Peter Clines: Ex-Patriots

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

THE MIGHTY DRAGON PATROLS LOS ANGELES

“APE MAN” STOPS ROBBERY

SHADOWY FIGURE HUNTS RAMPART DISTRICT CRIMINALS

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

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

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

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

“What are you getting at, Mr. Smith?”

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

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

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

“The what?”

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

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

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

“A dragon?”

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

“I know what metamorphosis means.”

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

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

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

“Then why bring back Krypton?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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