“Lucky you spirited away that spitfire before those Earthling agent types confiscated it,” said Dallas. “I just hope Hatori and Merino don’t find out you mislaid it—and that it was involved in that explosion. They’re the alpha-type personalities in our group and think they’re our den mothers. Munro and Jordyn I’m less worried about.”
“But the Earthling authorities still know the spitfire was involved,” said Hoskins. “One of those custodians must have defeated the safety lock and fired it absent-mindedly directly at the furnace. If we hadn’t been around to rescue them from the rubble …”
“The custodians were victims of their own curiosity,” said Dallas. “So, your conscience is clear. As for the spitfire, the police didn’t take a picture of it, did they? You got it away from them before a photographer—or even the news media—had a chance to show up with their clunky, primitive equipment. These people are still using Kolordot film emulsion and Polaroid Land cameras—they’re in the photographic Stone Age.”
“You’re forgetting, some of my students saw me use the spitfire in shop class earlier in the day to do some fine detailing on those cuckoo clocks …”
“A bunch of novices saw you use a peculiar device, that’s all,” said Dallas. “They wouldn’t know one tool from another; they were probably more amazed at your skill than the tool you were using. And it’s unlikely the authorities are going to describe a mysterious device they imagined they saw in the rainy debris at three in the morning as the cause of a freak accident to the public—they’d look like fools, or crazy, or incompetent—or all three. Like I said, it’s Munro and Jordyn you need to be worried about; hopefully they’re still fast asleep …”
The two Domain Fleet officers reached the door of their room and entered. Hoskins snapped on the lights.
“Where have you two been?” asked Hatori, who, with Merino, had been waiting up for their return.
“This isn’t your room,” said Dallas.
“I know it’s not our room,” said Merino. “We did a bed check after that explosion; you weren’t here. You wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with that, would you?”
“Explosion? What explosion?” said Dallas.
“Is that a spitfire?” asked Hatori. Hoskins still had the weapon in hand and hadn’t tried to conceal it.
“Uh … yeah, I suppose it is,” said Hoskins.
“You were issued a personal firearm for shore leave?” asked Merino.
“The Captain thought at least one of us should be armed in case we ran into those renegades, or had any trouble with the Earthling authorities,” said Dallas.
“The explosion is already on the early morning local news,” said Merino, turning on the motel TV. “I haven’t gotten the morning newspaper yet, but I’m sure they’ll cover it, too.”
The screen showed a reporter in front of rubble as firemen packed up their equipment.
“They haven’t mention the spitfire, did they?” said Hoskins. “Why, was it involved in the accident?” asked Merino.
“Now it’s starting to make sense,” said Hatori. “What are you guys trying to do, blow up the whole arts camp?”
Hoskins and Merino explained their evening misadventure.
“Amazing such a common sidearm in the Domain Fleet would cause so much destruction in the wrong hands,” said Merino.
“That’s why they only issue them to specially-trained security personnel, ordinarily—not dumb engineers,” quipped Dallas.
“Well, we’re going to have to report this incident to the Captain,” said Hatori.
“Not until we get back to the ship now!” said Hoskins. “They’ll cut our shore leave short otherwise, and we’re having so much fun with the kids …”
“It will have to be after we return to the ship,” said Merino. “Right now, we can’t communicate with D.F.S. Bogdanove—some kind of interference caused by the cloaking, no doubt. Let’s just try not to shoot ourselves in the foot again, so to speak, shall we?”
“Let’s all get some sleep,” suggested Hatori. “Assuming there’s an art camp tomorrow, us visiting artists are going to need it.”
Later that morning, the students and faculty of the Robert Louis Stevenson Senior High School Summer Arts Camp—including the visiting artists—were assembled on the football-field sized front lawn, reduced to watching the marching band attempt formations under the inept direction of band director Neal H. Richards until inspectors and the superintendent of schools cleared the building as safe.
Through the Venetian blinds of her office window, Vice Principal Victoria Bryant looked on anxiously.
“I’ll be glad when the inspection’s over,” Victoria said to Ernie Penn Pierson, the student activities director. “The cafeteria workers are already at work in the kitchen, and we should be getting the high sign to let the students back in before lunch time.” “You know what the rumors are,” said Ernie. “I overheard one of the students telling another that their uncle’s a fireman, and that pieces of bomb were seen in the rubble.”
“That’s nonsense,” said Victoria. “The bomb squad already went over the boiler room this morning; they found nothing suspicious. It was a freak accident—an old boiler just blew up, that’s all.”
“The say whatever it was that caused the explosion was removed,” said Ernie. “That it’s a cover-up.”
“I know what they’ve been saying,” said Victoria. “I’ve been answering the phone all morning. The glass company’s coming this afternoon; the broken windows will be repaired by tomorrow. And the mayor of our fair little Detroit suburb has assured me that the rebuilding of the physical plant will be expedited; the school will be as good as new come Labor Day.”
“Luckily the explosion happened way in the far rear of the building,” remarked Ernie. “Not anywhere near the band room, or the shop, or the hall where they’re doing the mural.”
Victoria peered through the blinds.
“Where are our visiting artists?” she asked. “I don’t see them.”
“They’re marching with the band,” said Ernie. “They all picked up instruments—most of them don’t play, but I wanted to give them something to do. There’ve been a few reporters nosing around.”
“How’s all the paperwork coming?” asked Victoria. “After the inspection, the superintendent’s going to want to see it.”
“Everything’s in order,” said Ernie. “Driver’s licenses, background checks, all photocopied. Ms. Hatori delivered it all this morning.”
“Good,” said Victoria. “I want the media focusing on the wonderfully talented visiting artists you—we—obtained for the summer arts camp, not the wild rumors and suspicions about a freak accident.”
In the downtown offices of The Detroit Day on West Lafayette, a columnist was bouncing a rubber ball and spit-balling story ideas to himself. Still young, he was blond and dressed in the rolled-up sleeves of a button-down shirt with a loose tie; a tan blazer was hung on a nearby coatrack. But he also wore worn jeans and dirty white sneakers—which he had propped up on the old, oaken desk—the irreverent business casual of the era.
“The decline and fall of the band Chicago,” he said to himself. “The decline and fall of the Electric Light Orchestra. The decline and fall of Earth, Wind, & Fire …”
The young copyboy, his elbows on stack of clippings, wasn’t being particularly helpful. “If you ask me, it’s time to revive The Bizarre Files of John Bradford,” he said.
“Ha!” chuckled the columnist, John Bradford. “Barnes, you know Rudy would never go for that. For the past three years he’s had me covering flower shows, dog shows, auto show … nothing but shows, shows, shows …”
“But those columns back in the seventies were great,” said Barnes. “UFOs, swamp monsters, vampires … I think The Bizarre Files is ripe for a revival. There’s a lot of weird stuff going on in this town …”
“Like what?”
“Take that robot attack in Troy a while back, or sightings of Ms. Megaton Man in Ann Arbor …”
“Our suburban north bureau covered the former,” said John. “And megaheroes … that would be the last thing Rudy would have me cover. Not after that incident with one of the last surviving copies of Zowie #1 at the last Detroit Triple Fan Fare. Christ, I only got through having my salary garnisheed a few months ago.”
“How about that low-flying plane sighting last week?” said Barnes. “Or that explosion at the high school last night? Those are pretty mysterious.”
“Our suburban west bureau covered those,” said John. “Besides, what’s mysterious about an old furnace blowing up? Aging infrastructure. I’m just looking for an idea my Big Chill Baby Boomer audience can relate too … the decline and fall of Genesis after Peter Gabriel; the decline and fall of Maynard Ferguson ”
“Aw, you’re no fun,” exclaimed Barnes. “Whatever happened to your romantic imagination? You only need to embellish a little, insinuate. I bet I could write a better Bizarre Files than you could, at this point.”
“I bet you could,” John replied. “It’s a young man’s game, writing about the supernatural, they occult, the weird in everyday life.”
“What happened to you?”
“I don’t know. I guess I turned thirty.”
A girl appeared at the door. “There’s someone to see you, Mr. Bradford. I believe it’s your brother.”
Chase Bradford entered the small office of his older brother, still wearing the windbreaker he’d worn the night before, clutching his sketchbook. “Hey, Bro, how’s it hangin’? Hi, Barnes.”
“Well, if it isn’t Chuck Bradford,” said John, dropping his feet from the desk and sitting up in the ancient wooden swivel chair. “What brings the great comic book artiste to our humble, downtown newsroom?”
“SEMTA—the Southeastern Michigan Transportation Authority,” said Chase. “Man, it’s a long, arduous bus ride from the western suburbs, too. And it’s Chase, by the way. Long story.”
“Right—Chase, sorry. I forgot. What can I do for you? Did you move into that apartment yet?”
“Not yet,” he said. “I’m living with a chick for the moment … and anyway, I think I might save up for a car, first.”
“A chick, well …” said John.
“She’s older ‘n’ everything, and, well … it’s cool. But whatever. Here, I wanted to show you something …”
Chase opened his sketchbook to a page that was slightly wavy from last night’s drizzle.
“What am I looking at?” asked John. “Is this some kind of design for your next issue of Megaton Mike?”
“It looks like a ray gun from that old TV series Galaxy Track,” said Barnes.
“It’s Megatron Man,” corrected Barnes. “And no, it’s not a prop or make-believe. It’s the actual weapon.”
“The actual weapon for what?” asked John. “Was it used in a crime?” “It was used to blow up that high school boiler,” Chase replied. “I was on the scene with secret agents and everything.”
John frowned at his younger brother. “I know how you’ve talked about knowing those costume crime fighters in the North Cass District, but … is this legit?”
“Of course, it’s legit. I saw it with my own two eyes. I drew it from life.”
“That’s what you said about those graveyard zombie drawings you tried to pass off on me.”
“I was in junior high school at the time!” protested Chase. “My big brother was a famous newspaper columnist; I wanted to get in on the act. But this is for real.” “The police reports don’t mention a zap gun. They don’t speculate on any cause other than a faulty valve.”
“John, I swear to God, I saw it,” said Chase. “It was there one minute, then gone the next, like someone invisible had palmed it.”
“It disappeared?” said Barnes. “The Phantom Phaser! That’s a great story, John.”
“An artist’s rendering of the ray gun that blew up a suburban high school,” said John. “Can anyone else corroborate this?”
“Sure—secret agents, megaheroes. At least four other people were with me who saw it.”
“Great, megaheroes,” said John. “My city editor’s not going to let me off the leash for this story.”
“Oh, c’mon,” protested Barnes. “You’re got to check it out yourself, John. Then bring Rudy your tangible evidence—a fait accompli, if you will.”
“Well, I’ve got no better ideas,” the columnist admitted, looking at his watch. “Tomorrow’s column isn’t going to write itself, and five o’clock fast approacheth ….” He looked through the windows of glass half-walls out to the newsroom. “Rudy’s nowhere to be seen, maybe out to lunch … I suppose I could slip out for quick look. Chuck, I mean Chase, d’you need a ride back to the western suburbs?”
Next: The Tele-Organic Food Co-Op
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Archival Images:
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| John Bradford at The Detroit Day office in Megaton Man #0 [Bizarre Heroes #17] (Fiasco Comics Inc., June 1996). |
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