"Agents of the Mandate"
"Agents of the Mandate"
5/6/1964
I.
The Trom which called himself Leonard Slade locked the door of his Dodge Dart with a signal from his key fob, but only after glancing quickly about to be sure he was unobserved. No one else would possess such a gadget. He had made many modifications to the vehicle which made it far more advanced than anything else on the road but Trom policy was to keep their activities secret from the Humans among whom they lived.
To the Americans passing him on the sidewalk, Slade was unremarkable. He seemed to be a normal white man about thirty years old, an inch over six feet tall, athleticly built in an unobtrusive way. His black hair was neatly trimmed rather short, his regular features and olive skin hinted at having Mediterranean ancestors. Slade was wearing a conservative grey business suit with narrow lapels and the collar open on his white dress shirt, no tie.
His mundane appearance did not hint at the enormous strength and speed in a body that was the result of ages of breeding and genetic manipulation. Nor did his calm, thoughtful expression give away that his mind worked at lightning speed, drawing on a memory with perfect retention and generations of training out emotional responses. He was a Monitor of the Trom, a cousin Race of Humans who had been modified by the Darthim ages ago for higher intelligence.
A hard-faced young man greeted them with a small Brevetta in his hand. "Good evening, of course I must ask you for the word."
"Today being the
In front of him was a four-story red brick building which had seen better days, with a shop window on the street which read MILADY'S FLORISTS in ornate white script. This store was a front, established two weeks earlier by the being he had been sent to visit.
Slade's Race only showed emotion in their expressions and voices when needed as camouflage to blend in with Humans. When he stepped into the tiny vestibule and went past the flower shop door to his right, he briskly ascended the narrow stairs with quiet determination but nothing else. At the second floor landing, he did not get to press the bell before the door to 2A swung outward to admit him. He stepped inside and closed it behind him.
He had not seen the being which called itself Andrew Steel in five months. The dramatic change in the latter's appearance would have provoked some response from a normal person, if only a slip in the stricted poker face. "You have made extensive modifications on your external surface," he said. "Lasat January, we were visually identical."
The same height and build as Slade, with facial features closer in matching than a twin's, Andrew Steel had fine-textured white hair and bright grey eyes that were almost silver in their sheen. His skin was pale, not unhealthy-looking but light in tone. His new uniform was a solid iron-grey... high boots, tight pants, a front-flap jacket with long sleeves and a high collar. The effect was dramatic.
"I needed a new identity," Steel responded. "This image will make an impression on people. I will be hard to mistake for anyone else as I begin my work."
"That is why I am here," said Slade. Neither man made a move toward sitting in the chairs or couch available. All their attention was on each other. "The local Trom Council has decided to endorse you to whatever extent you will accept. You will not be regarded as a defector or outside but as an ally."
Steel's measured tones had a bit more depth than Slade's did, a touch of feelings beneath the surface. "But of course, there will be conditions. I expect that."
"Your plan to act in the Midnight War as a public figure offers some advantages. It allows the Trom to remain unknown to the public as you intervene to protect Humans against the creatures of the night. Our policy supports peace, progress, education and health. The phenomena that you intend to combat are counter to our values."
The strange grey man allowed himself a smile. "My goals are fighting crime, tracking down monsters and madmen, helping against natural disasters and poverty. I don't see how rational beings such as your people could object to that!"
Slade continued, "You will require maintenance and replacement parts, which will be made available to you at the New Mexico facility. Updates and new equipment will be offered."
"I won't have to break out and escape to leave this time?" asked Steel.
"No," the Trom replied without reacting to the implied criticism. "You are a free being. Operating funds for you to establish your mission have been budgeted."
The grey man folded his arms across his chest, his faint smile removing any potential negative tones from the gesture. "I am still expecting conditions that I'll have to meet."
"Only those which discretion requires," said Slade. "The existence of the Trom will not be revealed or confirmed by you. We have remained a secret society among Humans since the Darthan Age. Any exposure of us will lead to your being redesignated as a hostile being. Your own true nature is to remain secret as well. Human civilization must not know that an advanced robot is active in their midst."
Andrew Steel nodded once. "All understandable, Mr Slade. And all as I would wish things to be as well. I have no objections to these terms."
"Understood. I will report to my Council." Slade began to turn back toward the door but paused. "I have personally decided to give you information. You should know that we have not been able to duplicate the circumstances which created you in the unique you enjoy. Not even in theory can our constructs develop independent consciousness. You are a mystery."
Now Steel grinned openly, showing perfect white teeth. "That's no surprise. Does anyone know where the spirit of life comes from?"
II.Tommy Moon was a hundred miles away from his family because strange men had tried to kill him.
At two-thirty in the morning, he hopped out of a nearly empty subway car and raced up the stairs to the steet level as if in an athletic event. Not more than average height, Tommy had the narrow shoulders and flat chest of a teenage boy still hitting growth spurts. At sixteen, he barely needed to shave. Plain black canvas sneakers, blue jeans and a regular white T-shirt with a pocket made a wardrobe that millions of other boys were wearing that day.
The thick glossy black hair, amber skin tone and eyelid fold showed his Korean ancestry but Tommy had been born and raised in Albany, New York. He had only learned a few Korean phrases to mollify his parents and he was not particularly drawn to Asian culture. He had grown up in a world of hamburgers and Coca-Cola, Beach Boys and Beatles, comics and hot rods. His biggest desire was to get his license, and he had signed up for a class at school.
All that seemed unimportant now. He had disembarked cautiously from the Greyhound at Penn Station, run to the subway at Seventh Avenue and emerged here at Canal Street. Constantly looking in all directions, he saw no signs of anyone following or even taking notice of him. Part of his mind was surprised at how easily this all came to him. He should be terrified, panicky, even hysterical... but he wasn't. Tommy was burning with a strange thrill he hadn't known he could feel. On the run, chased by mysterious gunmen, carrying only a few dollars his parents had given him, he loved the tension and stress.
Maybe this reaction had something to do with the weird changes in his body.
He hadn't even had to to come to terms with that stuff. Sure, puberty meant strange things going on with your voice and body hair and other areas changing. But his new hair-trigger reflexes and leaping like a grasshopper... The medical books he had checked at the library said nothing about that.
On the quiet streets, Tommy loped along at an easy pace. Lately he had been feeling as if he never got tired. The window signs in the darkened restaurants and shops had a lot of Chinese ideograms, which might as well have been Etruscan to him. All he knew to write in Korean was his own name, which his mother had bribed him into memorizing. Where the hell could Mott Street be? Where was the school where his father's friend, Sung T Whang was? Tommy knew that Whang taught some crazy fighting style called TaeKwon-Do, like Judo or Karate, which could be useful. But he had to find the place first.
Slowing at a corner, he was pleased to see he was at the corner of Mott and Spring Street. Great. Now to see what the building numbers were so he could locate 621. From the corner of one eye, he barely glimpsed movement across the street. There was a white flash and a deep thumping noise like a car backfiring. Without realizing it, Tommy Moon vaulted straight up higher than his own height, came down lightly on fingers and toes, then immediately sprang horizontally twenty feet along the street and darted around the corner out of sight.
That man had shot at him! Just like what had happened back home! Why? What possible reason could anyone have to try to kill him? It made no sense. Only a second later did Tommy realize he had effortlessly leaped higher and farther than any Olympic athlete could. He was running so fast he felt he could overtake a car. It was easy. He could speed up if he tried. Despite the danger, he laughed out loud. This was great!
Then he saw headlights round a corner up ahead, turning toward him, and fear blazed up over the excitement. To his right was the dark mouth of an alley, blocked by an abandoned couch. Easily as stepping over a dropped wallet, he swung around and vaulted way up over the couch to land silently deep within the alley. Touching down seemed to have no impact. He wished there was time to experiment with his new ability, find out his limits, maybe go hopping across the rooftops as the city slept unknowing.
But he was stopped by a brick wall. This was a dead-end alley. Two battered tin garbage cans and a pile of broken wood were all that were at hand. Damn. He glanced up eight stories and realized that was asking a bit too much of his high jump skill. Tommy tried the door on his right that said FISH MARKET - EMPLOYEES ONLY, and of course it was locked.
Outlined by the streetlamps behind them, the silhouettes of two men climbed over the couch at the mouth of the alley. All of Tommy's exuberance fell away as the sinking realization of being trapped clutched at him. Was there a chance they didn't know he was here? Could he hide? No, that was being stupid to even hope.
III.
"Give it up, Mikage," said one of the men in an angry voice. "You've wasted enough of our time."
"Mikage? I'm not anyone called Mikage," protested the teen. "You've got me mistaken for someone else."
"Nice try. Hold still, this'll be quick."
A third figure rose up unexpectedly behind the two gunmen and seized them by the backs of their necks. There was a hissing noise. When he released them, they dropped limply straight down. "Tommy Moon, come with me," said the newcomer.
Unable to get a good look at his apparent rescuer, Tommy was hopelessly confused. "NOW what? Who are you? Why were they going to shoot me? What did I do?"
"I'll explain." Some confidence in that deep, well-modulated voice gave Tommy the reassurance he needed. Less dramatically than before, he sprang over the couch out onto the sidewalk. There, under the streetlight, he saw a white-haired man in a grey uniform join him.
"These are agents of the Mandate," said the stranger. "Others will be on their way, we have to leave."
"You know who I am..." the teen began.
"My name is Andrew Steel. I'm here to help. My car is this way." He began striding north at a good clip and Tommy hustled to keep up.
"I wanna thank you for saving my butt," the young man said. "What's the Mandate? Why are you helping me this way? Are you a cop?"
"Those men are professionals," Steel replied. "The Mandate is a covert government agency that has been breaking the law with too much impunity to suit me."
"Oh, geez, Men in Black and all that? But I didn't do anything wrong." Tommy found he was running now to stay alongside the grey man, and neither of them had any trouble carrying on a conversation while doing so.
"That's the problem with the Mandate," Steel said. He came to a halt beside a new 1964 Corvette Stingray, its battleship grey surface gleaming as if the wax were still wet. Steel unlocked the passenger door.
"Hot wheels," Tommy remarked as he hopped in.
"Thanks." Steel got behind the wheel and pulled out onto the empty side street, heading uptown. "Let me explain that I am not with the police or the FBI or any other organization. I'm working on my own. I try to handle threats that regular authorities can't or won't deal with."
"Okay. What's with those guys throwing bullets at me again?"
Steel said, "The Mandate is ostensibly a unit of the Department of Justice. For a long time, decades at least, they have been acting more and more independently. You never see them mentioned in the news or in articles. Congress never investigates them. They are too close to being an unsupervised secret police force in my opinion."
"Listen, a week ago my life was normal, even boring. I had nothing planned for summer vacation, maybe get a part-time job for pocket change, ya know? Then strange things started. Cars parked outside our house at night. When the person you talked to on the phone hung up, you heard a second click like there was someone else listening. Our mail looked funny, as if maybe the envelopes had been opened and then glued shut again."
"Go on."
"Yesterday afternoon, someone shot at me. I wasn't doing anything out of the ordinary, just walking through the neighborhood..."
Slowing at a red light but not stopping, Steel turned his pale eyes toward his passenger for a second. "Tommy, most likely you haven't told anyone yet. But I think it's probable that you have developed a new talent or ability lately. Something amazing, something you might even say was impossible until it happened to you. Am I right?"
"You mean... like a super-power? Like in comic books?"
"Yes. That would be why the Mandate is interested in you."
"Yeah. It sounds crazy. It IS crazy, but after everything that happened tonight, what's crazy? All right. Somehow I can jump up at least ten or twelve feet without even crouching. I can cover, I dunno, maybe twenty feet like a broad jump but without running. Just from where I stand. That's not possible, is it?"
"Stranger things happen in the world, Tommy. This may be a comfort to hear, I don't believe the Mandate is actually trying to kill you. They're testing you. They want to see how your new ability works and what your limits are."
This seemed to push the teen a step too far. "They WHAT?! They're scaring the piss outtta me is what they're doing, making me run away from home and walking around New York City in the middle of the night because I'm afraid for my life! And for what? To test me? You have to putting me on, I can't take much more of this..."
The grey man placed a hand on Tommy's arm. "Easy. We can deal with the situation. Here we are, 28 East 38th Street."
They pulled into an empty spot near a nine-story white stone building that had lights burning in the first floor windows. Steel got out and Tommy followed his example. "Huh. Is this your place?"
"Oh, no," replied the grey man cheerfully. "It belongs to a friend of mine who is the best at finding answers and solving puzzles. Let's go in. Kenneth Dred is always up all night."
IV.
Squatting at the corner of 53rd Street and Eighth Avenue was a run-down building whose top floor windows were carelessly boarded up or painted black. The second floor was still in use, judging by the air conditionders in two windows and the blue flicker of a television visible late at night.
The ground floor was occupied by a long-established business called BOOK PARADISE, with a grimy show window which displayed piles of paperbacks and ancient hardcovers with titles long rubbed off into an indecipherable state. Next door to it, the window had blue neon tubing which promised first LADIES WELCOME and then BEER ON TAP, with the establishment name TRAVIS TAVERN on mentioned in smaller letters. These kept normal hours, and time spent browsing in the used books store or idling at the bar would not reveal anything suspicious.
In fact, both these businesses were mere fronts. Both were connected by concealed passages behind hidden doors, and narrow stairs between walls led upstairs where both the second and third floors were fully occupied. As the bar began to close down, with calls for 'last drinks' and with chairs being put upside down on tables, a well-dressed couple in their thirties headed back to the shadow of the full length phone booth. They were satisfied the last customer was out on the street before they stepped into what seemed to be an ordinary utility closet with brooms, mops and wheeled buckets. A panel slid aside and they ascended wooden steps barely wide enough to accomodate them.
At the third floor, they stepped out into a pair of offices which had windows blacked out entirely but which also had bright flourescent tubing overhead. This part of the building had been thoroughly soundproofed. Here, intense feverish activity could be found at most any time of day or night.
The office they entered had only a single desk with a pair of telephones on it. Standing facing them, obviously ready for their arrival, was a hard-faced young man who held a small Brevetta aimed between them. "Good evening. The word, please?"
"Tonight being the fourth of April, bon mot would be 'palfrey," said the male half of the pair. He was handsome enough, with crispy curly brown hair and a deeply cleft chin. A well-cut blue suit with a lighter dress shirt and a black knitted silk tie, complete with vest, not to mention the neatly blocked fedora he held in one manicured hand, were on the edge of being too dressy to escape comments in mundane Manhattan. Yet he was so relaxed and self-assured that he was obviously no mere dandy.
"That's a small light horse, one knows." Almost ten years younger than her partner, the woman was exactly as tall. Attractive but in a subdued way, she had auburn hair brushed straight back to reach past her shoulders, and deep caramel-colored eyes in a thoughtful face. Her short white skirt revealed impeccable legs, the tan blouse and beige pullover had not been yanked off the rack at any discount store. "I say, M-12, any idea why we've summoned at this ghastly hour?"
"Never a comment from me, ma'am. Control will see you now." Reaching over to his desk, he pressed a button on an ivory row of five. From the adjoining door with its frosted glass panel came a buzz which indicate a lock opening.
The two crossed over, knocked politely even though they knew they had just been sent there, and gruffly told to come in by a manic voice. They closed the door behind them and M-12 went back to his task of filing reports.
"Ah, M7 and M9, prompt as usual," rumbled the brute who filled the space behind a desk piled with precarious stacks of papers, folders, manila envelopes, empty paper coffee cups and an assortment of pens, pencils and rubber stamps. Nearly touching his right elbow was a green metal filing cabinet where he could reach into the drawers without getting up. At five feet nine and easily three hundred pounds, he seemed like someone who would minimize movement if possible.
The walls were covered with memos, wanted posters, schedules and two calendars which had been free from insurance companies. Facing the desk were two straightback wooden chairs carefully selected so that most people sitting in them would be looking up slightly to meet the giant's gaze.
Seating themselves, the two agents restrained their smiles. Most people jammed into this space with that huge walrus of a man glowering down at them would be at a psychological disadvantage. The two of them were too experienced to feel uncomfortable, they saw the set-up as an obvious trick and were at ease.
"M271 is dead," their boss announced without preamble, seeing if he could make them jump.
"Oh, you mean Cullen? Richard Cullen? Pity. Fine fellow," Kiel said.
"Was it enemy action?" asked Mrs Hewitt. Like her partner Matthew Kiel, she retained faint traces of a posh Public School upbringing. They had been recruited by the Mandate eight years ago, Kiel from a branch of MI5 and Mrs Hewitt from her curious life as an amateur criminologist.
"It was! He was part of the cell observing a suspected Variant. Young Korean boy, maybe I should specify Korean-American. Name of Thomas Moon. We found M271 dead with a bullet from his own gun on 23rd Street not two hours ago."
"Damned Variants," Kiel grumbled. "I seems there are more of them every day. Has our Research found any cause for these monsters?"
"None," snapped Control. "Some of our scientists think fallout from nuclear testing has something to do with it. They're fools. As far back as the '30s, Variants like the Green Devil and Vulcan were running about loose. Not to mention Samhain."
"That fiend! You needn't remind us of him." Mrs Hewitt visibly shuddered. "Not a year ago, we managed to corner Samhain. Kiel here filled him with bullets like raisins in a Christmas pudding. I was obliged to pin him under the front wheel of my Lotus to hold him down and he was still struggling to escape when the squad took him away."
"He had murdered four women on that spree. April, May, June and a teenager named January. It's a hellish game with him," Kiel added. "If the great unwashed masses ever suspected the terrors that stalk unseen among them..."
"Finding these creatures and neutralizing them is our task," growled their Control. "Our Mandate."
"If only we could turn them, convince a few to work for us." Kiel raised one elegant eyebrow. "Some can walk through solid objects or camouflage themselves so you pass by them without noticing they are pressed up against the wall."
"Never happen," their boss spat without anger which seemed excessive. "Not once. Whatever unknown force transforms them also affects their minds. You two met Samhain, but you've read the files on Golgora, Slaughterman, that madman Cogitus."
"Which leads us to why our pagers went off twenty minutes ago," Mrs Hewitt interrupted.
"Very well, very well." The obese body shifted in a specially made chair which squeaked in protest. "It's the Moon boy. He's been under observation, he caught on and he rabbited. Right here to the city which is our nexus, although he can't know that. We are still not certain how, but he rendered two of our better field agents unconscious. They've been recovered but our doctors think they've been given some powerful tranquilizer in gas form."
"That's a bit dodgy," Kiel observed. "Even if the boy has some wild talent, where would he get his hands on anesthetic gas? Someone is working with him. Someone with pro resources."
"That's what worries me. I want the two of you to proceed to where we think he will turn up. Keep an eye out for him. The Pak Cho school at 621 Mott Street. A karate place owned by a man named Whang. Sung T Whang, hell of a silly name."
Smiling at Control, Mrs Hewitt said, "I've traveled a fair bit. Foreigners often find our names amusing as well... Mr Cadwallader."
The massive face creased horizontally as he grinned. "Fair enough. Fair enough. Be off with you. As always, this branch is understaffed and underpaid, I will have no back-up to send you until tomorrow's afternoon shift."
"We rely on charm and cunning," Mrs Hewitt replied as she smoothly rose.
"As well as well-timed violence as needed," Kiel added. He straightened his jacket and adjusted his cuffs. As he twirled his fedora, he accompanied Mrs Hewitt toward the door behind them.
"Report every hour instead of every three," ordered the Control without rising. "Something about this particular monster makes me uneasy. Who provided him with that gas, and why?"
With that, Kiel and Mrs Hewitt left that office, murmured polite goodbyes to the agent sitting in the next office and proceeded down the narrow stairs to exit through a metal door which opened to an alley. They waited until a delivery truck rolled slowly past before stepping out onto the sidewalk again.
Throwing back her head, Mrs Hewitt took in a deep breath of the pleasant Spring air, while Kiel enjoyed watching her do so. "Gracious," she said, "Doesn't Control realize how stuffy it is in there?"
"I believe he rather enjoys it. The man grows more eccentric every day." Kiel tilted his hat to a rather impudent angle and offered his elbow to his partner, who slipped her arm through it. "The city sleeps as much as it ever does. Tonight seems more peaceful than usual."
"Hmm. People don't realize what monsters are walking next to them."
"Variants," Kiel said. "Creatures with supernatural powers, indulging their murderous whims with impunity. What on Earth could be creating these fiends?"
Mrs Hewitt scoffed. "I don't believe we'll ever know. It's a dark side of Nature. I rather think that in the Ice Ages when our ancestors ran about spearing mammoths, there were Variants back then as well."
"Sobering thought. Well, we have our hands full at the moment. This Tommy Moon character." He opened the passenger door of his BMW and his partner slid gracefully into her seat. Kiel went around behind the wheel and started the finely-tuned engine. "He's seventeen, Control told us. Still a lad."
"A dangerous lad who has already claimed one of us. We met Cullen's wife once, remember. Our duty is clear."
"Once more into the breach, dear friends," quoted Kiel as he swung around on the empty street and motored south toward Chinatown.
V.
Kenneth Dred met his visitors in the small vestibule, then led them across the front hall past a wide staircase to his reception room. This was furnished with overstuffed brown leather chairs, a magazine table and chess set on its own pedastal, a sideboard stocked with various cheeses and cold cuts, and a liquor cabinet. There was even a cigar humidor. The effect was more of an upper class gentleman's club than someone's home.
Dred himself was short, no more than five feet nine, and in his mid-sixties with receding hair back over a high forehead and an inquisitive gnomish face. He welcomed his guests with seeming glee at visitors arriving unannounced so late.
Even closer to dawn than midnight, Dred was fully dressed but with slippers rather than shoes and a quilted smoking jacket to protect his shirt. He was holding a battered old book with numerous slips of paper marking passages protruding from its pages. "I didn't expect to see you again so soon, Andrew," he admitted as he ushered them to take seats. "My, you've been busy."
"Kenneth, this young man is Tommy Moon. He has had some interesting experiences tonight."
"Oh, I'd love to hear about it," Dred said as he leaned back in his chair. "But the way he's eyeing the food. Help yourself to anything and everything, son."
Taking this at face value, the ravenous teen began filling a china plate with bits of cheese and assorted crackers, then took it over to a chair and plopped down. "Okay if I eat while I explain what happened? I haven't had anything since breakfast."
"By all means," Dred told him. "It's almost time for today's breakfast in fact. Here, take this bottle of club soda, of course I can't offer you wine."
For the next half hour, Tommy told his story. It took forever because he went back for another load on his plate and because both Dred and Steel then began asking him to elaborate on details. Neither of the older men ate anything themselves.
"The Mandate again," sighed Dred. The old occultist glanced over at the grey man with regret in his eyes. "They started during World War II, I believe, originally as a fact-finding group. I remember working with Mark Drum and Sulak, and they both worried the government was taking an unhealthy interest in them.The Mandate might as well be a rogue agency At this point. I have heard rumors of their experiments on people with unusual powers, people like our young friend here."
"Experiments?!" shouted Tommy. "You mean, medical experiments? As if testing guinea pigs and white mice?"
"That's exactly what I mean, son. First, let me try to explain what has happened to you. You're not a freak, there is nothing wrong with you physically or mentally. The general public never hears about it, but some people develop supernatural abilities after excessive stress or danger triggers a change. I have known several people like this. For their own peace of mind, they tend to use their new abilities in secrecy, at a low personal level."
"I don't get it, to be honest." Tommy finally put the plate aside. "How can I break athletic records so easy? How can my body do this stuff, without training and exercising all the time?"
Kenneth Dred studied the young man for a moment before answering. "There's a force in the universe that no one understands. It's called 'gralir.' Something like what the Chinese call 'Chi' or the Hindus called 'prana.' Gralic force interacts between consciousness and physics somehow."
"You lost me."
"Hmm. Your mind taps this gralic force to give your body enhanced strength and quicker reflexes. Some people use gralic force to read minds, to teleport, to project flame or darkness, all according to their personal inclination. Your jumping abilities are right for you. You are meant to have them."
"Well, that's good to know," Tommy said. "I was wondering if I was some sort of monster."
"No, not at all. The next time you're in a crowd, consider that many of those dull boring adults you see might be able to levitate or see in the dark or breathe underwater. But they keep it to themselves."
Andrew Steel had been listening mostly without comment. "I don't think it would be ethical for you to enter athletic competition, though. It wouldn't be fair to the competitors who don't have your advantage. At a broad jump contest, for example, you would be like a sighted person against the blind."
"Okay. That sounds fair enough. But, you know, something occurs to me," Tommy said. "I was really careful nobody saw me trying out my jumping bit. How did this Mandate bunch even learn about me? Wait. First I have to call my folks. I told my parents I'd phone them when I got to the city, but so much has been happening."
Kenneth Dred half rose and pointed to the hall door. "There's a phone out there by the front door. But watch every word. You can be certain that your family's phone is tapped. Mandate agents may have located you here as well. Assume that they are listening."
"This gets scarier by the minute," Tommy said as he rose. "I've got the creeps bad."
"Do not mention Andrew or myself," Dred cautioned. "I suggest you merely say you are well and safe, nothing else. Do you understand?"
"Yeah, sure. Thanks." The teen hurried out in the hall and a second later they could hear his voice speaking quickly.
Steel turned his grey eyes on Dred. "Who would have useful information for us? Perhaps Michael Hawk?"
"I don't think so," Dred replied. "He's mostly concerned with regular crime, solving murders and tracking down fugitives. This is not his area of expertise."
"I have heard of someone called the Deacon," Steel suggested.
"Deacon? Yes, Thomas Halwick. He's done some espionage work. I've met him, he's remarkable. But I don't think he's in the States at the moment." Dred lowered his head and studied his gnarled hands. "So many heroes are dead or retired these days. There is no Dr Vitarius or Mark Drum fighting the Midnight War. That's why I was so cheered when you explained your mission, Andrew."
Before Steel could respond, Tommy Moon came galloping back into the room and dropped back in his chair. "Thanks for letting me use your phone. Mom and Dad said they weren't too worried about me but I could hear her crying in the background when Dad was talking. Relieved, I guess. I said I only had a minute. I told them I would call them again after I got some sleep."
"You handled that well, Tommy," Andrew Steel said. "Tell me, where where you intending to stay?"
"With a friend of my dad's. Guy named Whang, down in Chinatown." He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. "We're not Chinese, you understand. My family's from Seoul, we're Korean. I don't know if that makes any difference to you two."
"It may prove important later." Dred levered himself up to a standing position with a faint grunt at the effort. "Andrew, you look like you're ready to act."
"I have been thinking the situation over," the grey man said, rising smoothly out of the easy chair. "There is no time to lose." With that, he scooped Tommy up under one arm as if the boy was weightless and ran out of the house down to the street where his car was waiting. Placing Tommy in the passenger seat and circling to get behind the wheel, Steel had the modified Stingray hurtling over the speed limit in the first three seconds. Only one or two other vehicles were on the streets at this hour.
"Ack! You got a fighter jet engine under the hood?" asked Tommy as he caught his breath.
Ignoring red lights and stop signs, Steel did not let up until they roared onto Mott Street. The first hint of dawn brightened the sky to the East. They came to an abrupt halt in front of a yellow concrete block building that had recently been a laundromat. The long picture window was darkened behind heavy curtains, but it had several Korean ideograms and the English words PAK CHO ATHLETIC SOCIETY - MEMBERS ONLY painted on it. Asian martial arts were not freely taught to Westerners yet, with very few exceptions mostly on the West Coast.
Steel sprang out of the car, found the front door was unlocked and hurried inside with Tommy right behind him. Lights went on. In the sudden glare, they found themselves facing a man and a woman who were holding pistols on them.
Moving in close to Tommy Moon, Kiel tapped the shortened barrel of his Webley revolver against the boy's temple, then moved back a step to close the street door. "None of that hopping around I've heard about, lad. There's a low ceiling here, you'd hurt yourself."
For her part, Caroline Hewitt held a small 7.65 Beretta steady with both hands, the infinite blackness of its muzzle pointing at Andrew Steel. "Thank you for bringing him here," she said pleasantly. "We haven't even had to wait long."
VI.
Tommy Moon held as motionless as he possibly could, hands half raised up by his ribs. He could actually feel his heart pounding. It seemed as if everyone there should be able to hear it. Those rapid fire reflexes were not enough to keep him from being shot at such close range.
Twenty feet away, Caroline Hewitt shifted a few steps to one side, trying to get Steel to turn to keep facing her. It didn't work. The strange grey man's eyes followed her but his body did not move.
When Steel spoke, his voice carried such unstressed authority that everyone froze in place. "You two have become what you hate most."
Still staying close to Tommy, Kiel snapped, "Quiet. We will ask the questions."
"You are the menaces you claim to be fighting," Steel said. He sounded like a parent explaining some thorny fact of life to children. "It happened gradually, I am sure. You were corrupted in stages."
"I told you to be quiet," said Kiel, "We're protecting the public from dangerous deviates."
"No, you are not. Look at that boy. Seventeen. Has he been charged with anything? No. Is he even suspected of planning to hurt anyone? No. He was minding his own business, being a youth, when your agency dispatched its storm troopers..."
"It's not like that," Mrs Hewitt interrupted. "We have our orders."
"That defense did not work at Nuremberg." Steel had not raised his hands as he had found himself being held at gunpoint. "Do you two even realize what atrocities you commit? You will take a minor against his will to a secret location for experiments? What will happen to him afterwards? You don't seriously think he can be released, do you?"
"Shut up!" yelled Kiel, his post accent slipping. "I don't know who you think you are, mister..."
"I am Andrew Steel," said the grey man. "I am something new come into the world. How many innocent human beings have you snatched away from their families? How many children did you deliver to be dissected to study their abilities? Your hands have too much blood on them to ever be clean."
No, no, it's not like that at all," Caroline Hewitt shrilled. In her agitation, she actually lowered the barrel of her gun an inch out of line. "Our superiors know what is best. They have the safety of the American public in mind."
"Do they really?" Steel finally raised his hands up to shoulder level. "Do you hear that hissing?"
Despite all their training and experience, the Mandate agents did indeed lean in closer. There is was, a faint hiss barely audible in the hushed room. Simultaneously, Tommy Moon and the two agents sagged at the knees and dropped face down to the floor. Only the stern figure of Andrew Steel remained unaffected, standing as cold and rigid as the metal statue he resembled.
VII.
Coming back to awareness was a struggle for Tommy Moon. His stomach was queasy and his head foggy. Eventually it sank in that he was half-sitting on a wooden floor, his back propped up against a wall. His eyes resisted opening at all and then refused to focus. This was a gym of some kind, with hard thin mats on the floor. On the opposite wall from where he sat, under a clock which read five-twenty, was a pair of framed diplomas, a portrait of an elderly man with wispy white whiskers and a Korean flag with its Yin-Yang symbol.
Everything rushed back into his mind with unexpected urgency. He had to get out of here!
But then the reassuring calm face of Andrew Steel lowered into view. "Steady. Give yourself a moment. Here's some water."
The paper cup of tepid tap water was exactly what he needed. After gulping it, he managed to say, "My head feels like a horse danced on it. What's going on? Where are those two spies?"
Steel grabbed Tommy by the arms and hauled him upright with an ease that hidden at immense strength held in reserve. "I used a harmless anesthetic gas on everyone. It's stored in pressurized tubes within my sleeves. My policy is to minimize violence if possible."
"I feel like crap, Mr Steel."
"The gas is potent. You'll recover soon." He pointed to the other side of the room where Patrick Kiel and Caroline Hewitt were leant back against that wall with their wrists handcuffed behind them. They showed no signs of stirring.
"Whew. Glad to see them harmlesss." Tommy gave a short barking laugh. "You sure were getting them mad, Mr Steel. Man! I don't think anyone has argued with them in a long time."
"They received a more direct dosage than you did," the grey man said. In the bright lights of the dojang, the material of his tunic had a metallic sheen to it. The monochromatic scheme worked better than Steel had hoped. White hair, pale skin and eyes, battleship grey uniform... it made him a figure that once seen was not quickly forgotten.
Ten feet away from the two Mandate agents was an array of equipment that included a professional quality camera, brushes and powders on a tray, a small Fax transmitter. Andrew Steel left this paraphenalia where it would be the first thing the spies saw when they awakened.
To give them credit, Kiel and Mrs Hewitt got their faculties arranged at once. They saw they were bound with their legs stretched out before them so they could not quickly rise. As the two recognized the equipment arrayed on the floor, dismay washed over their faces before they could hide it.
"I see you understand the situation," Steel told them, standing with arms folded across his chest, hands holding the opposite arms in a characteristic pose. "Yes, while you were unconscious, I took your fingerprints and numerous clear photographs of your faces. I even took the liberty of examining you for distinctive scars and birthmarks."
"Bloody cheek..." muttered Kiel.
"All this information has been Faxed to the people who worked with me. Your true names and histories are now known to me. If I wish, that data will be sent to the FBI, the CIA and newspapers such as the NEW YORK TIMES and THE WASHINGTON POST. The Mandate has made many enemies. Exposing two Mandate agents who are harassing American citizens will be front page news."
Caroline Hewitt started to speak, stammered and had to start over. "We're ruined. Maybe we can ask for standard office duty..."
"No. You will be executed as failed agents," Steel told them bluntly. "Have you known any fellow agents who retired peacefully and lived a normal lifespan?"
They had no answer for that.
"I thought so. When a Mandate officer wants to quit, something unfortunate always happens to them, doesn't it? A car crash, a sudden heart attack. Maybe a tragic fall from a fifth floor window. And the two of you never questioned it all?"
"We trusted our superiors," Mrs Hewitt whispered, "They had information we aren't cleared for. They see the bigger picture."
"Yeah? Well, there were times I smelled something fishy," said Kiel. "Too much didn't add up, too much sounded flimsy. When Fitzsimmons applied to transfer over to Army Intelligence, his fatal pneumonia came out of nowhere. But we believed what we were told, like good little soldiers."
Struggling, Mrs Hewitt swung around to get up on her knees. "See here, whoever you are. My partner and I have done good work. We captured that vile Samhain. I myself shot down a furry shape-changer that was already eating its victims. And Kiel took into custody an old woman who could make people she didn't like burst into flames. You can't deny that."
"Go on," said Steel. "How many of these so-called Variants had done no one any harm? How many had been caught using unusual powers and were taken prisoner for study?"
"God..." mumbled Kiel.
"And they're never returned to their families either, are they?" snapped the grey man with a sudden edge in his voice. "You've been making innocent people disappear for years. Their husbands and wives and children never learn what happened to their loved ones. More mysterious missing persons whose fates are never learned."
"I've been blind," Mrs Hewitt stumbled through saying. "We both have, Patrick. And now we are going to pay for being such fools."
Andrew Steel studied them with the attitude of a judge deciding sentence. "You can't go back. Even without your real names being on the Six O'Clock News and the front page, your Control can not trust you any more. Some Mandate executioner will be given your files to study and to decided how to snuff your lives out."
"We're right screwed no matter what, then. Going on the run is all that's left for us." Kiel swung his legs around and managed to get up on his feet. "Spies like us always have an escape route. Passports and money hidden, knowing someone on the coast with a light private plane. We can disappear."
The strange man in grey nodded once. "Very well. I will even help you flee and see you settle abroad safely. In time, a year or so, you may want to reappear with new names and faces. Working with me and my people. It will be up to you."
Mrs Hewitt swung around and wriggled her fingers. "Time to remove the bracelets, isn't it?"
"In a second. You should know that I intend to confront your Control. I will collect information on him the way I did on you. A truce may be arranged. In exchange for Tommy's safety, the full story of the Mandate's misdeeds will be discussed all over the country. There will not be a Congressional investigation. No officers will be removed from their positions and no trials will be held if I am satisfied."
"Wait a minute," Tommy interrupted. "Mr Steel, this all sounds great, but you know what it means. The Mandate killers will assassinate you."
Those pale eyes rested on the young man with complete fearlessness. "They can try."
6/27/2020
5/6/1964
I.
The Trom which called himself Leonard Slade locked the door of his Dodge Dart with a signal from his key fob, but only after glancing quickly about to be sure he was unobserved. No one else would possess such a gadget. He had made many modifications to the vehicle which made it far more advanced than anything else on the road but Trom policy was to keep their activities secret from the Humans among whom they lived.
To the Americans passing him on the sidewalk, Slade was unremarkable. He seemed to be a normal white man about thirty years old, an inch over six feet tall, athleticly built in an unobtrusive way. His black hair was neatly trimmed rather short, his regular features and olive skin hinted at having Mediterranean ancestors. Slade was wearing a conservative grey business suit with narrow lapels and the collar open on his white dress shirt, no tie.
His mundane appearance did not hint at the enormous strength and speed in a body that was the result of ages of breeding and genetic manipulation. Nor did his calm, thoughtful expression give away that his mind worked at lightning speed, drawing on a memory with perfect retention and generations of training out emotional responses. He was a Monitor of the Trom, a cousin Race of Humans who had been modified by the Darthim ages ago for higher intelligence.
A hard-faced young man greeted them with a small Brevetta in his hand. "Good evening, of course I must ask you for the word."
"Today being the
In front of him was a four-story red brick building which had seen better days, with a shop window on the street which read MILADY'S FLORISTS in ornate white script. This store was a front, established two weeks earlier by the being he had been sent to visit.
Slade's Race only showed emotion in their expressions and voices when needed as camouflage to blend in with Humans. When he stepped into the tiny vestibule and went past the flower shop door to his right, he briskly ascended the narrow stairs with quiet determination but nothing else. At the second floor landing, he did not get to press the bell before the door to 2A swung outward to admit him. He stepped inside and closed it behind him.
He had not seen the being which called itself Andrew Steel in five months. The dramatic change in the latter's appearance would have provoked some response from a normal person, if only a slip in the stricted poker face. "You have made extensive modifications on your external surface," he said. "Lasat January, we were visually identical."
The same height and build as Slade, with facial features closer in matching than a twin's, Andrew Steel had fine-textured white hair and bright grey eyes that were almost silver in their sheen. His skin was pale, not unhealthy-looking but light in tone. His new uniform was a solid iron-grey... high boots, tight pants, a front-flap jacket with long sleeves and a high collar. The effect was dramatic.
"I needed a new identity," Steel responded. "This image will make an impression on people. I will be hard to mistake for anyone else as I begin my work."
"That is why I am here," said Slade. Neither man made a move toward sitting in the chairs or couch available. All their attention was on each other. "The local Trom Council has decided to endorse you to whatever extent you will accept. You will not be regarded as a defector or outside but as an ally."
Steel's measured tones had a bit more depth than Slade's did, a touch of feelings beneath the surface. "But of course, there will be conditions. I expect that."
"Your plan to act in the Midnight War as a public figure offers some advantages. It allows the Trom to remain unknown to the public as you intervene to protect Humans against the creatures of the night. Our policy supports peace, progress, education and health. The phenomena that you intend to combat are counter to our values."
The strange grey man allowed himself a smile. "My goals are fighting crime, tracking down monsters and madmen, helping against natural disasters and poverty. I don't see how rational beings such as your people could object to that!"
Slade continued, "You will require maintenance and replacement parts, which will be made available to you at the New Mexico facility. Updates and new equipment will be offered."
"I won't have to break out and escape to leave this time?" asked Steel.
"No," the Trom replied without reacting to the implied criticism. "You are a free being. Operating funds for you to establish your mission have been budgeted."
The grey man folded his arms across his chest, his faint smile removing any potential negative tones from the gesture. "I am still expecting conditions that I'll have to meet."
"Only those which discretion requires," said Slade. "The existence of the Trom will not be revealed or confirmed by you. We have remained a secret society among Humans since the Darthan Age. Any exposure of us will lead to your being redesignated as a hostile being. Your own true nature is to remain secret as well. Human civilization must not know that an advanced robot is active in their midst."
Andrew Steel nodded once. "All understandable, Mr Slade. And all as I would wish things to be as well. I have no objections to these terms."
"Understood. I will report to my Council." Slade began to turn back toward the door but paused. "I have personally decided to give you information. You should know that we have not been able to duplicate the circumstances which created you in the unique you enjoy. Not even in theory can our constructs develop independent consciousness. You are a mystery."
Now Steel grinned openly, showing perfect white teeth. "That's no surprise. Does anyone know where the spirit of life comes from?"
II.Tommy Moon was a hundred miles away from his family because strange men had tried to kill him.
At two-thirty in the morning, he hopped out of a nearly empty subway car and raced up the stairs to the steet level as if in an athletic event. Not more than average height, Tommy had the narrow shoulders and flat chest of a teenage boy still hitting growth spurts. At sixteen, he barely needed to shave. Plain black canvas sneakers, blue jeans and a regular white T-shirt with a pocket made a wardrobe that millions of other boys were wearing that day.
The thick glossy black hair, amber skin tone and eyelid fold showed his Korean ancestry but Tommy had been born and raised in Albany, New York. He had only learned a few Korean phrases to mollify his parents and he was not particularly drawn to Asian culture. He had grown up in a world of hamburgers and Coca-Cola, Beach Boys and Beatles, comics and hot rods. His biggest desire was to get his license, and he had signed up for a class at school.
All that seemed unimportant now. He had disembarked cautiously from the Greyhound at Penn Station, run to the subway at Seventh Avenue and emerged here at Canal Street. Constantly looking in all directions, he saw no signs of anyone following or even taking notice of him. Part of his mind was surprised at how easily this all came to him. He should be terrified, panicky, even hysterical... but he wasn't. Tommy was burning with a strange thrill he hadn't known he could feel. On the run, chased by mysterious gunmen, carrying only a few dollars his parents had given him, he loved the tension and stress.
Maybe this reaction had something to do with the weird changes in his body.
He hadn't even had to to come to terms with that stuff. Sure, puberty meant strange things going on with your voice and body hair and other areas changing. But his new hair-trigger reflexes and leaping like a grasshopper... The medical books he had checked at the library said nothing about that.
On the quiet streets, Tommy loped along at an easy pace. Lately he had been feeling as if he never got tired. The window signs in the darkened restaurants and shops had a lot of Chinese ideograms, which might as well have been Etruscan to him. All he knew to write in Korean was his own name, which his mother had bribed him into memorizing. Where the hell could Mott Street be? Where was the school where his father's friend, Sung T Whang was? Tommy knew that Whang taught some crazy fighting style called TaeKwon-Do, like Judo or Karate, which could be useful. But he had to find the place first.
Slowing at a corner, he was pleased to see he was at the corner of Mott and Spring Street. Great. Now to see what the building numbers were so he could locate 621. From the corner of one eye, he barely glimpsed movement across the street. There was a white flash and a deep thumping noise like a car backfiring. Without realizing it, Tommy Moon vaulted straight up higher than his own height, came down lightly on fingers and toes, then immediately sprang horizontally twenty feet along the street and darted around the corner out of sight.
That man had shot at him! Just like what had happened back home! Why? What possible reason could anyone have to try to kill him? It made no sense. Only a second later did Tommy realize he had effortlessly leaped higher and farther than any Olympic athlete could. He was running so fast he felt he could overtake a car. It was easy. He could speed up if he tried. Despite the danger, he laughed out loud. This was great!
Then he saw headlights round a corner up ahead, turning toward him, and fear blazed up over the excitement. To his right was the dark mouth of an alley, blocked by an abandoned couch. Easily as stepping over a dropped wallet, he swung around and vaulted way up over the couch to land silently deep within the alley. Touching down seemed to have no impact. He wished there was time to experiment with his new ability, find out his limits, maybe go hopping across the rooftops as the city slept unknowing.
But he was stopped by a brick wall. This was a dead-end alley. Two battered tin garbage cans and a pile of broken wood were all that were at hand. Damn. He glanced up eight stories and realized that was asking a bit too much of his high jump skill. Tommy tried the door on his right that said FISH MARKET - EMPLOYEES ONLY, and of course it was locked.
Outlined by the streetlamps behind them, the silhouettes of two men climbed over the couch at the mouth of the alley. All of Tommy's exuberance fell away as the sinking realization of being trapped clutched at him. Was there a chance they didn't know he was here? Could he hide? No, that was being stupid to even hope.
III.
"Give it up, Mikage," said one of the men in an angry voice. "You've wasted enough of our time."
"Mikage? I'm not anyone called Mikage," protested the teen. "You've got me mistaken for someone else."
"Nice try. Hold still, this'll be quick."
A third figure rose up unexpectedly behind the two gunmen and seized them by the backs of their necks. There was a hissing noise. When he released them, they dropped limply straight down. "Tommy Moon, come with me," said the newcomer.
Unable to get a good look at his apparent rescuer, Tommy was hopelessly confused. "NOW what? Who are you? Why were they going to shoot me? What did I do?"
"I'll explain." Some confidence in that deep, well-modulated voice gave Tommy the reassurance he needed. Less dramatically than before, he sprang over the couch out onto the sidewalk. There, under the streetlight, he saw a white-haired man in a grey uniform join him.
"These are agents of the Mandate," said the stranger. "Others will be on their way, we have to leave."
"You know who I am..." the teen began.
"My name is Andrew Steel. I'm here to help. My car is this way." He began striding north at a good clip and Tommy hustled to keep up.
"I wanna thank you for saving my butt," the young man said. "What's the Mandate? Why are you helping me this way? Are you a cop?"
"Those men are professionals," Steel replied. "The Mandate is a covert government agency that has been breaking the law with too much impunity to suit me."
"Oh, geez, Men in Black and all that? But I didn't do anything wrong." Tommy found he was running now to stay alongside the grey man, and neither of them had any trouble carrying on a conversation while doing so.
"That's the problem with the Mandate," Steel said. He came to a halt beside a new 1964 Corvette Stingray, its battleship grey surface gleaming as if the wax were still wet. Steel unlocked the passenger door.
"Hot wheels," Tommy remarked as he hopped in.
"Thanks." Steel got behind the wheel and pulled out onto the empty side street, heading uptown. "Let me explain that I am not with the police or the FBI or any other organization. I'm working on my own. I try to handle threats that regular authorities can't or won't deal with."
"Okay. What's with those guys throwing bullets at me again?"
Steel said, "The Mandate is ostensibly a unit of the Department of Justice. For a long time, decades at least, they have been acting more and more independently. You never see them mentioned in the news or in articles. Congress never investigates them. They are too close to being an unsupervised secret police force in my opinion."
"Listen, a week ago my life was normal, even boring. I had nothing planned for summer vacation, maybe get a part-time job for pocket change, ya know? Then strange things started. Cars parked outside our house at night. When the person you talked to on the phone hung up, you heard a second click like there was someone else listening. Our mail looked funny, as if maybe the envelopes had been opened and then glued shut again."
"Go on."
"Yesterday afternoon, someone shot at me. I wasn't doing anything out of the ordinary, just walking through the neighborhood..."
Slowing at a red light but not stopping, Steel turned his pale eyes toward his passenger for a second. "Tommy, most likely you haven't told anyone yet. But I think it's probable that you have developed a new talent or ability lately. Something amazing, something you might even say was impossible until it happened to you. Am I right?"
"You mean... like a super-power? Like in comic books?"
"Yes. That would be why the Mandate is interested in you."
"Yeah. It sounds crazy. It IS crazy, but after everything that happened tonight, what's crazy? All right. Somehow I can jump up at least ten or twelve feet without even crouching. I can cover, I dunno, maybe twenty feet like a broad jump but without running. Just from where I stand. That's not possible, is it?"
"Stranger things happen in the world, Tommy. This may be a comfort to hear, I don't believe the Mandate is actually trying to kill you. They're testing you. They want to see how your new ability works and what your limits are."
This seemed to push the teen a step too far. "They WHAT?! They're scaring the piss outtta me is what they're doing, making me run away from home and walking around New York City in the middle of the night because I'm afraid for my life! And for what? To test me? You have to putting me on, I can't take much more of this..."
The grey man placed a hand on Tommy's arm. "Easy. We can deal with the situation. Here we are, 28 East 38th Street."
They pulled into an empty spot near a nine-story white stone building that had lights burning in the first floor windows. Steel got out and Tommy followed his example. "Huh. Is this your place?"
"Oh, no," replied the grey man cheerfully. "It belongs to a friend of mine who is the best at finding answers and solving puzzles. Let's go in. Kenneth Dred is always up all night."
IV.
Squatting at the corner of 53rd Street and Eighth Avenue was a run-down building whose top floor windows were carelessly boarded up or painted black. The second floor was still in use, judging by the air conditionders in two windows and the blue flicker of a television visible late at night.
The ground floor was occupied by a long-established business called BOOK PARADISE, with a grimy show window which displayed piles of paperbacks and ancient hardcovers with titles long rubbed off into an indecipherable state. Next door to it, the window had blue neon tubing which promised first LADIES WELCOME and then BEER ON TAP, with the establishment name TRAVIS TAVERN on mentioned in smaller letters. These kept normal hours, and time spent browsing in the used books store or idling at the bar would not reveal anything suspicious.
In fact, both these businesses were mere fronts. Both were connected by concealed passages behind hidden doors, and narrow stairs between walls led upstairs where both the second and third floors were fully occupied. As the bar began to close down, with calls for 'last drinks' and with chairs being put upside down on tables, a well-dressed couple in their thirties headed back to the shadow of the full length phone booth. They were satisfied the last customer was out on the street before they stepped into what seemed to be an ordinary utility closet with brooms, mops and wheeled buckets. A panel slid aside and they ascended wooden steps barely wide enough to accomodate them.
At the third floor, they stepped out into a pair of offices which had windows blacked out entirely but which also had bright flourescent tubing overhead. This part of the building had been thoroughly soundproofed. Here, intense feverish activity could be found at most any time of day or night.
The office they entered had only a single desk with a pair of telephones on it. Standing facing them, obviously ready for their arrival, was a hard-faced young man who held a small Brevetta aimed between them. "Good evening. The word, please?"
"Tonight being the fourth of April, bon mot would be 'palfrey," said the male half of the pair. He was handsome enough, with crispy curly brown hair and a deeply cleft chin. A well-cut blue suit with a lighter dress shirt and a black knitted silk tie, complete with vest, not to mention the neatly blocked fedora he held in one manicured hand, were on the edge of being too dressy to escape comments in mundane Manhattan. Yet he was so relaxed and self-assured that he was obviously no mere dandy.
"That's a small light horse, one knows." Almost ten years younger than her partner, the woman was exactly as tall. Attractive but in a subdued way, she had auburn hair brushed straight back to reach past her shoulders, and deep caramel-colored eyes in a thoughtful face. Her short white skirt revealed impeccable legs, the tan blouse and beige pullover had not been yanked off the rack at any discount store. "I say, M-12, any idea why we've summoned at this ghastly hour?"
"Never a comment from me, ma'am. Control will see you now." Reaching over to his desk, he pressed a button on an ivory row of five. From the adjoining door with its frosted glass panel came a buzz which indicate a lock opening.
The two crossed over, knocked politely even though they knew they had just been sent there, and gruffly told to come in by a manic voice. They closed the door behind them and M-12 went back to his task of filing reports.
"Ah, M7 and M9, prompt as usual," rumbled the brute who filled the space behind a desk piled with precarious stacks of papers, folders, manila envelopes, empty paper coffee cups and an assortment of pens, pencils and rubber stamps. Nearly touching his right elbow was a green metal filing cabinet where he could reach into the drawers without getting up. At five feet nine and easily three hundred pounds, he seemed like someone who would minimize movement if possible.
The walls were covered with memos, wanted posters, schedules and two calendars which had been free from insurance companies. Facing the desk were two straightback wooden chairs carefully selected so that most people sitting in them would be looking up slightly to meet the giant's gaze.
Seating themselves, the two agents restrained their smiles. Most people jammed into this space with that huge walrus of a man glowering down at them would be at a psychological disadvantage. The two of them were too experienced to feel uncomfortable, they saw the set-up as an obvious trick and were at ease.
"M271 is dead," their boss announced without preamble, seeing if he could make them jump.
"Oh, you mean Cullen? Richard Cullen? Pity. Fine fellow," Kiel said.
"Was it enemy action?" asked Mrs Hewitt. Like her partner Matthew Kiel, she retained faint traces of a posh Public School upbringing. They had been recruited by the Mandate eight years ago, Kiel from a branch of MI5 and Mrs Hewitt from her curious life as an amateur criminologist.
"It was! He was part of the cell observing a suspected Variant. Young Korean boy, maybe I should specify Korean-American. Name of Thomas Moon. We found M271 dead with a bullet from his own gun on 23rd Street not two hours ago."
"Damned Variants," Kiel grumbled. "I seems there are more of them every day. Has our Research found any cause for these monsters?"
"None," snapped Control. "Some of our scientists think fallout from nuclear testing has something to do with it. They're fools. As far back as the '30s, Variants like the Green Devil and Vulcan were running about loose. Not to mention Samhain."
"That fiend! You needn't remind us of him." Mrs Hewitt visibly shuddered. "Not a year ago, we managed to corner Samhain. Kiel here filled him with bullets like raisins in a Christmas pudding. I was obliged to pin him under the front wheel of my Lotus to hold him down and he was still struggling to escape when the squad took him away."
"He had murdered four women on that spree. April, May, June and a teenager named January. It's a hellish game with him," Kiel added. "If the great unwashed masses ever suspected the terrors that stalk unseen among them..."
"Finding these creatures and neutralizing them is our task," growled their Control. "Our Mandate."
"If only we could turn them, convince a few to work for us." Kiel raised one elegant eyebrow. "Some can walk through solid objects or camouflage themselves so you pass by them without noticing they are pressed up against the wall."
"Never happen," their boss spat without anger which seemed excessive. "Not once. Whatever unknown force transforms them also affects their minds. You two met Samhain, but you've read the files on Golgora, Slaughterman, that madman Cogitus."
"Which leads us to why our pagers went off twenty minutes ago," Mrs Hewitt interrupted.
"Very well, very well." The obese body shifted in a specially made chair which squeaked in protest. "It's the Moon boy. He's been under observation, he caught on and he rabbited. Right here to the city which is our nexus, although he can't know that. We are still not certain how, but he rendered two of our better field agents unconscious. They've been recovered but our doctors think they've been given some powerful tranquilizer in gas form."
"That's a bit dodgy," Kiel observed. "Even if the boy has some wild talent, where would he get his hands on anesthetic gas? Someone is working with him. Someone with pro resources."
"That's what worries me. I want the two of you to proceed to where we think he will turn up. Keep an eye out for him. The Pak Cho school at 621 Mott Street. A karate place owned by a man named Whang. Sung T Whang, hell of a silly name."
Smiling at Control, Mrs Hewitt said, "I've traveled a fair bit. Foreigners often find our names amusing as well... Mr Cadwallader."
The massive face creased horizontally as he grinned. "Fair enough. Fair enough. Be off with you. As always, this branch is understaffed and underpaid, I will have no back-up to send you until tomorrow's afternoon shift."
"We rely on charm and cunning," Mrs Hewitt replied as she smoothly rose.
"As well as well-timed violence as needed," Kiel added. He straightened his jacket and adjusted his cuffs. As he twirled his fedora, he accompanied Mrs Hewitt toward the door behind them.
"Report every hour instead of every three," ordered the Control without rising. "Something about this particular monster makes me uneasy. Who provided him with that gas, and why?"
With that, Kiel and Mrs Hewitt left that office, murmured polite goodbyes to the agent sitting in the next office and proceeded down the narrow stairs to exit through a metal door which opened to an alley. They waited until a delivery truck rolled slowly past before stepping out onto the sidewalk again.
Throwing back her head, Mrs Hewitt took in a deep breath of the pleasant Spring air, while Kiel enjoyed watching her do so. "Gracious," she said, "Doesn't Control realize how stuffy it is in there?"
"I believe he rather enjoys it. The man grows more eccentric every day." Kiel tilted his hat to a rather impudent angle and offered his elbow to his partner, who slipped her arm through it. "The city sleeps as much as it ever does. Tonight seems more peaceful than usual."
"Hmm. People don't realize what monsters are walking next to them."
"Variants," Kiel said. "Creatures with supernatural powers, indulging their murderous whims with impunity. What on Earth could be creating these fiends?"
Mrs Hewitt scoffed. "I don't believe we'll ever know. It's a dark side of Nature. I rather think that in the Ice Ages when our ancestors ran about spearing mammoths, there were Variants back then as well."
"Sobering thought. Well, we have our hands full at the moment. This Tommy Moon character." He opened the passenger door of his BMW and his partner slid gracefully into her seat. Kiel went around behind the wheel and started the finely-tuned engine. "He's seventeen, Control told us. Still a lad."
"A dangerous lad who has already claimed one of us. We met Cullen's wife once, remember. Our duty is clear."
"Once more into the breach, dear friends," quoted Kiel as he swung around on the empty street and motored south toward Chinatown.
V.
Kenneth Dred met his visitors in the small vestibule, then led them across the front hall past a wide staircase to his reception room. This was furnished with overstuffed brown leather chairs, a magazine table and chess set on its own pedastal, a sideboard stocked with various cheeses and cold cuts, and a liquor cabinet. There was even a cigar humidor. The effect was more of an upper class gentleman's club than someone's home.
Dred himself was short, no more than five feet nine, and in his mid-sixties with receding hair back over a high forehead and an inquisitive gnomish face. He welcomed his guests with seeming glee at visitors arriving unannounced so late.
Even closer to dawn than midnight, Dred was fully dressed but with slippers rather than shoes and a quilted smoking jacket to protect his shirt. He was holding a battered old book with numerous slips of paper marking passages protruding from its pages. "I didn't expect to see you again so soon, Andrew," he admitted as he ushered them to take seats. "My, you've been busy."
"Kenneth, this young man is Tommy Moon. He has had some interesting experiences tonight."
"Oh, I'd love to hear about it," Dred said as he leaned back in his chair. "But the way he's eyeing the food. Help yourself to anything and everything, son."
Taking this at face value, the ravenous teen began filling a china plate with bits of cheese and assorted crackers, then took it over to a chair and plopped down. "Okay if I eat while I explain what happened? I haven't had anything since breakfast."
"By all means," Dred told him. "It's almost time for today's breakfast in fact. Here, take this bottle of club soda, of course I can't offer you wine."
For the next half hour, Tommy told his story. It took forever because he went back for another load on his plate and because both Dred and Steel then began asking him to elaborate on details. Neither of the older men ate anything themselves.
"The Mandate again," sighed Dred. The old occultist glanced over at the grey man with regret in his eyes. "They started during World War II, I believe, originally as a fact-finding group. I remember working with Mark Drum and Sulak, and they both worried the government was taking an unhealthy interest in them.The Mandate might as well be a rogue agency At this point. I have heard rumors of their experiments on people with unusual powers, people like our young friend here."
"Experiments?!" shouted Tommy. "You mean, medical experiments? As if testing guinea pigs and white mice?"
"That's exactly what I mean, son. First, let me try to explain what has happened to you. You're not a freak, there is nothing wrong with you physically or mentally. The general public never hears about it, but some people develop supernatural abilities after excessive stress or danger triggers a change. I have known several people like this. For their own peace of mind, they tend to use their new abilities in secrecy, at a low personal level."
"I don't get it, to be honest." Tommy finally put the plate aside. "How can I break athletic records so easy? How can my body do this stuff, without training and exercising all the time?"
Kenneth Dred studied the young man for a moment before answering. "There's a force in the universe that no one understands. It's called 'gralir.' Something like what the Chinese call 'Chi' or the Hindus called 'prana.' Gralic force interacts between consciousness and physics somehow."
"You lost me."
"Hmm. Your mind taps this gralic force to give your body enhanced strength and quicker reflexes. Some people use gralic force to read minds, to teleport, to project flame or darkness, all according to their personal inclination. Your jumping abilities are right for you. You are meant to have them."
"Well, that's good to know," Tommy said. "I was wondering if I was some sort of monster."
"No, not at all. The next time you're in a crowd, consider that many of those dull boring adults you see might be able to levitate or see in the dark or breathe underwater. But they keep it to themselves."
Andrew Steel had been listening mostly without comment. "I don't think it would be ethical for you to enter athletic competition, though. It wouldn't be fair to the competitors who don't have your advantage. At a broad jump contest, for example, you would be like a sighted person against the blind."
"Okay. That sounds fair enough. But, you know, something occurs to me," Tommy said. "I was really careful nobody saw me trying out my jumping bit. How did this Mandate bunch even learn about me? Wait. First I have to call my folks. I told my parents I'd phone them when I got to the city, but so much has been happening."
Kenneth Dred half rose and pointed to the hall door. "There's a phone out there by the front door. But watch every word. You can be certain that your family's phone is tapped. Mandate agents may have located you here as well. Assume that they are listening."
"This gets scarier by the minute," Tommy said as he rose. "I've got the creeps bad."
"Do not mention Andrew or myself," Dred cautioned. "I suggest you merely say you are well and safe, nothing else. Do you understand?"
"Yeah, sure. Thanks." The teen hurried out in the hall and a second later they could hear his voice speaking quickly.
Steel turned his grey eyes on Dred. "Who would have useful information for us? Perhaps Michael Hawk?"
"I don't think so," Dred replied. "He's mostly concerned with regular crime, solving murders and tracking down fugitives. This is not his area of expertise."
"I have heard of someone called the Deacon," Steel suggested.
"Deacon? Yes, Thomas Halwick. He's done some espionage work. I've met him, he's remarkable. But I don't think he's in the States at the moment." Dred lowered his head and studied his gnarled hands. "So many heroes are dead or retired these days. There is no Dr Vitarius or Mark Drum fighting the Midnight War. That's why I was so cheered when you explained your mission, Andrew."
Before Steel could respond, Tommy Moon came galloping back into the room and dropped back in his chair. "Thanks for letting me use your phone. Mom and Dad said they weren't too worried about me but I could hear her crying in the background when Dad was talking. Relieved, I guess. I said I only had a minute. I told them I would call them again after I got some sleep."
"You handled that well, Tommy," Andrew Steel said. "Tell me, where where you intending to stay?"
"With a friend of my dad's. Guy named Whang, down in Chinatown." He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. "We're not Chinese, you understand. My family's from Seoul, we're Korean. I don't know if that makes any difference to you two."
"It may prove important later." Dred levered himself up to a standing position with a faint grunt at the effort. "Andrew, you look like you're ready to act."
"I have been thinking the situation over," the grey man said, rising smoothly out of the easy chair. "There is no time to lose." With that, he scooped Tommy up under one arm as if the boy was weightless and ran out of the house down to the street where his car was waiting. Placing Tommy in the passenger seat and circling to get behind the wheel, Steel had the modified Stingray hurtling over the speed limit in the first three seconds. Only one or two other vehicles were on the streets at this hour.
"Ack! You got a fighter jet engine under the hood?" asked Tommy as he caught his breath.
Ignoring red lights and stop signs, Steel did not let up until they roared onto Mott Street. The first hint of dawn brightened the sky to the East. They came to an abrupt halt in front of a yellow concrete block building that had recently been a laundromat. The long picture window was darkened behind heavy curtains, but it had several Korean ideograms and the English words PAK CHO ATHLETIC SOCIETY - MEMBERS ONLY painted on it. Asian martial arts were not freely taught to Westerners yet, with very few exceptions mostly on the West Coast.
Steel sprang out of the car, found the front door was unlocked and hurried inside with Tommy right behind him. Lights went on. In the sudden glare, they found themselves facing a man and a woman who were holding pistols on them.
Moving in close to Tommy Moon, Kiel tapped the shortened barrel of his Webley revolver against the boy's temple, then moved back a step to close the street door. "None of that hopping around I've heard about, lad. There's a low ceiling here, you'd hurt yourself."
For her part, Caroline Hewitt held a small 7.65 Beretta steady with both hands, the infinite blackness of its muzzle pointing at Andrew Steel. "Thank you for bringing him here," she said pleasantly. "We haven't even had to wait long."
VI.
Tommy Moon held as motionless as he possibly could, hands half raised up by his ribs. He could actually feel his heart pounding. It seemed as if everyone there should be able to hear it. Those rapid fire reflexes were not enough to keep him from being shot at such close range.
Twenty feet away, Caroline Hewitt shifted a few steps to one side, trying to get Steel to turn to keep facing her. It didn't work. The strange grey man's eyes followed her but his body did not move.
When Steel spoke, his voice carried such unstressed authority that everyone froze in place. "You two have become what you hate most."
Still staying close to Tommy, Kiel snapped, "Quiet. We will ask the questions."
"You are the menaces you claim to be fighting," Steel said. He sounded like a parent explaining some thorny fact of life to children. "It happened gradually, I am sure. You were corrupted in stages."
"I told you to be quiet," said Kiel, "We're protecting the public from dangerous deviates."
"No, you are not. Look at that boy. Seventeen. Has he been charged with anything? No. Is he even suspected of planning to hurt anyone? No. He was minding his own business, being a youth, when your agency dispatched its storm troopers..."
"It's not like that," Mrs Hewitt interrupted. "We have our orders."
"That defense did not work at Nuremberg." Steel had not raised his hands as he had found himself being held at gunpoint. "Do you two even realize what atrocities you commit? You will take a minor against his will to a secret location for experiments? What will happen to him afterwards? You don't seriously think he can be released, do you?"
"Shut up!" yelled Kiel, his post accent slipping. "I don't know who you think you are, mister..."
"I am Andrew Steel," said the grey man. "I am something new come into the world. How many innocent human beings have you snatched away from their families? How many children did you deliver to be dissected to study their abilities? Your hands have too much blood on them to ever be clean."
No, no, it's not like that at all," Caroline Hewitt shrilled. In her agitation, she actually lowered the barrel of her gun an inch out of line. "Our superiors know what is best. They have the safety of the American public in mind."
"Do they really?" Steel finally raised his hands up to shoulder level. "Do you hear that hissing?"
Despite all their training and experience, the Mandate agents did indeed lean in closer. There is was, a faint hiss barely audible in the hushed room. Simultaneously, Tommy Moon and the two agents sagged at the knees and dropped face down to the floor. Only the stern figure of Andrew Steel remained unaffected, standing as cold and rigid as the metal statue he resembled.
VII.
Coming back to awareness was a struggle for Tommy Moon. His stomach was queasy and his head foggy. Eventually it sank in that he was half-sitting on a wooden floor, his back propped up against a wall. His eyes resisted opening at all and then refused to focus. This was a gym of some kind, with hard thin mats on the floor. On the opposite wall from where he sat, under a clock which read five-twenty, was a pair of framed diplomas, a portrait of an elderly man with wispy white whiskers and a Korean flag with its Yin-Yang symbol.
Everything rushed back into his mind with unexpected urgency. He had to get out of here!
But then the reassuring calm face of Andrew Steel lowered into view. "Steady. Give yourself a moment. Here's some water."
The paper cup of tepid tap water was exactly what he needed. After gulping it, he managed to say, "My head feels like a horse danced on it. What's going on? Where are those two spies?"
Steel grabbed Tommy by the arms and hauled him upright with an ease that hidden at immense strength held in reserve. "I used a harmless anesthetic gas on everyone. It's stored in pressurized tubes within my sleeves. My policy is to minimize violence if possible."
"I feel like crap, Mr Steel."
"The gas is potent. You'll recover soon." He pointed to the other side of the room where Patrick Kiel and Caroline Hewitt were leant back against that wall with their wrists handcuffed behind them. They showed no signs of stirring.
"Whew. Glad to see them harmlesss." Tommy gave a short barking laugh. "You sure were getting them mad, Mr Steel. Man! I don't think anyone has argued with them in a long time."
"They received a more direct dosage than you did," the grey man said. In the bright lights of the dojang, the material of his tunic had a metallic sheen to it. The monochromatic scheme worked better than Steel had hoped. White hair, pale skin and eyes, battleship grey uniform... it made him a figure that once seen was not quickly forgotten.
Ten feet away from the two Mandate agents was an array of equipment that included a professional quality camera, brushes and powders on a tray, a small Fax transmitter. Andrew Steel left this paraphenalia where it would be the first thing the spies saw when they awakened.
To give them credit, Kiel and Mrs Hewitt got their faculties arranged at once. They saw they were bound with their legs stretched out before them so they could not quickly rise. As the two recognized the equipment arrayed on the floor, dismay washed over their faces before they could hide it.
"I see you understand the situation," Steel told them, standing with arms folded across his chest, hands holding the opposite arms in a characteristic pose. "Yes, while you were unconscious, I took your fingerprints and numerous clear photographs of your faces. I even took the liberty of examining you for distinctive scars and birthmarks."
"Bloody cheek..." muttered Kiel.
"All this information has been Faxed to the people who worked with me. Your true names and histories are now known to me. If I wish, that data will be sent to the FBI, the CIA and newspapers such as the NEW YORK TIMES and THE WASHINGTON POST. The Mandate has made many enemies. Exposing two Mandate agents who are harassing American citizens will be front page news."
Caroline Hewitt started to speak, stammered and had to start over. "We're ruined. Maybe we can ask for standard office duty..."
"No. You will be executed as failed agents," Steel told them bluntly. "Have you known any fellow agents who retired peacefully and lived a normal lifespan?"
They had no answer for that.
"I thought so. When a Mandate officer wants to quit, something unfortunate always happens to them, doesn't it? A car crash, a sudden heart attack. Maybe a tragic fall from a fifth floor window. And the two of you never questioned it all?"
"We trusted our superiors," Mrs Hewitt whispered, "They had information we aren't cleared for. They see the bigger picture."
"Yeah? Well, there were times I smelled something fishy," said Kiel. "Too much didn't add up, too much sounded flimsy. When Fitzsimmons applied to transfer over to Army Intelligence, his fatal pneumonia came out of nowhere. But we believed what we were told, like good little soldiers."
Struggling, Mrs Hewitt swung around to get up on her knees. "See here, whoever you are. My partner and I have done good work. We captured that vile Samhain. I myself shot down a furry shape-changer that was already eating its victims. And Kiel took into custody an old woman who could make people she didn't like burst into flames. You can't deny that."
"Go on," said Steel. "How many of these so-called Variants had done no one any harm? How many had been caught using unusual powers and were taken prisoner for study?"
"God..." mumbled Kiel.
"And they're never returned to their families either, are they?" snapped the grey man with a sudden edge in his voice. "You've been making innocent people disappear for years. Their husbands and wives and children never learn what happened to their loved ones. More mysterious missing persons whose fates are never learned."
"I've been blind," Mrs Hewitt stumbled through saying. "We both have, Patrick. And now we are going to pay for being such fools."
Andrew Steel studied them with the attitude of a judge deciding sentence. "You can't go back. Even without your real names being on the Six O'Clock News and the front page, your Control can not trust you any more. Some Mandate executioner will be given your files to study and to decided how to snuff your lives out."
"We're right screwed no matter what, then. Going on the run is all that's left for us." Kiel swung his legs around and managed to get up on his feet. "Spies like us always have an escape route. Passports and money hidden, knowing someone on the coast with a light private plane. We can disappear."
The strange man in grey nodded once. "Very well. I will even help you flee and see you settle abroad safely. In time, a year or so, you may want to reappear with new names and faces. Working with me and my people. It will be up to you."
Mrs Hewitt swung around and wriggled her fingers. "Time to remove the bracelets, isn't it?"
"In a second. You should know that I intend to confront your Control. I will collect information on him the way I did on you. A truce may be arranged. In exchange for Tommy's safety, the full story of the Mandate's misdeeds will be discussed all over the country. There will not be a Congressional investigation. No officers will be removed from their positions and no trials will be held if I am satisfied."
"Wait a minute," Tommy interrupted. "Mr Steel, this all sounds great, but you know what it means. The Mandate killers will assassinate you."
Those pale eyes rested on the young man with complete fearlessness. "They can try."
6/27/2020