dochermes | Entries tagged with cogitus

DUST MITES ATTACK! III - Panic Time

9/14/2010

I.

Third Avenue at 40th Street was weirdly deserted at a Friday afternoon at three. Delis and newsstands and stores were unexpectedly closed. Traffic was sparse. The few pedestrians hurried down the sidewalks and vanished as soon as they could. It was a pleasant September day but the city seemed more deserted than it became when the worst ice storm was breaking.

The random deaths by skinless faces had broken all attempts at cover-up. By sheer word of mouth, by more postings on social media than could be suppressed, the public had informed itself. This unexplained phenomena was claiming more than one hundred lives each day in the metropolitan area and no defense was known. Sudden agonizing attacks meant tiny crablike vermin were eating the skin right off a victim's face and injecting caustic venom in the process. The world watched in helpless horror. Fearing spread of this pestilence, demands were being made to quarantine the Five Boroughs.

Striding up the block, Jeremy Bane was an even more ominous figure than usual. Tall and gaunt in his inevitable uniform of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket, he was scowling and the pale grey eyes were furious. He rushed up to the three story yellow brick building which housed his office and entered as the twin glass doors slid open. To his right in the lobby was the day clinic EMERGENCY ONE. Dr Hamsa Chughtai came forward to intercept him.

"Jeremy! Jeremy, wait a minute," he said.

They were on a first name basis because over the years Bane had brought so many wounded patients there, a good number of whom had made the mistake of attacking Bane or because his clients had a habit of showing up injured. The Dire Wolf paused and made an effort to soften his glare.

Lowering his voice, Chughtai stepped closer. "Six cases brought here today, even though there's nothing we can do to help them. They never make through the ambulance ride. I have to ask, Jeremy, what do you know the public doesn't?"

Bane didn't answer for a long moment. "What I can tell you... Hamsa, I can tell you that every agency is working full blast on this. I can't be more specific. I wish I could be more encouraging."

"What doesn't help is that we're swamped with people panicking. They feel their faces itch or someone tells them their face looks flushed and they come in all hysterical. All we can do is hold them for observation an hour or so and counsel them for anxiety." He raised both hands helplessly. "I have to get back in there. We're staying open late tonight."

In a gesture rare for him, Bane pressed a comforting hand on the doctor's shoulder. "You've found out a little bit about the Midnight War, Jeff. You know I won't stop until this is ended."

"I feel better knowing you're on it." Hearing a nurse calling him, he shook his head and went back inside the clinic.

"We both do our best," the Dire Wolf said to himself. Ahead of him was the wide wooden staircase leading up to the second floor. To his left was the FRESH START salon and spa. Going past that, he entered the narrow aisle between that wall and the side of the staircase. This ended in an Exit door marked EMERGENCY ONLY. Just before that was the plain wooden door with the bronze plaque DIRE WOLF AGENCY - PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS and a phone number.

And leaning on the wall next to his office door was the familiar bulk of Joseph Montez.

The big homicide detective looked awful. He had apparently not shaved, showered or changed his clothes for at least three or four days. It seemed likely he had not gotten a full night's sleep for that time either. The surprisingly gentle face under the thick black pompadour was bleary-eyed. "Ah. There you are..." he grumbled.

"Come on in, lieutenant," Bane said. He unlocked the outer door and ushered Montez through the tiny waiting room into the office proper. Steering the police detective to a chair facing the oak desk, the Dire Wolf got a pitcher of ice water and some tumblers from the waist high refrigerator, then down a glass himself and insisted the lieutenant do the same.

"Rather have black coffee..."

"Come on, chug it," Bane insisted. "You look dehydrated as hell. Your skin is dry." He gulped down a second tumbler and watched as his visitor sipped a second one as well. Going back to the refrigerator, he came back with two walnut Danishes wrapped in cling film and tossed one to Montez.

The Dire Wolf settled into the swivel chair behind his desk and allowed himself a grumbling sigh of exasperation. "I've spent most of today meeting with agents of the Mandate, INTERCEPT and Department 21 Black. AND the D.A.'s office! Now you're here for the NYPD."

"Yeah," said Montez. "The city is packed with thousands of cops, spies, Feds and G-Men turning over every rock looking for this Cogitus freak."

"And the full KDF team as well," Bane added. "Sable has called in as many of our Associate Members as she can reach, too. Everyone from Karina to Sulak is running around Manhattan today!"

Montez could not help giving out a sharp barking laugh. "Jeez, I bet the creatures of the night are hiding as hard as they can. I'd hate to be a newbie vampire or Skinwalker out looking for a stray victim with all you guys on the warpath."

Never evidencing much of a sense of humor, Bane showed no trace of amusement at the thought. "Cogitus is harder to catch every time. He learns from his mistakes, he doesn't trip himself up like so many bad guys do. Megan tells me she's certain he's somehow enlarging and mutating the dust mites that live on everybody's eyebrows and eyelashes. They live long enough to poison their victims and eat their faces, then the little bastards die off."

"I know our little Trom Girl is a super-genius herself," Montez said. "She come up with a defense?"

"Not so far," said the Dire Wolf. "Cogitus has been using the artifacts of ancient Zhune. They don't make any sense even in theory, even to the Trom."

Montez slumped so deeply he seemed at risk of falling off the chair entirely. He picked up the second Danish and took a bite. "Honestly, Bane, I don't understand half of what you say. This Zhune was like a sort of Atlantis, right? They somehow invented crazy technology that's still dangerous today? And this lunatic Herbert Lewis Sinclair, Cogitus he calls himself, uses some of these Zhune gadgets as weapons nobody else can figure out."

"That's accurate enough, lieutenant," the Dire Wolf said. "I used to be able to track Cogitus down because he used such enormous amounts of electrical power to charge up the artifacts. I'd hack into Con Ed records and find him that way. But he's figured out another way to get the Zhune relics up to speed and I'm stumped."

Montez' leonine head had dropped down onto his chest and the half-eaten Danish fell to the hardwood floor. Bane kept silent. Like Inspector Klein before him, Joseph Montez had started as an adversary who regarded the Dire Wolf as a wild loose cannon. But, as the reality of the Midnight War sank in, the lieutenant had gradually come to see Bane as an essential defender against the dark powers of the night. Let him doze for a few minutes.

Leaning forward on his desk, cradling his chin in his palm, the Dire Wolf kept thinking furiously as he tried to find a course to take. While he sat in his office, he knew innocent random people were suddenly screaming and grabbing at their faces. Bane had never felt more helpless.

( the rest of the story )

"Bid Yesterday Return"

4/11-4/12/1982

I.

The woman known as Rook had never been lacking in self-assurance. At thirty, standing five feet seven and slender in build, she was a remarkably gorgeous woman whose mixed Japanese and French parentage had gifted her with delicate expressive features including huge dark eyes and a glossy mane of thick black hair. In fact, she had even more confidence than one might expect. A career outside the law had that effect.

Yet, seated at the far end of that oak table, facing eight stern faces, Rook experienced an uncertainty that was new to her. The only other woman in that room was a petite blonde whose dark blue eyes studied Rook as a judge might. When their eyes met, Rook felt an uneasy crawling sensation in her mind as if thinking of spiders. She had no way of knowing that Cindy Brunner was a gifted telepath and that the unsettling sensation came from having her mind being probed.

Sitting up straight in her plain black dress with minimal make-up or jewelry, Europe's premier cat burglar and retrieval expert got hold of herself. Certainly, she had heard of these KDF members. What dweller in the borders between crime and the supernatural did not know of Khang by now? Or Michael Hawk, the veteran manhunter? But the only person there she had met before sat at the head of the table and regarded her without any of the welcome she had expected.

Jeremy Bane, the Dire Wolf, fixed his pale grey eyes on her coldly and thoughtfully. "Well, team, we have heard Rook's story. Let's have some reactions."

"As I read her, she's telling the truth as she knows it," Michael Hawk began. At sixty, with more grey than brown in his hair, he had a wide weathered face that gave nothing away of his feelings. "I can hear it in her voice. She's trying to hide it but she's terrified and she came here to us hoping to find help."

Next to Hawk, Dr Thaddeus Wright nodded. A Blue Guide, one of the healers of the Midnight War, he was a black man with a neatly trimmed beard and short hair. His dark brown suit with its pale yellow shirt and tan necktie were properly tailored. "I should not reveal my gift to an outsider, but her lifeforce is steady. I believe her."

"As do I," Leonard Slade added next. "Listening her voice and watching her pupis, I must conclude there is only the slightest possibility she is misleading us. I vote we act on her story."

"I agree," rumbled a strange voice that seemed to come from all directions at once. Khang was so bundled up in his flannel pants, oversized trenchcoat, gloves and slouch hat and scarf that nothing of his appearance could be seen. Even seated at the table, the silver giant loomed up over his teammates as if he were standing. "This is the sort of threat our gathering was intended to thwart."

Opposite Khang, Stephen Weaver chuckled. He was lighter-skinned than Ted Wright, younger and lankier and without the heavy sense of duty that the Blue Guide carried like a burden. Weaver had a thick mustache to counteract an admittedly broad nose. "Dang. Well, far be it from Black Angel to question the judgement of all you psychically endowed and deductive genius folks. I'm only a pilot and mechanic with a knack for levitation. I'll go with the consensus. Larry?"

Seated next to Rook, Dr Lawrence Taper kept his face as impassive as he could. "Susceptible as I admittedly am to a winsome countenance and a supple frame, my opinion is not to be taken seriously. No, there is one of us whose judgement will and should carry the day. Cynthia Lee?"

Up at the head of the table, sitting on Bane's right, Cindy gazed out at her friends. Physically tiny, only an inch over five feet tall and not more than a hundred pounds, she possessed to most potent and deft telepathic mind in the Midnight War. "For once, this woman is telling the truth. She may be a professional thief and con artist, but Rook is warning us of the most dangerous threat we have faced so far."

The Dire Wolf rose, leaning forward on stiff arms braced upon the table. "Rook, I've briefed everyone here on how you helped me defeat Karl Eldritch when he got hold of the Dwindle Horn."

"I'm not ALL bad," she said.

"Your career as a high-class jewel thief and grifter is not our concern," Bane continued. "We have our hands full with the Midnight War. Thanks for coming to us. When you heard gossip that Cogitus was about to locate five Zhune relics, you put yourself at some risk to come here."

"She's still at risk," Hawk said. "We've tangled with Cogitus, he's a vindictive old codger. If he learns that the lady here interfered with his plans, her life might end... and not painlessly."

"I've thought of that," admitted Rook. "Maybe an anonymous phone call might have been safer." She raised one elegant eyebrow in an expression that would have not been out of place on a magazine cover. "But in the badlands where I move, there are so many rumors and legends of the knights of Tel Shai, of your Kenneth Dred Foundation. How could I miss a chance to meet you all?"

"And swipe the silverware," Cindy muttered, still fixed a dubious eye on their guest.

Bane raised a dismissing hand at that comment. "Rook, for your safety I want you to remain here until the situation is resolved. This building is as secure as any place in the world. You can stay in one of our guest rooms and fix anything you like in our kitchen. Naturally most of headquarters will be off limits to you, but our Rec Room has a satellite hookup with eight hundred international channels. You won't be bored."

"And I am a prisoner, Jeremy?"

"Not at all. You can stand up and walk out right now if you want to." The grey eyes narrowed. "But remember what you know about Cogitus. Dr Sinclair has been a world-class mastermind for more than forty years. He has a list of victims that goes on for pages."

Again, that beguiling smile she could turn on like a floodlamp. "Point taken. Very well. I will be happy with a salad and some coffee."

Bane turned to face Leonard Slade further down the table. "We are going to divide into pairs and go after the Zhune relics immediately. One of our members will remain here on duty. He'll be here to protect you from attack and to keep you from wandering into rooms you're better off not knowing about, but also to co-ordinate the missions. Len?"

"Understood." The Trom seemed to be a normal Human male in his early thirties, handsome in an olive-skinned Mediterranean way. He was wearing a pair of drab overalls with a few oil stains on the fabric. "My maintenance on the CORBY is complete, the vehicle can be in the air within minutes."

Seeing the quizzical look on Rook's face, Hawk explained, "Our friend here is a Trom. He may look Human but he isn't. He's from a Race of scientific geniuses who've been breeding emotion out of themselves for thousands of years."

"In other words," Cindy couldn't help adding, "Batting your eyelashes and moistening your lips isn't going to get you anywhere with him."

( the rest of the story )

"Mystery of the Jupiter Man"

9/11/1943

I.

Kelly found herself in a position to get an interview with the Jupiter Man purely by chance.

She had been strolling about Times Square on her lunch break from the offices of THE MESSENGER, enjoying a sunny September afternoon. The lack of good-looking men her own age on the streets still gave her a vague melancholy. She was getting used to it. Her report about the suspicious fire on the Lower East Side had only made the second page but it did have her byline, which was always a help. War news from the Pacific had been monopolizing the front page for some time now. Her Green Devil activities had unhappily been slow for a while. Kelly was honest enough with herself to admit she missed the adrenalin as much as the chance to fight crime and espionage for altruistic reasons.

At twenty-three, Kelly O'Connor was young and zestful enough to dismiss the chance of being killed or worse in her crusade. A natural redhead with green eyes and an upturned nose, she was also tall and slim. In her new off-white dress with a faint lilac pattern, a brown leather handbag slung over one shoulder and a soft cloche hat tilted to one side, she knew she looked great and was enjoying the admiring looks she caught from men and women alike. The clacking of her heels on the pavement slowed as she realized it was time to swing around back for the office and survive another four hours in a city room filled with the pounding of battered typewriters and ten men smoking cigarettes as if they had a daily quota to use up.

Now she was on a side street between 48th and 49th. As she passed the windows of WEISSMAN JEWELERS, where she had spent more than a few wistful minutes gazing at the glitter on display, her pulse suddenly sped up. This was a one-way street. The black 1940 DeSoto rolling her way came to a stop that was way too sudden. She froze in a combination of fear and excitement. Two men with bandannas tied around their lower faces leaped from the big car and ran into the jewelry store, each gripping a 45 Colt automatic. The driver stayed in the car and revved the motor.

While everyone else either strood frozen at the sight or made quick tracks away from the scene, Kelly was annoyed that she could do nothing. Her Green Devil outfit was hidden in her apartment and she was not wearing the lighter emergency costume she sometimes had on if expecting trouble. To be frank, it was simply too uncomfortable to spend a hot day with an extra layer under her regular clothing, leaving her itchy and sweaty. Even if she had been carrying it with her, there was no place to change. By the time she got into her suit, the robbery would be over anyway. Drat the luck. She took in details of the DeSoto and noticed that the license plates had been obscured with pieces of tape that could quickly torn off after the getaway.

It was infuriating, so much so that she didn't even consider how she was placing herself in danger by staying close to an armed robbery. A second later, both gunmen came running out, each with a canvas bag of loot. No shots had been heard. One of the thugs gave Kelly a cold hostile stare but then hopped back in the car anyway. She realized glumly that with their unremarkable suits and fedoras, the kerchiefs over their faces meant she could not even give a useful description.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted movement on the roof of the five-story building.

A masked man in a dark Royal blue outfit jumped down to land in front of the car as easily as if stepping off the curb. Kelly took in impressions instantly. He was a big guy, well over six feet tall and built like a circus strongman. Like a performer also, his tights showed every well-ddefined muscle clearly. He was wearing polished black boots, a white belt and cuffs, and had on a helmet with a raised crest like something out of the science fiction pulps. On each shoulder was a white crescent of stiff leather. The Jupiter Man.

As everyone on the scene watched, Jupiter Man crouched, shoved his hands under the front bumper and straightened up to flip the heavy auto over onto its side. The crowd broke into confused conversation, with a few screams of uncertainty. Stepping toward the rear of the DeSoto, the masked man casually tore the rear door off and tossed it away to crash up the street with the tinkle of breaking glass. A gun went off without seeming to hit anything, the Jupiter Man leaned into the interior and then a few sharp thumping noises indicated what happened to the robbers.

Not quite realizing the boldness of her actions, the young redhead had been edging closer and had gotten within arm's reach of the strange man. As he swiveled in surprise toward her, only his lower face beneath the nose was left exposed by the blue helmet to show a wide jaw. He smiled at her with a flash of white teeth. On the front of his shirt was a light blue circle with a red spot off-center. Jupiter, all right.

"My name is Kelly O'Connor, I'm a reporter for THE NEW YORK MESSENGER," she said, not noticing that her voice cracked as she spoke. "Um, the public would like very much to know more about you and how you can... well, do these things."

From within the helmet, deepset brown eyes regarded her. She did not feel any uneasiness at that gaze, because the smile seemed natural and friendly. "All right, miss," he replied in a pleasant baritone with a faint accent. "Meet me here at midnight. Don't tell anyone." Then he took three running steps and leaped up back on to the roof where he had been standing. It seemed effortless, as if he could have reached much greater heights without difficulty. There was a glimpse of him hurtling over to the next building, then he was gone.

Shaking her head, feeling breathless, Kelly took off at a sprint toward the corner of 48th. She knew there was a drug store there with a phone booth. Behind her, she heard sirens but that hardly registered. She raced into the drug store, past the soda counter and dropped down on the seat in the booth. From her handbag, she snatched a handful of change and dialed a number she knew better than the one at her boarding house. "City desk. Yeah. Hi, Lemister. Of course it's Kelly. Grab your pad and start writing, get this all down. We need to make the afternoon edition. I just now saw the Jupiter Man in action, close up..."

II
( the rest of the story )

"Children With Amber Eyes"

6/8/2020

I.

Jocelyn Garimara had been prepared to experience some curious or open hostile stares in Forlorn Corners. This northern part of Minnesota was mostly populated by descendants of Norwegian immigrants who had come here for farming or logging more than a hundred years earlier. Not only did she had that rich deep brown skin tone, but with her naturally straight thick hair and distinctive features, she didn't really look like an American black person either. She thought it likely that there had never been an Australian Aborigine in this town within living memory. Still, the old man behind the counter of the gas station didn't need to be ogling her quite so openly.

Holding a double handful of snacks, she raised an eyebrow at the clerk. "Something wrong?"

That made the old man laugh, showing teeth so perfect they had to be dentures. "Heh. No, no, sorry to be staring like that. It's just that you're so pretty. When you turned sideways, your profile reminded me of that old time movie star Victoria Fields."

Despite herself, Jocelyn smiled. "Oh, well, that's a bit of all right then. I'm not above taking a harmless compliment." At thirty-four, slender and fit, she knew she was attractive but still felt so out of place in an area populated entirely by blondish white people that she remained self-conscious.

"Will that be all? Are you getting gas at the pump?"

"No, I'm good. I just want this trail mix with the peanuts and some iced tea and a few candy bars," she replied. "I've been driving all day."

Ringing her up, the clerk ventured, "Need any directions? Easy to get lost in these parts."

"No, thanks." Jocelyn retrieved her debit card and carefully tucked the receipt into the top left pocket of her denim jacket. Among her teammates, she was notorious for being tight with money. Growing up in desperate poverty made her watch where every penny went. Every expense incurred on this case would be covered not from her own funds but from her KDF account. Giving the old man a genuine warm smile, she said "Thanks again," and headed for the twin glass doors.

"Take care, miss."

"See ya."

Out in the tiny parking lot with its two gas pumps and an aluminum sign on a post which read CIGARETTES- LOWEST PRICE ALLOWED BY LAW, Jocelyn beeped open the door of the dark blue Nissan she had rented that morning at the airport. The tickling in her chest was becoming uncomfortable. Soon she had better let her Red Spectre out to blow off some steam, rather than have it emerge by itself when she fell asleep and so inevitably cause a panic. She placed her steel-framed aviator sunglasses on the snub bridge of her nose, settled behind the wheel and swung the car around around to ease out onto Route 169. There was no other traffic in sight, despite it being three in the afternoon of a Saturday when people might be expected to be going shopping or socializing.

According to her GPS, there were fourteen miles between her and the town of Forlorn Corners itself. She whipped along a typical country road with markers at intervals and frequent side roads that often were marked DEAD END- PRIVATE PROPERTY. Seeing a convenient flat area by the side of the road with no houses in sight for the past mile, she swung over and parked the Nissan. A knee-high stone wall made of loose irregular rocks ran parallel to the road, almost certainly a property marker. Glancing both ways, Jocelyn nimbly hopped over the barrier and trotted deeper into the woods until she could not be seen from the road.

Within her chest, the unpleasant twitching grew stronger. She tapped a fist lightly against her own sternum and snapped, "All right, all RIGHT. Out ya go." As Jocelyn sagged to her knees, a crackling silhouette of dark red energy shot out from inside her and whirled in a loop at tree top level. The Red Spectre was vaguely humanlike, with two arms and two legs but no more detail than that. Its head was a mere featureless oval. An ominous hissing sounded in its trail.

Jocelyn sat up on the ground, propping her stiff arms behind her to help. She remained conscious when the manifestation was out of her body but it took so much of her life force with it that she was left weak and dizzy. Ironically, she herself was at her most defenseless when her greatest power was unleashed. "Get on with it, damn you. That big dead tree over there. Yes, blow it up if yer craving some destruction."

Like the living lightning bolt it was, the Red Spectre flashed across the open space and exploded against a dried old tree that leaned at a precarious angle. Thunder cracked sharp and painful at such close range, limbs and chips spun away fast as bullets. Then, as the echoes still reverberated, the apparition flew back and dove back into Jocelyn's chest as a swimmer dives into a pool.

"Whew. That's a relief." The Aboriginal woman got to her feet with renewed vitality and tugged down her jacket where it had ridden up. "Ah, bloody hell. I shouldn't begrudge you wanting to get out once inna while. I myself like to stop the car and stretch my legs during a long drive. You're all right, me Gammon, I don't mind you at all."

( the rest of the story )

"High School Frankenstein"

6/12-6/13/1965

I.

"I saw him! It was horrible. The High School Frankenstein!"

Concealed beneath the dense bushes which ran along the driveway, a misshapen hulk crouched and listened to the girl's voice.

"Calm down, Sue! You probably saw a possum or something."

"I know what I saw," snapped a voice suddenly icy. "He was enormous. He had one big bulging eye, his skin was peeling off, there were these metal things sticking out of his forehead at the sides. And he looked at me! He looked right at me!"

Trying not to make the leaves rustle, the brute got down further and edged backward, still carrying the jewelry box in one meaty hand. He made it to the trees where the Fabers' property ended and rose up behind a thick oak which would hide him from side. Even in the murky night, he loomed up enormous, six inches over six feet tall and with shoulders too wide for normal proportions.

From the house came an older woman's voice, "Henry! The door was forced open. The lock is broken."

"What? Let's see if anything's missing," replied the man.

Then the smug capper from All-American blonde Sue Faber, second head cheerleader at Kit Carson High School. "I told you, but do my own parents ever believe me? Noooooo....."

Moving further in the darkness, the monster tucked the box up under one arm. He was dressed in dark colors, his Ivy League slacks with the buckle in the back and a maroon sweatshirt with no logos. The material was stretched to its limits by his increased size. It was too bad Sue had caught a glimpse of him as he was sneaking out of her house, but at least there was no way she would recognize the monster as goofy Palmer Kunkel from her English class.

The creature walked into the night, staying in the shadows and out of the light. He couldn't walk in the day when he was in this necrotic state. Ahead, he saw the streetlight and the glass phone booth on the corner. He had change in his pockets to call for Cicero, it was the risk of being seen by someone driving past that worried him. When he emerged into the light, the full extent of his deformity was revealed. One arm was visibly longer than the other, his barrel chest stuck out further than any normal man's should, his hands were rough and gnarled.

But his head, with the square boxlike cranium under lank black hair, was the worst. The deathly white skin hung in strips ready to fall off. The mouth twisted up on one side to reveal his teeth. His right eye was twice normal size, bulging and bloodshot, and from each temple protruding a short round bolt.

The High School Frankenstein, he thought with infinite bitterness. Those who called him that were right. What a nightmare. He dug in his pants pocket for a dime and dropped it into the phone slot. He could only hope that Cicero and Virgil would hurry.

Headlights were coming up the road. Damn it. Why couldn't he bring a hat or a raincoat to help disguise him? He turned away, bending his head down and raising his shoulders. With the receiver in his ear, he could the lab phone ringing but no one was picking up. Come on, come on, he pleaded in his thoughts.

Then he recognized the red VW van with yellow trim. The back doors were swinging open. The monster hung up the phone and sprinted over to the fan fast enough to challenge Olympic records. When he was necrotic like this, his strength and speed were phenomenal but he hardly noticed. His mind was too distressed. In an instant, he scrambled up into the rear of the van, heard Virgil slam the doors shut and felt the vehicle roar away.

Inside was the cot fastened down, and he straightened out on it with relief. He was as safe for the moment as he was ever going to be. Virgil drew the linen strap across the wide chest and buckled it tightly. "Hurry..." he growled.

"The chief will want to know if you got the money," called the driver back over one shoulder.

"Sure. Here in this box, I have it here. Virgil, hurry up."

There was nothing suspicious or bizarre about the man he called Virgil. Normal in height and build in his forties, wearing a suit with the shirt collar unbuttoned and the necktie loosened, Virgil could walk through most crowds without being noticed. He rubbed a cotton swab on the inner elbow of the creature's left arm, squeezed to find a vein and inserted the needle of a catheter, all with the deftness of something he had done many times.

"Keep your shirt on, handsome," he laughed. "Here we go." Virgil fastened a plastic bag to a clip up on the wall and screwed the end of its clear tube to the input of the catheter. Dark liquid dripped down. "Heh heh, two pints of the best Type O coming up, son."

"What if it doesn't work this time? What if I stay this way permanently?"

"The chief doesn't think there's much chance of that. And you know Cogitus, he's not just a 'big brain' as a figure of speech."

A sensation of relief seeped into the Frank's body. The necrotic state was uncomfortable at best. Feeling replacement blood dripping into his body was like sitting next to a heater after being out in the cold. He sighed. Twenty minutes more and he would be good old Palmer Kunkel again. If he wasn't a playboy as his normal self, at least women didn't faint at the sight.

( the rest of the story )

"The Space Between Spaces"

11/2/2014

I.

Haley's landings were improving. She and Timothy swooped down rapidly from the chill sky over northern Vermont, propelled by shrieking winds she had siphoned from a tornado a thousand miles away. They slowed to alight at the bottom of a rocky hillside. Neither stumbled. As the last of the winds faded, Haley Lawson threw back her heavy blue cloak and grinned in unbearably smug triumph. Not quite twenty, she had long chestnut-brown hair over a round face but her best feature was a gorgeous pair of bright green eyes. Today, she wore her Windcatcher costume of long-sleeved white pullover, snug blue trunks that left her legs bare and plain canvas sneakers with white ankle socks. Haley often felt tempted to add a super-hero emblem to the front of her shirt, a big blue W or a stylized tornado or something similar but so far had restrained herself.

Getting his footing next to her, Timothy Limbo tugged down his leather jacket and straightened its sleeves. "That wasn't half bad," he told her. "I could actually breathe the whole time." At five foot ten, he was only slightly taller than his teammate and only a few years older. Timothy's mop of butter-yellow hair hung down almost in his eyes. The biker boots, worn-out blue jeans and plain white T-shirt under the jacket were as much as his trademark outfit as was her more flamboyant clothing.

It wouldn't show to any observer, but these KDF members were wearing the silk-thin Trom armor under their clothes and both carried a dozen tiny weapons and gadgets. Timothy's gear was stowed in various pockets, while Haley wore a narrow leather belt with pouches. Even when not in the command-style field suits, they both were ready for the Midnight War to break out at any time. Haley's ability to summon air from anywhere on Earth and Timothy's small 'friendly ghost' observers were always ready to be used as well.

"Tim, just look at that place!" Haley said. "How could anyone live in a disaster like that?" She pointed to a huge gleaming dome located halfway up the slope. Constructed in a single unbroken piece, it was a semi-translucent blue, big enough to hold a regular two-story house. Enclosed walUngwerys from the dome connected a few smaller, more conventional storehouses and even a mundane bungalow with a chimney. The main structures seemed to be made of burnished aluminum and white enamel, shining bright and new in the fading sunlight. No one was in sight.

"It's wild, all right," he agreed. "But I read up on Dr Sinclair back at headquarters. He's supposed to be a record level genius with PhDs in a half dozen fields... applied biochemistry, mechanical engineering, linguistics, quantum physics and, uh, xenobiology. A few more I can't remember or pronounce in any case. I guess to him this place looks normal."

Haley snapped her fingers in a dismissive gesture. "If he's so smart, why doesn't he have a Nobel prize or two? Hah? I never heard of him."

"From what I remember, Sinclair argues and feuds with every scientist he meets. He's also been accused of swiping research and being a real jerk in general. That's why Sable was surprised to hear from him. He called our headquarters and asked for a few of us to come listen to a big announcement of some kind. Sable sent us ahead since she and Sheng had a meeting with the NYPD before they could leave. They're probably on their way now. In a real emergency, they can get the CORBY here in a minute."

"Humph. I suppose," she grumbled. "This place still looks goofy as hell to me. Do you see any kind of path up to that so-called house?"

"Not really. Funny, we didn't see any roads from the air, not even a trail for a dirtbike..." He froze in surprise as a device the size of a laptop buzzed through the air and hovered in front of them. It resembled a drone, but instead of fans at the four corners, brilliant blue-white bulbs blazed bright enough to be painful if stared at directly. A screen swung up which showed a vivid image of an old man's face.

"Welcome," came a voice as full and natural as if the person were standing right there with them. "Representatives of the Kenneth Dred Foundation, I take it? Please follow this messenger for a few feet."

"Well... okay," Haley said without enthusiasm. They walked behind the drone to where a panel of grass-covered material moved aside and revealed an escalator. They grinned at each other as they stepped aboard and were smoothly lifted up the hill to where a door slid open in the side of the dome for them.

Stepping inside, the two KDK members entered a confusing array of gleaming chrome and white tile, hundreds of mechanisms hooked up to each other in labyrinthine swerving connections. Various red and yellow lights blinked in complex patterns, gauges and digital readouts added to the visual overkill, and the floor beneath them hummed and vibrated as if some immensely powerful engine was running. It was impossible to take it all in at once. Haley and Timothy stood where they were, not daring to move for fear of bumping into something dangerous or fragile.

"Take a few minutes to adjust," said the voice from nearby. "I realize my workspace is a bit overwhelming if you're not used to it."

"No kidding," Haley said. "It's like trick photography or something. Dr Sinclair? Is that you?"

"Here I am." A bizarre figure moved around a counter toward them. Not more than five feet high, slightly built to the point of seeming fragile, he was an extremely old man wearing a breastplate, gauntlets and greaves of dark green plastic. From within the open visor of a green ovoid helmet peered a face as wrinkled as an apple dried in the sun. Yet he moved with confidence and precision. "Herbert Lewis Sinclair, at your service."

"Hi," Timothy returned. "Glad to meet you. Uhh, Dr Sinclair, I don't know if you're aware of what the KDF does? We mostly investigate and debunk sightings of the paranormal. I'm not sure your work really applies to us at all."

"All will be explained. Do not worry about staring like yokels, it doesn't trouble me. I am well over a hundred and twenty years old, children. I bear a synthetic heart of my own design. My nervous system has been enhanced by experimental proteins I developed. And I am facing you within the most sophisticated powered exoskeleton ever constructed. Despite my unimposing appearance, I can perform Olympic level feats."

Haley let a nervous laugh escape her. "Heh. How wonderful, but you know, Dr Sinclair, we don't have much time..."

"Forget that name!" snapped the old man in the gleaming armor. "For nine decades I have been known and feared as Cogitus. I know all about you, the famous knights of Tel Shai, agents of the Kenneth Dred Foundation. You dip your toes into the merest edge of the Unknown and think you are brave. Today you will confront that Unknown more directly and fearfully than you ever feared." He raised a gauntleted fist. "You will experience the spaces between spaces!"

( :the )