continued to laugh. “I’ve always enjoyed this American arrogance.”

It was Stockwell’s turn to chuckle. “Watch what you say about America, pal. This arrogance is pure Stockwell.”

“Ah, yes. The mighty Stockwell. Even your mind will break. Look around you. All of these men believed they possessed free will. Each thought they alone could control their actions. But they, like you, are feeble-minded simpletons. Free will is nothing compared to the power of a god.”

“God, schmod. I saw your science. You’re no deity. You’re just a man in a mask, like everyone else here.”

Zipacna leaned in closer. For the first time Stockwell could see the details of the hideous mask. He looked close at the glassy eyes and the gnarled teeth. It sat upon a flowing cape that closed tight around Zipacna’s chest. A large gold hasp kept the cloak around his impossibly wide shoulders.

“I am their god. Their minds belong to me. I control these men and soon there will be many more. By now, all of the workers at the plantation are under my control.”

“You fiend. Only a coward would feed his need for power by stealing freedom.”

“Freedom is a weak ideal.”

“Freedom is the most powerful force on earth.”

“In a moment you’ll no longer believe that. You won’t believe anything. I will do your thinking for you.”

“Not me, Zippy.” Stockwell tapped his head. “Nobody gets up here but me.”

“Yes, the mighty mind of Stockwell. They say it’s unbreakable. Well, I have carved a special mask just for you.” Zipacna reached into his cloak and pulled out a mask. It was different than the rest. It was silly looking. The fierce look was replaced with bulging eyes that pointed in two different directions. The cheeks were plump. The chin wasn’t cleft and the tongue hung down one side of a goofy grin.

“I’d look like a fool in that thing.”

“Precisely.”

Zipacna leaned in and turned the mask towards Damian.

There was a scream and Zipacna’s attention was drawn to the cavern entrance.

A masked worker tumbled from the tunnel and into the mine.

Stockwell smiled. “Way to go, Bertrand.”

Bertrand ran into the cavern and charged towards the crowd.

Zipacna waved his hand, “Stop him.”

Half of the mob responded without a sound and rushed to end the Frenchman’s assault. The other half closed in around Stockwell and Simmons to prevent an escape.

Bertrand’s feet caused the wooden walkways to shake as he ran from platform to platform. The first worker to reach him received a boot to the face. The second, a knee. The Frenchman’s feet were deadly but they did little to deter the brainwashed mass of workers that was soon upon him.

Bertrand tried to climb a scaffold to escape the mob but could not get a grip without his hands. Several surrounded him at the base of the structure. They came at him.

French feet and knees flew as the valet ducked in and out of the timber scaffold. Between each strike he pulled his hands to his mouth. Gnashing with his teeth, he tore the end of each bandage free.

With every spin kick and forearm block, the bandages unraveled. As he delivered the brutal strikes, his hands became free. The bloody gauze twirled around him as he spun and countered attacks. Before long they spiraled around him like the ribbon of a gymnast’s floor exercise, but much less lame. He used these, too, as a weapon to distract and confuse the miners and his would be killers.

Once able to ball his fists, he became unstoppable. Foot and fist combinations shattered masks, upended workers and brought pain to the face of men that had felt nothing for months. He leapt into the scaffolding and used the complex supports to dodge and destroy his attackers.

Stockwell struggled to join him, but the sweaty mob held the mighty adventurer in place. All he could do was watch Bertrand as the Frenchman climbed to the top of the scaffold.

The mob followed. Masked killers climbed the structure while others at the base began to shake the structure.

Bertrand gave Stockwell a quick glance and drew Damian’s gun from the sheath on his back.

“Well, Zippy,” Stockwell said calmly.

Zipacna turned to Stockwell.

Stockwell smiled. “This is where we say good-bye.”

Bertrand pulled the trigger. The massive .357 barked louder than ever before. The report bounced off the cavern walls and found only other walls. The mining process had created multiple echo chambers and the gunshot found each one of them before bouncing back to the center again. The rock surface multiplied the blast into a deafening roar.

The intensity of the sound was unreal. The masked men reached for their ears and fell to the ground.

Stockwell lunged forward and punched Zipacna in the chest directly below the golden hasp. His fist connected with a man’s jaw beneath the robes. Zipacna collapsed to the ground.

“Ha. I knew your face was there. I knew it.”

The report faded and the workers began to rise. They placed themselves between Stockwell and their deity. Zipacna fled.

Bertrand fired a second shot into the air and the mob dropped again.

“Let’s go, Simmons.” Stockwell helped his friend to his feet and the two rushed through the fallen crowd, not necessarily trying their best to avoid stepping on hands or kicking random miners.

It wasn’t long before the workers tried to stand and Bertrand was forced to fire again.

The Frenchman made his way down the scaffold and met the pair at its base. He had been forced to fire three more shots to cover their escape.

“It’s good to see you, Bertrand. But how did you find me?”

From his pocket, Bertrand produced a torn piece of sheer white fabric. “I don’t know what that is. Is it a French thing?”

“It is mosquito netting.”

Stockwell smiled. “Nice work, my friend. Now we’ve got to get back to the plantation. If Zippy was telling the truth, we have to save a lot of people.”

Bertrand unslung the sheath from his back and handed the weapon to Stockwell. “You should tell your friend it’s too loud.”

Stockwell smirked and took the weapon. The two friends ran up the tunnel with Simmons between them. They moved into the chamber as the mob behind them began to rise.

21
Know When to Run

Stockwell burst into the temple alcove and tackled the masked guard to the ground before the sentry could turn around. The guard’s face struck the carvings on the wall and the mask cracked in two. Damian pulled the worker back from the mist before it could corrode his face.

Another guard stepped behind the mighty adventurer and locked a wiry arm under the blond titan’s neck.

Damian grabbed the wrist and tried to pull it free, but the science of the mask, and years climbing banana trees, had given the man tremendous strength. Stockwell stepped back and rolled the worker over his shoulder using one of the many Judo moves he had incorporated into Damitsu. The worker fell to the ground. Stockwell kicked him in the head until he was unconscious, using one of the dirtier moves he had incorporated into Damitsu.

Bertrand emerged from the tunnel with Simmons hanging from one shoulder. Stockwell rushed by them, searching for a way to seal the tunnel entrance. He could hear the mob of masked madmen moving up the grade toward them. There was nothing: no lever to pull, no pile of rubble to collapse, no door to close. There was only a wide open space and hundreds of brainwashed warriors scientifically infused with bloodlust. “He keeps a clean cave, that Zippy.”

“Monsieur, what should I do with him?” Blood ran down Bertrand’s hands and forearms. Every stitch must have broken during the melee in the cavern and the trailing bandages were doing nothing to ebb the flow of blood or protect the wounds from infection.

Stockwell glanced around the antechamber. Modified motorcycles and ore carts lined the walls. Each bike was like the one that had passed him in the night—stripped of its tires and custom fitted with a support bar for the second rail. In the light of the day, he could also see a hitch on the back of each bike. Damian grabbed an ore cart and rolled it towards Bertrand, “Put him in there.”

The valet dropped Simmons in the cart and rushed to the tunnel entrance. The Frenchman began to bounce back and forth on the balls of his feet—readying himself for the fight ahead. “They are coming, Monsieur.”

Stockwell lifted a motorcycle and placed it on the rail in front of the cart. Simmons was conscious but hardly alert. He muttered pleas as if he were still shackled to the wall. Stockwell kicked a latch on the cart. It fell into place and attached the ore cart to the cycle at the hitch. He kick-started the engine. “On the bike, Bertrand.”

The valet leapt onto the bike and engaged the clutch.

“Just keep the throttle open and the bike on the rails. You’ve got to get Simmons to safety.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve got to get back to the plantation. Zippy sent a bunch of his men to capture everyone there. If he masks those soldiers, he’ll have an army of trained killers under his command.”

“How will I get …”

“Trust me, old friend. Just go. I’m right behind you.”

Bertrand released the clutch and the motorcycle’s rim spun on the rail. Sparks flew before the rim took hold and launched the bike down the track with the ore cart and Simmons in tow.

Damian could hear the mob nearing the antechamber. They would be on him in seconds. He dashed to the line of motorcycles, leapt into the air and brought his boot down on the muffler. The light metal buckled and he kicked at it several more times to shear the equipment from the exhaust line.

The mob burst into the antechamber. Arms grabbed for him.

Stockwell kicked the engine to life and cranked the throttle. Unmuffled, the small engine filled the room with a tinny bass that sent the mob reaching for their ears. He dropped the bike on its side and hoped the weight of the vehicle would keep the grip twisted and throttle wide open.

Damian grabbed a third bike and rolled it onto the rail. Hands were upon him when he gunned the engine and shot down the track after Bertrand.

The design of the vehicle was stupidly ingenious. The rims sat the motorcycle firmly on the rail and the outrigger kept it balanced. Speed was its only limitation. To the right, Stockwell could lean into the turns as the outrigger lifted into the air. But, to the left, he was forced to slow and turn with the handlebars as the outrigger fought against him. For the purposes of discretely moving illicit gold mined by brainwashed slave labor, this was fine, but it made the bike impractical as a getaway vehicle.

He risked a glance behind him on each straight stretch of track. It had not taken the mob long to overcome the sound of the muffler. There were several motorcycles behind him. Each had a single rider and another man standing on the outrigger.

Stockwell smirked; they wouldn’t be able to catch him. Twice the riders placed twice the burden on the small engines. As a single rider, he would be able to outrun them indefinitely. He rounded a bend in the track. “Dammit, Bertrand.”

The whine of the engine told Stockwell that the cycle ahead of him was at full throttle, but with Simmons in tow and the ore cart forcing the Frenchman to steer with only the handlebars, the vehicle was moving too slow. Damian caught up quickly.

“Move.”

Bertrand threw a vicious glance over his shoulder. “It is doing all the moving it can do! It is a stupid machine.”

Stockwell looked back over his shoulder. The masked men were gaining.

“Bertrand, is there anything you can do?”

“I could leave you and your friend here.”

It wasn’t like his friend to get all testy. “Take it easy, Bertrand.”

“Take it easy? I am brainwashed. You beat me up. We are dragged down here. We are shot at with spears and beat up. Then I walk a really long way in the jungle to save you and more people beat us up. We finally get to run and it is on this stupid thing. It is hot. I am sweaty and my hands hurt.”

Stockwell shook his head and eased up on the gas. He fell closer to the pursuers but further from the whining. He looked around. Normally, he had an instinctive sense of location but the total darkness of the night before had robbed him of any landmarks. He didn’t know where he was on the tracks. It all looked the same—trees, rails and vines.

Still, he thought, the spur line he had spotted couldn’t be too far away. At first he thought it led to salvation for Simmons. Now he just wanted to get away from the whiny Frenchman.

It appeared suddenly. The spur line ran to the left and was swallowed by the jungle almost instantly. The junction switch, all but invisible the night before, was mounted at the crotch of the spur.

Damian stood and drew the massive Smith & Wesson. By his count, there were still three rounds remaining in its oversized cylinder. He took aim over the valet’s head. Bertrand was still complaining and couldn’t hear Stockwell’s warning to duck.

The first shot boomed and struck the junction switch just before Bertrand reached the spur. The bike veered suddenly to the left and almost tossed the Frenchman into the jungle. He recovered quickly and continued to complain.

Stockwell fired again and set the track back in place just as his own vehicle hit the spur. With the Frenchman out of the way, he could speed up again and make haste to the plantation. He placed the weapon back in the sling and risked a glance to check the status of his pursuers.

It had been his experience that, almost 100% of the time, whenever a man was soaring through the air towards you with a cane knife, that the man would be screaming. It was always unnerving, but served as a nice warning should a man be flying at you with a cane knife. This masked warrior did not scream, but, still, he soared through the air wielding a cane knife.

The mob had caught up and the warrior leapt from the outrigger of the pursuer’s bike onto Stockwell’s. Though the man was silent, the knife whistled as it cut through the air. It was enough for Damian’s reflexes to take over.

Damian pulled his hand from the throttle and caught the warrior’s wrist. The blade stopped just above the bridge of his nose. The strength of the masked man was tremendous. Stockwell felt his massive muscles quiver as he fought to keep the large, flat blade out of his head. It moved closer.

The sudden lack of throttle caused the bike to slow dramatically. The masked rider rammed into him from behind. The rims meshed and twisted together. Stockwell’s rear wheel lifted from the track, threw the weight of the knife-wielding attacker forward over the gas tank and forced Damian to let go of the handlebars.

Behind him, the front wheel lifted from the track and slammed back to the ground. It missed the rail, dug into the ground between the spurs and sent the bike flying end over end into the jungle.

Stockwell’s bike pitched to the right, the outrigger rose into the air as the extra weight of the masked man slumped over his gas tank threatened to spill them from the tracks. Damian stood and threw the bike to the left. The outrigger sparked as it slammed back onto the rail.

The momentum carried the warrior back into the armature and Stockwell grabbed the handlebars.

Unfazed, the masked man swung the cane knife at Stockwell’s leg.

Damian leapt as the blade arced toward him. His powerful legs carried him from the seat of the bike and into the air—his grip ever firm on the handlebars, his body peaked parallel to the ground. For a moment it felt as if he was flying.

The blade sunk deep into the leather seat as Stockwell brought his feet back down, first on the hand that held the knife and then on the chest of his attacker.

The masked warrior lost his purchase on the blade and fell deeper into the wireframe outrigger.

Before his attacker could recover, Damian pulled the knife from the seat and struck at the man’s head. The cut was precise. The cane knife nicked only the top corner of the mask. Green mist began to spout from the horrid face. Stockwell dropped the knife and grabbed the warrior by his hair. As the acid sprayed from the corner of the mask, Damian forced the stream into the bars of the outrigger. The powerful acid ate away at the metal and, with a barely audible “chink,” each brace separated from the bike. The outrigger and the masked warrior fell away.

Free of the restrictive armature, Stockwell gunned the throttle and pulled away from the other pursuers. He leaned into every left and right curve—never touching the brakes. Every bend in the track allowed him to increase his lead over the chase vehicles that were still restricted by the outriggers.

Confined to the rails, however, he would never be able to lose them. He had spotted no other spur lines on the walk in and the rail lines were fairly set in their paths. No, they couldn’t be shaken. They would have to be stopped. With only one bullet left in the Smith & Wesson, he would have to think of something other than just plain shooting them.

Stockwell grinned and leaned forward over the handlebars. He knew what to do.

The green mesh of the jungle blurred in his peripheral as he focused on the tracks ahead. He made considerable ground without the cumbersome outrigger to slow him down. His keen eyes scanned the track ahead and the wall of green beside him for any clue to his location. The darkness of the night had revealed few landmarks, but as he rode he noticed the non-visual markers he had picked up during his run: the scent that hung in the air was rich with vegetation, that which grew and that which rotted on the jungle floor, the tapestry of sounds that came from beyond the walls of green had changed its song during the day as a new chorus of insects and creatures took over for the nocturnal hunters.

There began a series of slight rises and falls in the track. That they had been laid so well in the thickest of jungles was a remarkable feat of engineering, but even hypnotized slave labor had issues with grading occasionally. As the bike began to bounce, he lay off the gas and slowed. He knew where he was.

The gains he had made were not as significant as he had assumed. While the presence of the second rider was a burden on the small cycles’ engines, the added weight on the outrigger had enabled his hunters to corner without slowing. It was only a moment before the remaining two bikes were in sight. He needed them close.

Stockwell smiled and twisted the throttle. The metal rim spun on the track, caught and shot the bike forward. He gained speed and rounded a slight bend as the masked men behind him gained. Yes, this was the place.

Damian drew the Smith & Wesson from the sling on his back and fired the remaining round into the jungle. The slug struck the crotch of a tree and shattered the bark. The sound woke the jaguar.

Stockwell holstered the gun and shot past the giant cat as it leapt onto the tracks—irritable and hungry. Rage filled the creature’s face as Stockwell continued down the track and out of sight. The savage beast turned toward the approaching cycles.

The influence of the mask shielded the men from the danger in front of them. They held fast the throttles and roared down the track with no regard for the two-hundred-pound killer in their path.

The silken black cat crouched low to the rails and sprang. Its weight pulled the rider from the first bike and drove him to the tracks. Without a pilot, the motorcycle swayed out of control and toppled over, taking the masked man on the outrigger to the ground.

Following close at full speed, the second bike plowed into the fallen man and flipped through the air as the back end sped over the front. A moment later, all four men lay across the rail line unable to move.

The jaguar bit into the first man’s face and roared in pain as the green gas seeped from the puncture marks. The mighty predator writhed in pain and bolted into the jungle, pawing at its face as it went. Its cries of anguish filled the jungle and silenced the other beasts.

Stockwell looked up from the rearview mirror. There was nothing behind him now. All of the trouble lay ahead.

22
End of the Line

The rail line ended suddenly. There was no terminus, no end of the line signage—the rails simply stopped. Stockwell leapt from the bike as the rims left the rail and ran into a wall of vegetation. The bike crashed through the brush and into a clearing. The tracks had led him right to the plantation.

Damian ducked through the hole made by the rail-bike, crouched in the bushes and peered into the courtyard. The way Zippy had spoken, the mad god’s men would already be on the grounds. He would have to be cautious. Trained killers were dangerous enough, but under the influence of the masks they could be deadly—even to him.

There was little movement on the grounds. There were no other bikes near the rail line. Perhaps he had beaten the masked men here. It was possible. It wouldn’t surprise him in the least if the despotic god that had forced men into slave labor via hypnotic control was also a brazen liar.

He listened. There were no voices. There was no banter among men that was so common in the fraternal atmosphere that mercenary armies created.

From the cover of the jungle he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Still, he approached with caution. From the multiple encounters of assailants, it was clear that the mask enhanced the abilities of the men it possessed. Workers from the field had an endurance that was inhuman, but their fighting skills were lacking. Bertrand, however, had become a fierce opponent under its influence. The science of the mask increased his reflexes, strength and pain threshold. Imagining Dalton’s well-trained security force under the power of the mask gave him pause. Each would be a formidable foe and together the army would be unstoppable.

Damian rolled from the jungle and across the clearing to the cover of a tree. Scanning the main house, he saw only empty balconies. The residence doors were open and unguarded. He had not spent enough time at the plantation the previous day to learn the guards’ patterns or observe their security methods, but he knew that a complete lack of presence was a bad sign.

He dashed from the tree to the edge of the home and vaulted onto the porch. Settling with his back against the wall, he edged toward to an open window. There was no sound from inside the home. It felt deserted.

At this time of day the plantation should be abuzz with workers. Even the executives would be moving about as the crops were harvested and sent to port. Damian stepped over the sill and through the window in the drawing room.

The room was well appointed and empty. He chuckled that, even a hemisphere away, floral prints dominated the furniture. Despite his extensive studies on the working of the human mind, there was no clear reason why people preferred to sit on pictures of flowers when, while out in nature, no person ever saw a patch of flowers and suddenly said, “I must sit on those. They look comfortable.”

He held still for a full minute and listened to the home. Nothing creaked. Nothing slammed. There was no breath to the house. He was alone.

He moved silently into the hall. By keeping close to the wall, he ensured that his own weight would not trigger any creaks hidden in the wooden floor. Though he moved quietly, he moved quickly throughout the first floor. The residence and the offices were deserted. There was little doubt in his magnificent mind that Zipacna’s men had reached the plantation first. A well-trained army was now under the mad god’s control. Stockwell sighed, “I’m going to need more bullets.”

His room was on the second floor and he trusted that his bags had been delivered as Dalton had promised. Caution preceded every footstep as he moved up the stairs. Even keeping his weight at the outer edge of the steps betrayed his presence with a minor creak. The humidity played havoc with the wood flooring here. Constant expansion and contraction made every floorboard an alarm for the vigilant man. He slowed his pace and listened intently to sounds of the second floor.

Like the one below it, there was nothing. Through a series of daily exercises and sensory deprivation, he had trained his hearing to be more keen than the average man. But, even his own delicate senses could detect no one on the second floor.

Zipacna would most likely rally his new minions to the mine. Especially now that Bertrand and Simmons were on their way to the authorities. The Mayan was left with few options. Since he did not actually possess the power to envelop the temple within the Earth’s crust as he claimed, he would either abandon the mine or prepare to defend it from whatever forces the Honduran government would send.

Several encounters with mad gods had taught Stockwell that it would be the latter. It took a massive ego to adopt the persona of a god. And, while hubris alone would demand it, the added elements of gold fever and an army of mindless yet loyal minions would ensure that Zipacna would fight to the last man rather than abandon his greed-driven efforts.

Damian stepped onto the landing, made his way to his room and entered with caution. It was empty but for his luggage. The bags had been delivered to the room and set on a small chest at the foot of the bed. He opened a leather satchel and selected a box of ammunition. He pulled the Smith & Wesson from the sling, swung out the cylinder and emptied the brass into his palm. He tossed the spent casings onto the bed and opened the box labeled “hot.” The rounds inside were custom loaded for higher velocity but would also give him a bigger bang and, as sonic assaults seemed to be the best weapon against the control of the mask, the bigger the bang, the better.

He had placed one round in the chamber when he heard the squeak of a neglected hinge behind him. With one move he raked his palm against the cylinder and sent it spinning, snapped his wrist and spun around, shutting the cylinder with the round in place before the hammer.

The mask was the same as all the others, but the massive body behind it could only belong to Humberto. The large Honduran charged from the closet and grabbed the revolver by the barrel before Stockwell could bring it to bear on his target. Humberto forced the barrel towards the ground.

The head of security’s grip was fierce and threatened to wrench the gun from Damian’s hand. Stockwell pulled the trigger. The hand-loaded round was deafening in the small room and the report dulled his own hearing as the world around him became a roar.

Humberto winced and released the barrel. The massive guard grabbed at his hand.

Stockwell paused. It was not the sound of the report but the heat of the barrel that had caused the guard to withdraw. But that meant …

Humberto recovered quickly and swung a melon-sized fist at Stockwell.

Damian brought his arm up to catch the blow. It saved him from taking a strike to the head, but the force knocked him over the bed and across the room. He let the empty weapon fall to the ground and turned to face the guard.

Humberto placed one hand under the bed and threw it out of his way and charged.

Damian stepped to one side and directed the massive man into the wall. The impact caused the room to shake as Humberto continued through the wallboard. Stockwell brought his fist down on the back of the man’s neck.

The goliath let out a groan and pulled himself from the wall.

“That’s enough, Humberto.”

The horrid face of the mask looked blankly back at him. One of the soulless glass eyes had shattered upon impact with the wall. Humberto’s own brown eye stared back at Stockwell. It seemed to be smiling.

The giant man lunged and caught Stockwell around the waist. His massive arms locked together as he continued the charge.

“I said that’s enough …”

The powerful legs picked Stockwell up from the ground and drove him towards the room’s exterior wall. Both men crashed through the window and to the ground below.

The fall was bad enough, but the large man landing on top of him did little to keep the air in Stockwell’s lungs. This made explaining that he knew what was happening difficult. He was on to the guard, but couldn’t tell him.

Humberto recovered first and picked Stockwell from the ground. For all of his life, Damian had been a big man. His god given height and the hard-earned build of an Olympian had prepared him for many things, but being thrown across the grounds of a banana plantation by a giant named Humberto was not one of them. He landed hard on his back and slid another foot before the force of the guard’s throw waned. Stockwell rolled to his feet and struggled to catch his breath.

The monster was upon him. Stockwell dodged another tackle and countered with a knee to the man’s chest.

Humberto stood and unleashed a fury of punches, but the man was a grappler and Stockwell easily dodged the awkward blows.

Damian countered and landed several strikes of his own. He was forced to work the body as every strike to the mask tore at his knuckles. He threw furiously and felt several of Humberto’s ribs crack, but the damage did little to slow the guard down. With each strike he heard the man react.

“I can hear you in there, Humberto. Not one man has made a sound through that mask when I beat on them. Not one. But you whine. You wheeze. You’re in there.”

A lucky left caught Stockwell on the cheek and sent him reeling across the lawn into a tree. It had felt more like a force of nature than a man’s blow. Damian spit blood and stared at the man. “Take it off, Humberto. Let’s do this face-to-face.”

Humberto stood up straight and lifted his hand to the mask. He pulled it free. No gas hissed. No acid consumed the horrid face. Humberto dropped the mask to the ground and smiled.

Stockwell smiled back, “There you are, Zippy.”

Humberto rushed. Stockwell charged. The two giants met in the open grounds of the plantation. Stockwell ducked a right and drove his fist into the now unprotected face of the massive Honduran.

Humberto reeled back and Stockwell followed through with a second strike to the head as he sidestepped a counter punch. Damian stepped inside a grasp and worked the broken ribs with three quick blows.

Humberto grabbed Stockwell by the shoulders and drove his head forward.

Stockwell lowered his face and let the hardest part of his head meet the guard’s nose.

Each skull rattled.

Humberto picked Stockwell up from the ground and threw him against the tree.

He did not collapse to the ground but stood dazed with the tree supporting his weight.

Humberto punched for his head.

Stockwell dropped to the ground and heard the man’s hand break as it met the wood of the tree. He struck at Humberto’s knee and dropped the guard to the ground. Damian leapt over the guard and locked his arm around the man’s throat. His intent was not to kill, but as the Honduran struggled against the hold, he began to wonder if the man would give him a choice.

Humberto tried to stand but could not. He used his good hand to keep himself from the ground and wrapped the other around Stockwell’s forearm, struggling to pull it from his windpipe. But the broken hand no longer had the strength.

Stockwell could feel the consciousness fading from Humberto’s body as his lungs struggled to draw oxygen that wasn’t there. The strongest man Stockwell had ever faced went limp and collapsed beneath him.

Stockwell stood and looked down at the large Honduran. “And thus falls the mad Mayan god Zipacan … Zipan … Zippy.”

The crack of gunshots filled the grounds as dirt began to burst at his feet. The fertile plantation soil erupted into plumes of dust all around him. Stockwell crouched low and sprinted for cover. Masked men were everywhere and closing in around him. They emerged from the warehouse and sheds around the property. They poured from the jungle wall at the plantation’s perimeter. They had him surrounded.

These men weren’t dressed in loin cloths and threadbare worker’s garments. Each wore the uniform of the All-American Banana Company and brandished a rifle.

Damian vaulted the rail of the porch and dove through an open window into the home. He scrambled on all fours across the floor as chunks of plaster, wood and other building materials exploded around him. Zipacna had his army.

The hail of bullets was continuous. Damian scrambled to the doorway and leapt into the hall. He slid across the polished wood floor and slammed into the wall. The bullets found him there as well. The walls of the home were not enough to stop the high-powered rifles. His best chance of escape was out the back door. He stayed low and crawled quickly to the end of the hall. Before he could break for the back door, he heard the front crash from its hinges. Two masked guards rushed into the home. The soulless black eyes spotted Stockwell on the floor and each guard brought their rifle to bear on the helpless man.

Damian was on his feet before the front door collapsed to the ground. Seizing the barrel of the closest rifle in his left hand, he pulled the guard off balance and drove his elbow through the mask.

The guard screamed as splinters of the shattered veneer burst into his face. Still, there was no mist.

Stockwell tore the rifle from the guard’s grip and shoved the stock into the next guard’s face. The mercenary fell to the ground unconscious. Blood ran from under the mask, but still, it remained intact.

Damian bent down and pulled the mask from the guard’s face and examined its interior. Unlike the masks he had found in the mine, this one was devoid of any circuitry. It was simply a mask. It held no special power over the men at the plantation. They were acting of their own free will. “Dammit.”

Stockwell dropped the rifle and stepped out onto the porch. He stood and screamed over the sound of the gunfire. “Dalton! Show yourself!”

Men continued to pour from various buildings of the compound. The shots had stopped, but the men closed in. Stockwell made no move to run.

“Show yourself, Dalton!”

More than twenty men converged on the porch, rifles pointed squarely at Stockwell’s chest. They couldn’t miss from this range.

“Now, Cole!”

At the edge of the grounds, the jungle parted. Zipacna emerged from the curtain of vegetation that hid the rail line from site. The Mayan god did not move with haste but covered the open space quickly with long strides. The group of soldiers parted as the massive cloaked figure reached the home and stepped onto the porch.

The enormous figure leaned in. The horrid mask was inches from Stockwell’s face. Like steam from a rusted pipe, his voice spit from the carved image. “The mighty Stockwell. You’re captured all too easy.”

Stockwell spoke into the chest of the Mayan god. “Lose the getup, Dalton, I know it’s you.”

Zipacna chuckled the same grating laugh from the cave as he reached up and grabbed the medallion that held the cloak closed across his chest. He loosened the clasp and pulled the cloak free. He then grabbed the mask and removed it. The cloak fell to the ground and Cole Dalton stared his old friend in the eyes.

“I knew it was you.”

“You thought it was Humberto.”

“I did not.”

“You did too. I was hiding in the bushes and I heard you say that you had defeated Zipacna. Now you know that’s not …”

“I didn’t say that. “

“What? Yes you did. I heard you.”

“I never said I defeated Zipacna.”

“Maybe not those exact words but it was …”

“I thought you said you heard me. Obviously you’re lying.”

Cole tucked the mask under one arm and pointed to the jungle. “Right there, Dam. I was right there. You thought that Humberto was Zipacna.”

“Did not.”

Dalton sighed, “Fine, you know what? It doesn’t matter. We’ve got you and it just doesn’t matter.”

“How could you, Dalton? How could you do this?”

“The science isn’t as tricky as you’d think. It’s …”

“I don’t mean that. How could you create an army of mindless slaves? How could you take God’s greatest gift to man and twist it to your own selfish means? How could you betray the gift of free will and liberty? Something you and I have fought all our lives to protect.”

“Dam, you’re such a fool. Free will isn’t the greatest gift. God’s greatest gift to man was other men and that is not at all how I meant that to sound. Free will is an illusion. Money. Power. These are the only things the world understands.”

“But, you had all that. What of your yellow gold?”

“Real gold is so much better. I am so sick and tired of these damn bananas. And these bugs and this humidity. My fortune lies in Zipacna’s temple, not the trees of this godforsaken country.”

Stockwell shook his head. “Of all the men I’ve known, you were the last I would have suspected to turn to a life of nefarious deeds.”

Dalton’s brow creased, “It’s easy for you. Born rich. Had you struggled like I have, you would have seized the same opportunity.”

“I value freedom more than gold, old friend.”

“Then you are a fool.”

Damian couldn’t believe Dalton had turned so evil. The man’s character was too strong. There had to be some other explanation. “You’ve been away too long, my friend. You’ve forgotten the beauty of freedom. You need to come home. Then you’ll remember.”

Dalton smirked. He placed the mask back on his head. The raspy voice, filtered through some mechanical device, returned. “I’ll be back soon enough. You’ll be staying here.”

Zipacna turned and moved back through the crowd.

“I’m sorry, my friend. I’m going to have to stop you.”

Zipacna paused. He turned back to the mighty adventurer. “Stop me? I’m the one with the army.” He turned away and stepped through the crowd.

Stockwell felt a stinging in his neck. The sharp pain appeared suddenly in multiple places across his back. The pain turned to numbness as he fell to his knees. He caught himself with one hand but the effort lasted only a moment as the rest of his body went numb and he collapsed to the ground.

23
The End of Another Line

Before he opened his eyes, he knew he was back in the cavern. The acrid smell of the acid eating away at the rocks was enough to tell him where he was. He could clearly hear the hissing as the chemical struck the rock walls. This also told him his hearing had returned to normal. He must have been out for hours for his ears to recover from the gun shot.

He wasn’t on the ground. His feet dangled beneath him. This fact, combined with the bindings on his hands, told him his precise location. Stockwell opened his eyes and looked down. “Yep. Big tub of acid.”

The massive cauldron in the center of the cavern bubbled and steamed with the green chemical he had come to despise over the last few days. His bare feet were but ten feet above the corrosive mixture. His shirt had been stripped away as well. Dalton knew too well the host of gadgets he kept in his garments and had no doubt seen to their removal. A glance up confirmed what he had known. Rope bound his hands and suspended him from the boom arm of a crane. Fatigue in his shoulders indicated that he had been there for a while.

“Dam, you sure can sleep.” Cole Dalton climbed a ladder to the control cabin of the crane. “Although, my men may have over done it with the darts.”

“Only a coward shoots a man in the back.”

“Spare me your code of honor, Dam. As you can see, I’ve kind of let noble and good deeds go.”

Stockwell scanned the cavern. Dalton’s army lined the perimeter of the cave, unmasked but armed. Possessed men toiled in the sweltering heat of the mine. The process was as brutal as it was efficient. Acid ate the rock. Gold fell. Men collected it and the process began again.

“What happened to you, Cole? What turned you toward evil?”

Dalton smiled and moved one of the levers. The boom shook and Stockwell began to sway as the crane moved back and forth over the vat.

“I almost killed you, you know. For three days I toyed with the idea. But, well, I just couldn’t do it.”

“Isn’t that sweet.” Three days? Had he been out for so long?

“I’m afraid not, old friend. You see, I really, really need you dead. As soon as Simmons turned up here, I knew you’d have to die. That’s why I sent my man to New York.”

“You should have come yourself.”

“Oh, I was there. Who do you think bolted the mask to his face?”

Stockwell winced. He had seen horrific things done to men, but never by such a close ally. How could he have been so wrong about Dalton? Something must have changed the man.

“In all fairness, I tried to stop Simmons from coming here. I didn’t want any of my friends to get hurt. But, you see, he’d discovered the same secret I had and he knew that the mine had to be real. There was no stopping him. Just like there will be no stopping me.”

“Ah, my old friend. How many times have we been in this situation? Me, dangling perilously above certain death? Lava, sharp rocks, alligators, etcetera. The villain running at the mouth?”

“Plenty of times, Dam. And, I know what you’re getting at. I realize that it’s never worked out for the man at the controls. So, I’ve taken a few precautions.” Dalton stepped from behind the control panel with Damian’s shirt and boots in his hands. He held up the clothes. “Your magic bag. Chemicals, filaments, weapons, explosives. I’ve always admired your fashion sense, Dam.”

Dalton tossed the articles in the acid. The boots splashed and sunk into the green liquid but the shirt drifted on top. Seconds later it blazed to life. Chemicals ignited. Smoke plumed as the different devices reacted with the acid. The different buttons popped and exploded to varying degrees and all became calm as the collar sank below the surface. A second later there was a massive boom and an eruption of acid.

“Whoa.” Dalton laughed. “What was that last one?”

“The collar stays. They’re dynamite.”

“You are a remarkable man, my friend.” Dalton stepped back behind the control panel. “So with that taken care of, let’s start the questioning.”

“Fine. What’s your plan?”

“No. No, no. I’m asking the questions.”

“I don’t get to ask any?”

“What? No. Besides, I don’t think there’s really anything to clarify. If you look around, my plan is pretty obvious. Isn’t it?”

“Certainly, but what’s next? What do you plan to do with the gold?”

“Get rich.” Dalton laughed. “I’m sorry, Dam. It’s not really any more complicated than that.”

“You’ve turned on your friends, on yourself, your very nature, for money?”

“Well, in my defense, it is a lot of money.”

“I never imagined you to be so shallow.”

Dalton shrugged. “I’ve got nothing but respect for you, Damian. I just want you to know that before I burn your feet off.” Dalton moved a lever on the panel. The arm began to lower Stockwell towards the acid.

“You expect me to talk?”

“After a fair bit of screaming, yes.”

“You’ll get nothing out of me.”

“Oh, I’m sure by the time we get to the knees you’ll tell me what I want to know. Where’s Bertrand? Where’s Simmons?”

“He took the spur line and went to get the army.” Stockwell smiled. That explained the heightened security. The Frenchman had succeeded in his escape. With any luck, he’d be returning with the Honduran military at any moment.

“Wow. You gave him up quick.”

“It’s just Bertrand.”

“What about all that ‘you’ll get nothing out of me’ nonsense?”

“I thought the question might be harder. Besides, knowing where he is won’t stop him from kicking your teeth in.”

“You sent him for help?”

“It’s not my proudest moment.”

“Well, then. I guess I was worried for nothing.”

The boom continued its descent. Stockwell watched the acid draw nearer. “You own the authorities, don’t you?”

“Every last one. I told you it was a lot of money. It buys a lot of friends.” Dalton stepped away from the controls.

“Corrupt governments won’t stop Bertrand. You know that.”

“He is feisty. I’ll give him that.”

“He also understands loyalty and honor.”

“Your bag of tricks is gone, so you’re throwing insults? I expected more from you, Dam.” Dalton descended the ladder to the ground.

“You’re right. Insults are beneath me. Besides, I don’t blame you for your lapse in judgment. I know what’s happened to you and it’s not your fault.”

Dalton stopped and turned back to his captive. “Well, this is a new one. I’ve never seen you try to escape using reverse psychology.”

“This is no trick, old friend. I’m sad for you. It’s obvious you’ve lost your way. That you could so easily take control of men’s minds, their free will … you’ve forgotten the power of freedom. You’ve been gone too long.”

“Freedom? Money is freedom. You should know this better than anyone.”

“Money is a tool, Dalton. Nothing more. Freedom lies in men’s hearts, in their souls. It manifests itself in great deeds of sacrifice and great places like America.”

“America is a failed experiment. It’s been laboring under its own failure since ’29.”

“You’ve been gone too long.”

“I read the papers.”

“Freedom’s engine may have sputtered, but its spirit lives on.”

“Ha. Spirit is nothing without force.”

“I disagree. Sometimes the spirit is enough.”

“You’re a fool, Dam. A damned fool.”

“A lot’s changed since you’ve been gone, Cole. We even adopted a national anthem.”

“Another distraction for the masses. In a way my mind control device is kinder.”

Stockwell looked to the ceiling. The boom was lowering him to the exact center of the cavern. Damian drew a deep breath and sang. “O say, can you see?”

“Hrrrmph.” Dalton turned his back on his old friend.

“By the dawn’s early light.”

“Sounds wonderful, Dam. I can’t believe you’ve chosen this jingoistic nonsense to be your last words. I’ll make sure and write them down.”

“What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming.” The lyrics bounced off the cavern walls, building on themselves to tremendous volume.

Dalton stopped and turned back to the vat. “No!”

“Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight …”

The masked workers slowed in their labor. The boom dropped Stockwell lower. Dalton rushed back to the ladder.

“O’er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?”

Dalton scrambled up the ladder, screaming to the guards, “Shoot him! Shoot him!”

But, it was too late. The crane’s boom lowered Damian into the cavern’s acoustical center. His baritone voice, perfect in pitch and tone, boomed louder than the Smith & Wesson and bounced from the rock surface to the delicate circuitry of Dalton’s hideous masks.

“And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air …”

The workers grabbed for their ears.

“Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.”

Sparks flew from the eyes of the masks. Everywhere, electrical snaps and the smell of ozone filled the air.

“O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave …”

Masks fell to the ground inert. Hundreds of men who had labored in a fog of servitude became self-aware for the first time in months. The guards became aware of what was happening and reached for their weapons. Dalton stumbled on the ladder in his haste.

“O’er the land of the free …”

One of the guards drew a bead on Stockwell as he dangled from the boom. Several workers tackled him before he could fire. Dalton found his footing and made the top of the platform. He dove for the control lever.

“And the home of the brave?”

Chaos erupted in the cavern as the freed mind-slaves set upon the security force. Shots were fired in futility as the swarm of captives rushed the guards.

Dalton shoved the lever forward and the boom dove towards the acid.

Damian flexed his mighty arms and he pulled himself up with such force that the bonds cleared the hook making it possible to grab the descending boom. He pulled himself on the beam and as the hook splashed into the vat, it began to dissolve. He raced up the boom and dove for the platform.

Dalton scrambled back and fell off the edge to the ground below.

Stockwell rolled to the edge of the scaffold and watched as Cole took to his feet and ran for the entrance of the cavern. Descending the ladder with his bound hands cost him precious seconds that Dalton exploited for a lead. This was something he would have to practice. It was a skill he would have to add to his training.

His bare feet hit the cavern floor and he rushed after his former friend, dodging frenzied workers and overwhelmed guards as he went. The captives were more than holding their own. One would assume that the forced labor had left them exhausted, but there was always strength in freedom.

One guard had gained the upper hand and was waving a pistol at a host of captives. The guard was frightened and screaming at the men to stay back. Damian rushed through the threatened crowd and burst out of the throng of men, diving at the guard.

He tackled the man at the waist and took him to the ground. The gun clattered into the cavern and Damian brought his bound fists down on the man’s head. The blow left the guard unconscious.

Several hands began to pull at him and Stockwell turned to see the workers helping him to his feet. One of the men produced a knife and cut the rope that held his hands. They surrounded him and began to pat him on the back. A chorus of thank yous came from raspy voices that had not spoken in months.

Stockwell brushed off the appreciation and turned to see Dalton disappear through the tunnel to the surface. He started to pursue but a hand held him back. Damian turned back the crowd of workers, about to explain that he must catch Zipacna, when he saw why they had restrained him. One of the battered and tired hands produced the gun the guard had dropped and offered it to him.

It was the Smith & Wesson. Stockwell took the gun.

“Vas. Vas.” The workers waved him on and Stockwell rushed into the tunnel towards the surface.

24
Friends Like These

Gun drawn, anger peaked, Damian ran up the ancient tunnel towards the temple’s entrance. As he ran, he dropped the cylinder of the Smith & Wesson and counted the rounds. The cylinder was full but in the brief glance he saw the indention from the firing pin in two of the cartridges. Stockwell snapped the cylinder back into place and rushed into the temple’s alcove.

The hand that grabbed his face was callous, huge and smelled a bit. It gripped his head and pulled him forward to the ground while another equally large hand pulled the gun from his grasp.

Stockwell rolled across the floor and collided with the wall beneath the carving that depicted Zipacna exacting his vengeance on the world. Before he could stand, he felt the large hands grasp the waist of his pants. They lifted him from the ground. Neither his hands nor feet could make contact with the earth and he soon found himself soaring through the air as the powerful arms heaved him out the temple’s entrance and into the fading daylight. Damian tumbled and rolled to his feet facing the temple.

Humberto’s massive frame filled the entranceway as he stared hate into Damian’s eyes. His left hand held the Smith & Wesson by the barrel but he made no move to use the weapon. The two were locked at the eyes, each waiting for the other to move.

A slow clap began to echo from the temple’s alcove. The sharp sound was amplified by the stone construction and did not fade until Dalton stepped past the large Honduran and into the evening air. “That … now that was something! I mean, wow! I’m not quite sure what happened in there, but it was amazing.”

“Your slaves have been freed, Dalton. Freed by the power of America.”

“You never cease to amaze me, Dam. I’ll bet Carnegie Hall has never even seen a performance like that.”

“Think again. I opened for the Stars and Stripes Jubilee last summer.”

Dalton nodded, “Of course you did. But, I’m sorry to say that this, my friend, was your …”

“You’re going to say my farewell performance, aren’t you? You villains are so predictable.”

“No, I wasn’t,” Dalton stammered.

“Yes, you were.”

“I wasn’t going to say it. But, it was. That was your …”

“Swan song?” Damian shook his head. “It’s pathetic really. You’d think for all the villains you’ve encountered over the years, you’d have picked up some better rhetoric.”

Dalton smiled. “Enough. It doesn’t matter how I put it, this is the end of the great Damian Stockwell.”

“How do you figure? There’s an army of very angry, free men making their way from the mine. And it’s just you and Humberto there to stop them.”

Humberto lurched forward. Dalton stayed him with a raised hand. He smiled at Stockwell and signaled for him to turn around.

Damian looked over his shoulder. In the corner of his eye he saw a member of the banana company’s security force with a rifle pointed at his back. He turned further and saw thirty men just like the first. “Oh. I didn’t see those guys there.”

Dalton signaled to the men and several of them rushed into the temple. Damian momentarily lost them in the shadows. Soon muzzle flashes and reports filled the alcove as the security force kept the freed workers pinned inside the mine.

“So, now that I’ve pointed out the army standing directly behind you, we’ll have this conversation again.”

“Okay. Do you want to say, ‘it’s curtains for me’?”

Dalton laughed, but there was no smile on his face. “Dam, I hope you know that I don’t want to have you killed. I’m still going to do it, but you’ve always been a good friend. So, when I do have you killed, I want you to understand that it doesn’t really change our friendship.”

“It might a little. I know I’ll like you less.”

Dalton threw up his hands, “Why do you always have to be so good? If there was just a little evil in you, we could make this all work.”

“Ha. Evil? Like you?”

“Yes! Exactly! If you could see things my way, we could stay friends, I wouldn’t have to kill you and everything would be fine. Just like it was.”

Stockwell looked at the security force behind him. Each had their rifle trained on his back. He looked back to Humberto—the brute was barely able to restrain his hatred. Finally, he looked at Dalton. His friend was being sincere. He had no desire to give the order to fire. He knew Cole desperately wanted him to say that everything would be fine, that they could continue to be friends. Damian valued friendship more than anything. Cole had travelled the seductive path of greed into a dark corner of his soul. Could he still be brought back? The man would have to answer for his crimes but he had seen many men turn from evil.

Stockwell looked his friend in the eye. He saw hope. Hope that he would say that it was all right to enslave men and force them to harvest riches from the earth for him, but he just couldn’t. “Dalton. I’d like nothing more than to end this without bloodshed. I value our friendship more than you know. And, I’d like to see things your way, but I can’t get my head that far up …”

“Okay, just stop there.” Dalton pulled the Smith & Wesson from Humberto’s hand. “And you say I’m predictable.”

“You’re going to shoot me with my own gun? Some friend.”

“Hardly.” Dalton tossed the gun to the ground. “You see, since I’m about to have you killed, I’m going to need new friends.” He put his hand on Humberto. “Humberto is my new friend and he very much would like to kill you with his bare hands. And, as his friend, I’m going to help him get what he wants.”

“I’m afraid your new friend is going to be disappointed. I’ve already beaten him twice. The last time he kind of just went to sleep in the middle of our fight.”

Humberto growled and balled his massive hands into fists.

“Oh, I know how tough you are, Dam. And, truth be told, you’d probably take Humberto a third time. But, he’s my new friend and I want him to be happy. And, since you’re not my friend anymore, I’m going to give him the gift I made for you.” Dalton reached into his robe and pulled out a mask.

Stockwell had seen it before. It was the one Zipacna had tried to place on him earlier. Bulging eyes, a dangling tongue—Dalton placed the mask on Humberto’s face. It was ridiculous.

“That’s a good look for him.”

“Make jokes. This mask is just like the others. Humberto is now stronger. His reflexes are faster. He feels no pain. And he is completely obedient to me. Whatever task I give him, he must accomplish. Humberto, kill Damian Stockwell.”

Humberto rushed forward.

Stockwell backed away.

“Don’t let him run, men. But, let Humberto have him.”

The security force closed in around him and Damian was forced into Humberto’s path.

The strikes came fast. Humberto was driven by powerful muscles and the circuitry of the mask. Damian found himself on the defensive as he dodged swing after swing. Humberto had been formidable during their first two encounters; now he was a mixture of rage and science that only a tank could take down.

What few lucky blows Stockwell landed were met with indifference and counterstrikes. As he rolled away, he scanned the surroundings hoping to play on the mask’s one weakness—sound. But there was nothing but stone and jungle. Even a gunshot here would not have the same effect as in the cavern. The almost constant gunfire from the security guards in the alcove proved that. The air was too … airy. The acoustics too poor. He would not be able to sing his way out of the fight.

Humberto landed a left fist to the side of his head. Stockwell fell to the ground and rolled as the security chief stomped the ground with his boot. The blow had caught him on the ear. His balance had not been affected, but a slight buzzing had appeared. It wasn’t constant but it was frequent.

Footwork was a part of his daily training and he managed to avoid another direct hit. He sidestepped a right and landed his own on one of the mask’s bulging eyes. Humberto was unfazed. Stockwell’s fist hurt.

The buzzing grew louder and he began to notice that it wasn’t just in his right ear. It had spread to both. Bugs? Had mosquitoes joined the fight against him as well? That wasn’t fair.

Humberto’s right hand shot out and grabbed Stockwell by the throat.

Damian grabbed the giant’s wrist and tried to pry the hand away as fingers closed on his neck. He kicked at the massive man and caught him in the stomach.

Humberto did not flinch. With one arm, he lifted Stockwell from the ground.

Damian held fast to the man’s forearm to prevent his own head from popping off. His feet dangled. He dug into the meat of Humberto’s arm, simultaneously triggering two pressure points. It did nothing. That mask’s effect was more powerful than the human nervous system.

Humberto began to squeeze.

Stockwell struggled to breathe. The buzzing grew louder and louder as his body began to scream out for air. He stared at the mask. Was this ridiculous face to be the last thing he saw? His vision began to blur. Darkness grew from the corners. The sound became louder. He dug deeper into Humberto’s arm. There was still no response from the nerves. God, he needed air. He needed to breathe. What was that buzzing?

“What’s that buzzing?” Dalton stared into the thick wall of the jungle trying to see beyond the leaves and vines. He heard the sound as well.

Stockwell, fighting to stay conscious for a moment more, smiled into the ridiculous mask and tried to speak. He could only mouth the word, Bertrand.

25
Is This the End?

The bush cutter fell three trees as it emerged from the jungle wall. Each crashed in the clearing. Several of the security guards disappeared in the foliage as the others scrambled for safety. Two were caught in the spinning blades of the bush cutter.

Whatever damage the fire had done to the vehicle had been repaired. Even the outer hull of the tank-like equipment looked untouched. Williams had delivered against all odds. Even covered in blood, the machine was beautiful.

Saw blades cut into the air from all corners of the bush cutter and even as the security team recovered, they hesitated to approach it.

Stockwell, on the brink of unconsciousness, made one last effort to free himself from Humberto’s iron grip. Summoning his waning strength he pulled his legs up and wrapped them around the brute’s forearm. He pulled his knees to his chest and centered his mass around Humberto’s hand.

Strength, reflexes—no amount of augmentation could overcome balance. Stockwell’s weight pulled the masked guard forward and Damian fell to the ground with his neck still locked in Humberto’s grip.

The large Honduran toppled forward.

Stockwell placed his feet on Humberto’s ribs and, as the pair hit the ground, he kicked up, sending the guard flying over him.

Damian gasped for air as the hand was wrenched from his neck. Coughing, he struggled to all fours and breathed the humid jungle air deep into his lungs. He stood and stumbled. His balance was off but his vision returned as he got to his feet.

Unfazed by the fall, Humberto was already standing. The giant of a man stepped forward to fulfill his orders.

Damian backed into his defensive stance. He wobbled. “Damn you, equilibrium.”

Bullets filled the air as the security force opened fire on the bush cutter. The shots produced only sparks as the rounds bounced off the heavy metal skin and turned into deadly ricochets. Despite their futility, the guards continued to fire until their rifles were empty.

Humberto rushed forward, beating the earth into dust as he closed the distance to Stockwell.

Damian braced himself.

Humberto pulled his right arm back to strike.

Two metallic clangs filled the air and Humberto jerked to his left and fell to the ground.

Stockwell turned to see Bertrand climbing from a hatch on top of the bush cutter with a smoking gun in his bare and bloodied hand. Williams was standing in the hatch next to him. The outfitter smiled, “Dam, you have the worst luck with clothes.”

Bertrand dropped to the ground and rushed to Damian’s side.

“Good man, Bertrand.”

“Heads up!” Williams shouted and dropped into the bush cutter as more bullets splashed against its armor.

Bertrand and Stockwell dove for cover. “The temple! There are more guards inside.”

The bush cutter lurched forward until its front end filled the entrance way. There was a massive flash as flame throwers, installed for clearing vines, filled the alcove. Smoke rolled from the top of the entrance as the vehicle backed away. The hatch popped open and Williams stuck his head out. “Easy. The way you vagabonds always go on, you’d think this adventuring stuff would be difficult.”

Stockwell laughed. “There’ll be more men coming out. But they’re the good guys.”

“So. Don’t burn ’em?”

“Right, don’t burn ’em.”

Williams backed the bush cutter away from the temple. Within moments the freed men rushed from the cavern and set up on the remaining guards.

“Monsieur. What has happened?”

“The slaves have been freed and Dalton has been defeated.”

“Dalton?”

“Oh right, you didn’t know. Dalton was Zippy.”

“I cannot believe that.”

“I didn’t want to believe it either, but as you can see he’s clearly wearing the costume.” Stockwell pointed to the empty space where Dalton had stood. “Well crap. He ran away.”

Damian raced to the temple entrance and searched the ground for any sign of a trail. The Smith & Wesson lay where Dalton had dropped it. Stockwell picked up the gun and raced into the jungle following a faint trail of footsteps left by his former friend.

Williams sat perched on the bush cutter watching the miners capture, but mostly beat, the remaining security force. “Shouldn’t you go with him, Bertie?”

Bertrand shook his French head. “Non. This is something he has to do alone.”

“He might need help.”

“He can handle Monsieur Dalton.”

“What about the big guy?”

Bertrand looked to where the giant masked guard had fallen. He was gone.

“Merde.” Bertrand rushed after Stockwell.

•••

The evening light filtered through the upper canopy and turned the jungle floor into a patchwork of shadows. The trail had all but disappeared in the dim light and Damian listened intently to the sounds of the jungle. The presence of a man would cause the animals and insects hesitation, so he listened for silence. It wasn’t easy to hear silence with so much noise, but Stockwell was able to seek the quietest path as he moved cautiously through the dense vegetation.

He often trained barefoot to toughen his soles, but still the floor of the rainforest pricked at his feet and caused him to stumble. What felt like a thousand bugs landed on his bare chest and back. He could feel them nesting in his ample chest hair, but still he pushed on. Dalton had crossed over to madness. That much was clear. Whether it was his plan, gold fever or the damn bugs, something had driven him to the point of villainy. Damian had to pull him back from that point.

A limb cracked ahead and he increased his speed. He hoped the breeze generated by his quickened pace would motivate the bugs to leave, but he just kept running into more. He opened his mouth to curse them and swallowed three.

He spit out the bits that he didn’t swallow and continued to listen for another sign of his old friend.

Stockwell followed the silence for fifteen minutes. The light grew dimmer and the chorus of the creatures changed as the nighttime pests took over. Soon the silence he chased was replaced by the faint roar of rushing water. A river could afford Dalton his escape. Stockwell moved faster until the roar was almost all he could hear.

Blind steps moved him forward now. He couldn’t see the ground beneath his feet; he simply trusted that it would be there as he carried on. Suddenly, the ground wasn’t there. Falling, he turned and grabbed a handful of earth and vine to stop his plummet. Looking over his shoulder, he could see the river a hundred feet below.

He pulled himself from the edge of the chasm back into the safety of the jungle and peered across the divide. There was no way he could jump it. There was no fallen log or rope bridge across it. Dalton was trapped on this side of the river.

“Dalton! Come out and let’s talk about this.”

Only silence responded. Silence and bugs.

“Your operations are ruined. Your slaves are freed. It’s over.”

The hissing voice of Zipacna seeped from the jungle. Its weakness made it difficult to pinpoint its origin. “I’ll start over.”

“I hate that voice, Dalton.”

“I’m a little sick of yours as well, Damian.”

Stockwell moved beneath the trees searching the darkness for his friend.

“Cole, we can work this out. Sure, there’ll be jail time but I can see to it that you get sent to one of the less rapey prisons.”

“There is no Cole Dalton. Not anymore. You’ve seen to that. You’ve practically killed me. But there is still Zipacna.”

Damian looked to the branches. The sound of his voice drifted down from above.

“I will reclaim my mine. My workers. My fortune.”

“I don’t think so, Zippy.”

“It won’t be so difficult, once I kill you.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Oh, but it is.”

“Purely for argument’s sake, and we’re talking extremely hypothetical here, let’s say you did kill me. People would come looking for me and they’d find you.”

“Not here. The jungle is thick enough to swallow you and your legend.”

“Now you’re just being silly.”

“The great Damian Stockwell—killed by a god,” Zipacna hissed. The sound filled the jungle and grew louder until it consumed the canopy. Birds scattered. Limbs shook with scared monkeys.

There was a crashing to Damian’s right. He drew the Smith & Wesson as Humberto burst from the jungle. The wound in his shoulder bled heavily and was covered with insects. He spotted Stockwell through the soulless eyes of the mask and charged.

Zipacna’s hiss turned into a shriek as Dalton leapt from a tree limb. He dove at his former friend. In his hand was an ancient dagger that had been honed to a fine modern edge.

Humberto’s orders were to kill Stockwell and Damian knew that he would drive them both over the cliff if it meant fulfilling that command. Shooting him would spare the fall but get him stabbed in the process.

Time slowed as he considered his options.

Humberto was too close. Shooting him now would still result in a collision and perilous fall to the river below.

In the darkness, Stockwell saw a flash of movement. He dropped to one knee and turned the gun towards Dalton.

Bertrand’s foot struck from the jungle and impacted the side of Humberto’s head. The strike pushed the giant Honduran off course and dislodged the mask from his face. The goofy expression flew through the air. Humberto ran into a tree.

“I’m sorry, my friend.” Stockwell pulled the trigger on the .357 and placed a bullet though the grin of the mask. Green mist exploded from the hollow mask and created a cloud of acid in Dalton’s path. The villain passed through the cloud face first and began to scream. He struck the ground and grabbed for his face.

Stockwell rushed to his friend’s side and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Cole, it’s going …”

Dalton screamed and looked into the eyes of his oldest friend.

“Whoa, that’s gross.” The green acid ate away at Cole’s features and stripped him of his humanity. “Well, we’ll … um … we’ll get you to a doctor.”

Writhing in pain, Dalton struggled to his feet.

“Dalton, sit down.”

Cole clawed at the pain but only succeeded in stripping more flesh from his face. He stumbled along the edge of the chasm.

“Dalton, watch out for the edge.”

Dalton slipped and fell from the edge of the jungle. He screamed as he plummeted to the river below.

Bertrand arrived at Stockwell’s side and the pair peered over into the river. There was no sign of Dalton. Only Zipacna’s robe could be seen dangling from a root that stretched into the chasm from the cliff.

“Dammit.” Stockwell scanned the river for any sign of his friend. “I had just said watch out for the edge. I mean, I had just said it.”

Bertrand nodded.

“You heard me, right, Bertrand?”

“Oui, I heard you.”

“And, I heard me.” Stockwell looked back into the chasm. “How did he not hear me?”

Humberto stood. His face was bloodied from the impact with the tree.

Stockwell turned to him. “Humberto, did you hear me say it?”

The giant Honduran roared and clenched his fists.

Stockwell shot him and looked back to the river below. The great adventurer shook his head and turned away. The sun had set and the moonlight did not extend beyond the edge of the chasm. The jungle was cast in absolute darkness.

“There’s nothing we can do now. We should head back.”

“Oui, Monsieur.”

“Did you grab a flashlight?”

“Non, Monsieur.”

“That’s just sloppy, Bertrand.”

26
No, This is the End

“You are very quiet, Monsieur.” Stockwell was at the controls of the Dahlia. He had been lost in his own thoughts for hours. “I guess I am, Bertrand. If you want to turn in, you can. I’ve got this.”

“Non, Monsieur. I don’t feel like sleeping.”

“You don’t have to worry about me nodding off. Williams’s snoring will keep me up.”

The Vagabond Club’s outfitter was draped over one of the passenger chairs in the cabin and had been snoring for hours.

“I don’t think I could sleep either, Monsieur.”

“Have it your way.”

The silence returned.

“Monsieur if you need to talk, I’m …”

“There’s nothing really to talk about, Bertrand. Simmons regained his faculty and is overseeing the mining operation as the new head of the All-American Banana and Gold Company. The enslaved workers have all received a stake in the mine. And some big cat ate Humberto’s corpse. The horror in Honduras has been stopped. All that’s left is to get home to New York and enjoy the lack of bugs.”

Bertrand had been with Damian for years. The great adventurer was a master of many things. He had overcome many horrors and defeated many foes, but Bertrand had never seen him like this. He knew that Stockwell had taken many lives, and that each one weighed on him. But, to have to kill a friend as close as Cole Dalton—he could not imagine how that tore at his soul.

Stockwell stared into the night beyond the windshield with a glare Bertrand had never seen. It was as if he was trying to stare down the world itself. The man was such a great amalgamation of strength, mind and imagination—each of humanity’s greatest qualities was amplified in him. Bertrand could only imagine the fierceness of his regret and what Dalton’s death had wrought upon him.

Dalton’s body had never been found. Stockwell led the search efforts himself, enduring weeks in the sweltering heat and bug infested jungles that he so despised. There had been no trace of the man Stockwell had called his friend.

Bertrand wanted to say something, but there were no words. Not in his own language or in English that would stop the hurt he must be feeling. He simply stood and placed a bandaged hand on his good friend’s shoulder.

Stockwell did not move. He did not take his eyes from the darkness before them.

Bertrand spoke quietly, “Bon nuit, Monsieur.”

Stockwell nodded.

Bertrand moved into the cabin, fell into the passenger seat and closed his eyes.

THE END

Terrors of Tesla

The Bulletproof Adventures
of Damian Stockwell

Benjamin Wallace

Copyright © 2016 by Benjamin Wallace. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Crystal Roznik.
Illustration by Teren Mabry.

DEDICATION

This one is for my parents.

They’ve put up with my crap longer than anyone.

Prelude
Tenement of Terror

Foul odors from the city sewers escaped as wisps from the manhole covers along a forgotten street in New York City. Lined with buildings weathered gray and crumbling, these all too common streets housed the lives of the humble and hard working. Mortar and brick lined the sidewalks. Time and nature had chipped away at the posture of the buildings and their occupants, leaving everything on the street broken. The debris fell to join the litter in the gutter below as the people went on living.

Louis Stokes peered out the window. Heat rose from the streets as the underground steam system carried heat to those who could afford it. The rain did its best to beat it back down. Even the weather knew such luxuries didn’t belong here. But still it rose and drifted away, refusing to be confined to the city’s underbelly. Louis smiled.

Soon he would rise. He would rise and drift away with his family. This building had been home for many years and he would abandon it as if he had never set foot inside.

He wasn’t proud of what he had done, but pride was a stupid thing. Pride had kept his family in the slums for far too long. Pride had robbed him of enrichment too often. While others he knew had embraced the opportunities offered to the desperate, he had refused. Opportunity rolled into the neighborhood in long black cars. It found takers in the narrow alleyways. It paid well if you didn’t cling to honesty as a principle. He had always waved it off, choosing to lead a guilt-free life in squalor.

That had changed and his actions may weigh on his conscious, but his family’s happiness would balance that weight. They would be happy. They would be safe. His son and daughter would grow up without the temptation of the “opportunities” that came with living in the forgotten streets.

The life he had always promised them was only a month away. No more rats. No more heatless winters fighting the cold with threadbare blankets and clothing. He’d take them away from all of this. He’d give them new blankets.

Quitting his job would come next. Storming out of the New Yorker Hotel would be fitting. Leaving his mop and bucket in the middle of the lobby in hopes that some rich snob would trip over the handle could be his final statement. But, this could not happen. Not with what he had done. A month would be enough, he had decided. One month’s time would be enough to leave without suspicion. At that point he would just stop showing up. There would be no questions. No one would inquire about him. It would be no trouble for his employer to find another able-bodied immigrant to fill his position behind the broom handle.

It would be difficult to work for the next month. How could he, now a man of means, toil for the benefit of others as they passed him by without a word or a wave? The thought drew out a contempt in him he had never felt before. No matter how menial it had been, he had always been thankful for the job. But, now, with the money stashed in the tenement wall, he could not stomach the idea of returning to the floors of the hotel.

Nevertheless, he would carry on. Just for one more month. He would carry on for his family. Fortune had finally smiled on him. It had stepped out of the shadows one night on his way home, addressed him by name and offered him freedom from the penniless life he had lived.

The man had smiled and reassured him that it would be easy and rewarding. The man was right. It had been rewarding.

Louis smiled as he counted the money once more in his head then pictured the stash in the apartment wall. He’d never seen so many bills.

And, it had been easy. No one tended the door of suite 3327—just like the man had said. Like he had every day before then, and like he would every day for the next month, Louis entered the room and collected the trash from the apartment. No one had seen him add the papers to the pail.

Letter and number combinations marked each folder. Without looking, he shook them into the pail, wishing to remain ignorant of what he stole. If asked, he wanted to honestly say he knew nothing about missing files. The trash bin full of scattered pages, he emptied the room’s wastebasket on top and left. Guilt hit him as the door closed, but it was too late. The guilt faded when the man handed him the money—enough to leave the neighborhood, and the city, forever.

Rain beat against the window in front of him. He wouldn’t miss this view—litter-strewn streets, cracked walls and the shuffling of the depressed immigrants that lined the streets. Even now, with the streets quiet and still, a sense of sadness paced the sidewalks. Hopes and dreams died on those streets—perhaps that’s why they were so still. Tired men and women worked to exhaustion, curled up inside their dilapidated apartments and rested what they could until the time came to return to the factories, the docks or the service of others the next day. The streets below died at night because no one could stand any longer.

But, something did move. It appeared as a shadow within a shadow, but the motion caught his eye. For a moment he doubted that he had seen anything. The day’s excitement had exhausted him and only his dreams had kept him awake this late.

Again the shadow crept along the street and Louis, now certain it wasn’t his imagination, stared. Dressed in darkness, a man darted from the basement entrance of Louis’s building and moved across the street. Even when he stepped into the light he seemed a shadow—cloaked in black, it moved like fluid hovering above the surface of the ground.

Louis Stokes watched it move. It dashed over a manhole cover without disturbing the steam. It was not until the figure moved up the wall of the adjacent building that Louis returned to the belief that exhaustion produced the sight. No man could accomplish that feat. There couldn’t be anything there.

A strike of lightning blew up the night for several seconds. The harsh silhouette against the sky revealed the mysterious shadow to be a man with his hands raised above his head.

Thunder followed and Louis felt its voice in the floor of the building. The air splitting clap had been close and the walls rattled even after the boom had faded. A picture of his wife’s mother fell from the wall and pulled his attention away from the window. When he turned back, the shadow was gone.

The walls did not stop shaking. Rather than fading, the intensity grew. The floor continued to vibrate. It should have faded. The thunder had passed. Pans rattled from their shelves in the kitchen and crashed to the floor. Under his feet, the bare wood boards began to bounce and he found himself holding the windowsill for balance.

Plaster cracked and dropped, erupting in plumes of white dust and smoke as it burst on the floor. The whole building came alive with tremors. Hidden supports creaked. Floorboards popped from their nails.

He looked back out the window expecting to see each tenement on the street shaking. But, each sat quiet and still, just as before. Glass sprayed into the apartment as the thin windowpane exploded. He threw up his arms to protect his face. The shards tore into his skin.

Beneath his feet, the floor moved with violent fits. Walking was difficult, but he had to reach his family. Waking to the now violent thrusts of the building had caused the children to cry and his wife to call out. The floor of his apartment swayed like the deck of a ship in heavy seas and threw him to the ground. Further and further, with each sway it moved back and forth in a rhythm that grew in intensity until he wondered how the building could possibly stand.

His wife screamed. The rise and fall of the boards made reaching her all but impossible. Yet, he found her and held her. With her in his arms, he found the children and he apologized through tears. He caused this. Fate had come masked as fortune and he embraced it like a fool. For the love of his family, he doomed them all.

The building collapsed.

1
A Shocking Visitor

As the sun crested the skyline of the great city, the drapes withdrew and allowed the rays of natural light into the room. Inching across the modest bedroom, the sun crept over antique furniture that had once graced the quarters of kings, beamed over a chest that had been carried by the Pilgrims in their quest for religious freedom, and glanced off a mirror worthy of Narcissus himself. Daylight met the sleeper’s eyes and Damian Stockwell’s marvelous body reacted immediately by slowing the production of melatonin and rousing him from his well-deserved slumber. The mighty adventurer awoke to an empty room.

Servos, not a servant, had drawn back the curtains. Tiny motors housed in the wall reacted when a lens detected the light and determined optimum waking conditions. Servomotors such as these were at the forefront of both military and window treatment technology and were far more reliable, and cleaner, than a rooster.

Employed by America’s armed forces, the electric motors would serve to protect the lives of soldiers. Here, in his grand bedchamber, they served to maintain what one of the world’s foremost minds knew to be man’s diurnal cycle. Damian was a predator. Evil was his prey. To stay at his most lethal, he needed rest. Rest was a weapon against evil and evil was growing.

He took account of the world’s known evils as he rose from the bed. Eliminating the petty and preposterous, there stood one threat above all others that concerned him. It had been customary for such evils to work in secret, hiding their sinister desires behind shrouds of mystery. But, the world was changing. Evil, no longer satisfied with shadows and secrecy, paraded in the streets of Berlin. New appearances had been adopted and new names given, but evil was evil and the cancer grew unchecked in Europe.

Two days ago it had spread to Poland.

These current events weighed on Stockwell’s reputed mind as he began his morning routine. Pitting muscle against muscle, he roused his notable strength in a series of controlled bursts. The massive mirror sat in the room not for vanity, but for the practice of this exercise he referred to as Damnamic Tension. As he was the only person he knew of that could best him physically, proper form was essential to prevent injury. Performed properly, five minutes of Damnamic Tension was the equivalent of an hour in the weight room and two minutes in a sauna.

Fifteen minutes later, he bathed and dressed to perfection before heading downstairs for his morning meal.

•••

The valet set about the kitchen preparing breakfast. Bertrand moved from appliance to appliance gathering the day’s greatest meal. As each device sounded its task accomplished, he plated the items and set them on the table next to the morning editions of several international papers. Eggs, bacon, toast and a fresh serving of fruit accompanied the urn of coffee.

Stockwell entered the kitchen, inhaled and sighed with delight at the aroma of the breakfast. “Good morning, Bertrand.”

“Bonjour, monsieur.”

“Anything of note in the papers this morning?”

“Oui. It’s war. England and France have both declared it. It’s in all of the papers.”

A curt squeak sounded as Stockwell drew a chair from the table, grabbed the paper from the top of the stack and sat down to breakfast. “And us?”

“Non. There is no news of that.”

Despite having witnessed it several times, Bertrand marveled at the speed with which his employer digested the printed medium. Reading a paper line by line would exhaust a man, his employer had once told him. Instead, one must consume entire articles at a glance and trust one’s own mind to identify the most pertinent information. The Frenchman turned to the counter and grabbed a bowl of cream. When he turned back, Damian had moved on to the second paper.

“You’re right. There’s no declaration from us.” The great man sighed, “It is a sad day to be an American, my friend.”

“Why do you wish for war, monsieur?”

“I wish for an end to war. That’s why we should visit upon evil the forces of just and good and bombs and explosives. Rarely has the world seen an evil such as this frothing madman Hitler. His motives have never been well hidden. He makes no secret of his dreams for world conquest. The world has ignored the obvious for too long. And now the good people of Poland must pay for our ignorance.”

“You tried to warn them.”

Stockwell nodded. “My speech at the Palace of Nations fell on deaf ears. It was easier for the world to pretend that feeding this maniac his wants would sate him. He hungers for the world, not scraps. And now the world will suffer for it.”

Stockwell grabbed another paper. “God bless the British. Their courage outweighs our own this day.”

“It is not like you to speak well of the British.” Bertrand topped off Stockwell’s coffee and moved to the sink. “I thought you were still sore at them for the invasion.”

Stockwell shrugged, “Can we really blame them for wanting America back? I don’t think so. I can no longer call them my enemy. Not when they have the gumption to stand against a dictator such as this. Any man that would stand against such evil is a man I would call my friend.”

Static popped through the air as Bertrand reached for the faucet. A blue arc leapt from the metal to his outstretched finger. The Frenchman hissed and snapped his hand back.

“What is it, Bertrand?”

“Just a shock, monsieur.” Bertrand shook his hand to clear the surprise. “Other nations will follow into the war. Canada has already committed men.”

“I don’t trust Canadians.”

“But you just said that any … “

“Yeah, but Canada is just too … close. I don’t really trust them being all up there above us.”

“Sir, they have been a tremendous ally in the past.”

“Allies don’t burn White Houses.”

“That was a century ago.”

“Exactly. They need to stay up there where I can see them. If they ever want to come warm themselves on this side of the border—well, that’s why there’s War Plan Red.” Stockwell turned his attention to his plate and ate as he thought.

“What is War Plan Red, monsieur?”

“How do you know about War Plan Red?”

“You just … “‘

“I didn’t.”

“But, you …”

“No.”

“I … “

Stockwell shook his head and chewed his bacon.

“Oui, monsieur.” Bertrand saw no point in arguing and turned his attention to the toaster just as the slices popped up through the top of the appliance. With butter tray in hand, he reached for the toasted bread. A blue spark leapt from the steel toaster to his fingertips. He pulled his hand back with a start, “Merde!”

Stockwell chuckled. “What is it this time, my friend? Did the toaster bite you?”

“Non, it … never mind.” Bertrand pulled the bread from the toaster and buttered each slice.

“This war is going to happen with or without us, Bertrand. It would be a much better war with us. We’ve seen what happens when we don’t get involved. Damn that Franco.”

“You cannot blame yourself for Spain. You did what you could.”

“But, it wasn’t enough. Sadly for the world there is only one me. And because of that, and the League’s ignorance, Spain is now under the control of a dictator. And, you know what, Bertrand? It wouldn’t surprise me if those Nazis were a part of it. I’ve always suspected they were helping the opposition. Now, with Franco in power, they have one less nation to oppose them.”

Bertrand picked up the plate of toast and strode back to the table. He set the plate in front of Stockwell. “You’ve said nothing of France’s declaration.”

Damian nodded, “I’m pleased. I half figured your countrymen would just sit behind their,” Stockwell laughed, “Maginot line and stick their tongues out at the Germans.”

“Laugh all you want, monsieur. The Maginot line will stop the Germans.”

“Only the ones in Germany, my friend.”

Bertrand stiffened his lip and grabbed the butter from the counter to place it back in the fridge. Several large blue sparks bolted from the stainless steel handle of the Frigidaire and ran the length of his arm. Glass shattered and butter splattered as the plate hit the floor. Bertrand yelped in French before dropping to his knees and gasping, “Mon Dieu.”

Stockwell stood and laughed. “Maybe you’re dragging your feet too much today, Bertrand.”

The laugh was deep and, usually, infectious, but Bertrand could not find the humor. He gasped for breath.

Genuine concern entered Stockwell’s laugh, “Are you okay?”

Hair stood on end along the length of his arm. The whole appendage tingled. Okay? He wasn’t sure, but he nodded. “Oui, I think so.”

“Good. Then why don’t you answer the door?” Stockwell returned to the paper.

“Monsieur?”

A musical chime rang from each corner of the old brownstone home signaling a presence at the front door.

The mighty adventurer possessed a great many talents. Had he added prognostication to the list? Perhaps he had discovered the secret in some ancient text or unlocked the full potential of the human mind during his surgical studies. Bertrand gave Damian a puzzled look and thought of a beautiful insult to see if perhaps the man could read minds as well. But his employer’s attention remained focused on the paper in front of him. Perhaps it was the shocks. Yes, the shocks had confused him. Obviously, the bell must have rung before and he had not heard it. Bertrand straightened his tie and hurried to the door.

The glorious chimes rang throughout the house as he approached the bottom floor. Each note sounded individually but hung in the air to form a beautiful choral echo. A third, or perhaps the fourth, ring signaled the impatience of the caller and Bertrand quickened his step. A fourth or fifth ring raised his ire and he grabbed the large brass doorknob with the intent of displaying his displeasure.

Calling the current that flowed through his arm a shock would be misleading. There was no pop from a sudden discharge. There was no snap or blue arc as there had been before. Electricity flowed through his arm and his muscles seized their grip on the door. He could not call out. He could not release the doorknob. Bertrand’s teeth were inseparable.

As if someone had flicked a switch, the current ended. Bertrand released the doorknob and fell back to the floor. He yelled French slurs at the closed door while trying to rub feeling back into his arm.

Laughter poured through the door—a giddy laugh, high pitched and fighting for breath from its heartiness. At the top of the stairs, Stockwell clapped and chuckled. A final laugh came through the door and threatened to drain the weak voice of its life. It was strained and Bertrand could tell whoever it might be was bent over slapping his knee. It faded only slightly before Bertrand heard an old voice say, “Hee hee. That’ll goose ya.”

Confused, Bertrand looked back to Damian.

“Bertrand, pick yourself up and show Dr. Tesla inside.”

2
Science of the Mad

Old masters and emerging artists hung on the wall of Damian’s lounge. To many, the collection seemed eclectic, but to the more observant eye, one could tell that each painting had been selected not for aesthetics but for control. Only a handful of paintings were visible from each seat in the room and each guest was directed to sit in a location that best suited the meeting.

If he wished to put the guest as ease, Stockwell would seat the guest in view of the landscapes. If he wanted the guest to be kept off balance, they would be seated adjacent the Picasso. He assured intimidation when they faced the massive portrait of himself. It never failed.

Damian sat beneath the landscapes and waited for his guest as Bertrand mustered the courage to try the doorknob again. He heard the large front door close and the faint sounds of a cordial, if somewhat forced, greeting. Moments later, Bertrand led an older man with a satchel into the lounge and Damian rose from his chair with a large smile on his face. “Nikola, my old friend.”

The visitor made his way across the room and returned the smile. “Dam, it’s good to see you,” the septuagenarian said as he stretched out his hand.

Stockwell waved off the offered hand and chuckled, “Now, doctor, I know how you are about shaking hands. But, it is good to see you. I don’t believe you’ve met Bertrand. He is a good and loyal friend.”

“Well, I suspect any associate of yours would be. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Bertrand.” Tesla offered his hand to the valet.

Bertrand shook the elder man’s hand and dropped to his knees. His teeth chattered, but he did not release the grip.

Tesla laughed, “Hee hee, that’ll goose ya.” He released the Frenchman’s hand.

Stockwell laughed as Bertrand gasped for breath.

Nikola removed a powerful joy buzzer from his palm and set the hand on Bertrand’s shoulder. He helped the stunned valet to his feet. “It’s good to meet you, Bertrand.”

Once on his feet and in control of his breathing, Bertrand sneered and excused himself from the room. He pulled the door closed behind him but left it slightly ajar.

“Oh, Bertrand.”

The valet stuck his head back in the room. The sneer had not left his face.

Stockwell gestured to the panel door, “All the way, if you will.”

Reluctant, but obedient, Bertrand shut the door by grabbing the panel and not the doorknob.

Nikola gave Damian a puzzled look, “What’s with him?”

“My good doctor, I think you’ve made my valet afraid of doorknobs.”

“That was not my intent.”

“Never mind Bertrand. He doesn’t have much of a sense of humor. I fear it was lost on his crossing from Marseilles.”

“Ah, so that’s all. I worried that I had miscalculated the voltage.”

Damian laughed again. “Forget the marvels you’ve created; history will remember you as a practical joker.” Stockwell gestured to an open chair. “What brings you here, Nikola?”

The elderly scientist sat across from Damian and placed the satchel at his feet. More than age and ashen skin caused the grave look that overtook the man’s face. “It’s not good, my friend. I am afraid that I am in need of your help.”

Nodding, Stockwell sat back in his seat. Science was not the concern. Though he had worked with the doctor before, it had always been at Damian’s pleasure. There was simply no mind in the world sharper than the one that sat before him. Even behind the old and tired eyes, Nikola Tesla’s brain pulsed with brilliance. This man had delivered the future to the world. If Dr. Tesla was in need of help, it was a problem that required more than an agile mind to solve.

The doctor continued, “Several months ago, there was a break in at my apartment. A great deal of research was stolen. Once I was able to take account of what was taken—well, I fear how the plans could be used.”

“You’re not saying it was Edison, are you?”

“Of course not, that contemptible man is dead.”

“You’re not saying it was Edison’s ghost, are you?”

“My friend. I am not so paranoid. Our rivalry died with him.”

“Just checking. Still, it could be a rival. There’s no shortage of men who would like to stand on the shoulders of your genius.”

“Damian, you’re too kind. I know that you’ve seen the stories they print about me. They say I’ve lost my mind. Eccentric, they say. My rivals have lost respect for me.”

“In my experience, you can’t believe everything they say in the papers. You should read what they print about me.”

“True. But their lies do not make rivals out of doubters.”

“Have you any idea who may be behind the theft?”

“I fear that it can only be the forces of evil.”

Stockwell’s teeth clenched, “Those are the forces I hate the most.”

“That is why I came. My friend, no one is more an enemy of evil than you. You must help me.”

It was not a plea. Nikola didn’t deal in emotion, only fact. Since arriving he had sat in the chair with perfect posture and his hands crossed in his lap. He did not rock. He did not fidget. He simply presented the facts of the situation. If Stockwell did not help, the world would be in peril. There was no telling what secrets of the universe the doctor had unlocked in his research. These secrets in the hands of evil made Stockwell sick.

Damian leaned forward in his chair. “You say this occurred several months ago. But, you’re just coming to me now.”

Tesla sighed. “I went to the FBI first. They assured me they could handle the situation. But, now … I don’t know. I fear I have put too much trust in Mr. Hoover.”

“I have nothing but respect for the FBI. Their methods may require a little too much paperwork but those are our boys in the bureau and they do good work.”

“Perhaps. But, I fear they have also lost faith in me and in my credibility. And, we are running out of time. You’ve heard the news about the war?”

“Of course.”

“This will be a war unlike any other. More than any in history, it will be fought with the secrets of science. One of the items stolen from my lab has the means to make an army unstoppable. It is called the Teleforce.”

“What is it?”

“The fools in the press have mistakenly called it a Peace Ray.”

“What is it really?”

“A death ray.”

“Neat!”

“It can knock squadrons of aircraft from the sky, send fleets of ships to the ocean floor and armies of men to the great beyond. I built it to guarantee peace and now it lies in the hands of men that would use it to project their will upon the world.”

“How do you know this?”

The doctor reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a newspaper clipping that had been folded with great care and precision. He handed the article to Damian. “They have already killed once to keep their secrets.”

Damian scanned the article. It detailed the collapse of a tenement several months prior. All occupants had been killed.

“I don’t understand. City engineers said it was due to flooding. I dare say that not even you can control the weather.”

“Bah. Controlling the weather is quite simple if one has the means. But, this was not a result of the weather. It was an earthquake.”

“If it was an earthquake, the entire block would have been damaged. The entire island would have felt its effects.”

“It was centralized to the building. Targeted, if you will.”

Stockwell laughed. He did not want to join the legion of newspapermen and bitter rivals that sought to find madness in the aging scientist but, in a rare moment, he could not help himself. “No man can aim an earthquake like a weapon.”

Nikola reached into his satchel and withdrew a small black box with a single, unlabeled button. The doctor pressed the button and nothing happened.

Once again in control of his laughter, Damian began to apologize. It had been an insult to laugh at his old friend. The apology was cut short by a small rumble. Slight at first, he wondered if the tremor was his imagination. But, a tremble grew beneath his feet and the hardwood floor began to vibrate. The shaking soon worked its way to his seat. He stood and gazed around the room as the art on the walls began to bounce. The crystal on the drink cart began to jingle as the undulations worked their way through the entire building.

Violent shudders rocked the brownstone. Damian grabbed Tesla by the elbow and tried to pull him to the relative safety of a doorframe.

The old man resisted and pressed the button again. The shudders stopped. The tremors ceased. The building was still.

Stockwell stared at his old friend for a moment before a broad smile stretched across his handsome face. “Had you been born in the past you surely would have been tried as a witch, my friend.”

Tesla handed him the box. “You’ll find the device attached to a girder in your garage. It simply needs to be tuned to the resonant frequency of the structure and, within minutes, that structure will collapse.”

The doctor picked up his satchel. “The secret door to your garage is also susceptible to a rather simplistic frequency scanner. It opened for me in seconds. You may want to consider a modulator for increased security. Thank you for your help, old friend. Once again the world rests in your capable hands. I’m just sorry that I am the cause of its peril.”

Nikola Tesla moved toward to the door and paused. “Grayson, I believe, is the agent’s name. If the FBI has learned anything, he would be the man to ask.”

Without another word, Dr. Tesla left through the door. Stockwell could only stare at the remote in his hand.

Bertrand’s shaken voice drifted up from the base of the stairwell as the doctor spoke and explained in a calm voice that there was no reason to panic. The weak voice thanked Bertrand for the hospitality.

There was a scream.

“Hee hee, that’ll goose ya,” said Tesla as he closed the door.

3
A Federal Case

Everyone loved Marty Cunningham. And why shouldn’t they? He was the all-American kid. A former star athlete and voted most likely to succeed, he had a swagger that the young ladies loved but one the older ladies took no offense to. Nothing but kind words and broad smiles ever passed his lips. Broadcast engineers had once tried to record the sound of his smile, but audiences dismissed the “gleam” as supernaturally pleasant and therefore unbelievable.

His immaculate hair caught the sunlight, gave it a wink, and cast it back into the world as he strolled down the street. Sure, the letterman jacket stretched a little tighter across his chest than it had the year he had thrown the winning touchdown in the big game, but it, and he, had managed to stay in shape despite the years.

A boisterous laugh, one that would never dare be so rude as to be infectious, escaped from his perfect lips as he chatted with a produce vendor.

“It looks like a football,” said Marty.

“I don’t know that it does.”

“Sure it does,” again the pleasant laugh rang out big and bold. Marty picked up the cantaloupe and dropped back into the street as if he had received the melon from the snap.

A few pedestrians gasped as a car missed striking him by mere inches. The merchant followed to the edge of the curb, reaching for the produce.

“Did I ever tell you how I won the big game?”

“I’ve never met you.”

“It was the final play. They were coming at me from all sides. My defensemen were bruised and beaten. They did what they could to hold them off, but they were too big. Men the size of boulders came crashing at me.” Marty danced in the street, reliving every dodge and feint of that legendary day.

Horns blared at his presence in the road.

“The roar of the crowd was deafening. They had always been on my side and I couldn’t let them down.”

Traffic slowed as Marty weaved in and out of imaginary players. A crowd gathered on the sidewalk and began to yell.

A woman pleaded with her husband, “He’s going to get hit.”

The husband stepped into the street. “Get out of the road, you fool.”

Marty twirled around him and continued the reenactment. “There were only seconds left. Only a touchdown would win us the game. I was our only hope. But, I was surrounded. Then I spotted, no, not spotted, sensed an open receiver.” Marty spotted a young boy on the sidewalk standing idly by a shop window. “Go long! Go long!”

Startled, the boy’s eyes snapped up and saw Cunningham waving him down the sidewalk. The little scamp ran down the street waving his arms.

“Don’t …” the merchant spoke too late.

Marty heaved the produce into the air towards the waiting arms of the boy that was most likely expecting a football.

The hard-skinned fruit produced a thud as it slammed into the boy’s chest and drove the child to the ground. A woman shrieked and a crowd rushed to the fallen boy’s side. The child disappeared amid a mass of concerned pedestrians. Even the traffic horns became silent.

Marty stepped back onto the curb and boomed in his loudest baritone, “And …”

The crowd eased back as the child stood. They began to applaud his recovery as if he had been struck down on the playing field itself.

Though it wobbled, the young boy raised his hand. The melon was still in his grip.

“Touchdown!”

A smile grew across the child’s face. Relieved, the crowd patted the boy on the back and the applause grew.

Yes, everyone loved Marty.

The boy caught his breath and jogged the fruit over to Cunningham.

Marty rustled the boy’s hair and took the cantaloupe. “Nice catch, squirt.”

The boy smiled and ran off.

He handed the melon back to the stunned vendor. “It was just like that.”

It was rare that Stockwell employed the same disguise twice, but the all-American Cunningham had never let him down. Blending into a crowd to disappear was easy enough, but there wasn’t always a crowd. Cunningham’s congenial nature and love of attention never ceased to draw people to him, making it easier for Stockwell to disappear.

Damian swaggered as Cunningham down the sidewalk. He smiled at everyone and offered a “good game” to the crowd that had witnessed the reenactment. When they turned and walked away, he followed and blended into the crowd he had just created.

The Cunningham costume served another purpose. Often when following someone, that someone was a stranger and there was little need for a dramatic disguise. However, he and his mark had met before. And when Special Agent Grayson had turned down the sparsely populated street, there was a chance he could be spotted—even through the clever Cunningham disguise. He had trailed the agent all morning and was not about to lose him now.

Stockwell had nothing but respect for the men of the bureau. Their cause and his own were the same, but the FBI’s rules were limiting and their red tape frustrated him. Many times he and Grayson were working to solve the same case. Grayson was a smart man, but, too often, procedure had hindered him and Stockwell proceeded to solve the mystery or punch the villain first. Envy, Stockwell knew, caused Grayson to speak with such heavy sarcasm.

“Don’t you think you’re a little old to be playing high school hero?” Grayson leaned against the wall and puffed on a cigarette as Stockwell rounded the corner.

“You’ve always been a difficult tail, Grayson. When did you spot me?”

“Back on fifth when you knocked that kid out with the watermelon.”

“He should have kept his eye on the ball.”

“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble squeezing into that jacket just to follow me around. Did you ever think asking me what you wanted to know would be easier?”

“Seems a little unconventional but we could try that. Do you need to call the office and ask for permission to talk to me first?”

Grayson pushed himself away from the wall and threw the cigarette down with a snap. “We have rules for a reason, Dam.”

“Evil doesn’t wait for permission, Tom.”

“Come on. My exciting destination for the day is the cleaners. You can follow me there if you lose the high school gear.” Grayson started walking.

Stockwell pulled the letterman jacket off and shed the Marty Cunningham persona and swagger as he kept pace with the agent. What remained of the crowd he had drawn soon dissipated and the two were left all but alone on the street.

“The cleaners?”

“The exciting life of the federal agent. So, you gonna ask me something that I’ll pretend I don’t know the answer to or not?”

Stockwell chuckled. Grayson was a good man and a solid agent but a terrible liar. “Sure, I’ll ask it. What do you know about death rays?”

It was Grayson’s turn to laugh. “Only what I’ve seen in those science fiction rags. But it sounds like you’ve been talking to Tesla.”

“He’s concerned.”

“There isn’t any death ray, Dam. Just the blathering of a crazy old man.”

“You don’t say?”

“That old coot kept the department busy for months chasing some bit of make believe.”

“You don’t think it’s real?”

“Sure, sure it’s real. Just like the inviso-ray, the time machine and little green men from Mars.”

“Why would he lie?”

“Who knows? Attention? A once-great going crazy on his way out wants to feel important again?”

“So, you’ve done nothing?”

“Hardly. We’ve wasted a lot of man-hours on it. Hoover hears there might be a functioning death ray so we look for a death ray. We had an entire field office tracking down leads for months. And you know what we discovered? The old man thinks he’s married to a bird.”

Stockwell nodded. Tesla’s obsession with pigeons concerned him. He had sat with him in the park many a day as the scientist introduced him to each of his “girls.” Damian had decided to dismiss it as a harmless eccentricity, but he worried for his old friend. “So the official word is ‘case closed’?”

“Nah, the official word is we’re ‘looking into it.’ But, the truth is we’re not looking that hard. We’ve got a junior agent on the case just to make the old man happy. But the bureau’s got bigger problems. Real problems. War problems.”

“We’re not in the war.”

Grayson stopped and looked around. He leaned in close and spoke in a hushed and hurried tone. “You don’t think so, pal? The war’s here, like it or not.”

Stockwell said nothing. He knew the slip was intentional and designed to peak his interest.

Grayson glanced down the street. “There’s a diner. And, it’s about time for my federally mandated coffee break. You’re buying, second richest man in the world.”

•••

The cafe was all but empty but the men still chose the booth furthest from the door. Course instruction for one and experience for the other caused each man to make a move for the seat against the wall. Stockwell slipped under Grayson as he tried to sit down, forcing the agent to take the seat with his back to the door.

An attractive blonde waitress took their order with a smile and moved off to the kitchen to get two cups of coffee. Both men smiled as they watched her walk away to make sure she wasn’t a threat.

They kept the talk light until she returned with the coffee. Stockwell asked about a wife Grayson didn’t have and Grayson inquired about Bertrand as if the employer/employee relationship was a cover for something more. As they spoke, they smiled as if they didn’t want to punch one another.

Once the coffee had been served and the waitress stepped out of sight, Grayson leaned across the table and spoke. “I don’t like telling you this; I don’t like telling you anything, but Hoover knows you get results and I was told if I bumped into you in the course of my investigation to share some information and invite you to play. That I don’t like. But, what’s coming our way, well, I like even less.”

Stockwell waved the agent on.

“The enemy has landed, Dam. We’ve got bona fide Kraut saboteurs running around the East Coast, and probably Japs in the west, looking to start blowing things up.”

“You’ve run out of gangsters so now you’re making up spies?”

“I wish that were the case. We have a reliable source that says that German commandos landed in Florida and then disappeared.”

Stockwell’s voice remained calm and even, but the perceptible ear could hear the ceramic handle of the coffee mug begin to crack under the strength of Damian’s grip.

“And who knows how long it’s been going on. Germans landing in secret. Blending in. Waiting to strike. You want to be helpful? You stop looking for ray guns and start looking for Nazis. You find any you let us know.”

“If I see anything, I’ll be sure to file a report.”

“Don’t joke, Dam. The war is here. On our shores. And we’re the front line. The entire FBI has been repurposed to fight this invisible enemy. We could really use your help with this.”

Stockwell nodded. “I’ll look into it, but I’m not giving up on Nikola.”

“Suit yourself. My time is too valuable to waste chasing fiction, but I guess you rich folk don’t know what it’s like to work for a living.”

“Some things are worth more than money, Grayson. A true friend is one of those things. You and the department may have written off Nikola as a kook, but I’ve seen what he can do. That power in the wrong hands … it frightens even someone as fearless as myself.”

Grayson shrugged.

“That being said, this country is my greatest friend and I don’t like the idea of foreign hordes blowing pieces of it up. Does the bureau have any idea where these spies might hide?”

Grayson played with the spoon in his coffee and shook his head, “We chased down a couple of leads but … they could be anywhere.”

Frustration built up inside of him. Calm was an ally in the fight against injustice. Anger, if left unfocused, could jeopardize everything. Stockwell took several slow breaths before he continued. “Grayson. Let’s say that, hypothetically, I wanted to punch a Nazi now. Do you know where I could find one?”

“Sure. They’re not even hiding. They’re parading through the streets. The German American Bund.”

“Bund?”

“Bund.”

“I don’t think you’re saying that right.”

“No, it’s right.”

“It sounds funny. Like you’re trying to say bun and missing.”

“It means family or something in Kraut. They’ve got an office in town and everything. They act like they’re the damn Boy Scouts. But, sure enough, they’ve got that stupid crooked cross flying right below the stars and stripes.”

Damian smiled. “You don’t say.”

“Sure.”

“And you don’t think they’re involved? Abetting? Colluding? Nothing?”

Grayson shook his head again. “No.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Dam, secret plans are made in secret places by secretive people. I don’t know how much you know about spies, but they don’t dress in brown and red uniforms and march down Fifth in a spy parade.”

“Seems a little careless to just dismiss them like that.”

“Yeah, Dam. We just dismissed it. A group of ten thousand people that support the ideals of our nation’s next enemy sets up a club and we don’t bother looking in to it.”

“You’re not very good at sarcasm, Grayson.”

“Of course we checked it out and we’re keeping an eye on things. We’ve got an agent on the case. So far we’ve learned nothing. They like having meetings. That’s about it. They’re not a threat.”

“Still, you wouldn’t mind if I checked it out?”

“Actually, I think you should stop by. I think their ideas would peak your interest.” Grayson took a sip of coffee.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, you should go and have a nice chat.” Grayson chuckled.

Damian said nothing.

“What?”

“I don’t like being played for a fool.”

“No fooling, Dam. We don’t think they’re a threat, but that doesn’t mean I like them. I’m not going to stop you from exercising your free speech.”

“And what if my speech involves face punching?”

“What am I? The Supreme Court? Go down there. Express yourself all over the place. If they are up to something, it could make them nervous enough to make a mistake.”

Stockwell stood from the booth and looked at the agent.

A silence grew between the two. It was a moment before Grayson spoke again, “You’re not expecting me to say ‘thank you’ or something are you?”

Stockwell laughed, “Of course not.”

“Good. Because you already bought me coffee and if I start using manners this might turn into a date.”

“I’m out of your league, Grayson.” Damian stood and dropped money for the coffee on the table. “Do you want to give me the name of this agent on the Tesla case so I don’t accidentally punch him when I see him?”

Grayson sipped on his coffee and shook his head, “No. That I want to be a surprise.”

“Fair enough. But you’ll know we’ve met when he shows up at the office with a black eye.”

Grayson laughed. It sounded of general amusement at first but evolved into a gritty sarcasm. “Not this one.”

“We’ll see. Enjoy the coffee, Grayson.” Stockwell walked to the door.

Grayson stopped him. “Dam. You know I hate you, but I respect you. You’re wasting your time humoring Tesla. The guy said he invented an earthquake machine, for crying out loud. Your friend’s a nut job.”

Stockwell nodded, thanked the waitress and left the diner.

4
Party of Evil

His patriotism, inflamed since his conversation with Grayson, drove his pace as he hurried down Seventy-Eighth Street. It looked no different than any other in the city; pedestrians bustled along its sidewalks, buildings teemed with citizens pursuing their happiness in one form or another. But, appearances were deceiving, for evil resided on Seventy-Eighth Street.

The building itself looked innocent enough but for the mark of shame that hung from over its door. An accounting firm, or possibly an insurance company, had probably occupied the building before the current owners had desecrated its innocence with the banner of evil that extended from the flagpole.

Two flags rolled gently in the late summer breeze. Old Glory’s stars and stripes flapped majestically in the fading evening light. White stripes separated the red as a symbol to tyranny that it will not be tolerated. Below it was an abomination. An angular red cross on a field of white held within it a golden swastika that rose like a pillar from the letters “av.” This was the flag of the German American Bund.

To see evil flying in such close proximity to a symbol of freedom and liberty enraged him further. He felt his red-blooded American blood rush to the surface of his skin to cool lest it should boil. His entrance was so swift that even the door sounded surprised when he flung it open. “My name is Damian Stockwell and I’m here to punch a Nazi.”

He had seen the German American Bund march in parades. They wore their brown shirts and goose-stepped to American music. He expected the office to be littered with Goebbles’ propaganda: banners, busts and flags. A room full of Nazi pretenders practicing their stiff armed salute would not have surprised him. He was not at all prepared for what he saw.

There were no banners, no oaths, not a single life-size statue of Hitler. There was only her. She was petite; like a mouse. A sexy, sexy mouse. She sat behind a desk far too large for her small frame.

Startled by his entrance, she jumped and knocked over a cup of coffee. Brown stains began to appear on her papers. She scrambled to move them out of the way while willing the growing pool to stop. “No. No, no, no.”

The coffee ran to the edge of the desk. Gasping, she kicked a nearby trashcan to catch the drip as she dabbed at the puddle with a rag and cursed to herself. She raced the spill to the edge and caught the coffee with the rag. One last wipe removed the threat. Satisfied that she had spared the carpet, she sighed and sat back down.

She spoke, “I’m sorry, sir.” Her voice was soft and musical and it soothed his riled patriotism. Her voice turned to a whisper as she motioned him closer. “They don’t like messes. They’re very fastidious.”

“I think you mean fascist.”

“Either way, they like things tidy.”

Stockwell mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

She resumed a normal tone and volume, “What was it you needed, sir?”

He tried to repeat his declaration, but this time it didn’t come out the same. “I … I’m here to here to punch a Nazi?”

She gasped, “Sir … “

“Not you. Like a real Nazi. One of the ugly ones … I mean …” He had shocked her. Damn his forthright ways. “Look. Um … Do you have any boy Nazis here I could punch?”

“Sir, there are no Nazis here. We are …” A blank look crossed her face and she began to rifle through the drawers of her desk while muttering to herself, “Where did I put that? I just had it. Ah.” She pulled a piece of paper from a drawer. “As I was saying, we are not Nazis, we are …” she scanned the paper. “Oh, we are Nazis. Hmm. Oh, there’s that part. But, we are Americans first.” She read from the page. “We believe, as George Washington did, that democracy will fail and that the German Chancellor and his Nazi, there it is again, Party have set forth a successful vision of the future, not only for Germany, but for the world.”

“Washington?!”

She placed the page back in the drawer and smiled at Damian. “What’s that?”

“You just called Washington a Nazi.”

Surprise took her and she reached back into the drawer and pulled the sheet out once more. “Oh, my.”

“You don’t seem like you belong here, miss.”

Her delightful smiled faded. She looked hurt and began to whisper again. “I’m trying. Please don’t tell them. It’s not easy to find work these days.”

Work was hard to come by for many. The depression had sucker punched the country like a coward a decade ago. As a captain of industry, Damian had done what he could to assuage the pain it caused, but he only had so many companies and could only hire so many employees. He raised his hand in an apology, “I understand. I won’t say anything. I think you’re doing a great job … um … fraulein.”

The smile returned as she leaned forward. “I’m not German. But thank you.”

Stockwell smiled back. A clock on the wall ticked out several seconds. It was the only sound in the room.

The girl behind the desk broke the silence first. “So … you wanted to punch a Nazi?”

Stockwell snapped out of the trance. “Yes, please.”

“I have to be honest, I’m not even sure how to check the appointment calendar for that.”

“Perhaps I can help.” There was nothing timid about the voice that boomed from the hallway door. It came from behind a smile and filled the room. “Thank you, Miss Jones. I’ll see to our guest.”

Stockwell turned to the speaker. The man’s smile was as broad as his shoulders and the cut of his suit accentuated them both. He crossed the room and stretched out his hand. “Hi, the name’s Starke. I believe you wanted to punch me.”

Damian shook his hand noting that it was roughly the size of his own. “Damian Stockwell. Yes. Yes, I do.”

Starke laughed. “Well, I get that a lot. It comes with the territory. I’m afraid our organization is a little misunderstood. You see, as Miss Jones told you, we are Americans and we only want what’s best for America.”

“Do you now, Fritz?”

“Yes. And it’s John, actually. I’m from Nebraska. Born and raised a red-blooded American.”

“What’s this crap about George Washington?”

“Oh, it’s not crap, sir. General Washington knew the truth. He knew that democracy was an experiment that would only lead to failure. He believed that the country needed a strong leader.”

Stockwell gestured to a framed picture of the German Chancellor. “We prefer that our leaders come from America, John.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more. We’re not proposing that Hitler be our leader.”

“Just what are you proposing?”

John Starke opened the door to the hallway beyond the lobby. “Come with me. There’s something I’d like you to see.”

Stockwell looked at the beautiful Miss Jones. She smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

Starke waved him towards the door. “If I can’t convince you, you can still punch me. How’s that?”

Stockwell strode across the office and into the hallway of the German American Bund headquarters. “Deal.”

Down the hallway, framed photographs of smiling families lined the walls. Families played in parks, groups marched in parades beneath the stars and stripes, and children smiled everywhere.

Starke led Damian down the length of the hallway and gestured to various photographs. “You see, Mr. Stockwell? This is what we’re all about. We’re a family. We believe in strong family values. The kind of values that created our nation. Right now, we see those values under attack from all sides. Special interest groups. Government bodies. Even radio. Do you have any idea what our children are learning as they sit glued to that chattering box in their living room? Have you ever heard Little Orphan Annie?”

“No.”

“It’s terrifying. We’re trying to get back to our roots. We encourage that our families get outside, play and explore their world. If things continue as they are, families held hostage by so called entertainment, we’re afraid they’ll atrophy from lack of movement.”

Stockwell agreed. “A strenuous life is a virtuous life.”

“Yes. That’s true.” Starke motioned down the hall to a large color rendering. “That’s one of the reasons for Camp Nordland.”

“What’s a nordland?”

“It means upstate. This is our camp facility in New Jersey. More than two hundred acres of activities and enjoyment for our member families.”

“Why didn’t you call it Camp Upstate?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nordland? Seems pretty un-American. You could have called it Camp Upstate or Camp Upstate New Jersey.”

“That’s a little long, don’t you think?”

Stockwell threw up his hands. “Well, you could shorten it with an acronym.”

“CUNJ?” Asked Starke.

“What’s CUNJ?” Asked Stockwell.

“The acronym for Camp Upstate New Jersey.”

“So you’re thinking about it.”

“No. It’s Camp Nordland. Many of our members are from the old country. We thought it was a nice way to honor that.”

“Maybe just a plaque would have worked?”

“We thought this was nicer.”

Damian sighed. “I don’t know. I’ve seen some pretty nice plaques.”

A door opened at the end of the hallway and a small blond man stepped into the corridor. Stockwell smiled. The man wore the brown shirt that Stockwell had expected. Finally, a proper Nazi to punch. The small man glanced at Stockwell with a look of contempt.

Starke turned, “What is it, Henderson?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir. You have an urgent call from your wife.”

“I’ll be right there.” He turned back to Damian. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stockwell, I hate to cut this short. I would like to invite you to one of our rallies. There you’ll see for yourself that all we want is a better America for everyone.” John Starke smiled and offered his hand.

Stockwell took the offered hand in his right and punched the man with his left.

“Arrgh.” Starke fell back against the wall with his left hand over his nose. He continued to smile when he removed his hand. “Well, a deal is a deal. Do you feel better?”

“Not really. Maybe next time you could wear the uniform.”

Starke nodded and touched his nose again. He turned his hand to Damian to show him the blood. “Have a nice day, Mr. Stockwell. I must take that call from my wife. Women, right? Who knows what ‘urgent’ could really mean?”

“Maybe she found your wedding ring.”

Starke pulled his hand away from his face and looked at the naked ring finger. His smile grew. “Let’s hope. Henderson will show you out.”

With this, the leader of the German American Bund walked to the office at the end of the hallway and disappeared behind the door.

The small blond man let him pass and closed the door before slinking down the hall to Damian. A scowl across his face told Stockwell that he did not have his boss’s good humor. The little man held up an arm toward the reception area. “This way, sir.”

Whether it was the brown shirt or the tone in Henderson’s voice, Stockwell found punching him much more satisfying. His fist drove the little man’s head into the wall and the tiny Nazi’s nose erupted with blood as his body slumped to the floor.

“God, yes. That felt much better.”

Having struck with half force, the small man would be out for no less than ten minutes. Stockwell moved down the hall without a sound and placed his ear against the door. There were no voices but a sound did come from the room. It was mechanical—a slow whir of gears followed by a thump. Silence followed.

5
Nest of the Eagle

There was hardly a villain in the world that didn’t have a secret room. Unless based in a remote jungle or volcano, they were a necessity. Secret rooms were very practical and fairly easy to construct. One only needed a room and an entrance that didn’t look like an entrance. The fact that there was a secret room, was not the secret. Its location was where the secret came in.

The problem for those secretive enough to hide one, however, was that Stockwell had encountered so many secret rooms in the course of his amazing adventures that finding them had become less than a hindrance. He always knew where to look. And he knew where to find the switch.

When hiding the release, even evil geniuses fell victim to their own motifs and fetishes. The Assassin of Atlantis had hidden his switch in an aquarium. The Mad Admiral of Madagascar hid his in a model ship. The Bastard Bibliophile hid his in a book which, even Stockwell admitted, made it a little difficult to find. The Bastard had a lot of books.

If the villain followed the ideals of another, the switch was almost always built into a representation of their idol. The Villain of Valhalla’s secret room was accessed by pulling back a horn on Odin’s helm. When Stockwell went up against the Prophets of Praipus, a Greek god of fertility and male genitalia, the switch was ridiculously easy to spot— uncomfortable and awkward to use, but easy to spot.

Knowing Starke’s devotion to Adolf Hitler, there was only one place the switch could be. Stockwell found the bust of the German Chancellor on the office desk. A small amount, a fingertip’s worth, of blood marked the mustache.

Stockwell smiled and moved towards the back wall of the office. He noted the housing for the mechanical door and placed his ear to the wall. He heard nothing. Apparently, Starke knew his secret rooms as well.

Damian reached into his pocket and pulled out a slender steel tube. The cylinder was roughly the size of a fountain pen but it held more than ink. Placing one end of the tube against the wall, he twisted a ring in the center of the device. There was a slight hiss as the motion pierced a pressurized capsule inside the tube and released a powerful green acid out the forward end. The masonry melted like wax as the tube sank through the wall and burrowed itself through to the other side. Stockwell removed a cap from the shaft and pulled a flexible tube from his waist pocket. One end went through the hole in the wall. The other end was split in two. He held one piece to his ear and the other to his eye. Miniaturized lenses inside the cylinder projected the interior of the room through the flexible tubing.

Hideaways were often decorated to honor the evil nature of one’s plan. In Starke’s case, the evil nature was clear and his offices showed his allegiance to the Nazi cause. But, there was little in the room other than a radio and a giant wire cage. With the slightest movements, Stockwell could turn the device to see other parts of the room. Starke was seated at the radio console. Only one other man, another brownshirt, was in the room. He could not locate the purpose of the cage.

Starke’s voice poured into Stockwell’s ear through the cylinder’s complex micromicrophone. “… yes, we have it, but …” The man paused for a moment. “He’s already been dealt with.” Starke dabbed at his bloody nose with a handkerchief before concluding the conversation. “Yes, I understand.”

A shriek rattled the amplifier in his ear and caused the microspeaker to pop and hiss. A streak of black blurred his vision as it crossed in front of the lens. The brownshirt flinched. Puzzled, Stockwell adjusted the device to get a broader view of the room.

The brownshirt’s eyes darted around the room as the shrieking grew louder. His eyes widened, his head was hunched and ready to duck into the safety of his shoulders. He flinched with every shriek.

What could he be afraid of? The man was huge. Bigger even than Starke or Stockwell himself.

Starke lifted his hand. A leather glove ran the length of his forearm. He snapped his fingers and the black streak shot toward him. A giant black eagle landed on the desk and took a small piece of food from Starke’s fingers. The shrieking ceased.

“Neat,” Stockwell muttered to himself, “I want an eagle.”

The bird shuffled back and forth on the desk as Starke listened through the headphones. The brownshirt backed away as the eagle moved closer to the edge and spread its wings as if it was about to take flight. It shrieked. The brownshirt jumped. Starke snapped his fingers again and the eagle backed away from the jumpy Nazi.

Starke said nothing more for a few moments before ending the conversation with a simple, “Javold.” He turned off the radio and looked at the brownshirt. “You’re making der Fuhrer nervous, Peters.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Starke stood and held out his arm. The massive bird leapt onto his wrist. “That’s a good Fuhrer.”

The bird snapped twice at the brownshirt. Its beak sent a click through the room and popped clearly in Damian’s ear.

In a moment of courage, Peters pointed his finger at the eagle, “Stop that!”

Der Fuhrer shrieked with such intensity that Stockwell had to pull the receiver from his ear until it stopped.

Starke added to the volume by yelling at the brownshirt, “No one tells der Fuhrer what to do!”

Peters straightened but backed away from the pair. “What are the orders?”

“Nothing changes. We continue with our work and wait for the twins.”

“Where are they now?”

“They’re on their way, that’s all you need to know.”

The brownshirt stiffened. Damian could tell that not being in command was an issue with the man. His fragile ego wore like a badge on his chest. Damian guessed his next words would be passively defiant.

“You didn’t tell them about Stockwell.”

“No, Peters, I didn’t.”

“His appearance here doesn’t worry you?”

Starke smiled. “Suspicion didn’t bring him here. He was just blowing off some steam.”

“Some steam?”

Starke rubbed his face. “Yes. If he shows up again, we’ll deal with it. Until then we have more pressing matters. They are concerned that we have been infiltrated.”

“Why do they say that?”

“They won’t say why they say that. They just say that we need to be sure of everyone.”

Peters shuffled and turned to the door.

“Where are you going, Peters?”

“I was going to go look for traitors. Out in the hall. I was going to go out in the hall and look for traitors.”

“Why are you so nervous?”

“I’m really not. It’s just that I know you’re not the traitor and I’m not the traitor and it’s just us in here, so I’d need to go out there to find them.”

Starke smiled, “It’s the girl, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You vouched for her. You said she checked out.”

Peters shuffled. “Mostly.”

“What do you mean, mostly?”

“Her references were somewhat dated. They checked out. Mostly.”

“This didn’t make you suspicious?”

“Everybody lies on their resume. I’ll bet she just needed the job.”

Starke’s face, so friendly in the hallway, twisted with condescension. “You’ll bet? You’ll bet? You’re willing to gamble the future of this nation?”

“No. I … I’ll take care of her.”

Starke raised his arm slightly and the eagle took flight. Molted feathers fell as it buzzed by Peters and lit on a perch inside the cage. Starke pulled the glove from his hand and slapped the Nazi across the face.

The smack of the leather was sharp in Stockwell’s ear.

Peters dropped to the ground.

“That’s for being stupid. We can have nothing to do with her disappearance.” Starke turned and looked across the room.

For a moment it felt as if he was looking directly into Stockwell’s device, but Damian knew that the lens was too small to be noticed.

“Take care of her when she leaves,” said Starke. “No trace.”

Stockwell shuffled as far left and right as the device would allow, but he could not see who Starke addressed. Whoever he spoke to, they made no audible reply. A shadow fell over the lens for a brief moment and Stockwell could see nothing. It cleared to reveal Starke and Peters walking towards the door.

“Let me take care of her. It’s … it’s my mistake.”

“No. It’s time our friend proved his worth.”

Damian removed and repacked the device as he stood and passed through the office. Without a sound, he shut the door behind him as the whir of an electric motor filled the room and the secret door began to open.

When he opened the door to the lobby, the timid secretary held up her fists and smiled with a questioning nod. This delightful woman—this was their big concern? Who could she be a threat to?

Stockwell raised his own fist and smiled back before crossing to the door. “You have a delightful evening, miss. Be safe out there.”

“You too, Mr. Stockwell.”

“Call me, Dam.” With this, Stockwell opened the door and stepped into the fading light on Seventy-Eighth Street.

6
Stroll of Shadows

Dark shadows cast upon the city brought darkness upon the streets before the sun had set. As the daylight faded, the city came alive with the electric glow of ambition. It wasn’t so long ago that darkness meant the end of the workday. Now industry and commerce chugged long into the night despite the fading of daylight.

Miss Jones stepped from the German American Bund office and locked the door behind her before dropping the keys in her purse. A breeze forced her to pull her coat tighter as she headed west along Eighty-Fifth Street towards the park.

She walked with a quick pace. Working at the German American Bund had made her uneasy. The people there seemed nice enough but she couldn’t help but feel they each had another side hidden beyond the lobby door. She suspected something behind their smiles. This suspicion was the whole reason she took the secretarial position in the first place. She hadn’t been there long, but her unease grew every day.

Whether it was that sense of uneasiness or the chill of the wind that quickened her pace wasn’t clear. She noticed herself moving faster than usual and forced herself to slow down as she turned left down Park Avenue and walked along the outskirts of Central Park.

There was no shortage of people on the Avenue. The crowds gave her comfort. Since starting work as the receptionist, she often felt alone. Visitors were common and arrived all hours of the day, but until Mr. Stockwell walked in, she had looked upon every one of them with either trepidation or pity. Those that visited were either believers in the cause or they were the angry and desperate looking for someone to blame for their current situation. The Nazi Party was always willing to help point fingers.

That one could find solace in blaming others—strangers at that—for their woes was a foreign concept to her. But, many were turning to the Bund for help while believing the projected image of family. With a deeper understanding of fascism, she felt she knew better and could never connect with the visitors. This left her feeling very much alone in the busy office. Milling among the crowd of shoppers and other commuters on the street made her feel welcomed.

She laughed to herself. Welcomed in a crowd of strangers. How sad was that? She shook her head. This job was going to drive her mad.

She stopped at Seventy-Ninth Street and looked across to the park. There would be less people there at this time of night and that caused her to hesitate. Ever since she had accepted the position, she had taken the long way around the park to return home. She could never confirm her suspicion, but each night she had felt as if she was being followed.

“Oh, you’re being silly,” she said to herself and crossed the street. “You’ve never been afraid of anything.” She clutched her purse a little tighter as she entered the park.

Her footsteps quickened again as she moved along the footpath. Several couples strolled along the trail but her gait overtook them. Absorbed in their own passion, they paid little mind to her as she passed. But for the hushed coos of the occasional couple, the park was silent. This silence gave volume to her suspicions and she stopped occasionally and turned. Her gaze always fell on the now moonlit Turtle Pond or into her handbag, but she was not interested in either.

No matter how much reassurance she gave herself, she felt as if she was being watched. An invisible gaze fell upon her shoulders. She had learned long ago to trust her instincts. Dismissing them now would be foolish. She pulled her purse closer and continued on her way.

Her destination was on the west side, but she turned north along the path towards Belvedere Castle. There was not a soul on the path. No lovers on the shore of the pond. No doting couples on the path to the Victorian folly’s overlook. She was alone. If someone was following her and meant her ill, she had given them the perfect opportunity to pounce.

Here, the sound of her footsteps carried further into the park. Each heel’s strike echoed off the cobblestone path. This rhythm gave her a baseline of sound. Disparate sounds became easier to detect. There were several such sounds. Most could be dismissed as the breeze, or the scurrying wildlife, but there was definitely someone behind her. She stopped and pulled her purse tight to her chest.

“Hello?” A quaver in her voice grew. “Is someone there?”

There was no answer.

Her voice toughened, “You can come on out, I know you’re there.”

•••

Despite his large frame and stature, when he wanted to disappear he did so completely. Shadows moved like blankets around him. The night enveloped him. He became all but invisible when he wished. This amazing woman had seen through the shroud of darkness and spotted him. No, not spotted him—she was facing the wrong way. She had sensed him. Damian smiled.

He stepped from the bushes, his arms outstretched to offer an apology. “Miss Jones, I can explain. I had reason to believe you were …”

She jumped and spun towards him. “Mr. Stockwell?”

“Yes. I …”

“I didn’t know you were there.” Her hand dove deep into her handbag.

“But, you just said, ‘I know you’re there.’ It sounded like you really meant it too.”

“I was talking to them.” She threw her purse to him revealing a nickel-plated revolver in her hand.

Stockwell’s amazing reflexes snatched the purse from the air. He looked at it in his hands, said “argh” and dropped it to the ground before looking back down the path. Three men had emerged from the sides of the trail. Clad from head to toe and masked in black, only their eyes broke through darkness of the night.

Damian turned back to the girl. She held the weapon level at the nearest figure. She didn’t tremble. She didn’t shake. She was perfect.

The three men stepped onto the cobblestone path. Their feet dropped silently on the stone. They made no sound.

“Who are they?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You knew they were there?”

“I knew you were in danger. Are they wearing pajamas?”

She didn’t answer him. Instead she addressed the three shadowy figures. “You have three seconds to leave before I shoot.”

“Yeah. Go home and put some clothes on, you perverts.”

“One.”

Stockwell watched as she pulled the hammer back. The click of the oiled mechanism made more noise than the three men.

“Two.” Her voice was firm.

She was nothing like she had been in the office earlier that day. The meek secretary from behind the desk was replaced by this confident woman behind a gun.

The shadows made no move, neither to flee nor attack. They were going to make her say three. Stockwell smiled. She was going to have to say three. He was enjoying this.

“Thr … “

There was a glint of light. Miss Jones cursed as it struck the gun with a spark and knocked it from her hand.

The figures rushed forward, reaching into their pajamas as they came.

“Get down!” Damian pushed Miss Jones to the ground as he reached for his own guns. The .45s flashed in the moonlight as he drew each across his chest. There was a spark as the Colt in his left hand intercepted another projectile.

The dim light of the park came alive with glints of steel as the pajama-clad attackers’ arms moved in a furious fashion. Each motion produced a new missile that whistled its tune of death as it flew through the air.

Damian let go of control and gave his reflexes full access to his incredible muscles. His arms became a blur of motion as they moved the pistols through the air. Sparks flew as steel met steel. The framework of the Colts intercepted the deadly projectiles. Like the rapping of a tuning fork, each connection resulted in a metal ting.

The swarm of projectiles thinned as the men drew closer.

Stockwell deflected the last missile and moved his guns to bear on the rushing attackers. Two charged for him. The third moved for the woman. Before Stockwell could pull the trigger, a slash across his chest cut through fabric and skin. The assailant had drawn the sword so quickly that Damian had not even noticed. The cut wasn’t deep but he felt the cold enter the gash in his shirt. He fell back and dodged a second slice from the short-bladed weapon.

A gasp drew his attention back to the woman. The third man in pajamas neared, his fist was filled with an odd weapon that resembled a small trident. Miss Jones was backing away, but she did not run, she did not stumble. She was ready for a lunge.

Stockwell dropped to his knee beneath a slash that was intended to sever his head from his body. He rolled forward into a kneeling position and pulled the trigger of the Colt.

The .45 jumped in his hand as it barked a warning shot at the man that had set upon Miss Jones. The warning shot struck the attacker in the shoulder and threw him to the left—just as Stockwell had intended.

Before he could fire again, a chain wrapped around his right wrist. He stared at it in momentary disbelief. What kind of weapon was this? The second man that had come at him held the other end of the chain.

The chain went taught.

Damian dropped the gun in his left hand and grabbed the chain. A quick heave pulled the attacker from his feet as the swordsman struck again.

Stockwell threw up his arm and spun around as the blade passed perilously by his nose. He pulled his arm down and ensnared the blade in the chain.

The chain pulled taught again as its owner stood to his feet. This snapped the weapon from the swordsman’s grasp, leaving him unarmed. He grabbed at the remaining gun in Stockwell’s hand.

Damian felt the magazine release from the grip of the pistol and drop to the ground.

The man in the pajamas spun into Stockwell’s arms like some perverse dance step before throwing his weight over Stockwell’s forearm. The Colt discharged its final round harmlessly into the ground.

Damian curled the pistol into the attacker’s face and yelled to the woman, “Run! Get to the castle.”

Miss Jones heard him and leapt to her feet.

Damian let the empty pistol fall to the ground and pulled the attacker closer. The man drove his head backwards into Damian’s chin and wriggled free of the hold.

The chain tightened as the second attacker regained his footing and pulled. Stockwell pulled back. His massive biceps caused the man to tumble forward into Damian’s right fist. The sound of broken bone cracked and the black mask became damp with blood before the attacker slumped to the ground.

Stockwell shook the chain free from his wrist. A soft-soled foot struck him in the face before the weapon could hit the ground.

Dazed, he stared at the attacker. Towering more than a foot over the man, his enemy would have needed a tremendous leap to land the kick.

The attacker leapt. Several kicks came in quick succession as the man in the black pajamas bounded forward, spinning and jumping.

Stockwell blocked each strike. “My, you’re a bouncy one.”

He had studied the world’s striking and grappling arts and culled the most effective to devise his own system of self-defense—Damitsu. Judo, boxing, Combato and more had been his inspiration. These strikes seemed cousins to some of the more exotic eastern arts but he could not identify the technique. Dressed as shadow and striking from darkness, even the punches from these attackers seemed deceptive in nature. Facing this elaborate and unknown combat system, he chose to fight flourish with simplicity.

When the attacker leapt for another kick, Stockwell charged forward and tackled the man to the ground. The two landed hard on the beaten stone pathway but Damian landed on top.

The attacker raised his head and Stockwell’s fist fell. He climbed off the unconscious enemy and turned. Miss Jones was gone. So was the attacker he had shot.

Sharp reports drew his attention to the castle. The woman’s heels clacked against the rock steps of Belvedere. She was out of sight but the rapid firing of her shoes told him she had followed his command.

Stockwell rushed to the foot of the steps and searched for blood. The assailant’s wound would have dripped on the stones or rubbed against the wall had he pursued. There was no sign of blood. The attacker had not followed her up the steps. But, as she was no doubt the target, he feared that the mysterious warrior had found another way up the walls of the imitation castle.

There was no time to search for his gun in the dark. Miss Jones was in danger. He took the stairs three at a time as he rushed up the steps to a small landing. This led to a second flight. He topped these and found himself on the viewing platform of the replica castle. Beyond the parapet was the world’s most majestic urban park. At its center stood a beautiful woman.

Aware of every sound, her alert blue eyes scanned the open area. Narrow and focused, there was no hint of fear in those eyes. She was mentally prepared and physically poised to defend herself. She stood with fists clenched, ready for any attack.

World adventuring had introduced Stockwell to many strong women. He scoffed at those that called them the weaker sex. Comments like that were born of an exceptional ignorance of the world. Movie companies excelled at that ignorance and produced stories of women in distress from behind the safety of their desks and cameras. Should they venture into the world they would learn that there was no shortage to the courage of women.

Of those brave women he had known, most possessed an untrained courage. Pure and natural, it had come to the surface when faced with danger and horror. The lovely Miss Jones was different. He could tell. Her natural courage showed in her cold steel eyes, but it had been forged and hardened by training. And he doubted she had received it at secretary school.

The nod was slight but she acknowledged him as she scanned the area and gestured for him to join her. Silent steps carried Stockwell to the center of the elevated courtyard and he cast his own watchful eye upon the area.

Neither said a word for their voices could mask the sound of a footstep or the slow deadly ring of steel being drawn from a scabbard. Her breathing was slow and even—controlled. If fear was present in her, it was forced to cower beneath layers of calm.

For minutes, they stood with nothing but the breeze moving around them. Sounds were but a few distant voices being carried from elsewhere in the park across Turtle Pond. The turtles made no noise at all.

Impatience grew, not out of fear but a desire for knowledge. Two attackers lay unconscious in the park below. If properly motivated, they could shed light on this mystery. The third may have fled. He may be watching them from a concealed position, plotting. But, it would be on Stockwell’s terms that plans were made. Removing themselves from the castle would force the hidden attacker to reformulate or spring his trap.

“Let’s go.” Stockwell reached for the woman’s hand.

A flash a light stained his eyes as a plume of smoke separated the pair. Miss Jones gasped as she pulled her hand up to shield her face and fell away from him.

Rapid bursts of flash and flame surrounded them. Acrid smoke filled the air with a burning haze. From the tower dropped a shadow that appeared to ride on a flash of light.

Damian rolled to his side as the attacker’s sword cleaved the air. There was no strike against the rock floor of the tower. Despite the drop and the force of the swing that had cut the air until it shrieked, the swordsman was able to pull his blow before blunting the weapon against the stone.

Damian continued the roll to his feet then dropped back to his knees as the blade lit a horizontal crescent above his head. He leapt forward, locked the attacker’s swing at its apex and dragged the mysterious figure to the ground.

Elbows struck him. Fingers grabbed at flesh. Stockwell’s own knowledge of anatomy told him that his foe was digging for pressure points. Pressure points that could incapacitate or even kill.

Damian scrambled. His legs and arms became a cat’s cradle of intricate locks and holds. Soon he was beneath the attacker and gained the upper hand as the would-be assassin was all but neutralized. Pressing the hold, he whispered in his opponent’s ear, “Succumb, evil doer.”

Yet, the struggle did not end. With a ferocity and flexibility Damian had never encountered, the attacker tweaked his body. Stockwell felt slack in his hold. His opponent had dislocated his own shoulder and used the newfound range of motion to free himself from Damian’s grip.

Despite the self-inflicted injury, the pajama clad evildoer rolled back and kicked straight up with both legs. The momentum lifted his body into the air.

Stockwell grabbed for anything his hands could reach. His fingers dug into the hood of the attacker’s pajamas and, as the lithe man leapt to his feet, ripped it free. Stockwell spun into a crouch, ready to spring.

Stripped of his mask, the shadow warrior bolted across the stone, his slipper-shod feet were no more than whispers as they beat the ground. His arm hanging free from its socket, the man in black leapt to the top of the parapet, turned and smiled. Moonlight illuminated his face but for a moment. It was enough.

“A Chinaman?”

Damian crashed into the parapet and looked beyond its edge in time to see the splash in Turtle Pond. Peering into the murk of the moss covered waters of autumn, he waited for the assassin to break the surface for a breath; or float to surface with a broken neck. The waters grew still. There was no gasp. There was no body. Stockwell stared down the pond, his eyes hard and unblinking. His ears awaited the subtle splash of desperation or some disturbance of the wildlife. It never came. Several minutes passed. His own lung capacity rivaled the most capable free divers in the world, but even he could not hold his breath this long.

Stockwell turned away from Turtle Pond. The young woman stood in the center of the observation deck observing only him.

“Thank you, Mr. Stockwell. I don’t know what I … “

“I think you would have done just fine.”

The sheepish act was back. The awkward, sexy mouse of a secretary had returned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do. You seemed more out of place behind that secretary’s desk than you do in the middle of a life and death fight.”

Miss Jones shrugged, “Adrenaline?”

Stockwell eyed her with the same unwavering stare he had given the water.

“Okay,” she threw up her arms. “I’m not Miss Jones.”

“That’s obvious enough. Who are you?”

“My name is Alice Rivers.”

She paused. Did she expect recognition? She looked disappointed that there was none.

“Alice Rivers? I’m a reporter. I took the job at the German American Bund as cover for a story I’m working on.”

“Does your paper arm all of its staff?”

Alice laughed and gestured toward the stairs. As Stockwell approached, she held out her arm and took his hand in hers. “No. That would be Daddy.”

“I don’t care what else you’ve got in that purse of yours, you shouldn’t go back to the Bund.”

“But, my story …”

“You’ll have to find your leads elsewhere. I’m sure they’re on to you.”

The pair walked down the stairs.

“Do you think these attackers came from there?”

“I do.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I have my reasons, Miss Rivers.” Stockwell paused. “Is it Miss?”

“It is. But don’t change the subject. Why would the Nazis send these men after me?”

“We’ll know soon enough. Let’s wake them up and start asking questions. I get to go first.”

The pair reached the top of the first staircase.

“Well. It was a good plan,” Alice patted Stockwell on the back and walked down the stairs.

The field, the pathway, the park before them was empty. The attackers had vanished. Alice retrieved her purse and revolver while Damian searched for a trail.

“I don’t understand it. I hit them quite hard.”

“Of course you did.” She handed Stockwell his own weapons. “That’s why I’m sure they’re not following me any longer. Good night, Mr. Stockwell.”

“I should come with you. They could be waiting at your apartment.”

Alice smiled. “Now what kind of investigative reporter would I be if I had given the Nazis my real address? As far as they know, I live at the employment agency that sent me to them.”

Damian couldn’t help but smile back.

“Besides, Mr. Stockwell,” Alice stepped closer and put her hand on his face. “If you were to walk me home, the subject might just come up as to why you were following me as well.”

She stepped away down the path.

Stockwell smiled and let her go.

7
Allies of Evil

The slap ricocheted off the bare walls of the secret room. Water flew from the ninja’s hair. His arm dangled from his shoulder. Blood flowed from the wound. But the ninja did not react.

John Starke screamed in the expressionless face. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

“You will not strike my men.” The figure stepped from the shadow. His suit was cut sharp and did little to hide the lethal build of the man beneath it.

“He is a failure. They are all failures. Look at him.” Starke took the hand at the end of the dangling arm and shook it. The ninja grimaced but did not move to strike. “He returns to us broken. There is no room in the new world for such a man.”

Koto Tsucgimoto stepped in front of his man. With blinding speed he drew his hand through the air and turned toward John Starke. “I did not say I disagreed. I said do not strike my men.”

The expression on the unmasked ninja did not change as a ribbon of blood ran from his neck into the black of his clothes. Tsucgimoto stepped away. The figure collapsed to the ground. Koto nodded to the other two men that had trailed the girl. Without a sound they removed the body from the secret room.

Starke examined Koto Tsucgimoto and wondered where he hid the blade. The suit was cut too close and had remained buttoned the entire time. The lethal nature of his ally delighted him but he took note should their alliance ever become strained.

“What was Stockwell doing there?” Starke asked.

“The giant man? We do not know. My men did not see him until he made his presence known.”

“He out-ninjaed your ninjas, hmm? How embarrassing for you. That a fool like …”

“Even in Japan we have heard the legends of the great Damian Stockwell. He is deeply respected. You would be wise to respect him as well.”

Starke snorted.

“Is he not of your Aryan blood?”

“No. No, he is not.”

“He appears to be. Blond. Eyes blue like the reflection of a moonlit blade. He is fit and appears to rival even you in strength.”

“Enough.”

The giant eagle squawked and Starke crossed the room to the great cage. “Does der Fuhrer want out?” He worked a massive bolt and swung open the door releasing the bird from its cage. Beating great wings, it flew about the room and hovered over Koto. The normally reserved Japanese man backed away from the bird. “Be gone, you foul beast, before I use your feathers to fletch my arrows.”

“No one tells der Fuhrer what to do!” Starke whistled and the eagle swooped across the room and landed on his shoulder. Koto ducked as the bird passed overhead. “Some fearless mystic warrior you are.”

“Do not insult my honor.”

“I don’t have too. Your men’s failure speaks louder than any protest you could offer me.”

“We will find the girl.”

“Forget the girl. She knows nothing. We focus on the plan.”

“And what of Stockwell?”

“I’m not worried about Stockwell. There’s nothing he can do to stop us. The weapon is almost ready. Have the twins sailed?”

Tsucgimoto nodded.

“See? It’s too late for him to stop us. And once the twins get here, no one will be able to stop us. Not the army. Not the navy. No one.” Starke pulled a treat from his shirt pocket and fed it to der Fuhrer. “Who’s a good bird of prey? Who’s a good bird of prey? That’s right.”

“Do not dismiss the Grand Adventurer.”

“Don’t concern yourself with him. If he does give us any trouble, my men can handle it.”

“Your men. Or the ones they are sending over?”

His attention torn from the bird, Starke glared at his ally. “I don’t like what you’re insinuating, Koto.”

“It is a simple question, Starke. You are so sure of your capabilities and that of your men. Then why are the Germans sending men here?”

Starke said nothing.

“They don’t trust you, Starke.”

“They want to be present when we succeed. When we sink …”

“Then why do they not just come with the twins?”

Motors whirred and the door to the room swung open. Henderson entered the room. His nose bandaged from the morning’s encounter with Stockwell, his voice produced a nasal whistle. “Mr. Starke. I’m afraid I have bad news.”

“Is it what you suspected?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Starke nodded and fed the eagle another treat. “Send Peters in here.”

Henderson nodded and left the room.

“You have not answered me, Starke,” said Tsucgimoto. “What makes you think you can handle Stockwell?”

Peters entered the room, “You wanted to see me, Mr. Starke.”

“Yes, Peters. We found out more about the mole.”

“The girl?”

Starke sneered. “No. The other one. Der Fuhrer, klaue!”

Before Peters could respond, run or cover his neck, the massive black eagle set upon him. Talons slashed, the beak gouged and Peters cried out for help. His screams were quickly lost as the raptor tore his throat from his neck. Arms flailing, he fell to the ground as the bird dove again and again. It came up with flesh each time.

Tsucgimoto was unfazed by the carnage. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He smoked as the eagle tore.

Starke stood over Peters as the life ebbed from his body. “The FBI one.”

All signs of life faded from Peters’s eyes. Starke stood next to the Japanese man. “To answer your question. If the need arises, I’ll take care of Stockwell myself.”

8
The CUNJ

Dawn broke through the turning leaves as he crept through the woods of Sussex County. Red and orange hues lit the faint path through the trees. He had left early for Andover Township and made the drive in silence. Damian hated ignorance, especially when it was his own, and the events of the night before played over in his mind. Who were those men? The girl, could she be trusted? Probably not. She already lied to him once. But, to be fair, he had lied to her as well.

He had followed her for a few more blocks to ensure she was not being tailed. Even in doing this he felt that he betrayed her trust. He did not seek out her residence for this reason.

Along the drive into New Jersey, he came to the conclusion that she fascinated him. For her to transition from the shy and bumbling secretary to the confident and capable “victim” of an attack impressed him. And to brush off his help after the fact showed courage unmatched.

She had to have known who he was. Few people didn’t know of him—especially in the press. They had gone to extraordinary lengths to get stories on him and his many adventures.

During the Case of the Canadian Crippler, they had infiltrated the search party that had found him and Bertrand in the Arctic North. Half dead and the other half frozen, the medics had tended to their needs. The reporter shed his cover quickly and intruded with questions instead of minding the ship as was his assigned role. His brashness had nearly cost the entire party their lives.

To get a scoop, a West Coast reporter had actually enlisted in the military branch of the Tegucigalpian Totalitarian’s operation. Stockwell had unleashed his trap to stop the madman and, moments from striking the evil overlord in the face, the reporter sprung forth with a camera and blinded Damian with the flash.

One young journalist, desperate to make a name for herself, had hidden in a stage prop during the Case of the Murderous Mongolian Magician and ended up getting herself sawn in half.

There was no end to their persistence or lack of sense.

After an adventure they had dubbed the Peruvian Parasite, one reporter went as far as to claim to be Damian’s cousin visiting from out of town. Stockwell had been onto him from the beginning but played along for a bit of sport. The man resided with him for two weeks at Stockwell’s own insistence during which time he and Bertrand spun a series of tall tales that found their way into print. The litany of lies and misinformation had served him well over the years, but it still amazed him the fascination the public held.

He shook from his mind the thought that the entire situation could be a set up to get a reporter close to him. If it was a trick, Alice was quite the trickster. And, he admitted to himself, he may be ready to play the fool.

The litter of leaves on the ground masked his steps. An overnight rain had robbed them of their crispness and they absorbed his footfalls as he made his way to Camp Nordland.

Growing up in seclusion, Stockwell had been a Lone Scout but had accepted with honor the Boy Scout title when the organization merged with the BSA. Camping was one of the surest ways to grow into a man. But he doubted that Camp Nordland held such noble goals as raising young men to be respectful, responsible members of society. It would certainly be something more sinister.

He had parked off the road and walked a little over a mile to the surrounding woods before encountering the first guard. A few hundred feet later he got to punch another one. They came faster after that. Soon he had laid out four men armed with shotguns.

The grounds beyond the woods opened to a clearing. Level and sodden, the expanse served as playing fields for baseball and soccer as evidenced by the nearby bleachers. A cluster of buildings occupied the center of the grounds and formed a massive courtyard. They looked like any other camp cabins. Stick-built and walled with plywood, each was painted beige with brown trim.

Stockwell moved with the wind as it blew the fallen leaves across the field. Keeping an eye out for other guards, he stayed low to the ground and moved behind cover until he reached the closest cabin. Peering in the window he saw nothing that didn’t belong in a camp cabin.

A pair of guards patrolled the interior of the courtyard. He waited for them to pass before crossing the gap between the cabins. Their interiors were identical.

The cabin at the end of the row was larger than the others. Damian decided it was the administration building and moved towards it.

He reached the rear door and found it locked. This was a good sign, he reasoned. Few cabins had locks. The simple mechanism proved no challenge for the tiny pick set he kept in his cuff. The door opened into the main hall.

He wasted little time searching the compound. There were no filing cabinets to rifle through, no secret rooms to discover—it was nothing more than a camp administration building. The front window looked out on the courtyard. Several other buildings outlined the area. It would take an audience of thousands to fill the courtyard.

In its center was a statue of a man. It wasn’t Hitler, as Stockwell had expected, it was too statuesque. The chiseled figure was tall and fit with a broad chest and toned muscles.

From the cabin window he saw the guards disappear around the corner of the last cabin on the right. They were sweeping the outside now. He had time.

Stockwell stepped into the courtyard and stood beneath the large cast image. A confident smile beamed above him. A plaque below named the piece, “The Aryan - The master race.”

Stockwell chuckled for a moment before a noise caught his attention. Automobile engines rumbled in the distance. A heavy diesel engine drowned out the sound of at least one other vehicle. They were at the front gate.

Damian ran to a cabin opposite the headquarters and slid underneath the raised platform. It would conceal him and provide a perfect view of the courtyard. He rolled under the hut and bumped into a woman.

“I’m beginning to think all you do is follow me, Mr. Stockwell.”

“Ms. Rivers. What are you doing here?”

“I’m not giving up on this story. And since I can’t go back to the office, I figured this was the place to dig.”

“Why here?”

“A few days ago Starke had me call the staff here to let them know he was coming. I figured it was worth checking out.”

A large truck rolled into the courtyard. A car followed close behind.

“Well, Ms. Rivers. I’m not going to lie and say that you’re presence doesn’t concern me a little. But, you smell nice, so I’m delighted you’re here.”

The vehicles spread out in the courtyard and the engines stopped. Starke and Tsucgimoto stepped from a sedan. Tsucgimoto leaned against the car while Starke unloaded a shrouded package from the trunk. He set the package on the ground and removed the shroud. Der Fuhrer awoke and screeched.

“What is that thing?”

“That’s der Fuhrer. Starke’s trained black eagle.”

“How do you know that?”

Starke unlatched the door to the birdcage and der Fuhrer took flight. The massive bird circled the camp twice before settling on a perch in the parade ground.

“Do you think I should get an eagle?” Damian whispered.

“What?”

“An eagle. It would be neat, right?”

Starke approached the truck and spoke to the driver. His words did not carry over the wind.

Alice turned her ear in their direction. “I wish we could hear what they were saying.”

Damian reached into his pocket and pulled out a fabric triangle.

The truck driver nodded to Starke and started the vehicle. He placed it in gear and drove to the center of the parade ground.

The triangle was hinged with fabric. Stockwell unfolded them each at the edge.

“I’m getting nothing. And look. Here come more of them,” she said.

Two more sedans arrived in the center of the camp. The doors opened and eight men stepped out. Starke smiled and rushed over to them.

Stockwell unfolded one last panel of the fabric and the small pocket square opened into a parabolic dish with a muffled pop. Damian pulled a small cylinder from his shoe and attached it to the center of the dish. He inserted a slender cord into the end of the cylinder. The cord split into a pair of earphones that he placed in his ear. He could now hear everything.

“Welcome to America!” Starke raised his arm in the Nazi salute. The men responded with the traditional military salute.

“What is that thing?” Alice asked.

“Shhh,” Stockwell smiled. “We’re listening.

“You’re listening.”

Stockwell removed an earphone and offered it to her. “You’ll have to come closer.”

Alice crawled next to him and put her ear against the listening device.

Her cheek was warm.

9
Hose of Horror

After Starke’s enthusiastic welcome, he seemed at a loss for words. “Did you guys have a good trip?”

The eight men studied the camp and eyed Tsucgimoto with the eyes of a cautious parent. One of them approached the Japanese man. The blond man stood over the short Asian by nearly a foot. “Who are you?”

“This is Tsucgimoto,” Starke said. “Our friend from the Empire.”

The visitor snorted.

Tsucgimoto made no reaction that the pair could see from beneath the shed.

Starke tried small talk again, “So. How goes the invasion of Poland?”

One of the men finally spoke. “Get on with it, Starke. We did not come all this way to chitchat. Where is it?”

“There’s no need be impatient. Just trying to be friendly.”

Der Fuhrer shrieked. The bird’s call filled the earphone and drowned out the conversation. It continued for more than a minute.

Alice pulled the speaker from her ear and whispered to Damian. “I can’t hear a thing. I wish he’d tell that bird to shut up.”

Damian whispered back, “No one tells der Fuhrer what to do.”

“What?”

Der Fuhrer’s shrieking stopped and the visitor’s voice filled the headphone.

“No, you didn’t think. Not at all.” A few of the men had reached the truck and were peeking under the tarp that covered its load. The man asked, “Is that the device? Is that the death ray?”

Starke moved to the truck, “Uh, no. It’s something else. The death ray …”

There had not been much humor in the man’s voice before. It was gone now. “Where is the death ray?”

“The death ray … The death ray doesn’t work.”

The other men heard this and dropped from the truck. They formed a line behind their apparent commander. “What is this, Starke? You were…”

Starke rushed to the truck. “Look, the death ray had practical limitations. But, this, my friends, is just as good.” Starke turned to the truck driver in the cab and whispered, “Turn it on.”

“What?”

“Turn it on. Turn it on!”

Black smoke poured from the exhaust pipes. Starke reached under the tarp and pulled a switch. The truck began to buzz and hum. Starke unwound a cable. A large metal fitting on the end looked like the nozzle from a fire hose.

The man was unimpressed. “It looks like a hose.”

Starke turned and pointed the hose at the statue of the Aryan. His hands manipulated the nozzle and a purple crack of lightning shot from the end. The air cracked and hissed as the bolt of electricity poured from the hose and wrapped itself around the bronze casting. The light was blinding and the men drew up their arms.

Damian and Alice buried their heads in the dirt as the listening device squealed in their ears. The feedback dug deep behind their eyes. It stopped as suddenly as it began.

Stockwell looked to the field. The lightning had stopped as well. The statue smoldered and slumped over at the waist. The proud Aryan stood no more.

Damian placed the earpiece back to his ear.

Starke smiled. The visitors said nothing.

“We’ve focused the power of the doctor’s Tesla Coil and channeled it through this cable. I call it the lightning hose.”

“Lightning hose?” The commander was so aghast that his English slipped. There was a slight trace of German in his remark. He approached the molten statue. It glowed red and the German had to back away. “That is remarkable, Starke.”

One of the others raised their hand. “I don’t understand.”

Starke stammered. “What? What don’t you understand? You saw the electricity melt the statue, right?”

“Yes, but … “

“What more is there to understand?”

“Lightning hose.”

“Yes?”

“Does ‘hose’ sound scarier in American than in German?”

“What? No.”

The commander interrupted, “What is your point, Karl?”

“Well, death ray. It’s very scary. Gives you the trembles and all. But lightning hose doesn’t sound so scary.”

“He has a point, Starke,” the commander said.

“Does he?” Starke was obviously agitated.

Der Fuhrer shrieked.

Karl continued. “The world may fall before Hitler’s Death Ray. But, I don’t know that they will be quick to kneel before Hitler’s Lightning Hose.” The German began to laugh. The others joined in.

Starke looked around. He saw that his own men were laughing at him as well. Suddenly he smiled. “Fine.” He turned the hose on Karl and opened the nozzle. The purple lightning leapt forth again; this time it surrounded the German. His screams were heard above the air splitting crack of the beam.

Alice gasped. Damian put his hand on her shoulder.

Starke turned off the weapon. Karl’s body fell to the ground charred and convulsing. Smoke rose from the black shards that were his clothes and flesh. “We’ll call it the Lightning Caster instead. Does that work for everyone?”

The remaining Germans drew their weapons.

Starke’s men drew their own.

Only the commander stayed calm. He began to applaud. “It is a fine weapon, Starke. And it will melt statues. And Karl. But will it do what it needs to do?”

Starke nodded and placed the cable back on the truck. “It will. This is only a scale version. The full-size weapon will tear a battleship in two.”

“Good.” The commander signaled to his men to lower their guns. “Is it here?”

“No. This is the first place they’d look.”

“Where is it?”

Starke smiled. “It’s in the last place they’d look.”

“Will it be ready when the twins arrive?”

“It’s ready now. We’ll just need to move the projector when they get here.”

The commander nodded. “Show me.”

“Follow me.”

The commander turned to his men. “Dispose of Karl.”

Starke, Tsucgimoto and the commander moved up the cabin stairs as the men in the camp closed in around the still smoking statue. Two of the German’s hoisted Karl’s body from the ground and began to drag it towards the woods.

Alice pulled the headphone down, “They’re coming this way.”

Stockwell began to break down the listening device. “It’ll be okay.”

“You’re not even watching. They’re coming right this way.”

Stockwell looked back in to the yard. The pair was dragging the corpse to the cabin. Charred bits of Karl were falling off and attracting der Fuhrer’s attention. The massive bird of prey dropped from its perch to the ground and pecked at the black bits.

One of the men spoke, “Begraben Sie ihn unter der kabine.”

“English. Use your English.”

“I said bury him under the cabin, asshole.”

“You did not say ‘asshole.’ You just added that.”

“Shut up and get him to the cabin.”

Alice and Stockwell inched back farther into the shadows as the men drew closer. Karl arrived with a thud that sent dust and ash up into the air. The charred body still ticked with life, or a fair amount of voltage, as the feet continued to tremble.

Damian put his hand over Alice’s mouth to stifle any girlish scream that may result in her seeing a charred German. Alice covered Stockwell’s mouth for the same reason.

Despite making her way through a wet forest and hiding in the mud under a cabin, her hand smelt fresh and clean. It was soft on his lips. He resisted the urge to kiss her palm. It would be too forward, and besides, there was a smoldering corpse only two feet away, killing the mood.

Stockwell gently pulled her hand away and reached for his gun. As soon as the men bent to check the gravesite, the pair would be spotted. Damian pulled back the slide on his pistol. The feet turned away.

“Erhalten sie einige schaufeln.”

“English.”

“Get some shovels, asshole.”

The boots trudged off into the compound as the couple ushered a sigh of relief. Damian turned to Alice and mimed a series of plans that consisted mostly of backing out from under the cabin and sneaking into the woods. Alice nodded her agreement and they began to move. Then they heard a flutter.

Der Fuhrer, drawn by Karl’s odor or morbid curiosity, landed on top of the charred corpse. The eagle did not pick at the body, but examined the remains. Its head bobbed as it took in the smell.

“Don’t worry,” Stockwell put out a calming hand. “Their eyesight is very poor. They rely on smell, and you smell good. So we’ll be fine.”

“What? Eagles have very good eyes.”

“No, Alice, you’re thinking rhinos.”

“No one ever said eyes of a rhino.”

Der Fuhrer’s gaze landed upon them. The large bird cocked its head to one side.

“You’re right … “

The bird screeched. Its wail pierced the numbness in his ears that had been bullied into place by the feedback.

“I was thinking bats.”

Der Fuhrer screeched again and beat its wings. The shrieking was incessant. The bird was doing everything it could to draw attention to itself.

Stockwell began to back out from under the platform. “We should run now.”

Alice followed as the bird began to draw the attention it sought. Several men approached the bird.

Starke burst from the main cabin. The screen door clattered in a flimsy wobble. “What is it, der Fuhrer?”

Alice and Damian had no choice but to expose themselves as they made a break for the woods.

Der Fuhrer shrieked.

Starke screamed, “Get them!”

Alice and Damian ran.

10
Forest of Fear

Often, when fleeing a murderous gang of zealots, Damian had to check his pace against the person he fled with. It was often a woman, for women seem to make better kidnapping victims. He never considered this an affront in the battle of the sexes; women provided better leverage, because who would want a man back? This was only a theory, but the fact that 90 percent of his rescues happened to be women did strengthen his argument.

At the same time, most megalomaniacal maniacs happened to be men. And very few super villains wanted to be associated with the act of binding a man. They had images to uphold and the super villain community would frown upon an evil genius that “liked to tie up men.”

Whatever the root of it, in rescue or escape situations, he generally fled with a beautiful woman and had to shorten his stride to match her pace. Alice Rivers was different. She ran like a rabbit. A sexy, sexy rabbit.

Her feet lit on the ground so briefly that she appeared to hover. She looked straight ahead but her feet danced around debris and divots in the earth avoiding dangerous snags and possible stumbles. It was beautiful.

Damian was equally nimble as he ran behind her. Nazi shouts began to rise as they gave chase. They had spotted them. That damn eagle. If—no, when—he got an eagle, he would make sure it wasn’t a jerk like der Fuhrer.

The couple reached the woods as the gunfire started. Tree trunks absorbed the bullets. Shards of bark flew all around. Stockwell spit pulp from his lips as he ran.

Having placed himself between Alice and fascist rounds, he followed her lead through the woods. Her path was not driven by panic. She moved methodically down a half-hidden path. She ran with such purpose that he found no reason to ask if she knew where she was going.

The men of the German American Bund were falling behind and the shots came less frequently.

Despite their blinding pace, Alice spoke with little trace of labor as she ducked under a tree limb and dropped into a creek bed, “I came in this way.”

Stockwell pulled back the branch and followed. On the other side, he found one of the camp guards tied to the tree trunk with his own pants. He laughed. “Ha. His own pants.”

Alice smiled and shrugged before dashing down the creek bed.

They followed the creek a half-mile before it disappeared into a drainage pipe. Alice scrambled up the creek bank and peered down the road. “We’re clear. I’m parked off to the side.”

There was no trace of fear in her voice. No hint of terror. She didn’t even sound winded. She was in complete control as she crawled up the bank.

A whistle filled the air. For a moment he worried that it came from him. Had he become so infatuated with this woman that he had lost control of himself?

Alice looked back at him.

Blood rushed to his cheeks as embarrassment overtook him.

A soft ka-chunk sounded as the shaft of an arrow buried itself in the earthen bank.

“Oh, thank God,” he said to himself. “They’re just arrows.”

A second whistle and another thud sounded as Stockwell drew his gun and searched for the archer. “Get to the car.”

He saw nothing to fire at. The woods were still.

The distant noise of the approaching Nazis broke the quiet. They had gained ground and were nearing the road. Their scrambling steps and shouts created a cover for the archer and made him undetectable through sound.

The noise masked the whistle of the third arrow. Damian moved just in time to feel the fletching streak by his face. He felt the soft tickle of the feather and instinctively fired up at its source.

He missed but the shot caused a shadow to drop from a tree branch to the forest floor.

Stockwell fired twice more.

The shadow rolled and leapt as it moved from tree to tree using the trunks as cover from Damian’s .45.

Stockwell backed up the hill as the Nazi campers charged down into the creek bed. He fired in their direction and they scattered for cover. He turned back to the shadow in the distance. It had vanished. He spun and rushed up the hill.

An arrow struck the ground beneath his foot.

He had to reach the safety of Alice’s car. He reached the road in time to see her kick-start the engine of a bike. “Oh, wow.”

She twisted the throttled and sent dirt road into the air as she spun the motorcycle around and rode towards him.

He blindly fired two shots into the ravine to keep the camp guards at bay.

“Get on.”

“Neat.” Stockwell threw his leg over the Indian as she gunned the engine.

She sped down the dirt road as he fired his .45 empty towards the creek bed. The slide locked open.

“Damian!”

He looked down the road. The archer, clad in black pajamas, stood in the middle of the road, arrow nocked and string drawn. Damian had no time to reload.

The archer released the arrow.

Stockwell dropped the gun.

The arrow soared towards Alice.

Damian leaned forward, reached around the girl and snapped his hand closed around shaft of the lethal missile, stopping it an inch from the woman’s heart.

Alice laughed nervously.

Stockwell spun the arrow in his hand.

The archer nocked another arrow.

The bike roared upon the mysterious warrior. Damian thrust the projectile into the stunned man’s chest and released the shaft. The arrow held and the archer collapsed in the road.

Alice shifted gears and pulled the bike through a turn as the bullets began to fly. They left their pursuers behind and Stockwell settled into the passenger seat of the Indian. It would be a long ride back to the city. He didn’t mind.

There was another whistle and the front tire exploded. Alice swore as she tried to maintain control. Damian found the swearing exhilarating, but it did little to prevent the Indian from crashing.

Chrome scraped clear of the frame as the motorcycle lay down on its side and slid across the pavement with the riders following closely behind. Damian heard Alice grunt in pain as she slid into a ditch. Gritting his teeth, he absorbed the rocks and dirt as they tore through his clothing and flesh.

As he slowed, he began to roll. Each revolution left bruises on his arms and legs. They flailed beyond his control. He tried to pull them in and tuck into a roll, but he rolled so fast that up and down became a mystery.

The Indian stopped. He collided with the handlebars and they drove the wind from his lungs. The uncomfortable position afforded him a view of the arrow protruding from the blown tire.

Ignoring the pain in his limbs, he leapt to his feet. Balance eluded him. His head spun from the dizzying roll and a very possible concussion. But, an enemy hid in the woods. The archer would be preparing another arrow. He scanned the trees, the ditch; these mysterious warriors could appear from anywhere. His vision spun.

Then he saw him. From the edge of the woods came a man dressed not in pajamas, but a fine tailored suit. He held a bow at his side.

Stockwell raised his fists. His arms felt heavy.

Tsucgimoto stepped into the road without a sound. The man didn’t come up to Stockwell’s shoulders. His silent stride carried him to the mighty adventurer.

Stockwell roared and drew back his fist.

The man in the suit leapt, spun and drove a foot across Damian’s face. The mighty adventurer fell to the ground and lost all vision.

11
Prick of Pain

The shriek pierced the darkness and woke him. He dangled by his hands, bound and strung above him. His eyes felt heavy and uncooperative. All he could do was listen.

“Karl was killed by a bolt of lightning. Your guy? A sharp stick. Don’t tell me my men are weak.” It was the German.

“Your commandos are no match for my ninja, Captain.”

“Listen, Tojo. Your ninjas can go and …”

“Stop it, both of you,” Starke interrupted. “He’s coming to.”

Damian opened his eyes and found himself in one of the camp cabins. Starke stood before him with a grin that Stockwell wanted to put a fist through. The eagle perched on his shoulder. The captain of the commando team had his finger pointed at the well-dressed Asian. He had been mid-threat.

Stockwell locked eyes with Tsucgimoto. “How’d you do that, shorty?”

“Damian Stockwell: world adventurer, champion of right, leader of men, captain of industry,” Starke chuckled, “and my prisoner.”

“What have you done with the girl, Starke?”

Starke pointed to Stockwell’s left.

Alice was bound, gagged and tied to a chair.

“You coward. You cad! You’re going …”

“Oh, don’t go making threats. It makes you look dumb. Besides, we’re going to let you go.”

“I know you’re stupid, Starke. It shows by the company you keep. But even I wouldn’t let me go.”

“Believe me, there was a lot of debate on that topic. But, I’m sure it will be okay. You see? You’re working for us now.”

“And to think, I’m the one who hit my head.”

“Enough of this,” the captain rushed forward and slapped Stockwell across the face. “There is no discussion to be had. We have the girl. You’ll get us the plans for the death ray or she’ll die an agonizing death.”

“That … that thing wasn’t the death ray?”

“No,” the captain leaned in close. Stockwell could smell the stale cigarettes on his breath emanating from the yellow on his teeth. “It was the lightning hose.”

Stockwell winced at the name. “I … I thought we all agreed on lightning caster.”

Starke snarled and turned away.

“Because, I’m with you, Captain,” Stockwell continued. “Hose just doesn’t sound that scary.”

The captain smiled and turned to Starke who threw up his hands in frustration. “Haha. Very good. You overheard our demonstration. But I’m willing to look past all that. It’s simple. You get us the real death ray and we don’t feed the girl to der Fuhrer.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll tell the feds about your little camp?”

Starke smiled. “No. I’m not. Tell whomever you want. Call the president. There’s nothing anyone can do to stop us.”

“Then why do you need a death ray?”

Starke’s smile faded. “What?”

“If you’re unstoppable, with the hose and all, why do you need a death ray?”

Starke turned to the captain.

The captain shrugged, “The Fuhrer wants a death ray.”

“The Fuhrer wants a death ray. There, it’s good enough for myself and the captain. It’s good enough for you.”

“You’re like little puppies trying to please an abusive master. I just can’t tell which one of you is going to roll over and pee yourself first. My money’s on Starke.”

“Hey.”

“Mine, too,” said the captain.

“Enough. Both of you.” Starke turned to the Asian. “Tsucgimoto.”

The small Asian man had not said a word. With his name uttered, his foot flew above his head and crashed down through a wooden table. The crack of the boards filled the small room. The planks shattered and splinters flew in all directions. Tsucgimoto struck out his hand and snatched one from the air. He walked over to Stockwell and held the tiny splinter before the man’s eyes for only a moment before plunging it into the side of his neck.

Light burst in Stockwell’s vision. Fireworks of exploding colors dominated his sight. His head screamed as pain lit from a thousand directions. His teeth mashed on their own accord, biting down through his lips. He tried to gasp but found he had no control over his mouth. Stockwell dropped. His knees no longer supported him. Only the restraints held him from total collapse.

Alice screamed through the gag.

Suddenly, the pain vanished. The lights before his eyes faded. Tsucgimoto again presented him with the splinter.

“What evil voodoo is …”

Tsucgimoto’s hand blurred as he thrust the splinter across several points on Stockwell’s body. The combined effect was horrendous. With each stab of the tiny splinter, Damian’s body erupted in a fountain of pain. Stabs, burns, bruises, aches—every pain imaginable danced across his already beaten body. His limbs jerked in reflex to the assault. More than the pain, blinding as it was, his mind screamed in frustration at the lack of control he had over his arms and legs. Free will had been stolen from him. His body danced like a puppet for this Asian witch doctor. Even his words escaped his lips as mumbles and slurs. Drool ran down his face. He couldn’t feel it. His eye twitched. His feet burned. Every vein in his body became a pathway of pain.

Tsucgimoto backed away.

Once again in control of his own body, Stockwell could only heave deep breaths. His wrists weighed against the ropes that bound him. Even though he had control of his limbs again, he had no energy. All fight had left him. One tiny splinter had robbed him of it.

Alice screamed through her gag. Damian hung his head in a shame he had never felt.

“There. You see? Now imagine this darling lady and all the bits we’d touch on her.”

“You bastards.” Drool escaped with the threat and fell to the ground. He could not even lift his head.

“I think we’ve made our point, gentlemen. Let’s leave Mr. Stockwell to his own cunning. Mr. Tsucgimoto, please bring the girl.” Starke and the captain moved towards the door. “You have until tomorrow, Mr. Stockwell. We’ll be in touch. Don’t disappoint the lovely Ms. Jones.”

The screen door rattled behind Starke as a spring drew it shut.

Koto crossed the room to the bound woman.

“You’re a coward, Tsucgimoto. Any man that would dare torture a woman.”

“You gaijin are foolish. You are weak when it comes to women. They are but possessions yet you cry for them.”

“Compassion is not a weakness. Compassion is a source of strength. And what does gaijin mean?”

Koto laughed and held the splinter before Stockwell’s eyes. “It means you are a fool. You let your compassion prevent your own victory. A true warrior does away with compassion. A true warrior is driven by duty and honor.”

“I’ll put my compassion up against your honor any day.”

“Honor is the steel of the spirit. It forges the will to act and to achieve victory.”

“My compassion’s going to kick your honor’s ass!”

Koto laughed again. “We’ll see.” He held the splinter before Stockwell’s eye. “Let’s see just how strong your compassion makes you.”

Stockwell thrashed against his restraints. “Don’t you touch her, you bastard!” His muscles flexed as he pulled at the ropes. He tried to kick; he was too weak.

“Look at you struggle. You are weak. You are defeated. How can you even think you can stop me?”

Stockwell dropped his head. Even his voice had been defeated, “Because … because …”

Koto leaned in close and mocked Damian’s defeated tone. “Because, why?”

“Because, chair.”

“Chair?”

Stockwell looked over Koto’s shoulder.

Tsucgimoto turned.

Alice swung the chair. It exploded to the frame and drove Koto into Stockwell and to the ground.

Damian locked his legs around the man’s neck and squeezed with what energy he had left.

Tsucgimoto possessed the strength of a man twice his size. He rose with Stockwell’s weight upon him and faced the girl.

Damian held the lock as he dangled from the ceiling.

Ropes that had bound her to the chair dangled from her wrists. Alice held the chair leg in her hand. She swung for Koto’s head.

Koto turned and the club hit Damian in the ribs.

“Hey!”

“Sorry,” Alice swung again.

Koto spun and rotated Damian the opposite direction. The blow fell on his thigh.

“Who are you aiming for?”

“Sorry.” She swung again.

Tsucgimoto rolled to the right and the club hit Damian’s back.

“Maybe try aiming for me.”

Alice swung again. Damian tried to dodge the blow and pulled Tsucgimoto into the path of the club. The man dropped to the ground unconscious.

Alice dropped the club and dragged another chair over to the bound Stockwell. Standing on the chair and reaching for his bindings put her chest level with his face.

“Miss Rivers, your … uh.”

Damian dangled in front of her, powerless to move. Raised a gentleman, he turned his eyes down. That was better, but even more inappropriate, so he turned them up. Terse plump lips drew his attention.

The knot proved difficult and she bit her lower lip as she worked at it.

“Please hurry.”

“I’ve almost got it.”

She focused on the rope. Her tongue shot out the corner of her mouth and hung in the air as if it drew the focus she needed from the room.

Damian coughed and said, “It’s pretty warm for fall, don’t you think?”

“There.”

The ropes relaxed and he pulled his hands down to his sides. His shoulders ached. “Agh. How long have I been up there?”

Alice ignored him and moved to the front door. “The truck is gone.”

Stockwell rubbed the feeling back into his wrists. “It hurts to put my arms down.”

“We need to go. Where’s your car?”

“Through the woods. This way.” On wobbling knees, Damian reached the back door and cracked it open. The path was clear.

“What’s wrong with your legs?”

“That little prick thing really took it out of me. I’ll be fine.”

“You’d better be. If you can’t make it, I’m leaving you behind.”

“You would, wouldn’t you?” There had been no sarcasm in her voice. She had stated a fact.

“Yes.”

Damian smiled, “Neat.”

12
Slap of Authority

His entire body ached and he could no longer distinguish between the aches caused by the crash and the pains caused by Tsucgimoto. Burying the pain, they raced through the forest using the still unconscious guards as breadcrumbs.

Once inside the car, he made two radio calls: one to a concerned Bertrand and the other to an angry special agent.

Because of the science used in the radiophone, Grayson’s language violated several federal laws for the broadcast of profanity, obscenity and the making of threats.

“You tipped our hat, you idiot.”

“No, I tipped my hat. Your hat was having coffee and saying things like, ‘they’re not a threat.’ Remember?”

“The instant you knew something, you should have notified me.”

“I didn’t have the proper forms.”

“Damn it, Dam! We’re on the same side here. You have to tell me …”

“I’m telling you now. The Nazis have Tesla’s weapons just like you said they didn’t.”

“I’m sending a team out to the camp.”

“You’ll never get there in time.”

He could hear Grayson’s frustration through the silence. There was a sigh and the agent continued, “What should we do?”

“Storm the Bund building. They meet behind Hitler’s mustache.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I don’t have time to explain. And look into a man called Tsucgimoto.” Stockwell disconnected the call. He did have time to explain but it was more fun not to. He had given Grayson enough to move on. Damian slumped back in his seat.

“You didn’t mention me.” Alice was behind the wheel.

“No, I didn’t.”

“I appreciate that. It could jeopardize my story.”

“Your story is finished.”

“I beg your par …”

“You heard me. It’s time to back off before it gets you killed.”

“Me? You’re the one that can hardly move.”

“That stupid prick thing. What kind of Chinese voodoo was that?”

“I think he was Japanese.”

“No. They are easy to confuse, though.”

“I …”

“Enough. We need to get back to the city. Don’t be afraid to use that pedal on the right.” Stockwell closed his eyes as she opened the throttle on the massive engine.

He had to get back to New York. He had to speak with Tesla. He’d feel better when they crossed the state line.

•••

Damian let Alice have the car. She dropped him off at his place before heading home herself. That is, if she could be believed.

A nap in the car had proved to be enough rest to recover from the torture. Stockwell bounded up the steps and within an hour he had arrived at the German American Bund offices.

The building crawled with men in identical raincoats, haircuts and personalities.

The mob began with whispers when he stepped from the car and built into a full-on throng of admiration as the agents recognized him. He was a legend in the law enforcement branch and had no shortage of fans in the rank and file. Handshakes and back pats were accompanied with kind words. Many of the men thanked him for various past deeds. His paths had crossed with the FBI so many times that more than a few of the men owed him their lives.

It wasn’t long before he was surrounded.

“You’re amazing,” one said.

“Thank you.”

“I can’t believe it’s you,” said another.

“It’s me. I checked this morning.”

“You’re a legend.”

“I’m just trying to do what’s right. Just like you,” said Stockwell.

“If it wasn’t for you, my son wouldn’t have a father.”

“I never touched your wife, good sir!”

“Oh, no. I meant that you saved my life and I’m still around to be a father to the son that I had with her.”

“Oh. Then you’re welcome.”

The crowd began to speak over one another until the noise was unintelligible. Damian raised his hands and motioned for silence. “Now, now. Please, guys. What I do is no different than you. I just do it better and more often, is all. You are the ones who deserve my thanks. If it wasn’t for the work of the FBI, evil would run rampant over this great nation of ours. It is because you choose to put yourself between the good people of this nation and those that wish to do them harm for so little money that all Americans can sleep easier at night and dream the American dream. You’re like dream guardians that guard the dreams that people dream and …”

“Stockwell!” Grayson waved him over from the back of the crowd.

“I see you. I was done anyway. Excuse me, guys.” Damian worked his way through crowd of men as they continued to express their awe.

Grayson was at the end of the hallway in Starke’s office. He shut the door after Damian entered. “I ought to slap you silly, Dam.”

“Slap me? You mean like a little girl?”

“We’ve been here for hours trying to figure out your cryptic little puzzle.”

“Come again?”

“‘They meet behind Hitler’s mustache.’ I’ve had the boys in the cipher division working on it all day. I’ve had the engineers trying to dig up the blueprints for this place. I’ve …”

“Did you try pushing Hitler’s mustache?”

“Why would …”

Damian crossed to the dictator’s bust and pressed the mustache. There was a click, a whir and the secret door revealed itself.

“That’s what you meant?”

Stockwell shook his head, “I thought I was pretty clear.”

“I thought it was code. I figured you were being watched.”

“No. I guess I could have said push Hitler’s mustache but … Did I give you too much credit again, Grayson?”

Grayson grunted and moved into the secret room. Stockwell followed.

“Dammit, it’s empty.” Even the birdcage had been removed.

Grayson studied the bare walls. “Don’t these things usually have a giant map or something?”

“Not this one. It did have a radio. I wonder where it all went.”

“There’s nothing here because you tipped them off. Going to the camp was a stupid idea. You might as well have just walked in here and started punching people.”

Stockwell turned away.

“You did that, didn’t you? You just marched in here and started punching up the place.”

“I only punched like two guys.”

“Damn it, Dam.”

“It was your idea. Besides, didn’t your inside man tip you off?”

Grayson said nothing.

“Grayson? Your man?”

“We’ve lost contact.”

Stockwell could tell he was concerned. “I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

“This is why I hate it when Hoover brings you in. You should just leave this stuff to us. It’s our job.”

“Protecting America is everyone’s job, Grayson. We all must stand vigilant lest liberty perish from the earth.”

“Fine, but more specifically, it’s my job.”

“Says who?”

Grayson reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge. “How about this, Dam? You see that?” The federal agent waved the silver shield in Stockwell’s face.

“Big deal. I’ve got one of those.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do. And it’s better than yours.”

“Box-top badges don’t count, little boy. Now get out of here and let the professionals work.”

Stockwell reached into his own pocket and pulled out a badge. “See? Mine’s gold.”

Grayson held the badge back up. “Mine says Department of Justice!”

“Oh, I guess mine is different.”

“I thought so.”

“Mine says Department of Just Me.”

“What?”

Stockwell handed him the badge. Grayson studied the shield as Damian continued. “I thought it sounded a little pompous myself, but Hoover insisted. And, you know when that guy gets a thought in his head … well, you smile and nod your head or you get your own secret file.”

Grayson tossed the badge back. “This means nothing.”

“Actually, it means I outrank you.”

“What?”

“Yep. I can even slap you around and it’s perfectly legal.” Stockwell slapped the agent across the face. “That slap was fully endorsed by the American government.”

Grayson clenched his fist and reared back to strike.

Stockwell held up the badge. “Uh uh.”

Grayson lowered his fist. Stockwell slapped him again.

Grayson threw the punch. Damian intercepted it with the Department of Just Me shield. The agent’s knuckles cracked against the badge and Grayson pulled back his hand.

“Now, let’s stop this ‘whose badge is better nonsense’ and look for clues.”

Grayson dropped his fist. “Fine. But you search over there. Away from me.”

They scoured the room but there was nothing left. Even the eagle’s molted feathers had been removed.

“You blew our only lead, Dam.”

“Technically, it was my lead.”

“Either way, it was the only lead.”

“Not quite. What did your team turn up on Tsucgimoto?”

“What’s a cigimoto?”

“It’s the name I gave you to look up.”

“I thought that was interference on the radio.”

“What? No. He’s the Chinese man colluding with Starke. Get your team on it right away.”

Grayson pulled out a notepad and a pencil. “Spell it.”

“You spell it.”

“How am I supposed to look it up if you can’t spell it?”

“Spell it like it sounds. We’ve got to find him.”

Grayson struggled through the name and tore the page out of his notebook before handing it to one of the other agents. “Get right on this and tell me what you find.”

The young agent nodded and left the room.

“What now, Dam?”

“It’s late. I’m going to bed. I’ll leave this to the professionals.”

13
Homecoming of Hope

The building sat back off of a country road. The Italian Renaissance inspired its design. Brick and glass gave it form. The tower on its roof gave it distinction. But its former resident gave it history.

Bertrand and Stockwell stepped from the car and approached the door. A small metal placard above the door listed the sole occupant as Peerless Pictures.

“Ring the bell, Bertrand.”

The valet obliged and stepped to the front entry. He pressed the doorbell and screamed as a shock coursed through his finger and up into his teeth.

There was a boisterous laugh from an old voice behind the door. “Hee hee, that’ll goose ya.”

“Oh, non, monsieur. Please, not him.”

“Calm down, Bertrand. He’s just excited to be home. Open the door.”

“Mon Dieu.” Bertrand leaned over and grasped the doorknob. He shot straight up as another current ran through his arm.

“Hee hee, that’ll goose …”

Bertrand slammed his fist against the door. “Open this door, you…”

“Bertrand! Manners.” Stockwell pulled a rubber glove from his overcoat. “Besides, it’s not his fault you’re a slow learner.” Damian slipped the glove on, twisted the knob and opened the door.

Tesla stood in the entryway beaming. “Ah, Wardenclyffe. Wardenclyffe. Dam, I can’t thank you enough.” The old man spun around. “It’s so good to have her back.” Tesla rushed forward and grabbed Stockwell’s hand. “My boy, my boy, you’ve made an old man happy this day.”

“It’s the least I could do, Nikola. I see from the tic on Bertrand’s face that you got the generators running.”

“They fired right back up. You’ve had some work done to the place. But, tell me, what is the Peerless Pictures nonsense?”

“Well, Doctor, when buying a secret lab in secret a little secrecy is necessary.”

“Nothing but a front, eh?”

“To a degree. There is a sizable demand for my photograph from the papers and the staff photographers just never seem to capture my essence. So, I figured why not kill two birds with one stone.”

“Ha ha. Beautiful.” Tesla turned his gaze to Bertrand. “Ah, Bertrand, my good friend. And, a good sport. I’m sorry about the door.” Nikola released Stockwell’s hand and offered it to Bertrand. The French man accepted. He collapsed to his knees a moment later.

“Hee hee, that’ll goose ya.”

Stockwell just shook his head.

The Frenchman sputtered, “But, your hand, he … and there was no …”

Damian pulled the rubber glove from his hand and tossed it at his valet. “Please do pay attention, Bertrand.”

Bertrand refused Tesla’s hand in standing. He panted heavily as he gained his feet. The doctor withdrew his hand. “I’m sorry, my boy. We only tease the ones we love. I meant nothing by it. Can I get you anything? A glass of water maybe?”

“An electric glass, no doubt.”

“Don’t be silly, my friend. Water and electricity do not mix. Let me get you something.”

“Non. Non, I am fine. Please. Just tell me where is la toilette?”

“It’s right through here.” Nikola took only a few steps back and opened a door revealing the wash closet.

“Bon. Pardon. I must freshen up.”

The doctor stepped aside and let the Frenchman pass. Bertrand reached for the knob to close the door but pulled his hand back.

Nikola set his hand on the knob, ushered Bertrand into the washroom and shut the door behind him.

“Doctor, I need to talk to you about the Teleforce.”

Tesla held up a finger and cocked an ear towards the restroom.

There was a groan, a splash, a shock, a cry and a crash as Bertrand slammed into the wash closet door.

Tesla laughed so hard he doubled over. “Hee hee. That’ll goose ya.”

Stockwell joined in the laughter as the two moved into the building’s laboratory. The room was vast and filled with machines. Everything hummed with the power of science. Damian had seen to it that the original facility was restored as best as possible. Cabinets hummed and sparks flew from giant coil to giant coil, filling the room with crackling shadows and the smell of a spring lightning storm.

Tesla marveled at it all. “It’s beautiful, Dam. If I only had my tower back. They demolished it, you know. During the Great War. They thought the Germans would use it against us. What a foolish thought.” Tesla slid his hands in to the pockets of his lab coat. “Now, what is all this about?”

“The Germans are planning to use your work against us.”

“Makes sense. So they are the ones that stole my work.”

“It would seem. I fear they plan to unleash your brutal genius on the United States’ military. Effectively ending our place in the war before it begins.”

“Impossible.”

“I’m afraid not. They’ve militarized some of your work already. But they are dead set on getting their hands on your death ray.”

“I see. But I’m afraid I don’t understand. They have the plans for the Teleforce.”

“They want the real plans. The secret plans. I have to know that they’re safe.”

“Ah, the secret plans. Well, in that case, we need to go to the secret laboratory.” Tesla chuckled.

“Doctor, this is no time for jokes.”

Nikola stepped over to a bank of metal cabinets and swung one from the wall revealing the darkened entrance to a tunnel. He reached in and flipped a switch which lit a string of lights that disappeared down into the earth.

“Oh.” Stockwell joined him by the entrance.

Tesla led them down the stairs. “The Teleforce was supposed to bring world peace. It was my plan to arm every coast in the world with the towers and provide each nation with an invisible force ray that no navy or air service would dare try to cross. If soldiers could not land on foreign shores, how could war be waged? It could not.”

The tunnel was dark and musty. Wetness flowed from the rock walls in to the air. Shallow breaths felt deep and thick.

Tesla continued. “They said I was mad, of course. They liked to say things like that about me. How many times had I proved them wrong? My alternating current. Remote control. Wireless power transmission. Radio. Radio, Dam. Radio. But still they said it could not be done.”

The pair reached the end of the stairs. The passageway opened into a large room at the foot of a spiral staircase. It was empty.

“What is this?”

“The base of my tower. The tower would have shown the world once and for all that I was not crazy. But, I never got to complete it.”

“Doctor. Where is the secret lab? Where is the Teleforce?”

“It could not be done.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There is no secret lab, my friend. There is no secret Teleforce. No death ray. It could never work. It was a bluff. A bluff that left uncalled would have brought peace to the world. Instead they have chosen war and set me aside as a crazy old scientist.”

“Nikola. I …”

“I’m sorry, Dam. It is my greatest disappointment that I could not give the world a real death ray. I tried, Dam. How I tried. The world is headed for war and I have no death ray to prevent it. It was obvious that I had failed. So I embraced their mad perception of me. I am no longer of use.”

“That’s the first crazy thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“No. My science is used up.”

Stockwell felt for the man. He couldn’t even begin to imagine feeling worthless. From birth he was raised as a force for good. He was given every benefit of education and physical training. Even his personality was molded into that of a hero, a champion. Quitting and self-pity were foreign to him. But, through his vast imagination, he pictured what the doctor was feeling. Damian looked around the empty room. Now that the tower was gone, it was little more than empty space.

“If there are no plans, why did you bring me down here?”

“It’s a metaphor.”

Damian responded with a blank stare. It was all he could muster.

“For emptiness. I am like this empty room.”

Stockwell shook his head. “No. No, there is still science in you. I know it.”

“No, my friend.”

“I’ve seen it, Nikola. The Nazis have taken your technology and modified it. They can direct lightning like a weapon.”

“This is what I feared. I already invented that. I called it the Tesla Electric Hose.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Tesla Electric Hose, if made powerful enough, it could take down a plane or a ship.”

“Why did you tell me about the death ray and not this?”

“Please, my friend. Would you have been concerned enough to help me if I had told you they stole my electric hose? No, only telling you that I had created a death ray was enough to make you think I wasn’t crazy.”

“But, they’ve done it, doctor. I’ve seen. Is there some way to stop it?”

“No.” Tesla retreated into the shadows of the cavern. “There is no way. I’m sorry, Dam. I have failed you.”

The scientist disappeared into a dark corner of the room. There was a large clatter of several pieces of metal against rock. “Dammit.”

“What is it?”

“It’s dark in here.”

“What was that noise?”

All was quiet for a moment. Stockwell heard, but could not see, metal scrape against the ground. “That noise,” Nikola Tesla, master of lightning, emerged from the darkness holding a metal pole the height of a man and wearing a smile, “was the answer.” The old scientist held the pole over his head. “Behold!” The end shattered one of the lights and sent a cascade of sparks down around him.

He backed away from the electrical shower and handed the pole to Damian. “Here, it’s heavy.”

Stockwell examined the pole and looked to his old friend. “It’s a pole.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Well, it still needs some work. Bring it up to the lab.”

The pair made their way back to the foot of the stairs. Tesla pointed back to the small room. “Really … I really didn’t mean to do that.”

•••

After reviving Bertrand and not shaking the doctor’s hand, the pair left the lab at Wardenclyffe and walked to the car.

Stockwell stood by the back door and waited patiently. Bertrand made no move to open it. “Bertrand, the door.”

The Frenchman reached with caution toward the handle. The fading autumn sun broke through a clutch of trees and sparkled off the chrome release. Bertrand jerked his arm back and shielded it with the other.

“Bertrand, the door.”

Again the valet reached for the handle, he got closer this time but again he pulled his arm back as if he were reaching for an angry snake. “My apologies, monsieur. I … I cannot.”

Damian sighed and opened the door himself. “Don’t be such a baby, Bertrand.” Stockwell got into his seat and reached for the radio phone while his loyal servant moved to the driver’s door. Stockwell wanted to check in with Grayson, but there was no answer on his line. Damian dropped the receiver in the cradle with a, “Dammit.” He had let the phone ring for more than a minute. It was then that he realized the car wasn’t moving. His valet was still playing chicken with the door handle.

“For goodness sake, Bertrand. Just open the door.”

The Frenchman cursed in French, tucked his hand inside his sleeve and grabbed the door handle with a scream normally reserved for combat. Nothing happened. Bertrand opened the door and sat inside.

“You’re an embarrassment to your profession, you know that?”

“Oui, monsieur.”

“Take us home, Bertrand.”

He made the ride in silence. Damian mulled over everything he had learned about the saboteurs, the mysterious warriors and, most despicable of all, the homegrown Nazi, John Starke. In times of deep thought, he chewed on his lower lip, a habit he had picked up from one of his mentors—a man he now wished he could go back in time and punch.

The news that there was no death ray was comforting and disturbing. On one hand, there was no death ray. A ray capable of wiping out armies with a single blast would be a threat to the world. Even in the right hands, a weapon with such force would surely corrupt. Sure, it would be nice to have, but if Nikola couldn’t make it work, the death ray would live only in science fiction stories and the dreams of generals everywhere where the sugarplums were replaced with extra deadly bullets.

The fact that it didn’t exist, though, put the doctor in danger. Starke and his puppet master would not quit until they had the device. The fact that it was nothing more than a bluff would not stop them. And if they couldn’t find the plans, they would surely go after the scientist.

Tesla would be safer at Wardenclyffe than in the city. He was certain of this. But, the best way to ensure his safety was to put an end to the threat. He had to find Starke.

“There’s been a change in plans, Bertrand. We’re not going home.”

“Where to, monsieur?”

“Chinatown.”

14
Night of the Ninja

Bertrand’s ample nose crinkled at the smell of burnt eggs as he entered the kitchen. Stockwell sat behind a stack of newspapers that threatened to spill onto the floor. He moved through the papers quickly. The rapid turning of each page blew the offensive smell towards the valet from the plate in front of his employer.

A Cordon Bleu, Stockwell could create any culinary masterpiece and did so often. Dignitaries, heads of state and industry giants compiled his list of dinner guests and Damian took it upon himself to prepare the meals to the delight of the diners.

When his mind was otherwise occupied, however, Damian turned even the most basic course into an abomination of smoke and char. That he would then eat such damaged food told Bertrand that whatever he searched for in the papers was of the gravest importance.

“My apologies, monsieur. I did not know that you intended to rise early this morning.”

Pages ruffled as one edition was cast aside and Stockwell drew another from the pile. “I couldn’t sleep, my friend.”

Though he read at an amazing pace, Bertrand could tell Stockwell parsed headlines. He discarded another paper.

The musical chimes alerted Bertrand to a presence at the door. He excused himself and crossed from the kitchen to the stairs.

The chorus played again and he quickened his pace down the staircase to the door. He opened the large entryway and took a step back. The woman was beautiful.

“Is Mr. Stockwell in?”

“Oui, madam. You must be Ms. Rivers.”

The beautiful woman nodded as Bertrand motioned for her to step inside.

“Monsieur Stockwell is taking breakfast. Based on the smell, I would not recommend joining him.”

The pair climbed the stairs and entered the kitchen. If Damian had noticed their presence, he did not react. Instead he moved from page to page of the paper.

“Monsieur …”

“Alice,” Damian spoke without breaking the pace of his reading, “please sit. Care for some breakfast?”

Bertrand caught her eye and shook his head.

“I’ve already eaten, thank you.”

Stockwell discarded the paper and grabbed another from the pile.

Bertrand set a cup in front of their visitor and poured her a cup of coffee as the pages flew. “Is there something I can help you find, monsieur?”

“What do you know about ninjas, Bertrand?”

“I’ve never heard the word.”

Another paper hit the floor. Stockwell pulled another and disappeared behind it. “I spent most of the night scouring Chinatown for any clue to these mysterious warriors, and you know what I learned?”

“Non, monsieur.”

“How about you, Alice?”

“I’m excited to hear. My sources at the paper found nothing.”

“Ah, well then. You may both be interested to hear that ninjas are not Chinese.”

“No?”

“No. They are Japanese.”

Alice smiled. “I see.”

“Yes. And, there is in fact a difference.”

“There is,” said Alice.

“And they are very, very sensitive about that difference.” Stockwell lowered the paper revealing a black eye marring his Adonis-like features. It shone through the bruises of the day before. “Especially the women.”

“Mon Dieu.”

Alice giggled.

Stockwell returned to the paper. “Remember that for me, won’t you, Bertrand?”

“Oui, monsieur.”

“I guess that means Tsucgimoto was Japanese after all.” Her voice contained a small lecture.

“So it would seem. After I left Chinatown, I tried to look for ninjas in Japantown.”

Alice’s lecture continued, “But, we don’t …”

Stockwell finished her statement. “But we don’t have a Japantown. Seems a little unfair, doesn’t it, Bertrand?”

Bertrand nodded but said nothing. He set about cleaning the charred dishes his employer had left in the sink. Vigorous scrubbing would be required of the pans; somehow Stockwell had even managed to burn the salt. Behind him the fluttering of pages stopped.

Stockwell had lowered the paper. A grim look overtook the titan’s face. His lower lip was tucked beneath his gleaming white teeth as he chewed over the thought in his mind.

“You’ve found something.” Alice smiled.

“What is it, monsieur? I’ve not seen you so deep in thought for quite a while.”

“Bertrand. I met a girl?”

Bertrand wasn’t sure what Stockwell was getting at. The man did not look at him. His gaze was fixed on Miss Rivers. “Who is this girl, monsieur?”

“That’s the problem, Bertrand. I’m not really sure.”

Alice shrank. She grabbed the coffee mug and tried to hide behind it.

“Perhaps, then, you could tell me what she’s like, monsieur.”

Stockwell’s eyes peered into the girl across the table from him. “If I were to describe her, I would simply say she was beautiful.”

“That is good, mon …”

“I would say she was brave. And … cunning. So cunning.”

The girl began to squirm. As valet and head of the house staff, Bertrand didn’t like to see guests uncomfortable. Surely, Stockwell knew what he was doing.

“As you know, those are qualities I admire, Bertrand.”

“Oh.” Bertrand sighed. Since Dahlia, there had been no love for Stockwell. The valet had felt the absence of a woman in his employer’s life. This titan of a man was all but bulletproof, but his heart could tear like any other. Damian cast it off, of course, but Bertrand knew it weighed heavy on him. No one had suffered more than the criminals he sought. The man’s fists had a way of expressing grief. “This woman. She does sound very nice, monsieur.”

“But, you see, she’s lied to me twice.” Stockwell moved the pile of papers aside and leaned on his elbows.

Alice sipped at her coffee. The silver flecked eyes gave her no respite. Stockwell bore into her with his stare.

Bertrand could hear the hurt in the rich baritone. The Frenchman smiled. “Is that so bad?”

“Is that so bad? Truth is the foundation of trust, Bertrand. They even share a lot of the same letters. Without truth, what have you?”

Bertrand set a fresh cup of coffee on the table. “If you are lucky, monsieur, a delicious lie.” The final word played like sugar caught upon one’s lips.

Few could say things that would make Damian Stockwell think, but Bertrand could see that his words had run counter to his friend’s established line of logic. A raised eyebrow held for a moment before a smile emerged.

“Ha, my romantic friend. It’s the French in you. But, no. There is no chance at that.”

“Why is that?”

“She’s deceitful, obviously. Untrustworthy. Untruthful. And …” He let the statement fade.

“What is her name, monsieur?”

Stockwell peered deep into Alice’s eyes as he grabbed the final paper on the table. “That remains to be seen.”

Alice set down the cup of coffee. The saucer betrayed her nerves. “I don’t know what you’re getting on about. You know why I lied. And I told you my name.”

Damian picked up another paper and snapped it open.

Bertrand put a hand on the girl’s shoulder before he began to tidy up the table. Stockwell had upset her. She hid it well but he could tell.

Alice gave the valet a quick look before turning back to Stockwell. “Are you even listening to me?”

“No, miss. I’m trying to read. One can learn a lot from reading the paper. You should know this. You’re a reporter.”

“What is it you are looking for, monsieur?”

“A name, my friend. Just one name.”

Alice reached across the table for his hand. “Dam.”

Bertrand stacked the plates and walked them to the sink. The pages behind him stopped turning. Bertrand smiled. He had found what he was looking for. “Is it her?”

“I’m afraid not, my friend. I’ve spent the morning going through every paper looking for a story. Any story, it didn’t matter which, by one of my favorite reporters.”

“And?”

He lowered the paper and looked at Alice. “I couldn’t find a single one.”

“Dam, I can explain.”

Bertrand turned. Stockwell had dropped the paper on the table and stood from his seat.

“I did, however, find Dr. Tesla’s missing weapons. Be ready in five minutes, Bertrand.”

“Don’t you want to hear what I have to say?” Alice pleaded with her eyes.

Bertrand could hear her desperation. He suspected that she was less upset at being caught in a lie than she was at having to lie in the first place.

“Bring your tourist disguise. And get the girl a disguise, Bertrand. She’s coming with us.”

“I thought it was too dangerous for me.”

“That’s back when you were a reporter.”

Alice said nothing.

Damian dropped the paper on the table and left the room.

She reached for the paper and opened it to the article that had prompted Damian’s departure.

Bertrand moved to the table and looked over her shoulder. The story seemed to be nothing—an opinion piece from a sports fan complaining of static on his radio. Stockwell had circled the article. In it the man blamed the neighboring tower for the problem.

The valet dropped the paper back on the table. He didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter.

15
Platform of Peril

Throughout his countless adventures, he had seen nature paint beauty with sound, sight and life. From glorious creatures of colors and cunning to suicidal rivers that plummeted from the highest crests through light and air to project their hidden glory on the world, there was no shortness of wonder in the natural world.

But here, one hundred two stories above the surface, man’s own design spread out before him. Nature created through kindness and violence and did it beautifully, but man’s order possessed glory as well. The streets of the city flowed with this order. Buildings rose despite nature’s attempt to draw them ever to the earth. Here he stood above it all, observing man’s fragile dominance over the natural world.

“Come see this, Bertrand.”

“I can see it from here, monsieur.”

The Frenchman had not ventured beyond a tenuous step outside of the elevator. He held close to the interior wall of the observation floor.

Stockwell peered through dark glasses down upon his city from the enclosed room. “Come here, Bertrand. It’s not that bad.”

“Non. It’s fine over here.” The Frenchman pressed so close to the wall that the chef’s hat he wore pushed down over his eyes.

“Look, if you did fall out the window, it’s not like you’d hit the street. You’d just hit the tourists on eighty-six.”

“Here I hit nothing.”

Alice stood beside the Frenchman and put a hand on his shoulder. She wore a wide-brimmed hat that covered her hair. Large sunglasses covered her eyes.

The open air of the eighty-sixth floor had been too much for the valet. He had cowered by the entrance to the second observation deck until the elevator arrived. This second deck was not exposed. It sat behind thick windows that Stockwell thought would haven given the Frenchman comfort. But, still he cowered. Even though the wind caused the floor to sway, it wasn’t enough to be a baby about.

“Bertrand, quit acting like this. I’ve seen you on Everest.”

“Oui,” the Frenchman stood a little taller, “a mountain. As God intended. A mountain belongs and has been there for millennia. This … this is not right.”

Stockwell made a slow pass around the circular room and took in the city and surrounding counties. He ended his circuit behind his valet and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder.

Bertrand winced. The chef’s hat fell from his head.

Stockwell caught it before it hit the floor and placed it back on his friend’s head. “Fix your hat, Bertrand.”

“Monsieur, why the disguise? These men do not know me.”

“True, but they know me. And, you’re famous by association. There’s a chance they might recognize you from one of the many stories about me. Hence the disguise.”

“But, monsieur, a chef?”

“You’re French.”

“Isn’t that a little stereotypical?” Alice asked.

“That’s why it works, Miss whoever you might be. If he were a Frenchman dressed as anything else it would be suspicious.”

She crossed her arms, “But what is a chef doing in the Empire State Building?”

“Sightseeing.” Stockwell put his arm behind Bertrand and tried to move him from the wall. The Frenchman forced his way back against it. “Or, you know, cowering.”

The hat fell from Bertrand’s head.

Stockwell put it back on him.

Bertrand snatched it off and snapped, “Do you really think all French people dress like this?”

“Of course not. Just the men. The ladies have those maid outfits.”

“Your disguise is nothing but a mustache and glasses and I have to dress like this? She has only a floppy hat.”

“Do you want her floppy hat?”

“Non, that is not …”

“Then quiet down and enjoy the view.”

“The chef’s outfit does seem a little crass,” said Alice.

“Listen, Miss probably not Rivers, I …”

She had tried several times on the ride over to explain herself but he would only change the subject when she spoke. “Dam. It’s Alice. My name really is Alice.”

“She is right. This is an indignity, monsieur.”

“Calm down, Bertrand. You’re acting like your soufflé has fallen.”

Bertrand swore and put the hat back on.

“What?” He looked at Alice. “Soufflé is French, isn’t it?”

She crossed her arms and pouted.

“Don’t you get it? You’re dressed like a chef and …”

“Oui, monsieur. I get it. It is not funny.”

“Fine. Next time, you’re a mime.”

The elevator bell rung and a slew of tourists stepped into the observation room. Many rushed to the window with excitement. A few others, French, Stockwell assumed, hesitated. Gasps, “ahhs” and a little swearing followed as the tourists took in the amazing views of the greatest city on earth. Damian moved with the crowd towards the window but he kept his gaze cast upon the reflection in the windows and not the magnificence beyond the panes.

One man neither cowered nor stared. Unfazed by both the scenery and the height, he moved casually to a service door in the interior wall, giving Bertrand a curious glance as he passed.

“Starke,” Stockwell cursed under his breath.

The blond man moved through the service door and disappeared. Damian moved back to Bertrand and Alice. “It’s Starke.”

Bertrand’s hat had fallen over his eyes again but he responded with a question, “Oú?”

“Starke. That’s who.” Stockwell ground his teeth. “The Nazi.”

Stockwell and Alice rushed to the door as the loyal valet inched along the wall.

The door was locked. Damian reached into the hem of his sleeve and removed a pair of picks. The slim metal pieces released the lock as Bertrand arrived at the door.

“Come on.” Stockwell opened the door and pushed the Frenchman inside.

The chef’s hat fell into his hands as he stumbled on to the foot of a stairway. Damian closed the door silently behind them.

An electrical hum filled the stairwell from above. The sound thrummed and would drown out most any speech. Stockwell motioned that they should stay low and quiet nonetheless.

Bertrand nodded.

Stockwell stepped aside and ushered Bertrand to head up the stairs first.

The Frenchman resisted.

Stockwell scowled and repeated the gesture.

Bertrand shook his head.

Stockwell shrugged his shoulders in response and placed his hands on his hips.

Bertrand raised his hand and pointed to the palm. This signal indicated to Damian the beginning of a conversation to be held in SSL, Stockwell Sign Language. Often times, in the field, it became necessary to communicate silently. Facial expressions and pointing had their limitations so Stockwell had devised an effective means of communicating with hand gestures. Pointing to the palm, for example, not only signaled the start of an SSL conversation, it also meant, “look at my hand.” It was all about context.

Stockwell sighed and drew two fingers from his eyes towards to Bertrand’s palm to signify, “Fine, I’m watching.”

Bertrand’s fingers moved in odd directions. To the common person it would seem as if he had an affliction. This was because there was no music. To aid in its memory, Stockwell had scored the entire SSL to original music. So, though it appeared as if Bertrand’s motions were the result of a strike to the head, his choreographed movements would be ranked among the finer arts if set to the original accompaniment.

Bertrand’s fingers danced, “I don’t want to go first. You go first.”

Alice wore a puzzled look on her face. Unless trained in the language, it was nearly impossible to determine the meaning of the gestures.

Stockwell gestured back, his motions a chorus for Bertrand’s performance. “Why won’t you go first?”

Bertrand dropped to the ground, his hand hovered above the floor, after a musical pause he sprang up, raising his hand high.

Stockwell grimaced, then sank to the ground himself and repeated the motion with only a slight difference. “It is not too high.”

Damian’s motions continued, “We’re inside now. Don’t be such a coward. What would all the other French chefs say?”

The Frenchman’s fingers retorted, “I’m not a chef.”

Stockwell’s motions became subdued. His hands slowed. The gestures became less broad. “Calm down. There’s no need to get upset.”

“This chef’s outfit was your stupid idea, you …”

Stockwell’s palm shot up as he interrupted Bertrand’s fingers. “Be careful. You don’t want to sign something you’ll regret.”

Bertrand sighed.

Stockwell’s hands moved quickly, “Look, if you don’t want to be a chef, you don’t have to be a chef. So take off the stupid hat and get up there.”

Bertrand pouted and gave one last gesture. He tossed the hat on the ground and started up the steps. That’s when he tripped on his apron.

Bertrand’s bang against the metal step clamored up the concrete stairwell. All three of them paused, hoping that their presence had not been given away—that the thud could not be heard over the hum from above. After a moment it seemed that the noise had caused no suspicion.

Stockwell picked up the chef hat and struck Bertrand across the back of the head.

Bertrand scowled as he pulled off the apron and started back up the stairs. Damian and Alice followed closely behind.

Bertrand reached the top of the stairwell first. He stood and began to scratch his head. Damian followed close behind and saw the puzzle his valet faced. But for several large green electrical boxes, the room was empty.

Each box was painted olive green and hummed with a furious persistence. Now, at the top of the stairs, the pair could feel the vibrations of the current flowing through the equipment.

Damian scanned the room and pointed to the ceiling. The cables from each box disappeared through a conduit to the level above. A ladder at the back of the room led to the building’s spire.

Damian pointed up the ladder.

Bertrand shook his head.

Stockwell rolled his eyes and launched himself up the rungs to a panel in the ceiling. Alice followed behind him.

With a mighty shove, Damian heaved the trapdoor open and propelled himself into the spire. He rolled to one side and rose ready for action.

Starke stood across the room in front of a large console filled with switches and instrumentation. He didn’t turn when the thud of the trapdoor echoed through the spire. His hands never left the panel as they adjusted knobs and dials.

“Welcome, Mr. Stockwell.” He glanced over his shoulder as Alice climbed in to the room. “And to you, Ms. Jones.”

“It’s over, Starke. You and your Nazi filth are done in America.”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Stockwell. The reign of the Reich is just beginning.” Starke turned, holding the device from the truck at the camp—the lightning caster. He pulled the lever and the device cast a stream of pure electricity fed by a massive cable.

16
Egress of Evil

Damian shoved Alice out of the way and dove behind a filing cabinet. The cabinet blocked the blast but began to melt as its gray panels turned bright red.

Bertrand appeared at the top of the ladder.

“The boxes, Bertrand!”

Starke turned the weapon on the Frenchman. The smell of ozone filled the room and the blinding blue arc leapt from the Nazi’s hands.

Bertrand screamed and fell from view.

“Bertrand!”

“Here it is, Mr. Stockwell, the lightning hose. The power of Dr. Tesla’s coil channeled into my hands. Come and take it.”

The air cracked again as the high-voltage weapon tore through it. The cabinet began to melt away.

Damian dashed across the room as the blue arc chased after him. He slid behind a support column and drew his gun. “I thought we all agreed on lightning caster.”

Starke screamed and let loose another charge. The lightning bolt struck the column and leapt from the super structure to the gun in Damian’s hand.

His arm went numb as the weapon clattered to the ground.

“You can’t stop us, Stockwell. We are destined to rule the world.”

“Not in my country!” Stockwell rubbed the sensation back into his hand. He couldn’t see Alice. Where had she gone?

“Hitler is what this world needs. He is a man with a vision.”

Bertrand could very well be dead or unconscious in the room below. The hum from the equipment room had not stopped as he had hoped. In fact, it had grown louder. The rhythmic pulse of machines began to shake the floor and the walls around him until the sound was all he could feel.

Another bolt rent the air and crashed against the pole in front of him. He could feel the heat of the blast radiate from the iron girder. He had to move. Staying behind cover would invite another blast that might risk the integrity of the building. Stockwell dashed across the room and slid behind an instrument panel.

There was no blast.

“Damn it,” Starke cursed as he shook the nozzle. No electricity came out.

Stockwell glanced to the ladder and saw Bertrand’s hand appear at the top. The Frenchman gave a thumbs up which was SSL for, “I unplugged the room full of electrical capacitors.” Damian smiled. Without the capacitors, Starke was just holding a cable. He also smiled for having the forethought to incorporate the phrase into the SSL.

Damian hesitated to charge. If the capacitors were off, why did the humming persist? Indeed, it grew louder. The walls of the spire began to shake.

Starke dropped the electric hose and yelled, “You’re too late, Stockwell.”

Stockwell saw a flash of blond between two pieces of equipment. Alice was moving behind the Nazi sympathizer. She could end this now. For whatever she was, she was capable in a fight. She could get the drop on him if Stockwell could keep Starke’s attention.

Damian rose from behind the console, “You’re out of juice, Starke.”

“But I’m not out of options.” Starke pulled a gun from his pocket.

Alice emerged from the equipment and raised her own weapon against Starke. “That’s enough, Starke.”

He cast a glance over his shoulder and smiled. “Miss Jones.”

A shadow dropped from above and landed behind her. With a silent flash of silver, Tsucgimoto grabbed her around the chest and held her captive with a sword at her throat. The ninja was silent as Alice dropped the weapon.

Starke fired.

Damian dropped back for cover.

The hum grew louder.

“It’s over for you, Stockwell.” Starke fired as he and Tsucgimoto backed toward the wall. The ninja opened a door. A rush of cold wind filled the spire.

“We’ll be taking Miss Jones with us. Get us the death ray plans or she dies.”

“Let her go, you Nazi bastard. It’ll take more than you and a creep in his pajamas to stop me, Starke.”

“We’ll be in touch, Stockwell.”

Several loud thuds beat down from the walls.

The squeak of protesting hinges pierced the hum as several access panels around the spire opened. Starke screamed to be heard over the deafening thrum that poured in from outside. “Shoot him!”

The men on the spire opened fire. Stockwell rolled and dove as the metal floor around him exploded with the sparks of metal against metal. Equipment panels absorbed the bullets as he slid from cover to cover.

They were all around him. There was no shelter from them all.

Damian slid feet first through the trapdoor and collapsed on Bertrand at the base of the ladder, causing him to grunt in French.

Stockwell stood and grabbed the ladder. “Give me your gun, Bertrand.”

The Frenchman rolled on the floor and groaned. He reached into his waistband and pulled out a revolver.

Stockwell grabbed the gun and started back up the ladder. He took aim at the openings in the roof but the men had disappeared. He rolled into the room and started for the door through which the Nazi, the ninja and the mysterious woman had fled.

But a new sound stopped him. Metallic clangs filled the air as the thrum grew louder. There was a groan. The building protested as if someone was trying to tear the spire from the tower itself. But it wasn’t this odd sound that stopped him. There was a ticking—faint through the din.

It all became clear. “Of course.”

Bertrand appeared at the top of the ladder.

“Bertrand! Get down!” Stockwell slid back for the trapdoor. He hoped that he was not too late to save his friend and himself. His feet caught Bertrand in the face and sent the Frenchman back to the room below. Stockwell followed down the hole moments before the room exploded.

17
Attack of the Drones

The top of the Empire State Building rocked, but the explosion did not reach his expectations. He scrambled back up the ladder into the spire.

The electrical equipment was destroyed. Smoldering wires hung outside of the blasted metal cabinets. Glass shards from the instruments littered the ground. But the room was still intact.

He rushed to the door the villains had dragged the girl though and kicked it open. Cold wind blasted through him as he charged into the daylight. He had not taken three steps when he found himself at the building’s edge. Beyond the safety rail, Alice and Starke dangled at the end of a cable that hung from a massive zeppelin.

Starke laughed as Tsucgimoto climbed the cable to the cabin of the airship.

Stockwell screamed in frustration and turned his eyes upward. Several men scrambled over the building’s largest antenna attaching cables to the mast. The antenna was topped with a giant mesh ball. A Tesla sphere.

“The projector. How devious.” Damian tucked the pistol in his belt and began to climb the outside of the spire. The ornate design offered an abundance of foot and handholds and he reached the top quickly. The men were still thirty feet above him when he reached the base of the tower. He grabbed the framework and prepared to scale it when he noticed a new sound.

The airship’s rotors caused such a constant roar that they had become white noise in his ear. When this new sound emerged, it drew his attention. The pitched whine stabbed through the wind and engine noise like a hornet’s buzz. It grew into a swarm.

Narrowing his eyes, he spotted the source. Several planes were approaching from behind the zeppelin. They were too small in the sky to be very close. He had time to deal with the German commandos above.

One of the planes shot by his head, nearly separating it from his body. “By God,” he shouted as he lost his footing. His right hand still on the tower, the fall turned him around and he watched the tiny plane begin to turn.

The others arrived and buzzed by him.

He kicked and moved out of the way as the small fleet flew by. The planes couldn’t have been more than three feet across and a couple of feet long. Their size and weight would be enough, however, to free his grip and send him tumbling below.

A final plane in the formation flew too close to the tower and struck the steel framework. The wing separated from the body, sparks erupted from the fuselage and the microplane burst into flames as it fell from the sky.

Damian regained his footing on the tower as the fleet circled back for another pass. He leveled Bertrand’s revolver at the nearest craft and pulled the trigger. The gun barely jumped in his mighty grip; the Frenchman had always preferred a smaller caliber than Damian and it didn’t give off the satisfying boom that he enjoyed so much from the Colts. Still, the bullet flew straight, clipping the microplane’s wing and sending it spiraling towards the earth.

Two more shots took out another member of the squadron. The way it exploded, he assumed he had struck the fuel tank. The planes shot by him so close that two had to weave through the skeleton of the antenna. Only one made it out. A third plane made contact with his arm, slicing a gash in his bicep. The wings were razor sharp. He noted this development as he fired another round at the microplanes.

They turned again. He fired once more and took out the lead craft. The three remaining planes sped forward. Bertrand’s sissy gun only held six rounds and he had already spent five. He looked up. The commandos were almost done fastening the cables to the mast with massive bolts. They knew he was busy with the tiny air force and paid little attention to him.

Stockwell fired into the air and struck one of the Germans. It was not a fatal shot but the man dropped the wrench he was using and grabbed the antenna to prevent himself from falling.

Damian dropped the gun and grabbed the wrench out of the air. He swung as the planes passed and caught the third one on the fuselage. It cracked in two and dropped.

Stockwell roared after the other two and waved the wrench. They began to turn, but it was wider than before. He watched as the remains of the tiny squadron banked and headed back for the zeppelin. There would be time to wonder about their retreat later. He dropped the wrench and began to climb. He was twenty feet away when the commandos did something he did not expect. They jumped from the tower into the space above New York.

Each fell ten to twenty feet before he realized that they, too, were attached to the zeppelin with safety cables. The Nazis jerked and swung to a stop as the airship throttled up. The thrum he had heard grew monstrous as the craft rose. Notes sounded over the noise as the cables the commandos had attached to the mast grew taught.

Stockwell turned back to the airship. Starke and Alice had been reeled into the cabin. He could no longer see the girl, but Starke stood at the open doorway. The head of the American Nazi Party grinned as he held up a black box not unlike the one Tesla had used to activate the earthquake device.

Damian screamed and leapt from the tower as Starke pressed the detonator on the remote control. The base of the mast exploded behind him, throwing him further away from the building than he intended. Stockwell plummeted. He had hoped to strike the landing near the spire, but the explosion had pushed him past it.

There was nothing below him now. He reached back to where he knew the building was supposed to be and hoped to strike iron or stone. He had grabbed flesh. Bertrand grunted as his shoulder took the sudden weight of his friend and threatened to pull him from the building’s edge. The valet’s palm was slick with perspiration.

Stockwell looked back and saw the strain on his friend’s face. He saw no fear. “Good for you, Bertrand! You came outside. And this high up.”

“Please shut up, monsieur.”

Stockwell’s hand began to slip from the Frenchman’s grip. “You’re a little greasy though. Couldn’t you have wiped your hands first?”

“You could be helping.”

“I am helping. Look.” Stockwell swung his free arm over the city. “You’ve overcome your fear of height …”

Stockwell’s hand slipped from Bertrand’s as the fear sweat made the grasp impossible to keep. Damian began to fall.

Another hand shot out from the railing and grabbed his wrist. Stockwell followed the gray flannel covered arm back to its owner and smiled. “It’s good to see you, Grayson.”

Bertrand and Grayson reached out and pulled Damian back onto the landing. The three stood and panted for breath as they watched the commandos scramble up the ropes as the airship began to sail away with the broadcast tower dangling beneath it.

Stockwell could see Starke standing at the door smiling as if victory had been assured. Damian was not one to look evil in the eye and laugh. He looked evil in the eye until evil understood that he was coming for it.

Behind him he heard Grayson ordering his men to call the army and dispatch a squadron of planes. He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Dam. We’ll get him.”

Damian shook his head. “What’s her name, Grayson?”

“It really is Alice, Dam. She was one of ours.”

“I know.”

Damian said the name quietly to himself as the zeppelin faded into the sun.

18
Drink of Despair

America’s distillers had not waited a day after the end of prohibition, but even six years was not enough time to make a proper batch of bourbon. “Next year,” Stockwell muttered as he placed the empty shot glass on the bar of the Vagabond Club.

It was late and the room was empty of all but a few.

Gerald MacArthur poured over an ancient codex from the club’s library. A nice enough fellow, the bulk of the club’s roster considered him a fool. While many members sought fortune and fame among the mysteries of antiquity, MacArthur searched ancient lore looking for plants. It seemed strange to most to chase these down instead of treasure, but Damian knew the man had been a pharmacist by trade. He assumed the man sought new cures in exotic flora. These could be potentially worth more than any gold.

Colonel Cornelius Slaughter was splayed across a series of nautical charts. Though he had spent his service time on land, he had found his passion and fortune in the sea. Always on the hunt for another lost galleon of gold, it was not rare to see him catching a few winks across the charts.

Stanley Peterson sat in an armchair in the corner of the room and stared. His eyes were hollow and vacant of recognition. Life had last been seen in his gaze before a trip to the Dark Continent two years ago. He had told no one of the horrors he had witnessed. He returned wealthy and empty. He never spoke a word. He just sat gripping the arms of the chair as if he would fall away should he let go.

Stockwell spun his glass absently until the bartender dutifully refilled it with bourbon. “Let me ask you this, Mike. How do you lose a blimp?”

“You’ve asked me that, Mr. Stockwell. I just don’t know.”

“They’re pretty big and it’s not like they move fast.”

“You’re absolutely right about that, sir. Just like before.”

“I could just walk along the streets and point, going, ‘look at that blimp.’”

“Yes, you could, sir.”

“How do you lose a blimp, Mike?”

“My name is Steven, sir. Mike left three hours ago.”

“Really?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Steven?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let me ask you a question, Steven. How do you lose a blimp?”

A gray hat landed on the bar next to his glass, “You send an entire squadron after it and watch them all get shot down by little tiny toy planes.” Grayson sat on the stool next to Stockwell. “Another one of those.”

“Oh.” Stockwell straightened up. “I probably should have told you about those.”

Grayson took the drink from the bartender and upended the glass.

“I don’t know what good it would have done. How do you take down something so small?”

“I used a wrench.”

“And now you’re hitting screwdrivers?”

“This is bourbon.”

“It’s an expression.”

Stockwell nodded. “Yeah, you always were pretty bad at those.” He picked up the glass. “I spent the day looking for our ninja. No one seems to know anything about the mysterious Tsucgimoto. The twins lead also led me nowhere.” He raised the rocks glass full of amber, “This seemed like the best option I had left.”

A green folder landed on the bar in front of Damian. Marked Top Secret and taped shut, a page peeked beyond the edge of the folder. A page that bared the Japanese man’s name. Damian ripped the tape from the folder and poured through the papers.

“A Japanese shipping magnate. The bureau’s been watching him closely for a while. That’s why you couldn’t find anything.”

“Something should have turned up.” There wasn’t much information on the man in the folder. It seemed he had lived his entire life in the shadows. Stockwell thumbed quickly through the pages and landed on the list of ships in his fleet.

“His fleet is listed out of Thailand under a swath of false names. It wasn’t easy tracking it down. Though I’m not sure what good it does us now.”

“Grayson, did you know that Thailand used to be called Siam?”

“No. I also don’t care that Thailand used to be called Siam.”

Stockwell grabbed Grayson’s hat from the counter and forced it onto the G-man’s head. “Grayson, pay Mike. You’ve found the twins.”

19
Dock of Doom

The Duesenberg slid to a stop in front of DamIndustries’ waterfront warehouse. Stockwell burst from the passenger seat and moved to the rear door. “Bertrand, get the door and get the plane ready!”

The valet rushed up the few stairs to the warehouse entrance and screamed as he grabbed the knob.

“Hee hee. That’ll…”

“Shut up, old man! You old bastard.” Bertrand screamed through the door as he gripped his hand close to his chest.

The warehouse door creaked open. The wild hairs of Nikola’s eyebrows showed compassion. “I’m sorry, Bertrand. I thought …”

Bertrand shushed the old man and pushed his way into the warehouse as Stockwell climbed the steps behind him holding a large canvas covered package.

Albie Harrison hurried from the small office doing his best to straighten the tie on his uniform and the hat on his head.

“Harrison.” Stockwell stuck out his hand.

The watchman refused to shake it. The poor guard looked terrified at the very gesture.

“Is everything all right, Albie?”

“Yeah, I mean … I mean … I … I mean, n … n … no.”

“Oh, for God’s sakes, Doctor. You’ve given this man a stutter. He wasn’t easy to understand before.”

Tesla slid the powerful joy buzzer from his hand and placed it in his pocket. He gave a meek shrug.

Harrison was either spitting or trying to speak and not getting anywhere.

“Calm down, Albie. Is everything all right?”

Harrison took a deep breath and nodded then shook his head.

The package in Stockwell’s hand lurched and clanged.

The watchman jumped back into the fetal position.

“Okay.” Stockwell helped the watchman to his feet and handed him the large package. “Here, take this to the office and I’ll be there in a moment.” The frazzled guard nodded, a lot, and took the package to the warehouse office.

“Is he okay? I certainly didn’t mean to cause permanent damage.”

“He’ll be fine, Doctor, but can you turn the voltage on the joy buzzer down.”

“Of course. I can set it anywhere from ‘tingle’ to ‘that’ll-goose-ya’ to ‘told-you-not-to-touch-me.’”

“Is everything ready?”

Tesla’s eyes turned from shame to excitement. He took Damian’s hand and pulled him deeper into the warehouse. “My boy, you must see this.”

The Hudson entered the warehouse and formed a floating dock for Stockwell’s Grumman. Tesla ran up the gangplank and waved his arms in front of the plane. “My friend, the Dahlia is now the most advanced plane on the planet. I can’t wait to show you what I’ve done to her.”

“That’s fantastic, Doctor. But, we don’t call her the Dahlia anymore.”

A puzzled look came over the scientist’s face. “Why not?”

“Dahlia and I had a falling out some time ago and I no longer felt the Dahlia was an appropriate name.”

“What do you call the plane now?”

“The Whore.”

“Oh my. What could have possibly happened?”

“It’s a rather long story. I don’t think we have time.”

“Later then.”

“The short version is she’s a whore.”

“I see.”

Stockwell nodded.

“Well, you have a very advanced plane.”

“What about Starke’s hose?”

“Ah!” Nikola ran to the wall and grabbed a tall canvas bag. “I present to you the Tesla Electric Current Reconfiguration Stick.” He pulled the canvas covering from the device to reveal a metal stick.

“Neat. What does it do?”

“It catches and redirects electricity.”

“Like a lightning rod?”

“That would be a better name, yes. Okay, we’ll call it the Lightning Rod. But it doesn’t just direct the blast into the ground. You see these capacitors along the length? They store, only momentarily, the blast and allow you to redirect a bolt of energy.”

Stockwell smiled.

The doctor nodded.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Nikola.”

“Let me show you the plane.”

“In a moment. I need to attend to Albie. It seemed there was something he wanted to tell me. Bertrand will assist you. I want to be ready to go as soon as possible. There’s a very pretty hostage that needs rescuing.”

The valet muttered something vile and stepped into the Whore with the doctor. Stockwell moved back through the expansive hangar and up the steel stairway to the office. It wasn’t large. It contained little more than a desk, a safe and two chairs. He eased Harrison into one seat and moved to the safe.

Long ago he had decided that it would be best to never learn a safe’s combination. Should he be tortured, he never wanted to divulge such secret information. He leaned in near the combination wheel and tapped the steel at the compass points around the dial. He closed his eyes and spun the wheel stopping it at seemingly random intervals. He pulled the handle and the door opened.

The bottom shelf of the massive safe was cooled and contained several glass jars of various colored liquids. Stockwell pulled a bottle filled with green liquid from the safe and closed the door before sitting down opposite the guard. “Drink this, Harrison.” Stockwell waved the drink under the guard’s nose.

Harrison pushed the drink away and shook his head, “What is tha … tha … that sm … sm …”

“It’s probably the leeches.”

“Lee … lee … lee …”

“Yes, the leeches. They smell a bit but their purifying abilities are impressive. Drink up.”

Harrison’s hands shook but they were able to push away the glass.

“Look. This will clear you right up. I had one myself not long ago. It’s a nerve tonic—good for everything from hangovers to speech impediments rendered through joy buzzers. Now drink up.”

“N … n … no.” Harrison shut his mouth as tight as the facial tics would allow.

He now knew the Nazi plan. He knew Starke’s destination. He did not, however, know where the destination was. He and the navy were coordinating a sweep of the Atlantic and they were going to need every plane, ship and minute available. There was no more time to waste on the stuttering guard.

Stockwell grabbed Harrison by the nose and squeezed. In only a moment, the watchman gasped for air. Damian dumped the leechy liquid into the open mouth. He dropped the glass and slapped Albie’s jaw shut until he swallowed the drink. He released the man.

“Ouch!”

“You’ll feel better in a moment.”

“What are you doing?”

“Your stutter is gone.”

“Yeah, so, okay. But now my nose really hurts.”

“I have something for that.” Damian turned back to the safe.

Harrison knocked over his chair getting up. “No, that’s okay.” A smile grew on Albie’s face as the watchman realized just how calm he had become. “Wow, that’s some great stuff.”

“Thank you.”

“What do you call that stuff?”

“It’s base is ursodexycholic acid, I call it Dam U for short.”

“Urserdeco …”

“Don’t hurt yourself, Albie. Let’s just say bears make it and it isn’t very easy to get.”

“Like honey?”

“Sure, Albie. Like honey. If honey was actually made by bears and harvested from their gall bladders.”

“Why isn’t this Dam U stuff on the market? You’d make a second fortune selling it to Joe Lunchbox.”

“Harrison. It’s important to remember that, when I say what I’m about to say, I have nothing but the utmost respect for our nation’s government. I have lived my life according to American values and would die for anyone to protect their rights afforded by our great Constitution. Is that clear?”

“Yeah. So why don’t you sell Dam U?”

“Damn government.”

“Ah.” Albie lifted his arms in a slow arc. “Still, it’s amazing. My nerves have never been this calm.”

“That would be the opium.” Stockwell stood.

“Wow.”

“Yeah. Albie, there was something you wanted to tell me.”

“Yeah. I’ve seen the shadows moving.”

“After you drank this?”

“Yeah. No. Before. Earlier today. Before the doctor got here. It was really weird.”

“You’re sure it wasn’t just the sun moving through the sky again?”

“Yeah. No. I’m sure. I had this feeling that it was someone, you know? Like there was someone in the shadows, but every time I checked it out … there was nothing.”

“So, you’re telling me that there’s nothing.”

“Yeah. No. Yeah, there was nothing, but, well, I can’t describe it. I really felt like there was someone there. It’s really hard to explain.”

Stockwell knew what he was talking about.

“Mr. Stockwell. I’m feeling a little dizzy.”

“That would be the uranium. You’re going to pass out for about ten minutes now.”

Harrison slumped forward in his chair. Stockwell propped him back up.

The ninja stepped into the office.

20
Hangar of Horror

Harrison’s moving shadow spoke. “Your time is up, Mr. Stockwell.”

Though muffled behind the black cloth of the ninja mask, Damian recognized the voice.

“Is that you, Tsucgimoto? I didn’t recognize you in your pajamas.”

“Where are the death ray plans? The girl is getting impatient.”

“If you touched her with your little prick thing, I’m going to kill you.”

“She is fine for now. Give us the plans and she will remain that way. You have my word.”

“It’s hard to take the word of a masked coward. Especially one that’s been going around pretending to be Chinese.”

Tsucgimoto pulled the mask from his head. “You have my word. Where are the plans?”

“They’re in the safe.”

“Open it.”

Stockwell moved back to the large safe and spun the dial. His finger remembered the distance of each turn and the tumblers aligned. He reached for the handle and felt a blade across his throat.

“There could be a weapon in there.”

“No weapons.”

“Open it slowly.”

Stockwell did as he was ordered. He pulled back the safe door. There were no weapons present. He felt the blade relax and he made his move.

“I told you. There are no weapons, just some papers and a big bottle of Dam U.” With blinding speed he grabbed a bottle of green liquid, popped the lid and tossed the contents over his shoulder into the ninja’s eyes.

Tsucgimoto screamed and reached for his face. “It burns!”

“That would be the bile.” Stockwell kicked the man in the chest and sent him tumbling backwards over the sleeping Harrison.

“You kicked me!” Damian jumped over Harrison and struck again as Koto was getting to his feet.

Koto smashed against a set of shelves. Their contents spilled on to his shoulders.

Stockwell grabbed the ninja by the pajamas. “You pricked me!” He threw Koto across the office towards the door. The ninja tripped over the package. It clattered and shook.

“And you kidnapped the woman I might love!” Stockwell kicked Koto in the chest. This kick sent the pajama-clad warrior out the door of the office and down the metal staircase.

Koto rolled to his feet. His eyes were red from the active ingredients in the Dam U. He screamed something in Japanese as Stockwell flew from the top of the landing and landed another foot in his chest.

The word had been a command and the shadows in the warehouse came alive. From each dark corner, from the rafters, even from under the Whore, men clad in black emerged with weapons drawn.

Most rushed to aide Tsucgimoto in the attack against Stockwell. Two rushed into the plane that floated in the center of the hangar. A moment later they were ejected back out the door. Bertrand emerged feet first from the Whore.

A master savateur, the valet was a flurry of kicks and strikes that kept the ninjas off balance as he moved down the gangplank.

Two that had rushed to fight Stockwell peeled off and ran back to the plane.

Tsucgimoto backed from the fray as the other ninjas arrived.

They came at him with swords, knives and sticks. Damian dodged a thrust and struck the attacker in the face with a punch he called the dime. The ninja fell to the ground and would awake precisely ten minutes later.

Bertrand kicked straight up above his head and caught the blade of a sword with the reinforced sole of his boot. He leapt into the air and brought his knee up to the stunned ninja’s head.

Damian ripped the hood from one attacker, twisted the cloth around the blade of a sword and wrenched the weapon from the ninja’s hand. It clattered on the hangar floor and slid into the water.

Bertrand leapt over the rail of the gantry and let it take the blade intended for him. The ninja’s sword sank deep into the wood and lodged. Flashes of metal filled the air as the shadow warriors threw their blades and tried to keep their distance from the vicious Frenchman.

He rolled to avoid several and intercepted the rest with his boots.

Stockwell landed another dime and a second ninja hit the floor. “Hey, Tsucgimoto, maybe your men go to sleep so easy because they’re already dressed for bed.”

There was no answer: no laugh, no rage, no Japanese gibberish. Stockwell searched for Koto but could not find him in the field of ninjas.

“Dam.” The voice was weak, but he heard it over the grunts and hi-yas of the raging fight. He turned to see Nikola emerge from the plane. Tsucgimoto stood behind the old man with a sword at his throat.

“Enough.” On his command, his ninjas backed away from the fight.

“Let him go, you bastard!”

“Where are the death ray plans?”

“You’re not getting them.”

“Where are they? We will kill the girl. I will kill the old man.”

“Let him go.”

“I have the plans.” Tesla’s voice was raspy but firm. “And only I have the plans. Leave these men alone.”

Stockwell rushed to the base of the gantry. “Nikola. Don’t do this.”

“I’m sorry, Dam. There is no other way.” The old man winked.

Damian pounced up the gangplank.

A plume of smoke erupted before him. When the smoke cleared, Tsucgimoto and the doctor were gone.

“No!”

Bertrand arrived at his side.

“Find them, Bertrand. We’ve got to find them.”

21
A Course for Concern

They found no point of entry and no trail to follow. An hour-long search of the warehouse and its grounds turned up nothing but a handful of star-shaped weapons left behind by the ninjas. Stockwell sat in the DamIndustries office and held the weapon before his eyes. “Such evil. To take a symbol of hope, of childhood wishes, and turn it into a deadly weapon.”

He tossed the star to Bertrand. The valet studied it closely before dropping it in his pocket. The Frenchman and the watchman had remained silent as Stockwell lamented the abduction of Nikola Tesla. The doctor’s kidnapping had not bothered them as much.

“Is it really so bad that he is gone, monsieur?”

“There is no death ray, Bertrand. Soon the enemy will know this. There’s no telling how they will react.”

“What should we do?”

“There’s only one thing we can do. We have to find Starke.” Stockwell picked up the shrouded package and stepped from the office. “Is it on board?”

“Oui, monsieur.”

“Then we begin our search for the twins. Let’s go.”

Stockwell grabbed the lightning rod on his way to the gangplank. He stopped at the door to the plane and called to Harrison. “Albie, call Grayson and let him know that we’re joining the search. Tell him they have the doctor.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stockwell hesitated.

“What is it, monsieur?”

“The wink.”

“Pardon?”

“Nikola winked at me just before he disappeared. I’m not sure why.”

“Maybe because he is crazy?”

“No. It was a reassurance. Though I can’t imagine why. This is a dark day for freedom. He must have known that.” Stockwell shook off the thought and entered the plane. He secured the package and the lightning rod in the cargo bay and stepped into the cockpit.

The engines roared to life as the hangar door opened to the moonlit Hudson River. He sighed.

“What now, monsieur?”

“I’m an optimist, Bertrand. Deep down I know that if things are bleak, I can make them better through either force of will of just plain force. But, on this dark night, I can’t see how we’ll find the twins.”

“Who are these twins?”

“Not who, what. The Ing and the Ang. Two ships from Tsucgimoto’s fleet.”

“Weren’t Ing and Ang the …”

“The world famous Siamese twins. They’re out there in the dark somewhere and I fear that neither we, nor America’s armed forces, will find them in time. Not in this darkness.”

“Monsieur,” Bertrand reached for the instrument panel and flipped a switch. A small circular screen lit up. A green line radiated from its center.

“What the hell’s that?”

“The Tesla Radio Detection and Ranging System, monsieur. That’s what the doctor said.”

“Of course. Radar. He’s mentioned this.”

“He did not have a chance to say what it did.”

“It lets us see in the dark, my friend.”

“How?”

“You’ll see once we get outside of the hangar.”

The doors open, Stockwell pushed the plane’s throttles forward. The Grumman Goose eased into the river and the radar came alive. Various blips appeared on the circular monitor in a ghost-like green.

“That’s traffic on the river. It will tell us the distance and relative speed of the vessel.”

“But will it tell us which vessel it is?”

“No. Unfortunately not.”

“I don’t see how this helps. Do we know where to search for these ships?”

“The Atlantic.”

“The Atlantic is very large.”

“I know. It’s huge.” Pessimism was an enemy to greatness. Stockwell had trained his optimism to beat it like a wanted criminal, but now, even with the radar, he saw little reason to be hopeful.

The plane accelerated down the river and took flight heading east into the great and vast ocean. Once they reached a cruising altitude, Stockwell had to admit that he had no idea where to begin the search. Even with the modifications he had made to the Grumman, it couldn’t stay aloft forever.

He studied the radar display. The wink. There had to be something more to it. Doctor Tesla had looked so confident when being taken hostage.

“Bertrand?”

“Oui, monsieur.”

“Did the doctor say anything else about this?”

“No, monsieur. He did not have time.” Bertrand sat up, “But he gave me these papers.” The valet handed Stockwell a stack of tattered pages. It was awash with diagrams and notations that were difficult to read. The doctor had obviously made them in a hurry.

As best as he could tell, the page outlined the radar device and its controls. A series of switches and knobs tuned the device for range and altitude. A final switch on the diagram did not seem to affect the signal. On the instrument panel in front of him, it was labeled DNT receiver.

“Bertrand,” Stockwell handed the stack of pages back to the valet, “see if you can find out what this switch is. What is DNT?”

The Frenchman shuffled through the papers.

Damian flipped the switch on the panel. A green dot appeared on the monitor. It differed from the others. The ships were indicated by a green dot that grew bright when the line passed over it. Those dots faded in time before the line crossed them again. This new indication pulsed independent of the line. The pulse was consistent, though not steady. Even when the line passed over it, its beat remained the same: six quick pulses followed by three longer ones.

Beside him, Bertrand became excited. “I found it, monsieur! I know what it is!”

“Me too, Bertrand.” Stockwell smiled. “DNT …”

“Doctor Nikola Tesla,” they said in unison.

“Jinx,” said Stockwell. “You can’t talk until we reach the ship.”

“I can’t believe that crazy old man led us right to them.”

“You’re not very good at jinx, Bertrand.”

The valet grew quiet. But he had been right. Mad scientist. Crazy old man. Call him what they would, the good doctor would lead them straight to the twin ships and the enemies of freedom.

Stockwell banked the plane until the flashing dot lay before them on the display. He set the autopilot with a wide open throttle and stood up from his seat.

“Bertrand, radio Grayson.”

Bertrand grabbed the radio transceiver and tuned the dial to the appropriate channel. “This is an agent of Agent Stockwell calling for Special Agent Grayson. Copy.”

“Bertrand.”

“Oui, monsieur.”

“You owe me a Coke.”

Bertrand rolled his eyes and repeated the call. Grayson’s voice came over the speaker.

“Here he is, monsieur.”

Stockwell took the transceiver. “Do you not know how jinx works?”

Bertrand turned away in frustration.

“Go get things ready in the back.”

The valet rose and exited through the cockpit door.

Stockwell spoke, “Grayson. It’s Dam. We’ve found them. It looks like they’re about 150 miles off the coast on a heading of 058 out of the city. Send everything you’ve got: army, navy, you can come too. I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

“We’re almost there now.”

“How?”

“Luck of the draw, I guess. The bureau got a call from a fishing trawler reporting a strange ship. We’ll be there in just a few minutes.”

“Hang back. I’m about twenty minutes out.”

“I don’t think so, Dam. We’ll take it from here.”

“Grayson, you have to wait for me.”

“No thanks. We’ll take care of the bad guys this time.”

“Dammit, Grayson, this isn’t about bragging rights. It’s about ending this threat.”

“I understand just fine. We’ll see you there and you can see what second place feels like.”

The speaker went dead.

“Grayson?!”

There was no reply.

“Grayson!”

22
The Whore Goes Down

Grayson enjoyed the sound of Stockwell’s pleas over the radio but he was finished with the conversation. For too many years, Stockwell, with his ability to work outside the law, had shown up the department. Hoover might have appreciated it, but Grayson knew this was the perfect chance for the department to get a few headlines for themselves.

The special agent looked out across the deck of the PT boat. Out in the dark waters of the Atlantic, he was surrounded by a dozen other fast attack craft. Above him flew a squadron of P-35 fighters on a mission. His mission.

This fleet, this ordinance, was at his command. He would stop the enemy, rescue the hostages and be waiting on the deck of the Ing when Stockwell finally arrived.

A crewmember stuck his head into the radio room. “Sir, we’ve spotted the ships.”

“Good. Bring us alongside. Once they see the force we’ve gathered, they’ll surrender.”

The crewmember did not seem to share his optimism. “Sir, you have to see this.” Grayson stepped up from the radio room to the bridge and took a pair of binoculars from the crewman. He placed the powerful lenses to his eyes. “What am I looking at?”

“I have no idea, sir.”

On the horizon of the Atlantic Ocean, the darkness was broken by a tower of purple light. The silhouettes of two ships were visible. Suspended in the air between them was a ball of lightning.

Flashes lit the sky and as the mosquito fleet sped towards the ships, the crack of thunder reached their ears.

A massive bolt spilt the night and reached into the sky. The momentary flash exposed a fleet of aircraft headed towards the boats.

“We’re under attack!” Grayson directed the gunners’ attentions to the spot in the sky where he had seen the planes. The crew sprang into action. Flares launched. Guns were made ready. Grayson dove for the radio. “All craft, we are under an aerial assault. Prepare to repel. Send in the planes.”

The fleet responded. A dozen ships sent flares into the air and dissolved the darkness with a flood of red. The enemy squadron filled the sky. There were hundreds if not a thousand planes in the air.

“My God.”

Browning .50 cals and Bofor 40mm cannons spit lead into the sky. The air filled with flak and bullets to bring the aircraft down.

The enemy squadron moved through the fray with ease. It was not until they were overhead that Grayson realized what was happening. The massive squadron was comprised of the tiny planes that had launched from the zeppelin.

Dozens were shot down but hundreds remained. As they passed overhead, they released their payloads. The surface of the ocean rocked as a thousand miniature bombs landed across its surface. Several PT boats rocked. Their plywood decks erupted in flame.

The squadron turned in formation and made another pass. More bombs fell upon the mosquito fleet. More ships lit in flames. The gunners did what they could to defend the boats but the planes were too numerous.

Grayson yelled, “Where the hell are my planes?”

The answer was a roar from overhead as the American squadron appeared. Fifty planes strong, it soared towards the twin ships with cannons ablaze.

The enemy planes broke off their attack and turned their attention to the planes. Their method of attack was simple—choke the skies and crash into their enemy.

“Get us to those ships now!” Grayson screamed as explosions filled the air. Planes of all sizes were going down. The destruction was massive, but it was nothing compared to what was to come.

The US squadron closed into effective range on the Ing and Ang. Through the binoculars, Grayson could see spouts of water erupt around the hulls of the ships as cannon fire struck nearby. It wouldn’t be long now.

The ball of lightning burst into an intense brightness. A finger of electricity lashed out and tore a P-35 from the sky.

Several bolts fired in quick succession; each grabbed a plane, wrapped it in electric death and sent it spiraling into the sea.

The American squadron scattered. Each pilot took evasive maneuvers but no amount of strategy or skill could put them out of harm’s ways. The ball of lightning suspended between the ships cast out high-voltage terror like a guided electrical storm.

Grayson watched in terrified awe as the army he had assembled was cast into the sea. “What force can stand against this?”

The radio crackled with each blast of the device. Screams poured over the airwaves in the face of the terrible weapon. Only one voice came through clearly. “Ah, dammit, Grayson. I told you to wait for me.”

“Dam?”

Stockwell’s Grumman zoomed past his boat so low to the water that the hull skimmed the surface. It climbed into the air and shot towards the twin ships as the massive squadron of tiny planes returned. The Grumman rolled and twisted in impossible ways as it weaved through traffic.

“Dam, can you see …”

“Not now, Grayson. This isn’t easy.”

The enemy microplanes were headed for the PT fleet. Deck guns erupted once more as the gunners tried to shoot down the tiny attackers.

In the distance, Grayson saw the Grumman Goose turn. The turn was so sharp that he couldn’t understand how Stockwell managed it without blacking out. The plane leveled off and roared after the swarm.

“What are you doing, Dam?”

“Tell your men to stop firing.”

“What?”

“Tell the men to stop firing! I don’t want them to shoot up my plane!”

“Dam, I can’t …”

“Grayson. Trust me on this one.”

The Grumman nipped at the tail of the enemy planes and gained. Grayson peered through the binoculars. He could not see in the cockpit of the Goose but he could picture his friend and rival behind the yoke, teeth bared and giving the plane everything it could take.

There was a red light beneath the plane. Grayson was sure he hadn’t seen it during the first pass. It grew in intensity until it lit the surface of the water.

“Grayson. They’re still shooting!”

“Cease fire! Cease fire! All ships, cease fire!”

The guns silenced. The reports of cannon fire were replaced with swearing from the frightened sailors.

The microsquadron, still numbering hundreds of planes, neared.

Grayson prepared to dive for cover.

The Grumman buzzed overhead through the enemy masses and not a single bomb fell.

Grayson turned and watched in amazement as the Grumman banked again and the enemy planes followed. They did not attack. They did not try to crash the seaplane. They fell into formation around the Goose and turned with it.

“Dam. What the hell did you just do?”

“Tesla gave me a new toy. And, before you ask, no, I don’t have a permit.”

“Stockwell, I …”

“Get to those ships, Grayson. Let’s finish this.”

The PT fleet shot forward in the water as the Grumman flew towards the tower of lightning.

The weapon continued to spit fire as it decimated the American squadron. It soon turned its sight on the Goose.

Stockwell’s plane, swarmed by the microplanes, shot straight toward the tower.

“Dam! What the hell are you doing?”

“It’s okay, Grayson.”

A blinding streak of purple reached out for the Grumman. The massive bolt struck one of the microplanes and leapt out to several more like an electric spider web. A dozen dropped from the sky. The weapon fired again and again. The Grumman appeared to be surrounded by the electric field but continued to fly as scores of microplanes plunged into the Atlantic.

“Dam, pull up.”

“It’s okay, Grayson.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking, I wish Grayson would shut up because I’m trying to fly this thing.”

A halo of lightning enveloped the Grumman.

“You’re going to crash, idiot!”

“You and Bertrand should talk. He can’t shut up either.”

The PT fleet, unmolested by the microplanes, fast approached the ships. Grayson tried to keep his eye on Stockwell but as they neared the ships he couldn’t help but marvel at the vessels. The two freighters were attached with broad beams to form a massive catamaran. This structure formed the base for the tower which rose into the air no less than twenty stories.

They were so close now that the lightning cast a purple hue on his skin whenever it fired. He looked up in time to see the remainder of the microplanes absorb a blast. The Grumman flew alone.

Grayson squeezed the transceiver with enough force to bend the housing. He screamed into the microphone. “Damian!”

The Grumman took a direct blast from the lightning tower. Electricity danced on its skin as the engines sputtered and quit. The Goose began to plummet. But it was too late to stop the collision. The seaplane smashed into the tower with enough energy to rock the ships below.

The wreckage, what didn’t lodge in the tower, fell burning to the ocean.

Grayson dropped the microphone. All he could do was stare at the fire set by the crash. The light and wind burned his eyes but he could not look away. He could not blink. Everything around him ceased to exist for that moment.

He didn’t even hear the boat pull up next to his craft.

“Geez, Grayson. You’re not going to cry, are you?”

Bertrand was behind the wheel of the small speedboat. Stockwell stood beside him holding a black box. He tossed the box to the agent.

Stunned, Grayson bobbled the device between each hand. It came to rest and he studied it. There were several switches and dials. Two sticks, one labeled elevator, the other rudder, protruded from the center. He glared at Stockwell.

Stockwell shook his head. “Don’t be a baby. I told you it would be okay.”

Bertrand pushed the boat forward and it led the mosquito fleet in to the gap between the Ing and the Ang.

23
Boarding the Behemoth

The Grumman had collided with the tower, but it did not fall. Bertrand piloted the small speedboat under the massive steel structure.

“Hey, it looks like the Eiffel Tower. Does that make you homesick, Bertrand?”

“I’m from Marseille. Not Paris.”

“Same thing.” Stockwell pulled the covered package onto his back and strapped it to his giant frame. He slipped his arm through a loop on the lightning rod and pulled a harpoon rifle from the floor of the boat. “So it’s the standard plan. Kill the villains, rescue the hostages and generally wreck everything of the bad guys. Do you have the device?”

Bertrand tapped a small pouch at his waist. “Oui, monsieur.”

“Are you ready?”

Bertrand raised an identical rifle and nodded.

The pair fired the guns and sent a matched pair of grappling hooks over the lowest spar of the tower. Cables trailed behind the projectiles and unspooled from a set of reels on the boat. The hooks cleared the spar and began to descend back towards the water.

Bertrand eased the boat forward. The hooks landed with a thud in the bow of the boat. Damian picked them both up and handed one to his trusted friend.

Bertrand took hold of a grip at the forward end of the hook.

Damian nodded. “Gun it.”

The Frenchman shoved the throttle forward and gripped the hook. Within moments, the cables drew tight and shot the pair up between the Ing and the Ang toward the base of the tower.

They rose faster as the boat gained speed beneath them and the tower approached quickly. Each hook seated on the spar. They had only a second. The cables could snap. The boat could snap back around. Both men used the momentum of their ascent to leap from the hook and grab a hold of the span.

The cables snapped at the boat’s bow and both hooks plummeted back to the cold Atlantic. The pair watched them splash far below them.

“This can’t be good for your fear of heights.”

“Please shut up, monsieur.”

They pulled themselves to the top of the span and stood as the small speedboat crashed into the rear of the Ing. The resulting explosion drew the amount of attention of the ship’s crew. The deck of each ship lined with sailors, soldiers and ninjas.

Stockwell balanced on the steel beam and studied the layout of the massive vessel. Bertrand dove for the nearest vertical support and wrapped his arms around it.

“There’s Tsucgimoto,” Stockwell pointed to the deck of the Ing. “I don’t see Starke.”

There was a long screech above them and the package on Stockwell’s back rattled in response. Looking up into the framework of the tower, Damian saw the shadowy outline of an eagle circling the wrecked lightning sphere.

“It’s der Fuhrer. Starke’s up there.”

“You go after Starke, monsieur. I’ll take Tsucgimoto.”

“Okay. No, wait.”

“What is it, monsieur?”

Starke’s goal was to topple everything that Damian held dear. But Tsucgimoto had kicked him. Hatred for both men swelled in him. “I want to kill Tsucgimoto. But, I want to kill Starke, too. My friend, this is one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make. I just hate them both so much. It would be so much easier if they were standing together.”

“Let me take the ninja. I …” Bertrand pointed to the top of the tower.

“The heights thing again?”

Bertrand hung his head.

Stockwell threw up his arms. “Fine. Go kill the ninja, chicken. I’ll kill the Nazi.”

Bertrand inched on cautious legs to the edge of the ship. Stockwell climbed.

Damian made his way to the center of the superstructure. The steel framework made it easy to maneuver and he soon found himself above a central platform that served as both a bridge between the ships and the entrance to the tower itself. A steel cage in its center served as the elevator to the upper levels.

Despite incapacitating the lightning sphere, anti-aircraft guns continued to attack what remained of the American forces. He heard the guns firing above him and realized that he had to hurry.

Several crewmembers buzzed about the edge of the platform, searching the waters for the origin of the explosion. The crewmen were unarmed. Damian dropped from above.

He kicked two men into the water before they had spotted him. The shouts that followed were a confusing mixture of German and Japanese. The multinational force rushed Stockwell, grabbing whatever they could to use as a weapon.

The titan of truth lived by a rigid code that encompassed everything from dental hygiene to the proper disposal of food wastes. Somewhere in the middle, his code called upon him to never visit harm on another greater than that person would visit upon him.

He smiled when they reached for the wrenches. He made a note to one day ask a sailor why seamen always had so many wrenches on hand. He unslung the lightning rod. If they intended to bludgeon him, they would be bludgeoned right back.

A German reached him first and swung the heavy wrench at his head. Stockwell crossed the lightning rod over his head and intercepted the blow. The impact caused the pipe to vibrate in his hands. He didn’t like the sensation and kicked the German for causing it. The man fell face first on the deck.

A Japanese sailor screamed as he charged.

Damian swung the lightning rod and stopped him five feet shy of an attack.

Two more Germans set upon him. Built rough and big, the pair swung the wrenches hard enough to beat back the steel pipe.

Stockwell spun low. Reaching out with the metal staff, he swept the legs out from under each of them. One man caught himself, the other dropped the wrench on his face.

The rest of the crew rushed him together. The resulting noise was a cacophony of metallic clangs and foreign languages as the lightning rod blocked, beat and battered the men that came against him. They groaned in German and grunted in Japanese as each fell before his powerful swings. Before long, he stood alone at the elevator door and pulled the lever to call the car.

24
Nemesis of Ninjutsu

Bertrand breathed with deep relief when his feet found their way to the deck of the ship. Finding himself several stories above the water was not nearly as bad as being on the windswept platform of a skyscraper, but he was relieved to have a more solid surface beneath his feet.

Crewmembers rushed back and forth across the ship’s deck tending to a myriad of fires caused by the Grumman’s destruction. This distraction served him well. He didn’t wish to take on their armies. Grayson and his men could handle that when they arrived. He just needed to find Tsucgimoto and rescue the girl. And the doctor. If he had to.

Despite the steel in his boots, the Frenchman moved with silent footsteps along the length of the ship. Both the Ing and the Ang were cargo vessels, not warships, and the deck was filled with canvas-covered shipments. Whether they contained war supplies or simply acted as cover for the voyage, he couldn’t be sure.

The plan was to sink the ships. Even if their cargo was meant for nefarious deeds, it would soon find itself on the bottom of the ocean.

Bertrand ducked behind a stack of crates as another firefighting brigade rushed by. The men were focused on the blaze and still unaware that anyone had boarded the ship.

The Frenchman peered around the corner and saw his target. Tsucgimoto had lost interest in the speedboat crash and was returning to the bridge. There, through the glass, Bertrand could see the girl and the doctor being held at gunpoint.

They were held up against the window—forced to watch the decimation of the American forces. Even from the deck below, Bertrand could see the sadness in their eyes. They had no doubt seen Stockwell’s Grumman go down and now feared him dead.

They would be pleased to learn the truth.

Bertrand made his way through the stacks of wooden crates and worked closer to the stairwell. The heavy cannon fire from the tower masked his footsteps as he rushed up the stairway. Tsucgimoto was almost to the bridge. Bertrand moved faster, trusting the continuing firefight to cover the added noise.

One bad step placed between the howling rounds of cannon fire gave him away.

Tsucgimoto turned. His fierce, narrow eyes narrowed further. The ninja drew his sword. Bertrand drew his gun. Sparks erupted around them and a P-35 exploded.

The fighter came in low and began to strafe the bridge of the ship before being struck by anti-aircraft fire. Fire engulfed the wings and flames rained down on the ship as the plane sped between the Frenchman and the ninja before exploding. Blazing fuel spilled down between the two men and roared several feet high. Bertrand lost sight of Tsucgimoto in the fire.

Bertrand threw up his hand to shield his watering eyes from the flame. The blaze ebbed only a little and he saw his target leaping through the firestorm.

Koto screamed as he connected a foot with Bertrand’s chest that sent the valet tumbling back down the staircase. The Frenchman had barely realized that he’d fallen when the Japanese warrior landed in front him. He tried to raise the gun to fire but the ninja stepped on his wrist and pinned it to the deck.

“Well, if isn’t Stockwell’s dog.” Tsucgimoto raised his sword to plunge it through Bertrand’s chest.

The savateur possessed the freakish flexibility of a cat. His steel-tipped boot caught the ninja in the back of head and sent him stumbling forward to the ship’s rail.

Bertrand leapt to his feet and faced the swordsman.

Tsucgimoto smiled. “It will be an honor killing you.”

Bertrand said nothing.

Koto screamed and attacked. The flames, the moonlight and the firefight danced on the silver blade of the ninja’s sword. The air screamed as it was cut by the blade. Bertrand juked and dodged as the sword became a swatch of reflective death. He caught a strike with the sole of his boot and struck the ninja with his other foot.

Tsucgimoto stumbled back and Bertrand pressed the attack. He bounded towards to the ninja throwing fists, feet and knees.

The ninja swung to strike the limbs but found only air as each feint drew him in.

Bertrand connected with a fist and followed the strike with a roundhouse kick to the ninja’s shoulder.

Tsucgimoto rolled with the momentum of the kick and slammed his hand towards the ground. A cloud of smoke enveloped the dark warrior. When it cleared, Koto was gone.

25
Caster of Lightning

The elevator climbed. The package on Stockwell’s back shook as the cables that lifted the car shrieked. The cage rattled as it ascended. Ten stories. Fifteen stories. Stockwell gripped the lightning rod tight in his hand. Sixteen. Seventeen.

At nineteen stories above the sea the elevator seized in the shaft. Outside of the cage he could see that the path had been blocked. Twisted steel and parts of his plane blocked the ascent.

He was only feet away. He heard the shrieking of the black eagle. Starke had to be up there.

Damian forced the elevator door open and leapt for the tower’s frame. The structure tapered at this height and the crossbeams were closer together than they had been at sea level. This made them easier to climb.

The tighter configuration made maneuvering with the backpack and staff more difficult. For a moment he considered dropping the package, but a screech from der Fuhrer changed his mind.

Stockwell made his way through bent girders and climbed up through the Tesla sphere that had formed the Lightning Caster’s projector. Hidden in plain sight for months above the New York skyline, the communication mast had been bolted directly between the ships to form the terror weapon. The thought of it enraged Stockwell.

The Empire State Building, a symbol of everything that made America great; built with American steel and American know-how in America for Americans. The building stood on Manhattan as a symbol of the heights that American prosperity could achieve. It was the tallest building on the planet and had been literally topped by a Nazi threat.

The anger made him climb faster and he soon reached the edge of the upper deck. He peered over the lip and saw Starke shouting at a small crew of Germans.

“Fix it!” he screamed. “No. That one goes over there. Put that back.”

The American Nazi stood behind a control panel not unlike the one in the heights of the skyscraper. The eagle perched on the console, watching its master manipulate the controls.

The captain of the commando team stood behind him screaming insults. “You said it was unstoppable, Starke. You Americans are so cocky. Look at it now!”

“Shut up, Captain. I have power. I just need the projector repaired. Tell your men to work faster.”

Men climbed in the wire mesh sphere cutting and welding pieces back into place. Pieces Stockwell had damaged when he sacrificed his plane.

Damian pulled himself over the lip of the platform and stood. “Give it up, Starke. You’ve lost. America wins.”

“Stockwell! Der Fuhrer, klaue!” Starke dashed for a bank of generators.

The eagle screeched and spread its wings.

“Not so fast, der Fuhrer.” Damian pulled a cable on his chest. The shroud fell from his backpack revealing a giant birdcage constructed of spun wire. The top of the cage opened and a majestic bald eagle emerged. It lit on Damian’s shoulder and spread its wings.

“Der Fuhrer, meet Liberty.”

Der Fuhrer shrieked. Liberty screeched. The glorious bird, the symbol of American independence, strength and power, took flight from Stockwell’s shoulders and flew away.

Starke, Stockwell and the captain watched the raptor disappear in the night sky.

“Damn. I broke five laws getting that bird.”

Starke laughed. “Nice bird, Stockwell.”

“Hey. You can’t cage Liberty, Starke.”

With his eye on the bird, he hadn’t noticed Starke uncoiling a cable from the generator. Now the American Nazi raised the end of the man-scaled Lightning Caster and pulled the switch.

A streak of electric pain tore across the deck.

Damian dove to one side.

Der Fuhrer fled.

The bolt missed him and struck the mesh framework of the Tesla sphere. Lethal voltage spread out across the sphere bathing the deck in intense light and killing several of the repair crew.

“Thanks, Starke.”

“You imbecile,” the captain screamed and drew his gun. Whether he was going to shoot him or Starke, Stockwell couldn’t tell.

Starke fired again.

Damian drew the Lightning Rod, closed his eyes and placed it in the path of the bolt.

The device tingled in his hand. The pipe vibrated. The coils that ran its length hummed as they were given life by the deadly blast.

Starke killed the stream.

Stockwell released the switch and felt the power pulse through the weapon. The purple streak of lightning struck the captain and wrapped him in pain and agony. He tried to scream but every muscle in his body had seized. He couldn’t speak or cry out. His limbs pulled against themselves and wrapped him into a ball on the platform as his flesh burst in to flames.

The pulse of energy faded but the captain was already dead.

Starke stood speechless. The Lightning Caster was still in his hand but he hesitated to fire.

Damian smiled. “Tesla, you mad genius.”

Starke fired again and the air crackled.

Damian caught the bolt with the Lightning Rod and returned it. It missed Starke and struck the Tesla sphere. The weapon was indeed genius, but impossible to aim.

The Lightning Caster erupted once more and again the power was returned. The volleys came quicker. Starke fired. Stockwell returned. It was only a matter of who would strike first.

26
Shadows of Stabbiness

Bertrand moved with caution through the mass of crates on the Ing’s deck. He avoided making sound as he listened for any trace of Tsucgimoto. The rubber soles on his boots masked his footsteps, but the waters on the deck would cause a splash if he stepped too hard.

The various fires throughout the ship and pulsing bursts of lightning from the tower above caused shadows to dance and move among the stacks of shipping crates. At the warehouse, the ninjas had come from the shadows. Here the shadows seemed alive already. Each one drew his wary eye.

He had considered making straight for the bridge and rescuing the girl and maybe the doctor. But he knew it to be a trap. The ninja must be dealt with first.

Another pulse from the tower lit the area in front of him. Tsucgimoto stood before him. He had donned the mask and hood.

“Bark for me, dog.”

Bertrand charged forward but when the light faded and pulsed again, the warrior had vanished.

From nowhere and everywhere came a mocking bark.

The Frenchman ran to what he thought was its source but suddenly heard it come from behind him. When he turned, it was on his left then his right. He spun in confusion.

The light from the tower flashed again. The ninja appeared in front of him, sword drawn and ready to attack. Bertrand struck out with his foot and drove the attacker’s nose through his face. The ninja collapsed to the ground. Bertrand pulled the mask off. It wasn’t Tsucgimoto.

“It’s not me, little dog.” The voiced echoed around him. Tsucgimoto’s taunts were haunting.

There was a scream in front of him as another ninja leapt out of the shadows. Bertrand dropped to the ground as a blade swung from behind him cleared his head. He kicked up and back and sent the rear attacker into a pile of crates.

The leaper landed before him and thrust with his sword. Bertrand sprung into the air over the blade drove a knee into the black mask.

The ninja behind him recovered and attacked again. His swings were rapid and he grunted with each violent action.

Bertrand pulled one knee up and used his right foot to block the blade while balancing on his left. He hopped forward kicking with the right to keep the swordsman on his heels.

There was a flash of smoke and the ninja vanished.

Bertrand returned to the second fallen ninja and reached down.

The voice returned. “Still not me.”

Bertrand did not remove the mask. He picked up the fallen sword. Ever alert, he moved to the other fallen foe and picked up his weapon as well. “Only a coward fights from the shadows, Monsieur Tsucgimoto. Are you a coward? Have you no honor?”

There were no screams. They came at him on whispered steps. Only a timely blast from the tower enabled him to see their approach. Three ninjas charged into the clearing with swords drawn.

Bertrand had learned savate on the docks of Marseille. The brutal atmosphere demanded that one be able to defend himself from assaults on both body and character. He had studied in the harshest school. His form was crude. It eschewed the traditional style and incorporated knees and shin attacks. It was brutal and effective if not, by definition, perfect.

He had studied fencing under Damian Stockwell. His form was perfect.

The three masked warriors attacked from all sides. Bertrand became a dervish
of death as the blades combined with his savate ability to block and deflect each attacker’s sword. For every defensive maneuver taken, he dealt two in offense.

The masked warriors abandoned their coordinated attack and moved when they could, advancing while another retreated. Swatches of black fabric fell to the ground as Bertrand rend their clothes. For every near miss with the blade, he landed a foot or knee.

Between the two blades and the steel lining in his soles, his defenses became impossible to penetrate. Frustration began to show in the ninjas’ attacks. They rushed in when they sensed an opportunity only to find any number of limbs denying them a hit.

It became too much and the attackers moved out of desperation. Two came at him at once, their swords pointed out to run him through. Bertrand spun and deflected each blade on the first rotation. The second spin sliced both men across the back. They fell dead to the ground.

Bertrand eyed the final warrior. His eyes were big behind the mask. The Frenchman whispered, “Is it you?”

With a frustrated scream, the ninja drove his hand toward the ground and ran away behind the column of smoke that formed.

Bertrand wasted no time in reaching the steps. Stockwell would need the device in place soon. He had to get the girl, get the doctor and escape. He climbed the third set of stairs to the bridge and grabbed the handle on the bulkhead door.

He screamed as a shock passed through him. His foot stomped against his will. Through it all he managed to scream, “Fuck you, old man!”

The current stopped and Bertrand fell to his knees.

The bulkhead door squeaked open.

“Bertrand? Is that you?”

The doctor stood behind the half-opened door. Inside the bridge Bertrand saw several unconscious guards laid out on the ground. They twitched.

Alice and Nikola helped Bertrand to his feet. His knees were weak.

“Honestly, my friend, that was not intended for you.”

Bertrand struck at Tesla’s hand. He stumbled into the bridge and pulled the device from the pouch at his waist. He held it in place on the ship’s superstructure and produced a small vial from his pocket.

“Bertrand, is that my device?”

Bertrand said nothing.

“It is. That’s my earthquake machine.”

Bertrand nodded, “We have to destroy the ship.”

“I’m afraid that won’t work.”

“But, the house. It worked at the house.”

“You can’t just slap it anywhere, my boy. It has to be on a central support.”

Bertrand closed his eyes in frustration and pulled the device away from the wall. “Where?”

Tesla pointed through the open door and past the edge of the ship. “There.”

The Frenchman stumbled to the door and looked in to the night at the giant tower suspended high above the water.

“Merde.”

27
Rant of Hate

The Lightning Rod grew hot. He could feel his palm searing as he intercepted another cast from Starke and sent it back at the traitor. There was no telling how much voltage had passed through his hands.

“Give it up, Starke. You’re beaten. Your hose is useless against my rod.”

“You’re pathetic, Stockwell. You’re everything that’s wrong with America.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I’m the American dream, you Nazi stooge.”

“The American dream is a nightmare and you are the boogeyman. You and the other titans of industry hoard the country’s wealth in troves. Your fortunes belong to the nation.”

“I spread my wealth, Starke. My companies have helped create the middle class. I gladly share my fortune with all Americans.”

“All Americans?!” The words escape his lips with a hiss and he fired the Lightning Caster again.

Damian held up the Lightning Rod and redirected the charge into the air. The staff was all but impossible to hold. He couldn’t take much more.

“You share it with the impure and the unclean.”

“I don’t know. Most of them are pretty clean. The rendering plant can get a little smelly.”

“We are the only true Americans. The Nazi party is of pure blood, pure lineage, we are the rightful citizens. It belongs to us! We will cleanse this nation!” John Starke screamed and threw the Lightning Caster to the ground.

Damian pulled back the staff to swing but he was too late. Starke drove the pole into his chin and knocked him on his back. The traitor pulled a knife from his boot and plunged it toward the mighty adventurer.

Stockwell grabbed Starke’s wrist and stopped the blade inches from his eye. The traitor was fueled by rage. The blade drew closer. The stupid birdcage on his back restricted his movement. Starke pressed harder.

28
Merde

“Higher. You have to go higher, Bertrand.” Tesla and Alice stood at the edge of the Ing yelling at the valet.

“Mon Dieu.” Bertrand balanced on the span of the tower and inched slowly toward the central beam.

“Yes. That one. Put it on that one.”

Above him the pulses of lightning had stopped. If Stockwell had defeated Starke, it would be only moments before he activated the device to bring the tower crashing down. Bertrand had to hurry.

He pushed his fear deep and quickened his steps. He tried to envision walking along a street rather than the narrow beam. It didn’t help. Most streets didn’t sway like this one.

His nerves eased when he reach a vertical pillar. It was something he could hug and hold.

“Higher!” yelled Tesla.

“Shut up!” yelled Bertrand and he began to climb.

Looking up wasn’t as bad as looking down. He found it easier to imagine the pillar as a ladder than it was the span as a street. He moved quickly up the support.

“You’re almost there, my boy. Everything is going to be …”

Alice screamed. “Bertrand! Look out!”

He came from above. The shadow swooped down like a bird with a single silver talon bared and ready to kill. Tsucgimoto seemed to run along the side of the tower free of gravity’s pull. He screamed as he ran and pulled the sword back at his waist.

Bertrand scrambled a few feet higher, reached into his pocket and leapt into the air as Tsucgimoto struck. The blade sparked as it struck the abandoned column and the ninja swung out into the open space above the water.

Bertrand threw the metal star after the attacker. The shuriken glint in the light as it zipped through the air and severed the rope that held Tsucgimoto to the tower.

The ninja screamed as he plunged into the frigid Atlantic several stories below.

Bertrand reached out and grabbed a cross beam with a single hand. He pulled himself up and ran back to the beam. He attached a small capsule to the support and slammed the earthquake machine on top of it. A powerful adhesive, stronger than any weld, was released and bonded the machine to the tower.

29
The Fall of a Tyrant

“I will kill you. I will repair the weapon. I will destroy America’s armies and Hitler will rule the world.” With a vile surge of strength, Starke drove the dagger down.

Damian turned his head and he felt the blade cut through his cheek.

“My face!” With a burst of strength, he threw Starke to his feet.

The Nazi was shocked for but a moment. He dove back at Stockwell. The knife plunged for the titan’s throat but the blade did not hit flesh.

In the moment before death, Stockwell had pulled a black box from his pocket and used it to intercept the blade. The point of the dagger depressed a button in the box’s center. A red light lit.

Stockwell leaned his head forward and whispered in Starke’s ear, “Oops.”

The tremble was slight at first but soon built into a tremor. The framework of the Tesla sphere rattled around them. It grew in intensity and began to collapse.

Starke stumbled on the shaking platform. “No, no, no!”

Damian rolled to his feet. He reached back and pulled a hook from the base of the birdcage. A short length of rope trailed behind him. The floor rose and fell with violent motions as he dashed to the edge of the platform. He latched the hook onto the shaking tower and leapt into the abyss.

He fell. There was a slight jerk as he reached the end of the rope and his descent slowed. There was a whir behind him like the sound a line being cast from a reel. The wound coil on the cage unraveled as he fell. The Atlantic approached quickly. Provided that the hook held and nothing sharp snapped the line, there was enough length in the cage to get him to the water safely.

He cursed when he heard the shriek. He drew his gun and searched the night sky for the black eagle. Der Fuhrer was to his right. He fired.

The agile predator neared.

He fired several more rounds and missed. Rationally he knew that the eagle could not be dodging the bullets, but the more he fired and the more he missed, he began to wonder.

The slide on the gun locked open. There was no time to reload. Der Fuhrer was upon him. He dropped the gun and covered his throat. All he could do was hope that the bird’s talons didn’t strike the thin wire that separated him from a safe landing and lethal splash.

Der Fuhrer was only feet away when a brown and white streak collided with the Nazi raptor.

“Go, Liberty!”

The two eagles disappeared in an explosion of feathers and plunged toward the water locked in vicious struggle of freedom and tyranny.

Damian knew Liberty would prevail.

The cage was wound tighter at the end of its length and slowed him as he dropped toward the deck of the PT boat. There was a small “tink” as he reached the end of the line and embraced Alice.

Stockwell smiled as he held her close. “So this is your man inside the Bund, eh, Grayson?”

The federal agent shook his head, “I’m afraid Peters is still missing.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Alice,” she said. “Alison Daniels. I was assigned to track down Dr. Tesla’s missing weapons.”

“Well, Miss Daniels. It is Miss?”

“Yes.”

“You found them.”

The boat’s engine roared and they pulled away from the twin ships. The wreckage was spectacular. The tower collapsed into the cold dark waters and pulled each ship over. The Ing and the Ang capsized and went down almost instantly, taking Nikola Tesla’s secrets to the bottom of the Atlantic.

The small fleet of PT boats searched the waters for survivors but found none.

EPILOGUE
The Drinking of Coffee

The chimes rang and Bertrand stepped up to the door of the Stockwell residence. He reached for the doorknob and paused. The hair along his arm was standing on end. He smiled, pulled a rubber glove over his hand and answered the door.

“Bonjour, Dr. Tesla.”

“Bonjour, my good friend Bertrand.” The elderly scientist stuck out his hand and Bertrand took it willingly.

“Good morning, Doctor.” Damian came down the steps to greet his old friend. Alice was right behind him.

“Ah, Miss Daniels. Dam. I’m so delighted to see you all.” Nikola offered to shake each hand.

Bertrand handed Stockwell and Alice a rubber glove and the greetings were exchanged.

“It will be so nice to sit and talk with you all without the threat of death hanging over us, eh?”

“Obviously you’ve never had Bertrand’s coffee, Doctor.” Stockwell slapped his loyal friend and valet across the back. “I kid, of course. It’s your tea that sucks.”

Bertrand’s sneer turned quickly into a smile. “Why don’t we all head to the lounge? The coffee awaits us.”

The group laughed and smiled as they climbed the staircase and turned into the lounge.

There the laughter ended.

In the chair beneath the imposing portrait of Damian Stockwell sat a composed and not dead Koto Tsucgimoto.

“You!” Bertrand shouted. “But, I killed you.”

Tsucgimoto smiled.

“Dammit, Bertrand.” Stockwell slapped the valet across the shoulder with the back of his hand. “You had one job.”

Koto raised a cup of coffee to his lips and took a slow sip before setting it back down. “In Japan, honor is very important. A man’s duty is his life. The Frenchman took my honor. For that I will kill him.”

“Will killing him bring your honor back?” Tesla asked.

“No!” Tsucgimoto snapped. “That is not how honor works!”

“No reason to snap. I’m a scientist, I was just curious. “

“Death will not return honor. But there is a sweetness in revenge.” Tsucgimoto’s calmness was discomforting. “But, I will not simply kill you, Frenchman. There is an ancient strike known to the ninja. The palm strike of pain. I will strike you now. You will feel nothing until tomorrow. It will begin with a slight bulge in your stomach and grow to a tortuous pain. This pain will multiply until you wish to take your own life. But, if you are too much of a coward to do so, within a week your own body will turn against you. Your organs will shut down one by one. Moments before death, you will know every pain felt by man. You will be but a mewling child that cannot stand his own miserable life.” Tsucgimoto stood and straightened his suit jacket.

Tesla stepped in front of Bertrand. “Don’t you touch him.”

Stockwell put his hands on Nikola’s shoulders and moved him aside. “Please, Doctor.” He turned to the ninja. “I was only kidding about Bertrand’s tea. I’m not going to lose him.” Stockwell charged across the room and punched for Koto’s head.

The ninja sprang into action and grabbed Damian’s finger. The small Japanese man twisted at the waist and sent Stockwell crashing over a chair. He cried out and rushed Bertrand. Tsucgimoto pulled an open palm back to his hip to strike.

“Bertrand!” Tesla tossed the valet the joy buzzer he wore around his finger.

Bertrand grabbed the device with the rubber glove and slipped it on his hand.

Koto struck with the palm strike of pain.

Bertrand slapped his open hand with his own.

The lights in the room dimmed as the magnetic pulse put off by the joy buzzer interfered with the home’s wiring.

Koto couldn’t scream, he couldn’t move. He could only shake as the muscles in his body worked against one another to tear themselves apart. The synapses in his brain that carried memories, pleasure and pain overloaded as his nervous system shut down.

The lights in the room grew steady again and Koto Tsucgimoto fell to the floor an empty man without honor.

Nikola walked over and kicked the body. “Told you not to touch him.”

Bertrand handed the buzzer back to the doctor.

Tesla dialed back the power and placed it in his pocket.

Stockwell rose from behind the chair and saw the fierce ninja dead on the floor of his lounge. He stood over the twitching body for a moment, laughed and held up his palm. He signaled for Bertrand to do the same.

The Frenchman held up his hand.

Stockwell slapped it with his own and laughed again. His laughter faded a few moments later and he turned to his trusted friend and valet. “Bertrand. Clean this up.”

THE END

The Mechanical Menace

The Bulletproof Adventures
of Damian Stockwell

Benjamin Wallace

Copyright © 2016 by Benjamin Wallace. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Monkey Paw Creative.

Prelude
Ship of Horror

The room was filled with the kind of cold that would shake a man from his sleep and send him banging on the radiator while cursing the building’s super. Kicking on the pipes wasn’t an option. He wasn’t in a building. And Gottfried von Brandt didn’t sleep.

Von Brandt welcomed the cold in the ship’s compartment. His lab coat and constant movement staved off chills, and he found it easier to stay focused when the room wasn’t lulling him into comfort. There was no time to be comfortable.

A week had passed since he’d seen the sun. Ever since the ship left port. The makeshift laboratory space had met his needs perfectly in size and facilities and the lack of sunlight kept him focused on his work instead of the clock. The passage of time was a distraction he could do without, and had the compartment included portholes, he would have covered the glass to keep the sun outside where it belonged. He didn’t need to think about time.

The scientist never left the compartment. There was no need. The ship’s staff delivered his meals. These he ate only when he remembered to be hungry. Food didn’t matter. Days didn’t matter. Hours, minutes, nothing mattered but the deadline.

The World’s Fair awaited him at the end of his voyage and he had to be ready. Time was the enemy and therefore best ignored. He didn’t need to think about it. He needed to focus on how the machine should smile.

With one final twist he pulled a pair of pliers from the mouth of the device, stepped down from a small stool and backed away from the project that held his attention. He studied the face of the machine with the eye of an artist. He turned away and spun back quickly. The smile did not menace, smirk or show any signs of anything but pleasantry. It looked natural. He smiled back.

The machine itself was all but indistinguishable from a man. Perfect in size and proportion—Marie Tussaud would have commended the lifelike visage he had fabricated for the face. It was that of any man you would pass on the street. It was neither ugly nor handsome, but exquisitely average.

Looking into its eyes was a test of will and he soon felt overcome by the anxiousness that comes from staring and fearing being caught. The eyes were lifelike, but held no life. They were compassionate, but held no emotion. Gottfried had made them blue like his own, the one piece of a creator’s vanity he had permitted himself. It was never intended to make him famous. It was built to save lives.

His machine wouldn’t be the only one to debut at the Century of Progress exhibition. Others in the field of robotology had made breakthroughs that mirrored his own, and now they were all rushing to debut the man of tomorrow. The world would be watching, and they would all be clamoring for their share of the attention.

But his creation was different. He was different. Other robotologists labored in industrial labs filled with tools and equipment that were far beyond his facilities. They possessed a staff of scientists with the intelligence and degrees to accomplish the task but no passion. How could there be true passion when they worked for someone else? They were under contract to build the next great modern gadget. In a world of potential miracles they saw nothing but appliances to line department store floors. They were working on another Frigidaire. All they saw was a machine with a price tag.

While the others toiled to create servants and novelties to fill a housewife’s wish list, he had greater ambitions. He was building a machine that would change the world.

He rolled up the robot’s sleeve revealing a network of cables within a skeletal framework of steel so densely packed that they looked like muscle fibers. These worked in concert to multiply the machine’s strength well beyond that of a normal man. While it had to look human, his machine could not be as weak as a man.

Von Brandt’s creation was designed to blend in, look human and pass for normal right up until the moment it was needed. Once called upon to act, it would give selflessly of itself. A very inhuman trait. The machine would rush into danger—burning homes, collapsed buildings, traffic accidents—and save those in peril with no thought to its own well-being.

Gottfried gave it the strength to lift cars and rend iron. It couldn’t burn, it couldn’t suffocate, it could go anywhere and it would save anyone. With several of his machines in every city, he predicted accidental deaths would decline by as much as eighty percent. Policemen, firemen and hospital staff couldn’t be everywhere. But his machine could.

Its usefulness didn’t end in the streets. Mining. Logging. Construction. These perilous but necessary labors of man would also find a hero in his machine. Why send men into harm’s way when a machine could assume the risk? And by removing men from the perilous jobs, even more lives would be saved.

He reached into the arm and plucked a cable at the elbow joint that looked suspect. To his satisfaction, the cord resonated with a high G. He withdrew his hand and wiped the elbow grease from his fingers onto his lab coat. The smear quickly blended with a patchwork of dirt and grime that had collected since his voyage began.

Von Brandt unrolled the sleeve and pulled it down to cover the exposed cabling. Once again, the machine looked just like a man. Gottfried stepped back and cocked his head as he studied the machine. He told himself it was finished, but he knew he would tinker and tweak everything until the minute they made port. Then he would tweak it some more again on the train to Chicago. But for the moment, he was done. He would power it up in the morning and put it through its paces again and again.

He told himself he was finished for now and that he could sleep. He had earned some rest. If not for the gift he was about to give the world, simply for the labor he had put into trying. A yawn overtook him and he stretched his arms out full. Yes, some rest would do him good.

He cast one last glance at his machine. That smile was perfect. Just enough humanity. Just enough confidence. But not too much of either to intimidate or frighten. It was a fine line between putting someone at ease and making their spine crawl. He had found that line. The smile was perfect.

Von Brandt smiled back one more time.

Then the machine moved.

1
Morning of the Machine

“Like a pancake?” Bertrand sat behind the wheel of the Pierce-Arrow limousine with impeccable posture. The chauffeur’s cap on his head barely moved as he spoke over his shoulder to the man behind the newspaper in the rear seat of the elegant car. The cap sat, as always, at a proper angle.

“That’s what it says in the Tribune, my French ami,” the man said as he folded the paper. His presence filled the rear seat of the limousine. At six foot four inches, Damian Stockwell towered over the smallest of men and rose slightly above taller ones. “They found him flattened like a pancake.”

“I don’t understand zis espression.”

“It would be like a quiche to you. A really flat breakfast dish,” Stockwell said. “Very delicious.”

“Oh, zat ees une crepe,” Bertrand said.

“No, it is not crap. It says so right here in the World’s Greatest Newspaper. And I will not have you questioning the integrity of our country’s journalists.”

“Non,” Bertrand shook his head slightly. “I meant zee pancake ees like une crepe.”

“Watch your language, Bertrand. There’s a lady present.” Damian shot a smile to the woman across from him and allowed a single twinkle to bounce off his eye. They were the blue of silver coin in the moonlight and silver like the bluest oceans, and experience had taught him that more than one twinkle could be too much. “Isn’t that right, Ms. Palmer?”

He could tell that she didn’t know how to respond. He often had this effect on women. Normally they would get flustered. Often they would blush. They’d look away and then back and away once more before falling into his eyes. But not Angelica Palmer.

The woman sat there in her journalist’s suit, her rich auburn hair falling like sunset from beneath her journalist’s hat while she scratched in her journalist’s notebook, which sat neatly on her journalist’s lap, all the while holding a very journalistic look on her face. This woman was all business. Her business was journalism.

Angelica Palmer cleared her throat and sat up a little straighter. “Mr. Stockwell—”

“Please, Angelica. You’ve been traveling with me for how long now?”

“Five weeks,” she said with professional accuracy.

“Five weeks,” he repeated as if she hadn’t said it. “In that time you’ve seen me in business meetings at my most cunning. You’ve seen me at charity events at my most compassionate. You remember the orphanage?”

“I do.”

“You’ve even seen me cry.” Damian looked out the window for a brief moment and watched the electric lights of Chicago roll by. “When I cut that onion while making dinner, so you’ve seen me at my most culinary. If anyone has earned the right to forgo formalities, it’s you. Call me Damian. Or Dam.”

“Well, I really don’t see why I should start now, Mr. Stockwell. After the unveiling tonight, I’ll have to leave you and write my story.”

“And I’ll be the first to read it.”

He loved the way she smiled when she didn’t mean it, because deep down he knew she did. She did this now and said, “You flatter me.”

“No, I’ll be the first. My lawyers insisted.” He smiled and meant it.

She tilted the brim of her hat a little lower.

“I can see you’re not in the mood for jokes, Ms. Palmer. Maybe we should go back to what you’re most comfortable with. Do you have any questions for me?”

“How does that story in the paper make you feel?”

Damian Stockwell, great adventurer, captain of industry and paragon of right, rolled his eyes. “Really? Again with the feelings?”

“It’s an interesting development in the story. I think my readers would be interested in your reaction.”

Stockwell pointed to the paper. “How is this about me?”

“The man was one of your major competitors, was he not? He was set to debut at the exposition, but instead he arrives dead in New York, seemingly killed by his own creation. How does that make you feel?”

“How do you think it makes me feel, Angelica? It makes me sad. Gottfried von Brandt was one of the world’s foremost robotologists. His work was remarkable. And now he’s dead. Death is never a welcome change. It comes wrapped in regret with the cold fingers of emptiness reaching into the hearts of everyone that knew him. For those that knew him well there is an aching that will never heal. For those that knew him less, there is the remorse of not knowing him more. The brilliance of his genius was snuffed out long before it could illuminate the world.” Stockwell leaned forward and looked her in the eye. “How could I feel anything but a great sadness for these events? And you can print that.”

“He said your work was irresponsible and self-serving.”

“Well, then I’m less sad than I normally would be.” Damian leaned back in his seat. “But still sad, nonetheless.”

“You aren’t the least bit relieved that your competition is out of the way?”

“Iron sharpens iron, Ms. Palmer. One man sharpens another. Both the Bible and iron workers taught us this. Not only do I welcome competition, I crave it. Competition is what makes both man and our country great. And you can print that.”

Angelica tapped the pencil against her notebook. “Are robots dangerous?”

“You’ve asked me this before.”

“I’m asking you again.”

“What makes you think my answer has changed?”

“The man was flattened like a pancake.”

“Robotology is a young science. And any science brings danger. When you stick your fingers into the unknown you’re hoping to find miracles, but you risk sticking those fingers into peril. Should we withdraw our fingers and continue living with our own stupidity? No. We face these dangers head-on with our chin up, chest out and our fists set like steel. It is our job as scientists to conquer that danger and wrestle it to our will. Only then will we progress beyond the hell of our own ignorance. And you can print that. Except for the swearing. I don’t think they’ll let you print that.”

“Many fear that robots will turn on us. And several prominent robotologists have been mysteriously killed in the last several months, seemingly proving that point.”

“We’ve designed these machines to be like friends to us. Loyal, selfless, dedicated. We’ve made them as human as possible. Of course they’ll turn on us. It’s inevitable.”

“How do you plan to handle that?”

“With very good lawyers.” Stockwell smiled at his own joke, knowing full well it wasn’t really a joke at all.

Angelica did not return the smile. “How about just not making robots?”

Stockwell shrugged. “You can’t stop progress.” He turned away and looked out the window. The Pierce-Arrow rolled slowly through a throng of people as it pulled up to the home-builders’ showcase in the Century of Progress Exhibition. The crowd was courteous enough to step aside but rushed the windows of the limousine. They pressed their faces against the glass to get a better look at the man inside.

Damian’s adventures were widely published in newspapers around the world and few had not heard of the Guardian of Good. The public felt as if they knew him intimately from newsreels and radio, but to actually see the man in person was something they could forever hold over their friends.

Damian smiled at each man, woman and child that braved the running board.

The car slowed to a stop in front of the DamIndustries home of tomorrow. The home was built with clean lines, composite materials, plastic windows and an artificial lawn that required zero maintenance and was only suspected of being slightly toxic to small pets and children.

Bertrand set the parking brake and killed the engine. “We have arrived, Monsieur.”

“Look out there,” Stockwell said in a hushed voice. “You can’t really see it because of all the faces against the window, but behind that crowd of ravenous fans sits a house from the future. Every amenity. Every luxury. Every comfort. And even though everyone will be able to afford it, it’s a home fit for the President of the United States of Tomorrow. And you can print that.”

“Why, thank you,” she said with little appreciation.

Stockwell’s smile briefly faded. “Bertrand.”

“Oui, Monsieur?”

“This self-opening door isn’t going to open itself now, is it?”

“Non, Monsieur.”

The roar of the crowd filled the car as the valet opened the driver door and made his way to the passenger compartment. He cleared the crowd back from the limo and pressed a button on the car. The limousine door flew open for Damian, and the world embraced him.

The giant man stepped from the car and waved to the people before him as security parted the crowd. They cheered him on as the press rushed into the void, popping, ejecting and reloading flashbulbs as fast as their fingers permitted. The ground quickly became covered with broken glass and crunched like snow beneath their feet as they tried to outmaneuver one another for the perfect shot.

Stockwell was accustomed to the attention and took it all in stride. He called to a few familiar faces. “Jimmy, good to see you. Carl, how are the kids? Still working for that yellow rag, Danny?” He shook hands and moved through the host of journalists, passing each one off to his side. Before they knew it they were between their subject and the car.

They weren’t interested in his questions. The reporters broke past the line of photographers and rushed up to him, each vying for the first question. They shouted their names and the names of their papers, but, in the end, they were all asking the same question.

“Are the rumors true, Mr. Stockwell?”

“People are talking, Mr. Stockwell, give our readers the truth.”

“Do you care to comment on the rumors, Mr. Stockwell?”

“How long have you been seeing one another?”

“Does it tickle?”

Stockwell raised his hands above the crowd and it fell silent. “Now, everyone please settle down. As you know, tonight is a big night for DamIndustries, and for the world. We’re about to make history and give humanity a gift of freedom like it’s never known. I know we’ve been secretive about our project, and I thank you for your patience. All will be revealed in a matter of time. With that said, I will answer one question now. So, what’s it going to be?”

One hand went up faster than the others, and Stockwell pointed to the reporter leaning against the car.

Ted Starr had a face made for slapping. Add in his cocksure smile and you’d be willing to turn that slap into a punch. Called upon, he turned up the smile and spoke. “Ted Starr, Evening Herald. Rumor has it that you and one of the stars of the fair are an item. Do you care to comment?”

Damian smiled broadly and nodded. “It’s true.”

The crowd gasped and then giggled.

Stockwell pointed north up the fairgrounds toward two massive steel towers. They rose over two hundred feet into the air and peaked with observation decks. They sat nearly two thousand feet apart with the harbor between them. Several rocket-shaped passenger cars traversed the distance on high tensile cables, emitting a blast of red rocket steam as they went. “The Sky Ride and I have been seeing each other for a little over a month.”

The crowd laughed as crowds do when they are being polite.

Ted Starr was not amused. “I’m referring to the rumors that you’ve been receiving private fan dance lessons after hours.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Starr, but I would refrain from making any assumptions that could put your paper at risk.” Stockwell turned to the crowd. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, everyone. The future awaits!”

The reporters were trained to stay in front of their subject until they got the story. They learned early on to persist until the byline was written. For most, this doggedness was in their very nature and they found themselves comfortable forming a barricade of questions against the unwilling. But, as Stockwell stepped forward, they moved aside. They knew too well that he had said all that he was going to say. Standing in his way would only result in what they came to call the Stockwell Treatment, which only led to humiliation and capitulation.

Angelica followed close behind him, nodding to a few of her colleagues as she passed.

“Hey, Palmer,” Starr called out from against the car.

His call turned the woman and Stockwell back to the reporter.

Starr lit a cigarette and waved out the match. “How’d you get this story? Do you know something about fans?”

Angelica snapped the pencil in her hand and moved towards Starr.

Stockwell narrowed his eyes on the cavalier reporter. He had no tolerance for rudeness. There was never an excuse for it, and it upset his chivalry when it was directed towards a lady. He felt his fists get angry and the crowd grow nervous. “Bertrand.”

The valet stood next to the reporter at the rear of the limo. “Oui, Monsieur?”

“The door felt like it was sticking.”

Bertrand pressed the release button on the side of the Pierce-Arrow and the passenger door flew open, striking Starr in the back of the head before sending him to the concrete.

“It’s seem fine now, Monsieur.”

“Hmmm. That it does. Thank you for checking, Bertrand. Leave the car. We’ll move it later.”

The valet doffed his hat, closed the door and stepped over Starr. He made his way through the crowd of reporters as they laughed at the man on the ground.

Angelica Palmer wasn’t pleased. She crossed her arms beneath a scowl. “I can handle myself, Mr. Stockwell.”

“Forgive me, Ms. Palmer. I have no doubt you can handle yourself, but I’m a gentleman and I wanted to handle you for you.” He smiled at her once more. “And please call me Dam.”

Bertrand jogged to catch up to the pair, his hat never shifting out of place.

Angelica waited for him. “Thank you for that, Bertrand.”

“My pleasure, Mademoiselle.”

“Tell me, Bertrand. What do you think of robots?”

Bertrand smiled. “I sink zey are a wonderful idea.”

2
Je, Robot

When a man is forced to face himself—in instances of quiet reflection or those desperate moments when faced with his own mortality—he finally knows who he is. He learns, in that moment of epiphany, what he is capable of. His flaws are exposed, his weaknesses are laid bare, but his virtues rise through the vices and he knows his true worth. As Bertrand came face-to-face with himself, he only had one thing to say. “Zis eez a terrible idea!”

The valet stood in the middle of the stage looking into his own eyes. The machine was nothing like he imagined. When Stockwell had told him about the robotic personal assistant, the valet had imagined the machine with a featureless face of brushed metal on a skeletal frame with enough arms to manage the chores of the demanding elite as if it had leapt from the garish covers of the rags at the newspaper stand.

“What’s the matter, Bertrand?” Stockwell asked from across the room. “You look shocked.”

The valet pointed at the machine in front of him. “Zis ees me!”

Stockwell laughed and excused himself from a conversation he’d been engaged in with a man in a lab coat. The titan crossed the stage with relatively few steps and put his hand on the robot’s shoulder. “It sure is. Do you like it?”

Bertrand looked at himself closer. The skin was Bakelite or ceramic or something else entirely and not the most detailed, but there was no mistaking his own features. His eyes, his hair, his nose—even the sign of the break he had suffered long ago on the docks of Marseille—it was indeed his own face. The valet winced in disgust. “Non!”

Damian took a step back. His eyebrows pinched and peaked above the pools of blue and silver. “I thought you’d be flattered.”

“Zis ees un insult!”

“How is it an insult? This, my friend, is a compliment of the highest order. This machine will be the desire of women everywhere. There isn’t a housewife in the country that won’t want to get her hands on it. It will make all her wishes come true. I just made you the most desirable man in America, Bertrand.”

The robot was dressed in the traditional, formal style of the valet. A finely woven morning jacket hung over a silk vest and accented by a matching pocket square and cravat. Bertrand had a similar outfit hanging in his wardrobe. He reached out and touched the collar and felt a familiar fray hidden behind the lapel. “Zeese are my clozes on a … on a toaster!”

Stockwell stepped from behind the other Bertrand and placed his hand on the real Bertrand’s shoulder. “My friend, my dear and loyal companion. We’ve been on many great adventures together, have we not? I’m not trying to sell the world an appliance. I’m trying to give the world the gift of companionship that you have given me. This is my way of paying forward the generosity, the faithfulness and the laundry folding that you have shown me all these years. Why should I be so blessed when the rest of the world must go without? Just because I’m fabulously wealthy? That hardly seems fair.”

Bertrand felt a stir inside that tried to crawl out his eye. Being a personal valet to a man such as Damian Stockwell had not been without its perils and irritants. The man lived an unparalleled life of daring and adventure. Oftentimes the dangers of such a life came with such incessant abandon that Stockwell took little time to reflect on anything but the threat of the moment.

Damian moved beside the new Bertrand. “No, my dear Bertrand. The whole world deserves a friend like you.” He straightened the lapel on the morning jacket and backed away. “Exactly like you.”

“Besides,” the man in the lab coat spoke as he joined the pair before the robot. The words still held the cadence of a German accent, but his pronunciation was precise. “We wanted to give it some personality. But we had to start with a simple one.”

Stockwell smiled and made the introductions. “Bertrand, this is Doctor von Kempelen, DamIndustries’ head robotologist.”

The doctor stuck out his hand and smiled. “It truly is an honor to meet you, Bertie.”

The valet took the hand because it was polite, but he looked at Stockwell for further explanation. “What ees zis Bertie?”

“My apologies, Bertrand,” the doctor said. “I feel as if I know you so well. I’ve spent months inlaying you into the Val-8 … I’ve come to think of you as a friend. And as a friend I gave you a nickname—Bertie.”

“Inlaying me?”

“It’s not as gross as it sounds, Bertrand,” Stockwell said. “I checked.”

“Yes, inlaying you. I taught the Val-8 all about you. Your mannerisms, your speech patterns … Would you do me a small favor? Would you please say for me, ‘Would you like to lick the spoon’?” The robotologist smiled.

Stockwell hid a laugh behind his hand.

“Non, I don’t want to do zat.”

“Oh, please. It’s my favorite.”

“Non.”

“Bertrand, why are you being so difficult?” Stockwell reached to the back of the robot’s neck.

There was a click and a whir and a kachunk that would have to be checked before the unveiling. The hum of warming tubes finished off the chorus.

Stockwell looked the Val-8 in the eyes and spoke. “Bake me a cake, Val-8.”

“Oui. Would you like to leak ze spun?”

Damian had a glorious laugh that could, and had, turned the fortunes of men and women around the world. The doctor’s was more a schoolgirl giggle and hurt a little less.

Bertrand pointed a wagging finger at the machine. “I do not zound like zat.”

“Oh, please,” Stockwell said. “Everyone says that when they hear themselves.”

“It sounds exactly like him.” Angelica had stood in awe of the machine while the valet protested.

“That’s because it’s his voice.” Stockwell pulled a small device from his pocket. “I’ve been secretly recording him for months.”

“Zut alors! You’ve been secretly … How could you?”

“How could I not, Bertrand?” Stockwell said as he put the device away. “We needed the Val-8 to sound natural, not like some amateur French version of Hamlet.”

“How can you do zis wisout telling me?”

“That’s what secretly means, Bertrand.”

“I have never—”

“Relax, it’s not like you weren’t compensated.”

“You have given me nothing for zis.”

“Do you remember when you asked for last Thursday off?”

Bertrand’s eyes darted to the ceiling and back. “Oui.”

“And did I say anything?”

“Non.”

“Well there you have it.”

Bertrand prided himself on his complete self-control, but he felt the heat rushing to his face and embraced the rage. He tried to say something hurtful, but it escaped his lips in such a rush of French that even Napoleon would have to ask, “Pardon et moi?” He gasped and switched to English. “You are incredible.”

Damian smiled. “That’s what the papers say.”

The valet turned on his heel and stomped off. “I’m going to park ze car.”

“It was nice to meet you, Bertie,” the doctor said.

Angelica watched the man from Marseilles storm away. “Is he going to be okay?”

“He’ll be fine,” Stockwell assured her and turned to the scientist. “But, while Bertrand is sulking, we should take this opportunity to put the Val-8 through its paces.”

“The Val-8?” She had her notebook in hand. She was all reporter once more.

“It stands for Valet Eight,” Stockwell explained. “But we call it The Bertrand. Bertrand may be pouty, but everyone deserves someone as efficient as him in their lives.”

“But why eight?” she asked.

Johan von Kempelen shrank into his lab coat as he answered loud enough for her to hear but soft enough that he hoped she wouldn’t. “The Val-7 had a cat murdering problem.”

“Did you say cat murdering?”

Stockwell shrugged. “It saw them as pests. Who could blame it?”

“But we’ve fixed that, and the cats are safe. Just watch what it can do.” Von Kempelen turned the Val-8 back on.

The machine hummed and its mouth opened like a marionette’s. “Bonjour. ’ow may I be of zervice?”

“Val-8, I’m a little hungry. How about a sandwich?”

“Oui, Monsieur.” The Val-8 looked at the three people before him.

“Right now, it is calculating the best path to the kitchen. His sensors detect all living things and he plans a route around them.”

“Even cats, now,” Stockwell added.

The Val-8 turned left and stepped toward the kitchen. Despite its construction, it didn’t lumber or stomp. It stepped gently and discreetly, so as not to disturb anyone unjustly. It stepped just like Bertrand.

Damian, the doctor and the reporter followed the machine as it moved through the model home into the kitchen and set about its task.

It opened the fridge, located a ham and turned it over several times.

The robotologist narrated the Val-8’s motions. “Right now it is calculating the condition of the meat. It can detect multiple toxins, bacteria and more. Food poisoning and icky ham hands will be a thing of the past.”

The Val-8 set the ham on a cutting board and sliced several pieces before returning the meat to the fridge. It located a loaf of bread in the pantry and repeated the inspection and cutting process. Within moments, the sandwich was dressed, plated and held before them.

Stockwell raised the sandwich and took a massive bite.

“That’s incredible,” Angelica said. “What else can it do?”

Damian nodded and looked at the Val-8. He spoke with a mouth full of sandwich, “Vrmph eicht, mean mif phwace sup.”

Von Kempelen smiled. “Right now it is calculating what exactly Mr. Stockwell said and determining how such a renowned man could be so successful with such poor manners.”

Angelica chuckled.

“Mwat?” asked Stockwell.

The doctor spoke to the robot. “Val-8, clean this place up.”

What followed this command was nothing short of a leap into the future. The Val-8 surveyed the showroom. It was spotless. A staff of designers had planned, cleaned and laid out the room for the perfect presentation. Nothing was out of place. Still, the Val-8 set about the room correcting the position of items: straightening pictures, adjusting chairs, organizing the spice rack according to most common usage as opposed to alphabetical as the design team had.

Within minutes the kitchen was more perfect than perfect, and the Val-8 left the room.

The group followed the machine as it moved about the model home making slight adjustments before coming to rest back in the middle of the living room where it all began.

The group turned as Bertrand returned through the front door of the model home. “You are all still fawning over zat contraption?”

Stockwell spoke again to the machine. “Val-8, please console Bertrand.”

The Val-8 moved without hesitation towards the valet.

Bertrand took a step back as it approached. “What ees zis?”

The machine stood next to the Frenchman, stuck out an arm and began to pat him slowly on the back.

Bertrand swore at it and tried to move away, but it followed him about the room, always patting him.

“This thing is amazing.” Angelica scratched another note in her journal as she asked, “Is there anything it can’t do?”

“The dishes,” said von Kempelen.

“And I still wouldn’t trust it with cats,” said Stockwell. “Just to be safe.”

“It can’t do the dishes?” the reporter asked.

“Unfortunately, no,” said the doctor. “We are still perfecting the waterproofing, but its internal machinations are just too sensitive to water.”

“That’s a pretty big drawback,” she said. “Don’t you see that as a significant shortcoming?”

Stockwell answered the question. “We believe that our Synthetic Intelligence will distinguish the Val-8. While its appearance is not, by design, truly human, our protocols make living with the Val-8 nearly indistinguishable from having another Bertrand in your home.”

“Doctor,” Angelica asked. “What do you think of the death of Gottfried von Brandt?”

“It’s truly a tragedy. I knew Gottfried well. To expire in such a silly accident.”

“Some people think that it was his machine that killed him.”

“We scientists pursue the mysteries of the universe at our own peril, Ms. Palmer. On this adventure we hope to better understand our world so that we may better serve mankind. But it doesn’t matter which field we choose to serve: physics, chemistry, lepidoptery or robotology. There is always a risk that nature is not ready to reveal herself to us, and she very well may kill us to keep her secrets.”

“I never realized science was so scary,” Angelica said.

“The idea is nothing new, of course. Mary Shelley wrote about it more than a century ago. When the doctor in her book faces his retribution at the hands of his own creation—it’s a fable of sorts for scientists and, as with all fables, we take from it a moral that guides our work. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go prepare for the Val-8’s debut.”

The reporter stopped him as he walked away and asked, “What is that moral, Doctor?”

“Don’t make anything too deadly.”

3
Presentation of Peril

The DamIndustries home of tomorrow was full of wonders, electrified and otherwise. There was an appliance for everything. Designed and labeled under DamIndustries Ingenious brand, there wasn’t a modern problem, real or perceived, that a DamIng appliance could not solve once plugged into the wall. Juicers, cleaners, air treatment processors, automatic pet doors and pet patters shined with polished perfection, inviting the housewife of today to think of DamIng for her home tomorrow.

But DamIng’s innovations didn’t just plug into the wall. DamIng’s asbestos line was leading the way in innovation. Fireproof and energy efficient, the magical material had found its way into the flooring, walls and attic—the modern miracle was placed everywhere to make the home a safer place.

The DamIndustries house was one of a dozen “Homes of Tomorrow” in the Home and Industrial Group Area. Other companies had constructed their vision of the future here as well. One home was built of enamel, another steel. One manufacturer had developed glass blocks so you could feel like you were outside when you were actually inside. Or vice versa. All in all the manufacturers had envisioned a glorious future and brought it here to the pavilion.

And then there was the Dahlia Society. They just brought flowers.

Stockwell had nothing against flowers. And he hoped the future would have flowers. But the space occupied by the Dahlia Society was room that could be used to explore the incredible possibility of man’s existence beyond today. But no, they planted flowers, and now that future would have to wait all because of the Dahlia Society.

“This place is amazing.” Angelica strolled around the room. “It’s so quiet in here.”

“The insulation is designed to keep tempered air in and the sound of your neighbors out. Now you don’t even have to learn their names well enough to tell them to keep it down,” Damian explained. “Look outside. You’ll see how well it works.”

“You’ve got quite a crowd out there.” Angelica peered through the automatic asbestos Venetian blinds at the audience gathered in the pavilion as Stockwell and von Kempelen made final preparations to the Val-8. “You’re never going to fit them in here.”

Damian Stockwell smiled. “Ha, of course not. Are we ready, Doctor?” Damian crossed the room to the portrait that hung on the wall. He pulled at the corner of the frame. It swung open, revealing an electrical panel too elaborate to simply be the home’s fuse box.

Doctor von Kempelen lowered a sheet over the Val-8. “We are ready, Mr. Stockwell.”

“Then it’s time to start the show.” Stockwell threw an electrical switch. Sparks flew from the contacts as the circuit closed. The furniture in the living room began to displace, sliding out of the way as a rumble built beneath the floor.

Angelica struggled to find her balance as the ground beneath her began to move. “What’s going on?”

“Sacre bleu!” Ever the gentleman, Bertrand rushed to her side to catch her should she fall.

“You two should have a seat,” Damian said.

“What is this?” Angelica let Bertrand guide her to a sofa that had snuck up behind them. The pair sat as the couch slid in front of a demonstration platform that rose out of the ground.

“It’s a convertible.” Stockwell closed the portrait and backed out of the living room as the front of the house swung open to thunderous applause.

Spotlights boomed to life and cut rays of brilliance through the night. A bandstand emerged from the floor with what appeared to be a relieved and slightly claustrophobic ensemble in place. They took a few deep breaths before striking into song.

The crowd outside grew exponentially as the home transformed itself into a stage. Fairgoers rushed to find the source of the lights, the music, the oohs and the ahhs. They weren’t disappointed. Fireworks erupted from the corners of the stage as a chorus line of dancers filed in from each side of the home. Fifty girls dressed in red tights lined with sequins high-kicked as they made their way across the stage.

Angelica pulled Bertrand back into the couch as a glittery shoe breezed by his face.

“Thank you, Mademoiselle. I was distracted by zee lights.”

“Uhh huh,” Angelica dropped back into the couch and uncrossed her arms only to make a notation in her notebook.

The dance continued for two more numbers ensuring that the majority of the fair’s visitors had gathered in the home’s courtyard.

“He sure knows how to draw a crowd, doesn’t he?” Angelica asked.

“Oui, Mademoiselle. He does indeed.”

The band stopped, the crowd quieted and Damian’s voice boomed all around them. “Ladies, gentlemen, children, my fellow citizens of today …” The dancers lined up on either side of the stage revealing Stockwell at its center. The microphone in his hand delivered his voice across the Home and Industrial Group Pavilion and beyond. “I’d like to welcome you to the DamIndustries home of tomorrow and thank you for joining us tonight. Today we take a giant leap from yesterday into the future.”

Fireworks erupted again and the crowd roared.

“I’ve seen it, and I invite you to come with me now into a world of convenience and comfort. In this world there are no longer menial tasks to distract us from the important pursuits of man: reading, writing, sporting and exploring. With the latest DamIndustries breakthrough, we will finally be free to chase the dreams of our forefathers and their forefathers before them.”

Angelica placed her face in her hand and shook her head.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to take this opportunity to invite to the stage a man that I believe possesses the best qualities of humanity. Many of you have read of my adventures around the world. What you might not know is that one thing they have in common—aside from being incredibly amazing, frighteningly dangerous, fraught with peril, spectacularly heroic and completely selfless—is that on each and every one of some of them, I did not go alone. No, even the world’s greatest adventurer needs help from time to time.

“I’d like to introduce you to Bertrand, my loyal valet and dear friend.”

The crowd applauded.

“Bertrand, come on up here.”

The Frenchman shook his head and refused to move.

“He’s a little shy, folks. Maybe we could encourage him.”

The crowd slowly began to chant Bertrand’s name, but due to some confusion that began in the back of the crowd, they chanted “Dan” instead. The chant grew until the valet finally rose and stepped onto the stage. He stood next to Stockwell and bowed his head to the crowd.

“Here he is, everyone, my dear friend and constant companion, Bertrand. If not for him, I can surely say that I would not be standing before you today. He has traveled with me into the face of danger and down to the depths of terror. He has saved my life on countless occasions and provided assistance in every one of my great achievements. He is a gift to the world and it would be selfish of me to keep him to myself. No, ladies and gentlemen, everyone deserves a Bertrand in their lives. This man right here was our inspiration for what you are about to see.”

Stockwell smiled at his good friend before turning back to the crowd.

“Come with me now into tomorrow as I introduce to you the DamIndustries Val-8 personal assistant.” Damian stepped away from the shrouded machine as the drape rose, the band began to play and fireworks lit up the sky.

The crowd gasped as the machine was slowly revealed. There was a hush of awe once the drape was clear. The hush of awe turned into a confused silence.

“It’s just a guy,” some guy in the audience said.

“Yeah,” a thick Brooklyn accent joined in. “An ugly guy.”

“I assure you, the Val-8 is no guy,” Damian’s voice boomed over the loud speaker. “It is a highly sophisticated personal assistant. Or, as we like to call it, The Bertrand. The Val-8 is the future.”

Fireworks erupted and Stockwell rethought his plan to tie the explosions to the mention of the word future.

Damian continued. “The Val-8 is the ultimate in home automatonamation. The leading edge in robotology.”

“Oh, it’s a robot,” the guy in the crowd said.

“It’s not just a robot. The Val-8 is your personal butler, housekeeper and cook. It does everything you never wanted to do for yourself. It will tend your home, prepare your meals and handle your affairs.”

Brooklyn spoke up once more. “I kind of like handling my own affairs.”

“Why don’t you say something, Bertrand?” Stockwell asked.

Bertrand reached for the microphone.

Damian pulled it away. “Sorry, I meant the other Bertrand.”

This delighted the crowd and several pointed to Bertrand as they laughed.

The Val-8 raised its arm and the crowd gasped. It tipped its hat and spoke a tiny impression of Bertrand’s accented English. “Bonjour.”

The crowd gathered in the Home and Industrial Group Area erupted in applause.

Stockwell smiled and let it roll over him. He leaned over to Bertrand and spoke over the crowd. “If they think the hat thing is great, wait till they can see what else it does.”

“I cannot believe you called it ze Bertrand,” the Frenchman whispered with no concern for volume.

Damian flinched. “I thought you’d like it.”

“Non.”

“It’s flattering.”

“Stop saying ees flattering. Eet ees not flattering!”

Damian put an arm around Bertrand’s shoulder and waved to the audience. “Just calm down, my friend. We don’t want you to blow a croissant.”

“What does it do?” The voice came from a blue-haired old woman in the front row. Security had brought her a chair and she sat with both hands folded over her purse. She leaned forward when she spoke and it was not without great effort.

“I’m so glad you asked, my dear lady. But it may be easier to ask what doesn’t it do?”

The old woman wheezed as she sighed. “Fine. What doesn’t it do?”

Stockwell stammered. “No, let’s go back to your first question. The Bertrand …” Stockwell looked at his valet and moved him aside so he could be standing next to the Val-8 as he spoke. “The Bertrand is nothing short of a modern miracle of science and engineering. This mechanical man will make your life a dream. It will clean your house: dusting, vacuuming, sweeping, rug beating are all things of the past. It will tend to your guests: answer the door, escort them in and,” Stockwell pulled a cigar from his pocket.

The Bertrand raised an outstretched hand and clicked. A flame ignited and burned at the end of The Bertrand’s thumb.

Damian puffed it to life before continuing. “It cleans. It cooks. It folds. It fluffs. It dusts. It’s the perfect gentleman housekeeper.”

“Does it do the dishes?” asked the old woman.

Stockwell smiled. “I’m sorry. We already answered your question. Let’s give someone else a chance.”

“Does it do the dishes?” Ted Starr had a welt on his forehead and a grin on his face better suited for a matinee villain.

“The Bertrand is a modern miracle. And as we all know, miracles should not get wet. Next question.”

“Will it murder me?” the blue-haired woman asked.

“Not from you, sweetheart. A question from someone else.”

“It seems like a fair question in light of recent events. Will it murder her?” Starr asked.

“Of course not,” Stockwell said.

“But the one robot killed that man in the papers,” said the old woman.

Doctor von Kempelen stepped forward and leaned in towards the microphone. “The fact is we don’t know what happened to Doctor von Brandt. He was a colleague of mine, and those of us in the robotologist community will mourn his loss. But, until we know what happened, it would be wise to assume it was an accident.”

“So I can write down accidental murderous robot?” Starr asked with his pencil in the air.

“Regardless of whatever happened to my friend, The Bertrand has been designed with multiple safeguards that would prevent it from hurting anyone.”

“Unless you’re a cat,” Damian added.

Doctor von Kempelen sighed and looked away.

“Or a puppy that looks a lot like a cat.”

The doctor addressed the old woman again. “The Val-8 model is safe, my dear. It is designed only to serve you.” The doctor turned to Stockwell, covered the microphone and asked a question.

Damian smiled and nodded.

Von Kempelen spoke in the mic again. “Why don’t you join us on stage and we’ll show you exactly how easy this machine is to use.”

Stockwell began the applause and it rippled through the crowd until the old woman rose to her feet. The applause grew as she made her way to the stage measuring each step carefully. The applause faded as many gave up clapping long before she got to the stage.

Damian helped her across the stage and directed her in front of the Val-8. “What is your name, my dear?”

“Dorothy.”

“Are you married, Dorothy?”

She shook her head. “My sweet Dennis passed away five years ago.”

“Okay, I’m sorry to hear about your dentist,” Stockwell said.

“Dennis,” Dorothy said with a scowl that could only come from decades of marriage.

“I see. The Bertrand has been designed so you can boss him around just like any husband that isn’t dead. Just tell it to do something. Go ahead and give it a try.” He set the microphone in front of her.

“I don’t know what to ask him,” Dorothy said.

“What would you tell Dennis if he was here right now?”

“I’d ask him to fix us a cup of tea. He liked tea.”

The Bertrand whirred and turned away from the crowd. The machine stepped into the model kitchen and scanned the room.

Wonderment spread through the crowd as the machine moved about, filling the kettle, setting it on the stove, pulling a teacup and saucer from the cabinet and preparing an infuser full of fresh tea leaves.

The kettle whistled and The Bertrand poured the water and steeped the tea. He set the cup on the saucer and returned to Dorothy.

She hesitated to take the cup but finally reached out and grabbed the teacup and saucer. She blew the steam aside and sipped at the cup. “It’s delightful.”

Damian spoke proudly into the microphone. “This is how we make tea in the future.”

Fireworks launched from the foot of the stage and burst in the sky above them. The crowd applauded more than they had ever applauded tea.

The Val-8 held out an open hand. Inside its glove sat two sugar cubes, their crystalline structure glittering in the lights of the fair. “One lump or two, Madame?” it asked.

Dorothy shook her head. “None for me, thank you. I can’t have sugar.” She sipped the tea and smiled. “This is delici …”

The Val-8 closed its hand into a fist. Fine grains of sugar fell from its palm to the stage like the sands of time through an hourglass with a hole in the bottom. The Bertrand’s eyes turned from soft blue to devil red. It reached out and closed its hand around Dorothy’s neck eliciting a tiny squeak and gurgle as it pulled her from the chair and held her above the ground.

Dorothy kicked faster than she walked as she dangled at the machine’s mercy.

Von Kempelen rushed to a nearby console and screamed for security as he manipulated a series of switches.

Uniformed men in dark gray rushed from the side of the stage and grabbed for the machine. One grabbed Dorothy around the waist and supported her weight while another grabbed the Val-8’s arm and tried to pull her free. The third guard crossed a baton across The Bertrand’s throat demonstrating little knowledge of how robots actually worked.

A single move from The Bertrand sent the security contingent flailing across the stage. Only the man under Dorothy was able to hold on.

Stockwell could see the blue-haired old woman turning into a blue-faced old woman before his eyes. He had to act before Dorothy joined her dentist husband in the great beyond. He tore the microphone from its stand and let the heavy device drop to the ground while pulling the length of cable through his hands.

He began to sway the weighted end inches from the floor and it quickly built up speed. He turned the pendulum’s rhythm into a full swing and the mic spun around him. The roar of movement pumped through the PA system and filled the showcase with a demon’s roar.

The crowd had quickly moved from awe to panic and their gasps of astonishment were now gasps of terror as they feared for Dorothy’s life. The roar of the microphone silenced them as they became entranced by Stockwell’s movements.

Damian moved fluidly, spinning and stepping in and out of the trailing cord as if dancing with the device. The cable wrapped around him at several angles, laced about every limb, all but binding him in place. The microphone had run out of cable and fell to rest in his hand.

Damian spoke into the microphone and his voice boomed over the crowd. “Hey, The Bertrand.”

The Val-8 looked at the man who had tangled himself in microphone cable.

“Let her go,” Damian said. With one last flourish, Stockwell spun sideways through the air and extended his right arm towards the Val-8. The microphone exploded from his hand like a bullet and howled through the air before striking the Val-8’s face with a plastic crack and bouncing into Dorothy’s face with an old lady grunt.

The Bertrand released the woman and turned towards Stockwell as its face and Dorothy fell to the floor. The Bakelite mask clattered on the stage.

Bertrand rushed in and slid beneath Dorothy as she fell to the ground. The Frenchman broke her fall and pulled her clear of the robot’s footsteps.

The Bertrand faceplate was designed to appear nonthreatening, comforting even. The design team felt it was necessary as the Val-8’s true face would frighten children and adults alike. The glowing red eyes were set among a thousand gears, springs and wires that were placed for efficiency, not aesthetics.

Stockwell looked into the monster’s guts. Gears spun and whirred. The wires ran like veins throughout the head creating depth and shadows found only in nightmares. The machine set its glowing coals of hate on Stockwell as the man snapped the cord bringing the microphone back into his hand.

The security guards came at the machine again. They struck with batons and aching fists in every effort to stop the threat posed to the crowd, but these blows did nothing to slow the machine’s stride.

Pistons fired and relays snapped as the Val-8 struck back at them with broad swipes that sent each man sprawling into the crowd or farther into the model home.

“Shut it down, von Kempelen!” Stockwell held the microphone tightly in his hand, knowing the improvised weapon was all but useless against his foe.

The doctor mashed buttons, yanked levers and spun dials furiously to no avail. “It’s not responding to my controls.”

The Val-8 struck with the force of industrial equipment and sent Stockwell sliding across the stage and clattering into a mass of steel folding chairs in the abandoned orchestra pit. It quickly turned its attention to what was left of the crowd.

The audience had emptied but for a few people who were too shocked, too stunned or too stupid to move. They sat fixated by the horror that was playing out on the stage in front of them like it was a radio drama come to life, convinced, perhaps, that the theater’s mythical fourth wall would protect them.

Damian landed amid a pocket of spectators. The machine stared at him and raised its hands like Shelley’s monster.

The microphone was still in his hand and Stockwell gripped the device in an ever-tightening fist while responding to the robotologist. “Then whose controls is it responding too?”

The doctor had to yell back. “Something is overriding the system. I’m not sure how.”

Stockwell rolled his eyes as the Val-8 reached the edge of the stage. He looked at the microphone. He smiled and replied to the doctor, “That’s something we’re going to have to fix in the future.”

On the verbal cue, the fireworks erupted along the front of the stage. A large fountain of sparks burst beneath The Bertrand’s feet and engulfed the machine in flames. The fine wear of the butler combusted and fed the fire. Soon the machine stood in a pillar of fire.

Even through the blaze, Stockwell could see the red of the machine’s demonic eyes staring at him. Studying him. They pierced the smoke and burned into him before suddenly moving up and beyond him.

The Val-8 leapt into the air. A trail of smoke streaked behind it as the movement fueled the fire with a rush of air.

Stockwell pulled an arm across his face and waited for the impact. But the machine was no longer after him. The trajectory had carried the robot well beyond him into the pavilion.

Damian untangled himself from the chairs and spun as he leapt to his feet. The machine and its trail of smoke turned north and ran into the fairgrounds.

Stockwell ran after it, shouting into the microphone for Bertrand to follow. He dropped the mic as it reached the end of its cord and turned north in pursuit of the menace.

4
Midway of Mayhem

Dropped in a desert with nothing but wits and will, Damian Stockwell could track a rattlesnake across a mountain of rock. A year spent living with the Crow tribe had provided him an education that no university could bestow. He had learned their ways, their language and their customs. And they had imparted upon him their wisdom, their ability to read the land and the name Giant White Pain, as the chief was prone to migraines and jokingly accused Damian’s radiant blonde hair of being their cause. He assumed.

The ability to track man and beast across any terrain was perhaps the most important skill he had learned from the Crow. It had proved invaluable in his life as a grand adventurer. Many a villain had tried to shake the Titan of Truth, but their own movements betrayed them. An overturned pebble or a single thread of fabric on a branch could be their undoing. Some of his prey accused him of being able to hunt by smell. These skills were necessary in his line of work and had led to a case’s resolution countless times. Now, however, he needed none of these skills, as tracking a blazing six-foot robot through a crowd of thousands didn’t prove too difficult.

The acrid smell of burning plastics filled the air and stung at his nose. The fumes made his head swim as he followed precisely the Val-8’s path of destruction and the screams rising through the Home and Industrial Group Pavilion.

He saw fear in every face and the look crushed something deep inside him. His intention had been to bring these now horrified people a future of leisure, free from stress and worry. The Val-8 was the first step to an enlightened world. Damian had hoped The Bertrand model would free the people of America from the toil of tedious housework and eliminate the countless chores.

There was little doubt in his mind that if the people were provided hours a day of free time they would use it to better themselves, their families and the world around them. Free to read. Free to study. Free to visit cultural centers. They would grow as citizens of planet Earth and contribute to humanity’s rich culture through poetry, art, music, possibly pottery and more.

What should have been lovely singing voices were now terrified screams that tore at his conscience. The Bertrand was developed to make their world a brighter place—it was supposed to be an instrument of good released into the world as a benefit to mankind. Instead he had set it on fire and pointed it into a crowd.

Stockwell rushed through the pavilion following the trail of damage and panic, smiling only when he saw that the machine had made its escape through the Dahlia Society’s central garden. Petals smoldered and Mrs. Davenshire fumed as the once colorful exhibit turned to ash. The older woman shot hatred at Damian through bloodshot eyes as he trampled the one surviving bloom in the course of his pursuit. A sweet aroma hung in the air.

In the distance, there was a new host of screams, and Stockwell ran on as Mrs. Davenshire began to screech and rant. Bertrand, the actual Bertrand, took the brunt of her ire and Damian smiled as he heard the valet apologize. Always the gentleman, Bertrand’s calm, doormat-like behavior had diffused more than one tense situation in the past. Ladies loved the French.

The giant man moved with such speed that the homes in the pavilion became a blur. Despite this, the captain-of-industry was always at work. His incredible mind took in the competition and their offerings as he weaved through the model neighborhood following the trail of thinning smoke. Plastic was everywhere: siding, flooring, wallpaper and artificial lawns were just a few of the offerings. DamIndustries was well ahead of the competition. He was convinced home automatonamation was the future, provided he could stop this one from killing anyone.

The screaming spread. Fairgoers scattered through the grounds as they ran from the Val-8. As the area of panic grew and the smoke faded, it became more difficult to pinpoint the robot’s path.

Stockwell abhorred screaming. Screaming wasn’t the sound of terror. Screaming was the call of the confused and the unprepared. Those that were prepared were never startled, and when faced with shock they reacted appropriately. Not with a shriek. Screaming was the body’s way of telling the world, “This idiot right here didn’t consider this. Ever.” And it was evident now that not a single person in the crowd had prepared themselves for the sudden rampage of a six-foot flaming man-servant.

This widespread lack of preparedness now caused him concern. The Bakelite had burned off. The smoke was fading. And now the fleeing crowd had caused so much damage that tracking the machine would become difficult.

Stockwell slowed and listened, trying to hear through the chaos. Most of the crowd didn’t know why they were screaming, and there was a difference in a knowledgeable scream and a scream born of contagion.

Bertrand caught up and the pair shared a brief look as they listened for a clue. Through the din and dismay, a fresh batch of screams broke. Tiny and distant, they pierced through the noise.

“Mon Dieu,” Bertrand swore. “Eez zit children?”

Stockwell did not fault the Frenchman for his ignorance. He merely shook his head and said, “No. My God, no.” He ran faster than before and called to Bertrand over his shoulder. “To the Midget Village!”

It may have been mankind’s largest small-scale endeavor. The Midget Village was a fully functioning town, though it was built to a lesser scale. The community resembled an alpine village and the tiny streets were lined with tiny stores. Western Union ran a cable dispatch service from the village and employed miniscule messengers that flit about the fair in full uniform.

Stockwell had spent a fair amount of time roaming the streets of the village. He had smiled as half-sized hula dancers swayed to a third-scale uke. He had his hair trimmed by bantam barbers in the town’s barber shop. He had even stood witness to a couple of miniature marriage ceremonies and applauded with delight as the new bride and groom began their lives together in the town square.

The Midget Village even had midget city hall where a midget mayor had the grand honor of serving the midget residents of the city. There were sixty of these residents in all, making the fair the largest little people population ever gathered in one place. In short, it was a big deal.

Now Stockwell feared for the citizens of the tiny town as the robot would seem at least twenty-five to thirty percent more menacing to them. He moved against the tide of terror as fairgoers fled the midway and began to run faster when the oncoming crowd turned to a flow of Lilliputians. But even he would have to admit that he may have fallen prey to a trick of the eye and that, perhaps, it only seemed like he was running faster. Whichever the case, he trod more carefully and cautioned his valet. “Watch your shins, Bertrand!”

The three-quarter scale grand entrance to the village was a cobblestone arch made entirely of wood and paint that forced most visitors to the fair to bow their heads before entering the village. Despite its pedigree and gentlemanly programming, the Val-8 had obviously refused to bow and the archway was now only a fallen façade of splintered wood.

Damian stepped through the debris and was momentarily lost in a sense of perspective. Due in part to his great physical stature, he often looked down on people, but he was never prepared for the disproportionate feeling that overcame him once inside the half-sized hamlet.

Towering over the doorways—and in some cases the buildings themselves—he moved through the streets, careful not to touch the structures as he feared they might fall. As he cautiously rounded a corner into the town’s square, a policeman struck him in the chest.

His reflexes would make a jungle cat jealous. They took over and Damian snagged the officer from the air, stopping his flight. He lowered the Midget City constable to his feet and noted that the man only rose to the bottom of his ribcage.

The patrolman looked up at the giant of good and pointed back to the square from which he had just been tossed. “Well, get in there, you big freak.”

Damian smirked and dashed around the corner to see the entire force of diminutive deputies doing their best to topple the, relative to them, giant robot. Tiny cops were flying everywhere.

Those that weren’t airborne beat against the robot’s now exposed skeleton with three-quarter billy clubs. The clanging of varnished wood on metal did little but splinter the clubs and frustrate the cops. But despite their rising tempers, the men in uniform fought on.

Stockwell had witnessed courage in many forms, but he had never seen a display of this relative magnitude. The American spirit was alive and well in this tiny town.

An officer soared through the air and broke through the upper facade of the barbershop as the Val-8 grabbed yet another by the collar and lifted him from the ground.

Stockwell boomed, “Unhand that officer, you fiend!” His voice was the envy of baritones the world over. His control was impeccable and his projection unmatched. But it had never seemed so loud or large as it did in the town square of the Midget Village.

The shout was followed by silence as the melee stopped. The officers and the android turned towards Damian. The officers wore a look of surprise. The android wore the look of a half-melted French valet, as what was left of Bertrand’s image dripped down its face.

“Drop the cop, The Bertrand,” Stockwell commanded.

The Bertrand’s voice projector had been damaged in the fire and no longer spoke in a refined French accent. The machine roared a burst of static. It crackled and spat what was most likely intended to be a string of French curses.

Bertrand arrived behind Stockwell as the unintelligible vulgarities ended and the Val-8 launched the cop into the air.

Damian dove forward and tucked into a roll that took him out of the airborne officer’s path. He leapt back to his feet as the policeman struck Bertrand in the chest.

The Frenchman yelped as he and the officer crashed through the plate glass window of the Midget City Market. A bakery display of fresh baked loaves of bread cushioned the valet’s fall while the valet cushioned the police officer’s fall, preventing any serious impact injuries. The shards of glass still hurt.

Stockwell did not allow himself to become distracted by the shattering glass. His steel gray eyes were locked on his opponent as it roared static and feedback once more.

Their batons still in hand, the Midget Town Police Force stopped and looked to Damian for orders.

“You’ve done your duty, Officers. Leave this mechanical menace to me.”

The cops looked at one another and backed away from the machine with caution until they were standing behind Stockwell. Two of the men turned and helped Bertrand and the other officer out of the window.

The sergeant was bruised. His uniform was torn, and he held only half a baton in his fist, but his courage had suffered no trauma. “You sure you’ve got this?”

Stockwell nodded. “Yes, Sergeant. You and your men have done all you can. Go now and know that you’ve protected your tiny town with the courage and honor of men twice your size.”

“Did you hear that, Larry?” the sergeant asked one of the other men in blue.

“I sure did, Sarge.” Larry slid his baton into the ring on his equipment belt.

“What do you think?”

“I didn’t know they made assholes that big, Sarge.”

“That’s what I was thinking. Get Danny out of the bread racks and let’s get out of here. We’ll let Goliath take care of it.”

Bertrand stepped out of the shattered window and moved beside Stockwell as the Midget City Police Force filed out of the town square, mumbling insults at the two men.

“What did you zay to zem, Monsieur?”

“I thought I complimented them.”

“Zey do not zeem complimented.”

Damian shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, Bertrand. Those are fine men, and I’ll have words with anyone who says different. For their badges may be small, but their hearts are big.”

“Ah, you probably zaid somezing like zat.”

The Bertrand crackled and popped and the two men turned to face the monster they had unleashed upon the fair. The glass eyes that had given it a human appearance were gone, and now it stared at them through the black eye of a mechanical lens.

Damian stared back. “What are you going to do now, The Bertrand? The officers are gone. You have nothing left to throw.”

“Please do not taunt ze machine. I don’t want you to make it angry.”

Damian turned and crossed his arms across his chest. “Don’t be silly, Bertrand. The Val-8 may appear intelligent, but it is nothing more than a collection of programs. It can’t think. It can’t feel. It doesn’t have emotions. All it can do is respond to commands.”

“Did you command it to tear up ze statue?”

“Of course not.” Damian turned to see the Val-8 tearing up the town’s water fountain.

The machine ripped the statuary featuring frolicking midgets from the fountain top and hurled it towards the two men. The pair fell to the ground as the stonework flew over their heads and crashed through what was left of the Midget Village Market.

Stockwell was on his feet in an instant and rushed across the square. The village had suffered enough. It was time to put a stop to the robot’s rampage. The Val-8 swung at him and Damian ducked under the blow. He came up and met the machine’s melted face with a right cross that succeeded only in removing the rest of the Bakelite mask. He struck again with a left and threw two shots to the body before the machine struck back.

This single blow sent the adventurer stumbling back across the square into Bertrand, who had just gotten to his feet. As the pair fell back to the ground, the machine crashed through a building and disappeared from the town square.

The two men stood. Stockwell made a fist and grimaced.

“What eez wrong, Monsieur?”

“I … I can’t punch it. It’s too hard. It’s like punching …”

“Solid metal?” Bertrand asked.

“Yes, it’s just like punching me.”

“What can we do?”

Stockwell looked at his hands. He took a deep breath and shrugged.

A fresh chorus of screams erupted somewhere beyond the midway. Stockwell winced as he balled his fists tighter. “Bertrand, go get the car.”

5
Fan Dance of Death

The world may indeed be a stage, but as the streets of the Midget Village twisted and turned into narrow pathways that ran among the castle walls of the Belgium exhibit, Stockwell mused that Chicago had become the stage for that world’s stage. He smiled at his own cleverness and nearly tripped on a raised cobblestone.

He recovered from the near stumble and dashed through the medieval corridors toward the sound of the screams before bursting into the pavilion’s courtyard. He expected a crowd of panicked fairgoers to be running over one another seeking freedom from harm, but this crowd knew how to panic.

There was indeed a crowd. The pavilion was at capacity, but the men and women didn’t scramble, scream or even stir. They sat patiently in their seats allowing the chaos to rage on about them as it wished. They were having no part of it.

His entrance drew the attention of the hundreds seated inside. They looked up from their beers, and Stockwell’s confusion dissipated. Before each visitor sat a glass of beer—some of the first legal brew available to the nation since the repeal of Prohibition a few days prior. A simple rampaging robot was not nearly enough to make them leave their seats.

The crowd wasn’t so far from sobriety, however, that they couldn’t put two and two together. They pointed en masse towards the entrance to the Spanish Village.

A few broken steins and weeping men confirmed that it was the path The Bertrand had taken. Stockwell grabbed a nearby stein, lifted it to the crowd and downed the ale in a single swig. Freedom tasted sweet. He acknowledged the applause with another raise of the glass and ran on as the stein’s owner grumbled.

The Spanish Village was in a more expected level of disarray as the nation was not serving beer. The appropriately panic-stricken crowd screamed, ran about and yelled about nothing helpful at all. Some tried scrambling up the adobe walls in their attempts to flee. They vaulted over the rounded walls and sought refuge behind the clay brick.

Damian arrived in the villa’s courtyard as the Val-8 demonstrated that clay brick, while an energy efficient and suitable building material for an arid environment, wasn’t the best choice for impeding the rampage of a robot.

Red dust filled the pavilion as the machine made short work of the walls and gravity took care of the rest. The panicked screams turned to gasps and coughs as the dust made its way into the crowd.

Stockwell filled his cavernous lungs with a final breath of clean air and walked into the thickening cloud. The more the Val-8 destroyed, the harder it was to see.

There was a crunch to his left and a crash louder than the others. The noise carried on as part of a structure collapsed. He ran toward the sound as the cloud of dust thinned and whisked away on the opposite side of a hole in the village wall. Damian stepped through the rubble and found himself outside of the Italian Village which, naturally, looked like an airplane.

Unlike the other countries, the Italians had chosen to construct their village to showcase less of their heritage and more of their future. An aviation demonstration scheduled for later in the year was intended to show off their aeronautical prowess, and the nation had chosen to have their architecture reflect the growing industry.

One look at the structure, however, and Damian, looking through the eye of an accomplished engineer, was convinced it wouldn’t fly.

Rather than destroying another pavilion, The Bertrand raced down the pathway that ran along the north pond as the crowd parted before it.

Concerned only with how it moved about the home, the lab had never clocked the machine’s speed on open ground. But it was apparent now that it was considerable. Stockwell’s feet pounded the asphalt with a practiced frenzy that he had employed a thousand times before to catch fleet-footed felons, but it was not enough, and he quickly fell behind the machine.

Undeterred, he did not slow. He passed the boat show and the building advertising Live Babies in Incubators where the miracle of life met the miracle of plastics as premature infants were tended to in front of a paying audience.

The Bertrand was forced to slow when it reached the crowd at the Pabst Blue Ribbon building. Much like the visitors at the Belgium castle, the people here were not giving up their ground so easily. Even with the Hall of Religion across the way looming over them, those in line shouted at the machine to get to the back or get something else much less pleasant.

Stockwell received the same treatment when he arrived a moment later. Now, upset by the gall of the robot to cut in line, the crowd was less than willing to step aside and let him through. They formed a wall of flesh and slurs and it was only Damian’s great height that permitted him to see The Bertrand continue down the pathway to the base of the Sky Ride.

Built to rival the iconic status of the Eiffel Tower, a committee toiled for months to develop something that would trump the Paris World’s Fair landmark. In the end there was only one answer to the question, “What’s better than a giant steel tower?” That answer was, of course, two giant steel towers. And rocket cars. Two thousand tons of American steel made up the twin towers of the attraction. Each tower measured more than six hundred feet, and there were more than eighteen hundred feet between them. This distance was crossed by fairgoers and adventure seekers in one of twelve double-decker rocket cars that had been pulled from the pages of the future. Each one left behind it a trail of rocket smoke as they traversed the fair’s lagoon.

The twin sentinels rose above the tallest buildings in Chicago and stood as a testament to America’s ingenuity, ability and dedication to never finishing in second place. They were beacons for an entire generation embroiled in a depression. A symbol that said if you throw enough money at a problem, you can easily pretend that problem is no longer there. It was something the entire country could be proud of. And now it was being scaled by a potentially murderous robot that Stockwell had helped create.

Time for courtesy had run out. Damian burst through the thirsty crowd, leaving them to hurl insults and a few stones at his back as he rushed to the base of the tower.

The Val-8 ascended quickly. Its metal bones clashed with the steel girders, creating sparks against the Sky Ride structure as it went. But this spectacle was nothing compared to the ride itself.

As the sun set, each rocket car was lit from the ground. These massive spotlights gave the ride an otherworldly feel and, combined with the illuminated steam that poured from each vehicle, captured the complete attention of those on the ground. The crowd outside the elevator stood with their necks craned skyward and their eyes directed to the cars suspended over the lagoon. Lost in a fog of fantasy and wonderment, they hadn’t even noticed the Val-8.

Damian ran into the crowd and began to shout. “I need to get to the elevator. Let me through.”

The crowd took their attention from the sky and began to shout back.

“Like hell, buddy. I’ve been waiting for two hours.”

“Wait your own turn.”

“Get in line.”

“You don’t understand,” he countered. “There’s a potentially dangerous robot on the loose.”

With this, they laughed.

“Looks like this guy’s been spending too much time at Pabst.”

“Maybe he’s been reading a little too much science fiction.”

“Maybe he’s just a big stupid idiot who’s dumb and not too much smart.” This came from a child and it hurt the most.

Their insults were lost as the crowd worked itself from a tither into a frenzy. Damian ignored them and looked back at the tower. He could no longer see the machine. The Bertrand had disappeared somewhere in the structure.

Stockwell backed away from the tower and the burgeoning mob to see higher into the air. He saw it. The Val-8 had already made the lower platform. Damian cursed as he watched the machine move hand over hand across the cable towards one of the rocket cars suspended over the lagoon. Even the elevator wasn’t fast enough to catch The Bertrand now.

He turned and dashed back along the shoreline and red-rovered his way through the beer line, spilling the thirsty, shouting patrons across the asphalt walkway. As he ran, he kept The Bertrand in his peripheral vision and his destination straight ahead.

The Century of Progress Boat Show featured myriad crafts. Rubber boats made by Chrysler ferried passengers across the lagoons. Yachts much smaller than his were on display for the green eyes of the middle-class and those from landlocked states. Damian ran down the dock past all of these crafts to a grouping of much smaller boats. Shaped like a manta ray and no bigger than a man, they were designed for one reason—to win the National Outboard Association’s High Point trophy. Equipped with powerful outboard motors and designed to slice through the lake at more than eighty miles an hour, they were the joy and potential pride of the men that raced them. Damian was surprised they weren’t being watched more closely.

He untied the closest craft and, with a mighty shove from the dock, sent the boat drifting into the harbor. He leapt into the cockpit with such authority that even the owner would not question that he belonged at its controls. One pull of the cord and the outboard barked to life. Stockwell grabbed the throttle and opened it wide.

The man-made lagoons may have calmed the motion of the lake, but the small craft still found every wave and valley in the water until the propeller caught up to Stockwell’s haste. Piloting such a craft took a practiced skill and complete concentration. Damian watched the Sky Ride as he flew across the lagoon.

The Bertrand was now moving atop the rocket car. If its goal was to cause destruction, it could easily release the passenger gondola and, driven by gravity and theatrical rocket steam, let it plummet to the water below.

The machine stomped across the roof of the second deck. The noise must have terrified the passengers inside. But, to Stockwell’s relief, the robot did not tamper with the fasteners. It moved across the roof, grabbed the cable and continued on its way.

Damian wondered again about the Val-8’s newfound purpose. He didn’t like unanswered questions. They festered in the back of his magnificent mind and never let him alone until they were answered. Why had the Val-8 turned evil? Were these actions its own doing? Was sabotage to blame? Had some foreign agent or industrial competitor fouled its benevolent purpose with a corrupt code of ethics? Was someone else in control? It had to be someone else’s doing. To his knowledge there was no rampage protocol within the Val-8’s programming.

His quest for an answer led him to consider allowing The Bertrand to go its way. Following it would tell him, at the very least, where it was trying to go. Even this would give him a clue to its motive.

The Bertrand beat him across the water and moved onto the second steel structure. Many feet above the Sky Ride was an observation platform filled with spectators just waiting to be threatened and terrified. Panic at great heights was always dangerous. People tended to shove and fall, and that almost always made the papers.

The boat skipped off a wave at seventy miles an hour and the boat flew from the surface of the lagoon as Stockwell relaxed. The Val-8 was making its way to the ground. The boat landed with a thwack Stockwell felt in his knees, but he powered on towards the opposite shore.

The Bertrand would be on the ground soon. It wasn’t climbing down but dropping from crossbeam to crossbeam.

Damian veered left towards the foot of a massive tower and pointed the speeding boat straight towards an inflatable Chrysler that had just motored from the dock. The automotive company had several ferries in the lagoon to transport passengers while doing its best to enter the marine market.

These passengers screamed as the ferry captain cut hard to port, sending his fares collapsing to their right. The abrupt turn in the high-walled laden craft threw up a tremendous wake.

The Val-8 dropped to the ground and moved north along the shore.

Stockwell struck the Chrysler’s wake and launched the runabout from the water.

Not surprising to him, his timing was perfect. Damian leapt from the boat as it collided with the robot. He rolled into the soft bank of the lagoon as the machines twisted together and scraped across the asphalt pathway running next to the lake.

Sparks sprung to life as the propeller scraped the hard surface. Within seconds, the fuel in the boat’s engine burst into flames.

Stockwell turned his back to the eruption and began to move the gathering crowd to safety. “Back up, everyone. There’s nothing to see here.”

The crowd, as crowds are apt to do, didn’t listen.

“Move along, please. Everything amazing that was going to happen has happened. Please enjoy the fair. I invite you to visit the DamIndustries Pavilion. It’s the home of tomorrow, you know.”

Someone in the crowd screamed, and Stockwell turned back to the burning wreckage.

The Val-8, burned to its metal skeleton, hoisted the flaming watercraft above its head.

“Are you kidding me?” Stockwell screamed. “I hit you with a damn boat!”

Motors spun and pistons pumped as The Bertrand heaved the burning hulk into the crowd.

Stockwell had trained hard to move faster than pneumatics. He sprang into the crowd first and tackled a young woman who stood in the path of the missile. The boat crashed behind them as the crowd finally scattered.

He looked at the woman in his arms and recognized the look she gave him. She was terrified, relieved, enamored and considering a lawsuit all at once. She wanted to scream but was lost in his eyes. His eyes had cost him precious moments in situations like this before. He’d curse them, if they weren’t his mother’s.

She couldn’t speak—whether it was love or the wind had been struck from her lungs, he couldn’t be sure—but she mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

A new crowd began to scream as the machine moved south through the fairgrounds.

Damian stood quickly and surveyed the area. The machine was gone. How long had the woman been lost in his eyes?

There was a mob running from the Hollywood pavilion and he ran against its flow. He excused himself as he shoved people out of the way and pardoned himself for any bruises he may have left as they collided with him. The Val-8 had to be inside. Crowds had shoved and pushed to get into the Hollywood pavilion since its opening, but never to leave. It contained the single biggest attraction the fair, and thus the world, had to offer.

And there she was. She didn’t flee the building. She danced her way from the doors down the steps, wearing nothing but feathers. She swayed and sauntered right into his arms.

He smiled.

She slapped him.

“What was that for, Sally?”

“For all the things you’ve been saying about us in the papers,” she said with a smile.

“I haven’t been saying anything.”

“Exactly. I have a reputation to uphold.”

“I’d say your reputation is holding up just fine. You’ve caused quite a stir here.”

“There’s no such thing as too much press. You know that.”

“Then I think I can help us both.” Stockwell leaned in towards her as Sally Rand closed her eyes and pursed her lips.

Damian grabbed the world-famous feathered fans from the dancer’s hand and rushed towards the building. “I’ll bring these back.”

She yelled something at him as he ran. It was probably something about him leaving her standing there fanless and naked. He guessed it could have been something else, but that was his best guess at the moment.

Sally Rand’s infamous fan dance was both the biggest attraction and the biggest source of controversy at the fair. She drew crowds of spectators and heaps of criticism for her scandalous yet captivating performance. Even in the early days of the fair it was clear that the spectators were less interested in the countless cultural displays from around the globe than they were in seeing Sally’s globes displayed.

The inside of the Hollywood pavilion was a wreck. Trash from the concession stands littered the ground, and his feet mashed popcorn into the ornate carpet as he made his way across the silent lobby. The mess was the only sign of the Val-8, but he could tell that the machine wasn’t far. Damian could sense when he was being watched, and it intrigued him to discover that this ability extended to mechanical devices.

“I know you’re in here, The Bertrand.” Was there any reasoning with a machine? “I don’t know why you’re doing this, but I’ve got to say you’ve piqued my curiosity.”

There was a crash from the top of the grand staircase. Stockwell turned in that direction but still couldn’t see the machine.

“Why don’t you come with me and we’ll fix whatever is wrong with you?”

The Bertrand was not designed to scream, but the static and crackle of its voice amplification module roared, popped and hissed as the machine leapt from the staircase and crashed to the ground in front of its creator.

The entirety of its human appearance had been burned away by the fire on the shore. The synthetic hair was gone, revealing a soot-covered and tarnished metal skull. The plastic that had covered its face and neck remained only as charred clumps of black tar. Bertrand’s suit was an apology he’d have to make later.

“You’ve caused enough destruction.” Stockwell pointed at the machine with his intimidation finger. The effect was only slightly lessened by the giant four-foot feathers he held in his hand. “Are you ready to come in?”

The Val-8’s eyes whirred back and forth as the feathers bounced. Its head began to sway. The machine roared.

Stockwell smiled. “Fine. Let’s dance.”

The Bertrand lunged as Damian spun and brought the burlesque fans in front of his face. Ages ago, the samurai had used fans in war. Stockwell had studied the art and employed its teachings now. The samurai fans were made of metal, and the feathers swayed more than he would have thought. But each time a feather fluttered, the Val-8’s eyes struggled to find their focus.

The Bertrand charged again and the dance began in earnest. Stockwell spun and ducked. He leapt and leaned. Keeping the feathers in constant motion kept The Bertrand off balance. The more he moved, the more the machine stumbled.

He moved toward the door. Stockwell chuckled as one of the feathers brushed his chin.

The Val-8 rushed as Damian stepped aside, and the robot crashed through the door back into the fairgrounds. Damian, armed with the feathers, followed.

Crowds don’t run for long. They only flee until they are certain they are not being pursued, then they turn into spectators. Stockwell emerged to a roar of laughter. In his hands, the infamous feathers had to look ridiculous. He felt himself begin to blush a little as pride rushed to the surface of his skin. He fought it back. Though his image may suffer, it was for the greater good.

The dance continued. Damian twirled to the delight of the crowd and the confusion of the machine. It was becoming predictable now. He was finally back in control of his company’s creation. He spun and drove it left into a column, then pirouetted and watched it crash through the barker’s booth.

The crowd’s laughter turned to cheers as he choreographed The Bertrand to the shore of the lagoon. There it stopped.

“Into the water, you foul contraption.” He lunged at the robot with both fans but it refused to move. Somehow it knew that the water would be its demise.

Stockwell pushed forward again and the machine lunged through the fans and, grabbing the man by the wrists, it pulled itself through the feathers until it was eye to eye with the feather dancer. The eyes whirred and finally found their focus. The Val-8 pulled the fans away and grabbed Damian by the neck.

Static rumbled from the robot’s chest as it lifted the adventurer from the ground and held him over the water.

“So the fans won’t work, huh?” He felt the machine begin to squeeze. “Guess I’ll have to hit you with a car.”

The roar of a V-16 was a totally unique sound and had never before been heard outside of GM’s factory. Though distinct, it was enough to grab the Val-8’s attention.

The long black car tore across the asphalt, its horn and lights blazing a path through the crowd.

Damian fell to the ground as The Bertrand turned its focus on the other Bertrand behind the wheel.

Stockwell dove out of the way as Bertrand drove into The Bertrand. The hood crumpled and the machine flew back into the lagoon.

The Val-8 thrashed about as the water seeped into its housing and short-circuited its electrical system. One final burst of garbled static came through a waterlogged speaker and the machine stopped. It stood waist deep in the water, silent and still.

Bertrand shut the car door and swore at the machine.

Damian stood, brushed the fight from his palms and strode towards the car. “Nice work, my good friend. You did exactly as I …” Damian stopped and looked at the Cadillac limousine. “This is not my car.”

“Non, Monsieur.”

“This is the car from the auto show.”

“Oui, Monsieur. It was clozer.”

“It is a nice car, though.”

“Drives like a dream,” Bertrand said.

“Really? Do you think I should buy one?”

“I zink you just deed, Monsieur.”

6
Drink of Despair

The Chicago chapter of the Vagabond Club reeked of new. Less than a year old, the honored society had been forced to furnish the newly constructed space with pieces that were less than storied. Unlike the New York chapter, there was no history to the chair in which Damian sat. It didn’t come from an emperor’s throne room. It was not unearthed from a sacred tomb. It was never carted across the Dark Continent on a safari by a noted big game hunter. It was simply a chair. And that was unfortunate.

His personal fortune had paid for the club’s construction, and as soon as he was home, he’d send part of his personal collection to help with the decor. Replica maps and imitation antiques were not befitting of the club’s standing. Looking around the room, it pained him to see the money he had spent on such pageantry.

Of course, that amount was nothing compared to what DamIndustries would have to pay to repair the damage to the fair. The thought of rebuilding Spain alone made him grip the glass of whiskey a little tighter. How could dried mud cost so much? It was just mud. He could more than afford the cost, but the circumstances depressed him more than any amount of money could.

It was his idea, his creation, that had turned the exposition of optimism into an experiment in terror. He was embarrassed by the machine’s failure. The story had made the front page of the late edition. Many in the crowd, who earlier were too ill-prepared to do anything but scream, were more than happy to speak about their harrowing experience. And it did not surprise him in the least to read Ted Starr’s name in the byline.

The drink in his hand was new as well. The fully stocked bar arrived within hours of the Volstead Act’s repeal, thanks to good friends in the club’s Canadian chapter. Hours after the bar was filled with booze, the club was filled with Vagabonds.

Though he didn’t know their names or their personal histories, he knew every face. The Vagabond committee had to approve of every member as a rule of charter. As the club had expanded around the world, getting to know each candidate personally had become prohibitive, and they came to rely on the referrals of other members. It was not his preferred method. He liked to know everyone, but he had no one but himself to blame.

His exploits around the globe had not only brought attention to the storied fraternity, they inspired many to seek adventures of their own. The club had never had a shortage of applicants, but more were qualified than ever before.

The Vagabond Club was his second home, if you didn’t count the numerous second homes he actually owned around the world. It was a familiar place in a foreign city that offered him and his fellow Vagabonds a friendly place to rest, resupply, gather local information and even stay if necessary. But with every strange face, it felt less and less like it was supposed to.

An elderly member sat across from him in the imitation antique Queen Anne chair and sipped at a whiskey with more caution than most in the room. While the others rushed through each drop, the old man slurped loudly and, mixing air with the amber liquid, held it in his mouth. His cheeks danced as he passed the sip from side to side, and Damian could see a look of delight with every note of taste he discovered. The man noticed Stockwell watching, raised his glass and offered an explanation.

“This is the first drink I’ve had in fifty years. And I’m going to savor every damn drop.”

Damian smiled and raised his glass.

“Have you got the same plan? You’ve hardly touched your drink.”

Stockwell looked at the drink in his hand. He was no teetotaler. The temperance movement was something he never fully understood. He had made a life out of helping others, saving people from peril when endangered by man or nature. But he rarely saw it as his job to save anyone from themselves, no matter how much he disapproved of what they were doing. He believed that as long as they weren’t hurting anyone else, it was between them and God. The idea that a group of people would force their own will on another was everything he stood against, whether it was “for their own good” or not. He had looked forward to the repeal of the draconian law as much as any other red-blooded American. But, now that it was here, he simply did not feel like drinking.

“Did you lose your taste for it?” asked the older man.

Damian shook his head. “It’s just been a long day.”

“Well, I can fix that.” The old man raised his glass again. “Here’s to long days.” He smiled and sipped. After a few moments of savoring, he added, “You sure look like you’ve lost something. What was it?”

Stockwell chuckled and dragged a hand down his face. “A butler.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, son. There’s a reason they say good help is hard to find. Because it is.” He sipped some more and lost his focus for a moment. Satisfied with the experience of that particular sip, he swallowed it and continued. “That’s the reason they say that. What was his name?”

“The Bertrand.”

“Bertrand, eh? What happened? Did he quit?”

“Hardly. He wouldn’t stop. I had to light him on fire, hit him with a Cadillac and throw him in a lake.”

“I beg your pardon, son? It’s not my place to tell a man how to treat his staff, but you are mighty hard on your help. There’s other ways to discipline a man besides setting him on fire. Did you ever think of just docking his wages?”

“You don’t understand. The Bertrand wasn’t a person. He was a thing.”

It was the first time the old man set his drink down. He pointed a long, thin finger and his voice dropped an octave. “People aren’t possessions, son. They can’t be kept. You’d best remember that.”

“No, he was a literal thing. He wasn’t alive. The Bertrand was an automaton. Designed and manufactured by the best robotologists in the world. But then he turned.” Damian picked up the glass and took a swig of the blended whiskey. “He turned evil.”

“So you killed him?”

“No, I didn’t kill him.”

“Son, if you set him on fire, hit him with a car and threw him into a lake, there’s a good chance you killed him.”

“I told you. He wasn’t alive.”

“And I’m asking you, who’s to say what’s living or not? What is alive, anyway? Life cannot be defined simply by the process of taking breaths. That’s not what living is.”

“It’s a big part of it.”

The old man laughed. It was a weak and tired laugh. “Hardly. I know many that breathe who are hardly living.” He leaned forward in his chair, put a bony elbow on his knee and extended his right hand. “We haven’t met, Mr. Stockwell, but I think you know who I am, since you were the one who invited me to join this fine club. My name is Ronald Cook, and I should start by saying thank you.”

Damian did know the name, and he shook the offered hand. “It’s an honor to finally meet you, Mr. Cook. And anyone who’s searched for Trapalanda is more than qualified to be called a Vagabond.”

The old man smiled and leaned back in his chair. He lifted the glass to his lips and stared into the drink. “I’m afraid I wasn’t quite completely honest in my application.”

“You didn’t search for the lost city of Patagonia?”

“Not quite.” He smirked. “I found it.”

Stockwell spilled his whiskey as he shot forward to the edge of his seat. He tamed his excitement and whispered, “You found the City of the Caesars?”

Cook nodded and took a large sip. He didn’t savor this one. It had purpose beyond taste.

Damian leaned in. “And you’ve told no one of this?”

The old man shook his head. “It’s of no use. I can’t go back. No one can go back.”

“Surely we can mount an expedition.”

“The city is gone forever. It destroyed itself upon my departure.”

Stockwell sat back in the chair with a frown and took a shot of the whiskey. “I hate it when that happens.”

“I tell you this story now only because I think you need to hear it. It was thirty years ago. I was a younger man then, though not as young as you are now. And I was foolish. Years earlier I had signed on with General Roca and his men and participated in the Conquest of the Desert. Their goal was to unite the country, but I went for the money. I didn’t think much beyond myself at that time and figured a buck was a buck.” He took another hard swallow. “But it didn’t take long before I learned the difference. I quickly became disillusioned with the general’s methods of unity, and deserted. But they followed.”

The old man’s eyes filled with the wonder of his own words as he continued. “It was during my flight from Roca’s justice that I came across a valley high in the Andes. Where the Earth met the sky and where the glaciers met with mountains weeping lava. That constant struggle between fire and ice filled the valley with a mist so thick that a man could easily get separated from himself. This fog had concealed the city and its people from the world for ages.”

“Its people?” Stockwell asked. “There were people?”

Ronald nodded again. “It’s a bit misleading to say I discovered the city. Because in truth, they discovered me. In my haste to escape from my pursuers, I slipped on some ice and tumbled from a ledge. I fell forever into that canyon and felt every rock and root on the way to the bottom. I was hurt. I couldn’t even stand. And I lost hope.

“I cried out and heard nothing but my own screams in reply. I lay there for hours.” Cook took a drink. “It must have been my cries of agony that drew them to me. And if I hadn’t been crying like a baby, I doubt they ever would have found me. It’s not my proudest moment, but the people of The Wandering City found me in the fog and tended to my wounds.”

Stockwell shook his head and smiled. “So did they take you in as a god or a prisoner? It’s always one of the two. I prefer God myself. It seems a little blasphemous, I know, but I’ve always found it easier to convince them you’re just a man than it is to get out of some of those dungeons.”

“Neither. They took me in as a wounded traveler and nothing more. A fellow man. I was not the first they had rescued. Or the first they took in. Many men and women had come over the years. And they were almost always welcome.”

Stockwell chuckled. “How long did it take you to get the language down? It usually takes me a week or so, depending on its roots.” He laughed harder. “Until then, it’s all pantomime, speaking slowly and drawing things in the dirt. And let me tell you, that can go wrong. One time I drew the chief holding a spear at waist level and when he looked at it he did not see a spear, I can tell you that much. I barely got out of there alive, and as soon I got back I got myself some art lessons.”

“It took no time at all. We spoke the same language.”

“So the legends are true?” Stockwell asked. “They spoke Spanish?”

“Yes. Trapalanda was settled by a host of sailors shipwrecked in the straights. And even more Spaniards came after their defeat at Curalaba.”

“And the Patagonian Giants? And the ghosts as well?”

Ronald waved his hand at Stockwell’s growing excitement. “Don’t believe everything you read, my boy.” He smiled wryly. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

“But if they took you in so willingly and you didn’t accidentally draw the chief playing with his own thing, why did you have to escape?” Stockwell thought for a moment and smiled. “Uh oh. Someone fell in love.”

Cook nodded. “Quickly and entirely. Her name was Reega. She was everything to me and I to her.”

“Chief’s daughter?”

“No. She was my caregiver during my recovery. My Florence Nightingale.” The next drink emptied the glass and he raised his hand for another.

“But Reega was not the reason for my imprisonment. General Roca had sent men after me. Somehow they found their way through the fog to the city. They saw only its riches, not its beauty. They snuck away and in the course of a year formed an army of filibusters. Then they returned and tried to take the city by force.”

The waiter set a full glass down next to Ronald, and he took half of it in a single gulp. “The fighting was fierce. Countless died in the struggle. The Trapalandians’ weapons were outdated. They fought modern rifles with muskets and rusted cutlasses. Their warriors were poorly prepared. It was only through sheer numbers and the desire to defend their home that they prevailed.”

“You’ve got to love the home team,” Stockwell said, but his words were not heard. Cook was lost in his memories.

“But they held me responsible. I had led these men to the city. I was responsible for the bloodshed. I should have been put to death. It would have been best for everyone.” He took another long drink. “But, as I had played no hand in the attack, they felt it would be wrong to kill me. They were good people. Kind and decent people. But they were still really, really pissed, and so they subjected me to their cruelest punishment. There’s no word for it outside of Trapalanda. It was an internal exile. I was locked in a cell away from the city and people I had grown to love. I was fed well, but I was to see no one for the rest of my life.”

“That is pretty harsh.”

“Banishment I can handle. Loneliness can be suffered. The true punishment was what they placed in the cell with me.”

Stockwell found his voice was only a whisper as he asked, “What was it?”

“It was Reega.”

“Well, that’s wonderful, because that’s the girl you fell in love with.”

Cook shook his head. “They carved her out of stone. A statue, a perfect likeness, to remind me every day of the love I could never have.”

“Not so wonderful.”

“But, and here’s the point of my story so pay close attention, I spent decades with that statue … with my Reega. Over the years she became more than stone. We talked. We embraced. We … there was a hole in the back. We did everything together. When there was no one else, there was her.” He took a long drink. “Do you see what I’m saying, son?”

Stockwell leaned away from the old man as far as the back of the chair would allow. “Yes. You did it with a statue.”

“No, that’s not what I’m …”

“You said there was a hole.”

“Well, yes, but that’s not my point. She was alive. She didn’t talk. She didn’t move. She didn’t breathe. She was a statue, but that didn’t matter, because she was alive. Just like your butler.”

Stockwell stood up. “Hey, I didn’t do my robot butler.”

“I think you’re focusing on the wrong part of my story. My point is, she was as alive to me as you are.”

Damian pointed at the old man. What was left of his drink sloshed onto the floor. “Don’t you go getting ideas about me, Mr. Cook. I’m sorry you lost your statue lover in the collapse of a mythological city. It happens to the best of us. You need to move on and get a new life. But don’t think you’re going to make me a very weird part of it.”

Damian slammed his glass on the table and stormed out of the lounge. Once out of the room, he stopped and put his face in his hands.

An attentive staff member took note and approached. “Is everything all right, Mr. Stockwell?”

“Everything’s fine.” He pulled his hands away and took a breath. “Everything is just fine. Come here.”

The staff member stepped closer and Damian put an arm around his shoulder and turned him towards the lounge.

“You see that old man over there in the burgundy Queen Anne?”

“I do, sir.”

“Keep an eye on him.”

“I will, sir.”

“And keep him away from the statues.”

“Do what, sir?”

“You heard me.”

“Okay, sir.”

Damian slapped the young staff member on the shoulder and made his way through the club, down the elevator, then outside onto the streets of Chicago, where he could breathe again.

It was late, but there was no shortage of traffic on the streets. New York may be the city that never sleeps, but Damian was certain Chicago didn’t get to sleep until well after one.

“Hey there, Dam.” The professional edge in her voice was gone. Even her posture had changed from prim and proper to comfortable and casual. She leaned against a parked car as the Windy City tossed strands of hair across her face. They didn’t seem to bother her and they were doing all the right things for him.

He smiled. “Ms. Palmer.”

“Please, Dam. I’ve been traveling with you for how long now? Call me Angelica.”

“Angelica.” She smiled when he said her name. “What brings you out so late?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” She pushed herself from the car and walked slowly towards him. The sway of her step made her path less a direct line and more of a slow and gentle curve. “I guess it’s all of the excitement from today. If every day is this exciting for you, I can’t imagine you ever get much rest.”

Damian shrugged. “You might be surprised to hear that chasing an unstoppable machine through a large crowd of men, women and children has left me a tad sleepy.”

“Oh, really?” She stepped in front of him.

He nodded. The brim of his hat flicked against hers and turned it slightly askew. Her perfume was a delightful bouquet that he had never noticed on her before. Sweet and floral but with an edge in it he couldn’t quite place.

She straightened her hat. “Then why don’t we go back to your place and you can tell me all about it. Maybe we can end this news story with an exclamation point.”

Damian whistled for a cab and a driver pulled over immediately. He opened the door and held it for Angelica. As she passed by him, he added, “I hope you’re talking about sex.”

She smiled like she was talking about sex.

7
Laboratory of Lies

The presidential suite at the Drake Hotel was designed to keep the most persistent assassin out. For this very reason, heads of state and royalty from around the world had stayed in the opulent residence since it opened a decade before. It could keep the world’s most important people safe from harm, but it seemed it could not keep the sun out of their eyes.

The eastern morning sun draped across him and he awoke alert. Sleep was an ally that refreshed and healed, but sleepiness was an enemy of the vigilant, a nemesis of the prepared. Long ago he had made allies of one and done away with the other. Damian had trained his body and mind to reap the benefits of sleep while rejecting the detriments of the waking process. For him, there was no state in between the two. He simply went from fast asleep to fully aware.

There was no question of where he was. He never awoke in such a stupor. He knew instantly his exact location, down to precisely which side of the room he was facing. He rolled over knowing that he faced east and stretched out his arm into an empty bed. The place where she had slept wasn’t even warm. He opened his eyes to find himself alone in the room.

“She left?” Damian smiled and took in a satisfied breath. Her perfume still hung in the air. “Damn, that’s sexy.”

He didn’t roll out of bed like most men. Stockwell rolled out of bed and dropped to the floor for a quick one hundred push-up warm-up. Once complete, he rolled into several different positions and completed a full hour’s workout in less than three minutes. He made a quick call to have Bertrand bring the car around before stepping into a cold shower and getting dressed. He whistled as he buttoned his shirt.

The staff of the Drake fussed over him as he made his way from the suite and through the lobby. Was everything to his liking? How was he enjoying his trip? Wasn’t it a beautiful day? His only response was to hold up the paper he had found outside his door and let them read the headline for themselves: DamIndustries Debacle! Mechanical Menace Fouls Fair.

It wasn’t like him to sulk, but he felt directly responsible for the danger and destruction at the expo, and it was clear that the papers and the public agreed.

They called his creation the dream of a reckless industrialist. They said he was a capitalist without a cause, concerned only about the dollar and not for the safety of his consumers. They said his actions would cast the fair into financial ruin, and he alone should be responsible for the damages.

He couldn’t disagree with them on that point. He had already found himself culpable, and had his team assess the damages. He tucked the paper under his arm with a grunt. It wasn’t the money that bothered him. It was the failure. He had to find out what went wrong.

He found it rather warm out on the street despite the breeze off the lake. He could hear the bustle from Michigan Avenue. The Drake’s entrance had been situated on Walton Street to accommodate automobile traffic, and he was thankful the crowds were around the corner.

Bertrand was waiting outside the entrance with the Duesenberg and opened the car door as he approached. “Bonjour, Monsieur.”

“What’s so good about it?” Stockwell snapped as he tossed the paper into the rear seat. “Tell me one thing.” He stepped into the limo and pulled the door shut himself.

Bertrand merely harrumphed, closed the door and took his seat behind the wheel.

Once the door was closed, Stockwell spoke, “I’m sorry I snapped at you, my friend.”

“I’ve zeen ze papers, Monsieur. I underztand.”

Damian picked up the paper just so he could throw it across the car again. “Why? Who? How? These questions have been eating at my mind all night, like some parasite that can’t be sated.”

“I trust not all night, Monsieur,” Bertrand said with a wink in the rearview mirror.

Damian smiled and asked, “What do you mean?”

“I zaw Ms. Palmer leaving earlier zis morning.”

Stockwell chuckled. His French friend was right. His mind had not been completely consumed by the mishap at the fair. “She made grammar sexy, Bertrand. No woman has ever done that for me.”

This thought kept the smile on his face as they made their way through Chicago to the DamIndustries Robotology Laboratory in the city’s industrial center.

Established solely as a staging ground for the Val-8 presentation, the warehouse bore no external markings and was purchased under a subsidiary company to keep the project a secret from the press and the competition. Even Angelica, who had been granted special access to Damian and the project, was not aware of its location or existence.

That secrecy was even more critical now. Damian instructed Bertrand to park down the street from the facility. The pair would walk from there.

He stepped from the car and made a casual sweep of the street to ensure they had not been followed. This was done mostly out of habit. Bertrand was an excellent driver and could shake a tail with such proficiency that the tail would never even know they had been spotted in the first place. On a good day he could get them following someone else.

The valet joined Stockwell on the sidewalk, and they began the walk to the warehouse on the cracked and broken slabs.

“Do you have any idea what may have happened with ze robot?” Bertrand asked.

“I have several ideas,” Stockwell said. “And I don’t like any of them.”

“What do you zink went wrong with ze machine?”

“Nothing. The machine acted perfectly.”

“Perfectly, Monsieur?”

“Perfectly. Aside from the whole rampaging and instilling terror thing, it performed exactly as designed.”

“So you suzpect someone ees behind zis?”

“Someone. Something.” He looked off into the distance. “Someplace, perhaps.”

“Zomeplace?”

“Let’s hope that’s not the case. Dr. von Kempelen is looking over his work now. He’s been at it since last night. I’m hoping he finds a flaw in the machine.”

“You are hoping to find a flaw?”

“That’s right. I know that doesn’t sound like me. I’ve never hoped to fail before. But it would be better for the world if this whole incident truly was an industrial accident and not the malicious intent of some mad man.”

“What about von Kempelen?” Bertrand asked.

“What about him?”

“Do you zuspect eem? ’E is obviously sneaky and ’as no morals or ezics.”

Damian stopped and looked at his longtime friend and companion. “Bertrand, I’m surprised at you. You’re not still upset the Val-8 was modeled after you, are you?”

Bertrand’s voice jumped up a decibel. “A machine vis my name, dressed een my cloze, vis ma voice eez on ze cover of every papier een ze country!”

Stockwell looked away. “Well, I must say I’m hurt. I thought it was a great compliment. But now I know better, and you don’t have to worry. I give you my word that I won’t name anything after you ever again.”

“Merci.”

“Fine.” Stockwell continued down the sidewalk. “But, in answer to your question, do I trust the good doctor? I’ve known this man my entire life. I know him to be financially and ideologically stable. My father fought with him in the war. He’s worked for me for a decade. We developed the Val-8 together. He’s invited me to his home. I’ve dined with his family. Two men could not possibly be closer. So yes, I trust him.”

“But who else had access to ze machine? Who else could manipulate a device so complicated and unique? And in zuch little time?”

Stockwell considered his friend’s words before answering. Bertrand had a point. Most of the robotologists capable of such complex systems had died in recent accidents. Von Kempelen was not only one of the brightest men in his field, he was also one of the last. He hated to admit it, but logic would dictate that he was a suspect. “Trust is a very fluid thing. It kind of comes and goes.”

The sentimental part of him had wanted to dismiss von Kempelen’s possible involvement. But his rational side had insisted that he consider every angle. Von Kempelen was a family friend who had earned both his loyalty and his father’s, and it would be hard to look past two generations of trust.

But, once he looked past that trust, there were obvious signs:

The invitations to family dinner had stopped coming. Were there problems with the marriage?

Von Kempelen had passed on several investment suggestions Damian had given him. Were there money issues?

Is that why there were problems with the marriage?

The closer they’d gotten to the unveiling, the more tired the doctor had appeared. Was he dying of some secret illness?

Is that why there were money issues that were causing problems with the marriage?

They stepped through the front door of the laboratory and into a silent room. On his few visits here, it had been filled with the sounds of progress. Tooling machines ran milling parts for the machine. Engineers sat hunched over workbenches assembling the complex mechanisms that would bring it to life. Men in lab coats scratched equations on chalkboards.

Now there was nothing. The lab was empty and still.

Stockwell broke the silence. “Von Kempelen?”

There was no answer from the dark corners of the lab.

They searched the offices first. Damian expected to find his friend asleep on top of research papers, exhausted from the search for an answer. But the offices were as still as the work area.

“Johan?”

Where was he? Had he run off? Was he trying to flee the country? The questions were piling up and doubt in the good doctor was beginning to rise. Everything now pointed to him, and there was only one way to know for sure that his old friend could be trusted.

They found the doctor in the warehouse inside a hydraulic press, very flat, and very much dead.

“Mon Dieu. Crushed like une pancrepe,” Bertrand said.

Stockwell was too overcome to correct his servant. “This is such a relief.”

“What?” asked the Frenchman.

“Well, now I know that I can trust him,” Stockwell explained.

“Ze man ees dead!”

“Right. So, it also means he probably wasn’t dying of some secret illness. And I’m relieved to hear that.”

“How can you be saying zis, Monsieur?”

“But it still doesn’t explain why he hasn’t invited me to dinner.” Stockwell rubbed his chin. “Interesting.”

“Monsieur! Ze man has been murdered!”

“Well, thank you, Detective Dupin. Of course he’s been murdered.” Stockwell gestured to the giant press. “He didn’t crawl in there himself and then think, ‘hmm, I wonder what this button does?’ He knows what that button does, Bertrand! He’s a scientist.”

Bertrand sputtered the start of several French words before he landed on saying nothing at all.

“This means he wasn’t the one who made the Val-8 run amok. This means …” A smile spread across his face. “This means there is another evil out there.”

“’ow can you be zo happy?”

“Because it means I didn’t screw this up. Evil did.” He put a fist into his palm. “And evil can be dealt with.”

“You zaid you wanted to be ze failure.”

“I did say that. You’re right. But I think it’s pretty clear to both of us now that I didn’t mean it.”

Bertrand threw up his hands and walked into the office to contact the authorities.

Damian picked up a phone in the workshop and made other arrangements.

8
Gremlins in Greenwich

When occupied with a problem, it was not uncommon for Damian to disappear into his lab for days on end. Once locked in a struggle with a problem, the man’s magnificent mind could focus on little else. Time meant nothing. Hours, days and minutes became interchangeable. Food became an afterthought. He would emerge only to eat, and only when his stomach was loud enough to become a distraction.

He even slept in his lab. A rollaway cot served as a crash pad for twenty-minute naps that Stockwell claimed could carry him for twelve hours each, especially if several were taken in a row.

There was no use arguing or pleading with him when he was in this state. All calls went unheard. Only the direst of emergencies would pull him from his work. Anything else was a waste of his time.

Bertrand had learned long ago that during these times of intense focus and thought, it was best to take a vacation and enjoy the quiet time in between the clue and inevitable lead. He never pushed. He knew he would be called when he was needed. He would be called when the lead was discovered. And there would be little rest after that.

A week had passed before he got the call. This was longer than the usual think session, and it had entered Bertrand’s thoughts to maybe consider becoming concerned. But before he could really find the time to worry, the call had come, and now he walked down the sidewalk to Stockwell’s brownstone home, dreading the condition of the interior.

Damian’s devotion to a problem was without compare. He was meticulous in his ponderings and thorough in his considerations. His devotion to housekeeping was another matter, and there would be an awful lot of work to do.

Bertrand walked up the stairs and reached into his pocket for his key. The work would begin inside the door. He expected a pile of mail to impede its opening. It would need to be sorted. Fan letters from children, fan letters from adults, and fan letters and appearance requests from government officials usually made up the bulk of the daily drop. These went into a basket to be addressed when time allowed.

Love letters and promises of devotion got their own basket and would be handled with much more discretion. A delicate balance was needed when breaking a heart.

There was a third basket for licensing requests. Damian’s adventures stirred the imagination and companies were eager to latch on to his popularity. Damian had turned down cereal companies, soap manufacturers and tobacco growers with such regularity that one would assume the letters would eventually slow. But the more evil he defeated and the more good Damian did, the larger the stack grew.

The most persistent of all was a young artist named Raymond. His letters stated that he worked as an assistant illustrator, but was looking to make a name for himself with his own comic strip. The young artist pleaded for permission to adapt Stockwell’s adventures for syndication. His backup plan was some sort of space adventure that, the artist said, could never compare to the action and heroics of Stockwell’s life.

But Stockwell held firm on his policy to never license his image. He knew his exploits would appeal to children, and he feared that they would get hurt in any attempt to emulate his actions. He hoped the young artist and the others would understand this. In their latest exchange, Damian had written that Alex should pursue his secondary option and even suggested a name for the artist to use: Dash Jordon.

Overall, a week’s worth of uncollected letters would make for quite a stack.

Bertrand found his key but had not yet removed it from his pocket when he heard the dead bolt slide back and the door begin to open. When he looked up, he was eye to eye with himself. Again. The Frenchman jumped back with a start and kicked his other self in the face. The savateur’s strike was powerful—it had felled giants in the past. But now it had little effect as it struck his doppelganger. There was a sharp crack, but no movement from the Val-8 as the face fell from its head and dropped to the ground.

Bertrand pulled his leg back and bounced away to the edge of the landing, giving him room to strike again.

The robot made no move to attack. It bent slowly at the knees, picked up its face and stood in the door frame examining Bertrand with its mechanical eyes. The lenses whirred back and forth for a moment—perhaps adjusting for the lack of a face, perhaps trying to identify the man before him.

The machine made no attempt to reattach its face but merely held it in its hand as it stepped aside and gestured for Bertrand to enter by sweeping an arm towards the foyer.

The Frenchman raised his fists but the robot only repeated the motion. Bertrand let his hands drop to his sides and edged carefully past the machine. There was no pile of letters behind the door.

Bertrand refused to turn his back on the Val-8, and he circled around as the robot shut the door. It turned away and engaged the lock. It then began to climb the steps to the home’s second story. It climbed halfway up the staircase and stopped.

Bertrand looked around for anything to use as a weapon. The coatrack was nearby and with a few good shakes it would lose the hats and be an effective staff. But the Val-8 only waved for the valet to follow it up the stairs.

Bertrand followed slowly. He put his hand on the banister, preparing to jump to the ground below if the robot’s demeanor changed from friendly to murderous.

The Val-8 turned and proceeded up the staircase at an even pace. Reaching the landing, it turned and waved to Bertrand again.

The valet pulled his hand off the banister. He rubbed his fingers together and noted that the handrail was free of dust. “Merde,” he said and moved up the flight.

The Val-8 gently rapped on the door of Stockwell’s private lab. The steel door was designed for security and safety, and it rang as the robot’s metal knuckles bounced off of it.

Stockwell’s voice was muffled behind the thick metal door. There wasn’t a trace of fatigue. “Enter.”

Bertrand grabbed the knob before the machine could reach for it and let himself into the room. He expected to see a disaster of papers, wires and various other scientific measures strewn about. The room was impeccable. Damian sat in an armchair by an open window sipping a cup of coffee and reading the daily paper.

“Bertrand, my friend. It’s good to see you.”

The Val-8 crossed the room and handed Stockwell its face.

“What happened to your face?” Damian stood and placed the face back on the machine as it pointed to Bertrand. Damian looked at his valet. “You savated his face off. Didn’t you?”

The valet draped his coat on a hook by the door and pointed back at the Val-8. “What is zis?”

“What do you mean? This is the Val-8. You know that.”

“You rebuilt it?”

“Of course I rebuilt it. It was the only way to find out what was wrong with it.”

“You zaid you would never do zis again. My face. My cloze.”

Stockwell laughed. “Oh, I can see your confusion. You think I made another The Bertrand. Well, you’re wrong, my friend.” He secured the face and the machine set about cleaning the room. “I am a man of my word, and I promised I would never name a miracle of modern science after you again.”

Oftentimes when angered by his boss, which was often, Bertrand had difficulty finding the English words best suited to the situations. He knew exactly what he wanted to say; he knew the emotional root of the conversation, but the kind and less profane equivalents escaped him. In cases like this he usually ended up making his frustration known with hand gestures.

He frantically pointed to the robot several times.

“This is not The Bertrand,” Stockwell said. “This is The Bertron.”

“Ze Bertron?!”

“Yes, The Bertron.”

“How ees zat any different?”

“Spelling, for one. Also it was available as a trademark. And I should thank you for being offended, because the new name sounds so much more ‘man of tomorrow.’ The marketing team thinks it will sell an extra thousand units alone.”

“You are still planning on zelling eet?”

“Of course. The world needs this.” Stockwell moved across the room to a surprisingly ordered workbench and picked up a small black object.

“What eef eet goes berserk again?”

“It can’t.” Stockwell tossed the item across the room.

Bertrand’s reflexes kicked in and he snagged the box out of the air.

Stockwell pointed to the device. “Not without that.”

Bertrand turned the item over in his hands. It was nothing but a small black metal box. It was no larger than three inches each way. He held it to his ear and it made no sound.

“What eez eet?”

“That, my friend, is a gremlin.”

“A gremlin? Zis?”

“I know. I thought they’d be green, too. But that’s the device that caused all the excitement at the fair. That is what sullied my good name and set the future back.”

Bertrand shook the device again. “Zo why did eet not work?”

Stockwell smiled. “It worked beautifully. Whoever put it in the Val-8 sure knew what they were doing.”

“Zis eez not yours?”

“Of course not. The Val-8 was designed to be autonomous. That is a radio transceiver. Do you know what that means?”

Bertrand tossed the device back on the workbench. “Non.”

“It means someone sabotaged the machine. It means that someone was nearby controlling it. It means someone wanted the Val-8 to run amok at the fair. And, most importantly, it means it wasn’t my fault.”

Bertrand pointed to the Val-8 as it tidied the room. “But now you’re just going to leave eet on.”

“Sure, why not? It’s doing a great job around here.”

Bertrand crossed the room and stood next to The Bertron. “What eef eet happeens zageen? What eef someone takes ze control and eet kills someone?”

“It can’t. Watch.” Stockwell turned towards the robot valet. “The Bertron, come here and bend down.”

The machine complied and Damian grabbed it by the hair. He pulled the wig from its head, revealing a wire mesh. “I’ve shielded it from all radio waves. Even if someone could plant the device again, they wouldn’t be able to talk to it.”

“Destroy eet.”

“Don’t be silly, my friend. It’s not going to cause any more problems.” He placed the wig back on the robot, then looked at the machine and the Frenchman standing next to it. “Except …”

“Exzept what?”

“I’m going to have a hard time telling the two of you apart.” Stockwell laughed and slapped Bertrand on the shoulder. “Maybe you should wear a hat.”

“Zis ees unacceptable.”

“He’s handy.”

“’andy? Bah! What can ee do zat I cannot?”

Stockwell went back to the workbench and looked at the device. “Don’t be that way, Bertrand. Come here.”

The Bertron responded immediately to the command. Bertrand sat in the chair with a huff and crossed his arms.

Damian turned and put his hands on the robot’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, my friend. A machine could never replace you.”

“I am over eere.”

Stockwell turned, “Oh.”

“Maybe ee needs ze ’at.”

“We don’t have time for your petty jealousy, Bertrand. We have to find out where this device came from. And, more importantly, who was controlling The Bertrand when it terrified the midway.”

“Maybe eet was ze doctor.”

Stockwell grew a crooked smile. “The dead doctor?”

“Ee wasn’t dead zen.”

“Interesting. Though I’m pretty sure he was cleared of any wrongdoing the moment he was shoved into the press and squeezed to death.”

“Maybe zere were more conspirators and zey were covering zeir tracks.”

“I hate to think of von Kempelen that way,” Damian said. “But it may be worth considering. We’ll have plenty of time to think about it on our way to London.”

“London?”

“Of course. President Roosevelt has asked me to address the London Economic Conference. I told you all about it.”

Bertrand shook his head.

The Bertron pointed a thumb towards itself.

“Oh, I knew I told one of you about it.”

Bertrand put his face in his hands. “Merde.”

9
Conference of Concern

Since the dawn of time, man had studied rock. Some scientists theorized that rocks may have been the very first thing ever studied. They claimed that when the first man walked out of his cave and stepped on a sharp rock, his thoughts would have been, “Ouch, what was that upon which I stepped?” He would then have picked it up, examined the object and determined that it was a rock.

Unless it was a stick. But it was probably a rock.

The Geological Museum in London was dedicated to the study of the things beneath man’s feet. Having moved far beyond the sharp rock outside the cave, the museum collected and studied many other types of rocks and their place in the world.

Gold was one such rock.

This must have been the reason the museum was selected to host the London Economic Forty-Three Conference of 1933. The building was nice enough. The stone pillars gave it an academic feel that would befit such a conference, but Damian couldn’t help but feel there could be a more exciting location chosen instead of a building filled with rocks.

It didn’t really matter. It wasn’t his place to question the site. He was there at the behest of his president to join with sixty-six other nations to fight global depression.

Of course, he had jumped at the opportunity. Through the course of his adventures, he had fought many things. These travails were well documented by a press that always had to add its own colorful flair. He had fought the “Despot of Danzig,” “The Butcher of Botswana,” and the “The Sickly Saint of San Marino.” He had defeated the “Demon of Dominica,” “The Howling Horror of Hawaii,” and “The Broken Bastard Beast of Bolivia.” He had fought and defeated men and monsters all over the world, but he had never fought global depression, and he looked forward to the challenge.

He began to wonder what the press would call it. “Damian Stockwell and the Economy of Evil?” “Damian Stockwell and the Rancid Recession?” “Damian Stockwell and the Depression of Doom?” He smirked at the thought; they had such an attraction to alliteration.

Like any great story, the situation was rife with conflict. The world wanted to weaken the dollar through currency stabilization. They believed that this settlement would relieve the world of the crushing debt burdens many nations faced after the war. The president was against the idea as it was the United States that the world owed. Stockwell was against a weaker dollar due to the mere fact that if a depression needed to be fought, it was better to have something stronger than something weaker.

As a personal request, the president asked Damian to speak at the conference and inspire the world to pull itself up by the bootstraps and work its way out of the depression instead of welching on debts owed to America. Stockwell had never refused a president, and he wasn’t about to start now.

After a brief introduction, he made his way up to the dais and looked out over the crowd. He cleared his throat and began to speak. “Good afternoon. My name is Damian Stockwell, of America, and I want to talk to you about a dream.”

A bevy of translators spoke after him, turning his words into French, German, Russian and many other languages. Hearing the world unite behind his words made him smile. He allowed the translations to trail off before continuing.

“It’s a dream I like to call Liberty. Now, this isn’t the kind of dream that your wife tries to tell you about and you just zone out and nod along. This isn’t the kind of dream Freud would ask you to talk about and then twist your words around until he made it seem like you’re attracted to your mother … or your mother’s sister … or the maid … or, seriously what is wrong with that guy? I mean, everything is genitalia to him. Everything but his cigar—which I find more than a little convenient.

“No, this is a dream about freedom. Freedom from poverty. Freedom from depression, both economic and emotional. It’s freedom from the idea that one must be weakened to make another stronger and other silly concepts.

“This dream is real, and it’s happening every day in a place I like to call America.”

The translators chattered away. His words sounded so poetic in French and Russian. They sounded phlegmy in German. He spoke most of these languages, but to hear them all spoken at once reminded him how small the world really was. Almost every language shared a common root and all of mankind shared a history that, fight as they may, they could never escape. We are united in our past. We are brothers in history and family in the struggle for progress, and at no time was this more evident than when each translator got to the word genitalia.

It made Damian smile.

“All across my country people aren’t just looking to manipulate wealth through fuzzy math or by kicking the chair out from under someone else. They’re creating it.

“They’re creating it through hard work, discipline, dedication and, most of all, science.” He looked beyond the crowd to a display of rocks and sneered.

“Real science. All over the world there are sciences happening that don’t just study rocks. These are useful sciences and they’re creating breakthroughs. And every breakthrough is an opportunity. An opportunity to find liberty.”

He paused for effect and to let the translators catch up. When they finished, he paused longer so their pause would have the same effect as his initial pause. It would seem easy to translate a pause, but there was an art to it, and Stockwell held the brush.

“Just last month a scientist by the name of Karl Jansky made a discovery that will change not only our world, but worlds beyond our own.” Stockwell had read the paper on Jansky’s discovery only once. Once was enough to recall every minute detail, but he knew that too much minutia would lose the audience.

Jansky’s findings were monumental and pioneered a field the man had called radio astronomy, but Damian decided to cut to the chase. “Deep within the center of our own galaxy, Dr. Jansky,” Jansky was not technically a doctor, but he knew the title would play well to the crowd, “detected radio waves of extra-terrestrial origin.”

He felt a general disbelief roll through the crowd and he couldn’t blame them. Jansky’s finding wasn’t made of rock, so even the scientists at the museum had missed the news.

“That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. Dr. Jansky has discovered what can only be called alien radio waves, and I think you can see what this means.

“This opens up a whole new market for all of us. Gone are the days of us trading only with other nations. Human-to-human marketing is the old way. The new Silk Road is being blazed through outer space to a planet in the constellation Sagittarius.

“Some of the world’s greatest minds have already met on this and pondered the possibilities. These brilliant minds have determined that the Sagittarians have a massive amount of disposable income since it is obvious that they don’t have to spend it all on pants or footwear. That’s a lot of discretionary spending, my friends.”

Several translators looked at him. They looked lost. Perhaps they were searching for their language’s word for Sagittarians. Stockwell covered the mic and tried to help them. Once they had caught up, he continued.

“This is the dream I’m talking about. Through science we have not only discovered a new consumer group, we’ve discovered how to communicate with them.

“As we speak, my broadcasting company, BroadDam, is hard at work developing programming for our new galactic neighbors, and in just a few short months we will begin beaming entertainment to our four-legged listeners.

“Obviously we’re starting with westerns. We believe these oaters will be twice as popular with our new Centaurian brothers and sisters as they are with us.

“But our dream doesn’t stop there. We’re working on a science fiction serial called Gallop Across the Stars, a mystery series called Four Feet From Murder, and a comedy called Why the Long Face?”

The humor went over the heads of those in the crowd, but that was to be expected. It was Centaurian humor, and the writers had assured him it would make them whinny all the way to the cash register.

“Interstellar commerce is just one new field, just one weapon in our fight against global depression. Science will provide more weapons and with them we will prevail.”

The translators finished conveying his words and the crowd did not applaud. They only stared at him. He was not surprised. He had just opened their minds to a whole new world. They would see the hope in his message soon, but it was too much to ask for instantaneous understanding. Stockwell smiled and leaned closer to the microphone.

“We will fight this global depression, not by arbitrarily affixing a value to paper, but through science. Real science. And that is my dream. Thank you.”

He smiled and waved to the audience as he stepped away from the podium. The US Secretary of State, Cordell Hull, stood at the foot of the riser with a blank expression, shaking his head.

Stockwell realized at once what he had done. The secretary was next in line to speak and Damian had kept his notes a secret. “My apologies, Mr. Hull. I’d hate to follow that as well.” He put his hand on the secretary’s shoulder. “But I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

10
Myself, My Enemy

The interior of the Dorchester was decorated in an optimism that the oncoming global strife would never phase. In only two years, the hotel had secured its reputation and a clientele that would see an economic depression as nothing more than a slight setback.

It was appointed with the finest furnishings of the day and made no pretenses to be anything but the finest hotel in London. Richly paneled Georgian mahogany doors welcomed the guests, and inside the lavishly appointed lobby a host of stewards waited to point out the richly paneled Georgian mahogany doors. Gold leaf and marble ran throughout the hotel in attempt to draw the visitors back to the gilded age.

He had spent the remainder of the day at the conference listening to other speeches much less invigorating than his and feigning interest.

The majority of the attendants were pushing for a devaluation of the US dollar and a weakening of America, and Stockwell was forced to smile through these affronts. It was tiring holding his tongue, but not as tiring as holding his fists as one speaker after another made blaming America the center of their platform.

They blamed his country for being greedy. They blamed his country for exploiting the world. They blamed America for everything and demanded that the nation forgive their debts, and they didn’t even say please. Not once.

It had taken every bit of him to not give them a piece of his mind, and now he stepped into his hotel room with a heavy sigh, wanting nothing more than to relax. He collapsed onto a chesterfield before draping an arm across his eyes. Tomorrow would be more of the same.

Bertrand closed the door to the suite. The valet had mingled with the crowd and reported the same attitude from the others. It seemed the entire world had decided the best way to stimulate the global economy was to avoid paying their debts to the United States.

The frustration had been too much for Damian, so they had spent the ride to the hotel discussing the Val-8’s sabotage instead. Pitting his mind against a sinister plot often calmed his nerves.

Further examination of the device inside the machine had revealed few actual clues. Normally the design alone would reveal the signature of the designer. Engineers had their quirks like anyone else, and these trademarks often showed through in their designs. But the black box was something different. Its design was brutally efficient. No space was wasted. No solder overdone. And it was so advanced that Damian knew of no engineer capable of such work. The power supply alone put it into the realm of scientific breakthrough.

The as yet unknown villain’s lack of a motive was even more frustrating. DamIndustries had no shortage of competitors that would delight in his downfall and revel in his humiliation. These companies were ruthless enough, but none were capable of such technology. The rampage was meant to do more than give his reputation a black eye. The dead robotologist was proof enough of that.

This led him down another path of thought. What of the other robotologists’ deaths of late? As events unfolded, each accidental death was beginning to look more like murder. Each had died, in one form or another, at the hands of their own creations with little explanation for the tragic turn but, “Meh, robot.”

Stockwell tired of sitting on the chesterfield. Why did everything here have to be so different? What he wouldn’t give for a good old-fashioned American couch. He had inquired at the desk, but they had only given him blank stares in return. “Bertrand. Draw me a bath. As hot as you can make it.”

“Oui, Monsieur.”

Cold showers were the best way to begin any day, but a hot bath did more to soothe physical and mental anguish. He heard the Frenchman turn on the water, and a moment later steam drifted from the bathroom.

It was time to focus on other problems. The distraction would do him good. Thoughts of villains that were mysterious saboteurs and global depression would continue in the back of his mind, but he needed something else to focus on. He had requested a radio in the bathroom for just this reason.

He called to Bertrand, “And turn on the news.”

The compact model had been in storage for some time. He imagined the smell of the dust warming on the tubes as the volume built. He heard the valet fumble the dial until the familiar, soothing cadence of a BBC reporter could be heard beyond the running water. It didn’t matter what they were reporting: local color or global disaster, the broadcasters treated every story with a calm professionalism that Stockwell appreciated. When absorbing information, it should remain free of emotion. Emotion only muddled facts with feelings.

A hot bath. A mental distraction. All he needed now was a drink. He stood and walked to the bar cart as Bertrand stepped back into the room. “Your baz ees drawing.”

“Thank you, Bertrand. That will be all for today. I’ll call you in the morning when I can summon the patience to return to the conference.”

“Merci, Monsieur.” The valet turned to leave but was stopped by a sharp rap at the suite door.

Stockwell rolled his steel gray eyes. He was in no mood for visitors. Silence and whiskey were the only company he desired. “Tell them I’m in the bath!”

Bertrand nodded and moved to the door. He leaned against it and spoke through the wood, “Our apologies. We are een ze baz.”

“I’m in the bath!” Stockwell corrected him as he slammed down the rocks glass hard enough to jettison a piece of ice. “You really need to work on your pronouns, Bertrand.”

“My apologies, Monsieur.” He turned back to the door. “I’m een ze bath.”

Damian was about to correct his servant again, but he figured it would do no good. As long as the visitor went away, he didn’t care who was in the bath.

But the visitor wasn’t buying the bath story. His voice came through the door loud and clear. “Mr. Stockwell. It’s the president. We need to speak.”

“The president?” Stockwell turned from the bar cart. “What’s he doing here?”

“Eet doezn’t sound like ze prezident,” Bertrand said.

“It sounds exactly like the president.”

“Eet doze not.”

“Of course it does. Listen.” Stockwell coughed, sat down and put on his best Roosevelt impression. “Mr. Stockwell, it’s the president.” Damian resumed his normal baritone. “See?”

“That doezn’t zound like ze prezident eizer.”

“It sounds just like that guy.” Stockwell pointed to the door.

Bertrand nodded. “Oui. Your prezident and zat prezident zound alike. But neizer zound like ze real prezident.”

Stockwell waved it off. “I’m sure it’s a language barrier thing. Bertrand, let the president in.”

“But …”

“But, nothing, Bertrand. Now, please, open the door for our commander in chief.” Stockwell stepped to a mirror, straightened his shirt and ran a hand through his hair.

Bertrand opened the door, laughed out loud and closed it without letting the visitor enter.

Damian turned back to the door. “Why didn’t you let him in?”

Bertrand could not hide the amusement. “Eet eez not ze prezident.”

“Well, who is it?”

The Frenchman laughed again and stepped away from the door. “Karma?”

The suite door exploded in a storm of splinters and Damian Stockwell stepped into the suite.

Damian leapt back and he came face-to-face with himself. The physique was perfect. Its posture—impeccable. The hair was an exact match right down to the part. And the face—the face was beautiful. It wasn’t plastic like The Bertron’s. The skin was blemish free, the tone was a perfect match, and when the man before him smiled the proper creases and dimples appeared. If he hadn’t have been Damian Stockwell, he would have sworn upon a bible in a court of law that he was staring at Damian Stockwell. “What the hell is this?”

“Maybe hiz name eez Ze Damion,” Bertrand laughed.

“That’s not funny, Bertrand.”

“That’s not funny, Bertrand,” the new Damian repeated the words, matching the tone, the inflection and the amount of hurt in Stockwell’s voice.

“What eez eet doing?” asked Bertrand.

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t know,” the doppelganger repeated.

Damian pointed at the machine. “It’s copying me!”

The machine pointed back. “It’s copying me!”

“Stop copying me, imposter!”

“Stop copying me, imposter!”

Damian turned to his valet. “Bertrand, tell him to stop copying me.”

The counterfeit Damian turned to the Frenchman. “Bertrand, tell him to stop copying me.”

“Uh, pleeze stop repeating eem? One eez truly enough.”

The intruder said nothing.

Stockwell folded his arms across his chest and said, “That’s more like it.”

The intruder did the same.

“Okay, I have had enough of this.”

The intruder repeated the statement, but most of the speech was lost in a whiskey bottle that broke across his face. The imposter didn’t flinch. It didn’t move at all. The broken glass had cut the skin, and blood seeped from the gashes, but the man before them didn’t react at all.

Damian shook his head. “I hated to do that. That was good whiskey.” He laughed his contagious laugh and stopped only when the doppelganger began to copy him.

The mimic laughed and then spoke its own words for the first time. “Library complete. You cannot stop us, Mr. Stockwell. We are everywhere.”

Stockwell looked at the bottle’s neck in his hand. He tipped it over and spilled what was left onto the floor.

The machine spoke again. “We’ve fixed the flaws in your pathetic design. Water cannot stop us. You cannot stop us. We are now unstoppable.”

Damian dropped the broken bottleneck and fell into a defensive stance. He had created the martial art of Damitsu to be a system as fluid as any situation, but he had never before faced himself. How much did this machine know about him? Could it predict his movements? Would it know what he was thinking? There was no way to tell. And he wasn’t about to wait to find out.

Stockwell leapt forward. His right foot snapped forward at the point of impact and collided with the robot’s chest. It was like jumping into a wall. He sprang back and marveled at how well they had duplicated his physical stature.

Bertrand’s foot flew from the ground and connected with the machine’s face. There was a thwack of shoe leather hitting skin, but the machine did not groan or cry out.

The Frenchman bounced back with a smile on his face.

“Quit enjoying this.”

“I am zorry, Monsieur,” he said, but the smile held.

“No you’re not.”

“I am zorry, but I am not.”

“We’ll talk about this later, Bertrand.”

The imposter lunged forward with both arms outstretched, attempting to ensnare both men. Each ducked away to a separate side of the room. They had fought together many times, and coordinating their efforts had long since passed into instinct. But this was something new.

“What should we do?” Bertrand asked.

“I don’t know,” Stockwell said. “Hit it with a car?”

Bertrand connected a vicious foot to the back of the machine’s head as it passed by and sent it tumbling forward.

As it fell, the machine swung wide with its left arm and caught Stockwell in the chest. The blow sent him across the room and he sank deep into the plush coverings on the bed.

The Damian caught its balance before it hit the ground. It stood and turned to look at Stockwell. “Mere punches cannot defeat me. I am mighty.”

“I will zay, ee zounds juzt like you.” Bertrand threw a lamp at its head. It shattered and made a mess on the floor but had no effect, other than adding a line item to the hotel bill.

Stockwell reached under the pillow and pulled out his .45 automatic. He looked down the barrel and stared at his own face in the iron sights. Practiced tendons in his finger pulled the trigger to the absolute brink of releasing the firing pin. He stopped there. “Please don’t make me do this.”

The machine marched forward.

Through his adventures, he had never faced a more psychologically devious opponent. How was one supposed to remain objective as he stared into his own eyes? How could he fire upon himself without some part of his psyche suffering injury?

Stockwell closed his eyes as he fired at himself, hoping it would be enough to spare him emotional scarring. He felt every slug that tore into The Damian’s perfectly sculpted chest.

The rounds had no effect.

The Damian, bleeding from every wound in its body, leaned over and grabbed Stockwell by the throat and lifted him into the air. “You’re obsolete, human. We’ll take it from here.”

Stockwell pulled against the steel fingers of the machine. “Hardly. Your library is incomplete.”

The fingers squeezed harder. “All required records have been stored.”

“Not quite.” Stockwell’s voice faded. “You’ve never heard me scream.”

The fingers froze and Stockwell saw a quick flash behind his own piercing steel blue eyes.

The machine spoke again. “Scream for us, Damian Stockwell.”

“My pleasure.” Damian opened his mouth to its fullest extent and screamed. His powerful lungs bellowed a note fit for an opera house. It carried through the room and rattled the glasses on the bar cart. He finished the note and smiled.

The machine opened its mouth to repeat the sound.

Stockwell reached into his pocket and pulled out the tiny black transceiver. He smiled as he shoved it deep into the robot’s mouth.

The Damian tried to imitate the scream, but the even cadence of the BBC was the only sound that escaped its mouth. The machine looked confused as it struggled to find its voice.

“Bertrand,” Stockwell wheezed against the grip. “Music, please.”

“Oui, Monsieur.” The valet rushed into the bathroom.

Bursts of static filled The Damian’s speech in between segments of conversations as Bertrand spun through the radio’s dial.

The machine dropped Damian and tore at its mouth, trying to get at the transceiver between bursts of programming. Once Bertrand found a waltz on the radio, however, the machine stopped grasping and began dancing. It lumbered around the room with an imaginary partner, spinning and twirling as it went.

Damian smiled and climbed off the bed. “Look, Bertrand, they’ve even copied my dance moves.”

“Oui, I zee. ’E eez terreeble.”

“Just for that, you lead.”

Bertrand hung his head and mumbled, “Oui, Monsieur.” The valet walked across the room and cut in on the imaginary dance partner. He took The Damian by the hand and began to lead the robot in the waltz. Bertrand sighed. “Where to?”

“Into the tub, of course.”

Bertrand spun once and moved the robot towards the bathroom. It took two more measures to get it inside the door. As the final notes sounded, he backed the machine up against the tub and pushed it in.

The splash was substantial and the robot’s body clanged as it hit the steel tub. Its face hit the edge and the transceiver dropped from its mouth to the floor.

Stockwell picked it up and placed it in his pocket as The Damian calculated its new surroundings. It began to laugh Stockwell’s infectious laugh. “I told you we are now waterproof. We are impervious. We are unstoppable.”

Damian slid the radio from the shelf above the tub. It fell with a splash into the claw foot basin. The warbled sounds of the next movement began as sparks filled the water.

The robot’s limbs reacted to the disturbance in a very human manner, flopping and jiggling, turning the water into froth. This went on for a few moments as transistors burned out and relays quit firing. When it was over, it looked like Damian Stockwell had died in the tub.

Bertrand smiled.

Stockwell looked at his dead, smoking self, then turned away and left the room.

11
Locked Away

The Bertron answered the door without his face. The mechanical eyes whirred and scanned Bertrand beyond the shopping bags for only a moment before letting him in.

Bertrand handed the machine the bags and watched as it dutifully took them to the kitchen and began to put the contents away. The valet moved up the staircase towards Stockwell’s second-floor parlor and found it empty. His friend and employer normally took breakfast in this room. Nothing had been normal since London.

The world’s greatest adventurer had not been seen in several days. Bertrand had been turned away at the door several times by that damned machine. It wasn’t until that morning that he had finally received a call and was allowed into the home.

It wasn’t unusual for Damian to disappear into his lab, but after the encounter with his doppelganger, his friend had been more shaken than Bertrand had ever seen him.

The man’s composure and resiliency was legendary, and even under the most stressful situations it was hard to detect the shaken nerves of the great man. But Bertrand knew him better than almost anyone, and he could spot the signs of his flustered nature. Damian had been testy, to say the least. Every little thing had bothered him on the flight home. He yelled at Bertrand several times without seeking forgiveness. He yelled at the weather and the gauges on the plane. And when he wasn’t snapping at someone or something, he was completely silent. He offered nothing, not even manners, to those they encountered.

Stockwell watched everyone with a wary eye. He was a master at observing without calling attention to himself, but now he did not even try to hide his suspicions. He wanted everyone to know they were being watched and scrutinized. Even Bertrand fell under the suspicious gaze.

Coming face to face with, and then being forced to electrocute, himself had been jarring to say the least. Once they landed, Stockwell ordered the inoperable machine to his lab and told Bertrand to give him space to think. Those were the last words he’d heard from his friend and employer until the call came this morning.

Bertrand dropped the morning paper on the small café table by the parlor window and stepped back into the hallway. He crossed the hallway to the lab and knocked on the door.

The only response was a brisk and cold, “Enter.”

Bertrand turned the knob and slowly opened the door.

The lab was a mess. Not untidy, but unorganized. Strewn with wires and cables, the room appeared set upon by a mechanical spider. Dials and meters pinged and beeped from every direction. Machines of all kinds were wired together and stacked on top of one another. The whole room hummed. Bertrand had never seen it like this.

“Come in, Bertrand.” Stockwell’s voice could be measured against the mechanical pulse of the room.

“Monsieur? Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine, Bertrand.” Stockwell finished the statement with a long glance.

“I waz worried about you after what ’appened in London.”

“I’ll be honest with you, my friend. London left me shaken. No man should ever be forced to kill himself.”

“I underztand ze feeling.”

“But that’s not what has me disturbed.”

“What eez eet zen?”

“It’s a question of trust, Bertrand. Who can I trust, if I can’t trust myself? If they—whoever they may be—can perfectly replicate me, they could replicate anyone. If I could be a robot, anyone could be a robot.”

The giant man paused for a moment and straightened up to his full height.

“You could be a robot.”

“I assure you, Monsieur, I am not un robot.”

“I believe you, my friend. I do. But you’ll understand if I don’t. Because ‘I am not a robot’ is exactly what a robot would say.” Damian turned and walked farther into the lab. He had to duck under some of the new equipment as he made his way. “I have to be certain, and that’s why I’ve locked myself away in the lab for the last few days. I had to find a foolproof way to test for humanity.”

He arrived at a chair in the corner of the room and turned it to face the valet. It squeaked its protest. “Won’t you help me? My friend?”

“Don’t be zilly, of course—”

“I’m not being silly. If you are who you say you are, this won’t be a problem. Come here, Bertrand.” He patted the chair and stepped over to a bank of machines.

Bertrand made his way through the lab. He had to duck under the wires and step over cables as he went. Everything hummed with electricity, and the stacks of equipment blew warm air on him as he passed. The whole room buzzed and crackled with static and disparate tones. He arrived at the chair.

Stockwell pointed to the seat. “Sit down.”

He could see in his friend’s eyes that protesting would just prolong the situation. He knew he was no robot and had nothing to fear other than the fact that Stockwell’s test might injure, maim or kill him. “Eez eet safe?”

Stockwell stopped playing with the dials on the machine and adopted his most authoritative tone. “I would never endanger a decent human life, and you know it.”

Bertrand moved to sit and stopped. “How are you defining dezent?”

“Sit down!”

Bertrand sighed and sat.

Stockwell stepped from behind the machine, leaned over and said, “It’s perfectly safe.” He then quickly secured both of Bertrand’s wrists to the arms of the chair with metal bands.

“What eez zis?!” Bertrand yelled.

“Be still.” The man of science stepped back behind the green electrical box and remerged with a pair of thick cables terminating into large jagged-toothed clamps.

“What are you doing?!” Bertrand fought against the clamps, but they held his arms firmly against the arms of the chair.

“The test. It won’t take but a moment.” Stockwell affixed the clamps to the restrictive bands and backed away.

“What are you going to do?!” Bertrand thrashed against the chair. The wooden legs screamed against the ground and squeaked as he pushed the joints to their limits.

“Stop squirming. You’re doing fine. And we’re almost done.” Stockwell stood up and slapped Bertrand across the face.

Bertrand stopped struggling and stared at his employer. The valet spoke several languages and quickly spewed every swear word, curse and insult he knew—twice—as he tried to break free of the chair’s hold.

Damian smiled. “Good. You passed the test. I told you you’d do fine.”

“Sacre bleu. Zat waz ze test?!”

“Yes. You see, the machines have quickly adapted to every weakness we’ve exposed. And we can only expect them to keep on doing so. Any test has to be something they can’t prepare against. My hand. It can quickly determine whether or not a metal skeleton lurks beneath the surface of a person’s face. No amount of science can hide from my blows.”

“Zat’s eet? Zen what eez all zis equipment for?”

“Oh, the equipment is from earlier tests. They worked, too, but I’m afraid they would kill anything that was human.”

“Why did you strap me down? What about ze clamps?”

Stockwell undid the clamps and turned off the electrical box. “That was to electrocute you in case you were a robot. And I strapped you down because I was going to slap you and I didn’t want to get hit. It’s one of the side effects of the tests.”

“Let me out of zis chair.”

“Not so fast, my friend. I have a theory I want to run by you first. And I don’t think it would hurt if you calmed down a bit.”

Bertrand struggled against them, but the bands held his wrists firm to the chair. He gave up the struggle and asked, “What eez zis seory?”

Damian crossed the room to an object covered by a black cloth. He pulled away the tarp to reveal The Damian sitting upright in a chair. “This machine. It was a little too perfect. Don’t you think?”

“How do you mean?”

“It looked like me. It acted like me. And more importantly, it sounded like me. And I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

Bertrand rolled his eyes, “Eet waz zupposed to be you.”

“Exactly. And that is no easy task. You know me better than most people, and I doubt that even you fully understand me. I’m complex, complicated. I’m more than the sum of my parts. And that would be very difficult to duplicate. What I’m saying is, I’m one of a kind.”

“Zank God,” Bertrand muttered.

“Even to get the very rudimentary and bland personality of the Val-8, we had to study you for weeks.”

“Study me?”

“Oh, you know. The standard stuff, film, personality assessments, listening in on your phone calls.”

“What?”

“Well, we couldn’t just ask you to record something for us. It would sound forced and dishonest. People like honesty, Bertrand. They like genuine.”

“You don’t zay. What eez your point?”

“My point is that in order to so perfectly impersonate me, it would have taken months of study. Detailed study. Copious notes. Hours of recordings. Endless pictures. And I was thinking that there was only one person that had that kind of close, personal access to me.”

Bertrand understood. “Of course. Eet could only be …”

“You. That’s right. But now we know that you’re not a robot, so I’m back to square one.” He cupped his lantern chin in his hand and narrowed his eyes in thought.

“Gah,” Bertrand gahed. “Eet waz ze girl! Eet’s obviouzly ze girl.”

“The girl?” Stockwell repeated. “Which girl?”

“Ze reporter! She spent monthz wiz you. Alwayz wiz ’er notebook. ’er photographair took ’ow many photos of you?”

Damian smiled. “Hundreds?”

“And did she evair record your voize?”

“We met once a week in the studio. She wanted to release a phonographic version of the interview for syndication.”

“And for ’ow many people ’ave you done your prezidential imperzonazion?”

“Gah! Bertrand, it was only her.”

Bertrand nodded his head to the side.

“She must be working for the villains that are behind this plot.”

“Eet would zeem zo. Pleeze let me up.”

Stockwell sat heavily on a workbench stool. “I don’t want to believe it. Was I so blinded by vanity and flattery that I missed all the clues?”

“Probably. Let me up.”

“But you’re right. It was the perfect cover to learn my every move, my voice, my hair, my—everything. I feel so betrayed. Do you have any idea what that’s like?”

“You strapped me to a chair and you slapped me.”

“That’s different. It was for our safety. I now know that I can trust you like I always have. It’s that woman, Bertrand. We’ve got to find Angelica Palmer.”

Bertrand balled his fists. “I will help. Let me up.”

“I have to make a stop first.” Stockwell opened the door to the lab. He grabbed his hat from the hook on the wall and turned back to Bertrand. “I’ll send The Bertron up to help you out.” And with that he was gone.

Bertrand looked around the room and back to his hands. “Merde.”

12
Library of Liberty

A true adventurer never sought glory. The only reason they pursued the unknown was to make it known. They dared to shed light on the world around them. They risked everything to expose history to today. And, possibly, they may have occasionally dug into the far reaches of danger to find fortune. But they never did it for glory. It was for this reason that the Vagabond Club’s New York chapter was housed in a nondescript building.

Its entrance was not grand. No banner flew announcing its stature as the world’s most exclusive private club. No doorman welcomed the elite members as they mounted the stairs. The Vagabond Club was quite extraordinarily plain.

Damian marveled at how appearances could be deceiving. Of course, he had planned for the building to be deceiving, so that didn’t surprise him. But on the other hand, the reporter had fooled him in a way no one else ever had. She had appeared to be on the level in every way.

He hadn’t just gone on instinct. Though he was an impeccable judge of character, the nature of the Val-8 project had demanded the upmost secrecy. The reporter had been subjected to comprehensive background checks, extensive interviews, and a number of sworn oaths before she had been granted access to Stockwell. She was diabolical.

And not only had she gotten inside his organization, she had gotten him to open up, as well. It was no wonder his robot other was such a perfect match. He had fallen for her story and given her his own. Now he had to find her and get the truth.

Stockwell opened the ordinary doors and stepped into a small, ordinary alcove. There was nothing in the room but a desk and an attendant in a blue uniform. The man rose from his seat but did not seem to get any taller.

“Good evening, Sammy,” Stockwell said.

“Mr. Stockwell. It’s good to see you. I trust you’re having a good day.”

“I’ve had better, Sammy. But it’s nothing I can’t handle. What about you? How’s the missus?”

Sammy shifted from one foot to another. “I’m not married, sir.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?”

“I’ve never been married, sir. Not a day.”

Stockwell looked over at the wall. “Well, I’m sure it’s for the best.”

“You seem a little distracted today, sir. Maybe I should just let you in.”

“Thank you, Sammy. My love to the family.”

“I’ve no family, sir.” Sammy reached under the desk and pressed a button. “I’m a very lonely man.”

“That’s the spirit, Sammy.” A wall panel slid open next to Damian, and the founding Vagabond entered his club.

Beyond the tiny alcove, the entrance to the club reached several stories. Every inch of the massive expanse was covered with murals depicting the great adventurers of myth and legend.

Stockwell stopped in the center of the room and stood on the Vagabond crest between the expansive wings of a soaring eagle. He read the words on the crest aloud. “Vagus, calleo, recurs. Amen.” He looked at the mural to his right. Achilles was dying. An arrow stuck in his heel and his blood ran into the sand. The world’s mightiest warrior was brought down not by courage or might or even the fates, but by a secret and a sniveling coward who fired from the darkness. It was not an honorable death. It was less than a man so mighty deserved.

Stockwell nodded to the painting. “I know the feeling, brother.” He sighed and moved on through the atrium into the grand hall.

The decor here did not suffer from the immaturity of the Chicago chapter. Every room of the New York clubhouse smelled of age and adventure. Every piece of furniture and décor had a history. Every piece was contributed by a formal member of the club as a testament to their adventures around the globe.

Most of the pieces were antiques. Many were blessed. Others were cursed. All of it was unique. One chair was haunted by a particularly nasty Aztec king that didn’t appreciate anyone sitting in his seat. Members of the club often offered it to new members as an informal form of hazing. They always got a good laugh when Tizoc made his presence known and chased the rookie around the room with a maquahuitl.

The club’s lounge smelled of brandy, cigars and plotting, and members filled the seats. While some appeared to relax, it was unlike a Vagabond to sit completely idle. Many pored over ancient texts or modern day charts. They were either on the trail of some great mystery or looking for the trail itself.

Stockwell waved to several members as he passed through the lounge and made his way towards the outfitter’s shop. Membership in the club came with many benefits, not the least of which was access to Cam Williams, the Vagabond outfitter.

Chasing down the world’s great discoveries often required specialized equipment designed specifically for the field of operations. Buying off the shelf was rarely an option for a great expedition, and Williams was a genius engineer who could deliver brilliance in almost any form. There wasn’t a problem he couldn’t outthink or a challenge he couldn’t out-design.

His shop occupied the back half of the club and, even though genius tended to get a little messy and occasionally explode, it was one of Damian’s favorite places.

Real work was done here. Men worked with their hands and pitted their dexterity and brute strength against the elements of nature, bending and shaping them to their will. Men toiled at their crafts all around him. Electricians worked from diagrams and chalkboards to produce all manner of devices that chirped and warbled. Carpenters turned wood into an earthy aroma as they cut, carved and crafted the pieces to shape. Metalworkers lent mood to the room with their arc welders. Cracks of blue escaped the workshop and split the air to create the distinct scent of ozone. It always smelled like spring in the Vagabond workshop.

Stockwell found Williams behind a bouquet of flowers, holding the office phone receiver loosely between his ear and shoulder with a look of pained disinterest on his face. The man was short but built thick and more than a little annoyed at the caller on the other end of the line.

“Well, maybe I wouldn’t mind the ocean being a little closer to my house. What do you think of that?” He slammed down the receiver before noticing his guest. “Oh, hey, Dam.”

Damian stepped up to the desk and pointed at the phone. “What was that all about?”

Williams pulled a greasy rag from his back pocket and began to wipe his hands. It was a nervous habit Stockwell had noticed in the man for some time. This move put more grease on his hands than anything else.

The outfitter shrugged. “Some lunatic says there’s a planet or two hurtling towards Earth and wanted me to build him an atomic rocket ship to take people and animals to a new planet.”

“Ha! That’s crazy. What did you tell him?”

“I told Noah I was too busy building a mole machine to explore the world inside our hollow Earth.”

Stockwell laughed, and it brought a smile to the face of the frustrated Williams. “Some people will believe anything, huh?”

Williams joined in the laughter. “They sure will.”

Stockwell shook his head. “Another planet, huh. But, seriously, how is the work on the mole machine going?”

“We’ve figured out the air scrubber. It should prevent suffocation while transitioning to the inner world. We still need to figure out the orientation instrumentation. But you told me I had several months.”

“You do. I’m not here about the mole man project. I need something else, and I’m afraid I need it right away.” Damian pulled a folded sheet of paper from his inner pocket and unfolded the diagram across the office desk.

The flowers were in the way and he picked up the vase to move them. Their bouquet was sweet and kicked him in the brain. The mix of sweet flowers and elements from the shop mingled into a memory that he couldn’t quite recall. But it made him happy.

“What’s with the flowers?” he asked, as he cleared them from the desk.

“Oh, Roman broke his damn hand again. I tell you, that guy never learns. He keeps shoving his hand into the machines to fix ’em and getting it caught.”

“Maybe you should fire him.”

“I can’t do that. I wouldn’t be able to find anyone else willing to stick their hand into the machines.”

“A good point,” Stockwell conceded, as he set the plans across the open desktop.

Williams wiped some more grease on his hands with the shop rag and leaned over the sketch. “Damn, Dam. Doesn’t this seem like overkill?”

“Sometimes overkill is just the right amount of kill.”

Williams nodded. “This shouldn’t be too difficult. It looks like you’ve got all the tricky bits worked out. This power supply is revolutionary. Does it work?”

“It does.”

“I’ll get the boys to work on this right away. It shouldn’t take too long.”

“Thank you, Cam.”

“Is there anything else you need?”

Stockwell nodded. “I need my great-grandpa’s knuckles.”

Williams put the rag back in his pocket. “I’ll get the keys.”

The two men walked from the shop, took a small elevator to the third floor and stepped out into the library.

If the lounge was the home of daydreams and big schemes, the library was where the work was done. The men here pored over various scripts and maps. They gingerly turned the pages of centuries-old texts, looking beyond the page for any clue that could lead them on their next adventure.

Stockwell breathed deeply the vanilla and almond notes of the aging paper and smiled at the memories that arose. Reading was one of his greatest passions. He devoured several books a day when not engaged with an adventure or some scientific puzzle, and the Vagabond library was one of his favorite places in the world.

The club’s bookshelves held the history of the world. Ancient texts, codices, scrolls and tablets were at the beck and call of the members. The private journals of former members were also kept here for posterity.

Between the expansive shelves, glass cases held prized objects donated by members. Relics and written works were curated by the head librarian, but any gadgets and gizmos were Williams’s department.

The two men crossed the quiet room and stared into one of the cases. “I doubt the generator still works,” Williams said as he unlocked the display. “Your great-great-grandpa was really ahead of his time, but it’s nearly a century old.”

“I don’t need the generator. Just give me the rest of it.”

Williams opened the case and pulled the device from its setting. He handed the pieces to Damian as a porter approached holding a phone on a silver platter.

“A call for you, Mr. Williams.”

“Pardon me, Dam.” Williams picked up the phone and began to walk from the library. “This is Williams.” He rolled his eyes and waved to Damian. “I don’t want a seat on your stupid rocket, Mr. Herndon.”

Damian laughed and made his way to the back of the library where they kept a comprehensive periodical section. It was of little interest to those in search of fortunes, but to those hunting evil, the resource was invaluable.

The librarian saw him coming from across the room and the elderly clerk met him halfway to the reference desk. “Good evening, Mr. Stockwell. I’ve pulled the information you requested. It’s over here.”

“Thank you, Madison.”

“I’ve also prepared a summary of the material. I hope that you’ll find it helpful.”

“I’m sure I will. As always.”

Stockwell, a voracious reader, was nothing compared to Madison. The old man didn’t read books. He absorbed them. Damian wondered if he ever bothered to open the covers or just gleaned their contents as he pulled them from the files.

His summaries were always spot on, even when Stockwell withheld the purpose of his research. He hated keeping secrets, but in the course of his work it was often necessary to withhold information to protect others. Many innocent people had died through the years for knowing too much, and Damian did all he could to never involve anyone in danger unless it was absolutely necessary for the greater good. Yet, somehow the librarian was able to see through the stories to the true puzzle.

He saw Stockwell to a table covered with leather-bound periodicals and pulled out a chair.

Damian sat. “Thank you, Madison.”

“My pleasure, sir.” He turned to leave but stopped and offered his thoughts. “She seems like a wonderful woman, Mr. Stockwell.”

Damian smiled. Once again the clerk had deduced the reason without even the smallest hint.

Madison returned to his desk, and Stockwell looked at the pile of material in front of him. He sighed at the volume before picking up the summary.

Madison had prepared a brief bio of Angelica Palmer. Her family had money and social status. But she had used it to pursue an education instead of a position of her own or invitations to social gatherings.

Seemingly antisocial, there was little written directly about her. Madison had instead made several deductions after looking at her body of work.

She had a bent for injustice—both legal and moral—that Stockwell could appreciate. She had tackled corruption in government and seemed to have a particular interest when politics and business crossed paths.

She was no fan of big business and seemed upset that trust-busting was no longer the national pastime it used to be. Angelica had made it no secret that her interest in his story was part of this crusade, and she seemed surprised when he granted her access. Damian knew he had nothing to hide and welcomed her perspective. The secrecy surrounding the project had only been a matter of timing. He was never trying to get away with anything more than a big launch for his new product.

The summary went on and highlighted several of her articles that Madison thought displayed her character in the clearest light. Damian began with those but left nothing at the table unread.

By early evening, he knew how she thought. He knew how she cared. Ultimately he believed her to be a champion of the defenseless, if a little misguided in identifying their enemy. But there was nothing to suggest that she would be party to a devious plot to supplant him with a robot doppelganger.

Something like that would be clear, if it were true. He began to doubt his own theory but dismissed this second-guessing, as he knew there was no one else who could have provided the information necessary to make the machine so stunningly accurate.

He pushed away from the table and thanked Madison for the help before realizing he was one of the last people in the library.

A quick glance at his wristwatch told him that the movement had run down. He shook it, then made a mental note to speak with the boys in engineering at DamTime to work on extending the line’s power reserve.

Fortunately, Stockwell had trained himself to discern the time by the position of the sun. He had trained himself so well that he could even do it at night.

He stepped into the atrium and looked up through the massive skylight several stories above.

A rip of thunder echoed through the club. The sky had been holding its breath all day like a spoiled child, and it sounded as if the tantrum had finally arrived. The skylight above the atrium had grown dark, but the rain had not yet started.

It was late. It was about to be wet, and it was time to find Ms. Palmer and ask the journalist some questions of his own.

13
Blackmail, She Cried

Damian Stockwell believed that playing hard to get was a stupid game. Some people believed that the delayed gratification intensified the payoff. But the effort wasted was inevitably time regretted. And for someone like Damian Stockwell, who lived the majority of his life constantly facing death, it seemed strange to act uninterested just to build the tension.

It made him happy to see that Angelica Palmer felt the same way. She stood outside the Vagabond Club beneath an umbrella as the rain began to fall.

Damian didn’t believe in umbrellas and let the rain fall on his face. He said nothing to the woman as the fresh rain stirred an earthy scent from the ground. Her appearance stirred other things.

He wanted to be angry. He knew he should be angry. He knew that he was angry with her and deep within him that anger burned. But he could not find a way to let it out like a gentleman.

There was no shortage of words to be had. He had never been more insulted. His look, his voice, his very self had been stolen by nefarious parties, and she had helped make it happen. He had been violated in the most personal of ways and only a few of them had been delightful. She deserved every harsh word he could hash out, but as he looked at her beneath the shimmer of the evening storm, he couldn’t think of a word to say.

She spoke first. She had to yell over the thunder and rain. Her words were swallowed by the storm and she was forced to shout louder. “I think I have some explaining to do.”

He crossed the sidewalk and stood in front of her. Despite the umbrella, the rain found its way onto her face. It ran down her cheek and found no imperfection in her skin. It was perfect. She was perfect.

Too perfect, perhaps? He needed to be sure.

Stockwell raised his hand. The test was the only way to be sure.

She turned to offer her cheek. She made no apologies and no pleas. She closed her eyes and waited for the slap.

He couldn’t do it. She was a woman, after all, and only a coward struck a woman. He was no coward, and while there were always exceptions to a rule, there was rarely a good reason to strike a woman.

In the course of his life he had found only three.

The first was if the woman was a vampire or pretending to be a vampire, and through some confusion, deception or acquiescence to begging, had gotten too close to one’s neck. In these cases a strike was acceptable, though technically it didn’t really count as hitting a woman at all, as the undead were surprisingly gender neutral.

The second exception was if the woman in question had mental control of no less than three tigers—or similar large predatory cats—and was using said mind control powers to threaten others with immediate death. In this case, a sharp slap was the bare minimum required to break the mind control link and was acceptable in the name of the greater good. Admittedly, this one didn’t come up often.

The third and final exception was a slap used in greeting or departure. This, of course, was not a welcome custom everywhere, but it was to a single, remote tribe in the Congo. The tribe consisted of a single woman named Grumlata who lived among the Virunga gorillas.

Now that Stockwell thought about it, it may have been less a tribal custom and more that Grumlata was a weirdo her tribe had sent to live in the jungle on her own because she kept slapping people all the damn time.

He desperately wanted to add a fourth exception to the rule, which stated it was okay to slap a woman to ensure that she was not a homicidal robot. But he knew how people were, and this exception would eventually be abused. He could picture cowardly men walking around, slapping unsuspecting women and then, with a shrug of their shoulders, saying, “I thought she was a robot.” The bastards.

Damian could not be responsible for setting such a dangerous precedent. He lowered his hand.

Angelica, surely wondering why the slap had not come, looked back up. Her eyes were convincing. They were filled with regret and there seemed to be a smoldering pity buried deep inside that she wanted him to see. There was too much emotion for her to be anything but human.

“Thank you,” she said. “I know I deserve it. For what I put you through. For how I—” She looked away, unable to finish the apology.

Stockwell helped. “For how you betrayed my trust? For how you made a mockery of my confidence? For how you manipulated me? For how you made me feel? For how you used me to further the agenda of a suspected madman with the ability to create lifelike replicas of humans and who, probably, will use those skills to further his own nefarious needs rather than employ them for the benefit of mankind with some sort of living history display or something?”

“Yes,” she said. “All of that. I—”

Stockwell held up a finger. “I’m not done. For how you seduced me? For how you made me look and feel like an idiot? For how you took my trust and threw it on the floor, kicked it around for a little bit, and then stepped on it like nothing more than a butt to be extinguished? For stealing my very essence? My soul? And my heart?”

“I’m not proud of any of that. But I wanted you to know that I had a really, really good reason.”

Maybe one slap, he thought. Just to be sure. No one would really blame him if he could explain it well enough.

“Can we go somewhere to talk?” she asked.

“Here is somewhere.”

She leaned closer. “Somewhere a little more private.”

Her moves weren’t seductive. She didn’t reach out to touch him or play with her hair. It wasn’t a game this time. She was being as honest as she knew how to be.

“I don’t see why you can’t just lie to me here.”

“It’s not safe here,” she said.

A crash of lightning lit up the sky and the thunder barked. The bolt was close. It had surely struck somewhere on the island.

“I’ve never felt safer,” Stockwell said.

“Please, Dam. I’m in terrible danger. You’ve got to help me.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what you do. That’s who you are. You said so yourself. You fight for those that can’t fight for themselves. You said that the only thing evil needs to succeed in this world is for you to do nothing. Are you really going to do nothing now?”

He smiled. He had said that. He’d said it often. It was his creed. And his words always sounded good when they came from someone else.

“What’s so amusing?” she asked.

“You. You betrayed my confidence to help create a robotic doppelganger—an evil robotic doppelganger, no less—and now you’re begging for my help as if it never happened?”

She stepped closer. A wisp of her perfume dodged the raindrops and reached his nose. It was as sweet as he remembered. Rose petals and a rustic scent he couldn’t quite place. It caught him off guard and he closed his eyes for perhaps a moment too long. When he opened them, she had moved closer. He was under the umbrella with her now. Their world had shrunk to a rainless circle merely a few feet in diameter.

“Please, Dam.”

“How can I trust you now? What’s changed?”

“People are trying to kill me.”

“So?”

“So? That proves I’m telling the truth this time.”

“No, it doesn’t. People try to kill me all the time.”

“Of course it does!”

“No, it just proves you’ve pissed off someone else! And as angry as I’ve been with you, I don’t find that too hard to believe.”

“Only bad people want to kill people, Dam.”

“Or good people with a good cause.”

She said nothing for a moment and then smiled and leaned in closer. “You don’t want to kill me. Do you, Dam?”

That smell. Her skin.

“A little,” he said.

“Do you really?”

“Of course n … I want to strangle you, but I don’t want you dead.”

“Of course you do. That’s what love is.”

“You’re a weird lady.”

She looked down at her feet before peeking up from under her bangs. “So are you going to strangle me? Or are you going to help me?”

“Maybe both.”

She smiled.

Damian looked away. “Dammit.” He moved her aside and opened the passenger door to his coupe. “Get in before I just go with the strangling thing.”

She smiled and sat down. Damian waited for her to collapse the umbrella before closing the door and moving to the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life, and he pulled into the dark, wet city streets.

“Thank you, Dam.” She pulled off her hat and her hair fell perfectly into place. “I knew I could come to you.”

“Enough about how wonderful I am. It’s time to tell me what’s going on. Who are you working for, and what do they want?”

“They want you,” she said. “They want the great Damian Stockwell.”

“I can’t blame them, but what do they want with me?”

“They want to replace you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a powerful man.”

“That is true.”

“They want to control the world and they plan to do it by replacing the world’s most powerful men and women with their own robotic versions. There’s no telling who they’ve already replaced.”

“Are you trying to tell me that these machines are already among us?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I guess I’ve thrown a wrench into their plans.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. The machines aren’t like anything I’ve seen. They’re even more advanced than your Val-8. They’re beyond anything anyone has been working on.”

“I saw pieces of the Val-8 design in the me-bot. I’m assuming that the mysterious robotologists’ deaths are a little less mysterious now. They’ve been taking the best designs and assimilating them into their own. The perfect pieces to make the perfect replicas.”

“At this point there’s no way to tell the machines from the real men.”

“Oh, there’s a way.” Damian stared at his hand and smiled before turning down an avenue. “And how are you mixed up in this, Miss Innocent?”

“It’s my father.”

“Your father is a robot?”

“Of course not. They’ve taken my father hostage.” She turned away and looked out the window. “They told me if I ever wanted to see him again that I had to do what they said. I was supposed to learn everything I could about you. Every detail.”

“Well, they certainly picked the right woman for the job.”

“What would you have done if they took the person you loved most and threatened to kill them?”

“I’d have threatened to kill them right back. But I realize that’s not an option for everyone.”

“I’m sorry, Dam. But I’m not sorry I tried to save my father. No daughter could regret that.” She turned away and looked out the window.

Damian dropped his head. He prided himself on having complete control of his body and everything in it. But he had let his emotions get the best of him. This woman had needed his help from the very beginning. Had he not been so blinded by his own bruised ego, he may have seen it sooner. He didn’t know what to say. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I know I betrayed you, Damian. But now I’m asking for your help. And you’re the only person that can help me.”

“They wanted every detail?” he asked.

She looked back at him with a weak smile. “No. That was my idea.”

“I’m prepared to help you. But how do I know you’re not at it again? How do I know you’re not just giving me this sob daddy kidnapping story to take more measurements?”

“When you stopped the machine in London, you set back their plans.”

“What are their plans?”

“I don’t know exactly. I’ve told you everything I was able to piece together.”

“You seem to be pretty well informed for a victim. I’ve dealt with a lot of diabolical despots in my time and I’ll tell you this, they don’t usually gab about their plans to people they’re blackmailing.”

“Dam, I’m an investigative reporter. I’ve put as many of the pieces together as I could. This is what I do.”

“Maybe,” he nodded. “But I still don’t trust you.”

“They’re trying to kill me!”

“You keep saying that, but we’ve been talking for some time and no one has tried to kill you yet.”

Damian turned another corner. That’s when the truck plowed into them.

14
Threat of Innocence

The truck speared the side of the Duesenberg and sent it rolling down the street. With each inversion, Damian was thankful he had chosen the coupe this evening and not his convertible. The steel roof held well enough as the chassis rolled over and over.

It crumpled and crushed and screamed, but it held.

Stockwell bounced around the cabin, feeling every jar and crash as it shrank around him. Even in this chaos he tried to help Angelica. Reaching out, exposing his arms and hands to further injury, he grabbed for the girl as she tumbled. The intelligent thing to do would be to pull his arms in close and ride out the momentum, but the intelligent thing and right thing, as they often are, were at odds.

Wrenching metal, squealing tires and breaking glass drowned out her screams. He heard nothing from her, the cries of fear, the groans or the utterances of pain, that she was surely making as the wreck went on.

His own wounds commanded him to shout out, but he gritted his teeth as the car beat him across his entire body and refused to give the pain and fear the satisfaction they felt they deserved.

The car slid to a stop against a lamppost. The passenger side was beneath them, and he looked through the shattered windshield for the truck that caused the accident. He couldn’t see anything but an empty, rain-soaked street. The vehicle must be on the other side.

As the sounds of the wreckage faded, there came the eerie silence that followed a disaster and preceded accusations. In a few moments the air would be filled with blame, shouting and swearing, but for the moment, everyone involved was still processing what had happened. Stockwell defined tragedy as the moment when time and reality are ripped suddenly and violently apart. At that moment the two refuse to acknowledge one another like bitter, former lovers passing on opposite sides of the street, each with a new flame on their arm. The event is impossible to deny, but neither would ever admit its importance. There was always silence as those who witnessed the event waited for the two to come back together.

“Angelica!” She should be right below him, but he could not find her in the mangled interior. The seats had twisted and he had come to rest on the passenger seat frame. He grabbed desperately below him, trying to find her with his fingers.

Light and sound came rushing back through the silence as tragedy became reality. He could sense a fire. The licking of heat and the flutter of light mingled with the smell of spilt fuel and oil. He couldn’t tell if it was his car or the truck that was now aflame, but he knew it didn’t matter. If either exploded, the damage would affect them all.

“Angelica?” He reached beyond the twisted seat. “Answer me!”

There was a heavy thunk on the door above him. Whatever made the sound had also shifted the weight of the car, and he felt himself falling farther into the car as the wreckage squeaked around him. He reached out to stop the fall, fearing he would land on the girl. He caught the dashboard and turned around.

The driver’s door screamed. The metal wasn’t torn or twisted off—it was sheared away as if it had been cut with a torch. The man who’d done the shearing stood above the wreckage and tossed the door into the night, as if it weighed nothing. His suit was tattered and torn from the accident, but he moved without injury and pulled Stockwell from the car as if he weighed even less than the door.

The man was more than human and clutched Damian by the throat with a single hand. It lifted him out and held him over the car. Damian’s feet dangled inside the cabin, trying to find a foothold.

The man’s eyes were dead. They had no sparkle and sat in his face like an afterthought. His dark hair lay flat against his head with no bounce and no body. Everything else about the man was what Damian could only call simple. It was a face that could not be described, for it lacked any prominent feature. It was a dumb face.

Stockwell grabbed onto the wrist and tried to pull himself free. He tore at the arm’s flesh and stripped it away, revealing a metal skeleton beneath.

The machine felt nothing. “You cannot stop us. We are stronger than you. We do not feel pain. We do not feel anything. We are better than you.”

Behind the machine, the truck burned. Against the dance of the flames he could see movement. The truck was more of a twisted hulk than the car, and as Damian watched, the bent metal panels began to unfold.

Two more robots stepped from the wreck and moved toward the car. They had the same dumb face as the machine before him.

The machine’s hand began to squeeze slowly around his throat. It could snap his neck in a fraction of a second but it was taking its time. What was this? Machines knew only efficiency. Masochism was a uniquely human vice. Something, someone had to be behind it. But who?

It didn’t matter now. Quick or slow, the machine was going to kill him.

Damian’s arms were bloodied and bruised. They felt separate from his body, but they still moved as he commanded. He welcomed the numbness because what he was about to do was going to hurt—if it didn’t kill him altogether.

The leads for his great-grandfather’s knuckles ran down the inside of his arms to a battery pack around his waist. A quick glance assured him they were still there, despite the tumble of the wreck.

Damian supported himself with one hand, then laid his forearm across the robot’s wrist and took what breath he could. If it didn’t work, he would never know.

He let go and slapped the switch at his waist. The battery pack sent a charge through the leads and into the machine’s servos. They could have seized in their current position. They could have contracted with the voltage. But his desperate play had worked. The current ran through the machine and shorted out the arm, releasing its grip around his throat.

Stockwell fell against the roof of the car and rolled backward into the street. He scrambled to his feet and dug into his pockets as the two other machines leapt onto the wreck, shifting its weight once more.

Damian peered in through the busted windshield as he backed away, looking for any sign that Angelica was all right.

The first machine dropped to the ground. Its dead arm flopped at its side. “You cannot defeat us. Your tricks will not work on all of us.”

“I haven’t got any more tricks up my sleeve.” Stockwell pulled his hands from his pockets and quickly attached the brass knuckles to the leads on his arms. “I’m just going to punch your stupid robot faces off.”

The machine charged. Its still functioning arm reached for Stockwell’s face.

Damian sidestepped the grab and threw a left cross into the cheek of the machine. There was a satisfying clang as metal met metal and a shower of sparks exploded from the knuckles. The current burned through the robot’s synthetic skin and exposed the brushed metal skull beneath.

The machine backed away and reached for its face.

“God, that felt good,” Damian said.

The machine came for him again. A closed fist swung at Stockwell’s head.

Ever the defiant victim, Damian bobbed and weaved around the blows and landed several jabs in the robot’s face. Each strike exposed more and more metal until the human appearance was all but stripped away.

He could hear its mechanics whirring about as it tried to process the situation and find the best way to counter. It appeared to have come to a conclusion and punched again.

Stockwell ducked low and came up with a devastating upper cut that would change a man’s diet and dental records. It was just enough to snap the robot’s head back and send a final surge of electricity into the system.

The machine slumped forward and said nothing else.

Damian felt the belt around his waist warming up. He had taken the design from the black box’s power supply and applied it to his belt. It should provide more than enough power to defend against the other two machines, but he had no idea how hot it would get.

The robotic duo watched the first machine fall to the ground and took a moment before dropping to the ground to press the attack.

Stockwell knew they were learning. The next generation of machines would be built to counter his attacks. The joints were too exposed to an electrical charge. The faces would most likely be hardened, and sensitive systems would be pulled further into the casings. Any machine he fought after tonight would be ready for his electrified fists. He would have to enjoy it while he could.

He smiled as they came at him together. The machines were identical in height and build. Even their faces did little to set them apart. They attacked in perfect sync.

What few blows they managed to land hit harder than the Manassa Mauler, but the ringing sound their skulls made when he connected made the pain worthwhile.

Their fighting skills were sloppy. All fury and no style. Damian had a variety of styles to choose from. He had studied all over the world and could employ any number of techniques. But tonight, he just wanted to box. It had been years since he had stepped into a ring, but he soon found the familiar rhythm in the footwork and, even though his opponents made it easy, he found the exercise more than enjoyable.

His jabs cut the synthetic skin across their faces, and he delivered precision blows to their bodies and limbs. He felt the belt around his waist grow uncomfortably warm, but he fought on. Every hit caused a spark and the shutdown of some system within the machine.

Sometimes the system failure was obvious—a limb would lose control or stop working altogether. Other times the effect was something deeper—the machine would lean left or start turning in a circle. He enjoyed every malfunction he inflicted, but time was running out. He had to save the girl.

The final two blows were a guilty pleasure he would treasure for years. A right hook caught one machine behind the ear and its head exploded in an eruption of blue, white and red so brilliant that it brought the Star Spangled Banner to the front of his mind.

The second machine backed away, put its head down and charged.

Damian rolled to the side and struck it in the back of the knee as it passed.

The robot collapsed to the ground and slid into the curb before exploding in a rush of flames.

Stockwell deactivated the knuckles and pulled the belt from around his waist as he rushed back to the car. He reached the overturned Duesy just as the other two machine men began to burn.

“Self destruct?” he muttered. “Another new trick.” He turned his attention back to the woman. He had not heard her screaming or calling out for help. The roof was crushed to the hood of the car and he couldn’t see anything through the windshield.

Shouting for her, he climbed back to the top of the driver’s side door. “Angelica! Angelica! It’s going to be okay. I’m here. I’m here and I believe you. They really were trying to kill you.”

He reached the opening and leaned into the car. A lock of red hair was visible beneath the passenger seat. It wasn’t moving.

Damian worked his way back into the cabin. “It’s going to be okay, Angelica!”

Flexing his mighty arms, he pulled against the steel frame of the seat. It groaned in protest as he bent it back and exposed the motionless body of Angelica Palmer.

He closed eyes and shook his head. “Dammit.”

15
An Interesting Interrogation

Bertrand opened the door, panting as if he had just raced across the expansive home in some petty and desperate attempt to beat The Bertron to the chore. The Bertron stood close behind him, still reaching for the knob.

Stockwell stood before the valets soaked with rain and covered in grime. His clothes were tattered, bloody rags hanging from his frame and cut in a thousand places. His bruised and beaten state was nothing compared to the look he wore on his face. A canvas bag was slung over his shoulder.

“Sacre bleu. What ’appened?”

“I found the girl.” Damian pushed his way past Bertrand and handed the canvas bag to The Bertron. “Take it to my lab.”

The machine bore the weight of the bag without a sound and went upstairs.

“She did zis to you?” Bertrand asked. “What did you zay to ’er?”

“She didn’t do this to me. A truck did this to me. And I was assaulted by three more of those diabolical machines tonight.” He gestured for his friend to follow him up the stairs. “They’re either getting smarter or they’re becoming less stupid. I can’t tell which.”

“’ow did you stop zem?”

“Great-Great-Grandpa’s knuckles,” Stockwell chuckled. “That old man sure knew what he was doing.”

“Zey worked?”

“Spectacularly. With a little help from some modern know how. You should have seen it, Bertrand. It was like the Fourth of July. But instead of being some gawking spectator in the crowd, I was up in the sky. I was the explosive force declaring freedom for all. Every punch was an exhibition. It was majestic.”

They reached the top of the stairs and the Frenchman smiled. “You got your fist back.”

Stockwell held the lab door open as his dour expression was replaced by a crooked smile. “I got my fists back.”

Bertrand stepped into the lab with Damian. “What about ze girl?”

“Oh.” Stockwell pointed to the canvas sack as The Bertron set it on the workbench. “She’s in the bag.”

“What?” Bertrand rushed over to the workbench. “She eez dead?”

“No,” Stockwell stood next to him and found the zipper. “But I couldn’t save her legs.” He opened the bag and rolled the contents onto the workbench.

Angelica Palmer’s torso landed face down on the metal surface with a distinct clank.

Bertrand shrieked at the horror he anticipated before realizing that the woman was yet another machine.

“Bertrand, please compose yourself.” Damian sat the limbless torso upright on the bench.

“I apologize, Monsieur. I waz expecting … she eez a robot?”

Stockwell slapped the Angelicabot across the face. “Yep.”

“You can’t stop us, Stockwell. It’s too late. We are everywhere.” The machine let out a maniacal laugh. There was a loud click from somewhere inside the torso. Then nothing happened.

“What waz zat?” the valet asked.

“She was trying to activate her self-destruct mechanism.” He held a small capsule the size of a baby carrot and smiled. “But she doesn’t realize that I removed it during her temporary deactivation. I’m not an idiot, my dear Angelica.”

Damian tossed the capsule in the trash, where it shattered and burst into flames. Stockwell blew on the fire twice, to no affect.

“The Bertron,” he called.

The machine stepped back into the lab and awaited instructions.

Stockwell slid the flaming trash can across the room with a gentle kick. “Take care of that, will you?”

The Bertron complied and set to extinguishing the flames as Damian turned back to the workbench. A pensive look appeared on his face. “What was I saying?”

“How you’re not an idiot,” Angelica’s head said. “Then you set your own lab on fire.”

“That’s enough out of you.” Damian picked up a shop rag from the bench and shoved it in her mouth.

“I can’t believe she eez une robot.”

“Actually, looking back now, it’s obvious. She was often cold and distant during our interviews. She was almost too methodical in her methods. She never once complained about being cold. And her lovemaking was very rhythmic and pinchy.”

“You ’ad no zuzpicions?”

“Well, she was awfully heavy. But it’s rude to mention a woman’s weight, Bertrand. You’re French. I thought you had manners.”

Bertrand sighed. “Pardon. I forget myzelf.”

“That’s better. Besides, if I had mentioned it she would have stopped what she was doing.”

The torso on the workbench grunted.

“You just zaid eet waz not good.”

“True. But a bad day golfing … right?” Stockwell elbowed the Frenchman in the rib.

“You are not worried?”

Stockwell turned to look at him. “Why should I be worried?”

Bertrand shrugged.

“Oh, my God!” Stockwell snapped. “What if I got gremlins?”

“I don’t zink zat eez ’ow gremlins work.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very sure.”

“Well, you’re French. You would know.”

“What does zat …? I will not stand ’ere and—”

“Still,” Stockwell said. “Better safe than sorry.” He turned to the machine by the smoldering trash can. “The Bertron. Call the doctor and set an appointment as soon as possible. An ounce of prevention and all that.”

“Monsieur,” Bertrand said. “Perhaps you are overreacting?”

Stockwell ignored his trusted friend and employee and turned back to the robot on his workbench. “Do you have, or do any of your robosexual partners have, or ever had, gremlins?”

The Angelica answered but the rag muffled her response.

Stockwell ripped it from her mouth and pointed a finger at her. “Repeat that. Now.”

“I said, go to hell.”

Stockwell shoved the rag back in her mouth before turning to Bertrand. “Damn robots.”

“’ow did you dizcover she waz a robot?” he asked.

Stockwell smiled. “My friend, when you know women as well as I do, it becomes a simple matter of observation. When I swooped in to save her from the car, I could easily tell.”

“Ahh, Monsieur, I know what you’re zaying. You can zee eet een ’er eyes, when she looks zat you. Ze windows to zee soul could nevair be duplicated. Not such a work of ze almighty. And een ’er voice you can tell. Ze quavers, ze pleading notes buried, but not buried, zat zay, ‘Take me. My soul eez yours. Be gentle, for eet eez fragile, but be firm, because soft eez not zo good.’”

Damian nodded. “Yes. That’s exactly what I meant.”

“Oui. Eet eez always like zis.”

“That, and I ripped her robot arms off when I tried to pull her out of the wreckage.”

“Oh, no.”

“No, really. Tore ’em right the hell off.”

“Mon Dieu!”

“Scared the hell out of me at first. I even considered benching less for a moment. But then I was like, ‘oh she’s a robot,’ and here we are.”

“So, what eez next?”

“Next we find robot city and destroy this mechanical menace once and for all, before they replace the world’s leaders with their detestable duplicates that could very well pave the way for a takeover of all mankind.”

“Oui. Zis we should do. Where did she zay eet waz?”

“She didn’t.” Stockwell turned up his palms and dropped them to his knees. “She’s been woefully unhelpful ever since I ripped her arms off.”

Angelica’s head mumbled an insult that was clear despite the mouthful of rag.

Damian pointed to her. “You see? That’s exactly the attitude I’m talking about.”

“Oui. Eet eez ’orrible.”

Damian clapped his hands before saying, “But the truth is, we don’t need her to tell us anything, as I have already deduced the city’s location on my own.”

“’ow?” Bertrand asked.

“Smell her,” Stockwell said.

“Pardon, Monsieur?”

“Smell her,” he repeated.

Bertrand leaned in before stepping away. “I don’t want to smell ’er.”

“Go on. Give her a sniff.”

Bertrand was hesitant. Even if she was a robot, the action seemed a little forward. But Stockwell kept gesturing, so he leaned in close and took a quick sniff as the robot grumbled. He shook his head. “I’m only getting ztinky rag.”

“Oh.” Stockwell pulled the rag out of Angelica’s mouth, unleashing a slew of horrible words and insults. “There you go. Get that nose in there.”

“You are such a pig,” Angelica spat.

“Ignore her, Bertrand.”

Bertrand leaned in again and sniffed cautiously, fearing lingering rag. There was a scent that raised his eyebrows and he sniffed deeper. It was sweet and exotic, while at the same time musky and familiar.

“Are you about done, Pierre?” asked Angelica.

Bertrand stood up. “Eet’s … eet’s intoxicating.”

“Isn’t it? A bouquet of sweet flowers mixed with the smell of invention and cowboys.”

“Oui. Zat eez exactly eet. What eez zat? And why doez it taunt me zo?”

“It’s a mixture of perfume, gear oil and leather. And it taunts you because you’re a man.” Stockwell picked up a utility knife from the workbench. “Watch.” He held the knife to the robot’s face.

Angelica cried, “What are you doing?”

“Calm down, I’m just going to cut off some of your face.”

“You do and I’ll kill you!”

“What are you going to do? You don’t have any arms.” He pushed the blade into her cheek.

She screamed.

Stockwell pulled back the knife. “Oh, please. That doesn’t hurt. You’ve never felt anything, not a day in your life.”

Angelica looked away. “Well, that hurt.”

Damian put the knife back in her cheek and cut away a square section of skin. He held it out to Bertrand.

The valet turned it over in his hands. It was smooth and blemish free on the outside and rough on the inside.

“See?” Stockwell asked. “It’s nothing more than leather. The tanning process is obviously something new, but it’s just good old boot leather.”

Bertrand felt the skin and sniffed it. “Oui. Eet eez leather.”

“And here,” Stockwell pointed to the exposed inner cheek. “You can see here how all the gears need constant lubrication. Otherwise her lies would stop.”

“Oh, get over it. Like I’m the first woman to ever lie to you.” Oil leaked from the cheek and ran down Angelica’s face as she spoke.

“And ze sweet scent?”

“Good old-fashioned perfume.” Stockwell pulled back the robot’s red hair and pointed to a small nozzle behind the ear. “I have no doubt there’s an internal atomizer designed to mask the smell of robot. But it failed to cover the construction completely and unintentionally drove me wild.”

“We meant to do that,” Angelica said.

“Yeah, right,” Damian said.

“We did!”

“Did you mean to lose your arms too, you lying hussy?”

Angelica began to sob.

“Monsieur, zat eez not nize.”

“Don’t you take her side on this, Bertrand. She betrayed me. She used me. And in only a somewhat satisfying way.” Stockwell’s memory drifted away to a smile for a moment but it quickly turned sour. “But now it’s my turn to use her body against her and her kind.”

“I don’t zink I want to watch zat.”

“Don’t be so immature, Bertrand. With these clues at my disposal, I can tell you exactly where we need to go next.”

“Where? Where could zuch inhumanity exist?”

“France.”

Bertrand slapped the flap of skin down on the desk and backed away. “I am tired of your inzults about my …”

“Grasse, France, to be specific,” Stockwell continued. “The perfume capital of the world. They produce two-thirds of your nation’s natural aromas. Its micro-climate is perfectly suited for growing the necessary flowers. Do you know of it?”

“Oui. Of courze I know of eet.”

“Oh, then you must know why they became the perfume capital of the world. And you must know why they started growing so many flowers.”

Bertrand stumbled over several answers before committing to a sullen, “Non.”

“Because it stinks,” Stockwell said. “Smells god-awful.”

“Still wiz ze inzults?”

“Not at all. The town’s first industry was leather tanning. Dead animals smell, my friend. It doesn’t matter what country they’re from. So Grasse grew flowers. Fields and fields of them, to cover up the stench of their labor. Then they used it to scent the leather itself.” Stockwell shrugged. “The perfume industry developed from there.”

The clues aligned in Bertrand’s mind and he grew excited. “So zey have aczez to zenturies of tanning exzperience—enough to pozzibly create zomething like zis.” He picked up the skin flap. “And zey have ze perfume knowledge to create an intozicating mask for ze zmell.”

“Well done, Bertrand. I am impressed.”

Bertrand smiled and felt a touch of pride. “Thank you, Monsieur.”

“Of course, I just recreated the perfume, analyzed and traced the manufacturer. But your way works, too. Just not as fast as mine. And we don’t have much time to waste. We’re going to France. I’ll need you to pack our things.”

Bertrand stood a little taller. “Not Ze Bertron?”

“Please, my friend. We are packing to confront an evil force that controls an army of robots in the south of France. I can’t entrust this to him.”

Bertrand straightened up and beamed. “I appreciate zat, Monsieur.”

“The Bertron has no fashion sense, and this is France we’re talking about, after all.”

Bertrand shrunk. “Oui. Are we done ’ere?”

“Almost. There’s just one last matter.” Stockwell turned to the torso of Angelica Palmer. “Apologize.”

“What?” she asked.

“You heard me. You betrayed my trust. You played with my emotions. Now apologize.”

She spoke clear and slow. “No.”

“Now!” Stockwell slammed his feet into the workbench, causing a tremendous rattle.

“I’ll rust first.”

“I don’t zink we have time for zis, Monsieur.”

Damian sighed. “Fine.” He picked the body up from the workbench and carried it across the room.

“What are you doing? Where are you taking me?”

“Bertrand is right. We don’t have time for this.” He set her down on a chair. “But I expect an apology when I get back. So practice.”

“Practice? What the hell are you talking about?”

He rotated her body to face the remains of the Stockwellbot from London. “Just look me in the eyes and practice.”

“No. Turn me the other way.” A quick series of clicks fired within her as she tried to activate her missing self-destruct capsule.

“Practice,” Stockwell said one final time and left the room over her cursing and idle armless threats.

16
Smells Like Grasse

The Cote d’Azure: holiday destination and playground of the rich. If it were a rung on the social ladder, it would be just below the one labeled “Not a Step.” It was a dream for many that would only be experienced in the gossip rags. And even if those dreamers were to travel to this sun-kissed stretch of sand in Southern France, it would seem no more real than it was in their imaginations.

Royalty and the world’s elite gathered on France’s southern coast to test the adage that money couldn’t buy happiness. They arrived by yacht and private railcar with suitcases full of fortune and did their best to spend it in an attempt to forget their worries for a short stretch of time. They dined and slept in opulence, they partied into the night with balls and galas, and, by the end of the trip, they had proved very little to anyone but appeared happy nonetheless.

On the advice of doctors, the rich came as a treatment for any of a litany of illnesses from bronchitis to ennui, and as they indulged, they toasted to one another’s health and praised their physicians for such a fine diagnosis.

“Ah, the Cote d’Azure,” Stockwell mused. “One of my favorite destinations. Many Americans think it means French Riviera, you know.”

“Eet doez not,” said Bertrand.

“But it doesn’t. It means azure coast. I’ll bet you didn’t know that.”

“Of courze I knew zat. I just zaid—”

“Learn something new every day.” Damian smiled. “That’s my philosophy.”

The plane’s hull cut into the impossibly blue waters of the Mediterranean. Ribbons of white trailed behind the Clipper in the calm waters as the flying boat made its way to the dock.

Stockwell peered out the window at the city of Cannes. Once quaint, its popularity among the world’s most notable was seen in the development along its shore, if one could see the development past the ever-present flotilla of magnificent yachts at anchor in the harbor.

Private villas dotted the hillside in greater numbers than he had previously seen. Hotels occupied the beachfront, and their properties spread out, offering most guests a view of the sea.

Damian sighed. He’d spent many a fine night on this coast. And each and every one had produced a tale worthy of a memoir.

He had dined with royalty and shared many a tale with barons and earls, lords and ladies. One time he went fishing with a viscount, and by the end of the trip they had become close friends. Though he still had no idea what a viscount was.

While the idea of a monarchy angered the American in him and made his red-blooded hackles stand up, he found the people polite, congenial and generous, with very few exceptions. Particularly baronets. They seemed to always have a chip on their shoulders.

He had gambled with Rothschildren, who were surprisingly horrible gamblers. Having gambled with the fate of nations and the course of history itself, Damian was surprised to find the family so terribly bad at poker. You wouldn’t think such a renowned dynasty would get so twitchy around a few thousand francs.

He had painted with Matisse and Picasso. The bright colors and clean light of the area had brought many artists to the coast, and Stockwell spent hours with brush in hand pioneering his own artistic movement: Damism. The men would laugh together and offer advice to one another. Picasso seemed focused on asking Damian if he had not put too many bullets or explosions in his piece, while Damian constantly tried to remind Pablo that noses went on the front of the face. Even now the memory made him laugh.

“What eez funny, Monsieur?”

“That Picasso,” Stockwell said. “He never learned.”

The Clipper pulled up to the dock and the pair disembarked. It was clear right away that news of the world’s economic woes had not yet reached the city of Cannes.

A line of long dark limousines idled near the shore, awaiting their passengers with open trunks and drivers at the ready. Bertrand searched the line and offered a quizzical “Hmmm.” He looked down the street and shrugged. “I will locate our driver, Monsieur.”

“No need, Bertrand. Transportation has been arranged. We just need to wait for our luggage here.”

The passengers stepped immediately from the plane to their cars, so accustomed to the climate that few bothered to take a deep breath and soak in their surroundings.

Those that weren’t destined for private villas would soon be doted upon at the finest hotels. They would never touch their luggage. It would be sent up and unpacked by hotel or house staff. When it was time to leave, a servant would clean and pack it for them again.

The Clipper’s crew unloaded the cargo hold as the line of cars thinned, leaving nothing but a canvas-covered truck rumbling in the line.

“That’s us,” said Damian. “Have them load the luggage in the back. I’ll get the keys.”

•••

Grasse wasn’t far from Cannes, but as the truck meandered through the hills of Southern France, it felt as if they were in a different world. They were only twenty miles from the coast but had already climbed a thousand feet, as the Alps began their seven-hundred-fifty-mile journey across the sky.

The valleys created a distinct climate from that of the coast, which made the city an ideal location for its horticultural endeavors. Even in the truck they could feel the sea air give way to something fresher and more fertile.

The humidity quickly made the cab unbearable, and the two men rolled down their windows. The smell of seven million flowers filled the air. In one quick sniff, Damian detected myrtle, lavender and jasmine. Then the wind shifted, and he smelled several colors of roses, orange blossom and wild mimosa.

He knew there were more, but he was not as trained in smelling as he had wished. It was a skill he had always planned to work on, and Grasse would be the perfect place for such training.

Here “Le Nez” were trained to distinguish over two thousand smells. Such training could prove invaluable to him in the future, and he made a mental note to return one day, when the danger wasn’t so imminent.

He took a deeper breath and smiled. He loved the smell of nature and let the scents dance around his mouth and nose before exhaling with a mighty smile. “Just smell that, Bertrand. That’s Mother Nature’s perfume. And she’s placed it all around us to cover the stench of humanity. I’d be offended if I didn’t enjoy it so.”

Bertrand nodded and dabbed at the corner of his eyes with a handkerchief. His eyes were red and puffy, and his nose dripped with a regular rhythm.

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Stockwell.

“I am allergic.”

Stockwell laughed. “Baby.”

The truck crested a hill and the full beauty of Grasse became visible. Fields of color filled the slopes and pastures around the town. Brilliant blues, reds, yellows, purples and more rose and fell with the hillsides. The town produced thousands of tons of flowers each year, and they used every bit of space to deliver on the demand.

“It’s amazing. Look at that, Bertrand.”

“My eyez are swollen, Monsieur.”

“Baby.”

They rolled into town and passed a sign welcoming them to La capital mondiale des parfums. It was quickly evident why it was deserving of the title. Signs for the Galinard, Molinard and Fragonard perfumeries were visible from the Route Napoleon. And below them, in the old town, were many other purveyors of fine odors. One of which hid a deeper secret than formulas for perfume.

Stockwell drove to the center of town and parked the truck. The narrow street dated back more than six hundred years and was now effectively blocked.

“Monsieur, you are blocking ze road.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed through your oh so delicate eyes, my friend, but we haven’t seen another vehicle since entering the town.” Stockwell opened the door and stepped onto the ancient street. “In fact, I haven’t seen many people at all. Maybe they’re all at work stomping on flower pedals.”

“Eez zat how zey do eet?”

Damian shrugged and walked around to the back of the truck. Three stories above them, a shutter opened and an elderly woman leaned out from the window to cast her nosey eye upon them.

Stockwell waved with a smile. “Bonjour, Madame.”

The woman said nothing and made no move to return the wave. She withdrew into the window and pulled the shutters closed behind her.

“Not very friendly, are they?” he asked Bertrand.

Bertrand nodded. “Zomezing doezn’t feel right ’ere.”

“That’s to be expected. When an evil organization secretly moves into a town this size, the populace is often threatened into submission. It could be overt blackmail or the threat of violence. But even the overwhelming presence of evil will put a chill on the friendliest people. It’s time to check out the perfumery and find out what stinks in Grasse.”

The two men strolled down the tight and winding corridors of the town. Its location on the slope of the mountain made for steep streets, and pathways leading away from the main avenue were filled with stairs that had been built for people of a shorter age. Damian found himself tripping on the short steps before deciding to take them three at a time.

More people began to fill the streets as they went. The populous went about their business, moving in and out of the shops and markets, but there was something eerie about it all.

“Zey are zo quiet,” Bertrand said. “Eet eez creepy.”

“It is that.” Stockwell leaned in close to Bertrand and whispered, “We don’t know how much of the town has been infiltrated. Any of these people could be robots. Let me know if any of these people are acting unFrench.”

“Zey are all acting strange.”

“Obviously. But let me know if anything seems out of the ordinary.”

The crowd paid little attention to the men as they passed through the town center. Stockwell had to admit it was a pleasant-smelling town. The aroma of flowers and oils wafted from the storied perfume shops, and a change in the breeze would delight with an entirely new combination.

“Where ezactly are we heading?” Bertrand asked.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed the stores we’ve been passing. This town is filled with perfume makers that have been around for years.” Stockwell pointed out several shops in succession. “Molinard is nearly a hundred years old. Galinard, nearly two hundred years. And, aside from having the funniest name, Fragonard is a relative newcomer, but they’ve been in business for almost a decade.”

“So?”

“So, when I first got wise to Angelica’s scent, I traced the perfume back to its manufacturer, and I discovered that the manufacturer has been in business for less than a year. I’ve deduced that they are the source behind the evil we seek.” Stockwell stopped and pointed to the shop in front of them. “And here we are.”

“What waz your first clue?”

Damian studied the sign above the shop. Robonard, establish 1933. “Well, of course it seems obvious now. But, before it … it took some reasoning.”

Bertrand’s eyes were puffy and shiny. Any expression he wore was swallowed by his own face, but Stockwell could tell the valet was passing judgment. Damian cleared his throat. “Hindsight and all.”

Bertrand may have blinked, he couldn’t be sure.

“Shut up, Bertrand. Wait here. Two men walking into a perfume shop together might look as weird as your face does.” Stockwell opened the door to the shop and stepped inside.

The scent, her scent, the angel’s scent, hit him with a wave of memories. The aroma filled the shop and for a moment he let it take him back to a simpler time, when he didn’t know that he was in a torrid relationship with a robot.

“Bonjour, Monsieur. Comment puis-je vous aider?” the man behind the counter asked. His voice was nothing special. Nothing familiar. But his face was impossible to forget.

The dead eyes. The dark, flat hair. The plain and simple face. He had seen it three times before in the same evening. It was the same dumb face the robots wore when they rammed his car.

“Sorry, no.”

The transition from French to English was seamless. In one breath, the man behind the counter lost all trace of an accent and spoke in a completely different voice. “Can I show you something?”

“I’m sorry. It seems my nose has led me astray.” Stockwell turned back toward the door. He bumped into another Robonard salesman.

He had the same dead eyes. Same dumb face. And the exact same voice. “Are you certain, sir?”

“I’m afraid I just don’t smell what I’m looking for here.” Damian opened the door, stepped into the street and looked at the people milling about the town.

A grocer across the street had a similar lack of features as the men in the shop. So did a man strolling towards him.

He looked at the women and quickly noticed similarities in their appearance. Some of the other men looked different than the sales staff but similar to one another.

All told, he counted only eight distinct faces in a growing crowd of dozens.

Bertrand stepped up beside him. “What did you find, Monsieur?”

“Trouble, my friend,” he said calmly. “We should probably head back to the truck.”

The grocer across the way stood up from behind his cart and began to walk toward them. The Robonard shop doors opened behind them and the two employees stepped into the street.

“And we should probably run.”

17
Smell of Evil

It was like running through a field of flowers, if the flowers in question were trying to kill you. Though in peril, Stockwell still found the aroma of the town delightful.

The entire population had turned on them. The crowd outside the perfume shop had stood and lurched toward the interlopers. The sight of several dozen similar faces staring at them had been unnerving, and when the crowd reached out with mechanical arms, the two men had run.

Their pursuers said nothing as they chased the pair through the narrow streets of the ancient city, but the rhythmic sound of their feet bashing against the cobblestones drove the two men on.

Damian finally risked a glance over his shoulder and saw dust rising behind each machine as they ground the ancient stones to powder. He slowed his step and turned.

The machines were pursuing, all of them—the grocer, the strollers, the perfume shopkeepers—but they weren’t running. They trod forward in sync, causing a terrifying beat that made the buildings shake, but it was obvious they were not built for speed.

“Bertrand,” he called to his companion as they rounded a corner. “Slow down.”

The valet slowed and the pair eventually stopped and turned. Damian pointed to the empty street behind them. “Look at this.”

“I cannot zee anyzing,” Bertrand said through puffy eyes.

“Exactly.” Damian looked down the corridor. He could hear them coming and feel the march of their steps reverberating in the ground. But not one machine had rounded the corner. “Man, these things are pokey.”

“You wish zey were fazter?”

“Of course not.” Stockwell stared down the street and spoke to himself. “They must be older models.”

The steady pounding of the mechanical mob beat on, but it was moments before they rounded the corner.

“It looks like we can take our time.” Damian smiled. He stepped over to a storefront, put his hand on the door handle and joked, “Want to do some shopping?”

He pulled open the door and a little old lady tackled him to the ground. Her weight was tremendous and stank of perfume and motor oil.

“Do not resist. Do not resist.” The mechanical voice droned on in the tone and timbre of a man half her age. Her small hands were trying to find a place around his neck. “Do not resist.”

“Bertrand, get it off me! Get it off!”

Stockwell saw the valet’s foot connect with the little old lady’s head, and half of her face cracked away. The machine’s workings churned on as she persisted in her warning, “Do not resist.”

“Bertrand, how many of these things have you kicked in the face, and when has it ever worked?”

“Oui, Monsieur.” Bertrand spun around. He may have been squinting, but it was hard to tell. He ran off down a side street and shouted, “Une moment.”

“It wasn’t a yes or no question!” Stockwell held back the little old lady’s hands. She wasn’t as strong as the Val-8, but her might could be equal to his own.

After a few moments of struggle it was clear that she was winning. The pruned hands inched closer to his neck and soon found their way around his throat.

He could feel the vibrations of the oncoming army through his back. Debris between the cobblestones began to bounce with every step they took. They would be on him soon, and if the little old lady didn’t get him, the mob would.

“Do not resist,” she said again.

Then came a rumble. Not from the approaching horde. It was a constant noise, and it was getting louder.

The little old lady squeezed, and he turned his head to try and find a breath. The rumble grew louder and he finally understood what it was.

The flower cart was careening down the side street, dropping petals and bouquets with every bump and jar of its wooden wheels. It was coming straight for them.

“Bertrand, you idiot!” His strength, intelligence and his good looks wouldn’t be enough now. He had to count on luck. Luck that the wheels of the cart would cross around him and not over him. Luck that there would be enough clearance beneath the axle for one person but not for two. Luck that the little old lady wouldn’t see it coming until the last second.

Stockwell pushed with all of his considerable might against the little old lady as the rumble grew into a roar.

“Do not—”

The cart rolled over them both and moved on, dragging the machine with it as it went. Damian found himself lying on the reverberating ground, looking up into a clear blue sky. Several rose petals fluttered down and came to rest on his chest and face. He took a deep breath and blew one from his lips as Bertrand ran to help him up.

“A flower cart?!”

“I could not find un Cadillac.”

“What the hell were you thinking?” Damian yelled. “You weren’t even steering.”

“Eet worked, non?”

“Yes. But if it didn’t, my obituary would say I was killed by a runaway florist wagon. A florist wagon! I’d never live that down.”

“Eet worked,” Bertrand repeated, and pointed to the wreckage of the cart.

The cart shifted. More flowers fell as it was shoved aside and the little old lady stood up.

A door crashed open behind them, and another older woman stepped into the street. Shutters above them slammed against the wall as a man scrambled out the window and fell to the street below.

The earth shook and the mob behind them rounded the corner, turning the ground beneath them to dust. The mob had grown.

“Maybe we should consider running again.”

“Oui, Monsieur.”

The two men ran as more machines poured into the streets from the surrounding shops and residences. They dropped from the upper windows onto the growing mob. The rumble became a tremble as more feet joined the march.

The machines began to appear ahead of them.

“Zey are everywhere!” Bertrand shouted as he ducked under the arms of a middle-aged robot.

“We’ll be okay when we reach the truck.” Stockwell rolled under the grabbing arms of a young woman wearing a blank expression. He sprang to his feet and kept running. “We’re almost there.”

The streets were all but full now. At least a hundred machines were behind them, and still more emerged as they raced through the town.

The truck had remained untouched and unguarded by the machines, and they ran for the covered bed.

Stockwell slammed against the gate and began to fumble with the locks.

Bertrand bounced on the balls of his feet as he watched. “What are you looking for?”

The gate dropped with a clang and Stockwell jumped in the back of the truck. “Won’t be a minute. Watch out for the old woman.”

“What?” Bertrand turned as a woman behind the second-story shutters dropped to the ground. He put up his arms as she grabbed for his throat. Seizing his wrists, the machine twisted and threw the valet up the street.

Damian grabbed a steel-colored case and drew it towards him. “Keep her distracted for me.”

Bertrand landed on his back and slid across the cobblestones. The woman was coming toward him.

“What should I do?” he asked.

“Hit her with a flower wagon,” Stockwell replied, as he snapped open the case’s locks.

“Zat eez not helpful,” Bertrand said as the robot punched for his head. He stepped aside and watched the woman’s hand sink into the brick wall behind him.

“I know it isn’t.” He pulled the item out of the case and held it up. Williams had not let him down.

Bertrand rolled along the wall to dodge another blow and found himself in a corner.

The old woman drew back her fist.

He had nowhere to go.

The first report rolled through the streets, drowning out the stomp of the approaching horde.

The robot in front of him shook but did not stop. She struck.

The second round crackled through the air.

The old woman shuttered and froze. Her fist was a mere inch from Bertrand’s face.

There was a third boom from the truck.

“You’re going to want to move, Bertrand.”

The valet ducked under the robot’s arm as Stockwell cracked open a shotgun barrel. Three shells ejected from the breach and fell to his feet.

Bertrand jogged towards the truck. “What ze ’ell eez zat?”

“It’s a triple-barreled shotgun.” Damian pulled a red shell from a pouch at his side. “The first round is a gelatic acid. It eats away at their metal shell.”

He jammed the red round into the left barrel and pulled a white one from the pouch. “The second round contains an electrical charge that will short out their system and render them completely, one hundred percent inoperative.”

He slammed the white round into the right chamber and pulled a blue shell from the pouch. He slid it into a third barrel, centered beneath the first two.

“And what eez ze blue one?”

“High explosives.”

“What eez zat for?”

He snapped the barrel shut. “Because I hate them, Bertrand.”

The old woman exploded. Robot body parts flew around the narrow street. Her head rolled down the slight hill to Damian’s feet.

He kicked her head away. “I really, really hate them.”

The roar of the explosion faded quickly and the stomp of the approaching army grew louder. They would be upon them in seconds.

Stockwell dug back into the case and produced a second triple-barreled shotgun. He tossed it to the Frenchman and lobbed a pouch of shells after it. “Remember, it’s red, white and blue. In that order. And as tempting as it is to shoot them in the face, it’s better to aim for the chest.”

Bertrand loaded the shells into the barrel and locked it into place.

“Now, put these down your pants.” He handed Bertrand two strips of metal. Each strip had a wire attached to the end.

“Monsieur?”

“Do it. Let the end drop to your feet and attach the straps to your laces. Run the wire to your waist.”

Bertrand did as he was told, while Damian pulled a battery belt out of a bag in the truck. He attached the wires and fastened the belt around the valet’s waist.

Stockwell placed three large boxes of the colored shells on the ground in front of the truck and jumped inside.

Bertrand knelt down within reach of the ammunition.

The mechanical mob rounded the corner. Their numbers had grown, and Bertrand was so stunned at the sight that he almost dropped his accent. “Zere are zo many.”

18
Blaze of Grasse

A dozen faces looked at them from a hundred bodies. What could only be the entire population of Grasse marched toward them in lockstep, pounding their metal feet into the ancient stone of the avenue.

The street rumbled. The balconies rattled. The shutters shuddered. The red, white and blue shells bounced in the ammo boxes in front of the two friends.

The sweet scent of a million flowers was soon choked out by the dust the mechanical mob had stirred up. The dryness made Stockwell’s eyes water but seemed to help override Bertrand’s allergies.

“Remember to aim for the chest!” Damian shouted, then he pulled the first trigger.

The barrel blazed a pre-shaped gel of highly corrosive acid through the air. He fought the instinct to fire again; he had to wait for the first slug to do its work.

A young man in casual wear took the hit without flinching. His shirt began to smolder and char as the acid ate away at the metal beneath.

Damian fired again. And an electrical slug, built with technology ripped from the mysterious black box, sparked as it found its way into the newly formed hole.

The robot’s body jiggled as the charge ran through its system, blowing tubes and rendering diodes inoperable. The machine stopped and the horde began to swarm around it.

Damian fired again and sent the explosive charge into the cavity.

The young manbot’s place in the mob was perfect. Heartless, the machines did not stop to render aid; they merely stepped around his frozen body. He had been front and center, and now, as the fuse burned down, the mob was surrounding him.

The explosion tore the machine apart, turning its body to shrapnel. The machines nearest to the young manbot were blown into others.

The steady pace of the march finally stopped. The clanging, clunking sound of a dozen machines crashing into one another filled the air.

Many of the machines caught in the blast were damaged. Limbs dangled uselessly at their sides. Faces were blown away. A lot of their hair just didn’t look right. Stockwell and Bertrand watched as the horde reformed.

The machines marched six across, and there was no sign of the end of their column.

“All right, Bertrand.” Stockwell broke the barrel of his shotgun and filled it with three more shells. He turned to his loyal friend and smiled. “Let’s give them the old red, white and blue.”

Both men opened fire. The thunderous boom from six barrels drowned out the sound of the stomping. The ground still shook beneath them and the walls around them continued to rattle, but it felt like it was their doing.

Bertrand fired. His round found a middle-aged manbot’s chest and burned an opening through his suit. The second round found its way inside. Bertrand fired the third round and began to reload.

Stockwell targeted one of the Robonard attendants and fired as fast as the acid could work.

The two machines exploded within seconds of each other. Body parts rained down around them as the line of machines reformed. Some now crawled, dragging broken and useless legs behind them.

The two men fired and reloaded as fast as they could, but the mob of machines kept coming; there was no end to their numbers. The mounting pile of dead machines did nothing to slow their advance.

“Zere are too many!” Bertrand screamed as he shot a little old lady in the stomach.

“Keep firing!” Stockwell shot a toddlerbot and felt a little guilty about it.

“We cannot stop zem!”

“Not with that attitude!”

Damian fired a shocker at the hole in a policeman’s shoulder and cursed as the machine swatted it out of the air and kept marching.

“Dammit,” he said, as he fired the explosive round toward the same target. “They’re learning.”

Their aim was true and their weapons were deadly, but it simply wasn’t enough to stop the mass of machines. For every one they destroyed, two more stepped closer. The machines trampled the dead and disabled in their incessant progress, until a mere fifty feet remained between the men and the mechanical column.

“Zey are getting too cloze.” Bertrand fumbled a red round in his haste to reload. He picked it up off the ground and jammed it in.

“In the back of the truck,” Stockwell yelled between blasts. “Open the crate.”

Bertrand handed him the loaded shotgun and jumped into the truck’s bed. The large crate was against the cab, and he set to unlatching the fasteners.

He heard Stockwell fire the red shell.

“What eez eet?”

“You’re not going to like it.” Damian fired the white round.

“Why? What eez eet?” He grabbed the last latch and discovered it was stuck. He jiggled it, to no avail.

“Just open it.” Stockwell fired the last round from the shotgun. “They’re too close.”

Bertrand stood and kicked the latch with the heel of his boot. It was enough to break it free.

“Bertrand!”

The valet turned. The army was only feet away as Stockwell struggled to load one of the shotguns. He rushed to the edge of the bed.

“The box, man! Do it!”

Bertrand rushed back to the crate and lifted the lid. “Merde.”

The Bertron lay dormant inside, atop a bed of straw.

“Hurry, Bertrand!”

“We don’t need ’im,” Bertrand shouted back. “We can do zis.”

Damian grabbed the empty shotgun by the barrel and began to swing at the robots as they overran the ammo boxes. The stock cracked without effect on a young womanbot.

“TURN IT ON!” he screamed, as he dug in his pockets and tried to put on the brass knuckles. The woman grabbed his wrist before he could connect the leads.

Bertrand sighed and reached behind the Val-8’s neck. He found the switch and turned it on.

The machine hummed and opened its eyes. His eyes. It sat up and turned towards the valet.

“Well?” Bertrand pointed to Damian, who was trying to fight back the machines. “Save ’im.”

“You heard him, The Bertron. Save me!”

“Oui, Monsieur,” The Bertron said, then leapt from the box and stepped into the fight.

The young womanbot had Stockwell’s fist in her hand and was twisting his arm to the breaking point.

Half a second later, the woman’s head landed in Bertrand’s hands and The Bertron helped Damian to his feet. The machine tipped a nonexistent hat to the valet and waded into the crowd.

The machines targeted the new threat and focused their effort on The Bertron. Several piled on the machine and began to pound.

Bertrand dropped off the gate and landed next to his employer. “Should we ’elp?”

“Wait,” he said. “Watch this.”

The dog pile in the middle of Grasse grew body part by body part as the DamIndustries’ personal assistant ripped the limbs from his attackers.

“’ow?”

“I’ve made some improvements. These evil bastards aren’t the only ones that can steal ideas.”

The Bertron took on all comers and beat back the crowd to a comfortable distance.

“Eet eez amazing.”

“These older Grasse models are no match for him now.”

The crowd of machines began to thin as The Bertron worked its way through the inferior robots. Everyone that laid a hand on it lost that hand. Blows bounced off the buffed-up butler as if a human threw them. The Val-8 moved through the mob with the utmost efficiency.

“Eet eez unztoppable,” Bertrand marveled.

Stockwell crossed his arms and smiled. “There’s nothing like it.”

The remaining robocitizens formed a wall across the street and stopped their advance.

“What eef eet turns on uz again?”

“It can’t.” Stockwell watched The Bertron throw a robot twice its size through a wall. The crowd did not fight back. It just stood there as the Val-8 picked them apart and beat them with their own limbs.

“I’ve installed safeguards against all external inputs. It won’t respond to radio. It won’t even respond to verbal commands unless they’re coming from the person who created it. And that’s only me.”

What was left of the robot mob suddenly parted, and The Bertron stopped its attack.

“What the hell?” Stockwell walked down the street to see what had caused the carnage to cease.

Johan von Kempelen stepped from within the robot mob and put his hand on The Bertron.

“Shit,” Stockwell said. “I didn’t expect that.”

“Bring me Stockwell,” von Kempelen said. “Kill Bertie. Ignore all further commands.”

The Bertron turned and sized up each man.

“You’d better run, my friend.”

“What?”

“I’ve made this thing unstoppable.” Damian connected the leads to the brass knuckles and powered up the belt. “I’ll hold it off. You run like hell.”

“Non.” Bertrand grabbed the shotgun and deftly loaded the three shells. He snapped the barrel shut and fired.

The gelatic acid struck The Bertron square in the chest and spread across its shirt in a splotch of fluorescent green. The stain quickly turned white and foamy. The bubbles slid from the shirt and fell to the ground.

Bertrand looked at Stockwell, who only shrugged. “Acid-proof clothing. I thought of everything.”

The Bertron started walking towards them.

“Curse my genius. I’ve outsmarted myself. Again.” Damian ran at the machine and threw an electric punch at its head.

The Bertron ducked under the strike and backed away several steps into the line of robots.

“C’mon, you bionic bastard! I’ll take you all on.”

The Bertron turned to the machine next to it and ripped off its arms. It grabbed each limb by the shoulder and came at Stockwell again.

Bertrand watched in horror as the Val-8 intercepted every electric blow with the severed arms. Sparks flew, but the current never reached The Bertron.

Stockwell fought with all his heart. But it wasn’t enough. It was over in a matter of moments.

Bertrand ran.

19
Resist This

“Do not resist.” The artificial voice echoed down the street. That it sounded like his own added to the terror.

Grasse was not a large town and Bertrand quickly ran out of places to run.

The machine had caught up to him quickly, and Bertrand had been forced to rely on his agility to escape its grasp.

Sudden turns and panicked dodges were the only thing keeping him from the machine’s clutches. Every turn became more desperate until he ran blindly down an alley that led to a dead end.

The Bertron shot past the alleyway entrance and Bertrand could hear the machine scrambling to turn around on the age-worn cobblestone. The valet dashed back towards the street as the robot appeared and blocked his exit.

“Do not resist.”

Bertrand darted into a doorway and didn’t stop running just because there was a door. He crashed through and fell to the floor at the bottom of a staircase.

“Do not resist,” his own voice insisted.

Bertrand scrambled to his feet and started up the stairs on all fours.

The Bertron’s hand closed around his ankle and he could feel the circulation in his foot grind to a halt. “Do not resis—”

The final syllable was swallowed by his sole as Bertrand put a boot in the machine’s face and heard the Bakelite mask crack. He kicked again and the faceplate shifted, covering the lens of the robot’s eyes.

The Bertron stepped back. Its eyes and nose were off by a few inches. It placed a hand on either side of its slanted face and with a quick twist removed the Bertrand visage and revealed the monster underneath.

The eyes were the darkest part. Without the mask of humanity to hide behind, the cold and mechanical stare became a glare of hatred and evil. They whirred to adjust in the new light, using Bertrand as a focal point. Gears spun behind the eyes, and in the low light of the unlit stairwell, the valet could see the flashes of electric processing pop deep in the Val-8’s head.

Bertrand turned as the machine dropped its face. He heard the plastic mask clatter to the floor as he rushed up the steps and bounced off the wall at the second-floor landing. He climbed frantically and felt he was gaining some distance on the machine with every turn in the staircase.

The stairs ultimately took him to the roof. He burst through a door and found himself several stories above the streets of Grasse. The valet ran to the edge of the building and dropped to the next building.

Running across rooftops was not a foreign experience to him. In the course of their adventures together, he and Damian often found themselves pursued or pursuing villains across the top of cities. As he ran, he appreciated the solid construction of Grasse’s buildings.

Chases such as these often took them over hastily built favelas or other shantytowns. Their poor construction made for many perils. Weak roofs collapsed, and he had fallen more than once into the midst of a family dinner. Mismatched materials created numerous obstacles that formed tripping hazards, and stumbling across rooftops was much more dangerous than running.

The rooftops in Grasse were solidly constructed, flat and clear of obstacles, and the buildings were so close together that Bertrand merely had to hop short ledges rather than leap perilous chasms.

Bertrand could only guess at the lead his climb up the staircase had given him, but as he neared the end of the block, he knew it would not be enough. He heard his own voice behind him demanding his compliance. The other side of the street was too far to jump, and there was no time to find a way into the building upon which he stood. There was nowhere left to run.

Bertrand turned to face his robotic self and The Bertron closed. The Frenchman reached to the belt around his waist and found the switch. He turned it on and felt the device warm up immediately. The steel bands attached to his shoes meant he would be striking with the top of his foot.

In competitive savate, the device would be useless. This system allowed for only four kicks that focused on contact with the top, the sole and the inside of the foot. But Stockwell knew that Bertrand had not learned the art of the old shoe in the ring. He had learned it on the streets and docks of Marseille, and savate de rue had no rules. It wasn’t about points. It was about pain.

Since Stockwell had protected the robot against acid, Bertrand assumed the Val-8 would be shielded against his electric footwear. But based on its actions in the fight against Damian, it was not aware of it. The machine’s lack of self-awareness would be his only chance.

The machine slowed as it approached, and Bertrand raised his fists. The Bertron did the same.

Bertrand attacked first. The device crackled as his foot cut through the air and stopped shy of connecting with the robot’s shoulder.

The Bertron pulled to the right and Bertrand pressed the attack. He kicked again and let the machine block the strike on the shin. The Val-8 countered and the valet rolled to his left.

The robot’s foot came crashing down as he rolled. It missed the Frenchman and punched deep into the roof of the brick building.

Bertrand stood and made a series of alternating kicks that backed the machine to the edge of the roof. The Bertron was a foot away from falling four stories to the street below.

He went in for a punch and got close enough for the Val-8 to strike out. Bertrand anticipated the punch. He needed the punch and was ready for it. And when it struck, he flew backwards and landed on his back. He rolled several feet from the machine.

He wheezed as he got back to his feet. Though he had been ready for the blow, it took more from him than he’d expected. But he didn’t have time to shrug it off. His moment was now.

On mighty legs, he sprinted towards the machine and leapt into the air, driving a piston-like blow towards The Bertron’s exposed face.

He didn’t connect. He didn’t need to. The Val-8 backed reflexively away from the potential electric strike and stepped off the edge of the building.

Bertrand listened for the crash. He turned his head to hear the clank of metal against the stone below.

But it never came.

He approached the edge of the building and peered over.

The Val-8 seized his left ankle and began to pull itself up. The horrid face rose above the lip of the building. “Do not resist.”

Bertrand struck out with the top of his right foot and planted the metal band deep in the machine’s exposed face.

There was a bright blue arc of overload as the current ran from the battery around his waist into The Bertron’s face. The shock bounced around the clockwork pieces deep behind its eyes, and the hand released Bertrand’s ankle.

The Val-8 fell away from the building and plummeted into the town below.

Bertrand watched it land.

The stone around the machine was cracked and broken. Dust from the street rose above it. The machine did not move.

Bertrand spit, not in general loathing, but with the true intent of dropping a four-story gob on the machine that had done its best to replace him. He missed.

As the valet started back towards the staircase that would take him back to the street, more anger and another gob of spit rose within him.

He rushed back to the edge of the roof to try again.

The Bertron was gone.

“Merde.”

20
Flowers of Evil

He had been hit hard before, and he had scars, fractures and memory lapses to prove it, he thought. But nothing, neither man nor beast, nor man crossed with beast, a.k.a. The Meast from the East, had ever hit like the arms of a robot being swung by the arms of another robot.

Damian didn’t want to open his eyes. He knew that as soon as he did, his head would just hurt more. He was alive, and since the man who brought him here wanted him alive, there was no need to betray his conscious state. So he kept his eyes closed.

After assessing his state of living, it was crucial to know where he had been taken. Unlike most men, he did not need his eyes for this.

He could not feel the sun on his skin, so he knew he was no longer outside. It was possible that it was night. He didn’t know how long he had been rendered unconscious, but indoors had other cues as well. No breeze stirred. The air was still on his skin. And he was on a mattress. Beds were, more often than not, kept indoors.

He breathed gently, silently taking in the scent of the room. Here he learned everything. The air was thick and damp with a cool bite to it. He was underground, possibly a cellar. The air was sweet, and he could still detect the aroma of flowers, but not those that grew in the freedom of the wild. These were petals stripped and brought together in a great quantity.

There was a tinge of iron and rust. It could be machinery, or robots that had shed their human form. But no, this smell was too close. This was the iron of incarceration.

It was obvious now that he was in a cellar prison deep within the sweet-scented bowels of the Robonard Perfumery. And he wasn’t alone. He could smell someone else in the room with him. He heard her, too. Her breath was too gentle for a man. Too considerate. A man would be doing everything to rouse him so they could conspire to escape. He would suggest they overpower the guards. But a woman, cunning and kind, would understand that rest would be a greater spoon with which to dig a tunnel.

“How long?” he asked to the person in the room.

“An hour, maybe,” answered Angelica Palmer.

Stockwell shot upright and snapped open his eyes. He was right. It hurt.

There wasn’t much light in the room, but every bit of it touched a nerve somewhere in the back of his head. Still, the pain was nothing compared to the emotional flood triggered by her presence.

Anger. Relief. Rage. Lust. Confusion. His mind fired questions faster than his aching head could process them. What was she doing here? How did she get here? How long had she been here? Was von Kempelen behind her presence in his cell? He agreed with himself that these were all very good questions, but in the end, there was only one thing he needed to know: was she a robot? Of course she was.

“I’m Angelica,” she said.

“I think we’ve established that.”

“What?” She shook her head.”I’m a reporter and—”

“I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’m done falling for your tricks. Your lies have lost their appeal, my dear.”

“What are you talking about, Mr. Stockwell?”

“So, the charade has been dropped,” Damian stood and pointed to her. “You do know exactly who I am.”

“You’re famous. Everybody knows who you are.”

“Yes, but not like you know me.”

She crossed the room and put a hand on his head. “They must have hit you really hard.”

He grabbed her wrists and she gasped at his touch. He pulled her arms in front of her. She had changed her look. Her red hair, usually so neat and well kept, was ruffled and dingy. Her skin, once so flawless, was marked with grime. Her signature perfume was gone, replaced by what smelled like a severe lack of showering.

Damian leaned in and sniffed her neck. There was no trace of leather or the golden smell of gear oil.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she squealed.

“Von Kempelen grows more diabolical by the day. He’s found a natural way to cover the oil with regular human stink.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“He thinks he has me fooled, but there’s no fooling this.” Damian raised a hand back and slapped Angelica across the face, and it was instantly clear that she wasn’t a robot.

Angelica Palmer didn’t scream or cry. She snapped back up and punched Damian in the face with such suddenness that he quickly found himself back on the mattress with both his head, and now his face, in pain.

“You’re not a robot,” Stockwell said with great relief.

“Of course I’m not a robot, you idiot! I’m a prisoner, just like you.”

Damian leapt to his feet and took her in his arms. “My dear, I’m so relieved that you’re you.” His lips met hers and he fell deeply into the kiss.

Angelica stepped back and punched him again. “You are crazy.”

Damian fell back onto the cot once more. “What’s with all the punching?” he shouted. “I mean, the first one I deserved, but that second one.”

“You kissed me!”

“So?”

“People don’t just go around kissing strangers.”

“Strangers? How can you call us strangers after the night we spent together?”

Angelica leaned in close and pointed to emphasize each word. “We have never met. There was no night together.”

Damian looked at the floor. “The entire time?” He shook his head. “I was really hoping that at least that one night, it wasn’t—I’d better not have gremlins.” He put his face in his hands.

“Are you going to cry just because a girl hit you?”

Damian stood up again. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’ve got some fist on you. But I’m not crying. I’m just working through some things.” He straightened his shirt and cleared his throat. “Ms. Palmer, please allow me to apologize. First for slapping you, and second for assuming that we had been intimate. I feel I must justify my actions. I slapped you because I assumed you were a robot because, as you may be unaware, a mechanical duplicate of you has been running around doing horrible things in your name. She and I did some of those horrible things together. Not all of them were horrible. Some would have been considered delightful if they weren’t … not that it makes it okay.”

“You had sex with a robot?”

“Yes. But it’s not weird, because I thought it was you.” Damian smiled. “See?”

“You slept with a robot and thought it was me?”

“That’s right.”

She crossed her arms. “And how was I?”

“A little pinchy.”

She huffed.

“But that’s okay, because we now know that it wasn’t you. Well, you already knew that. But now I know that, and I’m sure that sex with you would be far less robotic.”

“You disgust me.”

Stockwell shrugged. “Fair enough.”

Angelica sat down on a cot similar to his own and pulled her knees up to her chest.

Damian sat as well, and stared at the floor. He kicked at some dirt. “So … smells in here, huh? I thought this was supposed to be a perfume factory.”

Angelica looked at the ceiling.

He could see her beauty through the grime and the time in captivity. She was more beautiful than her robot double could ever hope to be.

“Many sweet flowers’ scented breath.” She sighed. “Is lavished till they fade in death.”

“Yep,” Stockwell said. “Stinky.”

“It’s Baudelaire, you moron.”

“Of course it’s boring here. It’s a cell.”

She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall.

“What do you say we get out of here?”

She laughed at him but did not move.

Damian stood and walked the room. The floor was stone. The walls were stone. There was no window or back door that he could find. No plumbing. The only light in the room came from the hallway.

He tapped against the wall, hoping for a secret passage.

“What are you doing?” Angelica asked.

“Stone walls do not a prison make.” He smiled. “Nor iron bars a cage.”

“They’re a good start,” she muttered.

Damian moved to the iron bars and examined their construction. Solid welds. High-quality iron. He grabbed the bars and flexed his mighty chest. Through gritted teeth and sheer force, he pulled against his cage.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to bend these bars.”

“Good luck with that.”

Stockwell stopped and turned. “Since your criticism doesn’t seem to be helping all that much, why don’t you come over and at least help me try?”

He pulled with all of his considerable might to no avail. He muttered under his breath a curse. “Damn you, Lovelace.”

“Help you bend iron bars? You’re dumber than I thought.”

Though deceitful, dishonest, manipulative, kind of slutty and designed for evil, the Angelicabot was turning out to be much nicer than the real thing. “The robot version of you would have done it.”

“Are you really trying to make me jealous of a robot?”

“Aren’t you? You haven’t liked me ever since I confessed to our tryst.”

“I haven’t liked you since you slapped me.”

Stockwell rolled his eyes. “That was to find out if you were a robot. We’re not going to get out of here if I’m going to have to explain everything twice.”

“You’re not going to get out of here at all.”

Stockwell spun and saw von Kempelen staring at him through the bars.

“Not without help,” Johan said.

“Johan!” Stockwell grabbed the bars and shoved his face between them. “You treacherous bastard. Come here so I can punch you.”

To Damian’s surprise, Johan stepped forward.

Stockwell reached out and grabbed the robotologist around the neck and pulled him into the cell’s iron bars. There was a tremendous clang as metal struck metal. Damian held the man’s face close. “It can’t be.”

Johan backed away. “It is. I’m a robot.”

“So they made an evil double of you and crushed you in a press.”

“Not quite. I put myself in the press. Well, what was left of me, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

Von Kempelen looked at the ground. “I’m afraid I wasn’t always completely honest with you. You have been my good friend for a long time, but I … I wasn’t well, Damian.

“I had gotten sick. I’m afraid it was terminal. But I was determined to fight it. I spent everything I had trying to live. The treatment cost me everything. Including my marriage.”

“I knew it,” Stockwell said to Angelica, who didn’t seem to care. “I knew it was those things that he just said.”

Johan continued. “I had one last chance. With the progress we had made on the Val-8 and the progress others had made on their own research, I reasoned that it might be possible to build a new me. A better me.” Johan grabbed the iron bar and twisted it. The metal protested with a squeal but bent.

“Gottfried’s work was the final piece. His work on synthetic skin was the breakthrough I had been waiting for. I was able to successfully transfer my consciousness into this miracle of science.” He tapped his chest.

Stockwell looked at his old friend. “And you pressed yourself to cover your tracks.”

Johan nodded.

“And the Val-8 destroying the fair was the perfect way to throw anyone off your scent,” Damian said. “Also, crushing yourself in an industrial press. That would also take the suspicion off of you … being dead and all.”

“Nothing gets by you, Dam.”

“I commend you, my friend. But there’s one thing I don’t understand. Why a perfume factory?”

Johan smiled. “I discovered this place when I came here at the behest of my doctor. He said the climate would do me some good. He was right. It’s done wonders for my health.”

“But why the perfume?”

“I needed funds to realize my dream. And do you have any idea what the markup on this stuff is? It’s insane. I mean, it’s just smelly water.” Johan added, “And it was the perfect cover. In more ways than one.”

Damian looked at the girl in the cell. “That it is.” He turned back to von Kempelen. “And what have you done with the citizens of Grasse? Did you murder them, too?”

“Hardly,” Johan said. “A robot army cannot build itself. Not yet.”

“I commend you, my friend, on your accomplishments. But I regret you turned to evil, when you could have turned to me. I’m hurt you didn’t ask for my help. You know you could have counted on me.”

Johan looked away.

“But now you’ve gone too far. And for what? Why are you trying to replace myself and others with robot duplicates?”

Von Kempelen smiled. “Don’t you see? I’m more than human. I’m stronger and I cannot die. I’ve made myself better. And if I can make myself better, I can make the whole world better.”

“You’re sick in whatever part of your body you keep your head, Johan.”

“No. My logic is perfect. Don’t you see? With the leaders of the world under my control, I could continue my world improvement plans unmolested. To make it a better place for everyone.”

“But at what cost? Our humanity?”

“Humanity is our weakness. Flesh is weak. It’s flawed. I’ve fixed it. And now I can fix everything.”

“So that’s why you wanted me out of the way? So there was no one left to stop you?”

Johan stepped closer to the bars. “No. I don’t want to stop you. I want you to join me, my friend. The DamBot wasn’t meant to replace you. It was meant to improve you. The offer still stands. Join me, Dam. Together we can make the world a better place.”

Damian hung his head and walked away from cell door. “No. I can’t be party to this.”

“Think of the good you could do. I can make you superhuman.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Stockwell said. “But no thanks. I’m super enough as it is.”

Johan’s smile disappeared. “I truly hope you reconsider. Until then, you’ll stay here.”

A shadow appeared on the hallway wall. It was a silhouette Damian would recognize anywhere. It was proper and poised. A perfect posture and a certain pompousness to the way it walked. He smiled at the Doctorbot. “Looks like I’ll be getting out of here sooner than you thought.”

The Bertron stepped into view.

“Dammit,” Stockwell spat.

“Ah, Val-8. Is it done?”

The Bertron nodded.

“Good.”

“No,” Stockwell shook his head. “Bertrand can’t be … no.” Damian grabbed the bars and shook them. “You robotic bastard. I wish I’d never dreamed you up.”

The Val-8 stared at him as he shook the bars. There was nothing behind those eyes.

“I hate you. I hate your plastic face. You don’t deserve to look like him.” He shook the bars with such force the debris began to fall from the walls where the iron was anchored. “I’m going to destroy you myself.”

The Val-8 stepped forward and reached through the bars. He grabbed Stockwell by the shirt and pulled the prisoner’s face against the bars.

“Enough,” Johan commanded the Val-8. “He’s not to be harmed. Not yet.”

The Bertron released Stockwell, and the adventurer fell back into the cell fighting back tears. “You’ve gone too far, Johan.”

The doctor grabbed the iron bar and twisted it back into place. “Think about my offer.” With that, Johan von Kempelen walked away.

The Bertron stared blankly at Damian for a moment longer before following the doctor.

Stockwell crossed an arm across his face and wept.

“Oh, I can’t believe this,” Angelica said. “The great Damian Stockwell. Self-proclaimed world’s greatest adventurer. Doer of good. Fighter of injustice. Crying like a baby.”

Stockwell wept for a moment longer, until he was certain the machines were out of microphone range. He stood and looked at the woman. “You forgot Champion of Right and Force for Decency,” he said without a trace of sadness. “But it doesn’t matter if you believed anything. As long as they think I was crying for my lost friend and trusted companion.”

Damian reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a red shotgun shell. He held it in front of her eyes.

“What is that?”

“It’s like a key but with a whole lot more acid.” Damian stepped back to the bars and set to work peeling back the paper hull.

“You’ve had that the whole time and you tried bending the bars like some sideshow freak?”

“No. Bertrand dropped it in my pocket a moment ago.” He exposed the gelatic acid and forced it into the keyhole. A faint wisp of smoke billowed from the lock. “You didn’t see? Hmmm. I thought you journalists were supposed to be observant.”

The smoke faded away and Damian pushed against the cell door. There was a small metallic clank and the bars swung open. “There we go.”

Angelica looked at the open door and back to Stockwell. “What now?”

“Now to rescue the citizens of Grasse and stop the robocidal maniac that used to be my good friend, before he can take over the planet by replacing world leaders with his own mechanical minions.” Damian waved a hand towards the door. “Obviously.”

21
The Smell of Fear

The hallways of the perfumery were empty, but an electric hum filled the air with sound and discomfort. It made the cellar pulse, and when he listened to it long enough, Damian could hear a rhythm in the sound.

Stockwell reasoned that a town full of automatons would require a ridiculous amount of power. Even the most efficient system would need a recharge, and that would mean a generator. Somewhere in the building a dynamo was spinning to fuel the evil desires of his once-dead friend.

He put his hand against the wall and felt the vibration run through it. He pointed down the hallway. “This way.”

Angelica put a hand on his shoulder. “Wait. Do you mean that way is the way out? Or that way leads into a den of vicious killer robots?”

“Oftentimes the way out is through a den of vicious killer robots, Angelica,” Stockwell said.

She cocked her head. “Oftentimes?”

“Sometimes,” Damian said.

She folded her arms.

“Well, this times.”

She pursed her lips.

“It’s a metaphor. Okay? And it happens more than you might think.”

“I have been a prisoner here for weeks, and you expect me to rush back into the arms of my captor?”

“There isn’t much choice. Outside of these walls is a city crawling with robotic evil. If we try to flee the city, we will be hunted down with mathematical efficiency. The only way we’re going to escape this prison is if we save the world right here and right now.”

“How?”

“We’ll find a way.”

“That’s stupidly optimistic.”

Damian smiled. “I try to look on the bright side of things.”

“They’ll kill us.”

“Maybe, Angelica. But let me ask you what’s worse. Dying in the course of defending humanity, or living a coward’s life of doubt and regret?”

“I know several cowards that live quite well.”

“Well, that’s no life for me. Our fellow humans need us to stand up against this foul abuse of science. And I’m not going to let them down.” The conversation was over. Damian moved cautiously down the hallway, leading with his ear.

Angelica followed with a huff.

They passed several large cells capable of holding dozens of people each. They were empty now. Von Kempelen probably had them slaving away, building more and more machines. He had hinted as much.

This concerned him deeply. Ideally, he would just find a way to blow up the room around von Kempelen and his robot minions. It was standard operating procedure.

But now he knew that people would be mixed in with the robot population. This put them in not only harm’s way, but in his way, as well. Only a true coward surrounded himself with the innocent.

The floral smell grew as they approached the source of the hum. It became all but overwhelming as they neared the heart of the factory. The odor became warm and pungent. Stockwell felt a tickle at the back of his nose as his sense of smell tried to compensate from such an overwhelming stimuli.

One glance at Angelica and he could tell she was suffering the same reaction. She sniffled and scrunched her nose as the odor overwhelmed her.

The hallway ended at the foot of a staircase, and the pair climbed cautiously. Damian let his feet fall with absolute precision, eliminating any sound as they lit upon the stone steps.

The ancient staircase curved as it rose fifteen feet to the building’s ground level and emerged inside a vast room. This was the heart of the perfumery. Copper vats boiled the essence from nature as the bottling line rattled an endless parade of glass jars bearing the Robonard name.

The good people of Grasse tended the line, inserting atomizers into the bottles and packing the finished product into boxes for shipment.

Another assembly line ran counter to the perfume. Limbs and other body parts hung from metal rails as men and women assembled the parts into countless robots. The termination point saw the fitting of one of the dozen faces he had seen in the town.

A hundred machines were scattered about the enslaved citizens, keeping watch. These expressionless taskmasters patrolled the assembly lines, dealing quick corrections to any human that made an error or took too long to complete their job.

“Look at these people,” Stockwell whispered. “They’ve broken their spirits.”

“They’ve been here for months,” Angelica said.

Damian examined the people. “Is that the Secretary of State?”

Angelica nodded. “They brought him in a couple of weeks ago.”

“My God. They must have taken him in London.” Damian shook his head. “I can’t believe it. I talked to him the whole trip back. He hardly said a word to me.”

“That’s because he was a robot.”

“I thought he was just being a jerk.” He looked around the room and recognized at least a dozen people of note at work in the factory. His face tightened. “This ends now.”

Angelica put a hand on his shoulder and held him back. “What are you going to do? There are too many.”

Damian smiled and undid his pants.

“Whoa, you are really misreading me here.”

“Don’t get excited.” He rolled back his waistband to reveal the battery pack. “They may have taken my knuckles, but they left this.”

“I don’t know what that means, and pull up your pants.”

“It’s a power source.” He redid his pants and looked around the room. “Now I just need to find something to channel the current.”

“See? You could have just said that without undoing your pants.”

“There’s no time for explanations.” Damian buttoned his fly and turned back to the room. “It’s time to act.”

“You’re crazy. You don’t stand a chance.”

“Go, if you wish. There’s a truck in the center of town that you can take to safety. But you’re going to miss a hell of a story.”

Angelica leaned in close and whispered, “I’ll risk it.” She ran back down the stairway muttering something about stupidity, but Damian couldn’t quite make it out.

He turned away and took a deep breath. He rolled into the room and came up low behind a pile of boxes. He searched the room and spotted the items he needed.

Though humanlike in appearance, the machines still functioned under mathematical principles. That meant that if they weren’t set upon a specific task, there would be a distinct pattern to their actions.

Damian watched from behind the packing materials as von Kempelen’s machines patrolled the manufacturing lines. After a few moments of observation, their pattern was clear.

Stockwell began to count in his head. He had a fair amount of musical talent, which he had always credited to possessing an innate sense of rhythm. He set this natural metronome to the proper frequency and began to move.

As the machines turned, he sprinted. He slid under the bottling line and scrambled past the legs of the oblivious workers and machines. He reached the end of the line and waited for another sentry to pass by before sticking his head out from beneath the conveyor system.

“Pardon me, ma’am. But I need your gloves.”

The woman opened her mouth to scream, so he put a finger to his lips and repeated the request.

To her credit, she stifled the yell and subtly removed the rubber gloves from her hands. She dropped them to the ground one at a time.

He grabbed them, smiled, then disappeared under the bottling line.

The robots’ movements had not altered. He watched their legs as they stepped on according to their programming. One, two, he rolled across the walkway beside the packaging conveyor. One, two, three, he crawled along the line towards a pile of equipment he had spotted in his quick survey. One, two, he rolled from beneath the line towards the equipment and bumped into von Kempelen.

“What are you doing rolling around down there?” The doctor grabbed Damian by the neck and threw him over the assembly line.

He landed hard enough to make his internal metronome skip.

The doctor soared through the air.

Damian scrambled aside as Johan landed fist first. The strike missed but sunk deep into the stone floor. “What do you think you can possibly do?”

Stockwell kicked at the machine.

Von Kempelen caught the foot and hurled Damian across the factory. He collided with a copper still and fell to the ground as the doctor rushed across the room after him.

Damian rolled to his stomach and dove underneath the still.

Von Kempelen crashed into the ground beside the still and bent over. “You can’t stop progress, Dam. You know this as much as anyone.” He reached under the still and grabbed Stockwell’s ankle.

Stockwell rolled onto his back and spotted the copper pipes running beneath the still. He reached out, wrapped the rubber gloves around them and grabbed hold.

Even through the gloves he could feel the warmth of the pipes.

The doctor pulled. “But I’m afraid you won’t be a part of it.”

Damian pulled against his grip. The pipes held at first, but soon the machine’s strength overcame their sturdy construction and they began to bend. Stockwell held firm.

“Come out of there!” The robot pulled harder.

Damian’s ankle screamed at the grip, and the copper tore away from the still. Perfume in its purest state poured from the pipes, over his face and into his mouth, as he was yanked from beneath the equipment.

He sputtered and coughed as von Kempelen threw him once more across the room.

Damian landed on the packaging line. Glass shattered, and the Robonard perfume spilled across the floor and soaked into his clothes. The workers scattered away from the line, activating the other robots. The machines scrambled to return the workers to the line.

Damian’s eyes began to water as he moved down the conveyor belt. The copper pipes were still in his hands, and he worked quickly to pull the leads from inside his sleeve.

Von Kempelen stood at the end of the line, waiting with a smile on his face.

Stockwell kicked backwards, trying to buy some time, but the perfume made the surface slick and the belt moved him ever closer.

Johan grabbed him as he arrived at the end of the line and pinned him to the ground under his boot. The machine drew back a fist. “You made this possible, you know? Thank you, Dam. You made me what I am.”

“Damn you, Johan. You made me smell like a girl.” Damian thrust the copper pipes into von Kempelen’s torso. He felt the hum of the current beneath the rubber insulators as the circuit completed.

The doctor jumped back with a hand on his stomach. There was fear in his eyes. The process that had saved his consciousness had brought with it a sense of self-preservation.

Damian smiled. He loved to see the look of fear in evil’s eyes.

“Get him!” Von Kempelen backed away and shouted to the room. A hundred henchmen turned their attention to the adventurer who smelled like a girl.

22
Assault of the Automatons

The machines rushed him in a very orderly fashion.

Stockwell reset the metronome in his head to a much peppier beat and raised the copper pipes. He had always found stick-fighting a satisfying blend of beating and nonlethal force. He dragged the pipes against one another and watched the arc form between them.

The first machine reached him.

The copper pipes hummed their own tune through the air as he moved them in a practiced combination that left the robot incapacitated and shaking on the floor.

Two more automatons had flanked him and charged. He dropped to the ground and delighted in the clunk they made as they collided. In that brief moment of impact, he struck each on the leg with a pipe and sent the current coursing through them. They jiggled and fell to the ground.

Johan was retreating through the advancing mass and Stockwell yelled after him. “Put a stop to this madness, Johan.”

The doctor offered no response as his minions came. They marched down the corridors. They leapt over the machines and stomped across the assembly line with little concern for Robonard’s stock.

Damian charged into the fray and began his attack. The pipes hummed an even tune as they blurred in an unceasing pattern of contact and destroy. The smell of ozone soon fought the scent of dead flowers as the pipes sparked and electronics blew.

But they kept coming, stepping over their fallen and pushing on.

The belt began to burn around his waist. The pipes were beginning to melt the rubber. He struck a machine across the back of the knees and it collapsed to the floor.

He turned his attention to the next in line and soon realized his mistake.

The fallen machine, still functional above the waist, pulled Stockwell’s legs out from under him, and he fell on his back as another machine loomed over him.

The machine looked like an old man, wrinkled and jowly. The skin on his face was unnatural and refused to react to gravity as it drew closer. His hand reached out for Damian’s face.

The hands were ageless and as they closed in, he could see the joints in the flesh that allowed for the movement of the fingers.

Damian tried to strike with the copper pipes, but the crippled machine grabbed his right hand. One baton was not enough to complete the circuit. He was finished.

The old man’s head exploded in a splash of electricity as a valet boot connected with its jowls. The machine collapsed on Damian’s chest and pinned him to the ground.

Bertrand spun and deactivated several more machines with savage electric kicks before turning to help Stockwell out from under the fallen contraption.

Damian stood and looked into the dark eyes of his longtime friend. They were so recessed behind the shiny Bakelite mask of the Val-8 that he could barely see them. “Thank you, my friend. You can take off that mask now. Its purpose has been served.”

“Zis eez my faze!” Bertrand said.

“It is? But it looks all plasticy.”

“Eez zis plaze. My allairgees!”

Stockwell chuckled. “Baby.”

Together, armed with electric science and the art of fist and foot, the two made their way through the army of robots. Tubes shattered. Circuits fused. Plastic smoldered. Von Kempelen’s forces lay broken, like so many bottles of Robonard perfume.

The pipes burned in his hands. Bertrand’s shoelaces were most likely on fire. But they had conquered the mechanical menace. Only Johan remained.

The hostages began to emerge from their hiding places and applauded the carnage that lay before them.

Damian and Bertrand turned to face the doctor, who now stood with his back against the wall of the age-old factory.

“You’re all out of minions, Johan,” Damian said. “The evil you tried to unleash on this world cannot be forgiven. But your genius is something that can’t be denied. You were a good man once, Johan. It’d be a shame to deactivate you. Turn yourself off and we’ll see if we can’t reprogram you for good instead of evil.”

Johan smirked. The realism of his face was uncanny. He began to laugh. “You actually think you’ve won? Your arrogance is astounding.”

“Thank you.” Stockwell smiled.

“Zat waz not un compliment, Monsieur.”

“Sure it was. He said astounding. Astounding is a good thing.”

It began with a slow rumble. The building began to shake. The factory windows shattered as hundreds of robots poured into the building. An endless stream dropped through the broken glass and quickly filled the factory floor. The prisoners dove for the hiding places, but the machines routed them and held them fast with an arm across their necks.

“A single thought from me,” Johan hissed, “and they snap their necks. I don’t even have to speak.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“I would. They are weak. All humans are weak and therefore unnecessary in my new world.”

Damian looked into the Johanbot’s eyes. They were soulless and inhuman, but they shined like polished stone and he saw what he needed to see. He threw the copper pipes down in front of him. “Drop your shoes, Bertrand.”

The valet looked at his feet. “I am not sure ’ow I would even do zat.”

“Stop arguing and just do it. The doctor is in complete control.”

Bertrand shrugged his shoulders and bent down to untie his shoes.

The shotgun boomed and Johan’s face jerked back towards the ceiling.

Bertrand covered his head as Damian rolled forward and grabbed the pipes. He stood as Johan recovered from the blast. The gelatic acid had burned away any resemblance of humanity and left behind only the metal face of evil that he had become.

Damian thrust with both batons and shoved them deep through the lenses as they whirred desperately trying to focus and make sense of the situation. The circuit was closed deep within the robot’s head.

Von Kempelen screamed as electricity surged through his inhuman mind. Smoke poured from every opening in his face as the machine began to shake.

Seconds later, it was over. As soon as the mechanical Johan von Kempelen crumpled to the ground, the robots in the factory went dormant. Nothing controlled them now.

“Mon Dieu!” Bertrand jumped to his feet and looked behind him. Angelica Palmer stood in the factory doorway, clutching a smoking gun.

“I felt zat! Zat almost ’it me!”

“Why did you think I told you to duck?”

“A little warning would ’ave been nice.”

“You didn’t see her reflection in his eyes?” asked Damian.

“I can’t zee almost anyzing. My alleirgees.”

“Baby,” Damian said, and turned to Angelica. “Nice shot. I’m glad you decided to come back.”

“What choice did I have?” she asked.

He smiled. “I know. I knew you’d never just drive away and leave us here.”

“You have the keys.”

He checked his pocket and nodded. “That’s how I knew.”

Epilogue
The Journey Home

The three piled into the cab of the truck, and Stockwell put it into gear. He knocked on the panel behind him to let the freed hostages in the bed know he was about to pull out. He drove slowly through the town’s narrow streets and waved to the joyous citizens that lined the streets.

Angelica sat next to him. “Shouldn’t we wait for the authorities?”

“Nah. The people here will explain what happened, and I’m sure our friends in the back will want to get home as soon as possible and explain to their loved ones that they’ve been robots for the last few weeks.”

“True.”

“And I want to get Bertrand’s face back to normal as soon as possible. It’s really freaking me out.”

They pulled out of town. Stockwell accelerated around a turn and the passengers in the cab slid across the seat. Angelica put her arm on his shoulder to catch herself.

He looked deep into her eyes and let his own sparkle twice.

She backed away nervously. “So.” She cleared her throat. “Tell me what was so great about the robot me that made you want to … you know.”

Damian smiled and then sighed. “Well, she was beautiful. She had fiery red hair and a spirit to match. Her eyes burned with the same passion as yours. I dare say she was von Kempelen’s finest work.”

“Oh really?”

He nodded. “Truly. That’s how I knew that you’d come back for us. I know that deep down you’re a good person, because even the evil robot version of you wasn’t really that bad.”

“It sounds like she meant a lot to you.”

Damian looked out the window. “Maybe. To be honest, I’m not sure how to feel about all this.”

Angelica leaned in closer. “Maybe I can help you work through those emotions.”

He turned back to her. “I’d like that.”

“It sounds like she broke your heart.”

“My heart is a little broken.”

“How did you end it with her?”

“I ripped off her arms and left her in my lab.”

Angelica sat up. “What?”

“Sure. She’s there right now. I’ll show you when we get back.”

“That is sick!”

“It’s not sick, it’s—Look, what about my emotions?”

“I’m pretty sure you don’t have any emotions,” she said as she folded her arms.

“I know.” Stockwell sighed and looked out the window. He peered into the mirror and laughed. “Well, would you look at that?”

The image in the rearview mirror was tiny but growing larger. The Bertron was creating a trail of dust on the dirt road as it ran to catch the truck.

“Do you see that, Bertrand?”

“Oui, I zee eet.”

“I guess now that it’s free of Johan’s control, it’s returning to its master.”

Stockwell applied the brake.

Bertrand opened the door and stepped out as the truck slowed to a stop. He walked toward the back of the truck and Damian heard him drop the gate.

Damian turned to Angelica. “Never let it be said that DamIndustries builds a poor quality product.”

“You smell like a girl,” she said.

Damian gritted his teeth. “I know I do.”

He looked back to the mirror. The Bertron slowed as it neared the truck.

The first shot hit it in the chest. The second found the hole and made the entire machine shake. There was a third boom, then Bertrand climbed back into the cab. “You’d bettair drive.”

Damian dropped the truck back into gear and pulled away quickly as the fuse on the blue round burned down.

“Bertrand, what the hell are you doing? It wasn’t evil anymore.”

“I know,” the valet said.

“He could have come home with us.”

“I know,” the valet said.

The Val-8 exploded in a ball of flames that sent pieces of the machine into the flower fields on either side of the road.

Bertrand closed his swollen eyes and went to sleep with a smile on his face.

THE END

OTHER WORKS
by Benjamin Wallace

DUCK & COVER ADVENTURES

Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warriors (A Duck & Cover Adventure Book 1)

Knights of the Apocalypse (A Duck & Cover Adventure Book 2)

Last Band of the Apocalypse: A Duck & Cover Adventurette

Prisoner's Dilemma: A Duck & Cover Adventurette

How to Host an Intervention: A Duck & Cover Prequel

Gone to the Dogs: A Duck & Cover Prequel

BULLETPROOF ADVENTURES OF DAMIAN STOCKWELL

Horror in Honduras (The Bulletproof Adventures of Damian Stockwell)

Terrors of Tesla (The Bulletproof Adventures of Damian Stockwell)

The Mechanical Menace (The Bulletproof Adventures of Damian Stockwell)

DAD VERSUS

Dad Versus The Grocery Store

Dad Versus Halloween

Dad Versus Santa

Dad Versus The Tooth Fairy

Dad Versus Democracy

Dads Versus The World (Volume 1)

Dads Versus Zombies

OTHER BOOKS

Tortugas Rising

UNCIVIL

UnCivil: The Immortal Engine

UnCivil: Vanderbilt’s Behemoth

SHORT STORIES

Alternate Realty

Dystopia Inc. #1: The War Room

Pilgrim (A Short Story)

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Benjamin Wallace lives in Texas where he complains about the heat. A lot.

Find him online here:

BenjaminWallaceBooks.com

DumbWhiteHusband.com

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