Story HourPost your ongoing tales from your campaigns, and read those from others for inspiration. Lots of other RPG boards post "Story Hours", but this is where it started!
The street leaped and shuddered again, harder than before, as if earthquake shock waves passed beneath it. But it was no quake.
The agents flattened to the ground. Standing was impossible.
It was coming—not just a fragment, not just another spawn, but the largest part of it, perhaps the entire great bulk, surging toward the surface with unimaginable destructive power, rising like a god betrayed, bringing its unholy wrath and vengeance on those who had dared to strike at it, turning itself into an enormous mass of muscle fiber and pushing, pushing, until the macadam bulged and cracked.
Along the entire block of Skyline Road, an atonal symphony of destruction reached an ear-shattering crescendo: squealing, grinding, cracking, splitting sounds; the world itself coming asunder. The air was filled with dust that spurted up from widening fissures in the pavement.
The roadbed tilted with tremendous force. Chunks of it spewed into the air. Most were the size of gravel, but some were as large as a fist. A few were even larger than that, fifty- and hundred- and two-hundred-pound blocks of concrete, leaping five or ten feet into the air as the protean creature below formed relentlessly toward the surface.
The earth under Hammer lifted and fell with a crash. Lifted and fell again. Gravel-size debris rained down, thumping off his legs, snapping against his head, making Hammer wince.
A huge slab of concrete erupted from the left and was flung ten feet into the air. It hit Guppy. It slammed across his legs, breaking them, pinning Guppy. He howled in pain, howling so loudly that he could be heard above the roar of the disintegrating pavement.
Still, the shaking continued. The street heaved up higher. Ragged teeth of macadam concrete bit at the morning air.
A baseball-size missile of concrete, spat into the air by the protomatter’s volcanic exit from the storm drain, slammed back to the pavement, impacting two or three inches from Jim-Bean’s head. Then the ridge-forming pressure from below was suddenly widened. The street ceased shaking.
The sounds of destruction faded. Abruptly, the street began caving in. It made a tearing sound, and pieces broke loose along the fracture lines. Slabs tumbled into the emptiness below. Too much emptiness: it sounded as if things were falling into a chasm, not just a drain.
Then the entire hoved-up section pavement erupted with a thunderous roar, and Hammer found himself at the brink. The pit was ten feet across, at least fifty feet long.
He saw Guppy. His legs were pinned under a massive hunk of concrete. Worse than that—he was trapped on a precarious piece of roadbed that thrust over the rim of the hole, with no support beneath it. At any moment, it might crack loose and fall into the pit, taking him with it.
“Guppy!” shouted Hammer. “Hold on!”
The pit was at least thirty feet deep, probably a lot deeper in places; Hammer couldn’t gauge it accurately because there were many shadows along its fifty-foot length.
A crisp, cracking noise split the air. Guppy’s concrete perch shifted. It was going to break loose and tumble into the chasm.
Wham!
The pavement shifted and began to drop out from under Guppy. Hammer lunged and grabbed hold of Guppy’s collar just as the pavement beneath Guppy gave way. An eight-foot-long, four-foot-wide slab, slipped into the pit, carrying Guppy and Hammer with it. It didn’t crash to the bottom, but instead slid thirty feet to the base and came to rest against other rubble.
Guppy screamed in pain.
The spawn came for him. It exploded out of one of the tunnels that pecked the floor of the pit. A massive pseudopod of amorphous protoplasm rose ten feet into the air, quivered, dropped to the ground, broke off of the mother-body hiding below, and formed itself into an obscenely fat black spider the size of a pony. It was only twelve feet from Guppy, and it clambered through the shattered blocks of pavement, heading toward him with murderous intent.
“Shoot it!” shouted Hammer.
Jim-Bean took aim and fired. The dart plunged into the spider’s head. It stumbled backwards, wicked fangs gnashing in rage.
Hammer began climbing, dragging Guppy behind him. He dragged them both up to a flatter part of the pit. The spider’s huge black legs scrabbled for purchase on the ledge.
Hammer dropped Guppy and drew his pistols. He fired first one pistol, then the other, aiming at the spider’s legs.
The spider’s legs tore apart, transforming back into protomatter. Sores exploded across its body. Hammer fired more shots into its head and it fell back into the pit, reabsorbed into the protomatter spawn and infecting it further.
Hammer resumed climbing. Guppy was semi-conscious, which made it even harder.
The protomatter spawn surged up from underground, gushing out onto the floor of the pit. It looked like a tide of thick, congealed sewage; except for where it was stained by BIOSAN-4, it was darker than it had been before. It rippled, writhed, and churned more agitatedly than ever. The milky stain of infection was spreading visibly through the creature: Blisters formed, swelled, popped; ugly sores broke open and wept a watery blue fluid.
Hammer cleared the slope of the pit. He shoved Guppy over the edge and then clambered up after him.
Within only a few seconds, at least a ton of the amorphous flesh spewed out of the hole. All of it was afflicted with disease, and still it came, ever faster, a lava-like outpouring, a wild spouting of living, gelatinous tissue. Even more of the beast began to issue from another hole. The great oozing mass lapped across the rubble, formed pseudopods—shapeless, flailing arms—that rose into the air but quickly fell back in foaming, spasming seizures.
And then, from still other holes, there came a ghastly sound: the voices of a thousand men, women, children, and animals, all crying out in pain, horror, and bleak despair.
Three or four tons of amorphous tissue fountained into the pit, and more still was gushing forth, as if the bowels of the earth were emptying. The spawn’s flesh was shuddering, leaping, bursting with leprous lesions. It tried to bud other versions, but it was too weak or unstable to competently mimic anything; the half-realized animals and enormous insects either decomposed into a sludge that resembled pus or collapsed back into the pool of tissue beneath them.
The thing came toward Hammer nonetheless, coming in a quivering-churning frenzy; it flowed almost to the base of the slope, and sent its degenerating yet still powerful tentacles toward his heels.
Hammer turned, both Glocks out, but it was too late. Tendrils pulled at him with the strength of ten men, sucking him in like a squid capturing a shrimp. He was instantly surrounded, and suddenly Hammer understood how Beck and Henderson died.
The protomatter spawn had squeezed them to death by sucking them into its bulk, suffocating, bruising, without breaking a single bone. There wasn’t even the possibility of resisting. Every inch of space around Hammer was filled with protomatter, and it whispered in his ear that it would make him suffer in ways he could never imagine.
Then the pustule burst around him and he fell out, gasping. Hammer caught a glimpse of Jim-Bean, his air rifle still aimed at the thing, before he hit the ground.
An incredibly large, gelatinous lake of amorphous tissue lay at the bottom of the pit, pooling over and around the debris, but it was virtually inactive. A few human and animal forms still tried to rise up, but the thing was losing its talent for mimicry. The creatures were imperfect and sluggish. The spawn slowly disappeared under a layer of its own dead and decomposing tissue.
Jim-Bean stood over Hammer, the rifle hanging limply in his hand.
“Did we get it?” croaked Hammer. His entire body was one big bruise. It hurt to breath.
“Yeah,” said Jim-Bean. “We got it.”
“Guppy?” Hammer rolled over to look at Guppy. His rib cage moved up and down in shallow gasps.
“He’ll live,” said Jim-Bean. “His legs are busted up. I put a call in for a STREETSWEEP of this whole damn town. Backup should be here soon.”
“Now what do we do?” Hammer whispered, closing his eyes.
“Now?” Jim-Bean shrugged. There was no evidence of anything anymore. No evidence of Guppy’s slip-up. No evidence of Hammer’s executions. And most importantly, no evidence of the parasite that was coiled around Jim-Bean’s bones. He held up one of the blue vials of BIOSAN-4 to the sunlight. “Now we get back to work.”
The small east-central Tennessee community of Groversville, long the butt of local humor as a hotbed of UFO crackpots and Elvis-sighters was no longer a laughing matter. A virulent plague had ravaged the town and many of the farms in the vicinity, leaving a death toll of well over ninety percent among the human population and near-total loss of livestock in its wake.
Acting swiftly under the direction of the Centers for Disease Control, Tennessee Governor Don Sundquist mobilized several units of the Tennessee National Guard, placing the region under strict quarantine.
"We feel it's of vital importance to contain this disease within the Groversville community, not only to prevent the spread of contagion throughout the state, but also to more effectively render assistance to those citizens of Groversville so desperately in need of our help in this time of crisis," Governor Sundquist said in a press release on Saturday.
Dr. Carl Sciebenski, Deputy Director of the National Center for Infectious Diseases in Atlanta, lauded the Tennessee governor's efforts.
"Without the cooperation of elected officials, the CDC's hands are tied. Governor Sundquist's prompt response to our recommendation of quarantine may well have safeguarded the lives of thousands," he said in a press conference.
Dr. Sciebenski went on to indicate that, while the provenance of the disease that struck Groversville was unknown, the apparently new strain of viral influenza, while virulent and deadly, appeared to have a very short life cycle.
"Forty-eight hours after the initial reports, we were no longer detecting cases of new infection," Dr. Sciebenski stated. "While the tragedy of Groversville will never be forgotten, we are confident that there shall be no re-appearances of this disease."
No official spokesperson for the town of Groversville was available for comment. No trace of the town's board of aldermen was found, although the town hall was found to be in a state of total disarray when investigators arrived. Likewise, the entire local sheriff's department appeared to have succumbed to the disease that claimed so many. Funerals for the deceased continued through the week.
This scenario, “The Birdcage,” is from the Spycraft supplement Combat Missions by Yours Truly. You can read more about Delta Green at Delta Green. Please note: This story hour contains spoilers!
Kurtis "Hammer" Grange (Fast Hero/Gunslinger) played by George Webster
Because I plan so far in advance, at this point I have five or six scenarios ready to go depending on which players show up. This is a necessity, because sometimes I’m never sure whom I’m going to get. I didn’t realize George was playing until he arrived. Since he showed up first, I decided to go ahead and advance his plotline.
In Hammer’s case, it’s clear he’s being used as bait. I felt like this scenario was successful in emphasizing Hammer’s character development and personal plotline. The original purpose of the combat mission – to capture four of the worst murderers in America – was ignored for the larger terrorist plot. Or to put it another way, when you work for the Counter-Intelligence Field Agency, you worry more about terrorists than you do criminals.
And heck, if they’re patriotic criminals, all the better!
Defining Moment: Even murderous psychopaths love the good ole U.S. of A!
I'm on assignment for the FBI, Miami, Florida. Child sacrifice.
The swamp is deep and warm and old.
(I'm falling) I think she loves me, I love her too.
Satan brands, and homemade tattoos.
You can't believe the things I've seen.
These are my friends now, these are my friends now,
these are my friends now, these are my friends now.
-Train to Miami by Steel Pole Bathtub
POUND, VA—While most prisoners were evacuated through more traditional forms of transportation, the possibility of a supersarin attack against Red Onion super maximum-security prison required special attention. The criminals were collectively more dangerous than the threat itself. The worst murderers and serial killers were collected onto a Justice Prisoner Transportation System (JPTS) and sent to another super maximum-security prison.
Agent Hammer, bristling at his new reassignment, stood guard on the 727 known as FPTS 50. It was probably just as well. After the falling out between Hammer and Guppy, he had been reassigned. Guppy claimed Hammer had turned against him, even drew a weapon against a fellow agent; all true of course. But in turn, Hammer claimed Guppy was mentally unstable, endangering the Conspiracy, and sharing secrets with people who couldn’t be trusted.
In the end, Majestic-12 judged them both guilty. So Hammer was put on a guard duty aboard a prison plane, and Guppy was released on his own recognizance for some R&R while under the care of a mental health professional. Nobody had walked away from the experience clean, not even Jim-Bean. He didn’t talk about it; Hammer only knew that Jim-Bean had to be paired with another agent at all times for any given mission, almost like a chaperon. Sprague never explained why.
Inside, the 727 was rearranged from its previous commercial seating to allow guards a better view of the entire plane. The criminals trudge past him in single file onto the plane. All of the prisoners wore handcuffs, leg irons and a belly chain secured with a padlock.
Some of the prisoners had handcuffs reinforced with a black box that covered the keyhole.
“You’re the new guy, rights?” One of the guards smiled at Hammer. “You look familiar.” His badge read BISHOP.
“I look like a lot of people,” muttered Hammer.
Bishop, a clean-shaven younger man, nodded towards the prisoners in line with the black boxes holding their manacles together. “Black-box prisoners always get window seats,” he said. “They're seated in the back, as far from the pilots as possible.”
Hammer didn’t know what to say, so he just nodded. The passenger manifest was a veritable rogue’s gallery of the worst the penal system had to offer.
Like a talk show host introducing his guests, Bishop gleefully explained the four worst “black boxed” men who climbed into the plane.
“This here’s Crazy Freddy.” Crazy Freddy’s wild eyes and hair were unmistakable, the anarchy symbol on his forehead defying anyone who looked at him. “Crazy Freddy convinced his follows to kill a sleeping family.” Freddy stuck his pierced tongue out at Hammer as he passed.
“Next is George Jones, AKA the Incinerator.” Bishop smirked at Jones. “Tell ‘em why they call you incinerator, Jonesy.”
“Burned down a building fill with senior citizens,” said Jones, wiggled his red eyebrows.
The next man to enter stood nearly seven feet tall and the guards had force his head down and push him sideways through the door. He needed no introduction.
“Smasher,” said Hammer. “I remember you.”
Johnny “Smasher” Morowitz didn’t make eye contract. A former Football star, weight lifter, and professional wrestler, Johnny had murdered several men with his bare hands for the Mafia. It was all in the news.
The last man to enter was shuffled in with pantyhose over his head. The guard patted the top of the prisoner’s head.
“This sterling piece of human filth is none other than Billy ‘Taste-Test’ Bean, a bona fide serial killer!” The other guards bound Billy into his seat with a cargo strap before they removed the pantyhose. “Billy’s a spitter,” said Bishop, to explain the pantyhose.
“How many people you eat, Billy?” asked Falzon, another one of the guards.
“Twenty six,” he said, staring with startling blue eyes at the guard.
“Keeps going up,” said Falzon. “It was twenty five.”
Billy stared at Falzon. “I’m planning ahead.”
They each took their posts, at the rear, center, and front of the cabin.
"Make sure your seat belt is fastened and keep it fastened,” said the pilot over the intercom. “Do not stand up for any reason unless instructed to do so. If you're seated in an aisle, keep your arms, legs and other body parts out of the aisle. In the unlikely event of an emergency, follow all directions of the flight crew."
The flight was fairly uneventful despite the tension on the plane. By now the prisoners knew that disobedience was not tolerated in such cramped quarters. It looked like it was going to be a routine flight.
Bishop returned to staring at Hammer. “Man, you really look familiar.”
“He was on that terrorist web site,” said Falzon. “The guy who has a fatwa of death on him by Al-Hazzan.”
“Fat what?” asked the third guard in the back, Billings.
“Fatwa,” said Falzon. “You know, a religious decree by Muslims. In this case, Al-Hazzan ordered a fatwa to take … Grange, is it?” He peered at Hammer’s badge. “To take Grange out.”
“Take him out?” asked Billings. "What did you do to them?"
Hammer didn't answer.
“He captured Saladin," said Bishop for him.
That caused everyone to go silent.
“That means …” began Billings, but then he looked around. “Saladin's not on the plane, is he?”
“We would know,” said Bishop, checking a clipboard. "He's not on the list."
“He's not on the plane,” said Hammer curtly. "He's dead."
“Then why does Al-Hazzan keep asking for him to be released?” asked Falzon.
“I guess they don’t believe me,” replied Hammer.
“You think they’d put him on here and not tell us?” asked Falzon.
The guards all craned their necks, inspecting any prisoner who looked like he was of Middle Eastern descent.
“Why would they do that?” asked Hammer.
“I dunno, man,” said Bishop, irritated. “Why ARE you here then?”
“I’m Saladin!” shouted a white prisoner.
“No, I’m Saladin!” responded a black prisoner next to him.
This started a litany of cries either claiming to be Saladin or patriotic condemnations.
The guards got nervous. This kind of ruckus wasn't usual for them, but they didn't want to delay the flight either.
“Shut up!” shouted Crazy Freddy. "I know for a fact Saladin's not on board."
That calmed the others down. "How do you know that?" asked Jones.
"Because," Freddy looked him up and down, "those anti-American bastards want this homie dead. Putting him in the same plane would be like lighting a big neon sign over our heads."
Hammer stared straight at Freddy. Freddy unflinchingly returned his gaze.
"You think Saladin's alive, don't ya Freddy," asked Bishop, who had clearly worked with Freddy for a while.
Freddy nodded. "Has to be. They wouldn't put this guy on a prison transport otherwise. Saladin's just not here with him."
"That makes us sitting ducks …" began Falzon.
“Uh, hey,” interrupted the prisoner who had first claimed to be Saladin. “I think there’s a problem with my box here.”
The prisoner next to him leaned over and placed his ear to the box.
“Uh…guys? Guys, this box is beeping.” He smiled nervously, a maw full of dirty yellow teeth. “I know this crap is high-tech and stuff but are these things supposed to beep?”
Someone shouted from the back, “Oh man, I got gypped! Mine ain’t beeping!”
This elicited snickers from the other prisoners, but just then the beeping got loud enough that it could be heard over the engines of the plane. It began to beep faster and more urgently.
Hammer calmly took hold of the rigging near him and braced himself.
“Son of a BITCH,” snarled Crazy Freddy. He glared at Hammer. "You're bad luck—"
A loud explosion cut off his sentence as the beeping prisoner's entire seat was engulfed in a fireball. The wall ripped open, exposing the inside of the plane to the tearing winds.
The plane was a mass of chaos. Prisoners screamed, yanked towards the gaping wound in the plane but safely chained to their seats. They were the lucky ones.
One of the guards, the one who was inspecting the box, disappeared before he could even scream. The other guards, positioned on the far ends of the plane held on for dear life. The two prisoners in the seat that exploded were gone, along with their seats. The warning shrieks from the cockpit were audible throughout the plane.
Outside, Hammer could make out the terrain whistling below them. He got a glimpse of the wing. It was on …
“Fire!” shouted Jones, gesturing excitedly with his manacles towards the hole.
Through the gaping wound in the plane Hammer could make out flames flickering and dancing where the engine once was.
Hammer grabbed a fire extinguisher, but he couldn't do much of anything but hold on until the plane reached a lower altitude.
“Prepare for an emergency landing!” shouted the pilot over the intercom.
“Emergency landing?” shouted Crazy Freddy. “Where? We’re in the middle of freaking nowhere!”
Hammer caught a glimpse of a dirt road as the plane banked hard. The plane shook and rattled as the pilot struggled to keep it aloft. Outside the hole, the ground rushed up fast.
Freed from the freezing cold air of a higher altitude, the flames began to lick their way along the wing of the plane. The shrieking of the wind mingled with the crackling of fire as the heat started to reach the main cabin.
Hammer sprayed the flames, dousing several prisoners in the process who swore at him. And then suddenly grass and trees whistled past the opening as the plane hit the ground hard.
The plane pitched violently and the world spun, rolling end over end over end. Hammer was tossed about like a rag doll, bouncing off cages, prisoners, and seats.
The gut-wrenching fall finally stopped, punctuated by bubbling and gurgling. Hammer struggled to orient himself as it slowly dawned on him what had happened. The prisoners were all hanging from the ceiling …
Water rushed through the hole. The plane was upside down in water.
The prisoners resumed their clamoring for release, banging ineffectively against their chains.
"Keys!" he shouted. But there was no one conscious enough to help.
The guards were all unconscious and the pilot, judging from the silence from the front, was dead. Hammer pulled the four guards out through the emergency exit, two at a time. The rising water made it easier to float their unconscious bodies out.
"You're not going to just leave us here?" asked Freddy, panic in his voice. The water was up to Hammer’s waist.
Hammer glared at him as he floated out with the other two guards.
A moment later he returned with a shotgun. "I can't find the keys," said Hammer flatly. He advanced on the upside down Freddy.
Freddy closed his eyes and turned away. "Make it quick."
The shotgun blast exploded in front of him. Freddy opened one eye.
Hammer had shot the chains off of Freddy's feet. He fell into the water, sputtering.
"Now help me with the others," said Hammer grimly.
As Hammer and Freddy ushered the prisoners onto the shore, a truck pulled to the side of the road. Ten Middle Eastern men got out.
"We need help!" shouted Hammer. "There's men still inside …"
He trailed off as he spotted the sub-machineguns.
"Man I hate being right," whispered Freddy behind him.
The terrorists fired their weapons in the air. “Where is he?” shouted the leader.
Hammer had tucked his pistols in the belt beneath his shirt. Now he was glad he did.
"Get ready to run for it," said Hammer out of the corner of his mouth. But when he looked back, Freddy was gone.
The terrorists grabbed the four guards and rounded up the remaining prisoners, ignoring the screams of the men still in the plane.
"You! Agent Curtis Grange," said the leader, smiling. "Where is Saladin?"
"He's dead," said Hammer, staring the man down.
The leader shook his head and took out a pistol. “I know Saladin is alive. Your government has been keeping him. So I ask you again, where is Saladin?"
"If he's alive, they didn't tell me," said Hammer.
The leader nodded sympathetically. "I understand. You are a victim of the American government’s lies as much as I am." He turned without hesitation and shot Collins in the head.
The terrorist holding Collins rolled his corpse down the muddy slope. Hammer looked away.
"Jesus!" shouted Billings, snapped out of his stupor by the gunshot. "Tell him what he wants to know!"
"Do I have your attention now? Good. Now you will find out where he is using those wonderful government contacts."
"Did you check the plane?" asked Hammer. "He could be in there."
The leader leered at Hammer. "You're playing games with me, yes? I know you know Saladin. You captured him. I know all this." He held up Hammer's cistron to his ear. "Make a call."
Hammer dialed a number.
"Hello Agent Hammer," came SINNER's cheerful preadolescent voice. "What can I do for you?"
"I need to know where Saladin is," said Hammer, trying to keep his voice steady. "It's very important."
"I'm sorry Agent Hammer, you're not cleared for that information."
"SINNER, listen to me …" he began. The phone disconnected.
The terrorist leader laughed. "Women, eh?" He turned and fired a bullet through Billings' head.
"Oh God!" wailed Falzon, also awake. Bishop just looked angry.
"You are running out of companions," said the leader. "Life is very unfair."
Hammer's phone rang. He didn't answer it.
"Aren't you going to pick that up? Maybe it's your girlfriend." The leader prattled on. "You should pick it up!"
Hammer picked it up. "Hammer," he said.
"Hammer it's Jim-Bean! Listen, I just got word that your flight went down. Is everything all right?"
"No," said Hammer, staring at the terrorist leader.
"Also, we think Saladin—"
Hammer cut him off. "Listen to me very carefully," said Hammer. "I need to know where Saladin is. Right. Now."
"Oh," said Jim-Bean after a moment of silence. "So things are really not all right, are they?"
"No," said Hammer.
"I see. Let me get back to you—"
KABLAM! Falzon's blood and brains spattered Hammer.
"$#!t!" swore Bishop. "I'm going to kill every one of you f#*kers!"
The terrorist leader took aim at Bishop with his pistol. But Bishop didn't give him the chance. He charged headlong into him, knocking them both down the muddy slope towards the burning plane.
Hammer ducked low and drew both of his pistols, firing simultaneously. Two of the terrorists went down.
Prisoners roared into the fight, strangling, grappling, biting, and clawing the terrorists. Hammer made his way up the slope and fired again, killing two more.
Hammer ducked, raking gunfire as the terrorists fired wildly at the mob of prisoners, heedless of hitting their own. He made his way to the other side of the van.
The terrorists sprayed the van with bullets, panicked. With their leader down in the muck, they were as disorganized as the prisoners. Something popped and hissed in the van's undercarriage.
Hammer backpedaled away, firing as he went to keep the terrorists near the van. They ducked for cover behind the vehicle.
Hammer recognized the van. Before the team had switched to more inconspicuous vehicles, he practically lived out of one of those vans. And he knew where the gas tank was.
Hammer concentrated bursts from both of his Glocks. The high-pitched shriek of gas igniting was the only warning the terrorists got as the van exploded.
Hammer struggled to get up, sputtering in the muck. The explosion had thrown him off the side of the slope, down into the welcoming arms of the cold mud. The soft landing had saved his life.
The others were not so lucky. All of the terrorists and some of the prisoners who had been near the van were blown apart from the explosion. The terrorist leader was dead in the muck, his skull crushed in by some incredible force. For some reason his hand was missing. Bishop's corpse lay next to him. Who had killed whom was unclear.
A pair of guard's boots appeared in his field of vision. Hammer looked up.
It was Crazy Freddy. "Well if it ain't our national hero!"
Jones, Morowitz, and Bean were all standing around him, armed with shotguns and pistols. They wore ill-fitting guard uniforms. Blood was spattered on Morowitz and Bean’s clothes.
Hammer started to reach for his pistols, but then realized that one of them was dangling from Freddy’s hand.
"Don't bother," said Freddy. "I think you've had enough heroics for one day, huh?" He leaned down on his knees to put his face in Hammer's field of vision. "Tell you what: whaddaya say we let bygones be bygones? You're one of them CIFA boys, right? We ain't terrorists. Hell, I'm a Goddamn red-blooded American patriot! We all are!" Freddy looked up at his companions. "Ain't we boys?"
"Damn right," said Morowitz, the first thing he said the entire trip.
"Right," he looked back at Hammer. "You saved my life. You saved all these boys lives. You don’t know me from Adam. But when trouble came, you took care of it." Freddy smiled, almost fatherly. "You’ve been screwed by the system as much as we have. Only we deserve it." He stood up. "So I tell ya what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna let you live. You deserve to. Probably the only decent thing I done in my whole life." He smirked.
Freddy looked up suddenly. Then he left Hammer's view. The boots tramped off.
"Watch your back, soldier boy. We'll look for you on the front page …"
Hammer got to his feet. The four convicts were gone.
Jim-Bean waved to him from a black helicopter. Hammer limped over to it.
"You okay?"
"I'll live. But there are four wanted men on the loose somewhere out there."
Jim-Bean shrugged. "Are they terrorists?"
Hammer shook his head, climbing into the chopper. "The terrorists are all dead."
"Then I don't care. Leave it to Alabama law enforcement. We got more important things to do!"
The chopper took off as two more emergency choppers and a police chopper landed below them.
This scenario, “The Prince is Dead,” by Adam Scott Glancy and John Tynes, is from the d20 Delta Green rulebook. You can read more about Delta Green at Delta Green. Please note: This story hour contains spoilers!
Sebastian “Caprice” Creed (Fast/Smart Hero/Techie) played by Bill Countiss
This is one of the rare scenarios I played straight. I didn’t tweak the plot; I just let the players have at it. One thing I did do is carefully plot out how Valiant’s powers work using D20 Modern/D&D psionics, which was helpful, because the ending got very hairy very quickly. In fact, if the scenario has a weak point, it’s that Valiant’s powers seem to be very much a plot device rather than an actual game effect. But that tweaking aside, the plot played out as explained in the scenario.
Jim-Bean’s psychic powers mess things up a wee bit, of course, but since I had done some extra work in introducing Jim-Bean to Enolsis early and fleshed out Enolsis with the information for the Neo-Scientologists from Critical Locations, I was able to provide a much better perspective on what was going on than I would if I just suddenly introduced Enolsis and Valiant in the scenario.
The ending fight, often criticized as a superhero battle, complete with flying bad guys and telekinetic bolts of force, pretty much played out as a Michael Bay film. It was a very different scenario, a bit of a refreshing change from the usual creeping horror style of play. As one player muttered, “did they catch all that on tape?
Defining Moment: Jim-Bean decides to turn Valiant’s psychic powers against him, but it backfires.
Relevant Media
Critical Locations: For D20 Modern and a lifesaver, since Delta Green provides no maps.
Feeling unknown
And you’re all alone
Flesh and bone
By the telephone
Lift up the receiver
I’ll make you a believer
-Personal Jesus by Depeche Mode
ST.LOUIS, IL—The St. Louis branch of Enolsis was located on Delmar Blvd., in University City. It was in a storefront right on the sidewalk, surrounded by coffee shops, bookstores, clothing shops, and so forth. The store had a glass front covered with posters, so it was difficult to see inside. The posters were well-produced and covered with pictures of people meditating, clouds, and various other restful scenes. There was even one fanciful poster of Enolsis faithful (crystals dangling from chains around their necks) flying like angels over a majestic mountain range.
Taking a deep breath, Jim-Bean pushed open the door.
Inside was an open area about twenty feet wide by forty-feet long, covered with mats and rugs. At the back of the store sat a slightly raised platform. On the wall behind the platform was a large tapestry, black on a gold background, depicting two cupped hands holding a crystal. Along the walls were displays of the various pamphlets, books, and audio and video tapes sold by Enolsis to help their membership “find their true light.” To the right was a desk with a cash register and computer.
“Hi!’ chirped a woman at the register. Her nametag read: DIANE. “Can I help you with anything?”
Jim-Bean had a pamphlet in his hand. “I read that you help focus psychic potential.”
“Oh yes!” chirped Diane. That’s all she seemed to know how to do, chirp. “Dr. Knightsbridge is doing intakes today as a matter of fact.” She handed Jim-Bean a form. “Just fill this out and then Dr. Knightsbridge will do some basic tests.”
“Tests?” asked Jim-Bean, swallowing hard. Jim-Bean wasn’t sure why he had come, but more and more he needed some way of grappling with the stress of his burgeoning powers.
Jim-Bean sat down. The forms were painstakingly long. He scribbled nonsense in for most of it.
Diane ushered him into the back room. A minute later was a tall man in his late forties entered, with a neat beard and moustache, and black hair with distinguished gray streaks. He was dressed in a dapper suit.
“Hello,” he said, shaking Jim-Bean’s hand. “I’m Dr. Knightsbridge.” He sat down behind the desk to face Jim-Bean. “What brings you here today?”
“You have classes on focusing your psychic potential,” began Jim-Bean.
“Ah yes. Certainly, we can test your thetans and see how you do.”
“Test my what?”
Knightsbridge smiled patiently. “I’ll explain it. But let me give you a tour of the facilities first and then we can get started.” He rose and led Jim-Bean out of the room.
“Enologists, as we call ourselves, believe that human beings should progress spiritually just as quickly as they progress physically and technologically. The rapid growth of technology and population, though, has brought with it too many distractions, and the human spirit is faltering.”
The Enolsis office consisted of rooms with one-way mirrors, sensory deprivation tanks, dark rooms, quiet rooms, and a room with a pool of water.
“We believe that a human’s personality determines how well that person copes with life. Improve the personality, and you improve that human’s ability to deal with life. You see, humans have an Analytical and a Reactive mind. Too much of what happens to humans—pain, fear, anger—causes a response in the reactive mind. Were the analytical mind allowed to react, a human could deal with such things rationally and therefore effectively.”
Knightsbridge opened the door to one of the monitoring rooms and let Jim-Bean entered first. Then he entered and closed the door behind him.
“Enolsis will help you strive for a state of Clear, in which the individual sheds his reactive mind. However, we believe that being a Clear is just a step to another state of mind: Aware.”
He handed Jim-Bean a hospital gown. “Please put this on.”
“Why?” asked Jim-Bean suspiciously. Stripping meant removing his weapon as well as his cistron. He didn’t like that idea at all.
“Your clothes and possessions will remain untouched behind the screen. We get a lot of fraudsters who come in with the intent of debunking us. We have to be sure you’re not carrying anything for the results to be one hundred percent accurate.” Knightsbridge smiled. “You understand, I’m sure.”
Jim-Bean took the gown. “Sure.” He had already come this far …
Ducking behind a screen, Jim-Bean changed into the gown as Knightsbridge continued.
“Awares are able to tap into humankind’s collective subconscious—the platform upon which the analytical and reactive mind stand—to accomplish even greater things. Theoretically, an Aware can read minds, move objects telekinetically, and see the future—though, of course, no one, not even Director Downing, has reached that stage yet. We’ll be testing what stage you should enter Enolsis by gauging your thetans. That will tell us how far along you are.”
“What’s a thetan?” asked Jim-Bean, stepping out from behind the screen.
“Oh, right.” Knightsbridge took out a metal detector and ran it over Jim-Bean. “Body thetans radiate negative energy. Everyone has them, and the goal of Enolsis is to rid you of them in an attempt to get to the Clear stage, and eventually the Aware stage.”
He led Jim-Bean to a seat where an odd looking machine sat on a table. It had two metal handles hooked up to what looked like an electric meter. “This is an E-meter. It will measure your body thetans.” Knightsbridge turned on a video camera, as well as an automatic camera. “The video camera is for our records, but the other camera will take snapshots using Kirlian photography. Now, hold these two handles please.” He handed Jim-Bean the two metal bars connected by wires to a blue machine with a meter on it.
There was a loud piercing noise. Jim-Bean let go of the handles.
“I-I’m sorry,” said Knightsbridge. “The machine must not have been tuned correctly.” He fiddled with some knobs. “Let’s try it again.”
The meter went wild. Knightsbridge’s brow furrowed. He furiously scribbled some notes.
“What?” asked Jim-Bean after releasing the handles again.
Knightsbridge leaned back in his chair. “I don’t normally tell new members this, but I think given the circumstances you should know.”
Jim-Bean leaned forward. “Know WHAT?”
“The average person has quite a few body thetans. It’s complicated, but thetans are a lot of the negative energy left over from the past. What we don’t tell members until they advance in our classes is that these are actually alien thetans. In other words, due to some ancient battles in human history with extraterrestrials, we have traces of it in our bodies in the form of thetans. But you …”
“Yeah?”
“You have over ninety percent body thetans. That’s unheard of. I’m going to recommend you sign up with us right away. Change back into your clothes while I have Diane fetch a schedule.”
Jim-Bean went back behind the screen to change as Knightsbridge left the room. He was going to have to destroy those tapes of their conversation. Later.
Knightsbridge returned. “We have daily meditation exercises are at 6 p.m., weekly discussion and consciousness-raising sessions on Thursday at 7 p.m., and on the first of the month at 7 p.m. a group meeting of all Enolsis local members for a focused meditation.”
Fully dressed, Jim-Bean emerged from behind the divider. Knightsbridge handed him the schedule.
Dr. Knightsbridge introduced the new class. As the coach, he would take them through the exercises. Jim-Bean paid the requisite fees for the classes, although he never told Enolsis where the money came from and they never asked.
The daily meditation exercises at 6 p.m. focused on concentration. After introducing himself to another slightly confused man in his mid thirties, Jim-Bean sat down in front of him, eyes closed, for the required time. He could hear him breathing, creaking in his fold-up chair, and the sound of the other students sequestered in their exercises. He sat with eyes closed for two hours, not moving or twitching.
That was the warm-up. The next day, he sat with his eyes open for hours, not moving or twitching, staring at the other man. If he moved, sneezed, coughed, or twitched, Knightsbridge would shout. “FLUNK!” and explain why. Then he would say start, and the test would begin again.
The third day was worse. Knightsbridge tried everything to get him to react. They screamed all sorts of abuse at Jim-Bean, but he had gotten very good at tuning them out.
“You’re ready,” said Knightsbridge. “It’s time for your first class.”
Class consisted of reading dialogue from Alice in Wonderland until he could read it confidently, in a monotone, without embarrassment.
"Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with,"' the Mock Turtle replied; "and then the different branches of Arithmetic--Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision."
“Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next.”
“The Queen turned crimson with fury, and, after glaring at her for a moment like a wild beast, screamed "Off with her head!"
"Tut, tut, child!" said the Duchess. "Everything's got a moral, if only you can find it."
Then they introduced the “acks,” short for acknowledgments: okay, good, thank you, alright, or fine. Jim-Bean was instructed to make these acknowledgments in a new unit of time, as if it was the first time had heard of it. He was judged for his believability.
The next week, Knightsbridge read Alice in Wonderland again, responding with half-acknowledgements, such as ``Mmmm hmmm'' or ``Uh huh'.”
The week after that, Knightsbridge asked, "Do birds fly?" and "Do fish swim?" Jim-Bean didn’t answer. He then repeated the question using the phrase: "I will repeat the auditing question." He continued like that until Knightsbridge answered his questions.
“Why are we doing this, exactly?” asked Jim-Bean.
“One day you’re going to be a coach,” said Knightsbridge with a twinkle in his eye. “And you’ll need to keep a person in his chair through the power of persuasion.”
Jim-Bean’s brow furrowed. “Physically, you mean.”
“Absolutely,” Knightsbridge responded without hesitation. “In fact, you must be ready to restrain the person if he chooses to leave.”
“And if I wanted to leave right now?” asked Jim-Bean.
Knightsbridge smiled. “I would restrain you.”
Jim-Bean focused intently on him. “How about now?”
Knightsbridge cleared his throat. “You can of course leave at any time you want, but part of the training is to reinforce the inevitability of development –“
“Right, right,” said Jim-Bean. “I’ve been taking these classes for awhile. When do I get my crystal?”
Knightsbridge hesitated. “Of course, of course, you’ll need it for the upcoming group meditation.” He fished a pouch out of his suit jacket and then dumped a crystal into his palm. “Here is your Realizer.”
The Realizer was basically cylindrical, about two inches long and the diameter of a quarter. It was rough-hewn, pointed at one end and cut straight at the other, giving it a vaguely phallic appearance. To Jim-Bean’s untrained eye, it looked like quartz.
“Meditate on it every day like we taught you in class. It will help focus your energies. Then we release them as a group at our meditation session.”
“Sure,” said Jim-Bean. He put the crystal around his neck. It felt right.
Jim-Bean joined Caprice and Hammer at the St. Louis airport, but he left out the fact that he hadn’t flown to the location.
Their contact arrived in the early afternoon, FBI Special Agent in Charge for St. Louis, Louis Gaston. Gaston was a fortyish, graying African-American, with a closely trimmed mustache, a very mild Creole accent, and the demeanor of a man who hadn’t slept for three days.
“I’m your escort for this evening’s opera,” said Gaston with a smirk.
Flanked by two burly agents in trench coats, Gaston ushered the three agents into a stretch limo.
“We’re going to the home of Larry Daniels, a retired U.S. Air Force colonel and member of the board of directors of McConnell-Bayless. The mansion is located near the University City district on the west side of St. Louis. Last night, at about one in the morning, there was an explosion in the Daniels’ mansion. Six hour sago, the forensics team announced that they were stumped. According to all the laws of physics, this explosion was impossible. It defies all logic.”
“What kind of explosion?” asked Hammer.
“Apparently there was a sex and drugs party in progress at the time of the explosion. Nine people were killed: Larry Daniels; an upscale procurer of refreshments and entertainers named Neal Beagley; St. Luis City Commissioner Stanley Cable; and six assorted party-girls. Daniels’ servants survived because they were in another wing of the house. Guess they weren’t invited.”
“So there were no survivors who were at the party?” asked Caprice.
“There’s one.”
“Can we talk to him?” asked Jim-Bean.
“That’s a little problematic,” said Gaston. “It’s Antony DiTorrio, Democratic Senator from Missouri and Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. He suffered a broken arm and is currently under close guard at St. Louis General Hospital.” He handed Hammer a file on Senator DiTorrio, everything they could collect in the last twelve hours.
Hammer flipped through the folder and then passed it around to his companions. The photo showed DiTorrio to be a slim, wiry man, a bit jowly, with dyed brown hair.
“DiTorrio is a fifty-eight year-old native of St. Louis. He’s been in Congress for twenty years.”
“Is he clean?” asked Jim-Bean.
“Near as we can tell, yes. Since his quiet and generous divorce settlement, he’s developed a serious interest in party girls.”
“Any kids?”
Gaston shook his head and handed another file. “Here’s Daniels’ file. Daniels had an exemplary career as a USAF administrator. He graduated from the Air Force Academy, but bad eyesight kept him from becoming a pilot. Worked in administration and procurement at the Pentagon, sometimes for us.” Us, of course, meant Majestic. “He was expected to rise even higher than the rank of colonel, but at the close of his twenty-year hitch, he took a high-paying job with McConnell-Bayless.”
“Did he share any of his experience with McConnell-Bayless?” asked Hammer.
“Daniels might have been responsible for brokering arms deals during the Iran-Contra affair, but there was so little evidence that the Justice Department never pursued it.”
Gaston leaned forward. “We’re considering this a terrorist bombing. The problem is that the forensics people have found nothing to suggest there was any explosive used. No residue of nitrates or other explosive has been discovered, and no fragments from anything resembling a bomb, timer, or detonating device can be found. Even weirder, the structural damage to Daniels’ mansion does not match any known combustion or blast pattern.”
“I don’t understand why we’re involved,” said Caprice, shrugging his shoulders. “I mean, this is standard terrorist stuff. Even if it’s some kind of weird explosion, there’s plenty of other teams that could handle this.”
Gaston smiled. “You don’t get it, mon ami. But you will when you see the site. It’s easier to show you than to explain.”
Colonel Daniels’ colonial-style mansion sat on several acres of well-manicured gardens surrounded by an eight-foot wall. Outside the front gate, the St. Louis police department kept the reporters and gawkers away. Inside the wall, the estate grounds were swarming with police cars, forensic vans, and evidence collection teams from the FBI and the ATF.
The front door was guarded by a pair of agents. Gaston flashed his credentials and waved the other agents through. There was no St. Louis PD inside the house, only Majestic agents.
The mansion was full of signs that something like an explosion happened. There was a smell of smoke and obvious smoke and water damage from fires that started after the blast. All the lights were off. Hammer snapped on a pair of plastic gloves, took a mini-light from his belt and clicked it on.
“The fires weren’t caused by the heat of the explosion,” said Gaston, “but by electrical shorts that cooked the writing throughout the building.”
The foyer of the house had a huge double staircase and a balcony that wrapped all the way around the room. A burnt and shattered chandelier hung above the marble floor. There was a figure tape-outlined on the ground just beneath the balcony.
“That’s where we found the Senator and his escort,” said Gaston. “The force of the explosion must have thrown them over the balcony. The Senator landed on top of the woman, breaking his arm and her neck.”
They climbed the steps. Hammer’s brow furrowed. “This door,” he pointed at the door across from the balcony. “It’s completely intact.”
“Could it have been open beforehand?” asked Caprice, a little sarcastically.
Hammer shook his head. “For an explosion of this force? It would have blown the door off its hinges even if it was open. There’s no sign of any blast concussion whatsoever.” He leaned down to inspect the debris on the floor. “What’s this?”
“Furniture, stereo equipment, glass,” said Gaston. “Fragments from the explosion.”
Hammer put one hand on the wall. “But the wall’s smooth. They’re not pierced or marked.”
A camera flashed in the room off to their right. Two crime scene photographers snapped pictures of a nude woman hanging from the ceiling.
“What’s she hanging from?” asked Caprice.
“Nothing,” said Gaston. “She’s not hanging by anything like chains, rope, or wire.”
The woman’s left hand was seamlessly fused into the plaster of the ceiling. Her arm was twisted and broken, obviously wrenched out of its socket but still attached to her body by muscle and skin. The floor of the room was filled with furniture fragments, but none of the furniture in the room was obviously damaged.
Jim-Bean wrinkled his nose. “What’s that smell?”
“Vomit,” said Gaston. “The officer who initially responded puked when he saw what was in the party room.”
They made their way to see what made the cop throw up.
The room where the explosion took place was right next to the one with the hanging girl. Another girl was fused through the wall and sticking into the hallway. She emerged from about her waist, face down, with her dangling fingertips touching the floor.
The wall buckled outward into the hall, but it wasn’t cracked or broken. “It’s smooth,” said Hammer, touching it with one gloved hand. The wall bulged in a shallow hemisphere. “The hallways and the rooms adjacent and across the hall are filled with fragments of furniture and glass flung form the party room, but they should have been embedded in the wall of the main room—there’s no way for them to have passed into the other areas.”
They made their way into the room proper. The party room was filled with shattered furniture and stank of alcohol. All four walls, as well as the floor and ceiling, bulged outwards. “It’s as if some spherical force pushed them outward,” said Hammer, “warping the molecular structure rather than shattering it.”
“All the debris in the house seems to have been generated by objects in this room,” said Gaston. “The debris extends through the house into rooms above, below, and adjacent to the explosion site.”
“Where did they find Daniels’ corpse?” asked Jim-Bean.
“At the epicenter of the depression in the floor.”
“And where’s the body now?” asked Caprice.
“St. Louis General Hospital, along with the others not embedded in the walls. We did find one other curious thing.”
“Oh?” asked Jim-Bean, walking around the perimeter of the spherical pattern and counting to himself.
“We found a small crystal with Daniels, apparently quartz.” Jim-Bean stopped his pacing and looked up. “His body was found in a kneeling position, hands cupped together holding the crystal. He appeared to either be mummified or burned so badly that he became frozen in that position.”
“The heat to do that would have incinerated this room,” said Hammer. “There are no burn marks anywhere.”
Two forensic technicians entered and, with high speed saws, began cutting the wall around the fused body of the party-girl.
Jim-Bean stood in the center of the blast. “He was kneeling right here?”
“Yeah, why?” asked Gaston.
Jim-Bean closed his eyes and entered a trance, just as he’d been taught at Enolsis.
“It’s best if you don’t ask questions,” said Hammer, sounding very far away.
Ronald Valiant had mounted a recruiting drive for Enolsis, signing up new members, including his old friend Colonel Larry Daniels.
Colonel Daniels was particularly thrilled with his initiation into Enolsis. The bursts of energy he received during his meditation exercises positively resurrected his virility. Following this discovery, Daniels’ tastes grew considerably less bizarre.
Even so, what he now lacked in eccentricity he made up for in volume. His stamina quickly became the talk of the call girl circuit. Daniels’ mansion was the site for weekly orgies, attended by Daniels’ closest friends and some of the most expensive ladies in the city.
Daniels had just taken a huge snort of cocaine and was meditating on his flawed Realizer while the call girl put her mouth to good use. The last thought that went through his mind as the crystal sucked the life out of him was: This is the ultimate thrill!
Jim-Bean opened his eyes from the vision and swore. Gaston wasn’t in the room anymore and neither were the two technicians. Jim-Bean guessed that he was in his trance much longer than he thought.
“What now?” asked Hammer.
Jim-Bean sighed. “Enolsis,” he said. “Daniels was part of Enolsis.”
“What’s Enolsis?”
“A new age cult,” said Jim-Bean. “Splintered off from Scientology awhile ago. Daniels was recruited by somebody named Ronald Valiant. He was here at the party.”
“There’s no body that was recovered here linked to a Ronald Valiant.” Caprice scanned his cistron. “I can put in a request to see what we find on him.”
“That’s because he’s alive,” said Jim-Bean. “I’m sure of it.”
“How can you be so sure?” asked Caprice.
“Because I saw him,” Jim-Bean said simply.
“We’d better check his personal effects,” said Hammer.
“And his bedroom,” said Jim-Bean. “But we might not like what we find there.”
One wall of Daniels’ bedroom was covered with certificates, decorations, and pictures of Daniels with well-known politicians of the northern hemisphere, including Senator DiTorrio.
“Oh great,” said Caprice, staring at the contents of a trunk. “This guy was into the hard stuff: whips, chains, you name it.”
Hammer nodded. “That indicates these marks.” He pointed at the wood. “Handcuff marks. Old handcuff marks.”
Jim-Bean swallowed hard as he caught sight of the well-thumbed pamphlet on the nightstand. It read: Your Realizer and You, published by the Enolsis Foundation of Tulsa, Oklahoma. On the cover was a picture of a crystal similar to the one Jim-Bean carried on him held by a pair of cupped hands. The pamphlet promised that exercises would help the initiate “find his true light.”
“If he’s got this …” said Jim-Bean. “He’s probably got Inner Science in his library.”
They made their way to the library. Two men in somber suits were rifling through Daniels’ desk and computer files.
Hammer eyed them suspiciously. “Who are you?”
One of the men flashed a badge. “I’m Captain Picton. This is Captain Wentzlauf. We’re with the Air Force Office of Special Investigations.”
Hammer cocked his head. “Looking for something?”
“Classified USAF materials,” said Wentzlauf. “As a member of McConnell-Bayless’ board of directors, Daniels had access to quite a bit.”
“Find anything?” asked Caprice.
Picton shook his head. “Nothing so far, but there’s a pile of New Age crap in his library.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the library.
Leaving the Air Force captains to their research, they picked through Daniels’ library. What wasn’t dedicated to New Age philosophies were classics of literature and military histories.
“Most of these seem to be fairly new books about crystals and crystal-related magic and rituals,” said Caprice. “But I did find …” he handed Jim-Bean the book. It was a well-read copy of Inner Science: A Guide to Modern Reality. “What’s so important about it?” asked Caprice.
Jim-Bean flipped through the book. The author was Herbert Price, copyright 1962. The forward of the most recent edition was written by The Living Power and published by the Enolsis Foundation of Tulsa, Oklahoma. The book bore an inscription in ballpoint: “To Larry, for more than I can write – Ron, June 12, 1994.”
Jim-Bean pointed at the signature. “Ron. Ronald Valiant. That’s got to be him.”
“You’re sure?” asked Caprice. “You got that name from standing with your eyes closed for twenty minutes?”
“It’s a hunch,” said Hammer, cutting him off.
A photo slipped out of the book. Hammer picked it up.
A man in Marine green had his arm around Colonel Daniels, who was in a tropical suit and straw hat. He was in his late thirties, about five-foot ten with blue, weary-looking eyes and crew-cut blonde hair. He had a pointed chin, almost no cheekbones, and a nose that was broken several times.
“Ronald Valiant,” said Jim-Bean, pointing to the man next to Daniels. “That’s our guy.”
Senator DiTorrio was staying at St. Louis General Hospital. DiTorrio’s private physician, Dr. Chichester, hadn’t arrive but was expected the next day.
“I’ve got some matches on Valiant. St. Louis PD, USMC, and his juvenile records.” said Caprice as Hammer drove them over. He uploaded it to their cistrons. “Take a look.”
“Valiant’s blood type was A … hair was blonde,” Jim-Bean muttered.
“Valiant was a successful drug dealer in St. Louis in 1989. His street name was Prince Valiant. In September 1992, Prince Valiant killed a rival drug dealer, Marvin Nash, in East St. Louis by injecting him with heroin and burning him alive with gasoline. He disappeared shortly thereafter.”
“That’s not just your usual gang tactics,” said Hammer. “This Valiant is a sadistic son of a bitch.”
“This isn’t telling us anything we don’t already know,” said Jim-Bean. “Cross-reference Valiant’s name with the names of the guests at the mansion.”
Caprice tapped a few keys. “Bingo. Neal Beagley, a pimp and drug supplier, was a known associate. He died in the explosion. But what’s interesting is Angel O’Rourke, Valiant’s ex-squeeze. Three months ago, she was sentenced to six months in the county jail for stealing a tourist’s wallet during a for-pay sexual encounter.”
“Good, that’s our next stop.” Hammer pulled in front of the hospital. “But first we chat with DiTorrio.”
They made their way through the hospital, brushing off doctors’ complaints that he wasn’t fit to talk with their badges. DiTorrio was jowly, with a down-turned mouth and tired eyes that made him resemble a hound dog. He looked a little bit like the former talk show host, Morton Downey, Jr. His head was bandaged, hiding most of his silver mane of ahri, and his arm was in a cast.
“Senator DiTorrio?” asked Hammer, looming over his bed. “We need to know about what happened at the mansion.”
DiTorrio’s eyes fluttered opened and closed. “My boy … my boy … no!” His head thrashed as he moaned. “He’s mine … all I got …”
“Who?” asked Hammer. “Who are you talking about?”
“Deneen … safe …”
He lapsed back into unconsciousness.
“Does DiTorrio have any kids?”
“Nope,” said Caprice.
“What about Deneen?” asked Jim-Bean.
Caprice tapped some keys on his cistron. “That’d be the name of the mattress that he fell on when they were blown off the balcony.”
“Great,” said Hammer.
“I need to see something personal of DiTorrio’s. Let’s visit his office.” Jim-Bean stalked out of the room.
With a shrug, Hammer and Caprice followed. They left Senator DiTorrio to his fitful sleep.
Hammer threatened his way through the ranks of DiTorrio’s assistants until they were let into his office.
“You ever sit down in the senator’s chair?” Jim-Bean snapped at Barry, the last of the assistants and the final gatekeeper to DiTorrio’s office.
“No, but—“
“That’s what I thought.” He slammed the door shut.
“How long do you need?” asked Hammer, watching the door. “When they start confirm that we don’t have a real subpoena.”
“A few minutes tops,” said Jim-Bean.
Caprice peered at the desktop computer. “It’s password protected, I’ll need some time …”
“I just need his telephone,” said Jim-Bean. He picked up the receiver …
Quote:
“Dad?”
“Ronnie? Why are you calling me here?”
“Dad? Listen, I just joined this new organization, named Enolsis.”
“Enolsis? That New Age crap?”
“Yeah – I mean, no, it’s not crap. But it’s the real deal. The rush is amazing! The meditation is better than any coke I ever did.”
“High on life, huh kid?”
“I’m serious dad, that’s why I’m calling. Now I’m an assistant to the deacon—“
“Deacon? This some kind of church?”
“Listen to me! I’m running a recruitment drive and I want you to join.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“No, really. Larry joined and he’s loving it. He’s got his virility back and the girls … they can’t believe his stamina, or mine for that matter. This is the real deal dad!”
“You’re serious.”
“Deadly serious. I’m having a party. I want you to come. When you see what these crystal can do …”
Jim-Bean snapped out of it. “Didn’t Gaston say they retrieved the crystal?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said Caprice. “It’s currently being examined by the geology lab at Washington University. Why? You’ve been listening to dial tone for a minute.”
Jim-Bean didn’t answer him. “We need that crystal. Now.”
When they entered the Geology lobby, three Majestic agents were lounging around trying to look collegiate and unobtrusive while surreptitiously guarding the lab. Hammer flashed his badge and they nodded at him.
A man in a lab coat looked up in irritation from a microscope as they entered the lab. “Finally! You know, I’ve got a day job other than inspecting piece of quartz.”
Jim-Bean gave him a pained smile. “Professor Travis Archer? Thanks for meeting with us such short notice. What can you tell us about the crystal?”
Archer handed over a folder of print outs and pictures of the crystal. “It’s been cut recently, with some kind of jeweler’s saw. Other than that it’s a standard pure quartz crystal of a type commonly found throughout North America.”
Hammer pulled one of the pictures out. “That cut … I recognize it.”
“Oh man,” said Caprice, recognition dawning on his face. “That’s not the crystal that brought the ship down, is it?”
Jim-Bean looked a little panicked. “Where is the crystal now?”
“Right here,” said Archer, handing it to Jim-Bean. “But I don’t see …”
Jim-Bean closed his eyes. With a gasp, he fell to the ground, wheezing. Hammer, Archer, and Caprice staggered backwards as it fell as if all the blood rushed from their extremities towards the center of the room where Jim-Bean collapsed.
Hammer grabbed a nearby tumbler and scooped the crystal up with it, snapping it shut.
“What the hell just happened?” shouted Caprice.
Archer was already on his cell phone calling for an ambulance.
Hammer tested Jim-Bean’s pulse. “He’s breathing, but barely.”
Jim-Bean convalesced in the intensive care unit, finally stabilized. Hammer stayed in his room with Jim-Bean while Caprice stepped out to get coffee.
There was a knock at the door. Hammer answered it. “Yes?”
“Nurse Hope,” smiled a pretty blond with a short haircut.
“Let me see your badge,” said Hammer.
“Of course,” she said, thrusting her arm out with the badge extended.
Hammer didn’t know what happened. Her arm shot out lightning fast, faster than any human should move, and instead of extending her badge her fist socked him hard in the jaw. He spun, drawing his pistols.
It was a testament to Hammer’s reflexes that he had both Glocks at the ready. Hope’s arms twisted and stretched, snapping around Hammer’s throat like a python. He pulled down the trigger on his Glocks and fired the full clips into Hope at point-blank range.
Dozens of rounds struck her in the chest and head. Hope stood there and laughed.
Caprice arrived just in time to see Hope toss Hammer into the bathroom, shattering the bathroom door. Caprice closed the front door to Jim-Bean’s room and fired through the glass window at her.
“I need backup!” he shouted into his cistron. “Now!”
There was the sound of glass shattering. Screwing up his courage, Caprice dove back into the room, pistol at the ready.
Gone. The window was broken. He looked out the window.
Hope had fallen thirty floors. Her malleable body exploded on impact and melted away, leaving her nurse uniform behind.
Jim-Bean was unharmed. Hammer moaned in the bathroom.
“Hammer?” asked Caprice, peering around the shattered bathroom door. “You okay?”
“The crystal,” he said, coughing. “She got the crystal.”
Jim-Bean got flashes of a huge, rust-red plant hurtling through deep space.
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It was red as rust, featureless except for bulbous protrusions like hills. Except that of course they weren’t hills if he could see them at that distance; they had to be immense.
A rusty globe covered with lumps then. That was all, but that couldn’t explained why he felt as if the whole of him were magnetized through his eyes. It seemed to hang ponderously, communicating a thunderous sense of imminence, of power. But that was just its unfamiliarity, thought Jim-Bean, struggling against the suction of boundless space; just the sense of its intrusion.
It was only a planet, after all. Just a red warty globe.
Jim-Bean could hear a kind of tuneless ringing in his head. The ugly, pitted sphere below him reeked of malevolence and power.
Then it moved. As the singing grew louder, Jim-Bean could feel the planet beneath him begin to stir.
The surface of a planet wasn’t supposed to move, it was only a planet. The surface of a planet didn’t crack, didn’t roll back like that, didn’t peel back for thousands of miles to show what’s underneath, pale and glistening. When Jim-Bean tried to scream air whooshed into his lungs as if space had exploded a vacuum within him.
He woke up in his hospital bed with a start. Hammer was next to him, his ribs taped.
“We have to go to the Enolsis branch,” he said. “Right now.”
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