"Now you’re talking about creating an
icon
, a role-model for potential and existing paranormals everywhere. If that’s truly the case, then I submit that you
must
be willing to deal with McLane in a much more
noble
manner than you’ve previously intended. Either that, or leave the costume at home that day. You can’t have it both ways."
Steve sat in silence, clearly mulling over this hearty food-for-thought ...
She’s right, Stevey.
Shut up. She’s ... she’s taking it to an extreme—
She’s
taking it to an extreme?
You’re
the one running around in colored long-johns.
That’s not fair! I ... I’ve read comic books, too. There are
plenty
of heroes who are willing to—
Yes, but you’re not looking to create a "spirit of vengeance" here, are you? You’re talking about a True American Hero, and all that entails. What’s the point in dressing up like a
superman
if you’re going to behave like a
punisher
? Right?
Right?!
I ...
You can’t have it both ways, Steve.
When at last he spoke, Steve’s voice was a choked whisper. "I ... I’ll have to think about this ... later ..."
Alan and Ardette were filled with sympathy. Steve averted his gaze, lest his emotions swell completely out of his control. Now determined to change the subject, Ardette asked, "I don’t suppose you’d like to explain that spiral you plastered on your chest?"
Steve looked at her in surprise, then chuckled in spite of himself. "Well, uh ... it’s kinda funny, really. I know that the vortex just makes a kind of blurry ripple in the air ... from an
outside
perspective. But you have to remember that
I’m
seeing it straight down the middle, like looking through the funnel of a tornado."
"Interesting," Alan commented.
"But that’s just it — it’s
not
like a funnel. Not really. It’s more ... psychedelic than that. Have you ever looked through the center of a Slinky when it’s stretched out?"
"A Slinky? You mean the toy?"
"Yeah. I had one when I was little. And not one of those dorky plastic ones, either — I had a real metal one. If you ever happen upon one, stretch it out, shake it, and look through it.
That’s
what looking through the vortex wave is kind of like. The symbol on my chest is just an attempt to draw a concrete image of something that’s in constant motion."
"Which explains the cockeyed center and half-moon gap," Ardette concluded.
Steve shrugged and smiled. Now it was his turn to change the subject, back to business. "Alan, have you figured out what the rogues might have been after?"
"Nothing solid, but I have some suspicions. You see, there really wasn’t anything of value in that warehouse, but it hasn’t
always
been used for storage. Some of our most important R-and-D for the PCA used to take place there. In fact, the change was fairly recent ...
after
McLane was fired."
Steve’s jaw clenched. Ardette fumed, "That bastard comes up once again. So it
was
him."
Alan grunted. "That’s what I think. I can’t
prove
it, of course—"
A sudden epiphany struck Steve. "The vortex wave..."
They glanced toward him.
In a rush, Steve asked Alan, "You said that McLane was not involved in the development of the vortex wave, right?"
"That’s correct," Ardette answered for him — there was a new fire in her eyes that had not been there until now. All talk of handling McLane with "nobility" had, for the moment, flown out the window. "The PCA requires us to isolate different projects, to minimize information loss in the event of outside infiltration, whether it’s classic industrial espionage or a shape-shifting or telepathic rogue."
"And McLane would have
known
this is how it worked?"
"You bet your ass," she replied, evoking a blink of surprise from Alan. "That son of a bitch is probably trying to find out what else we’ve been working on without his knowledge."
Alan slowly sat up straight. "Then it’s a safe bet they’ll be coming back."
The three sat silently for nearly a minute, each lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Ardette announced, "Steve,
whatever
you decide to do ... if you need my help, you just let me know. I am definitely
in
."
TAKAYASU AND SHOCKWAVE
Bearing the weight of an exceptionally long day upon his shoulders, Michael trudged down the hallway toward his apartment. Brase had been in top form this afternoon. Given that Michael wasn’t yet prepared to share his assorted suspicions about Steve Davison’s involvement with the vigilante, Vortex, Brase had made quite clear his opinion of what he perceived as "zero progress." They had a few leads on one of McLane’s possible hideouts, but that was about it.
If nothing else, he was gratified that his friendship with Mark was growing stronger all the time. It must have been very tempting for Mark to throw their suspicions in Brase’s face just to show him up ... and probably mouth off like the good ol’ days to boot. But Mark had respected Michael’s silence and endured.
As he finally plodded up to his apartment, he was alarmed that his key turned without resistance. Either he’d forgotten to lock the door that morning, or someone had unlocked it since then.
Drawing his tazer, he opened the door very slowly. He hesitated a moment longer, pulled a psi-band from an inner coat pocket and slipped it onto his forehead, then stepped inside.
Whoever the intruder was, they were rummaging around the kitchen. They were obviously making no efforts to conceal their presence, and Michael relaxed a bit. He was pretty sure who it was now, and a smile crept over his face. He lowered the tazer ... but didn’t holster it just yet.
Christine jumped slightly when she saw him, then answered his smile with one of her own as she dropped pasta into a pot of water. "Hey, there. Nice headband."
Michael holstered his sidearm ... and, a moment later, turned off his pager ...
PCA
"I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me how the hell you got in here?"
Christine pursed her lips, a devilish twinkle in her eye. "Now, Ensign Takayasu, I just shared my secret family recipe for Pasta a la White. You don’t expect a woman to give away
all
of her secrets, do you?"
Had anyone else tried that line on him, Michael would have dismissed it as an evasion and pressed the issue. Coming from this sweetheart, however, he was more willing to let it pass. He simply filed it away as something to pursue at a later time and resolved to enjoy the evening as it was progressing.
Besides, the pasta
was
delicious.
"So ... do you want to tell me about your day? Setting aside the funky headband, you didn’t look too hot when you walked in here."
Michael sighed and leaned forward, forking another mouthful as he did so. Chewing quickly, he asked, "You don’t mind if I talk shop?"
"Not at all," she beamed. "
I
would ... except nothing interesting ever happens at the café."
Michael chortled, sipped his wine, and began, "You remember my telling you about Steve Davison?"
"The guy who lost his family, right? The guy who you think might be going after the killer himself?"
"Same guy. Anyway, our commander’s been busting our balls about that case all day."
"No leads, huh?"
"A couple, even one or two about a possible base-of-operations for Richard McLane’s little coterie. We’re still checking them out, but it’s taking longer than I’d hoped. The whole agency’s a little overtaxed right now."
" ‘Overtaxed?’ " Christine echoed as she finished off the last of her own wine and poured herself another glass.
"A lot of stuff’s been going on over the last couple of days. An unusually large number of rogue-related crimes, with an ungodly percentage of Class Ones involved."
"Oh, my gosh," she whispered. Looking a little concerned, she asked, "Have you been called into any fights yourself?"
"No, not yet, not since the bank robbery. Mark and I were called to
Davison Electronics
over a recent incident, but that ... well, that’s a long story, but let’s just say it turned out more
confusing
than dangerous."
Satisfied that he hadn’t been placed in recent peril, Christine relaxed and topped off his wine. She also scooted her chair a little closer to his so that their legs were touching under the table. "What’s the PCA going to do about all the rogues?"
In light of the new seating arrangements, Michael almost missed her question. "Uh ... well, since a lot of them have been in this district, Captain Jarrah’s called for a paranormal synod."
"A what?"
"A synod. Basically a convention of paranormal agents working for the PCA. In fact, I’ll be meeting up with them tomorrow morning at eight o’clock at our headquar—
ack
!" He jumped, then immediately felt embarrassed for doing so. Trying to recover some smattering of his cool, he remarked, "You know, Christine..."
"Yes?" she purred coyly.
"If your hand goes any higher, I’m gonna choke on my next bite of Pasta a la White."
"Then you’d better put your fork down."
He put his fork down ...
PCA
Lounging on his couch in front of the television, Mark drained the last swig of beer and emitted a raucous belch that echoed throughout his den. He lived alone, so it wasn’t like there was anyone to offend ... and that wouldn’t have curbed his behavior even if there
had
been. He was sort of watching his P’s and Q’s at work these days, especially since he finally had a partner he could respect, but right now he wasn’t Shockwave — he was Mark Westmore, and his manners were his to mind as he saw fit.
All of this made perfect sense to him ... so he found it particularly annoying that he experienced a wave of self-consciousness anyway.
The kid was to blame, of that much he was certain. Ever since winning him over, Mike Takayasu had been influencing him in ways even his short stint in the Army had not managed. For the first time in God only knew how long, he was actually starting to
care
about stuff again. Maybe it was the fact that Mike treated him with
dignity
, something his self-esteem had almost forgotten existed.
When he woke up one morning to find that he’d gone paranormal, his first impulse had been to lash out at the world for all the injustice it had thrown in his face throughout his life. First he’d flunked out of school because he wasn’t smart enough to perform math beyond two-plus-two. Then he’d "escaped" into the Army and found himself confronted with a homosexual CO who wouldn’t take "no" for an answer — but when he’d defended himself the only way he knew how, did the higher-ups care
why
he’d broken his CO’s nose? Of course not. They wouldn’t even
listen
to his side of the story.
So he found himself tossed out on his ass, back into the cold world, just one more ... how had Brase put it? ... one more
trailer park rat
with no education and a Dishonorable Discharge to boot.
So there he was, some fifteen years later, living in a half-way house because he had no place else to go, and he discovered that he could knock things over just by thinking about it. At first he thought the Paranormal Effect had blessed him with telekinesis, but he quickly figured out that he couldn’t
grab
stuff, just push it — if telekinesis was a scalpel, he’d been given a broadsword.