Ex-Patriots (2 page)

“I hope you’ll forgive me,” said Smith, “but
I took the liberty of canceling your lecture.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in.
“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“John Smith,” he repeated. The smile faltered
as his hand fumbled with a leather wallet. He opened it to reveal a
golden badge and a set of credentials with his photo. He was
smiling in the photo. “Agent Smith, technically. I’m with the
Department of Homeland Security, seconded to the Defense Advanced
Research Projects Agency. Could we speak alone, sir?”

He said the last with a nod to Mary. She
looked at me with wide eyes. We all spoke a bit too freely at
times, and on a college campus paranoia and rumors about the
Patriot Act ran like wildfire. “Doctor?”

I tried what I hoped was a reassuring smile.
“Why don’t you go see if there are any stragglers at Bartlett
Hall,” I told her. “Let them know this delay doesn’t mean they’re
off the hook for next week’s test.”

She gathered her own papers and paused to
make sure I saw the flash drive she’d uncovered. The smile graced
Smith’s face the entire time. He gave Mary a polite wave as she
slipped out between the two larger men. They closed the door behind
her.

“So what’s this all about?”

Smith’s face relaxed. As the smile faded, he
gained several years. Not a young man, but cursed with the face of
one. One of the other biochem professors had the same problem. A
young face in a college town meant always being carded at the store
and never being taken as seriously as your colleagues.

“You’re a very impressive man, Doctor
Sorensen,” he said. “You’ve got more doctorate degrees than I’ve
got years of education. Physiology. Neurology. Biochemistry. A
forerunner in molecular nanotechnology and—”

“I know my own credentials.”

“From what I’ve read, you got cheated out of
the Nobel prize last year.”

“It’s not about winning prizes,” I said.
“Besides, the gene modification techniques Evans and the others
developed are brilliant. They even helped my own work.”

“Of course,” Smith agreed with a polite nod.
“You’ve received several grants from DARPA over the past twenty
years. If I read the file right, your contract’s been renewed a
record-breaking seven times. In fact,” he gave a forced chuckle,
“you started working for the government just before my eighth
birthday.”

“Can you please get to the point, Mr.
Smith?”

The smile faltered again. “Well, doctor, the
fact is they want to bring you on full time and put you in charge
of—”

“Not interested.”

His face dropped. “You don’t even know which
project I was going to say.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’m comfortable
with my arrangement the way it is.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Smith reached out to the side. The man with
the attaché case opened it and placed a file folder in the waiting
hand. “You’ve seen some of the headlines, I’m guessing?” He walked
past me to the table and spread out some clippings and printed
articles.

THE MIGHTY DRAGON PATROLS LOS ANGELES

“APE MAN” STOPS
ROBBERY

SHADOWY FIGURE HUNTS RAMPART DISTRICT
CRIMINALS

I’d seen most of them before. A few of my
grad students had been saving news stories and images for me since
The Mighty Dragon had first appeared in June. I guessed we had
twice as many articles as Smith did. Copies were on the flash
drive, which reminded me to pick it up and drop it in my pocket.
“Have you seen the ones about the electrical man up in Boston?” I
asked him.

His eyes lit up like a child. “I have. What
do you think of them?”

“I’m intrigued, of course, but until I see
more concrete proof than a headline in the
Post
or some
grainy photos on a blog, it’s not going to occupy a lot of my
time.”

“But you’ve had your students saving news
stories for you.” His smile came back.

“What are you getting at, Mr. Smith?”

He avoided my eyes and looked around the lab.
“I hate to sound suspicious, Professor Sorensen, but... well, some
folks at DARPA have been wondering if you’ve had some success with
your human enhancement research that you haven’t told us
about.”

I felt a twinge of panic. Maybe Mary’s
paranoia wasn’t that misplaced after all. “You think I had
something to do with these people?”

Smith shrugged. “To be honest,” he said, “I
think they’d be thrilled if you had. It’d put the United States far
ahead in the superpowers race.”

“The what?”

“They’re not just here, doctor,” he said.
“People with superhuman abilities are appearing all over the world.
Did you see Vladimir Putin on the cover of
Time
last month?”
Smith shook his head.

“I saw the picture,” I said with a nod.
They’d titled it ‘Superman of the Year.’ Putin had been
bare-chested in front of the Kremlin, holding a car one-handed over
his head. “I thought it was Photoshop propaganda.”

“Most people did. Thank the CIA for that. But
superhumans are popping up everywhere.” Smith slid some more photos
from the file folder. “England’s got the Green Knight and the
Scarecrow. Japan’s got a whole team of super-samurais. There’s two
guys in Iran calling themselves Gilgamesh and Marduk. Hell, we got
satellite footage of a dragon flying over Baghdad this morning.
Wings, horns, tail, everything.”

“A dragon?”

He shrugged. “Some of the agency folks think
it might be some kind of metamorphosis or something.” His tongue
tripped over the word. “That something, maybe someone, changed
into—”

“I know what metamorphosis means.”

“Right, sorry. Anyway, don’t you see,
professor? That’s why we need to get you back on Project Krypton.
No more consults, no more outside evaluations. We want you working
full time with us on this. And you don’t want to miss out on a
chance like this, do you?”

“No,” I found myself saying. I knew Smith was
right. Eva and Madelyn were going to be angry with me. I’d promised
them I wouldn’t take on extra projects this year. “I thought
Krypton was done for good?”

“The Secretary of Defense likes it. He
brought it back two years ago, but it’s been kept pretty quiet. The
Future Force Warrior project gets most of the headlines on
Wired
, anyway.”

“Then why bring back Krypton?”

“Well, Future Force is doing well,” he said,
“and they’re also hoping to have that new exoskeleton project in
the public eye in the next seven or eight months. But when it comes
down to it, the Vice President, the Secretary, and the Joint Chiefs
want to see the real deal in our corner and they think you’re the
man to do it.”

I furrowed my brow. It’s a bad habit. Eva
says it’s giving me wrinkles. “Our corner? I’m not sure I
understand.”

He gestured at the papers and images on the
table. “All of these other superhumans are answering to their
country’s government,” he explained. “Almost every one of them.
Some are even on payroll. I mean, think about it, doctor. There’s
no point in having superheroes in the United States if the
government doesn’t control them.”

NOW

There were at least three dozen more people in the
shop than needed to be. A rumble of conversation echoed through the
warehouse-sized room. The rolling tables and racks had been wheeled
away. In their place, a single chair sat centered under the
cleanest skylight.

St. George sat in the chair. His leather
jacket had been tossed aside on one of the tables, revealing the
cherry-red tank top that still made summer in Los Angeles feel too
hot. He looked at the crowd, then at the handful of people who
stood around his chair.

Jarvis tucked a sturdy hacksaw under his arm
and clapped his hands. “All y’all quiet down,” he said. “No reason
to turn this into more of a circus than it already is.” He paused
to scratch his chin beneath his salt-and-pepper beard. “We all know
this ain’t a one person job. We drew lots last week and each of the
winners are going to get a chance at him.”

To St. George’s left, Andy held a pair of
well-worn bolt cutters, and by his shoulder a woman clutched a pair
of bright blue tin snips. Billie Carter stood on the other side of
the chair with a pair of wire cutters. Mike Turner had another set
of bolt cutters. Right in front was a little Latina girl with a
black set of wire cutters. She was bouncing up and down. St. George
smiled at her and she blushed.

Jarvis turned to the hero in the chair. “Last
chance to back out, chief.”

The hero smiled. “I’m good,” he said. “This
is long overdue.”

The older man shook his head and let his own
hair settle past his shoulders. “Personally, I think it makes you
look distinguished.”

“Maybe,” said St. George, “but it’s too
damned hot in the summer.”

“You let it grow any longer we’d all start
calling you St. Fabio,” said Mike.

“St. Hippy is more like it,” said Billie. She
squeezed her wire cutters a few times for emphasis and a round of
chuckles echoed in the room. She still wore her hair cropped
military-short.

Andy stepped forward and held up the bolt
cutters. He moved behind St. George and began to gather the golden
hair into a ponytail.

“Et tu
, Andy?” St. George said with a
grin.

“How could I pass up the chance to cut the
hair off a legendary strong man?” Andy said with a smile. “If I
ever get ordained, I could tell that story every Sunday to a rapt
congregation.” He settled the ponytail into the mouth of the bolt
cutters, took a deep breath, and levered the handles together.

The hair resisted. Andy took another breath,
threw his weight into it, and there was a crackle of sharp pops,
like breaking spaghetti. It echoed through the shop and the
ponytail dropped to the floor. The crowd hollered and applauded.
Andy looked at the gouged blades of his bolt cutters and shook his
head.

Mike wobbled forward. It had been eight
months since an ex had tried to bite through his shoe and cracked
half the bones in his foot. Doctor Connolly still wasn’t sure if
he’d ever walk without a limp. “Little off the top, boss?” he said
with a wicked grin.

Over the course of the hour, they sawed and
clipped and chopped at the hero’s hair. In the end the tools were
chipped and pitted, but the floor was covered with hair. There was
a final burst of applause from the crowd as St. George looked at
himself with a hand mirror.

“Reminds me of a haircut I got in college
once.” He set down the mirror. “Hope everyone had fun,” he said,
and gave Andrea a wink. “Time to get back to work. The day’s
wasting.”

The crowd funneled away as he shrugged into
the jacket. A few moments later he was alone with Billie and
Jarvis. “We ready?” he asked.

She gave him a sharp nod. “Luke’s got the
extra fuel tanks loaded in
Road Warrior
. We’ve got overnight
gear if we need it. Stealth’s even letting us take three extra
cases of ammunition. One nine millimeter, two of three-oh-eight.”
She glanced at her watch. “Team assembles in thirty-nine
minutes.”

The hero glanced at Jarvis. “What’s the armor
situation? Did Rocky get those last three sets of sleeves
done?”

“He did not,” said the bearded man. “He says
it’s an art and it takes as long as it takes. I told him y’all
wouldn’t be pleased.”

“Crap. What’s that give us, thirteen full
suits?”

“Yup.”

“Not a great number,” said Billie.

“No,” agreed the hero.

“Half the folks just want to wear their
leathers anyway,” said Jarvis. “This whole armor idea still ain’t
going over that well.”

“It’s too damned hot for leather,” said
Billie. “Either people don’t wear it or get heat exhaustion from
it.”

“Tell Rocky he gets chicken for dinner
tonight if he can finish one more set before we leave,” said St.
George. “He’s got my word on it.”

“Hell,” said Jarvis, “for a whole chicken
I’ll make the damned sleeves myself.”

“What if he doesn’t?” asked Billie.

“Then we’ll have to make do with what we’ve
got.”

“Does that mean cutting three people or
having three people go without armor?”

St. George wrinkled his brow. “Let me think
on that one.”

They stepped out into the morning light and
took a moment to adjust their sunglasses. Off to their right was
the Lemon Grove gate, and St. George reached up to rub the
blade-like tooth on his jacket as he looked that way. “I’m going to
check in with Zzzap and Stealth. I’ll meet both of you at Melrose
in thirty.”

Jarvis nodded and loped away. St. George was
about to leap into the air when Billie touched his arm. She
gestured down the road.

A thin, shaved-bald man waited there with the
little girl who’d cut St. George’s bangs. When the man realized
they’d seen him he switched the girl’s fingers to his other hand
and gave an awkward salute. He walked forward, still holding his
hand up, pulling the little girl behind him. He wore a pair of
fingerless gloves.

The hero waited for the salute to drop and
then shook the hand. “You were the one who actually won the
drawing, right?”

“Yeah,” said the man. He was young, twenty
tops, and spoke with an anxious, eager voice. His bare arms were
decorated with tattoos, and the hero could see the prominent number
on the left shoulder. “Andrea’s my niece. She’s wanted to meet you
since we moved up here.”

“You were with the Seventeens?”

“Was in, yeah,” the young man said, “but I’m
out now. I’m Cesar. Cesar Mendoza.”

Behind him, St. George heard Billie’s boots
shift. “Good to meet you, Cesar,” he said, pumping the hand again.
“You’ve got a beautiful niece.”