What Feats He Did That Day Pt. 04

"Well, I can't believe they'll keep him long," I said. "'Yes, let's take the crippled guy.'"

She shrugged.

"I know little of Council, although perhaps more than most. They keep much to themselves. What knowledge I have comes from my taking charge of my father's house after my mother's death. And that includes his work. He works so hard that sometimes he would forget to eat unless I threaten to unplug one of his machines. Until he comes back, may I offer you a drink?"

"That would be nice," I said, more than a little surprised. "Thank you."

She walked over to a console and pressed some buttons. In a few seconds it produced a wonderfully tart lemonade.

"Shall we sit in the park?" she asked.

"Thanks, but maybe you noticed the legs."

"Yes, when Father and I returned you to bed. But that is no problem."

She waved her hand and I was lying on a bed of leaves in a bower underneath a beautiful spring sky. Francesca was sitting cross-legged next to me. She had on a completely different outfit, a loose Indian-pattern top and a pair of jeans. Apparently the Levi Strauss people were still in business four hundred years into the future.

"If you can move us around like this," I suggested, "maybe you should fight the Morling."

That got an even bigger smile.

"It is an illusion, Mr. Handley. We haven't moved from my father's laboratory. I doubt it would fool a Morling for long."

"It's certainly working on me," I said. "I can smell those flowers."

"It would not be a complete illusion otherwise, Mr. Handley."

I took a sip of the drink that I found I still had in my hand.

"How 'bout if you call me Rick 'til I have to leave?"

"Rick," she repeated, as if the name were an unfamiliar one. Maybe there had been some Hitler equivalent after my time whose first name was Rick. Just like there weren't a lot of kids named Adolph after World War II.

"So. It's a little hard to believe that your father didn't know about my legs. I mean, he said he was making holotapes, whatever the hell they are, through my mind. He was the one who put the training there in the first place. You'd think with just a little digging around in there, he'd figure out, 'oh, look, this poor schlub can't move his legs.' It's not like I ever forget it."

Francesca was gazing at me with infinite patience.

"Sorry," I said. "Sometimes it still gets to me."

"I can see that," she said. "But as for why he did not see it, I'm sure that it simply never crossed his mind. We have no one like you in this time."

"You have no paraplegics?" I asked.

"I have never seen any, at least. Perhaps my father knows more. Although even his knowledge is limited. Council allowed him to see enough to understand your gaming culture, and the Morlings, but little more. I do know that there is a drug administered to people in accidents to regenerate nerves."

I felt my heart pounding.

"I, um, don't suppose you have any of that around, do you?"

"I'm quite sure that it is all within the control of the Council. My father will know."

"But you could give me a shot and send me back to my time," I suggested.

Her smile was genuine this time.

"To thank you for the training you have undertaken on our behalf. I will ask him."

"Thank you. So tell me about yourself. Married? Children?"

She shook her head.

"I was to be wed on my eighteenth birthday to a beautiful young man. We would have been licensed for two children. But my mother died and it was at that point that I learned the nature of my father's project."

"You never heard of the Morlings before that?" I asked. It had been almost thirty years since the Morlings had first arrived.

She shook her head.

"That too is a closely guarded government secret. It is thought best not to concern the populace with matters likely to cause panic."

"Yeah, governments always say that," I said.

"But after learning of it, I found it hard to commit to a marriage and raising children. The chance of them living more than ten years seemed far too remote."

"You didn't believe your father's plan would work?"

"He is a dreamer," she said. "A brilliant man, but a dreamer. Ah, I believe that is him now."

She waved her hand again and we were back in the room. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she simply removed the illusion of the bower.

Wizen had a big smile on his face as he came through the door. Francesca was clearly as surprised to see it as I was.

"What happened?" she asked.

"He is the first alternate," Wizen said with an expansive wave of his hand. It looked like he might have actually had a few on the way home. "You are the first alternate, my friend, behind the Green Beret."

"You mean like the Miss America pageant, where if the winner is unable to fulfill his duties I get to be killed by the Morling instead?"

"Exactly!"

"Pardon my ignorance, but what the fuck kind of job is it when the top two candidates are a Green Beret and a guy who can't use his legs?"

"Ah," he said as he took his usual seat at the foot of the bed, "there was a substantial bloc of the Council that favored you, Richard. I admit I was surprised. But one of the Council members insisted that he can modify a chair that will take the place of your legs and make you far more maneuverable than even the other contender."

"And that wouldn't be a problem with the Morlings?"

"That is the beauty of it." He slapped his hand on the bed. "If they do not agree to your use of the chair, the Morling Code requires that your adversary give up the right to move as well. In which you have had much more practice."

"Great. So you want me to fight with swords from a seated position?"

"Oh! No, no. The weapons will not be swords."

That pissed me off a little.

"Then why did I spend the last three frickin' weeks learning how to fight with swords?"

"You were learning how to fight in single combat, Richard. You were learning how to think under stress. And because I had no means, within the context of your experience, by which to teach you how to fight with a whip."

I started to laugh.

"A whip? You mean like where I could actually scar the poor little Morling's poor little cheek if I hit him just right? I imagined this was some sort of fight to the death."

He traded glances with his daughter.

"It is a far more deadly whip than that, Richard. Councilman Karas believes that he can construct a prototype chair tomorrow. So your training will begin with that."

"Okay. Speaking of training, though, your daughter said there might be a drug or something that would help me regrow the nerves in my legs. I was hoping I could get a shot."

They traded glances again.

"You know, I mean, I'd love to help you out here, but it'd sure be nice if we had a little quid pro quo if you know what I mean. You do know what I mean by quid pro quo, right?"

Wizen smiled.

"Certainly. My daughter is correct. There is such a drug. I will be happy to approach the Council on your behalf. But even should they grant your request --"

"Request?" I said. "That seems a little soft. Maybe you should put it to them more as a non-negotiable demand.

He nodded.

"In any event, it will have to wait until after the challenge. You would find it difficult to control your nerves during the first month. And a wrong twitch of your leg during your fight could prove fatal. To us as well as you."

"Asshole," I muttered. "Now you're just trying to guilt me. Fine, I agree."

"Very good," he said. "We will see you tomorrow."

**********

What Wizen saw on Saturday was me laughing like a maniac.

The flychair was a blast. It wasn't the Councilman himself who showed up but some scientist friend of his. After the introductions, there was a brief pre-operative procedure, something that had to be done before I could operate the chair and that involved putting something up my nose and into my brain. I made them knock me out for that. Either that or they decided to knock me out when I started screaming as they got closer and closer to my face. My memory is a little hazy. In any event, it was a few hours later that they seated me in the chair.

"So how do I make it go up?" I asked. "Jesus Christ. Make it stop!"

It stopped a few inches shy of the ceiling.

"Now bring it back."

Wizen and his friend laughed.

"Richard, the chair is in your sole control," the guy said. "You want it to go up, you think "up." Same with down, right, left, forward, back, and stop."

"Seriously? Holy shit, it does. This is better than VR, dude."

"Virtual reality," Wizen explained to the other one. "A gaming craze in the early twenty-first century."

I didn't hear the guy's answer, because I had figured out the speed control only a few seconds earlier. After another half-hour of fits and starts, I was starting to get the hang of it. After a few hours, I was swooping and circling like a bird. Loop-the-loops, dives, stalls -- I could do them all. There were a few close calls between me and the walls of the gymnasium-like room that they had found for me to use, but otherwise it was an overwhelming, exhilarating experience. I hadn't moved like this since I was sixteen. Hell, I hadn't moved like this at sixteen. I found myself wondering if I could get them to throw in the flychair with the drug.

That training was the only thing that prevented the day from being a total dud. The reimbursement records were looking more and more like a dead end. For my career, anyway. I sat and stared at them for hours at a time and learned nothing. The dates on the cancelled checks corresponded roughly to when he should have reimbursed Amalgamated for the trips. The amounts were all roughly the same. There wasn't anything that looked "perfect," to the point that it would raise suspicions. Son of a bitch.

On Sunday, I decided I needed a break from looking at them and trooped over to the Club.

"Hammer of Death!" Andy bellowed.

"God of Gamers!" I retorted. It pleased him much more than "Purveyor of Filth" had.

"You're a movie buff, right?" I continued.

"Sara's a movie buff," he explained. Sara was his girlfriend. "I just watch whatever she puts on. What's up?"

"I need a movie about whipping."

"Whipping?"

"Yeah. Fighting with whips."

His eyes glazed over as he stared into space.

"There was this one movie," he began to explain as a wicked grin spread over his face, "with Faye Dunaway and Marina Sirtis -- you know, Troi from the second Star Trek. So both these babes end up with whips and --"

"Any others?" I said, interrupting him.

He gave me a very skeptical look.

"You can't do better than two chicks fightin' with whips, dude. One of them topless."

"Well, that is appealing," I admitted.

"What are you looking for?"

I looked around to make sure nobody else could overhear us. Then I told him about the dreams I'd been having for the past three weeks. He appeared no less skeptical when I was finished. Then he started grinning again.

"Maybe it's not a dream," he suggested. "Maybe they really are taking you into the future to fight one of these Morphlings."

"Morlings," I corrected him. "Yeah, that's what they tried to tell me last week. But of course that's what they would say, isn't it?"

"Kinda losin' it here, aren't you, dude? I wasn't actually serious there."

"Oh. Sorry. Anyway, like last weekend. You gave me the Trojan War movie. I watched it. And I dreamed I was fighting the Trojan War. If they're really from the future, they could pick any movie they wanted."

"True," Andy nodded. "So how'd ya do?"

I gave him a puzzled look.

"The Trojan War?"

"I won it. Can I finish?"

"Sorry, dude."

"Anyway, I figured unless I find a movie about fighting with whips, I'm never going to move on to the next step."

"Which is what?"

"Well, obviously, I fight the alien with the death whip and save the Earth. It is my dream, after all."

"True. Say, what about Indiana Jones? He used a whip in a couple of those, I think."

"Yeah, although I don't think he fought anyone with it. I just remember him using it on Kate Capshaw that one time."

"Kate Capshaw," we said in reverent unison.

"Yeah," Andy said. "But I remember reading that the guy who taught Ford how to use the whip used to make movies of his own."

"Seriously? Who was he?"

"Fuck, man. How the hell do I know? I can tell you where I saw it, though."

I waited patiently for the revelation.

"It was in the guy's obituary. You should read some, you know. They're full of fascinating tidbits."

"Oh, fuck you." We both started laughing. "Speaking of which, I'm gonna spend the rest of my life writing obits if I don't go home and find an answer to this story I'm working on."

"Good luck, dude," Andy said as I wheeled myself out.

"Thanks," I said to myself. "I'm gonna need it."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I spent the first half hour at work on Monday dreading Rachel's arrival. I was going to have to explain to her that I didn't have a story for her.

But first I had to deal with Shawn. She came in after Allie and Dan, as usual. She always put in an appearance on Monday before she dashed off to the statehouse for the Monday morning briefing. She didn't say anything, also just like usual.

"G'morning, Shawn," I said.

The high heels stopped clicking.

"How do you always know it's me?" she asked.

I wheeled myself around. I would have been surprised to have Shawn speak to me in ordinary circumstances. Today was not ordinary. I had jobbed her out of the biggest story in Charleston since the Pinkertons had broken the mine unions. As Rachel had pointed out, that wasn't my fault but I honestly didn't expect Shawn to see it that way.

To my further surprise, however, she had a smile on her face. I had seen the gorgeous blonde hair, the bright blue eyes, and even the perfect tan before, after her vacation last year. But the smile nearly knocked me over.

"Tell me," she ordered.

"Three-inch heels sound different than one-inch heels." I nodded toward her shoes as I found my voice. "You're the only one who wears three-inch heels. I have extremely well-developed hearing."

"That's not the only thing I hear is well-developed," she said with a wiggle of her beautifully shaped eyebrows. "I read my e-mails over the weekend. Alison's sister's quite the lucky little hottie, isn't she?"

I was conscious that my mouth was hanging open and equally conscious that I was not going to be able to close it. Had Shawn Michaels just made a sexual reference about me? To my face? A favorable sexual reference? Was this another dream?

"And I read your story," she said, still smiling. "Nice job, Hando. How'd you dig that one up?"

My suspicions returned instantly.

"Source," I said in an off-hand way.

"Well, it was great," she said, shaking her head. "Wish I had a source like that. So how's the follow-up going?"

"Um, not so good," I said. "That Simpson asshole produced a set of those computer-imaged cancelled checks from the Governor's personal account on Friday. Reimbursing Amalgamated Coal for the use of its plane over the last four years. I spent the whole weekend studying them. I got shit. Leaving me with a story that the Governor's got friends in the coal industry. Big whoop."

"Wow," Shawn said with a laugh and a well-practiced toss of her long hair. "That was fast. When I ask my bank for a copy of a check they're like, 'I'm afraid it will take some time to access that information, Miss Michaels.' And it's never their fault either. It's always the computer."

"Really," I said. My eyes were still staring at Shawn but my mind was elsewhere.

"Are you okay, Hando? Rick?"

"Really," I repeated as a thought coalesced in my mind.

"What's wrong?"

I reached up and grabbed Shawn by the shoulders. Before she could react, I brought her down and kissed her squarely on the lips.

"You're beautiful!" I cried. "I love you!"

I wheeled around and picked up the phone.

"Hey, Melissa. It's Rick Handley. Don't you guys on the fourth floor ever go home? Yeah, I know. Always facts to check. Speaking of facts, do you happen to know the Governor's Social Security number? Great. And his date of birth? And his wife's? And the kids'? Wonderful. Thanks. I owe you one."

Shawn stared at the paper where I had written down the information.

"Why do you need all that?" she asked.

"Shot in the dark," I said. I had a wild, desperate smile on my face as I punched a button for a new line. "The governor's a bright guy, you know, but his wife isn't exactly the most seaworthy ship in the port, if you get my drift."

"So?"

"So what do you think the chances are that she used her birthday, or her husband's or one of her kids' birthdays for the password on their bank account? 'Cause if you know the Social and the password, getting into the account's no problem at all."

She opened her eyes wide as I dialed the automated system at the governor's bank, which was coincidentally the same one that I used. It took me two tries; it turned out to be the oldest kid's birthday.

"Fuckin' A!" I banged my fist on the desk.

"Fuckin A!" I yelled again.

"What?" Shawn asked again as I finally hung up.

"They're forgeries," I said. "See this one here? Check number two-six-three-zero? According to the bank, the check with that number was for forty-three dollars and twenty-six cents. And this one? Two hundred dollars. None of these are the real things. Son of a bitch."

"What's going on?"

Rachel had arrived and was standing next to Shawn. I could smell her perfume.

"Shawn just saved my ass," I said. "Can I co-credit her for this story?"

I heard no answer and wheeled around to find both women staring at me.

"If you're serious," Rachel finally said. "And Shawn doesn't have a problem with it."

We both looked at Shawn, who had the grace to look quite embarrassed.

"I didn't really do anything," she demurred.

"If it wasn't for you," I said, "I'd be dead in the water. Come on Shawn, waddya say?"

She thought for a moment longer.

"Okay," she finally said with a nod. "Let's do it."

"Wonderful," Rachel said.

"My name first," I pointed out. They both laughed.

We adjourned to Rachel's office, where Bill soon joined us. They soon left us alone to write.

An hour later, Shawn left for the statehouse, where she would say nothing at all about this new story. We had decided to use the same plan as last week. If we asked about the forgeries at the briefing, we wouldn't get an exclusive. We would wait until this afternoon. We would call my good friend Pete Simpson after the article was complete. Complete except for the governor's comments, of course.

Which turned out to be very similar to my comments earlier in the day.

"Fuckin' A!" Pete Simpson said.

He calmed down a minute later, though. His professional demeanor returned and he remembered the cardinal rule of politics: The buck never really stops at all.

"All right, folks. I'll tell you what went down. I called Cici Platte last week and had her call the bank. She called back and said that the bank told her that it would take at least a week to get those checks. Because some of 'em were like five years old."

Shawn and I exchanged smiles. Did we know our banks or what?

"So I called Amalgamated to see what they had," Simpson went on. "They shipped me these checks on Friday."

"So you're saying that Amalgamated forged the checks?" I asked.

"I'm saying that they shipped me these checks on Friday."

"And may I have the name of the person you spoke to at Amalgamated?"

There was a long pause.

"Why do you need that?" he asked.

"To give him or her a chance to comment on this allegation before we print it. Just as we're doing with your office."

There was another pause before he answered.

"I'm gonna have to call you back on that one," he said.