Ravensgate PBEM

Ravensgate PBEM

Issue #21, “Ordinary Lives”

PBEM

Vic paces in front of his place at the grotto briefing room table. The rest of the team, Joshua included, sits around the table as Vic studies the slip of paper Oscar handed him.

“This is an angle worth pursuing,” says Vic, looking up. “And a reason I’ve called this meeting. We are at another pivotal point in our work, just like our meeting in April at Rusty’s. It’s time to compare notes, and to implement strategies, without spreading ourselves too thin.”

Vic places a map of the Old Underground on the table and continues: “The Atlanteans, for lack of a better term, were last seen in these old bootleggers’ tunnels. The d’Ambrosio Gang carved them into the Inner Canal back in the early days of Prohibition, before Bottle Bill was elected mayor. Somewhere in that maze is Dr. Morii’s base of operations. I intend for us to find it.”
“What were the Atlanteans doing down there, anyway?” asks Jack.
“Their research was two-fold,” Francois responds. “They were evaluating the Pacific, primarily in favorable—-i.e., American—-territory, for agricultural use. At the same time, they were observing our culture and noting any changes since the Captain’s last contact with humans. They have a curiosity about us, but they wish to maintain their distance.”
“And you believe them?” Jason fires back.
Jack responds with whip-crack speed: “We’re talking about Captain Atlantis! He fought for our side against the Germans!”
Vic jumps in with: “I think we can trust the Captain, Jason. He views humans in different terms than the rest of his people because he lived as one of us for a number of years. Judging from one conversation with him, he’s somewhere between a New Deal Democrat and a tree-hugging Green.”
Vic spins his chair around and straddles it as he continues: “Whether we trust any of the merfolk is a moot point. This country is fighting a war against terrorism, and it can ill-afford a war with Atlanteans who mistakenly believe we are acting like the Germans did sixty years ago.”
”Captain Atlantis served alongside American superheroes,” says Francois, “because the Germans abducted and dissected twelve of his fellow countrymen. He says more strike teams will arrive, and they will exact reprisals unless we can liberate the merfolk Dr. Morii abducted.”
“I’ve taken the liberty of transcribing the conversation with Captain Atlantis,” says Oscar. “You’ll see the icon on your displays. Also, I have scanned in the map and have altered it to correspond to the contours of the Inner Canal sectors and the GPS designations of major sewer access ports. It’s that VoloView Express file icon that just popped up.”

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“Now, Dr. Morii is elusive and may be even more dangerous than Emil Kergillian, The Somnambulist,” Joshua pipes in. “Our search for her should be in shifts, and in small teams to limit our exposure to any of her chemical and/or mental attacks. We should also contact Team Hyperion for assistance.”
“Marcoli and I already covered that angle,” says Vic. “We’ll be switching off with members of Hyperion, and we will have use of their facility Downtown to coordinate the search.”

Vic hands the piece of paper back to Oscar and continues: “In the meantime, we have other leads, and urgent personal business, to pursue. I have some leads on the Smithson case that may shed light on the RCC and Morii’s involvement, Dani and Max will be working on the matter of the Kergillian implants, Oscar will investigate the occult connection, Jack will follow the money trail, Namor will assist Joshua, and Jason, you will be our man on the inside.”
“Inside of what?” Jason asks, puzzled.
“City Hall. You’ll be our eyes and ears. Report anything corrupt or weird.”
“Vic,” says Joshua, “I think I’d like Jack, Francois and Namor to assist me as necessary with the search. All three are sneaky enough, and I can look in on Hyperion to ensure they are not being compromised.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Vic fires back. “However, Francois will be our swingman. We could need him for tailing suspects, performing clandestine surveillance of another nature or providing forward observation for a rescue or reinforcement action.”
Namor raises his hand.
“Yes, Namor?”
“Uh, Vic, you said some of us had urgent personal business. Who would that be?”

North Ninth Street in June is positively vibrant, especially on a sunny day. Tapestries and banners from various apartments and businesses pepper the street, and many wind-beaten rags, vestiges of prior seasons, hang from the elevated-train tracks. Marley’s Caribbean Cuisine is back in business after the damage in the Pagliacci Family’s raid was repaired. As Oscar Washington descends the stairs from the El, he looks down Ninth Street and sees the rubble of the fire-bombed building that once housed The Ravensgate Mercury Weekly. The building’s owner has erected a chain-link fence around the pile of creosote and baked brick; The Mercury has relocated rather than wait for the owner to rebuild.

Oscar stops on the landing above the corner newsstand and looks the other way, up Ninth. He spots the unmistakable profile of Arnaud “Top Hat” Blanc. The white-tuxedoed gangster and his two-foot-eight cohort, Tomas “Too Tall” Darteguenave, are leading a New Orleans-style funeral procession down a side street. The front six marchers have umbrellas open and are casting long shadows across the storefronts of Somali-, Ethiopian- and Caribbean-owned businesses.

Oscar continues down the stairs and into the dimly-lit small confines of Rainbow Serpent Books. Given that the store is as small as some three-bedroom apartments, the place is packed. Five other customers and the proprietor, Odette Daviele, are making the store seem much smaller. Odette looks up from the counter and acknowledges Oscar with a nod and a smile.

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It is dark down in the Old Underground, but not for Jack Nash. He can see in the dark when he is in the dark-elf form code-named Shadowstrike. Namor, as ‘Porter, sees everything in light-amplified shades of green courtesy of military-surplus goggles. The two young men are walking uphill toward a light source, which turns out to be the perforations in a manhole cover. Above them is the sound of a brass band.

“What is that racket?” rasps ‘Porter, who instinctively looks up at the manhole cover and has to shield his eyes against the light.
“Looks like some kind of parade,” replies a squinting Shadowstrike, “but I don’t get it.”
“You don’t get what?”
“Well, it’s a sunny June day and the parade marchers are carrying umbrellas.”
Suddenly, the two boys’ VoxDots squawk: “Team Two, this is Hyperion Base. Cut the chatter. If we can pick up casual conversation without amplifying your signal, then the bad guys know you’re coming.”
It is the voice of Caballera from Team Hyperion.
“But we’re just trying to figure out what’s going on,” responds ‘Porter.
“Please stick to the task at hand. Team One, report.”
“She’s a real stick in the mud,” mutters Jack, turning his gaze back down to the narrow tunnel. “Looks like we have a door six feet down on the left.”
“Base, this is Team Two. We’re checking out a door about six blocks from our last checkpoint.”
“Team Two, stand down and observe. Team One will re-route to assist.”
“Copy that, Base,” Namor responds, as Jack walks up to the rusted steel door and reaches for the latch. “Shadowstrike! What are you—?”

The door opens.

Mayor Salome Throckmorton-d’Aubaine looks up as Jason Garsea enters, noting that he looks somewhat uncomfortable in a suit and tie. She hands the manilla file folder back to an aide as she smiles and approaches the shorter teenager.
“You look positively stunning,” she says, brushing back some of his hair with one hand. “Have you any questions about Captain Meaaloa’s security procedures?”
Jason shakes his head. Despite the public embarrassment from her matronly attitude, Jason can’t help but note that the stunning former supermodel seems to have a soothing floral scent about her. It’s not perfume, but it’s also not soap or shampoo.
“Good. Bruce, Tyr, Fabian, Tom, Davey, Butch, this is our new intern, Jason Garsea. He goes to school with my cousin. He’ll be with us for the summer. Jason, this is Bruce, . . .”
Jason looks around the office, with its stately domed ceiling and finely-wrought oaken doorways. In front of him is the mayor’s actual office, to the right the administrative suite and to the left the conference rooms and coat closet. He notes that five of the six aides look like Chippendale’s dancers and has a sneaking suspicion that there is some ominous significance to Davey, Tyr and Fabian lurking in or near that closet. A framed photograph in the admin suite catches Jason’s eye: Above the caption, Looking for the seat of power, Hilary Clinton is joking with Rudy Giuliani while, in the foreground, Salome is bent over and talking with a seated California Senator Dianne Feinstein and Portland Mayor Vera Katz. A grinning Bill Clinton, the centerpiece of the photo, is standing next to his wife and behind Salome—and is looking right at Salome’s . . . .
“. . . Butch is a history grad from Packwood who is helping me write a book on the leadership secrets of Catherine the Great. He will show you around the admin suite and the Assembly’s mail room.”
“Mail room? But I’ve got eleven AP credits in American government.”
“Which is more than I had at your age, and that’s where I first worked in this building,” says Salome, putting an arm around Jason’s shoulders. Mm, there is that scent again. “Besides, I think Woodrow Wilson and Michael Dukakis are proof academic achievement and governance don’t always mix. You have to have hands-on experience from the bottom up.”
Tyr and Bruce peer into the hallway, and Tyr, the one with the improbably-high blond pompadour, turns back and says, “Your one-o’-clock is stepping off the elevator, presh.”
“Okay, put him in Conference Room One,” says Salome, who then turns to Jason: “Go with Butch. He’ll show you where deals are made and the textbook gets thrown out the window.”

[Top]

Oscar re-enters Rainbow Serpent from the side door shared with Marley’s. The last of the lunch-time rush is over as Odette walks two Goth chicks to the door and thanks them for their patronage.
"Stupid girls,” Odette chuckles. “They wanted ground chicken’s foot for some spell they do not understand, they wouldn’t take no for an answer, and they have no idea I just sold them oregano and flour.”
Oscar raises an eyebrow, to which Odette replies, “I’d rather they bought oregano and flour from me than a real ground-up chicken’s foot from the houngan down the street. They could do some real damage.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. And that’s why I’m here.”
“Joshua told me you'd be coming by, something about wanting to supplement your library? Oscar, yours is better than mine.”
“I know, but I want to branch out. I compiled a list from surfing the Internet, and I’d like your opinion of it.”

Odette takes the list from Oscar, unfolds it, and turns pale: “What is this emblem at the top of the page?”

“I keep seeing it around town. What do you make of it?”
"It's cabalistic, I know that. The downward point to that crescent looks ominous."
“Evil? Dark arts?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“What about the reading list?”
“Oscar, this is quite eclectic. And surprising. I thought you already had Wade Davis, Jean-Claude Mars, Zora Neale Hurston . . . .”
“I have some Hurston, but not Tell My Horse.”
“Hmm. I don’t know what Alfonso Ortiz or Gerry Mander can teach you that you don’t already know. They’re dry academics, while the Warm Springs and Grande Ronde—-it was the Grande Ronde you studied with, right?—-while those medicine men can get you into the ethos.”
“What about the Druidical books?”
“Worthless speculation, but some people put their faith in it. The authors get Druidism and Wicca mixed up or merged. The Romans and Norse did a pretty good number on the Druids before the British Isles were Christianized. I guess it all boils down to . . . .”
“Down to what, Odette?
“Ah, the Haitian Legal Code. Good reading,” says Odette, looking up from the list. “It’s steeped in servi loa and its moral teachings of respect for family and the land. There’s even a law equating zombiefication with murder and carrying appropriate penalties. Not that it ever stopped Simon Legba when he was a Tonton Macoutes . . . .”
“You said it all boils down to something.”
“Belief, even if it’s an illusion,” she mumbles, furrowing her brow and looking over at the spices and crystals shelf. “The mind is a powerful tool. Imagine you had a placebo . . . .”
“Like the old aboriginal Australian tribes where a shaman could point a bone at someone and kill them? Both the shaman and victim have bought into the myth and have formed a momentary symbiotic relationship in fulfilling it, right?”
“Huh? No, I was thinking of the expectations one has when taking a drug. Seems most Americans approach their spirituality that way.”
“What about existentialist philosophers and their view of the mind as its own universe?”

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In the universe underneath Issaquah Avenue North, Shadowstrike and ‘Porter lean against the now-closed rusty door and try to catch their breath as Brother Knight and Gemini from Team Hyperion arrive on-scene. ‘Porter is trying to wave away some fumes.
“I thought Caballera told you not to open that door,” snaps Brother Knight, “until back-up arrived.”
“I tried to stop him,” says ‘Porter.
“Hey,” Jack interjects, “there were no security systems in—.”
“I don’t care!! You kids were lucky it was just an old sewer cistern. Man, this place reeks.”

“You’re right, it does,” says the mayor to Jason, “but politics is a strange business. Election opponents cooperate all the time, when it suits them. Two Congressmen running for the same Senate seat can serve on the same committee, for example, and Bob Dole and Bill Clinton worked for the same bi-partisan legislation even when they were running against each other in ’96.”
“But could a mayor and a police chief running for the same office trust each other?”
Salome leans back against her desk and laughs: “Trust and politics don’t mix. Neither of us shares information we can’t independently verify. Besides, he’s a moderate Republican, I’m a swing Democrat. Our political differences are few, and we have common political enemies.”
“Then why is he running against you?” asks Jason.
“He’s not, really. He stopped campaigning after the April Fools Day riots, but his cops still go door-to-door for him. His original issues were my experience and leadership, but the police strike solved that question. He doesn't believe candidates in a democracy should run unopposed,” Salome deadpans, noting that the clock on the wall says 5:03. “Hey, the engine’s running downstairs. If you don’t mind, I’ll drop you off on the way home. I need to freshen up before dinner with Max.”
As the two leave the office, Jason asks, “And how are things going with Max?”
“Goodnight, presh! Good night, Jason!” says Tyr, office keys in hand. Salome and Jason responds in kind.
“Jason, that is a state secret,” giggles Salome as she inserts her card in the elevator control’s slot. The first available car arrives almost immediately. “Max has a wonderful sense of humor, a flair for French cuisine, a gifted mind and healing hands. All are qualities I seek.”
The two enter the elevator car. Salome inserts her card in the slot just above the button marked 29: Mayoral and Administrative Offices. She then presses the P3 button and the elevator car makes a rapid descent.
After a long pause, Salome turns to Jason, the soothing floral scent commences, and she says, smiling, “Did the boys make you uncomfortable at all? If you must know, you and Butch are the only straight men in that office. I have one simple rule for getting along, and I expect everyone to follow it: You can look but you can’t touch, and you leave your hang-ups at the door. It’s a carryover from my modeling days, and the boys understand that.”

[Top]

Dani walks into the deserted lab, PDA and mineral water bottle in each hand. She sits down at the desk. She is intrigued by the small cellophane bag with a note attached:

        Dani,

        Can you analyze this for me?
        I need to know if this city employee
        is a metahuman. Thanks!

        Jason

Dani examines it in the light one more time. It’s an auburn strand of hair that looks familiar somehow. She sets it back down on the desk and looks up at Deepthinker’s fifty-inch flat-screen status display. The experiments on the evolved implants are still in progress, but she notes that Max has added something to the research log:

Submitted inquiries to Oregon Fish & Wildlife Vector Control Division regarding mosquito saliva samples. Need to determine origin of mosquito saliva attached to this particular strain of the implants. Sample does not match Howard’s pets.

Jason seems to have a massive subroutine running and in progress. Dani opens up the folder and is asked for her access codes. She types them in and the folder’s contents splash across the screen:

Mayor’s Office
Mayor’s Conference Room 1
Mayor’s Conference Room 2
Mayor’s Conference Room 3
Administrative Suite, Mayor’s Office
City Hall, Assembly Conference Room 1
City Hall, Assembly Conference Room 2
City Hall, Assembly Conference . . . .

All are subfolders with time-indexed compressed sound files. One, titled Mayor D and Phil S, 1:00pm Tuesday, intrigues her even more than the strand of hair. She unscrews the cap on the water bottle, dons headphones, and clicks the PLAY icon on the screen. Within a minute, her spit-take includes water gushing out her nose.

“Oh my God.”

[Top]

Tabula Rasa sits hidden in the bushes near a bank of phone booths at one end of a convenience-store parking lot on the east slope of Industry Hill, intersection of Kellogg and South Tenth. Across the parking lot from the pay phones is a convenience store with an attendant’s shack between the gas pumps. Since it’s No-Self-Serve Oregon, a bored attendant sits in the shack with his face buried in a magazine.
“So who is this we’re after?” inquires a disembodied voice.
“Billy Durden, fugitive,” whispers Tabula Rasa. “Former shop steward for the Ravensgate Police Guild, wanted for job abandonment, bribery, extortion, theft, fraud, racketeering, obstruction of justice, evading a police officer . . . . You know, the usual stellar achievements for the local rubber-check squad. He may lead us to Swill.”
“Let me guess,” says Pyro, “he doesn’t want to make vital communications on-line for fear his IP could be traced, even if he uses an alias?”
“Something like that. It’s a bit fishy that a detective his age would use pay phones and disposable phone cards. To each his own, I guess.”
“Description?”
“Forty, black hair, blue eyes, faded tan, facial acne scars on either side of his chin, six-one, medium build, estimated weight about one-seventy-five. Hands and wrists lack any hair because he’s a boxer by hobby, the tape pulled away follicles years ago.”
“You do your homework.”
“Not really. The day clerk at the Quik-Rob over there pulled two weekend double shifts and saw Durden using this phone. He and Durden go back a long way, one of those ‘repeat customer’ relationships. Hates the detective’s guts.”

A van marked Marcinko HVAC Repair pulls into the parking lot. The back door rolls halfway up, allowing for a man fitting Durden’s description to squeeze through and jump to the pavement. He walks over to the middle pay phone and dials a number.
“Hello? It’s me. Torpedo fired electrically, full speed ahead.”
The man hangs up and immediately dials another number. He taps his left foot nevrvously as he waits for the opportunity to speak.
“This is Detective William Durden, shield number 0373. Please see to it that Mr. Sinclair gets this message. It’s urgent. I have evidence that Matt Shinmen was the triggerman in the murder of James Smithson, upon orders from Philip Snow. You can verify my story by searching the Shinmen home. The inspector keeps his throwdown pieces inside an air vent. I think one of those is the murder weapon.”
Durden hangs up and turns back toward the van.
Sub-vocally, Pyro says through his VoxDot, "I have him on digital camera. How shall we proceed?"

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