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Small Difficulties – Part Six

I handed him a c-note, told him to keep the change, and then added an additional bill, telling him that it was a pity that I’d gotten the address wrong and was really looking for a place in the Presidio.  He grinned and agreed that it was a loving shame, then asked for the proper address.  I gave him one that I knew was good and he flea hopped back into the air, leaving me sitting on the ground.

Of such shenanigans is a private dicks life comprised, boys and girls … keep it in mind next career day.

I walked onto the porch and unlocked the door with my left thumb, braced myself, and hopped into the foyer, blurting out the command phrase that deactivated the home security before it set off the alarms, called the police (and flooded the ground floor with a highly illegal gas, the nature of which we’ll gloss right over).  The house greeted me in the warm feminine tones of Julie Newmar.  (Hey, you want your home to sound like a sarcastic English butler, go right ahead; I prefer to be welcomed home by a sexy woman, myself.)

“Hello, Nick.  You have quite a few messages, both verbal and written.  Do you want me to play them?”

“Only the ones that are not spam or junk, Jules,” I replied, resetting the alarms to their occupied state.

“Oh.”  She paused for an instant and added, “You have no messages, Nick.  How have you been?  It’s been quite a while since you used this house.”

“Couci-couça, Jules.  Please set the temperature and humidity at default settings.”

“Done … Coosy coosaw is not in my vocabulary, Nick.  What does it mean?”

“It’s French for ‘my feet hurt and I need a drink,’” I replied hanging up my coat and walking into the living room with Dheria’s box.  “Please monitor my office for any intrusions and report soonest.  Also monitor any police calls to Mick’s and report soonest.”

“Yes, Nick,” she replied, adding almost immediately, “there is somebody in you office at this time, Nick.”  The sounds of a good ransacking played in the background.  Well, there was nothing there that was irreplaceable.

“Trigger office silent alarm.  Monitor and record.  Alert me if they say anything.”

“Yes, Nick.”  The sounds faded away and I mixed myself a Tom Collins.  “Nick?”

“Yes, Jules?”

“I’m sorry, but I feel it’s necessary to report that I require either maintenance or repair.  My logic circuits have deduced that your office is being vandalized by rats.”

I sat down and placed Dheria’s box on the coffee table.  “Rats, Jules?  Why … Ah!  Let me guess; the sound of their movement indicates that they are only around six inches tall, erect, and the closest match you’re data banks can come up with is that the office is being tossed by large rats.”

“Yes, Nick.”

“Please access internet data bases and compile a list of alternative solutions, Jules.  Report when completed.”  I opened the lid slightly and checked on Dheria.  She was still sleeping, so I replaced the lid and sat back.  “In the meantime, please play The Maltese Falcon on the main screen.”

“The 1931, Ricardo Cortez and Bebe Daniels original, the 1941, Humphrey Bogart and Mary Astor remake, or the 2012, Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter remake?”

“The 1941 version, please.”  I opened the top of my end table and pulled out some snacks while the landscape on the far wall changed to the black and white Warner’s Brothers logo.

“Yes, Nick.  Internet data base search completed, Nick.  By the sound of it, the intruders currently vandalizing your office are either one of several breeds of small monkeys or magical entities frequently referred to in popular European folk tales.”

“Pause film, Jules.  Have the intruders spoken yet?”

By Jules’ standards, she paused for a very long time before replying, “Yes, Nick.  Just a few seconds ago; would you like to hear a playback?”

“Yes, please.”  It wasn’t any language that I recognized, but it was definitely several people speaking.  It was a lively discussion, full of agitated voices and emotional outbursts, but it ended abruptly after only five minutes.  I let the silence stretch out for a couple of minutes and asked Jules to augment audio and determine if anyone was still in the office.  Her pick-up is sensitive enough to easily hear breathing.

“There is nobody breathing in your office, Nick, so I am forced to assume that everyone left.  I note that they didn’t use the door or window, either to enter or exit, and that their speaking narrows down the possible list of identification to just magical entities frequently referred to in popular European folk tales.  Therefore, I will shut down any further activity to ensure your safety, shift the entire house to manual, and await repair or replacement at the soonest possible moment.  I will miss you, Nick.”

“Waitaminute, Jules!  Transfer all processing resources to your logic circuits and focus your visual input on the box currently sitting on the table in front of me.”

“Done, Nick.”

“Okay,” I leaned forward and opened the box.  “Report on what you see.”

“I see a humanoid doll, Nick.”

“Fine; focus your audio on the doll, Jules, and report on your findings.”

“The doll is snoring, Nick.  The doll is also drooling slightly and … I assume that I am looking at a magical entity frequently referred to in popular European folk tales, Nick.”

“Yes you are, Jules.”

“Well … holy shit, Nick.”

Vis Pacis – Conclusion

“Oh, c’mon!  Are you kidding me?” I scoffed in disbelief.  “Shrubs with guns?!?  The articulation is all wrong and – look! – the guns are just sitting in the leaves, they’re not even being really held!”  On the other hand, they were all being turned in our direction.

I was preparing to duck back into the hallway when Eton John made a Jedi Knight sort of wave and all the weapons went instantly cherry red hot.  I stood up straight and looked at the little entity with a new respect.  “Well done, John!  You never told me your mother was an Organian.”  He stared back at me, uncomprehendingly.  Oh well, so much for our old television shows being enjoyed by alien worlds.

A high pitched screech erupted from one of the plants, all of which then shimmered and became a room full of office workers, many of whom were shaking their hands in pain.  A tall man with antique glasses stepped forward with his slightly burnt hand outstretched.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.  My name is Franklyn Delacourt and I’m the managing director of Preserves, Incorporated.  How may we help you today?”

I stared at him for a moment, then – after a glance at my Eton partner – took his hand and replied, “Good afternoon, Mr. Delacourt.  I am Lieutenant Greene, NYPD, and my associate is John, a representative of the Eton Empire.  I am investigating a murder and I need everyone in this room to remain calm, seated, and refrain from adopting any other forms until I’m done.”

His eyes widened and he tapped at the cell phone like device in his left hand.  “Excuse me, Lt. Greene, but what do you mean ‘refrain from adopting any other forms?’  We’re just a normal officccccceeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEE!”  He clutched at his head.  I looked at John, who was doing that mystic wave thing again.

The entire room wavered and settled into an empty office, one filled with creatures that vaguely resembled sloths and piles of garbage.  “Mr. Delacourt” was lying on the ground in front of us, holding his head and whining wordlessly.  “Is this what they really look like?”  I muttered to John.

“I don’t know what you see,” he replied with a small raise of what I really hoped were eyebrows.

I decided against trying to describe what I perceived.  For one thing, try to describe a sloth, okay?  For another, their hands and feet were closer to human mitts than sloth paws.  Then there was the matter of their huge penises … what seemed to be huge penises … what I hoped weren’t actually huge penises.

“I’m not sure what I’m seeing myself,” I confessed, earning myself a small smile of approval from the Eton.  “Will they understand me in this form?”

“Will,” he answered with total assurance.

“Fine.”  I scooped up one of the fallen weapons and held it on the sloths.  “Listen up, people!  You arrrrrrRRRRRR!”  I dropped the red hot pistol and stared at the Eton in confusion.

“No violence; no weapon,” he calmly stated.

“You could have just told me, damn it!”  He glanced at my blistered hand and, like that, it wasn’t blistered anymore.  “Huh … thanks.  Okay,” I restarted, facing the sloths.  “You are all under arrest for the murder of Rash Brown.  You have the right to … ”

“It wasn’t murder!” One of the sloths stepped forward, sounding angry and confused.  “It couldn’t be murder.”

“Really?  Well, he’s dead, one of you killed him, and that’s what we call murder on this planet!”  I shot back.

“Impossible!  Just the fact that I was able to shoot him ensured that it couldn’t possibly be murder!” He replied, sounding certain of himself.  “Only people can be murdered and people cannot be shot.  He could be shot; therefor he was fair game for hunting!”  His fellow sloths all raised their voice (and penises … oh, jeez) in agreement.

I wrenched my eyes away from the crowd and turned to John.  “Do you have any idea what they’re talking about?”

He did.

It seems that, despite being as close to omnipotent as any non-religious entity could, the Etons had made a small mistake.  On our planet, anything that looked like a Jaboner (the race name of the well hung sloths) would be classified safely in the “Things That Can Still Be Hunted” category.  Well, on theirs, we would also fit the bill rather nicely, strongly resembling one of their prey species.

Well, given the sheer number of planets that they’d hung their Vis Pacis satellites around, they’d decided early on to custom program each one just for the planet it protected.  The alternative, as anyone could see, would be having to reset every satellite every time they “welcomed” a new planet into the Empire … which, by the way, numbered – at that instant – eight hundred and forty-one planets.

“Which now we must do,” John concluded, sounding disgusted.  “Many worlds enter space, many worlds must be protected from each other, all worlds must be protected against those in space.”

“Bummer, John, but that doesn’t solve my problem.”  I hooked a thumb over my shoulder at the sloths.  “One of those jabronis … ”

“Jaboners,” John corrected, casually.

“Whatever.  One of them killed a human.  I have to make an arrest and the … whatever the hell they are … has to face punishment.”

John frowned and, a few seconds later, my phone rang.

It was my Captain.

He’d just gotten off the phone with the Mayor’s office.

“Get the weapon, write up the report, make the announcement, and let the jabronis … ”

“Jaboners,” John, who was way too far away to hear the Captain over my earpiece, corrected.

“… walk.  Trust the Eton.  Got me?”

I repeated his instructions back and signed off, tapping my unit off.  “Fine, just fine.”  I turned to the sloths.  “Okay, there will be no arrests this day, but I need to confiscate the weapon that killed Rash Brown and the name of the shooter.”

“That would be me, sir.”  One of the sloths stepped forward, standing erect.

“Very well.  Your name, please?”

“In your tongue, it would be best translated as … ‘Bob.’”

“Bob?”

“Yes and this is the weapon I used.”  Without moving any other part of his body, his penis picked up a pistol and held it out to me.

“Bob?  Do they have anything like psychoanalyst on your planet?” I asked, staring.

“Sorry, I don’t know that word.”

“Never mind.”  I gingerly took the pistol from his appendage and made a mental note to call the force shrink.  “Thank you for your cooperation, Bob.”

With that, the sloths disappeared.  “Did you do that?” I asked John.

“Yes.”

“Hoooo-kay.  What now?”

He smiled at me and I was standing in my office, holding a pistol.  “Oh.  Alright, then.”

I made my report, the mayor’s office coordinated the announcement of the successful conclusion to the case, Rash Brown’s only relative (some sister living in the midwest) was given a large sum of money by the Etons by way of apology, and everything went back to normal … well, as normal as life every got under the Vis Pacis.

That was all around eighteen months ago.  My retirement is in a month, my pre-Etonian memoirs come out a month or two after that, and, for the most part, I have a pretty good life lined up.  I’ll be living with my kid brother for a few weeks while I sort out options, then moving into the private sector.

Or so I thought.

A box just materialized on my desk not five minutes ago.  Inside was a small toy ray gun, a complex looking watch, and a triangle that, when held, delivered a message directly into my brain.

The Etons were impressed with the flexibility of my thoughts in the matter of the Jaboners and would like to hire me to be the Empire’s official investigator/enforcer/policeman.  My job, if I wanted it, would be to travel between the planets of the Empire and settle any difficulties not covered by the Vis Pacis.  It went on to say that the watch was both the badge of my office, my personal computer/translation/transportation device, the toy ray gun was my official weapon (and I mean it really looked like a toy ray gun I owned back when I was a kid … bright red and blue, looks and feels like plastic, and it’s shaped like a cross between a rocket and a six shooter), and the little triangle message thing would serve as my personal hot line.

No mention of pay or benefits, but that can easily be ironed out later.  So, Bobby, please consider this amended report to be my official request for terminal leave.

I’m gonna go play cops and robbers.

End

WOO-HOO! INCOME FROM WRITING!

Check it out, Shipmates!

I’ve finally gone professional!

.34 … um … why isn’t there a cent symbol on the keyboard anymore?  I never noticed that before, but the cent symbol is gone.

Well then, I made $ .34 on my blog!

On my way to the bigs, Bitches!

Forever – Part Three

Mark studied me for a long moment, then shrugged and, setting the gun back on a table, went to fetch two more beers.

A loud cheer drew my attention back to the screen and I watched the replay of the Louisville center slamming an offensive rebound home.  Astonishing that they could still dunk on an eleven foot rim.  Eleven foot rims, four-point shots, only eight men on a team; the changes in professional ball from the days of underhanded foul shots and stall games were astonishing.  I remembered watching Kansas City once use the stall so well that the final score was twelve to ten.  Not the most exciting night I’d ever spent, but still way ahead of laying in a pitch black casket with no lungs.

Mark set the beer down on the counter, not bothering to do so at arm’s reach this time.  I pointed at the screen, where a commercial was showing a new car ad.  ”One of the worse things about being an immortal, Pal.  Here we are, it’s only a few more decades before the year 3000, and still no flying cars.  I’ve been waiting for flying cars since the Wright Brothers and still nothing.  No personal jet packs, no personal helicopters, no personal flight of any kind; it is like the government has simply decided that the general public has a hard enough time simply driving from point a to point b.”  I took a large swallow of my beer and added, sighing, “As much as I dearly want a flying car, I can understand that viewpoint.”

Mark nodded and sat down on a stool as I continued, “Not that there is any danger to driver, passenger, or pedestrian anymore.  Impact foam, buffer fields, radar controlled speed, automated highways, and smart cars that gauge the drivers chemical and mental state before starting do a lot to make traffic accidents a thing of the past.”  I took a second gulp and sighed, putting my right hand back on my benefactor’s back.  ”You know, I remember the first time I sat down behind the wheel of a smart car and tried to start it while drunk.  I turned the key and the steering wheel retracted into the dashboard.  I can still hear my date’s giggles.”

“Okay, so that means you’re a tad older than you look … now convince me you’re hundreds of years old.  You said you’re just an immortal; explain that.”

“Right.  I used the word ‘just’ not to indicate that there is anything normal or commonplace about my condition, only to emphasis that that is all I am.  I am a human who happens to be an immortal … and, yes, there are others.  I have known three others in my life, which means that there must me many more than that.”

Mark watched me while sipping beer.  ”So … immortal means, what, that you can’t be killed?”

I barked a laugh and shook my head.  ”Hell no!  I have been killed more times than I can remember.  Getting killed just is not as … terminal for me as it is for the vast majority.”  I smiled and nodded at the gunman, adding, “Actually, technically, that fellow there killed me a few hours ago.”

“Say what?”

“Using the oldest definition of dead, I’m afraid I’m not – technically – alive right now.  No heartbeat.”  Seeing his expression, I held my right arm out to him and invited him to check for himself.

He laughed, uncertainly, and tried to take my pulse.  He not only did not find a pulse, the cold feel of my flesh caused him to withdraw.  He stood up and, using only two fingers, checked my pulse at my neck.  ”Why are you so cold?”

“Blood equals heat, I suppose.  I have no blood flowing through my veins, so my body heat drops.”  I put my right hand back.  ”Now ask me why my brain still functions even through there is no oxygenated blood pumping through it.”

He sat back down with a slightly disgusted look on his face and played along, asking why was that.

“I do not have the slightest idea why, sorry to say.  I have earned several degrees during my life and I have yet to understand a tenth of my unique condition.  My tissues can survive without being supplied with oxygenated blood for over a year.  They might be able to survive much longer, but a year is the longest I can attest to so far.  I can survive without oxygen with relative ill effects for days.  As a matter of fact, death by drowning is the easiest to recover from: I simply cough out the water and start breathing again.”

“Jeez … you’ve drowned?”

“Many, many times.  Once I discovered that drowning was so easy to recover from, I actually took to drowning myself in lieu of having to face other deaths.  For instance, when I served as an nautical officer on one of Queen Isabella’s finest and we were boarded by pirates in the Caribbean, I managed to escape death by burning or beheading through the simple ploy of grabbing a cannonball and simply stepping over the side.  You should have seen the look on their faces!”  I smiled at the memory.  ”That was how I ended up in America, actually.  I walked along the bottom of the sea, carrying that blasted ball to keep me there, until I walked ashore at Isla Juana, which is now called Cuba.  I put the shot down and walked across the island, enjoying being ashore for the first time in months, until I arrived at the far side of the island, at San Cristobal de la Habana, which was one of the larger Spanish settlements.”

“San Cristobal de la Habana?” Mark echoed.

“You know it better as Havana, nowadays.  Anyway, I was recognized and put on trial for the unthinkable crime of having survived.  I was found guilty and sentenced to death.  I addressed the court, which consisted of a drunken judge and several bored citizens, and begged for the chance to reclaim my honor by being put to death by drowning.  The court, mercifully, agreed to my request, and – the very next morning, for justice was swift in those days – had an official of the court, paid for with the money in my pockets, row me out quite aways, where I was permitted to once again hop into the water, this time weighed down with chains.  It took me the better part of a week to get out of the chains and I carried them all the way to the Florida coast.”

Mark simply shook his head and asked, “And you been in America ever since?”

“For the most part, yes.”

“So you were originally Spanish?”

“Oh, no; not at all.  I was born a Pentri, in the city of Bovaiamom, in Samnium, which is now Italy, so I suppose I could rightfully claim to be Italian by birth.  At the time, however, we were a conquered part of the Roman empire, so I could just as easily claim that I was a Roman.”  Mark sank into a baffled silence, which I took advantage of to check the game.  They were doing a recap; Topeka had won, 179 to 154.  A real defensive battle.

Mark suddenly said, “Say something in Roman!”

I turned as best I could and stared at him.  ”‘Say something in Roman?!’  My dear boy, the lingua franca of the Roman Empire was, of course, Latin … and I could easily rattle off several remarkably witty and biting comments in that language, but would you recognize any of it?  Besides, our language was Oscan, not Latin.”  I thought about it for a moment, then closed my eyes and added, “Here’s some Latin for you: ‘Arma virumque cano, Troiae qui primus ab oris Italiam, fato profugus, Laviniaque venit litora, multum ille et terris iactatus et alto vi superum saevae memorem Iunonis ob iram; multa quoque et bello passus, dum conderet urbem, inferretque deos Latio, genus unde Latinum, Albanique patres, atque altae moenia Romae.’ “ I opened my eyes again and sighed, “That’s the opening paragraph of the first book of Virgil’s Aeneid, a fairly inconsistent, but entertaining little story. Happy?”

“You’re right, I have no idea what you just said or what language it was.  It was a stupid idea.”  He drank a bit more of his beer.  ”What did Oscan sound like?”

“Oh, my.  I haven’t spoken my milk language in thousands of years, Mark.   Um … okay:  ‘Ekkum svaí píd herieset trííbarak avúm tereí púd liímítúm pernúm púís herekleís fíísnú mefiíst,ú ehtrad feíhúss pús herekleís fíísnam amfr et, pert víam pússtíst paí íp íst, pústin slagím senateís suveís tangi núd tríbarakavúm lí kítud.’ Ta-da.  That was part of the Cippus Abellanus, which was a rather dearly little boundary description.”

“Huh, not bad.  Sounds like a pretty cool language.  Okay, what year were you born, then?”

“Around 340 BC, I think.”

“You think?  You don’t remember?”

“Do you remember your birth?  Give me a break, Mark; I have been alive for close to four thousand years.  Think of how few clear memories of your childhood you have and multiply that by a few thousand.  I was a part of the Great Samnite War and I must have been at least eighteen by them, so I think the year of my birth was around 340 BC.”

“I’ve never heard of the Great Samnite War.”

“Oh, it was really quite famous.  At least at the time and I believe it is still highly spoken of by dusty old historians.  I was a soldier under the command of the great Meddix, Gaius Pontius.  As a matter of fact, I was one of those chosen by the Meddix, himself, to infiltrate the Roman forces at Caudine Forks.  We dressed as shepherds and, when questioned by the Romans, informed them that the Samnites were miles away in Apulia.  They bought it hook, line, and sinker and took off to help the noble Lucera in Apulia, the quickest route to do so being through the Caudine Forks, where we had a trap.  It was a glorious victory.  We made them all pass under a yoke made from their own spears.”

“A yoke made of their own spears?  Why?”

“I am not sure.  It was suppose to be incredibly humiliating.  Each man had to bow to our Meddix and duck under the yoke.  In retrospect, it was all very silly.  I was killed for the first time shortly thereafter.  I fell off a cliff and died, smashed like a porcelain doll.  I woke up a few day later when a bird was trying to peck out my eyes.  It hurt horribly for close to a week, but then it got steadily better.  I thought I was slowly dying, since I’d always heard that it hurt terribly at first, then the pain slowly left as your body gave up.  Imagine my surprise when I finally stood up and discovered that I was unhurt.”

“Must have been a shock.”

“I believed that I was part of the undead.  Our religion spoke that sort of thing, so I assumed that, since I had not been buried with all the proper rituals, I was undead.  Being that I was, at the time, a remarkably ignorant and uneducated young oaf, it took me the better part of the year to realize that another way of saying undead was, of course, alive.  However, being that I was a ignorant oaf, I walked back to Bovaiamom, where many of my friends and family recognized me and, being devout, happily tried to assist me by burying me properly, face up in a grave with an olla, a vase filled with food for the afterlife, at my feet.  I stayed there for the better part of a week, then got bored with it, climbed out and left.”

You were saying, Miss?

Okay, so I’m sitting at the college library, going through one of the non-lending books and taking notes for class, when a young woman walks in and sits down across the table from me.

I look up, nod pleasantly, and start to go back to my notes … when I notice that she’s taken off her outer coat and is about to take off her sweater.  I raised a hand and said, “Waitaminute!”

She paused, alarmed, and – in a low voice – I told her about the young lady back at my last college, the one who kept pulling off her blouse or teeshirt every time she tried to pull off her sweater in the library.

She stared at me in a peculiar way, torn between anger and fascination, and asked me exactly why was I telling her this?

“Because you were about to pull your sweater off and I didn’t want you to duplicate her mistake,” I explained, aware that I was now the center of attention at the table.  ”The poor girl was so embarrassed the last time it happened that she actually dropped out and didn’t return until the Spring semester, and I’d hate to see that happen to anyone else.”

Several guys at the table were now laughing and urging her to take a chance.  She glared at me and replied, “Listen, perv; I don’t know why you decided to tell me all this and I don’t really care.  I don’t believe for one minute that you decided to tell me all that out of concern and I want you to know, right up front, that you’re too damn old for me and I’m not interested, so keep your creepy flirting bullshit to yourself, okay?!”

I raised both hands, assured her that I wasn’t trying to flirt and apologized if I’d spoken out of turn.  She snorted at me and pulled her sweater off, peeling her undershirt off at the same time.  She sat there in a rather lacy bra for a three count before anyone realized what had happened, then scrambled away from the table, trying to pull her clothes back on while keeping her arms crossed over her chest, while the rest of the table erupted in hoots and laughter.

Which led to my having to convince the head of the library that I didn’t do anything!  All I did was to warn the girl against what actually ended up happening … it’s not like I pulled her shirt off from across the table, right?!  All the time she was swearing up and down that I was some sort of old perv and that I must have done something because there’s no way in hell she would have striped down to her bra in public on her own!  Thankfully, the rest of the people at the table, both male and female, backed me up, so the head of the library simply shrugged it off as a weird coincidence.

The girl left shortly thereafter, swearing that I haven’t heard the last of it and that she was going to file an official complaint at the admin building.  After a bit, the guy sitting next to me leaned over and asked me, “Does that work all the time?”

I asked him what he meant and he replied, “Do they always end up taking off their clothes when you tell that story, dude?  Is it, like, some sort of power of suggestion thing or what?”

And the legend grows …

Weather Whining – 2nd Update

Yup, record low overnight … actually got close to 0 degrees.  We had a couple of flurries during the night as well, from the look of things.

Nice to find out that my beat up old pick-up will actually start after a night that cold, so that was an up-side.  Another one showed up after I came home from dropping Dian off at work and booted up the old laptop.  I checked the Weather Channel site and discovered that it was snowing in Texas, including Deep East Texas, where Dian and I had been.

Of course, it’s still in the 80′ s in Costa Rica …

Weather or nuts

Every bloody night, down in the twenties.

Every bloody morning, deice the damn truck.

Every bloody day, up in the fifties.

Every bloody evening, rain.

Rince and repeat.

(I’m beginning, just beginning mind you, to remember … in a dim and distant sort of way … exactly why it was that Dian and I moved to the South.  Something about warmth.  I remember warmth.)

From the journal of Dr. Albert Eugene Socks, Chemist (part 4)

I waited until they started to subside, then calmly asked which they were laughing at: the concept or the names?

Brad spread his hands and replied that both the names and the concept were ridiculous, but Barbara corrected him, stating that the concept was ridiculous … the names were merely ludicrous.

I explained that the names were the result of a rather cretinous public relations group who the government had hired and that more appropriate names could be considered, provided that no copyrights were violated.

Chuck snorted and exclaimed that the names were meaningless, since “superheroes” (and have I mentioned just how much I despise using finger gestures to indicate quotes?) were a physical and medical impossibility.  The others expressed agreement with his statement, Brad adding that he’d read several good papers on why the more popular comic book superheroes defied physics.

I waited for them to die down and pointed out that many of today’s realities were once considered to be physically impossible, so what made the idea of superheroes so ludicrous?  Perhaps it was the term, superhero?  Maybe it would be easier if they used the term “genetically enhanced” instead?

Tom frowned and asked me my full name.  I smiled and admitted that I was Albert Eugene Socks, which – being a chemistry major – he recognized.  His frown deepened and he asked exactly what did I mean by “genetically enhanced?”

The rest of them, sensing a change in the moment, stopped yammering on about superheroes and looked at Tom.  Barbara asked him if he knew me and Tom replied that I’d won darn near every scientific award they was in chemistry, capped with a Nobel, but then pretty much dropped out of sight half a decade ago.

I simply sat there.

Tom, talking slowly and hesitantly, asked me what I’d been working on since the Nobel.

I grinned at him and sat there.

Chuck whispered how he didn’t freaking believe it and the blood drained out of Barbara’s face and Brad simply stared at me.  Frank, true to his logical nature, repeated that superpowers were physically impossible.

I shrugged and replied that humans had lifted over five hundred pounds, ran close to twenty-five miles per hour, and leapt close to thirty foot … unaided.  With simple steroids, they’d exceeded all those goals, but – in many cases – damaged themselves doing so quite badly.  Why shouldn’t a competent scientist be able to come up with a process that permitted those unaided records to be shattered?  Perhaps even shattered so badly that the individual doing so would appear to be … superhuman?

It was Tom, naturally, who broke the stunned silence and asked what powers could I … what powers were …

I gave them all a sunny smile and announced that I knew how to bestow super strength, speed, invulnerability, and flight!

We all sat there for almost a full minute in total silence, listening to the daycare overhead and thinking whatever thoughts came to mind.  Barbara finally asked what I meant by flight?  Did I mean like – and she shot a fierce glance around the room before continuing – like “Up, Up, and Away!?

I lectured for fifteen minute about bio-electric fields in nature, gravity, telekinesis, and then noticed that none of them, not even the inestimable Mr. Marshall, were following me.  I stopped, apologized for going all teacher on them, then asked them – as a group – if any of them happened to know exactly how bees managed to fly?

Chuck cleared his throat and said that he’d heard that the laws of aerodynamics prove that bees shouldn’t be able to fly, because it doesn’t have the capacity – as far as wing size or beats per second – to achieve flight with the degree of wing loading (their weight divided by the area of the wing) necessary.  Barbara stared at him and asked how the bee managed, then?  He shrugged and said that he’d always assumed it was because nobody had ever explained it all to the bee.

I smiled and informed them that I knew how bees flew … so trust me, okay?  All of them were going to be super strong, with Tom and Barbara specializing in power; super fast, with Frank being our speed specialist; and about to fly, with Brad being the flying specialist.  Rock, Rockette, Wind, and Air; I pointed at each while naming them.

Chuck cleared his throat, again, and I explained that he was going to be the control member, the generalist in the group of specialists.  He would be stronger than anyone, except Rock or Rockette, faster than anyone, except Wind, and be able to fly better than anyone, except Air.  Uniman.

They spent a moment passing around a couple of looks, then Barbara exclaimed that she’d be damned before she’d be known as Rockette!  She hadn’t spent her entire life proving that she was as good as any man, and better than most, just to be labeled as some sort of high-kicking dancer!

Brad pointed out that Air was a stupid name for somebody who could fly and Frank agreed, adding that Wind was pretty dumb, too, since the two names could be traded at will between them.  Chuck pointed out that uni, used as a prefix, meant one … if he was supposed to be all of them rolled into one, then Omniman would be better … but that he could live with You-da-man.

We spent the rest of the day arguing names, calling out for lunch when appropriate, and trying to come up with something that everyone could live with.  (Even Tom wasn’t too happy, saying that Rock would bring up Rock Hudson … and we all knew about Rock Hudson, right?)  Eventually, we had to put Brad on a computer with the list of names that each preferred, in order of preference, to check them against copyrighted names for comic book characters.  (I explained the legal problems involved with trying to use some name already owned and how the government might be able to create superheroes, but there were limits to the miracles it could perform.)

In the end, Tom would be known as Cratos (after the Greek demi-god of strength) and Barbara – not to be outdone – chose the code name of Bia (the Greek personification of force).  Frank, a little ticked off that almost all the various names he liked were already taken, settled on Zoran (after the Norse god of speed).  Brad’s first choice, Buzz, was cleared, so he was happy, too.

Which left Chuck and his preferred code name of Chuck.  After the other four berated him for a solid hour, he turned to me for a ruling.

I shrugged and pointed out that a code name was to go with the costume he’d be wearing, which included a mask, to conceal his true identity from both the media, the general public, and from anyone who’d want to try and control them through their loved ones … same as the comics.  So, perhaps, using your own first name wasn’t all that good an idea, huh?

He moped for awhile (I don’t believe it was due to not using his given name as much as it was that he’d have to shun publicity), but then readopted Uniman as his official pseudonym.

I smiled and repeated their names back to them – Cratos and Bia, Zoran, Buzz, and Uniman – to be sure I had them right for the official report to my patrons.  I congratulated them and told them that, since the day was just about up, that we’d start the processes tomorrow and, that with any luck, the Protectors would soon be on the job!

Which, of course, started a new argument about the name of the team.  It was well after midnight before I finally finished my official report and went to bed.