Grinning, Steve accepted Lincoln’s offer of assistance. The big man pulled him effortlessly to his feet — which was a good thing, as Steve most certainly could not have stood on his own. He held on to Lincoln’s grip and forearm, trying to will the capricious dizziness away.
"I’ve seen several people
killed
by Graham’s lightning bolts," Lincoln marveled. "I’m impressed that you’re still breathing."
That made Steve suddenly realize that his breathing was far too shallow, and he forced himself to draw a long, deep, cleansing breath. His hind ribs groused about it, but at least his diaphragm had decided to be his friend again.
"Barely," Steve pointed out, reminding himself that he would indeed be dead now if Powerhouse had not interfered on his behalf. There was no way he could have survived a second lightning bolt, let alone a third or fourth or ... "This suit ... protects me," he explained. "It’s insulated against electrical shock ... but I guess that bolt was a bit more than it could handle."
"So it’s the suit?" Lincoln repeated, sounding slightly confused. "Invulnerability isn’t one of your paranormal powers?"
Steve almost asked,
What are you talking about?
But of course that was the assumption Lincoln would make — in fact, it was a misconception that Steve had counted on when he decided to take up this guise. He was tempted to confide,
I’m not a paranormal, I’m a cyborg
, but instead came out with, "No. Not invulnerable. Not like
you
, anyway. Talk about ‘impressive.’ "
"Uh ... thanks," Lincoln said quietly, glancing around the training center. "Listen, I’ve got to get out of here. I’ll tell McLane that
you
killed Graham, if that’s all right."
It wasn’t Steve’s first choice, to be pegged for a murder which had tempted him but that he ultimately did not commit, but he figured that his position was less delicate than Lincoln’s. "If it’ll help you, fine." After all, even if McLane and his clan believed that, it’s not like they would be running to the authorities anytime soon, whereas Lincoln dare not own up to his actions in this matter.
"Wait." Lincoln steadied him and then let go of Steve’s arm. He trotted over to the table with the computer and began looking around until he turned up an ink pen. Checking his pants pockets, he produced a little piece of paper. As Steve joined him on legs that were now screaming with little pins and needles, Lincoln wrote something on the slip before handing it over. "This is where we usually meet," he explained. "I ... I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what
you
can do, but I’m asking — I’m
begging
— for any help you can give. I don’t even know where my brother and sister are, but I’ve got to save them. I ... I ..."
Steve saw the tears swelling in the man’s eyes, and if there were one thing he could certainly identify with of late, it was pain. He gripped Lincoln’s shoulder. "I’ll do whatever I can. And I think I know where to find some help."
Lincoln nodded, blinking his eyes in embarrassment. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and pulled his mask back on, once again becoming Powerhouse. "Gotta go. Thank you."
"Thank
you
."
Powerhouse nodded again, then gently lifted the chubby rogue — whom Steve had forgotten completely — off the floor. Carrying him over to the redhead’s body, he arranged him just so, then he bent, seized the lightning man by his lifeless ankle, and heaved him up and over his shoulder like an oversized garment bag. Again making sure the unconscious corrosive man was as carefully balanced as possible, he moved toward the impromptu exit.
"Wait!" Steve called.
Powerhouse looked back.
Moving as quickly as he could on his uneven legs, Steve joined him. "I’ll make sure the coast is clear."
And while that
was
what he intended, he had another motive as well. Peering out through the burned opening, he checked around with his thermal vision. He turned toward Powerhouse, who was also looking around for whatever it was worth, then looked down upon the dead man’s face. He wanted to remember that face, burn it into his mind for all time. In the end, he supposed that he was somewhat grateful for not having finished him off himself — a slate that would hopefully remain clean, at least until he found McLane, which would require a lot more soul-searching in itself — but he still wanted some closure. He wanted to
know
, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that whoever may have given the order, the instrument of his family’s massacre was gone and he wasn’t coming back.
"Okay," he said finally, "I’ve seen enough. Take off straight that way, and move as quickly as you can. If it comes down to it,
I’ll
provide another diversion if I have to, but I’d rather not, so watch your butt."
Powerhouse started to say something, then merely nodded and took off.
Steve sighed, leaning heavily against the edge of the disintegrated concrete. Rushing in and taking on the bad guys was one thing, but now he’d been given a
real
hero’s duty. How in the world would he be able to help Lincoln save his brother and sister? In the confusion of the moment, he realized that he’d failed to even ask their names or ages! Guess he’d never make a detective hero.
But at least he had an idea. He hadn’t just been blowing smoke when he mentioned someone who might be able to help. He knew he could count on Alan and Ardette, but that wasn’t whom he had in mind. He needed someone with resources and expertise that he just didn’t have. He knew he’d be taking a big chance, but he didn’t see that he had any other choice.
It was time for Vortex to pay a visit to Ensign Michael Takayasu and his partner Shockwave ...
TAKAYASU, SHOCKWAVE, AND POWERHOUSE
Bleep! Bleep! Bleep!
Grunting, Michael rolled over. He slapped the snooze button on his alarm clock, distantly aware that he’d already done so once, and if he did it one more time, there would be consequences.
But, at the moment, those repercussions seemed vague and far away. After all, it’d been a while since he’d had such a good night’s sleep ... or, more correctly, been
put
to sleep in such a pleasant fashion.
Christine shifted and snuggled closer to him as he slipped his arm around her.
As tempting as it was to just doze off again, Michael slowly realized that he really shouldn’t wait for the alarm to
bleep
again. Sighing, he attempted to pull his arm free.
Frowning in her daze, Christine held onto the arm more tightly.
"Sorry," Michael whispered, kissing her lightly on the forehead. "I’ve got to get up."
"Nah, ya don’t," she mumbled. "Call’n sick."
Michael smiled. "Tempting. Very tempting. But I can’t."
Christine frowned more deeply, her lips pursing out in a pout ... but she let go of his arm.
Shuffling toward the bathroom, and the shower, Michael stooped to pull the pager from the belt of his discarded pants. Turning it on, he groaned inwardly when it immediately vibrated — he groaned aloud when he found seven numeric messages glaring at him, all of them Brase’s code, the first one almost four hours prior. Michael stopped, one foot still in the bedroom, the other on the bathroom tile.
Given the circumstances, he figured that he would have to forego the shower ...
Christine finally roused just as he swallowed his last bite of Pop-Tart and pulled on his work coat. "Hey," she mumbled.
"Hey," he returned with a smile, but his eyes favored the pager screen — would it be better to call now, or just show up at the office as soon as possible? The meeting wasn’t scheduled to start for over an hour, but he figured that it would be prudent to—
Christine slipped her arms around him, pressing her head to his chest. "You can’t go."
"Believe me, I don’t
want
to go. But it looks like there’s going to be hell to pay for turning off my pager, so I really can’t—"
"I don’t care. Don’t go."
Uh-oh
, Michael thought. "Are you okay?" he asked. She hadn’t struck him as the super-clingy type before, but then ... he really didn’t know her all that well, did he?
"I’m fine," she insisted in a not even remotely convincing tone of voice. "It’s just that ... last night was very special to me, Michael. I was kind of hoping ... I don’t know, for a day to match."
"Christine," he said carefully, "remember that I told you about—"
"I know, I know. About the paranormal senate thing ..."
Synod
, he almost corrected before biting his tongue.
"... I didn’t forget or anything. I was just ... hoping. You know?"
"I know." He pulled her back just far enough so he could bend forward and kiss her lightly. Damn, but she had beautiful eyes! "Tell you what ... why don’t you wait here for me? I won’t lie to you — I have no idea how long I’ll be. The meeting would have taken a few hours as it is, but now I’ve got all these pages and ... well, would you like to just stay here and ... and make yourself at home?"
That brought a smile to her face. "I’d like that."
PCA
"Where have
you
been?! Why the hell didn’t you answer your pager?!"
For the flightiest of moments, Michael considered answering with the blunt truth:
Well, sir, I was getting laid for the first time in almost two years, and so I turned my pager off so
you
wouldn’t interrupt me.
Of course, the odds were very strong against Commander Brase taking kindly to that answer. Given the circumstances, he opted to lie instead. "I’m sorry, sir. The batteries must have died during the night. I didn’t realize it until this morning." It wasn’t the
greatest
lie in the history of prevarication, but it was the best he could think of at the moment.
When Brase spoke next, he was still scowling, but he did lower his voice, so perhaps it wasn’t all that bad a lie after all. "That’s sloppy, Ensign. Very sloppy. You’re lucky that I’m not going to place a formal reprimand on your permanent record."
That
would be overkill — Michael knew it, and he suspected that Brase knew it as well. But he figured he should quit while he was ahead. "Thank you, Commander. It won’t happen again."
Brase growled under his breath and headed across the office toward the conference room. "Come on, they bumped the meeting time up, and we don’t want to be late." Michael followed as Brase filled him in, "There were multiple rogue strikes all over the state last night.
Davison Electronics
was hit again."
That explained why they were so urgent to reach him. His pleasant evening with Christine aside, Michael really did feel an appropriate amount of professional embarrassment. He wouldn’t allow his personal life to interfere with his job again. "What did they hit at
Davison’s
?"
"We’re not sure," Brase admitted, his tone finally losing (most of) its edge. "There were several explosions at the perimeter which we now believe were decoys. We found acid burns through the wall of one of
Davison’s
structures. The interior was in disarray, but nothing appears to have been taken."
"Any sign of our vigilante?"
"Possibly. A computer was accessed, but the drive was damaged before any files could be burned to disk. The whole mess looks very much like the result of a paranormal tussle. Paraforensics is still working it over, but they’ve already found a number of scorch marks on the walls that suggest massive electrical discharges. They think
that
could be the handiwork of your lightning rogue. Jarrah wanted
you
on the scene," he said meaningfully, "but neither you nor your partner responded."
They had almost reached the conference room door now, but Michael halted. "Mark didn’t respond, either?"
Brase shrugged. "He’s late
now
. You are the one who was out of form, Ensign. This sort of thing is nothing new for that deadbeat partner of yours."