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What Feats He Did That Day Pt. 01

By: MarshAlien



CHAPTER ONE 

This dream stunk. It literally stunk. I couldn't recall ever smelling anything in a dream before, and I hoped to God this wasn't a permanent change. Or if it was, that my future dreams would be a lot more fragrant than this one.

I was striding through an encampment of soldiers who obviously hadn't bathed in the last two months. That alone, the act of walking -- feeling my legs stretching out, one after the other, hearing the crunch of stone and earth underneath my feet -- made the dream a pleasurable one, the smell notwithstanding

I was evidently among friends. Men were sitting with bows beside them checking their arrows. They nodded to me as I passed. The better-dressed men, who sat in smaller groups sharpening their swords, raised their hands in greeting. I was never that interested in history, but my guess, based simply on the movies that I had seen, was that I had put myself in the fourteenth or fifteenth century. I smiled and waved a salute.

It had evidently just stopped raining. Our camp was a field of mud, and the brown and gold leaves on the trees to the north and west of us were still heavy with water. It was evening, and it became clear as I walked that a number of us were headed to some sort of meeting. I was dressed slightly better than most of the men, in a light blue tunic underneath a gray cape of some sort. I had high leather boots that kept the mud from my feet. Ahead of me a large group had gathered, and, as I joined them, a man in a far more sumptuous tunic than mine had leapt atop a log to address us.

I could hear little of the speech at the start. The men around me were offering their own comments on it, drowning out the speaker.

"What good's a passport home with them out there?" one man scoffed. "Sittin' on the bloody way, ain't they?"

Although his friends roared in cynical approval, the crowd gradually grew quiet. It had become that this speech was worth listening to. The cynicism didn't stop, naturally. The first man suggested to his companions that he wouldn't mind being a gentleman in England now a-bed himself, while another added that he'd like to be holding his manhood while he was at it. 

But the rest of the group paid them no attention at all. The speaker had them in the palm of his hand. He was brilliant, his speech a rhythmic incantation of patriotic fervor that was taking these few, these happy few, this band of brothers, and turning them into an army that would, if nothing else, die happily in his service when battle was joined tomorrow morning.

It wasn't until he reached the end, his voice lost in the prolonged cheering of every single man with whom I was standing, mine own among them, that I realized that he was a fraud. I nearly stumbled as I recalled that I had declaimed this speech myself, to my roommates back in college, like every other English major who thought himself the first to discover the power of Shakespeare's words. 

And gentlemen in England now a-bed Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon St. Crispin's Day.

This was King Henry V, goddamn it. And not the real King Henry V either. This was Kenneth Branagh, whose movie version of the play I had watched only a few years earlier.

I was dreaming about being in a movie. A movie I could smell. Huh.

The speech over, I returned to my own tent and fell asleep. I awoke in the dream the next morning, and watched the Battle of Agincourt unfold before me. Or not unfold, as the case turned out to be. Assisted by a young squire, I dressed in my armor and strode out to the field of battle, once again reveling in the act of walking. I stood to the rear, proper coward that I was, watching the king deploy his forces between the two woods that flanked the road. We waited there for four hours, doing absolutely nothing. I knew little of the battle itself. The other fellows in front of us would be French, I knew. And we were supposed to win, weren't we?

"My Lord Handley." A squire had come running back to me from the front. "The king requests that you attend him now. He seeks his council's wisdom 'fore the fray."

"The king?" I asked, looking around to see if there were perhaps some other Lord Handley he was looking for. "Wants to see me?"

It was a stupid question. I knew even in the dream that my name was Handley. My Lord Handley was a bit much, though. I was usually happy to answer to Rick. Or Hando, which is what some of my co-workers at the metro desk of the Charleston Messenger liked to call me.

"My Lord?" the squire asked.

"Lead on, MacDuff," I said, suppressing a grin. He stopped in his tracks and stared at me with astonishment as if I had somehow remembered his name from some previous meeting.

"Just go." 

I waved him ahead of me.

"Handley," roared Branagh as I joined him under the pavilion at the center of the line of battle. "You see the problem that we face, my friend. The French would sit there, twid their thumbs, and laugh. We must perforce attack, yet few we are; and twenty thousand Frenchmen sit astride the road toward home."

"Uh, yeah. I do see that. Sire."

I looked out over the field. Compared with them, we looked like a couple of policeman trying to hold back a demonstration. 

He roared again and clapped me on the back, sending me stumbling forward amid the laughter of his advisors.

"And I would have your counsel, too, my Lord," he said. "My Gloucester here says wait, while Exeter would have us charge their line and mow them down."

I pretended to study the field. There was something about Agincourt that was tugging at me, some half-remembered fact that made this battle stand out. I probably should have taken a few more history courses in college.

"So, to number our advantages here," I said, "we have, uh . . ."

We had large groups of longbowmen on the right and left of our line, behind pointed wooden stakes driven into the ground. Two smaller groups of archers divided three groups of footmen. The French, as I looked at them sitting there five hundred feet to our east, appeared to have, in addition to far more men, distinct groups of cavalry and crossbowmen. 

"We have these bigger bows, for one thing."

"Quite so, my Lord," said one of the king's other advisers, "our reach exceeds theirs far."

That was it -- longbows. 

"So maybe if we shoot 'em," I said, "and kill a couple of 'em, maybe they'll get pissed and attack you, right? I mean us."

"We are too far, my Lord." Exeter's voice matched the sneer on his face. "Three hundred feet."

"Yeah, well, go ahead and charge the line, then, pal," I retorted with more swagger than I felt. "No doubt they'll just step aside and let us through."

"Pissed!" exulted the king, who had paid no attention to our little spat. "Pissed is what we need, my valued friend. Raleigh, Prestwich: have the archers up stakes. And move them down the hill to find their range."

"But Sire," my debating partner objected, "the French will not stand idly by."

"We shall see, my Lord. At the least we move."

Raleigh and Prestwich dashed off to give their orders, and in a few moments all of the archers in the line turned as one and gave the king a look that suggested he was absolutely insane. But he was the king. They took heavy wooden mallets and pounded the six-foot stakes out of the ground. Our entire army moved toward the French and the archers dutifully pounded their stakes back into the ground. The French in fact did sit idly by, not even bothering to stand up as they watched. Apparently they were too busy with lunch, and paused only occasionally to shout insults that apparently called into question the chastity of our wives and mothers. They watched as the archers re-sharpened the points of their stakes and returned their attention to their bows.

At this point, Henry ordered the archers to loose a few flights of arrows. The French, very fortunately, were idiots. They reacted not by backing up a few feet, which would have allowed them a few more hours within which to insult us. Moreover, it would have resulted, in the long term, in our having to try to force them out of the way in order to prevent ourselves from starving. No, as I had "predicted," they just got angry. Those damn English are shooting arrows at us! Let's go teach them a lesson, shall we?

Over the course of the afternoon it turned into a slaughter. The French cavalry charged, ran headlong into the stakes, and turned to retreat. They promptly mowed down their own men, leaving my English colleagues little to do but knock the stunned French on their heads and take them prisoner. By nightfall, the field was ours, the French army having disintegrated and dissolved into the countryside.

I was feeling pretty good myself. My lords Gloucester, Bedford and Warwick feasted me as the architect of a great military strategy. My recollection was that my advice had been limited to "so just shoot 'em," but they seemed to feel that it was my psychological insight into the French response that had led to our success. That was fine with me. By the time I wandered drunkenly off to bed, I was on the point of suggesting that I was in fact the greatest military strategist since Napoleon. Very fortunately, I did not, as I would have then had to explain who Napoleon was. Or was going to be.

I woke the next day still in the dream, to yet another summons from the King. He was dressed now in rich purple robes, and smiled at me and kissed me on both cheeks as I was led to his room in a nearby castle.

"Katherine is mine, of course, but what for you?" he asked me.

"Beg pardon, sire?" I asked. "What what for me?"

He laughed heartily. "Her retinue is ours, my Lord. Your choice?"

He clapped his hands and a line of shy, beautiful young women entered the room. With the emphasis on young. 

"They can't even be sixteen!" I objected. "Sire"

"Sixteen?" Henry said with a laugh. He strolled down the line, cupping a chin, stroking a cheek as the girls all giggled at him. "Nor fifteen yet unless I'm treated false. And each as wont to flower as the next."

They all blushed becomingly, but I was having none of it.

"Seriously? They're all fourteen years old? Thank you anyway, er, Sire. I must decline your, um, offer.

My rejection stunned him. It had surprised me too; I hadn't had a sex dream in several months now. A dream in which I both walked and had sex was almost too good to be true. But dreaming about sex with a fourteen-year-old girl was a little much even for someone as desperate as me.

"God's teeth, my Lord," he said calmly, although he still obviously thought I was nuts. "There is that older one. But she is not like these, all pure and white."

I nodded. I could live with that. "She's eighteen, right?"

"Bring forth the older maid," the King called toward the back room.

"And kill her not?" MacDuff asked, popping his head in from the other room.

The King shook his head. "Our hero has much stranger tastes than we."

MacDuff led out an absolutely gorgeous blonde girl. Kill her? Just because she was eighteen?

"Monsieur?" she said, blushing just as shyly as the others had despite her evident lack of "purity."

I smiled at her. The high school French I recalled consisted of "Comme ci, comme ca," and "allez au tableau-noir." "So-so" and "go to the blackboard," neither of them of much use in the sort of conversation that I was hoping to have.

It turned out that we needed no words. She took me by the hand and led me back to a sumptuous bedroom. I watched her disrobe, teasing me with one garment after another as I finally began to discern the curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts. When the last garment finally fell to the floor, she pirouetted before me, enjoying my sharp intake of breath as she displayed her dove-white breasts, her puffy pubic mound, covered with hair so golden and sparse that her wet desire was already evident, and the perfectly rounded ass perched on those long, slender legs. I reached for her, and she reached for my breeches, her fingers expertly finding the belt and the buttons. Her heart-shaped face had a broad, knowing smile on it, her eyes twinkling as she brushed her fingers across my obvious erection.

And then I woke up. I was pissed. Had I woken up when I first encountered the unbelievable stench of that camp? No, I had not. Had I woken up when that one French charge had finally penetrated to the king's guard, and I found myself in hand to hand combat with someone who clearly knew how to handle a sword, and would likely have cleft me in half if he had not tripped on the body of a dead comrade, allowing me to poke him with my own sword? Had I woken up as the blood of my comrades and their enemies filled the air around me along with the screams of hundreds of the "happy few" I had stood with? No, I had not awakened then either. I had waited until I was about to have sex with a fifteenth-century nymphomaniac. And woken up then. Oh yeah, that was scary. Thank God I didn't have to dream about that.

"So what have you learned?"

I sat bolt upright in bed. I was able to make out a shadowy figure sitting in a chair at the end of the bed.

"Who are you?" I asked, trying to keep my voice from trembling.

He waved his hands and the room was bathed in pale light. I was not in my bedroom this time either, but in a laboratory of some sort. To my right was a bank of monitors, to my left a wall filled with illegible notations. The "bed" on which I was lying was a cold metal table. Apparently this was a set of nested dreams, one inside the other. 

My new friend was a short man whose silver-grey robe that made him look like an extra from some science fiction movie. He inclined his head toward me and smiled with a sort of childish eagerness.

"I am Wizen," he said. "So what did you learn?"

"About what?" I asked.

"Your trip. The battle."

"That was your doing?" I asked. "You put me there?"

He nodded and smiled again.

"And what did you learn?"

"Asshole," I muttered. For a guy I'd dreamed up, he was an obnoxious little son of a bitch.

"I don't suppose you could put me back, Mr. Wizard? I haven't had a good sex dream in about three months now. Let alone any actual sex. So how 'bout you put me back there for a while, and then I'll come back when I'm done and tell you what I learned. How's that sound?" 

He thought for a moment, and gave a quick nod. He waved a hand, and I was back in bed.

Her bed, to be precise. While I was gone she'd removed the rest of my clothing, but I hadn't missed anything else really good. I was there to experience the joy of seeing those two red lips surround my cock. I was there to feel that delightfully soft tongue travel up and down my shaft. I heard her squeal of pleasure when my finger moved between her thighs and caressed her slit. I tasted the heady perspiration that rested on the tip of her erect nipple. 

And I smelled her arousal as she moved astride me, rubbing the tip of my cock against herself, the scent so strong and feminine that it acted on me like a drug. I thrust myself upward inside her and felt her muscles squeeze me. We rutted for what seemed like hours. I was on my back. She was on her back. I was behind her on the bed. I lay beside her and lifted her leg. She moaned her acquiescence to me. I groaned my surrender to her. 

"All right, Mr. Wizard," I finally said into her hair as we lay together, completely sated. "Take me home."

"So what did you learn?" he asked.

"What I learned, Mr. Wizard," I said, smiling as I put my hands behind my head in the darkness, "is don't be an idiot."

"I beg your pardon?" he asked.

"Don't be an idiot. The French were stupid. They had poorer weapons, but there were enough of them to completely surround us if they'd had half a brain. Was that what you wanted to know?"

"Was that all you learned?" he asked. He wasn't being sarcastic; he appeared to sincerely want to know what I had learned.

"I guess. And that it's important to take advantage of mistakes."

He sat back with a satisfied expression on his face.

"Excellent."

"Why is it so important to you that I learn from this?"

"It proves my theory," he said, his voice rising with excitement. "That we have all the tools at our disposal to train our champion."

"Figures," I muttered. "Even in my dreams I'm a fucking guinea pig."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing, Mr. Wizard. I had a great time. Thanks for having me. Let's do it again some time."

"Yes, Rick," he said, a peaceful smile spreading over his face. "Let's do just that."

He waved his hands again.

This time I woke up to the sounds of the CBS Radio Network newscast. I looked over to see the clock radio beaming its always unwelcome "6:00" at me. Enough dreaming for you, Rick Handley. Time to get up and go to work.

I flipped the bedside switch that turned on the overhead light and reached for the rope that hung beside my bed. Both of them had been installed by my brother Phil when I had moved into this apartment three years ago. He knew that the accident hadn't been his fault, just as I knew that it hadn't been his fault. But he couldn't help blaming himself for it, just as I couldn't help resenting the fact that he had walked away pretty much unscathed.

With a hand on the armrest nearest the bed, I swung myself into my chair and started wheeling myself toward the shower. Another fucking day in the life of Rick Handley. 

CHAPTER TWO

The motion-activated lights in the newsroom blinked to life as I pushed through the metal door and began to thread my way through the maze that led to my cubicle. As was often the case, I was the first employee to arrive. It had nothing to do with my devotion to journalism or my work ethic. Rather, it was my desire not to be navigating the sidewalks of downtown Charleston during rush hour. 

I logged onto my computer and reviewed the wire service reports of who had died over the weekend. There was a one-hit wonder from the '60s whom I thought had been long dead. There was a retired Congressman from California and a man who had obtained the first patent for packaging pistachios. It was going to be a slow day.

When I had dreamed about being a newspaper reporter as a kid, it hadn't involved obituaries. Although the accident had left me unable to chase down the chief of police as he ducked through a back door in order to question him about the latest homicide, I had doggedly studied the craft in college and served two internships. At the time, it hadn't occurred to me that I might simply be a good-looking statistic.

After I had been hired, the fire chief had made it fairly clear that he didn't want me near a fire scene. And the courthouse was only now in the process of being made accessible to wheelchairs. So when Rachel had offered me the obit beat, I felt I had little choice. 

It turned out, however, that I was pretty damn good at it. One of my first obits was about a guy who had rescued a little girl who had fallen down a well and spent the rest of his life trying to cope with the fame of that one incident: "Arthur Compton, whose moment in the sun started in total darkness before it withered in the harsh klieg lights of modern media coverage, died last week." My prose became a little less purple after that, but people loved it nonetheless. The paper's editors were stunned to get letters and e-mails about an obituary. I had found a place after all.

Today's obituaries were likely to be far more pedestrian unless I could find something to jazz them up. I turned to the Internet. Maybe there was a story in this pistachio thing. 

"Hey, buddy!"

I looked up from my work. Alison Cole, the usual bright smile on her face, was striding down the aisle toward the cubicle next to mine.


What Feats He Did That Day Pt. 01



"Mornin' Al. Good weekend?"

"Eh. Eric had to work all weekend. So I rented some movies and kissed the diet goodbye."

"This was the . . .?"

"Cabbage diet."

"Ick."

"Yeah, I didn't like it much, either. No loss. It wasn't working that well. So how 'bout yours. Get any?"

"No, I didn't get any," I answered, just as I had every Monday for the past year.

"You're smiling, though. Date?"

"No." I shook my head, conscious that I was still smiling.

"Tell me," Alison urged.

"Just a really good dream," I admitted.

"Buddy, we have got to get you a girl," she said.

"I keep waiting for you to see the light and dump Eric." 

This banter was another usual part of our Monday mornings.

"You're funny," she said quickly before turning thoughtful. "You know, I've got a sorority sister coming into town this weekend. You wanna double with us on Saturday?"

"Hey, if she's willing to date a cripple, who am I to say no?"

"God, Rick. You have such a bad attitude. But this will just be a practice date. She's getting married next month and needs to escape for a bit. Give you a chance to work on that attitude. Ah well, back to the grindstone."

Bad attitude. You spend nine years in a wheelchair -- your junior prom, your graduation, and all of college -- and you see what kind of attitude you have. Bitch.

I could feel my face reddening. Alison was my best friend at the paper, and I couldn't believe I had even thought that about her. Fortunately, she had moved on to her own cubicle to tackle today's police and courthouse beat.

The rest of the staff quickly followed.

"Hando."

I didn't look up. Dan Edwards, who covered city hall, was a jerk.

"Dan the man." 

The next set of footsteps approached, the high heels clacking on the linoleum floor. That would be Shawn Michaels, the statehouse. 

"G'morning, Shawn," I said.

I heard her usual exasperated sigh, the noise that said she couldn't believe the New York Times still hadn't called, and that she was still working here with these cretins. She mumbled something that might have been "good morning" but that could just as easily have been "go fuck yourself." 

I didn't look up for her either, although I did lean back and inhale that glorious scent that followed in her wake. I was tempted to take a peek after she had passed me, to see that perfect little butt in whatever short little skirt she'd painted on this morning, but I knew that as soon as I did, Allie would lean back in her chair and catch me. And then she'd start laughing.

"Good morning, Richard. Hello, Alison. Shawn. Hi, Dan."

"Rachel." 

We acknowledged her in unison as if we were greeting our teacher instead of our editor, a blend of my ennui, Alison's cheeriness, and Shawn's resentment. Only Dan's usual effusiveness was missing, replaced by the aural equivalent of a leer. 

An IM sprang up on my monitor almost before I could form the thought. 

"DE + RL????" 

I stared at it for a while. Rachel Langhorn and Dan Edwards? That couldn't be right, could it? Rachel was the paper's glamour girl: assistant editor at the age of thirty; management darling; and the arm candy of what passed for glitterati in Charleston. Dan was only two years out of college and not exactly the most literate book in the library. The best dust jacket maybe and the most checked-out, yes, but Dan Edwards and Rachel Langhorn? That was depressing.

"Well?" Alison's hiss was accompanied by a breathy giggle.

"Ew," I answered, knowing it was what she wanted to hear. She laughed. 

The morning passed in lonely work. Alison was meeting Eric for lunch, so lunchtime passed in eating alone at the deli on the corner. The afternoon was broken only by a staff meeting, at which I tried hard not to stare at Rachel's legs as she perched on a credenza in the conference room. And then it was home, dinner, the nightly news, and a novel.

**********

"Hello, I am Inigo Montoya; you killed my father; prepare to die."

"Excuse me?"

"Draw your sword, dog."

I stared at the man only a little longer, at his mop of black hair, his dark complexion, his mustache, the long sword he was pointing at my face. I was dreaming again.

"I will kill you whether you draw or not," he said in a confident and surprisingly friendly tone of voice.

"I know you," I said. "Give me a minute. You're --" 

"Inigo Montoya," he interrupted me. "The son of Domingo Montoya. Now draw your weapon!"

I looked down and found a sword at my waist. I slowly pulled it out and held it in what I took to be the appropriate stance.

"You know, I really don't think --"

He knocked my blade aside and I stared in horror as the point of his own returned to my chest. As if time had slowed down, I could see every detail of his lunge toward me, the flex of his thigh, the tightening of the muscles in his upper arms, the murderous intent in his eyes. And then the blade itself, tearing easily through the vest and thin shirt that I was wearing, slicing into my skin, and sliding between my ribs. The pain was unbelievable, far worse even than the pain when I had awoken in the hospital after the accident. This was the pain of death, a prolonged agony of life-ending shock. I stared at him, my eyes wide and my mouth open in mute horror as I felt the blood gushing out of my chest and running down my stomach.

"So what did you learn?"

The lights came up gradually this time. Wizen was there again at the foot of the bed, poised to hear my answer. It took me a while to catch my breath, to let my heart stop pounding from the nightmarish pain. When I finally answered him, I laced my voice with as much sarcasm as I possessed.

"Don't get killed."

He waited for more, in vain.

"That's it?" he finally asked.

"That's it." I smiled at him. "It was a short dream, Mr. Wizard."

He rolled his eyes and waved his hand.

I had the same dream the next three nights. On the third night, I left my sword in place and turned to run. Inigo caught me in three strides and knocked me to the ground. I died again.

"What did you learn?"

"Don't get killed."

"You don't seem to be taking the lesson to heart," Wizen said with a sigh.

"It's much easier to say than do," I said. I pulled myself to a seated position on his cold little table. "Do you mind telling me what your interest is in this, anyway?"

He was taken aback. He studied me for a while longer, just as I studied him. He was a man of indeterminate age, his dark hair flecked with streaks of gray. His mustache and goatee were even grayer. It was his eyes that drew me in, though. They were blue, an almost electric blue, and they appeared to shine with intelligence and humor.

"I didn't make that clear on your first visit?" he asked.

"You mentioned something about training a champion," I answered. "But frankly, unless your champion is going to write obituaries, I really don't see that I'm going to be much of a help to you. I can't even keep Inigo Montoya from killing me. Although in all fairness, he is a wizard."

I had finally figured out where my opponent came from. The Princess Bride, a good movie and an even better book. 

Wizen looked a little disappointed, as if I was supposed to be a little smarter than that. I found myself embarrassed that I hadn't lived up to his expectations. He sat down on a stool at the foot of the bed.

"Very well. First off, I should tell you that we are four centuries into your future."

"Time travel. Very cool," I said. These dreams were just getting better and better. "So what do you want with me?" 

"I need to tell you a little of the intervening four hundred years. The Earth of your time was a very warlike place, was it not?"

"Sure. Somebody was always fighting somebody else."

"Humankind finally conquered that impulse. By the beginning of the twenty-third century, we had eliminated war. The peoples of Earth were at peace."

"That's great," I said, nodding my head. "Well done."

"Yes, but it came at a price. We were wholly unprepared for invasion."

"But you just said that the peoples of Earth were peaceful," I protested.

"The invasion did not come from Earth."

My eyes widened.

"Aliens?"

He nodded his head.

"From the Epsilon Eridani solar system, ten light years away. They call themselves Morlings, and they possess technology, or at least military technology, that is far superior to ours."

"O-kay," I said. 

"You are wondering why they haven't conquered us yet?" Wizen asked.

"Well, I was actually wondering why, if you can travel through time, you wouldn't just take off?"

"Ah, it is a valid point. Unfortunately, the time travel device only allows me to bring someone forward in time. And even that requires an enormous expenditure of energy. Once the flow of energy stops, you simply return home."

"Got it," I said with a nod. I was going to have to write this down when I woke up. This would be a bitchin' science fiction story. 

"So why haven't they conquered you?" I asked.

"You are familiar with a battle by champions, are you not, as a means of deciding a war?"

I stared blankly. I was familiar with wars decided by countries pounding the shit out of each other's armies and bombing their cities.

"The Philistines, for example, in the Bible of your time," Wizen said. "Goliath was their champion, and offered to decide the outcome of the contest in a single one-on-one battle. David was the champion of the Israelites. There are similar examples in the Iliad of Homer."

"So you mean if you beat their champion, they'll just go home?" I asked. "Because to be honest, that sounds a little stupid."

Wizen gave a shrug.

"We surmise that it is a part of their code of honor. Or chivalry, if you will. But you are quite correct. They could annihilate us quite easily."

"So you're looking for a champion?" I asked.

"The Morlings have offered three such battles," he explained. "We have failed in two. Our people simply have no skills for such combat. We must look elsewhere for a champion."

"So you want me to find one?" I asked. "In a movie? Why don't you get somebody real? Somebody like, I don't know, that David guy?

"I considered him. He lacks the technical skill to understand the weapons."

"Okay. So I don't get it. You want somebody like Kenneth Branagh? Or Inigo Montoya? Because I mean, it's just a movie. They're just actors."

"No, my friend. I believe I have found the person we want. The person we need."

He looked at me with an air of expectancy. I matched him with an air of ignorance.

"All I need do now is train him," he said. 

That didn't help me much.

"You are Richard Handley," he said.

"Well, yes."

"The video gaming champion of the Charleston Video Gaming Club?"

I felt myself blushing, from embarrassment rather than pride. I hadn't even let my colleagues on the newspaper know about that. I could just see the mock obituaries that would be circulating on the paper's intranet.

"So?" I asked, perhaps a little defensively. "It's just a bunch of video gamers who rent from the club. Then we have these tournaments. So what if I've won a couple?"

"It has never occurred to you that the games at the Charleston club are far more advanced than those you could obtain anywhere else?"

"No," I said. "Charleston? Seriously?"

"Mr. Handley, I have been working on this project for nineteen years. Ever since our second champion was defeated and the Morlings announced that they would give us two more decades to find a third. I am the inventor of every single video game that you have ever played."

"Oh, get out."

"Obviously, I have allowed others of your century to think the games their own ideas. But believe me, they were all mine. I bring the inventor forward, instill the idea, and release him. Just as the tracking system in each game is mine, and has relayed to my computers the result of every single game played in your time."

I was sitting up by now and staring at him, absolutely unable to speak.

"As the games became progressively more and more sophisticated, I winnowed down the group of potential champions. I made sure that they all gathered in one city, so that they could try out the games that would finally let us decide which one of them would stand the best chance of success once he -- or she -- was finally given sufficient knowledge and training."

"So this champion you're looking for --" I said, my voice dropping to a whisper, "--is me?"

He nodded.

"At the very least you will be my recommendation to the council. There are many others working on this program. They will likely have recommendations of their own."

"So you want me to fight one of these Morlings?"

"I would like to ask you to do so, yes. Obviously, the choice is yours."

"All right!" I pumped my fist. This was a kick-ass dream -- or series of dreams, to be precise -- after all.

"I beg your pardon?" Wizen asked. "So you will continue?" 

Fuckin-A I would.

"For mankind?" I asked. "Oh, sure. Look at all the great things it's done for me. First, though, I guess I have to figure out a way around this Inigo Montoya wanting to kill me every time I show up."

"Yes," Wizen said. "I had hoped that you would learn something of the sword from him."

"I have to fight this Morling with a sword?"

"No," he answered. "I believe the training would be helpful, though. Why does he want to kill you?"

"He keeps saying I killed his father."

"Why does he think that?" 

That was an excellent question. I sat there on the table, my mouth open in mid-answer. Why did he think I killed his father? I needed to read that book again.

Wizen waved his hand and it was Friday morning. 



What Feats He Did That Day Pt. 02



CHAPTER THREE

The Charleston Video Gaming Center never failed to disappoint casual visitors. It was located in a small store in the Charleston Mall, with a storefront barely large enough to display its somewhat grandiose name. Shoppers who found their way down that particular corridor might peer in for a second and then leave, convinced that the place would be out of business by the time they reached their cars. Gamers who had made the pilgrimage at the recommendation of friends usually spent the first two minutes looking for the hidden camera, afraid they had been punk'd. 

The store's owner, Andy Stowe, couldn't have cared less. He was an aging hippie whose drug of choice had always been games. He kept the shelves stocked with a selection of games that could have been found in any store in the country. It wasn't until the newcomer approached, unwilling to admit that he had been tricked into driving all the way to Charleston, that Andy would reveal the store's secrets. Once he learned that his customer was a serious gamer he would look around as if videogames were the stuff of espionage, and then crook his finger and beckon the newcomer into the back room where he kept his "stash." 

Those of us who were regulars had received nicknames, delivered by Andy like the ring announcer at a professional wrestling match.

"The Hammer of Death!" he intoned as I entered the store on Saturday morning.

"The Wizard of War!" I tried to match him as best I could.

"What's happenin,' bud?" he asked me as he leaned across the counter to exchange a high five.

"Not much, Andy," I said. "Anything new?"

"Just got a new VR in, but . . ."

"I haven't got the legs for it, huh?"

"Sorry, dude."

"No problem, Andy. Say, have you ever read The Princess Bride?"

"Awesome book, man."

"Yeah. I thought I had a copy, but I couldn't find it last night." 

And as a result, my dream last night had once again ended with my quick death. This time I had managed to scream out, "What makes you think I killed your father?" 

In lieu of answering, Inigo had simply run me through.

"Do you remember the guy who killed Inigo Montoya's father?" I asked.

"The six-fingered man? Count Rugen?"

"Six fingers?" That didn't make sense; I only had five.

"Yeah. Domingo Montoya was a swordsmith. He made a sword for this Count Rugen and ended up dead. 'My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.'"

I flinched. 

"You okay, Rick?" Andy asked.

"I'm fine," I answered quickly. "You got any games about sword fighting?"

"Oh, yeah. You never played Duellum?"

"I don't think I've even heard of it," I answered. 

"Nobody heard of it," Andy said with a laugh. "Came out the same day as Grand Theft Auto II. Sank like a stone."

"It's not exactly a catchy title," I said.

"No," Andy agreed. "Although I think it's great. From the Latin. Duo for two, bellum for war. Literally a war for two people. Awesome, isn't it?"

"Fascinating," I agreed.

"Come on back." 

Andy swept aside the beads that led to the back room and gestured for me to precede him.

I spent the rest of the morning and the first part of the afternoon in the back room on one of Rick's consoles. After that, it was time to go home and get ready for my "date." In a rush of enthusiasm that I still had trouble accounting for, I had offered to cook dinner for Alison, Eric, and Alison's friend, Parker. That meant stopping off at the grocery store for the ingredients for my special Pasta Handley and then cleaning my apartment. By six-thirty, however, when my guests were expected, the sauce was simmering gently on the cooktop that acted as a substitute for a stove. Another pot of water awaited the pasta. The vegetables were in the steamer, and the wine was breathing on the counter. 

By six-fifty, I had turned the sauce off. By seven I had poured myself a glass of the wine. By seven-thirty, when I heard the knock on my door, I was in an ugly mood. 

It was not a side of me that I would have willingly showed Alison, although her boyfriend was another matter altogether. The mood dissolved, however, as soon as I caught sight of Alison's friend. She was a tall brunette who had probably never read a diet book. Long, slender legs that emerged from a leopard-print mini-dress perched atop three --inch heels. Beautiful long eyelashes framed equally beautiful brown eyes. But it was the way that they lit up when she saw me that I found particularly attractive. I couldn't remember a girl looking at me like that before.

"I am so sorry," Alison said. "We stopped off at McMurphy's for a drink."

"Or two," her friend added with a giggle.

"Or two," Alison agreed with a roll of her eyes. "You remember Eric, of course."

"Hey, Hando." Eric had discovered my nickname a few months back, and thought it extremely clever.

"Eric."

"And this is Parker Kline. Parker, I'd like you to meet Rick Handley."

"Hi," she said with a hiccup.

"Nice to meet you. Can I get anyone a glass of wine before dinner?"

"Sure," Eric said.

"Maybe just one," Alison said with a look intended to suggest to Eric that he might be better off limiting himself to one as well. 

"I'd love some," Parker said. 

She loved even more wine during dinner, and Eric matched her glass for glass. We discussed the newspaper business, her career as a mortgage broker, and Eric's intention to attend business school next year. I did my best to be charming, although it was completely unnecessary. She would have been no less attracted to me if I had been my usual tongue-tied self.

"Do you know what my nickname was in college?" During a lull in the conversation she leaned toward me, nearly tottering off her seat.

"Parker," Alison said in dismay.

"No, silly," Parker said. "That was my real name. Now you guess."

Her eyes flashed as she returned her gaze to me.

"Park?" I asked.

"No." She drew out the vowel to suggest that I guess again.

"Parky?" Eric suggested.

"You're getting closer."

"Well, I give up," I said.

"Me, too," Eric agreed.

"Parkay," Parker said with another, even drunker laugh.

"Because you were always toasted?" Eric was a little ripped himself.

"Because your father wanted to name you Margarine?" I asked. That was enough to send Alison into convulsions of laughter, but it went right over Parker's head.

"No and no," she said, leaning forward even more until her nose was within an inch of mine. "Because I was so easy to spread."

I stared back at her. Wasn't this the woman who was supposed to be getting married in a month? 

"Do you have any coffee?" Alison's tone said that I had better find some. It put Eric back on the road to sobriety, but was not nearly enough to sober up Parker. Particularly since she insisted on drinking it with the whiskey she spotted in the cabinet in my dining room.

Shortly after ten o'clock, Allie suggested that perhaps it was time to leave. Eric put up a half-hearted protest that quickly turned to eagerness when Parker announced that she wouldn't be coming with them. 

"Yes, you will," Allie said firmly.

"No, I won't." Parker met Alison's stare with one of her own.

"Parker, Rick is my best friend at the paper," Allie said. "He's not your wild oats."

"Let's let him decide." Parker turned to me with a smile. "Do you want me to leave, Rick?"

She passed her tongue across her upper lip, and slid her hand down across a firm, round breast that needed no bra. In their wake, her fingers left an erect nipple evident through the thin fabric of her dress.

I swallowed and turned back to Alison. 

"Go on," I said. I found myself not minding at all that I was nothing more than wild oats.

"Rick," Alison started to protest.

"Allie," I answered her. She could read the tone of my voice as well as I could read hers. I was telling her that it was my life. The paralysis of my legs had not affected my mind or my emotions. I was capable of making my own decisions, and I resented her efforts to protect me from her friend.

"Fine," Allie said with a sigh. "You're right. As usual."

She put a hand on my arm and left with her boyfriend in tow. I returned to the living room to find Parker pouring herself yet another glass of wine.

"You sure you can handle all that?" I asked with a nervous laugh.

"You sure you can handle me?" she retorted.

"No," I admitted.

She took a last gulp of wine and put the glass down on the table, hard enough to spill some of the wine. She walked toward me, her hips swaying from side to side, her eyes holding mine.

"I like an honest man." 

Her voice was soft and sultry as she seated herself on my lap and pressed her lips against mine. My legs may have been useless, but not everything below my waist was devoid of feeling. She felt my erection beneath her and playfully ground her ass into me as we kissed.

"Wheel me into the bedroom, charioteer," she ordered.

Her eyes lit up even more when she saw the rope. Jumping off my lap, she grabbed it and swung herself onto the bed. Once again fixing my eyes, she slowly lowered herself into a split on my bed. She slid her hands down over her body once again and grabbed hold of the hem of her dress. I could only stare as she pulled it upward, revealing a black thong, a creamy white abdomen, and two gloriously beautiful breasts.

"Are you coming?" she whispered.

"I'll be right there," I answered her. I hadn't made any pit stops myself that evening, and I wasn't able to hop out of bed when the mood hit me. It took a little while to relax myself enough to finish, and when I returned, Parker had started without me. Her thighs lay open on the bed, my view of her obscured only by the hands between her legs, hands whose fingers winked in and out of her wet, swollen cleft as she emitted little gasps of pleasure. 

I was mesmerized. Her breasts were between her upper arms, quivering madly as she increased her pace. She lifted one hand to her lips, licking her juices off her fingers before she returned it to her clit. She lifted the other, licked it clean as well, and then brought it down to her breast, cupping the globe in her palm, pinching the nipple, squeezing the flesh between her fingers. Insensible to my presence, she threw her head back, screaming her lust. It was all I could do to keep myself from cumming, but when I pulled myself out of the chair and into the bed, I was more than ready to help her out. She settled herself under my arm, her hand snaking down across my stomach to wrap around my cock.

"Give me just a minute, darling. And then I'm yours."

"Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father; prepare to die."

"Fuck!" I screamed. I couldn't believe I had fallen asleep. A beautiful girl lying naked on my bed, and I had dozed off? Inconceivable!

"Draw," growled Montoya.

"I'm not the man you want!" I screamed. I held my hands out in front of me so that he could see them. His eyes flicked to my right hand, and then narrowed in rage. I followed his gaze, and stared in horror at my glove, at the thumb and at the five fingers beside it.

Once again time slowed to a crawl. Montoya ripped his sword from its sheath and thrust the point toward me. It ripped a long slit in my tunic. It drew a bloody line in my torso. And then it finally found an opening in my ribs and plunged inside. I could feel it enter, the pain indescribable. I gasped, aware that once again I had lost.

"What did you --" 

"Shut the fuck up."

"I beg your pardon?" Wizen asked.

"You're supposed to come in my dreams, not when I'm having sex, you bastard."

"I summon you at night," Wizen explained. "But you may rest assured, Richard, that you will return at precisely the same time you departed. If you were having sex when you left, you will be having it when you return."

I rolled my eyes. 

"We'll see. Oh, and I learned I have six fingers. That's why that son of a bitch wants to kill me."

"Really?" Wizen was surprised. "I only count five on each hand. Are you quite sure?"

I looked down at my hand and counted. He was right. There were only five on each hand. What the fuck? 

"Just give me one more time," I said, half to myself and half to him. "Tomorrow night I'll make it. Now if it wouldn't be too inconvenient, Mr. Wizard, how about sending me back to my date?"

He waved his hand. I blinked my eyes open, and found Parker snoring on my chest. Maybe she had had enough time to recover. Maybe it was, um, my turn. I shook her gently, and then a little harder. It was no good. She was already deep into the sleep of wine. No matter; we would be able to make love in the morning. I found that I was already looking forward to lying with her in the clear light of day.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Parker asked the next morning when I reached for her. "You had your chance last night, buddy. What the hell do you think I got drunk for? Don't tell me we never fucked. Jesus Christ. I assume you've got a real shower in this place."

"A real shower?" I asked. 

She pushed herself off the bed and climbed across me.

"Yeah. For full-size people."

I felt a chill run through me as she awaited the answer to her question. I pointed to the bathroom. She turned and walked into it. We didn't speak again. While I was in the kitchen, she dressed and left.

I spent the rest of Sunday sitting in my living room, the Sunday New York Times lying unread on my coffee table. In my dreams that evening, I tore off the glove on my right hand. God alone knew why I was wearing a six-fingered glove, but there it was. Montoya was quite surprised to learn that I was not in fact the man responsible for killing his father.

"What have you learned?" Wizen asked me when I awoke in his room.

"I would have learned to fence if you had left me there a little longer."

"What instead?" he asked.

"I learned that everything is not always as it appears," I answered, filling my voice with rue. "I learned that twice today." 

He waved his hand again.

**********

"So, get any?"

Alison smiled at me on Monday morning as if I couldn't possible have had a better weekend.

"I'm sorry?" I asked.

"You and Parker," she said. "How was it?"

"What did she tell you?"

"Oh, the usual," Allie said with a laugh. "She bewitched you with her beauty and stunned you with her sexual technique."

"We never did it." I gave her a cold, hard stare.

"What? What do you mean?"

"She evidently wanted a gimp to add to her collection. But she couldn't bring herself to do it without getting drunk. She got herself off and then fell asleep. The next morning she would barely look at me."

"Oh my God, Rick. Are you serious? Why would she tell me you guys did it?"

"You tell me."

She stood there staring at me until we were interrupted by another voice.

"Dude."

I could count the number of times that Dan Edwards had gotten to work before me in the last year on the fingers of one hand. But there he was, leaning back in his chair, having just heard the entire conversation I had had with Alison.

Fuck.

"You're talking about that hot friend of Allie's that I met at McMurphy's? You had her naked in your bed and couldn't close the deal? Well, you still have Mrs. Hando, don't you?"

He went back to work with a cackle of laughter. Alison's eyes were filled with sorrow and shame. I gave her a brief grin and started my own workday.

CHAPTER FOUR

"Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father; prepare to die."

I rolled my eyes. Again? Were we going to have to go through this every single time? I dutifully pulled off my glove and satisfied my adversary that I was not the man for whom he was searching. We chatted a little longer this time, although he seemed to smile at my wish to become a swordsman. I was happy with the progress, although the whole thing was starting to feel a little like Groundhog Day.

"Don't you have a "save" setting?" I asked Wizen after that night's lesson had ended and I had filled him in on my progress.

"I don't understand."

"Like, you're playing a game, right? And you realize that you have to go to work, okay?"

He nodded.

"So you hit 'save,' and then when you come home -- assuming that you have nothing else in the world to do, which is probably a pretty safe assumption with most of us -- you dive right back in where you left off."

"Of course."

"So if I had something like that with my new friend Inigo, I wouldn't have to convince him every night that I'm not the guy who killed his father."

Wizen didn't answer me directly. But the last thing I saw before he waved his hand again was his smile and nod.

**********

"I'm not saying you're weird," Allison said. "I said it is weird. It."

"Like your dreams are perfectly normal," I said. We were finishing our lunch at a table in Tarber's Cafeteria. The food was good, cheap, and served promptly. Largely because we served it ourselves. For those reasons, and because it was right around the corner from the newspaper's office, it usually attracted a large crowd of reporters and editors. Rachel and some of her fellow editors, in fact, were sitting at a table about thirty feet away. 

I never went there on Mondays. Allison and Eric had a standing lunch date on Monday. That would have meant me having lunch with Dan, since Shawn had never deigned to grace Tarber's with her presence. And I had no inclination to spend an hour of my day trying to find something in common with Dan.

Tuesdays, though -- "Tuesdays with Allie," I called them -- were different. The mayor had a peculiar habit of scheduling press conferences for noon on Tuesdays, probably just so he could jerk around the reporters that covered city hall. Dan's absence meant that Allie and I could spend the entire lunch hour trashing the latest American Idol winner, solving the world's problems, and chatting about life in general.

"Of course they're normal," Allison said with a laugh. "Everything I do is normal."

"As opposed to everything I do," I said.

"Will you stop getting so defensive? Jesus, Rick."

"I'm sorry," I mumbled.

"Your dreams aren't any more or less normal than anyone else's," she said. "But if you didn't think they were a little weird, you wouldn't have brought them up."

Like most of Allie's arguments, it was indisputable.

"On the other hand," she continued, eyeing the unfinished brownie on my plate as she spoke, "I've never heard of anyone who dreamed like TV before."

"It's not like TV," I protested.

"It's just like it. You have two characters, you and this Wizen guy, and you get into all sorts of adventures. He's Peabody and you're his boy Sherman."

"Har har har."

"Except now you have Inigo Montoya as a guest star. I wouldn't mind having him in one of my dreams."

We heard the scrape of chairs and turned to see Rachel's group standing up to leave. We looked at each other and silently decided that it was time for us to go as well. As we were preparing to leave, though, Rachel and Bill McIntyre, the paper's assistant managing editor, wound their way through the dining room to our table.

"Handley," Bill said. "Nice job on that Jalegos piece."

He butchered the name so badly -- pronouncing it Jallagose -- that it took me a second to realize that he was talking about an obit that had appeared in Monday's paper. It was one I had particularly enjoyed writing. The Second World War had produced these marvelous stories about people from small towns who had metamorphosed into scientists and soldiers and strategists. Heroes every one of them. Jalegos had been a day laborer in a suburb of Charleston when he was called up. He had been awarded a Silver Star on Iwo Jima, and returned to the United States to found his own trucking company. 

"Thank you, sir," I said. 

Rachel had been pleased with the story as well, and was just as pleased with the compliment. 




What Feats He Did That Day Pt. 02



"I need to see you when you get back, Richard. My office?"

"We're right behind you, Rachel," I said.

It took us a little longer, of course. When we had Dan with us, I made an effort to keep his pace. On Tuesdays, Allie was happy to walk along at mine.

"Oooh," she said. "Must be a promotion, huh?"

"I'm sure that's it," I agreed. "Chief Obituary Writer, probably."

I wheeled myself up to the door to Rachel's office when we returned, and stopped short when I saw Shawn in there. I debated for a moment whether I should knock and announce myself or wait until Shawn was finished. Of course, I did use that moment to admire the view. Shawn was perched on Rachel's desk, kicking her long legs slightly back and forth. She was wearing a tight, short skirt once again, along with a white blouse and a silver necklace. As usual, Rachel's dress was more conservative. The skirt of her pale blue suit almost reached her knees, and her heels were a good inch shorter than Shawn's. Still, she could play in my dreams anytime she wanted.

"Rick." Rachel caught sight of me waiting and waved me in to join them.

"The Governor has decided to take a spur-of-the-moment vacation," Rachel explained. "So he'll be away starting this weekend for the next -- what, two weeks?"

Shawn nodded.

"While school's in session?" I asked. "I thought his kids were in junior high or something."

"One's thirteen, the other's nine," Shawn explained. "This is a men-only trip. Dove-hunting."

"So anyway," Rachel said, "Shawn's asked for some time off, too. Which means we need someone to substitute at the statehouse."

"It's not like anything's going to happen," Shawn assured me.

"I'm sure that Richard could handle it if it did," Rachel said. 

Shawn shrugged.

"You want me to cover the statehouse?" I asked.

"I do," Rachel said. "How 'bout it?"

I fought to keep the grin off my face, to keep them from knowing how eager I was. 

"Who's gonna do the obits?"

Shawn laughed. 

"It's not like it's going to take you the whole day, Hando."

Rachel shot her a glare.

"It's true, Rach," Shawn said with another laugh. "His press secretary's going with him, which means that Krissy Mackley is going to be doing the availabilities. They wouldn't let her announce her own resignation for fear she'd fuck it up and announce she'd been appointed governor."

Rachel turned back to me.

"She's right, Rick. Miss Mackley will hand out announcements at 10, and you can give the press office your cell phone number in case they need to get in touch with you. You don't need to be there full time."

"So you want me to do the obits and the state house?" I tried to keep my voice from seeming whiny, apparently without success.

"It's an opportunity, Rick," Rachel said. "The state's not going to shut down just because the governor's on vacation. You can keep any story that comes up while Shawn is gone. But she's right. You don't need to be there all day. The statehouse is about a mile from your apartment, in the other direction. So I'm thinking that you spend the morning there, and the afternoon working out of your apartment writing obituaries. I know you won't be able to get as many done and that's fine. You tell me which ones you want to write, and Alison, Dan, and I will do the others. Some can just wait."

I paused a moment. It was a lot of work. It could turn out to be shit. But it was an opportunity. And there had been precious few during my newspaper career.

"I'll do it."

"Good man." Rachel nodded. "You start Monday. Call in every day. You have the code for our intranet?"

I finally let them see the grin. I would be damned if I didn't file at least a story every other day. If Rachel didn't want to run it, that was her decision.

********

"Hello, my name is --"

"Oh, for Chrissake. Look here, Charlie. Five fingers."

Inigo gave me a quizzical look, but his sword never wavered.

"Then tell me why you wear the glove." 

That was a damn good question. I found myself wondering why it hadn't occurred to him in last night's dream. Of course, if we'd used the fucking "save" button, I wouldn't be having to try to answer it.

"It was cheap," I said. I had no fucking idea why I had the glove on. Wizen probably had bought it at some Army surplus store. I threw it on the ground.

"Fair enough. Who are you?"

"Handley. Ri -- just Handley will be fine."

"What brings you to Spain, Handley?"

"I heard there was a master here."

"We have plenty of masters. Roberto over there is a master of bakery. Carlos is a master wheelwright."

"I'm looking for a master swordsman."

"Ah, a master swordsman. I'm afraid I have been here two weeks, my friend, and I have yet to find a master swordsman."

"I see. Well, how about I buy you a drink and we talk it over?" 

I nodded at the tavern across the street. Inigo smiled and sheathed his sword.

"It is a thirsty town," he agreed. 

I ordered us whiskeys, and paid with a coin I found in my pocket. Afterwards, I had my first fencing lesson.

"What did you learn?"

"That I'm going to have to go through this 'prepare to die' shit every goddamn night," I muttered.

"I beg your -- oh, your 'save' setting."

"Yes," I said, mimicking his voice. "My 'save' setting."

"Well, of course, you didn't ask for it until after last night's session was over," Wizen said. "That would be like saving a video game after the game was over, wouldn't it?"

I sat up.

"So you put it in tonight?"

"Of course." Wizen smiled at me. "A relatively simple matter. An excellent idea really. I'm disappointed I didn't think of it myself."

"Yeah, well. Don't beat yourself up over it. So it will work next time?"

"Of course."

It worked quite well, actually. Fencing is a demanding pursuit, requiring a combination of agility, anticipation, stamina, intelligence, and strength. Inigo praised my anticipation and intelligence. He appreciated the strength of my arms. Well of course I had fucking strong arms. The rest of it -- my footwork and my stamina -- were going to need some work.

I found myself racing through the next three days at work. In addition to my usual obituaries, I was churning out stories about people whose deaths would normally go unnoticed by the good people of Charleston. Like the woman who held the record for the most consecutive victories in the Betty Crocker Cook-off. It turned out to be a fascinating story, largely because her sister was such "good copy." But normally we probably would not have even printed the two-graph AP story, let alone a ten-inch feature with a picture. I intended to bank a whole set of obits that Rachel could use while I was gone. That would give me more time to work on whatever stories I found at the statehouse. I set it up to go to Rachel next Tuesday. 

And then there were the nights. As Alison had said, it was just like TV. Goldman's wonderful Princess Bride was filled with tales of all sorts of fencing attacks and maneuvers; it was even better than chess. I learned them all: the Agrippa, the Capoferro, Bonetti's attack, the Thibault. Some of them hadn't even been in the movie; I apparently was importing them from the book. No truncated screenplay was going to interfere with my dreams. 

Every night was something new, something different. I tasted my sweat. I felt the flat of Inigo's blade when I made a mistake. And I smelled fear. 

On Sunday night, we were practicing in the town square. Inigo drove me in and out of the fountain, making me conscious of my footing, forcing me to make the water my ally. After an hour we looked at each other. We both smiled.

"You are tired?" he asked.

"No more than you," I said with a smile.

"You are both tired," came a snide voice from my right. We turned together. Ten men sat astride Arabian stallions. Apparently we had been so intent on the lesson that we hadn't heard them approach.

"And we are not, mi amigos," their leader said. "So if you would have your townspeople bring us their gold and jewelry, we will head back to the hills."

They were bandits. I caught a glimpse of Inigo out of the corner of my eye and found him wearing the same smile that I knew was on my face.

"Perhaps we are not as tired as you think, señor," Inigo suggested. 

He assumed a fighting stance.

I joined him, and we stood side-by-side as the bandits dismounted and drew swords of their own.

"You're full of shit, you know," I muttered out of the side of my mouth. "We're exhausted."

"So I was right," he said quietly, his voice quivering with life. "They believe us only tired. Now!"

We leapt toward them, our blades flashing in perfect synchrony. The first to fall was stabbed through the gut by Inigo. I brought the second down with an elegant riposte. 

Our success caused a quick change in our opponents' tactics. They all took a step backward and then fanned out to surround us. Inigo and I moved to stand with our backs to each other. As they advanced again, our swords wove an invisible, impenetrable shield.

The third bandit joined his compadres on the ground. His throat had been pierced by my thrust. Inigo laughed at my success and then quickly dispatched two more. The other five paused. Inigo and I looked over our shoulders and turned joyously to the attack. We were far too joyous for our opponents. They fled, leaving their horses and a satchel of money that had probably come from the last town they had robbed. We treated ourselves to whiskey. We treated the townsfolk to whiskey.

And they treated us to their most beautiful women.

"I am Aliana," said the sultry brunette whose arm was wrapped around me. 

"And I am Carmen," said the raven-haired beauty who seemed determined to express her appreciation to Inigo.

"Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya," my friend said. He was well ahead of me in whiskey by this point.

"Oh, fuck," I mumbled.

"Inigo," Carmen said. "What a lovely name."

"And what's your name?" Aliana purred.

"My name?" My voice emerged as a sort of squeak, not at all the image I was hoping for.

"His name is Handley," Inigo said, his voice slurring even more as he downed another shot. "Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya."

"You already said that, honey," Carmen said with a throaty laugh.

"And you are handy?" Aliana asked me.

The two women giggled.

"Handy, yes. Well, Handley, actually. I mean . . ."

She had heard enough. She pulled herself closer, pressing a soft, full breast into my chest and soft, full lips into mine. She pressed her soft hand into my crotch and that filled quickly as well. Not to the point of overflowing, thank the Lord, but full and definitely not soft.

She drew back, leaving my mouth aching for hers, and pulled me to my feet. She took my hands in hers and stepped backward, tugging at me to follow. Her eyes laughed as we slowly made our way up the stairs behind the tavern's counter. She was clad in a ruffled dress that was at once elegant and ill fitting. The dress was a brilliant red, with long sleeves that began just below her bare shoulders. It was too long and too tight, as if sewn for her taller, less well-endowed friend. Carmen was probably a woman of means, Aliana a woman who could not afford such a dress on her own. 

I laughed back at her and pulled her toward me for a kiss. As we reached the top of the stairs, I swept her into my arms and laid her lightly on one of the beds.

That was the extent of our tenderness. She grabbed me by the lapels of my tunic and yanked me down upon her. My mouth devoured hers. She put a hand around my neck to hold me to her. She pushed me away with the other, and answered the puzzled look on my face by pulling my head down, moaning with delight as my lips touched her jaw, her neck, her collarbone, and finally the curves of her breasts. She took the hand off my chest and tugged down her dress to expose the nipple to me. Aliana cooed her satisfaction as my lips fastened around it.

"But you are the hero," she said not ten seconds later, "and I the prize." 

She pushed me onto my back and rolled onto her side. A frantic hand stole upward and began unbuttoning my shirt. Each time a button came loose the rough cotton fabric was replaced with a pair of wet, hungry lips.

"Aliana," I moaned.

"Hush, querido mio," she whispered. She was kissing her way down my stomach. My shirt was open, and her hand was on my braided leather belt. She opened it and pulled it through the loops, slowly, her tongue against her upper teeth. And when she had it in her hands, she lifted it to her mouth, and tickled the end with the tip of her tongue as she fixed me with her gaze. Her hand was on my groin by then, and she could feel the effect of her display on me. 

She tossed the belt aside as her hand slipped under my trousers, sliding in and down, the fingers finding and encircling my hard prick. I moaned as she began to squeeze and stroke it in a manner both gentle and fervent.

Fervent won. She knelt beside me and pulled my pants down my thighs. With heavily lidded eyes she climbed astride my calves, sitting on her knees. I had not noticed the she had stripped herself as well, at least down to the waist, ripping the bodice of her gown to reveal her torso.

Her long hair spread itself over my stomach as her head dropped to my lap. I felt her tongue on the base of my shaft. I squirmed beneath her as she languorously licked her way up to the tip. And I groaned as her lips parted ever so slightly and slid down over the head, pausing every half inch to give a delightfully slow suck. 

"Aliana," I panted.

"Mmmm?"

I parted her hair and lifted it away from her face. I looked down at her, her mouth surrounding almost my entire dick, her eyes asking what I could possibly want to talk to her about that was more important than this.

"Please," I said. "On top."

With a big smile on her face, she got up and stepped out of the dress. She was completely naked. She pirouetted before me, showing off her luxuriant thatch and her perfect ass. And then she hopped back on and took my cock in hand to fit between her thighs.

"Madre de Dios," she murmured as she sank down atop me, enveloping me in hot, wet velvet. Alternately going up and down like a carousel ride and back and forth like a belly dancer, she soon had me on the edge of an enormous climax.

The door slammed open behind her. Aliana looked over her shoulder and I tried to look around her.

"Carmen--!" Aliana said with surprise.

"My name is Inigo Montoya has fallen asleep, leaving me without a man," Carmen said.

I could see her now, walking up behind Aliana. She too appeared to be naked. 

"May we share?" she asked. One hand stole around Aliana's body, cupping and squeezing her generous breast. I felt the other on my balls, gently cupping them as well. She leaned forward to kiss Aliana on the shoulder. "Please?"

"Mmmm." Aliana relaxed backward into her friend's kiss. "On one condition."

Aliana had raised herself off me, and I could feel Carmen's hands exploring the base of my cock, testing its girth, guessing at its length.

"Yes," Carmen whispered.

"For tonight I am the mistress," Aliana crowed, "and you are the servant."

"Yes." Carmen shuddered, and sank out of my sight. I could feel her hot breath on my groin, and the occasional touch of her tongue told me that she was using it to satisfy both me and my companion.

I came soon afterward. And while I rested, Aliana and her employer put on an exhibition that limited my rest to the bare minimum. I rejoined them, and we made love throughout the night.

"What did you learn?" Wizen asked when the inner dream was over.

"Good teamwork," I told him, "is an absolute delight."

"Wonderful," Wizen said. "You and Montoya? You fought as a team?"

"That too, Wizen. That too."



What Feats He Did That Day Pt. 03



CHAPTER FIVE

On Monday morning, in real life, I found myself in the middle of Casablanca. I was at the governor's press office at eight on Monday morning. They apparently would be there at nine. Fortunately, there was a Java Cava just down the street within easy "wheeling" distance so I was able to pass the time by becoming even more anxiously caffeinated.

Even more fortunate, though, was the promised presence of Miss Krissy Mackley. The poor woman took her first step onto the ice at ten o'clock. She broke through precisely at 10:01, when she conflated the middle initial and last name of her boss, the Honorable Edward S. Platte. By 10:05, when she finished reading her statement, she was floundering in freezing water. The prey was wounded. The press moved in for the kill, their tongues firmly fixed in their cheeks.

"Will Governor Splat be doing any cliff-diving on this trip, Krissy?"

"Did you really mean to suggest, Krissy, that the Governor intends to ask the legislature to increase the size of the highway 'strut' fund?'"

"Could you explain the Governor's veto of the 'right at work' bill in any more depth?"

"You guys!" Krissy stamped her foot in frustration. We roared with laughter. The staff lined up behind her all found something fascinating to look at in the back of the room.

There's always one guy who doesn't get it, of course. One guy who, no matter how far out the envelope goes, has to push it just that little bit further.

"So, I'm sorry." My raised hand attracted Krissy's attention. "Did you say he was dove-hunting or duck-hunting?"

It seemed a legitimate question to me, but the entire room suddenly went as quiet as a graveyard. I looked around, conscious of the fact that I had just popped the bubble.

"And just what is the interest of the . . .?" she asked. "Mr. . . .?

"Rick Handley?" I answered. "Uh, Charleston Messenger?" I had spoken in that tone of voice that suggests that I actually didn't know either my name or that of my paper, and I was beginning to hear snickers.

I had committed the cardinal sin of allowing Krissy to regain her composure. She stood at the lectern, her arms folded across her chest.

"You're obviously new," she said with as much condescension as she could. "Is there a problem? Is your editorial board against –" she paused to look at the press release from which she had started reading "– duck hunting?"

"No, ma'am," I said over the laughter. "Not in season. But my understanding is that there isn't a state in this country that allows duck hunting in May. Is he out of the country? Or perhaps I'm mistaken?"

That shut everyone up again. But this time they were all looking at Krissy. Krissy was looking down at the paper on her lectern, quite clearly the source of all her knowledge, and then back at the press office staff. They were again staring off into the distance.

"I'll have to, um, get back to you on that, Mr. Handley," she said. "If there are no further questions, thank you, ladies and gentleman of the press corpse."

We roared again at her pronunciation of "corps," and she left in a huff. With her assistant huffers right behind her.

I was instantly voted an assistant membership in the newly formed Reporters Corpse Association and given a nickname: "Skewer." I hung around for another hour, meeting the other men and women of the Association, all of them from other state newspapers.  

**********

"So, buddy," I said to Inigo that evening. "We were pretty damn good yesterday, weren't we?

"We won," he said coldly.

"Won?" I threw my head back and laughed. "We kicked their asses."

"They were idiots," Inigo said. "Paper thieves. Cardboard fencers. If they were any good, you would have been on the ground, 'buddy,' and I would have had a sword in my back."

"I was great," I insisted.

"You were adequate," he said.

"Oh, fuck you. You're just jealous because you drank too much and fell asleep last night."

"Draw your sword!"

"Inigo," I protested, "come on . . ."

"Draw your sword," he growled.

I drew my sword. Three seconds later it was lying in the dust of the street and the townspeople were laughing at me. This time I didn't think I was going to be able to say anything clever to get them back on my side.

"You think six days is enough to learn fencing?" Inigo asked.

"No," I said, downcast. "I guess it's not."

"Pick it up, Handley. We have much more work to do."

**********

The press conference on Tuesday morning was uneventful. A chastened Krissy Mackley confessed that the press release from which she had read was incorrect, although she evidently had no interest in taking responsibility for that herself. Governor Platt was in fact dove-hunting at a private reserve in Texas. 

The RCA gave her a pass on that mistake. There wasn't any other news and no one, other than maybe some dove lovers, really cared what kind of birds the Governor was going to be shooting. We were done after a half hour, and I decided to stop by the Java Cava on my way home. I had developed a taste for their half-caf skim milk double lattéchino, and was headed back to drop another four bucks. I sat there for a few minutes trying to think up something for Wednesday's story. My story yesterday had been about the Governor's "right to work" veto and his coddling favor with the powerful state employees' unions. It wasn't that strong and I hadn't been surprised not to see it in this morning's paper. 

"Are you the reporter?" 

A woman slid into the seat across the table from me, furtively looking from side to side as if she were concerned about being followed.

"I am a reporter, yes," I said. "From the Messenger."

She nodded.

"I saw you at the press conference this morning. Can we talk somewhere else?"

I shrugged.

"Sure. Although walking down the street with a guy in a wheelchair's going to make you pretty conspicuous."

She looked down. Apparently she hadn't realized I was chair-bound.

"Can we meet somewhere?"

I was tempted to offer a parking garage late at night. But the parking garages in Charleston weren't as numerous as those used by Woodward and Bernstein. And I wasn't all that fond of the dark.

"Lunch?" I suggested.

"Where?"

I thought for a moment.

"Do you know Tony's Deli? Two blocks down on Fourth?"

"No."

"Good. Nobody else will either. Shall we say noon?"

"Noon," she agreed with a nod. She looked around again and pushed herself away from the table as if she had suddenly discovered I was a leper

"I'll see you then," I said to her retreating back.

Somewhat to my surprise, I did see her again. Given her attitude, I half-expected her to bag the whole thing. But as I sat there with my sandwich she suddenly appeared on the sidewalk outside, once again looking around to once again make sure that she wasn't being tailed. She was older than I was, in her middle to late thirties. She was very attractive, but I sensed that a few years ago she would have been even more attractive. Her face had fine worry lines. Her smile – when she was willing to let it be seen – was forced and tight. She was dressed in a relatively simple black knit pantsuit. And she was armed with sunglasses to preserve her anonymity.

She was determined to preserve it from me as well. She entered the deli, ordered a sandwich, and joined me. I introduced myself and waited for her to do the same.

"I'm sorry," I finally said. "I can promise you that we won't use your name in the newspaper. I can promise you that we won't quote you in a way that reveals your identity. But I can also promise you that if you won't tell me your name, whatever else you tell me won't make it anywhere near the paper."

She gave me an appraising look and nodded again.

"All right, but you have to swear that this is between us."

"I will treat it in the utmost confidence. My editor may ask your name, and if she won't print anything without knowing it, I will check with you first."

"Fair enough." 

She took a deep breath.

"My name is Suzanne Dalrymple. I was the Governor's scheduling assistant from 2003 through 2007. I saw you yesterday in the press room. They circulate a feed throughout the statehouse. I know why they lied to you about the dove-hunting."

"They lied?" I asked. I had thought that Krissy had just fucked up. That wasn't an unreasonable assumption; it had never occurred to me she would have been lying.

The woman nodded. She looked around again. Her paranoia was starting to bug me. Perhaps I could put a quick end to this and send her on her way.

"I was actually just sort of going for a laugh there yesterday," I told her. "Krissy was right. It really doesn't matter to our readers if he's hunting doves or ducks or starlings or flying fish."

"How about if he's on a coal company sponsored trip with his mistress?"

I stopped my tuna salad sandwich an inch away from my mouth and slowly put it back on my plate.

"That might be different," I admitted.

I could feel my heart slamming against my ribs as I took my notebook out of the briefcase that I kept hanging on the back of my chair. I clicked my pen slowly, tested the ink even more slowly, and finally looked back at her.

"Suzanne Dalrymple," I said, writing it down slowly. "Tell me more about yourself."

Suzanne Dalyrmple had been Miss West Virginia in 1993. After that she had attended the "U" and upon graduating had been recruited to work in the office of the previous governor. Along the way she had gotten married, had a kid, and gotten divorced. Shortly after Governor Platt had taken office in early 2003, she had found herself promoted to his scheduling assistant.

"That was in the spring," she explained as she toyed with her food. "The governor started taking an interest in me over the next fall and winter. It was just a fling, really. I mean, the guy was fifty years old. I was twenty-eight. He was married with two little boys. Anyway, I went on his dove-hunting trip in June of 2004."

She said 'dove-hunting' as if it were a particularly vile form of pornography. I had no idea what to ask next. The question that immediately came to mind – "so, did ya get anything?" – would end the interview immediately.

"Tell me about it," I said instead.

"Oh, God." Tears started to well up in her eyes. "It's like a fucking orgy. The whole thing is paid for by the coal companies. And it's a bunch of cowboy wannabes with their little bimbo girlfriends. It's sick, really. Just sick."

"So you just went the once?" I asked.

She stared out the window for a minute before answering.

"No," she finally said. "Twice more. '05 and '06. Then last year my mom died. She was the one who looked after Timmy, my little boy, when I went away. And I told His Highness that I couldn't go. And pretty soon I found myself as the assistant to the associate librarian."

"He demoted you?"

She nodded her head.

"Why didn't you complain?"

"You don't know those people, Mr. Handley. Everybody thinks the state government is all fair and transparent and all that shit. It's like the mob. You piss 'em off, you pay for it. And I need this job, Mr. Handley. For me and my boy. My ex is outta state now and doesn't even call Timmy, let alone send his child support."

I nodded, trying to look sage.

"Well, I certainly understand your need for confidentiality, Suzanne. Do you know who took your place last year?"

"Some coal company lobbyist," she answered. A woman who works public relations outta D.C."

"And this year?"

"I have no idea. I know his press secretary went with him this year, too. That oily little Pete Simpson. And the whole thing makes me ill. I hate to think of another girl having to go through the shit that I did. Being threatened. Having to do . . . those things down there."

I refrained from asking what things she was referencing. Maybe I would save that for a second interview. I took a bite of my sandwich as I thought about how to approach this revelation.

"Here's my problem, Suzanne. I can't write an article with you even as an anonymous source because there probably aren't that many people who would have access to this information, right?"

She nodded again.

"So I'm going to have to think up an angle to write this where they can't trace it back to you, okay? That's going to take a little time. How can I contact you if I need more questions answered?"

She scribbled a number on a piece of paper.

"That's my mother's cell phone number. She prepaid for two years so it still works. You can call me there. Not during work, though."

"No," I agreed. "If I have to call, I'll call you in the evenings. Thanks for letting me know about this."

"I hope you bring those bastards down, Mr. Handley." She stood up, put her sunglasses back on, and left the deli. I sat there for a while, trying to make some sense of the whole thing.

**********

"Follow the money, Rick." 

I shared a sketchy outline of Suzanne's tip in a phone call with Allie that evening.

"I know, I know. All the President's Men."

"I'm serious, Rick. Start with the money. Find out about the trip, how much it cost, who paid, all that shit. Stir them up. You'll find a way into the sex. Then your source – your Deep Throat –" 

"Let's give her another name," I said.

"Fine," Allie said with a giggle. "You pick a name. Anyway, she can help lead you to the rest of it. God, Rick, this is so exciting. I can't believe this just landed in your lap like this. Shawn is going to throw a holy fit when she gets back."

"Yeah." I was smiling as we talked. "And Rachel promised I could keep anything I started."

It was exciting. So exciting that I worked on my obits until late into the evening, finally falling to sleep shortly after midnight. After another fencing lesson, I awoke on Wednesday morning eager to get this story started.

First, of course, I had to put in my time at Krissy's Coffee Klatch. That proved to be the usual waste of time and I was soon on my way to the airport. Charleston had a single taxi company that was willing to accommodate wheelchairs, and I was delighted to find that my driver would be Sam Weathers, whom I had met last summer when I was on my way home to visit my parents.

"Travelin' light this time, eh, Mr. Rick?" Getting to the Charleston airport, which was basically the flattened top of a mountain just east of town, left lots of time for conversation.

"Not travelin' at all this time," I said. "Just headed for the airport to do some reporting."

"You want me to wait for ya?"

"Not with the meter running, Sam. Can I call you after I'm done, though? Could be like the middle of the afternoon or something like that."

"No problemo, Mr. Rick. Here, take a card. If I'm on a run, I'll have Shug take it. He's got plenty of room in that piece o' shit he drives."

"Thanks, Sam. I feel better already."

My first stop at the airport was the central office, where I obtained a publicly available list of all of the flight plans filed for planes that had departed the same day that Governor Platte had started his trip. Charleston was not the hub of any airline, so all of the commercial traffic out of the airport headed for either Cincinnati or Pittsburgh. There was only one plane that had been bound for Texas: a plane owned by Amalgamated Coal.

I took the next few minutes to chat with the underworked woman who ran the office. She was more than happy to give me all kinds of details about Amalgamated's plane, including the fact that it was maintained in Hangar 5 by Jerry's Charter Service. I assumed that Jerry himself would not be very forthcoming about the flights of any of his clients, but that the guys who worked for him were another matter entirely. I waited until lunchtime and found a group of them sitting around in an unsecured area of the hangar. 

Shawn could have had them all blurting out every secret they had with just a smile of her full lips. It took me a little longer. I explained that I wanted to do a story on private charter flights and was hoping to interview the pilot of a number of planes, including the one owned by Amalgamated. I was told that I would have to come back. That plane had left on Saturday night and then was headed on to D.C. to pick up a passenger there tomorrow. It might be back on Friday, one guy suggested.

"I heard the Governor was on board on Saturday," I mentioned in as off-hand a manner as I could.

"No shit?" said the guy who had done most of the talking. "Norm. You was here on Sattady night. That a true fact?"

Norm had a shit-eating grin on his face as he eagerly nodded his head up and down.

"Yes, sir," he said. "Yes, sir, he was. Came over and shook my hand and told me how much he 'preciated my support."

"Your support," another guy said with a snort. "You ain't voted for a Democrat in your life."

"I plumb forgot to mention that," Norm said.

"So he was alone?" I asked.

"Ayup," Norm said.

I was trying not to let my face show my dejection.

"Course that was about five minutes after this other suit and these two babes boarded. They weren't with the governor, if you know what I mean."

His friends knew perfectly well what he meant. They all had a good chuckle.

"So anyone else ever meet him?" I asked. I looked around.

"I met him last year," another worker offered. "Just about the same time o' year."

"Billy was workin' the Sattady shift last year. How come you never said nothing, Billy?"

"Guy's an asshole," Billy said. "You want me to tell you 'bout every asshole gets on a plane, we won't have time to talk about much else."

"He goes on vacation this time every year," I said. "Shooting, I think."

Billy shook his head.

"He went to D.C. last year. Weren't no Texas trip that time."

"Man, I'd like to do some shooting this time of year," the ringleader said. "What's he after, turkey?"

"It's one of those private ranches. Doves or quail. Something like that."

"Shit, yeah."

We talked for a little longer, about this and that. Finally, I expressed my disappointment at not being able to talk to the pilot and pushed myself back toward the main hangar. The story was already starting to write itself in my mind as I pulled out my cell phone to call Sam for a ride home.

CHAPTER SIX

"You're shitting me."

"Rachel!" I said. "I don't believe that I've ever heard you swear."

"I've never read a story like this one." Her hands were trembling as she held the copy I had given her. I was taking no chances on posting this story on the intranet. It was simply too hot, and I had no confidence that everyone and his brother couldn't read it there. "We gotta take this to Bill."

She picked up the phone to call him. Yes, she knew it was almost lunchtime. Yes, she was sure that he had a hot date. It was Friday after all. But, she suggested, if he didn't get himself down here before he left he'd be kicking himself all weekend long.

Bill cancelled his date as soon as he finished reading the story.

"Where'd you get this, Rick?" he asked.

"Source at the Governor's office," I answered. "Anonymous for now."

He raised an eyebrow at me and then looked at Rachel.

"There's nothing in here sourced to the office anyway," she explained. "Except for the fact that there weren't any disbursements to Amalgamated Coal over the past two years for the use of their plane."

"Do they know what you're working on?" Bill asked me.

I shook my head. 

"They think I'm doing a general story about reimbursements for the Governor's travel. I never mentioned Amalgamated or his dove-hunting trips. And I picked a two-year period so they wouldn't know that I was concentrating on last year's trip."

"And you actually confirmed that this Tricia Linney got on the plane in D.C. last year and flew with him to Texas?"

I smiled. That part had been easy. I had found Ms. Linney's picture prominently featured on the website of Amalgamated's main lobbyist. A retired airplane maintenance man in D.C. had had no trouble remembering her boarding the Amalgamated plane last spring.




What Feats He Did That Day Pt. 03



"That was one hot-looking bitch," he had said when I reached him after a long series of telephone calls and had e-mailed him a copy of the photograph. 

"Shit," Bill said.

"I assume you haven't called the press office for comment yet," he said to me.

"I thought maybe we should wait," I said. "If I called them now they'd have all weekend to work on their response to the article. Same with Ms. Linney."

He gave me a look that merged respect and surprise.

"Guess I'm gonna have to stop thinking of you as the obit guy. Huh, Hando?"

"I like doing the obits, sir," I said.

"Yeah, right. Okay. Here's what we need to do. Pull in one fact-checker over the weekend, Rach. Somebody you trust. We'll go to the Governor's office for comment on Monday afternoon, as late as possible. Then we print it Tuesday morning. In the meantime, you, me, Hando, and the fact-checker. That's it. I'll give Gus a heads-up about it to keep him in the loop. We'll have to show him the article on Monday. He is the chief, after all. But nobody else learns about this. Okay?"

We gave him our solemn assurances, and he gave us a few suggestions for word changes that might help make our points. When he left, Rachel's face was beaming as she looked down at me. 

"Can I hug you, Rick Handley?"

"Rachel, if I was standing up you wouldn't have even asked, would you?"

"Jerk."

She wrapped my head in her arms. I could easily get used to this sort of compensation package.

**********

I had finished my lessons with Inigo the previous night. Another set of outlaws had visited town, eight men with far better swordsmanship. We had fought them in the tavern. We had used the stairs, the bar, and the tables. 

Three lay dead when I became conscious that Inigo's blade had fallen silent. I was facing three others another was trying to staunch the flow of blood from a gash I had cut in his arm. I looked back to locate Inigo. I feared that he was dead. I feared that his killer was about to come up behind me.

Instead, when I glanced over my shoulder, I found him sitting at a table, drinking from a whiskey bottle. He had mortally wounded his opponent.

"You son of a bitch," I screamed as my blade danced with those of the outlaws arrayed against me. "Get over here and fight!"

"You are doing magnificently, Handley," he said with a full laugh. "The greater the odds, the greater the glory."

"I don't care . . . about the fucking glory," I said, gasping out the sentences in groups of three and four words. "I care about . . . my fucking life."

"Your life." Inigo spat out the words as I heard him get to his feet. "Very well, my friend. But your life is in no danger."

It was nonetheless much easier to drive the rest of them off with Inigo by my side than it would have been by myself. After they had turned tail and run, we sat back down at the table.

"You really think I was in no danger?" I asked as he cracked open a fresh bottle and poured us both glasses.

"You, my friend, can easily beat ninety percent of the people you will face."

"Ninety percent?" 

"Eighty-five," he said. "No less than eighty."

I laughed.

"You're not really boosting my confidence here, Inigo. I've probably fought eight guys in the last week. So that means I'm toast when the next one shows up."

"No, my friend. You have learned well. I have nothing more to teach you. Practice, yes. You must do that. And as far as the ninth one goes, and the tenth, and the ones beyond, I did not say that you could not beat them. I only said the first eight would be easy. You may find yourself up against a master after that."

"Or even a wizard," I said.

He smiled and inclined his head to acknowledge the compliment.

"You will give them all a good fight, Handley. You cannot ask for more than that. As for me, I must be on my way. I still have the six-fingered man to find. And you need a little rest – perhaps a little relaxation – before you continue your own journey. Farewell, my friend."

"Farewell," I said softly. He stood up, clapped me on the shoulder, and left the tavern.

"What have you learned?" Wizen asked.

"That you can learn how to fence in two weeks," I said.

He broke into laughter, something I hadn't heard from him yet.

"Only if your learning can be accelerated," he said with a significant glance across the room at his machines. "Anything else?"

"It's good to have a friend at your back," I said.

"It's also good to be able to fight on your own," Wizen said. "And now, your reward. Perhaps a little rest and relaxation?"

I had stared at him.

"That's what Inigo said."

He had just smiled and waved his hand.

I got my reward on Friday night. The rest and relaxation? That was less evident.

It was dark. My eyes told me that I was in a cavernous space. A large room, perhaps. Maybe even a cavern. My ears picked up an ominous rumbling. A thunderstorm? That was a possibility. An earthquake? I hoped not. As my eyes became accustomed to the dark, it was looking more and more like a cavern. 

The rumbling was coming closer. I turned around to try to identify its source, and felt a tug on my belt.

"Bloody fool," a woman swore. "Pay attention."

She jerked me backward and two enormous boulders rolled by, one on either side of us. Before I could get a good look at her, she turned and ran toward a hole in the cavern that one of the boulders had created.

To the extent that any woman looked familiar from behind, she did. Her long brunette hair hung down her back in a practical braid. She was wearing a blue sleeveless top and a pair of brown shorts that ended about an inch-and-a-half below her crotch. They covered an excellent ass. If she hadn't been armed to the teeth – a gun slung over her back, a pair of pistols in holsters on her thighs – I would have thought that she was my relaxation. 

But she had far too much energy. I followed as we leapt over a hole filled with spikes. I screamed as we slid down a slide into a tiled room.

"Mm-hmm," she murmured. She bent down to retrieve something from the floor, and I did a complete somersault right over her. It wasn't until I turned back to look at her that I noticed the spiked walls closing in.

"Shit!" I yelled. I pointed at the walls. 

She just nodded calmly. "Run," she said, nodding at the opening behind me. 

We ran, jumping over swords, outrunning the collapse of the floor, and avoiding two rolling blades. This was beginning to look very familiar. It wasn't until we were through, standing in a large well-lit cavern, that I realized why. 

"You're . . . you're Lara Croft," I said.

That was when she drew her pistols and aimed them at me. And fired.

"Fuck!" I screamed as I ducked.

I turned to see two spiders in their death throes, each pierced by a single bullet.

"Come on," she said. Together we made it past the T-Rex, the tigers, and the other spiders. I shot two spiders myself with the pistols I found at my waist.

And then we reached the huge wooden door. We went through together, and found ourselves in Venice.

I had always wanted to visit Venice. And other than the bat-wielding thugs, the dog, and the snipers, it was just as romantic as I had always imagined it. Lara was in quite a hurry. We climbed to the third floor of the only building we could enter. To my delight it turned out to be a hotel. Lara yanked open the door to the honeymoon suite and pulled me inside after her.

"It's been a very long time," she said.

I watched her shrug off her backpack. She dropped her thigh holsters. Her shirt was next, exposing the source of the fantasies of million of young guys who, like me, came of age in the late twentieth century. 

She knew it, too. She reached her hands up to cup her breasts and pinch the surprisingly small nipples between her thumbs and forefingers.

"Are you not going to undress?" she asked.

Her upper-class British accent only added to her charms. I quickly stripped off my own clothing, and watched her push her shorts and a pair of white bikini panties down her thighs. She stopped out of them and walked toward me in that peculiar video game gait that accentuated the curves of her hips and breasts.

She threw her arms around my neck and I slid mine around her waist.

"Fuck me, Rick. Put me on that bed, spread my legs, and fuck my brains out."

I didn't bother asking how she knew my name. This was a dream. I had finally gotten to the relaxation part. I still didn't think that I was going to be doing any resting though.

CHAPTER SEVEN 

This chapter is dedicated to Gracie, with thanks and love.

"Hammer of Death!"

"Purveyor of Filth!"

"Oh!" Andy clutched at his chest. "You wound me to the quick, good sire."

"Yeah, right," I said. "Who rents Lara Croft, Womb Trader out of his store? Lara investigates the world of sexual slavery. I'm fairly sure that's not a regular Eidos issue. They usually have her clothed in most of their games, don't they?"

"And besides," I muttered underneath my voice, "she doesn't look anything like that."

"All right, you got me," Andy said with a smile. "Just keep it down, huh?"

"Mall security?" I asked.

"Are you kidding? Those horndogs have rented it more than anybody else. No, I just like to make sure of my clients before I rent out those ones."

"Ones?" I asked. "Plural?"

I never showed you Lara Croft, Womb Traitor? About Lara's quest to find the perfect contraceptive? By trial and error?"

"Christ," I said. "I brought back Duellum."

"And only a week late. But for you I'll waive half the late fees."

"You're a prince. Anything new?"

"Nah. Same old, same old. Me and Sara saw a kick-ass movie last night, though. Troy. Brad Pitt for her. Sword fights and battles for me. You seen it?"

"About the Trojan War? No, thank you. I had enough of that in college. A whole fucking semester on it. The Iliad, the Odyssey, the Aeneid – the works."

"I've got it for another week, dude. You're welcome to borrow it."

"Movies like that give me nightmares," I said.

"Nightmares." Andy dismissed my concerns with a scoff.

"Well, bad dreams, anyway."

"Suit yourself, dude. The place is deserted so help yourself back there."

I passed an enjoyable afternoon at Andy's. It wasn't until I got home that I noticed that he had slipped the movie into the pocket on the side of my chair. I put it on the table next to the TV so I could remember to drop it off at the video store on my way in to work on Monday.

It was almost five-thirty, so I wheeled myself into the kitchen to begin dinner. Saturday was my day to really cook, even if, as was the case on every Saturday other than that disaster with "Parkay," I was the only one who got to enjoy the results.

The knock on the door at six-thirty really pissed me off. I never liked eating in my wheelchair on Saturdays. So once I had put all the ingredients and the dishes on the kitchen counter, I usually hauled myself into one of the stationary chairs within easy reach of the stove.

I always kept the door to my apartment bolted, so answering the door meant getting back in my wheelchair. And I knew what a waste of time it was going to be. In fact, I rehearsed my answers on the way over. No, Mrs. Golding, I haven't heard the man upstairs. No, Mrs. Golding, he isn't bothering me. Maybe, Mrs. Golding, you should complain to the building manager all by yourself. 

Outside my door was not Mrs. Golding, but a vision of incredible loveliness. Long, flowing hair of the finest gold, blue eyes that danced beneath impossibly long lashes, a pair of jeans that appeared to have been painted on, and a knit sweater that stretched in all the right directions.

"Are you ready?"

After another moment's gaping, I decided on honesty.

"I would have to spend three hours preparing before I could even think of getting ready for anything that involved you."

Her smile, two rows of perfect teeth that would have made the Crest people salivate, lit up the dark hallway.

"You're cute," she said.

"No, you're cute." Once again I went for the truth. "Seriously, which apartment are you looking for?"

"Seriously?" she said, a laugh in her voice as she looked at the door I was holding open. "Two-D. Rick Handley?"

I stared long enough that I was afraid I was making both of us uncomfortable.

Her face turned into a frown. I knew it was too good to last.

"She never called you, did she?" she asked. Then she started sniffing the air. "And you're already cooking dinner, aren't you? It smells heavenly."

"Heavenly," I agreed, although the scent that filled my nostrils was hers. She was a feast for the senses.

"What are you making?" She giggled again.

"Oh, the dinner. Um, spaghetti Bolognese. Uh, salad. Garlic bread."

Her eyes were dancing again as she looked down at me. With a delightful little wiggle of her eyebrows, she turned and headed down the hallway toward the window that looked out over the street. There was also a delightful little wiggle in that perfectly shaped rear end.

"You didn't even tell him," she yelled out. "Honestly!"

I couldn't hear the response, but the goddess was quick to answer.

"No, I think I'll stay here."

Mumble, mumble.

"No. You two just go on. I'm staying here."

Another pause to listen.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

She shut the window and came back down the hall. She stopped in front of me and poked me in the arm.

"What was that for?" I asked.

"You're not like one of those hemophiliacs or something, are you?"

"Uh, no."

She shook her head.

"She said to be careful. You bruise easily."

She suddenly put her hand over her mouth.

"Oh my God," she said. "You're probably expecting someone, aren't you?"

"No, actually," I answered. "And to be completely honest" – because that whole honesty thing had worked so well up to his point – "if Jennifer Garner herself knocked on the door, I'd turn her away."

She looked around and leaned toward me to whisper.

"If Jennifer Garner shows up, I'll be happy to share my dinner. That is one hot-looking babe. Can't you see me and Jennifer sucking on the same strand of spaghetti?"

I stared again. I was still staring when she stepped around me into the room and looked around at what passed for décor. Apparently satisfied that I had made no major errors, she proceeded to the stove, where she gave the sauce a stir. 

"We will have so much more fun here," she said. "Between the two of us, I can't stand him."

"No," I agreed.

"I mean don't you think he's just so shallow?"

"Shallow," I said with a nod.

It was her turn to stare at me for a minute – not that I ever gave my turn up – and then she burst into laughter.

"You have absolutely no idea who I am, do you?" she asked.

"I absolutely do not." Confession was supposed to be good for the soul.

"I'm –"

"No, no, don't tell me," I said. "I'm keen to guess."

"All right. Twenty questions."

"Let's see. My only clue is that there was a guy on the street that you don't like and that you thought I wouldn't like. So it must be someone I know. Or someone you think I know. Is it Dan? It's not Dan Edwards, is it? Because if Dan Edwards put you up to this –"

"No and no," she said. "Eighteen."

"That was only one question!"

"Eighteen."

"I don't know that many guys well enough to dislike them," I said. "Well, Eric . . ."

Her eyes danced again.

"Eric Sudduth?"

"Yes. Seventeen."

"So you came with Alison and Eric?"

"Yes. Sixteen."

"So you're a friend of Alison's?"

"No. Fifteen."

I gave her a puzzled look and she decided to throw me a bone.

"If I was a friend, don't you think she would have tried to set us up before now?"

That was true.

"All right. You're not a friend of Allison's. You're Alison's movie-star, swimsuit-model sister from California."

"Wow. You're good at this."

"Seriously, how many questions do I have left?"

"Seriously, the game's over."

"No, seriously, Alison doesn't have a movie-star, swimsuit-model sister from California."

"No, seriously." She was enjoying my discomfort way too much. "Well, okay. I've never done a movie. Just TV. And I've only done the one swimsuit shoot."

"And you're really Alison's sister?"

"Six years younger. I'm Angie. We were so far apart in age growing up that we were never really that close. Which is probably why you never heard of me. I decided to come out for a visit before pre-shooting starts."

"Pre-shooting?"

"I have a small part in a new series on HBO that starts this summer."

"Cool. Have you been in anything else?"

"You remember that episode of House where the one girl dies of Meuniere's Syndrome, and then they have to figure it out to save the other girl?"

"That was you?"

"I was the dead one. Is this almost ready? I'm about to die just from the smell here."

We had a wonderful dinner. I'm sure the food was good and the wine excellent. For my part, I would have been happy with a Bolognese sandwich and a bottle of ripple as long as I could have shared them with Angie Cole.

We adjourned to the living room with our coffee, and that's when she spied the DVD lying on the table. It turned out she had always wanted to see the movie. She loved Brad Pitt, who played Achilles. She loved Eric Bana, Hector. She didn't care much for Orlando Bloom, who played Paris, the lover of Helen of Troy. That was a plus in my book.

So we watched the movie. It was well done, although it did manage to collapse the ten-year Trojan War into about two weeks, most of which was taken up with mourning. As a result of my college study, I considered myself an insufferable expert on the War, so I did my best to supply Angie with all sorts of useless details that she lapped up like a kitten.

For example, I pointed out, Helen's husband Menelaus is killed early in the movie by Hector. He is still alive at the end of the Iliad, though. In fact, in Virgil's Aeneid, which relates the whole Trojan Horse business, Menelaus disfigures Paris' brother for having dared look upon the naked Helen. Then he returns home with the naughty Helen. 

The worst was the story of Patroclus. In the movie, he was the younger cousin to Achilles. In the book, he was more likely the older lover of Achilles. In the movie, he steals Achilles' armor to lead the Myrmidons into battle wearing Achilles' armor. In the book, Achilles lends him the armor because Achilles refuses to fight for King Agamemnon. In both, of course, Patroclus' death is what brings Achilles into the battle.

The movie came to an end more than three hours after it had started, and Angie was desperately in need of the ladies' room. I pointed the way back through my bedroom, and simply sat there a moment. I closed my eyes, finding the whole day just a little hard to believe. 

I opened them to find myself dressed in what looked suspiciously like a leather skirt, sitting on a rough wooden stool as I sharpened my sword on a whetstone.

"Handroclus!"

A young messenger raced through a crowd of men engaged in tasks similar to mine.

I smiled to myself. Handroclus? Wasn't he the guy who pulled the thorn from the lion's foot? I didn't remember him from the Iliad. No, wait. Maybe that was Androclus. But he wasn't in the book either. I didn't see him being a big help there, in fact.

A shadow fell over my blade. I found it hard to see the edge.

"You're in my light," I growled.

The shadow didn't move. I looked up to see the messenger waiting patiently for my attention.

"Handroclus," he said again.

Oh, Christ.

"Achilles sends word that he has approved your plan. He wants to speak ere you take the field tomorrow."

This was just great. What idiocy was I planning now?

In minutes I was face-to-face with Brad Pitt. A tanned, muscled Brad Pitt, decked out head-to-toe in coconut oil.




What Feats He Did That Day Pt. 03



"Handroclus, my old friend."

"Achilles," I murmured.

"The Trojans will make their final assault upon our ships on the morrow as you said. I will not fight for Agamemnon, but the Myrmidons to a man bid me release them to go into battle. And you are right. I cannot let my feud deprive them of their glory."

"No," I said. "Certainly not."

"So I will take your counsel, my dearest companion, and let you fight in my place."

"I . . . I'm no longer sure that's a really great idea," I said.

"Nonsense. You shall take my armor with you, my gleaming bronze, my breastplate blazoned with stars. And this, my sword, which has caused the death of many men. Use it well, dear love."

Dear love?

"In fact, let us test its edge. I will get my second. Now come at me, Handroclus. Test your mettle against Peleus' son."

He swung his sword at me and I met it with the one he had entrusted to me. The noise rang throughout the camp. The men gathered to watch. It was a much heavier sword than the one that Inigo had trained me to use, less useful for thrusting perhaps, but far better for slashing. After a few minutes, Achilles tossed me his shield. He picked up his own and attacked me as if he meant to take my head off its shoulders.

I met him with equal fierceness, knowing that there was nothing I could do to kill Achilles, who had been dipped in the River Styx by his mother, Thetis, and whose sole vulnerability was the ankle by which she had held him. But I proved his equal. His blows bounced off my shield without shattering it while mine staggered him just as much as his did me. 

"Enough!" he finally cried. Tossing his sword and shield aside, he strode toward me with an expression of surprised delight playing across his face.

"Who would have dreamed?" he asked. He raised his voice to address the crowd that had grown around us. "Who among us would have dreamed that Handroclus could stand against mighty Achilles and not give an inch? My friends! Myrmidons! Handroclus will lead the Achaeans tomorrow, and drive the Trojans from our ships. And once you have done so, brave Handroclus, return to me, and let the Trojans slink back to their city. You and I will celebrate! All Argive shall celebrate!"

The crowd roared. For my part, I thought that the more time I spent away from his tent the better. If I could drive the Trojans all the way back, so be it. What Achilles did next merely confirmed the wisdom of that decision.

Achilles put his hands on the sides of my head and pulled me toward him. I felt his lips against mine. Eww. I closed my eyes. I found myself squirming. I started to push myself away.

"Easy there, big guy. We've got all night."

I opened my eyes to see Angie sitting in my lap. She was wearing one of my flannel shirts, and it looked like damn little else.

"We have lots of time to kiss, don't you think? Especially now that I've woken you up with my 'kiss of life.'"

"I'm sorry. I can't believe I fell asleep."

"Hey, I don't blame you. You didn't even know you had a date six hours ago. Otherwise you would have spent three hours preparing yourself, right?"

"That's right," I said softly. "Six hours?"

I looked over at the clock. It was just past midnight. I had indeed fallen asleep. Well of course I had. Otherwise I wouldn't have dreamed. But it couldn't have been more than 15 minutes. We hadn't started watching the movie until just after eight-thirty.

"Just don't fall asleep while we're making love," she said just before she returned to her kissing. "That can really hurt a girl's feelings."

My heart began pounding against my ribcage. The chances of my falling asleep were nil.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Angie and I were still kissing as I rolled us quietly into my bedroom. It wasn't until we got there that she blinked open her eyes and looked around.

"You are smooth, aren't you?"

She climbed off my chair and began unbuttoning the flannel shirt she had borrowed. She took particular delight in watching me watch her, dragging out the exposure as if she were a burlesque queen. Finally, though, she had only one button left, and when she unfastened it, and the sides of my shirt fell apart, I saw the cleanly shaved skin between her legs. She slowly separated her feet, giving me a glimpse of the moist opening between her legs. Her hands drifted up to her lapels, and she teased me a little longer, showing me the inner slope of first one breast and then the other.

"If you wait any longer," she said in voice as sexy as any I had ever heard, "you're not going to be able to get your pants off, baby."

"We're long past that," I said. I tore off the long-sleeve T-shirt I was wearing, and pulled myself out of the chair with one hand on the rope. With the other I unfastened my belt and unzipped my pants. She was quite right. It took an extra effort to get my pants and shorts over my stiff cock. She seemed pleased when I was finished. Pleased enough, at any rate, to pull both sides of her shirt back at the same time, revealing two perfectly tanned breasts tipped with crinkled red nipples.

She slowly walked toward me, her hips and breasts moving in a rhythm that seemed to perfectly match my shallow breaths. I lowered myself to the bed, and she moved to sit astride my useless legs. I cringed as I watched her settle herself on her heels. But as my gaze moved up past her thighs, her belly, and her breasts, I saw the wild grin on her face. Her head moved lower, her long hair tickling my dick as her mouth came closer and closer.

I wasn't a virgin. I had had sex before the accident, and we – the girl I had been going with then – had tried it a few more times before she gave up on it. Before she gave up on me. The paralysis hadn't deprived me of feeling there, but since I couldn't move my legs, I knew it would take a different sort of woman to make it work for both of us. As I watched Angie open her mouth and extend her tongue toward me, I thought that perhaps I had found one.

She wrapped her hand around my dick, stroking it with her thumb. And then I felt her lips close around it. I had dreamed it last week, and last night. It was nothing like this. This was the wet silk of her tongue as it darted back and forth. It was the firm pressure of her lips as they slid up and down. And it was the sparkle in her eyes as she watched me, fully aware of the effect she was having and yet wanting me to know that she too was taking pleasure in the act.

And after she had fully taken my pleasure, after she had sucked it out and swallowed down with a loving lick of her lips, she climbed further atop me, holding her sex just above my mouth. She looked down at me through her heavy breasts and smiled her plea. I lifted my hands up and over her thighs, bringing the fingers down between them. My thumbs silently spread apart the lips of her sex and teased out her clit.

"Rick," she moaned. "Honey."

I twiddled my thumbs against her, a rapid up-and-down movement that had her moaning even more. I pulled her down, meeting her wetness with my lips, entering her with my tongue. I listened to her as I continued. Her breath told me where to press, where to flick, where to caress.

"Oh, God, baby. Rick, baby, take me." 

I reached upward and encircled her breasts with my fingers. She put her hands atop mine, encouraging me to squeeze harder, to pinch her nipples. I could feel the muscles of her thigh twitching against my cheeks. Her body began trembling.

And I stopped. She looked down at me and I looked up at her. It was time. She slid her ass backward, a trail of her oils on my chest and stomach. Her breasts hung low, almost within reach of my lips, and her pussy met my cock and sucked it inside without any further touch.

"Rick," she whispered.

"Angie," I groaned. 

I was an iron sword. She was a silk sheath. It was electric.

I reached for her hips. It was an instinct that had worked last night in my dream. I had brought Lara atop me, transfixed by those naked breasts. And to keep her there, I had used the strength of my arms to give Lara a ride that left her crying in climax. 

In real life, this was the only position open to me. I began to move Angie up and down on my cock, slowly at first and then with increasing fever. Her fingernails dug into my arms as her helplessness grew. I was an animal, doing with my arms what most men did with the muscles of their legs. 

Her mouth froze in a long, drawn-out vowel, an "uh" of surprise, the sound itself a vibrato that danced in rhythm with frenzied impalement. But she wasn't completely helpless. As her body began to tremble again, as the muscles in her thighs vibrated against me once more, she tightened herself.

"Angie." It was a whisper of hope, hope that I could take her where I knew that she would soon be taking me.

"Yes, Rick, yes. I want you . . . Come with me."

I thrust her down upon me one final time and held her there. The spasms that overtook her claimed me as well. We fulfilled her request. We came together.

We made love again late that morning at the same time that Melissa Wickers, the best fact-checker at the Messenger, was leaving a message on my machine. She told me that the article was fully vetted and that she couldn't wait to see it printed.

"Way to go, Hando!" she said before ringing off.

"Way to go, Hando," Angie echoed. In a fit of narcissism I had played the message while I prepared us something to eat. "Allie said you wrote obituaries."

"I'm branching out," I told her. "Learning new things."

"I have to go after we eat, Rick." I saw a bittersweet smile play over her face. "I have to pack my stuff at Allie's and then there's all that security at the airport.

"You're probably thinking of LAX," I told her. "Security at Charleston takes about a half hour. But you're right. You can't miss your plane. Will I see you again?" 

"You could come to California . . ."

I nodded toward the machine. "Too much to do. Too much to learn."

I knew better than to ask her to commit to a life in West Virginia. We didn't do much filming here. Not that many swimsuit modeling gigs, either.

"You'll probably meet Brad Pitt next week, anyway. Forget all about me."

"Right," she said with a harsh laugh. "Eat quickly, Hando. We have just enough time left for a quickie."

"A quickie?" I asked. "For our last time?"

"Fine," Angie said. "No quickies, then. We'll skip lunch."

**********

For some reason I found myself starving at dinner time, but without any interest at all in cooking. Instead, I ordered a pizza. I opened a bottle of wine, and relaxed as I thought what a lucky man that Brad Pitt fellow would be if he only opened his eyes.

I fell asleep. And my dream turned into my nightmare.

**********

"The men are ready, Handroclus."

I looked up to see the messenger again. I was lying in my tent, fortunately by myself. I was thankful that Wizen hadn't used the "save" command last night. I wouldn't have wanted to have picked up with Brad where we left off.

"The armor of Peleus' son waits without."

Peleus' son waited too. He helped me into his armor, and once again gave me his sword and shield.

I passed on the kiss he offered. I told him I'd be back afterward.

We watched the Trojans ride out from the gates of Troy, thousands of warriors intent on the destruction of the Achaean ships and the decimation of our stranded army. We waited until they had engaged our vanguard.

"A little longer, men," I said. "Just a little longer."

"They slaughter our allies," a man behind me said with growing impatience.

"And now we slaughter them," I said with a savage grin. "To the walls!"

I led the roaring Myrmidons into their midst, and the battle was joined. The man at my side fell, a victim of a perfectly thrown spear. I threw my own at his attacker, piercing him through the gut and dropping him to the ground. I yanked another spear out of a Trojan before me and continued my charge.

We drove them backward toward the impenetrable walls of the fortified city. They conducted an admirable retreat, meeting each feint we made toward their flanks. They would not allow us between themselves and the gates. Even if we beat them this time, the Trojan War would continue.

Their inevitable counterattack was fierce. It was our turn to retreat. In the midst of their army I could see Hector, the son of King Priam. He was also the brother of Paris, the cause of this damnable war. Ajax felled him with a stone and I took hope. But he soon regained his feet. He was the darling, as I remembered it, of the gods. I rallied the Myrmidons yet again, and one more time we drove our foes to the very base of their walls. My sword struck death everywhere it touched. I finally stood alone, encircled by men who dared not close with me.

Hector was nowhere in sight. He had retreated, it seemed, into the shelter of Troy. But he emerged again, of course. And I swallowed hard as it became apparent that the battle would devolve to single combat. In the movie, and the Iliad as well, Hector had claimed the life of Patroclus. The life of the man whose place I know took. As I faced Hector – as the Greek and Trojan armies ceased their fighting to surround us and watch – I could see my doom writ on his brow. I had died before, though. I saluted him. 

I recalled that Patroclus had blamed the gods for his defeat. I vowed not to suffer a similar fate. Live or die, it was to be my effort, my valor, my skill that determined the outcome. I met Hector in the center of the circle made by our respective armies, and our swords screamed as they met.

After what seemed an eternity of thrust and parry, a terrible blow knocked my shield aside, and with the same slowing of vision that I had experienced when I had been killed by Inigo, I saw Hector's sword come toward me. 

After my lessons, however, I was nowhere near as helpless as I had been. My sword knocked his aside, and as I brought it back in front of me I thrust it toward him. I watched it penetrate his armor just above his waist. I stared in shock as he looked down and realized that the wound was fatal. 

"No!"

Twin screams split the air. I looked up and saw two women atop the walls staring down at me in horror. One was obviously Andromache, the wife of the man I had just slain. The other was probably his sister, Cassandra. As I stared back, her eyes rolled up into her head and her titian tresses vanished behind the wall.

In front of me, Hector dropped to the ground. The Trojan army broke and began to stream toward the wall in headlong panic.

"After them!" I screamed. As the Myrmidons' trance broke and they began pursuit, I became conscious that I had changed the Trojan War. There would be no battle between Achilles and Hector. There would be no Trojan horse. We were inside the walls before the Trojans could react. The sack of Troy would begin now.

My bloodlust was spent with Hector's death, and I entered Troy quietly behind my men. I was an observer and what I observed was more chilling than war itself. Blood ran in rivers down the streets as the Achaeans – my Achaeans – hunted down the Trojans who had kept them from their homes and beds for ten long years. Trojans were not just killed; they were slaughtered, their screams filling the night.

The city burned. Its people panicked. I saw Locrian Ajax drag Cassandra by her hair from a statue of the goddess Athena. She cried out as he savagely tore at her clothing. I could watch no longer; I put out a hand to stop him. It went right through. It was as if I had become a ghost, able to watch the rape of Troy but not to stop it. Cassandra's cries turned to screams as Ajax forced himself into her.

"Mr. Wizard!" I found myself screaming. "Get me the hell out of here!"

My impotence was complete. I wandered the streets of Troy, my cry for relief unanswered. Instead, I was forced to watch the death of noble Priam, whose only sin was loving his son Paris, spitted on the altar of Zeus by Neoptolemus, son of Achilles. I saw Andromache fall prisoner to that same cruel man. 

But the worst was yet to come. Back on the street, I heard an infant cry and looked up. On top of the Priam's palace one of Agamemnon's sycophants held a boy above his head.

"No," I whispered. Tears welled in my eyes. It was Hector's son.

"No, you bastard!" 

I screamed in vain. As I watched, and as I cried, he dashed the child to his death on the streets below.

I blinked my eyes in the sudden darkness. As the lights slowly came on I saw Wizen at the foot of my bed.

"What did I learn, you fucking son of a bitch?" I shrieked at him before he could even open his mouth. "You tell me what I learned, you sick bastard! You tell me what the point of that was!"

Tears were streaming down my face as I raved. He let me cry myself out before answering.

"You learned the cost of war," he said quietly. "The cost of losing."

He waved his hand and I awoke in my own bed, my body drenched with sweat, my heart pounding. 



What Feats He Did That Day Pt. 04



CHAPTER NINE

I wasn't the first person to arrive at the paper on Monday. I had wheeled myself halfway to the statehouse when I remembered that I was planning on missing Krissy's show that morning. A guy from the Parkersburg Press had promised to tape it for me so that I wouldn't miss anything good. But I figured the story was just a little more important. Besides, I planned to be talking to Krissy later in the day.

So when I arrived at the Messenger, the lights were already on. Arriving at my cubicle, I booted up the computer to catch up on the world. The most recent e-mail was from Allie. The subject was "FWD: Rick Does BOFFO 'Box.'" I clicked on it and started blushing almost immediately.

Date: Sunday, May 24, 2008 22:03:45

To: Alison(ADColes.wvmessenger)

From: Angie(Act2B^~2B.ggmail)

I can't believe that you wanted me to tell you about last night while your BF was in the car. Like it's any of his frickin' business! So anyway, as promised, here's my review:

omg

OMFG!!!

What a studmuffin. I can't believe he's just your "friend." You are such a weirdo, big sister. Plus that line about him not dating is SUCH a crock. He must have girls in there every weekend. Otherwise there's no fucking way he'd be that good with his hands. And his arms. God, I've never met anyone who could do that. If filming didn't start this week I would have stayed there and let him fuck my brains out 'til I was dragged away! 

Thanks again for letting me visit. I had a "ball." Particularly at the end, LOL! Kiss kiss.

Ang

p.s. if you don't mind forwarding this pic to him (from my "private portfolio," LOL), maybe he won't forget me. 

I scrolled down and found a picture of Angie in a bikini made out of three pieces of fabric that if sewn together would not have made a decent-sized cocktail napkin. Her skin was covered with beads of moisture, her face wreathed in a smile that said "sex."

"Christ," I groaned.

I heard giggling from the cubicle next to mine.

"So'd ya get any this weekend?" Allie asked.

"Maybe," I said with a smile.

"What do you think of your review?"

"I think maybe you better learn how to forward an e-mail to one recipient rather than everyone on the intranet."

"Shit."

I smiled. She pounded her fist on her desk.

"Fuck. Rick, I'm so sorry."

"You might want to apologize to Angie," I said. "It's not necessarily a bad thing for me."

That became apparent a few minutes later when Dan arrived.

"Hando. Allie."

He grunted greetings to us as he passed. Allie and I listened to him turn on his computer.

"Hando!" he said after a few minutes.

"Dude!" he soon added, his voice taking on a slightly awed tone.

"Christ," he groaned a little later.

"Hey, pal," I said. "Keep your eyes to yourself."

"Christ," he repeated.

Rachel was the next person in and Allie made a beeline for her office. A few minutes later another e-mail popped up.

Alison Coles has apologized to me, and asked me to extend an apology to all of you, for the e-mail that she erroneously sent this morning to everyone on the staff. Her transmission is obviously the result of a lack of training on the new e-mail system and for that I take total responsibility. I will arrange additional training shortly. Meanwhile, please take into account the following instructions:

1.     Anyone found downloading this picture to your hard drive or diskette will be discharged.

2.     Anyone found forwarding Allie's e-mail to anyone outside the intranet will be discharged.

3.     Anyone failing to tease Rick mercilessly will be shunned for a week. OMG!

Rachel ☺☺☺ 

Pretty much everyone had followed the third instruction by ten o'clock. I could only hope, for Angie's sake, that they were as scrupulous in obeying the first two.

Even Bill McIntyre wore a grin when he gathered Rachel and I for a trip to the office of Gus Barton, the paper's editor-in-chief. I had only seen Mr. Barton at full staff meetings before now. He had always seemed serious and business-like. But he, too, couldn't keep a smile off his face.

"Mr. Handley," he said as he held out his hand. "I've heard a lot about you. Today in particular."

Rachel and Bill chuckled nervously.

"Yes, sir. We're talking about the story, sir?"

"The story. Sure. Let's get to that."

He had a few suggestions of his own, some of which I accepted and some of which I hesitantly challenged.

"Young man," he said, holding up his hand, "the paper may have my name on it, but this story will have yours. You have to be sure of everything that appears in it. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," I said. "In that case, I really didn't care for your suggestion on the second graph either."

We discussed it, though, and he convinced me that he was right. I could get used to this, I thought. This was real newspaper work.

After an hour we broke up, but at 3:30 we were gathered around his speaker phone. My first call was to Krissy Mackley.

"Hi, Rick," she said. "We missed you this morning."

"I missed you guys too," I lied. "Krissy, I wanted to give you a chance to comment on an article that's going to tomorrow's paper. You can probably tell that you're on speakerphone. I'm here with my editor, Rachel Langhorn."

And her editor and his editor as well. 

"Hello, Miss Mackley," Rachel said.

"Hello," Krissy said. "So this is something serious?"

"You might say so," I answered. When I was finished explaining the story, the line was silent.

"Krissy?" I asked.

"Yes?" Her voice was trembling.

"Comment?"

"You guys can't print that!" she shrieked.

"No?" I asked. "What did I get wrong?"

"Umm, can I call you back?"

"We have two hours until we set it." Rachel was an even better liar than I was. We updated the paper as late as midnight. But that was for our purposes, not those of the Governor's office.

"Okay," Krissy squeaked.

She hung up and I put in a call to the Washington, D.C. lobbying firm of Talley & Associates. I expected Tricia Linney to be much more practiced than Krissy, no doubt because she was much better paid. I introduced myself and asked my first question.

"My first question, ma'am, is whether you traveled to Texas last May on an Amalgamated Coal Company airplane last May with West Virginia Governor Ed Platte?"

"What? No."

"You did not."

"Of course not."

I looked up at Rachel with a grin. The woman's denials were much too quick and too loud.

"I have a witness who puts you at the airport getting on the plane, ma'am."

"You're not seriously thinking of printing this shit in your paper, are you?"

"We are working on a story about the governor's dove-hunting trips, ma'am."

"Does your publisher know you're working on this?" she asked.

"My publisher, ma'am?" We all turned to Gus, who crossed his arms in front of his chest as he stared at the phone.

"Yes, Charlie Carson. Perhaps you should check with him, Mr. . . . I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

"Rick Handley, ma'am. Thank you for your advice. In the meantime, can you confirm that you went on the trip with Governor Platt last year?"

She hung up. Although we did hear an angry "fuck" just before the dial tone. So much for practice.

"Her next call's going to be to Mr. Carson," Rachel said to Bill and Gus.

"Good," Gus said. "Charlie loves getting calls like that. Lets him know we're earning all the money he's paying us."

"Should I put in that she denied it?" I asked.

He shook his head.

"Put in that when informed of the statement putting her on the plane, she refused to confirm or deny the allegation."

Krissy called back just before the deadline to tell us that she had been unable to get in touch with the Governor or her boss, his press secretary, on their vacation. She asked me were "sure" that we had to run the story tonight. I said I was afraid that we pretty much were. She sighed.

"In that case, you can say that the Governor's office denies the entire story."

"The whole story?" I asked. "Even the part that says that you guys have been foisting this duck-hunting story on us for the past five years when you knew full well he was in Texas?"

"I'm sorry," Krissy said. "You're going to have to wait until Joe gets back."

"Yeah, maybe not," Gus said after the call was over. "Page one, Bill. Upper right."

"Way ahead of you, boss," Bill said.

**********

I was a little late getting to the statehouse on Tuesday morning. I had become so used to nights filled with adventure and romance that when I awoke on Tuesday after a full, dreamless night of sleep, I was a little put out. 

As I should have guessed, the press office was packed. I was happy to see the desks filled with copies of the Messenger. One of my colleagues spotted me wheeling myself in, and the crowd parted as if I were actually somebody important. I found an aisle leading all the way up to the front of the room, right in front of Krissy's podium.

Krissy had no intention of addressing me. In fact, she refused to even look at me.

She announced that Pete Simpson would be cutting his vacation short and returning this afternoon to address the outrageous and unfounded allegations that had appeared in this morning's Messenger. We shouted questions at her without effect; she just turned and walked back to her office.

Pete Simpson's press conference began at three o'clock. Pete was an angry man. I once again secured a spot in the front row, and caught the full Simpson glare.

"I'd very much like to thank the Messenger for interrupting my vacation," he said with a sneer. "You must be Rick Handley."

I smiled at him.

"Quite a step up from the obituary department, isn't it? It's probably a good thing that the dead can't complain if your other work contains similarly unfounded and unsupported allegations.

"First of all, with respect to the duck-hunting versus dove-hunting issue -- if that's what it really is -- I apologize for any typographical errors this office may have made in the past. If anyone of you was misled into reporting that Governor Platt was duck-hunting in years past, I am truly, truly sorry.

"As for the rest of the article, however, I believe that it is the Messenger that owes the apology. Governor Platte has taken this same vacation every year, and there has never been any question regarding his scrupulous reimbursement of Amalgamated Coal Company for the use of their plane. With respect to Ms. Linney, I did speak to the Governor this morning. He does recall meeting her on the plane last year. Apparently she is employed by Amalgamated as a lobbyist. She was on the plane last year on her way to visit a friend in Texas. I will now take questions. Bob?"

"Do you have any paperwork about the Governor's reimbursements?" a reporter standing next to me asked.

"We will get that to you when the Governor returns," Simpson answered. "I have no intention of asking his wife to dig through the family checking account records to rebut a story that belongs on the back pages of a tabloid. Phil?"

I made a note to remind me to expect that information. The article had stated, quite factually, that neither the Governor's office nor his campaign reimbursed Amalgamated over the last two years. We had not addressed his use of personal funds. On the other hand, we had also not printed the fact that all of the other vacations taken by the Governor during the past two years had been paid for by either of those two sources. This was shaping up as a nice follow-up article.

"The Messenger's article today stated that Ms. Linney initially denied being on the plane. Any idea why?"

"I am in no position to speculate on Ms. Linney's answers. Tricia."

"I called her firm today and was told she was taking a leave of absence. Do you have any information about that?"

"None at all. She is not employed in any capacity by the State of West Virginia."

Simpson worked his way around the pressroom, pointedly ignoring the hand that I kept raised in front of his face. Finally, though, there was no one else left. 

"Mr. Handley."

"This trip is a sort of male-bonding experience?"

"Exactly."

"So to your knowledge was Ms. Linney the only woman on the plane last year?"

"I have no knowledge of the passengers on Amalgamated's plane last year, Mr. Handley, nor frankly do I believe that it is any business of yours or mine."

"But you were on the plane this year."

"Yes."

"Did any women accompany you this year?"

With the advantage of a seat at the very front of the room, I might have been the only reporter who saw the minuscule narrowing of his eyes and heard his breath catch in his throat. His hesitation in answering was otherwise imperceptible.

"I believe there may have been a flight attendant," he said.

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," Krissy called from the back of the room.

Simpson stalked off to the rear. He had no intention of letting me ask the follow-up question: "Any others?"

I returned to the newspaper to start writing Thursday's story, a relatively bland summary of the extent to which Amalgamated Coal had participated in the Governor's last re-election campaign. Campaign finance reminded most people of math, and math put most people straight to sleep. Bowling articles typically had more readers than campaign finance articles. 

But Rachel had a couple of reasons for keeping the general story alive. First, she wanted to make sure that my source -- whose name she had never asked me for -- believed that we were serious in covering her allegations. Second, she wanted to make sure that anybody else with information had the name of a reporter at the paper. And third, although she never explicitly told me so, she wanted to make sure that that name was mine. It wasn't that she disliked Shawn, although she couldn't have been unaware of Shawn's resentment. But Bill McIntyre was full of praise for my work, and Rachel was as much the beneficiary of that as I was.

She made that quite clear to me on Friday afternoon. I didn't have a byline in Friday's paper and nothing specifically assigned for Monday either. The Governor had returned on Friday morning, however -- our stringer had reported that he had disembarked alone -- and Pete Simpson was scheduled to release the reimbursement records. So it was possible that I would be cobbling something together over the weekend. There was a chance I'd messed up big time. But I still smelled a rat. 

Rachel wanted to make sure I smelled both my predators and my prey.

"You do remember that Shawn will be back on Monday," she said in a sort of purposefully off-handed way.

I raised an eyebrow. She hadn't summoned me to a private meeting in her office just to remind me of that.

"I just wanted you to know that I meant it when I said that you get to keep any story that you developed."

I laughed.

"You honestly didn't think there would be one though, did you?"

"Well, no. And it's solely to your credit that there is, Rick. But Shawn is very . . ."

"Competitive? Cutthroat? Bitchy?"

Rachel suppressed a smile.

"Let's go with competitive," she said. "She'll be pissed. Pissed that this story came up while she was gone."

"Well, I wouldn't say it just came up," I protested.

"No. You worked it. I didn't mean to suggest otherwise. But she won't see it that way. She'll be pissed that she missed it. She'll be pissed that I won't change my mind. You just need to know that she's going to be pissed at you too."

"Oh, boy," I said flatly.

"Don't worry, Rick. You've got a future ahead of you at this paper."

"Provided I didn't fuck up. Suppose he did reimburse Amalgamated out of his personal checking?"

"Do you think he did?"

"No All of his other vacations have been paid for from the Governor's vacation fund or his campaign fund. I think it's highly unlikely."

"That's good enough for me," Rachel said. "You'd better get going. You want me to call a cab?"

"Nah. It's a nice day for a wheel."

Later that afternoon, I wheeled back home with copies of the checks that Pete Simpson had passed out. I spent the evening studying them, trying to put my finger on what I knew had to be wrong. Pete Simpson had distributed them with a knowing smirk on his face. He had held me with his gaze nearly the entire time. 

Five hours later, though, I had gotten nowhere. I couldn't let him beat me, the son of a bitch. I had to find it. I closed my eyes for a minute.

I woke in Wizen's room.

"Here you are." He was smiling at me as the lights came up.

"No more training?" I asked. "No movies? No video games?"

"You have had enough training," he said. "Augmented by my machines, of course. And there is no time."

"Why?"

"The Morling fleet has been sighted on the edge of the solar system. They will be here in a matter of weeks. And the chosen champion must still undergo further training that I cannot provide."

"Why not?"

"We only have the one weapon and it is in possession of the Council. If you are chosen, you will be trained. First, though, I must bring you before the Council. They have already reviewed holotapes of your training that I made through your mind. I have been told that you are one of the strongest candidates, Richard. There is another man from your era, a Green Beret during the war in Vietnam. A superb athlete, I'm told."

"Figures," I muttered.

"I beg your pardon?" Wizen asked.

"Even in my dreams I can't be the hero."

"Richard, this is not one of your dreams."

"No, you selected me out of all the people in the past to save the world. That makes a lot of sense. Excellent plan, Mr. Wizard."

"If it was not an excellent plan," Wizen said, allowing himself a small smile of pride, "it is not likely that you would be one of the top candidates, is it, Richard? Shall we go?"

"Sure. What the heck."

I pushed myself off the bed. There was a split-second during which I was conscious that I should have felt my feet hit the floor. But I had no feeling in my feet. As my legs collapsed beneath me, what I felt hitting the floor was my ass. And then my head slammed into the wall behind me. I slowly raised my head and caught sight of Wizen staring down at me with a look of horror on his face. He looked as if he were about to collapse as well.

CHAPTER TEN

I had apparently blacked out. I was still in Wizen's room. He was absent, but across the room, facing away from me, was someone else. From the long blonde hair pulled back and twisted into a plait, I guessed it was a woman. Her silver-grey robe was similar to the one Wizen always wore. 

I cleared my throat and she turned to face me. She was pretty, perhaps my age or even younger. But the expression on her face was one of sadness. Her mouth was so tight and her eyes so dull that I couldn't think of her as attractive.

"Are you hurt?" she asked. She had a lovely alto voice at least.

"From the fall?" I asked. "Just my pride. Who are you?"

"My name is Francesca," she said. "I am Wizen's daughter."

"Is he okay? The last thing I remember is him looking a little faint."

She sighed. 

"He was badly shaken."

"Because he had no idea he had picked a cripple," I said.

The look she gave me might have been one of sympathy on a more expressive woman.

"My father can be a very difficult man," she said. "The idea that one of his plans did not work perfectly, um, unsettles him."

"I'll bet. You'll forgive me if I don't feel sorry for him. So what's he doing? Drowning his sorrows before he sends me home one last time?"

That earned me the tiniest of smiles. Perhaps she could be attractive under other circumstances.

"I asked a neighbor to accompany him to Council. Otherwise, he might well be doing as you suggest."




What Feats He Did That Day Pt. 04



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

She shrugged.

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

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

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

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

"Thanks, but maybe you noticed the legs."

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

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

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

That got an even bigger smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Francesca was gazing at me with infinite patience.

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

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

"You have no paraplegics?" I asked.

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

I felt my heart pounding.

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

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

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

Her smile was genuine this time.

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

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

She shook her head. 

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

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

She shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What happened?" she asked.

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

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

"Exactly!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

That pissed me off a little.

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

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

I started to laugh.

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

He traded glances with his daughter.

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

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

They traded glances again.

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

Wizen smiled.

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

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

He nodded.

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

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

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

**********

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

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

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

It stopped a few inches shy of the ceiling. 

"Now bring it back."

Wizen and his friend laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hammer of Death!" Andy bellowed.

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

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

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

"I need a movie about whipping."

"Whipping?"

"Yeah. Fighting with whips."

His eyes glazed over as he stared into space.

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

"Any others?" I said, interrupting him.

He gave me a very skeptical look.

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

"Well, that is appealing," I admitted.

"What are you looking for?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

I gave him a puzzled look.

"The Trojan War?"

"I won it. Can I finish?"

"Sorry, dude."

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

"Which is what?"

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

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

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

"Kate Capshaw," we said in reverent unison.

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

"Seriously? Who was he?"

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

I waited patiently for the revelation.

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER ELEVEN

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

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

"G'morning, Shawn," I said.

The high heels stopped clicking.

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

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

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

"Tell me," she ordered.

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

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

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

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

My suspicions returned instantly.

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you okay, Hando? Rick?"

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

"What's wrong?"

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

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

I wheeled around and picked up the phone.

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

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

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

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

"So?"

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

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

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

"Fuckin A!" I yelled again.

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

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

"What's going on?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She thought for a moment longer.

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

"Wonderful," Rachel said.

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

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

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

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

"Fuckin' A!" Pete Simpson said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a long pause.

"Why do you need that?" he asked.

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

There was another pause before he answered.

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




What Feats He Did That Day Pt. 04



"Fifteen minutes, Pete," Shawn chimed in. "Otherwise we call their PR guy. He won't know anything about it, and the story might not be what you want."

"Yeah, yeah. Thanks a lot, Shawn."

He rang off and we all turned to Shawn.

"We'd end up with some low-level guy who won't be able to contact anyone at this hour," she explained. "And we'd end up with some half-assed denial."

"What'll we get now?" I asked.

"You'll see," Shawn said with another flash of her perfect teeth. "If that's all we get, the story will be about their failure to establish reimbursement. He wants it to focus on the allegation that Amalgamated forged the checks."

"Good luck to him," Bill said. "All that means is that the story will be twice as big now."

Gus stopped by a little later and was in the office when we were told that the president of Amalgamated was on the line asking for me.

"This is Rick Handley," I said. "Mr. Tucker, you're on speakerphone. I have with me Shawn Michaels, who covers the statehouse, along with Rachel Langhorn, Bill McIntyre, and Gus Barton, who are editors here at the paper."

"Hello, Gus," Tucker said.

"Hello, Tim," Gus answered him with a smile. "Tough day?"

"I just got back in myself today. And then this. Pete Simpson called here last week in a panic looking for some checks, and some little hothead in accounting flipped out and got our ad people to phony up those checks. Heads have already rolled, I can tell you that."

"Rick Handley again, sir. Can you give us names?"

"Sorry, son. I can't. Our lawyers say it's still a personnel matter. Can't help you there."

"But it's your story that these forgeries are the work of a lower-level employee who has since been fired?"

"That's not my story, young man. Those are the facts."

"Yes, sir. One final question, if I may?'

"What?"

"To your knowledge, has Amalgamated ever been reimbursed for the governor's dove-hunting trips to Texas on your plane?"

"I can't imagine that we haven't," he said. "We obey all the laws of West Virginia."

"But you don't have any personal knowledge of the reimbursements." I stated it as another fact.

"I do not."

"Thank you for calling, sir." 

I hung up the phone.

"Sounds fishy to me," Rachel said.

"It's better this way," Gus said with a sly smile.

"How's that?" I asked.

"If we had a name, we'd have to try to find him. Anybody here think we'd be successful? Me, neither. This way we can go with Rick's low-level employee. Nobody's going to buy that. Nice work, people. Banner headline, Bill."

"Yes, sir."

We finished at around eleven that night, which meant that I had no time to do any research on who might have taught Harrison Ford how to use a whip. So I had yet another lesson on the flying chair. This time Wizen had set up an obstacle course. It was fun, sure. But I was no closer to being a real understudy for this Green Beret.

**********

Shawn and I met at the Java Cava on Tuesday morning. On my way, I passed several of the newspaper boxes that sold the Messenger for thirty-five cents. I felt a thrill of pride each time I saw the headline stretched across the entire page: "Amalgamated Admits Forging Cancelled Checks; Governor's Vacation Reimbursements Still Unproven."

We walked into the pressroom together. This time we were accorded mock bows that in the world of journalism communicated both admiration and jealousy. There was no resentment, oddly enough, even though the other state papers had unanimously pronounced the vacation issue over.

An intense, almost vibrating stillness fell over the room as Pete Simpson made his entrance. He read a short statement apologizing for his role in disseminating forged information to the press. He expressed his shock at learning that some lower-level employee at Amalgamated had forged the cancelled checks. He expressed his disappointment that someone at the bank had revealed details of the governor's personal checking account to a reporter. He asked if there were any questions.

"Yes, Mr. Carter?" he asked.

That was Spike Carter of the Beckley Beacon.

"Pete, are you actually suggesting that it would have been better for the Messenger not to have learned that the checks were forgeries? By which I mean better for the state of West Virginia, not the governor."

"You're a funny man, Spike. It will simply take more time to track down the actual reimbursements. Perhaps if Mr. Handley had asked his source at the bank to locate those checks we would not be in the position of having to address distractions and non-issues like these."

He glared at me.

"Of course, I believe that the bank may have violated privacy laws in providing even the limited information that it did. I suggest, Mr. Handley, that you might wish to involve your company's lawyers at this point."

The tension of the moment was broken by a guffaw from the back of the room. After that, the entire press corps exploded into laughter.

"I'm quite serious," Pete Simpson said.

The reporters roared again. 

Charlie Becker of the Morgantown Observer was the dean of our group. He was the first to speak after the laughter died down.

"Pete," he said, his voice suddenly turning hard and sharp, "you try to pull shit like that and we will hound you to the day you die."

The room was now completely silent. Pete Simpson stared at us. We stared at him. He finally cleared his throat and changed the subject.

**********

Shawn had a story she wanted to track down, so I was alone when I wheeled myself back to the Messenger after the press conference was over. I covered the ground quickly. It was Tuesday and I was looking forward to lunch with Allie.

As we made our way to the cafeteria, though, I sensed that the eagerness was one-sided. Alison seemed distracted. As we got our food and claimed a free table, I learned why.

"I have something I need to tell you," she blurted out after toying with her food for a few minutes. "Eric asked me to marry him."

It seemed to me that I couldn't have waited more than half a second before I answered her.

"That's great, Allie."

"I said yes."

"That's great too. I'm really happy for you."

"Really?"

"Sure. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know. I kind of always thought you had a sort of thing for me."

"You've been going out with Eric ever since I started here," I pointed out.

"That's a non-denial denial, isn't it?" she asked.

"Well, okay. Yes," I said with a shrug of my shoulders. "I like you, Allie. In other circumstances, sure. I might have asked you out. But I'm glad you're my best friend."

"You're mine too, Rick. That's why I wanted you to be the first to know."

She took a bite of her food.

"I would have said yes, you know."

"To what?" I asked.

"To you," she said. "Asking me out. In those other circumstances."

"Thanks, Al."

She smiled and dropped her eyes. 

"So how's Angie?" I asked.

She raised her eyes again, grateful for the change of subject. "She's fine. Having fun. Dating a new guy. Says he doesn't meet her new expectations, but she's making do."

"Her new expectations?"

"After you, Hando."

I was conscious of myself turning as red as a beet. I dropped my own eyes.

We picked a completely different topic after that and the Rick and Allie show returned to its regular course. Even so, I found it impossible later in the afternoon to devote my full attention to the obituaries I was writing. I had let myself care for Alison Cole more than I should have. I hoped it wasn't too obvious. How pitiful would that be?

The ringing telephone was a welcome distraction.

"Rick Handley," I answered.

"Dude!"

"Andy?" 

"I tracked down that name for you, bud. Lash LaRue."

"Who La Who?" 

I grabbed for a pencil and a pad of paper.

"The guy that taught Harrison Ford. Lash LaRue."

"His real name was Lash LaRue? Sounds like a stripper name to me."

"Naw, his real name was Alfred or Albert. Something like that."

"I don't suppose he made any movies?" I asked.

Andy laughed.

"He made a whole shitload of 'em. Good luck finding 'em, though. Not the kind of thing that made it to DVD."

"Lash LaRue," I said. "Thanks, pal. I owe you one." 

"No prob," Andy said. "Sweet dreams, Hammer."

"Thanks, Andy." 

Andy was still laughing at his own witticism as I hung up.

The promise of tracking down Lash LaRue kept my mind off Alison's engagement for the rest of the afternoon. That evening, I managed to locate an eight-minute excerpt on YouTube of him fighting a whip duel. The movie itself, though, King of the Bullwhip, proved impossible to find. It was an hour-long film from the 1950s that was probably part of a double-feature. I tried calling a couple of West Coast companies that stocked obscure films. The ones who had actually heard of the movie just laughed at me.

And apparently the excerpt was not going to be enough. That evening I found myself not with Lash LaRue, fighting the almost equally skilled El Azote, but with Wizen. He was excited about the existence of the movie, but agreed that the film clip didn't provide me with a frame of reference that he could then use to further my training. He stressed the importance of finding the movie.

In the meantime, he announced, I should meet the appointed challenger, the Green Beret that I might be called on to replace. In addition, he wanted me to get my first look at the light whip.

CHAPTER TWELVE

"A light whip, huh?" I asked as Wizen and I made our way down a series of sterile corridors. "Is that because it has a third less calories than a regular whip?"

He gave me a puzzled look.

"Sorry," I said. "It would have been funny in my time."

We continued on, Wizen walking and me flying beside him in the chair. The corridors were nearly empty. I had had a similar experience when Wizen had brought me to the gymnasium where I had practiced with the chair, but that was just a short distance from the apartment in which Wizen and Francesca lived. 

This trip took nearly twenty minutes, but I still saw no more than twenty people. I had always thought that the future would be crowded. Why were my dreams so inconsistent? I had enough room to occasionally throw in somersault or a twist just to keep in practice. 

And the people we did see sort of freaked me out. They stared straight ahead, without emotion or even interest. It wasn't until we turned into a small room that anyone actually met our eyes. Two men in robes stood with the Green Beret, who was easy to pick out standing ramrod straight in his camouflage uniform. I extended my hand to him first.

"Ken Post," he said. "Green Beret. 1965. Nice to meet you, sir."

"You, too." I said. I realized that he was actually younger than I was, probably no more than twenty in actual calendar years. "Rick Handley. 2008. Journalist."

"It feels odd having a journalist watching my back," he said with a smile.

"No odder than it is for me to be backing up a Green Beret," I answered.

One of the others cleared his throat and Wizen introduced me. The older of the two was a member of the Council, a man named Karsk. The other, Slisken, was Ken's sponsor. I introduced Ken to Wizen. 

Karsk was a humorless politician who waited impatiently until the pleasantries were over and then gestured us into an adjoining room. He moved to a console and depressed a series of keys that opened up another room. He introduced the man standing in there as Antin, curator of the Morling artifacts.

"Antin, the floor is yours." 

Karsk stepped back, his political duties evidently over.

Antin pulled a drawer from the wall and extracted a ten-inch metal cylinder. He showed us that it was open at one end and closed at the other. There was a ridged wheel in the middle of the cylinder.

"Gentleman," Antin said, "this is the weapon with which one of you will face the Morling in three weeks. When they left last time, the Morlings left two of these behind. We tried to analyze one. It exploded when we tried to open it."

I traded looks with Ken as Antin continued.

"So this is the only one left. I have been instructed to make it available to you beginning next week for your training. My understanding is that Mr. Post will be using it five days a week and that it will be available to Mr. Handley for the other two." 

"I probably ought to learn how to use a regular whip first, huh?" I muttered to Ken out of the corner of my mouth. 

I heard a snort. We both gave Antin our full attention as he began to demonstrate how the thing worked.

Antin thumbed the wheel on the cylinder and a bead of light, resembling nothing more than a glowing marble, appeared at one end. A second later there was another beneath it, and then a third. The wand was a fountain of light. When the fourth appeared, the light started to droop to the side. In less than a minute, there was a three-foot long string of light beads. Antin indicated that Ken and I should approach. Ken couldn't resist reaching out toward the light.

"Stop!" the Councilman ordered. "Do not touch it."

Antin smoothly provided a more restrained warning.

"The light has been supercooled."

"We do not know how," Karsk said in disgust.

"You would suffer something akin to frostbite were you to touch it near the tip," Antin explained. "Instead, if you would slowly push your hand toward the rope, about two feet below the opening."

We both did as we were told. The rope light bent outward, as if it were a real rope. It produced a pleasant tingle in my skin.

"Wow!"

"How does it feel?" the curator asked.

"Fine." I wiggled my fingers. "That is so cool."

Ken appeared to agree.

"Now move your hand more quickly."

I tried to give the string of light a karate chop. It bent again. This time it also hurt like hell.

"Jesus Christ in a French fry," I yelped. "What the fuck?"

Ken did the same, but allowed only his eyes to betray the same stinging pain that I had felt.

"Once the light reaches a distance of approximately six inches from the cylinder," Antin explained, "it nears room temperature. It can exist in that state for five or six minutes. After that, the light particle will simply melt into the air. Before it disappears, however, the light rope will function just like a whip. The higher its speed, the more damage it does. At the highest speed, the tip of the whip can cut through steel.

"This is the only control. You can use it to make the light come out faster or slower. You can use it to nearly stop the flow of light. If you do stop the flow completely, however, you effectively sever the rope where it comes out of the cylinder."

Antin demonstrated as he spoke. Turning the wheel forward increased the speed at which the light appears. Turning it back slowed it. Turning it all the way back resulted in the rope of light dropping to the floor. Antin thumbed the control again and a new strand started to grow.

"Any questions?" he asked.

I could never resist asking a question.

"So it's sort of like fighting with a Weedeater, huh?"

Like the light whip joke, that one went over like a lead balloon. Ken was too "old." Weedeaters hadn't been around in the 1960s. The others were too "young." These future people probably didn't even have weeds.

"Your sponsors will know where to bring you for the training," Karsk said. "Good day, gentlemen."

We had been dismissed. In the outer lobby, Ken and I wished each other well.

"Tell me something, sir," he said as we were about to part.

"What's that?"

"Since you're from the future, I'll bet you could give a hot tip, huh?" He winked at me. "You know, when I head back home?"

"You mean like Microsoft stock?"

He shifted his weight from side to side.

"I'm not really a shareholder kind of guy," he said, adding a belated and embarrassed "sir."

I realized with a smile that we were talking about sports. I thought about the 2004 Red Sox, but that was nearly forty years after his return to the Earth.

"Late sixties," I told him. "Green Bay Packers in Super Bowls I and II. New York Jets in Super Bowl III. You'll have to trust me on that one."

"You're alright kid," he said. He turned as he and his sponsor headed for the door. "One more question. What's a Super Bowl?"

**********

I got into work particularly early on Thursday morning. I had never had a "connection" before and I was determined to make use of the only one I knew. I drafted an e-mail to "Act2B^~2B." I told her first how wonderful that Saturday night had been for me, too, although I would respect her sensibilities and refrain from sending her a picture. I told her how impressed I was with her e-mail handle. An actress who knew symbolic logic -- wow! Finally, I asked her if she knew anybody out in La-la-land who might know how to get a hold of a 58-year-old western starring Lash LaRue.

It was five o'clock in the morning on the West Coast and I was shocked to get a quick reply. She explained that she couldn't sleep ("LOL") because her new boyfriend had left her so unsatisfied. She said her e-mail address ("ROTFL") was the idea of a software developer roommate of hers. And she promised to ask around about Lash LaRue. She did inquire, though, what Ms. LaRue had going for her that she, Angie, lacked.

I fired back a response thanking her and telling her that her jealousy was misplaced. As for the new beau, she needed to give him some time. After all, I pointed out, it was unreasonable to expect the world to be full of Rick Handleys ("ROTFLMAO").

**********

The VHS tape arrived by UPS Overnight Delivery on Friday morning. It had been a fairly slow week otherwise. Through Wednesday and Thursday, Shawn and I had patiently waited for the promised information from the governor's office. The longer it took, the happier we were. Every new day without proof of reimbursement simply reminded people of our earlier story. And in case it didn't, our editorial staff made sure that the paper reminded them. Shawn wrote a small follow-up on Amalgamated's recent lobbying efforts in the legislature. For my part, it was back to my "real" job of writing obituaries.

I tore through my assignments on Friday and raced home. After a quick frozen dinner and a beer, I slid the tape into the VCR and wheeled myself backward to watch. I had no sooner hit the play button than there was another knock at the door.

I was torn. The last time I "knew" that it was Mrs. Golding it had turned out to be Angie. What were the odds of that happening again, though? On the other hand, could I really take that chance? I hit the pause button.

"Coming!" I yelled.

I was two for two. This woman was also blonde. She was also beautiful. She was ten years older than Angie, true. But she did come with her own bottle of wine.

"Shawn! What's up?"

"Not much," she said with a shyness that was at once delightful and inexplicable. "Got a date tonight?"

"Uh, no." I drew out the vowel sound as I tried to fathom the reason for her question. I finally gave up. "Why do you ask?"

She held up the wine.

"Allison broke the news of her engagement today," she said. "I just thought you might need a little company."

"God!" I moaned. "Please tell me everybody doesn't know about this."

She shook her head.

"Only some of us." Her voice was a soft purr. "The ones who were waiting for you to start looking around a little more."

She paid no attention to my furrowed brows and pushed past me into my living room.

"Where's your corkscrew?" she asked as I shut and bolted the door.

"In the drawer beside the stove," I said. I was happy to have the subject changed, however briefly, to a subject that I understood. "Glasses above the sink. Please allow me."

I took the bottle, a very elegant and expensive white, and opened it. I poured a glass for each of us.




What Feats He Did That Day Pt. 04



"I love your place," she said.

"Thank you." Was I supposed to offer her a tour? The only other room was the bedroom. 

"I'm sorry," she said, glancing at the black-and-white image frozen on the screen. "You were watching a movie, weren't you? I don't recognize it."

"You've never seen King of the Bullwhip?" I asked. "I'm shocked, shocked. Are you sure you went to a real college?"

"Wellesley?" she asked.

"Never heard of it," I kidded her. "Would you, er, like to watch it with me?"

For the next hour, Shawn Michaels did a creditable job of feigning interest in a movie that normally would have put even me to sleep. The whip duel at the end was amazing; Wizen would be pleased. But its lack of Oscar nominations was not a big mystery.

"That was really neat, Rick," she said when it was over. "Where'd you dig that up?"

"Actually, Alison's sister found it for me," I said in all truthful innocence.

Shawn Michaels' gorgeous blue eyes narrowed as she leaned forward.

"So," she said, "you taunt me with a rival?"

"Shawn . . .." I had so many questions. "Why?"

"Why you?"

"Well, yeah."

She sat back and took a big gulp of wine.

"So I was on vacation for two weeks, right? I spent my time in the Keys, laying out on the beach during the day, hitting the bars in the evening, letting myself get picked up by good-looking guys at night. And on the way home I said to myself, what a fucking waste of time that was. What a fucking bunch of shallow airheads. And when I got home and was starting to feel sorry for myself, sorry that my 'real life' was even worse here in the capital of nowhere, I read your article. Then I read Allie's sister's e-mail."

She took another swig of wine and looked into the distance. Her eyes seemed to glaze over for a moment but when she returned her attention to me they seemed alive, almost eager.

"And I said, fuck, Shawn, maybe what you were looking for all along was right here in good old Charleston. Here's a guy who takes his job really seriously, a guy who can spin the head of a babe who looks like that. Too bad, I thought, that he's so fond of my friend Allison. And then that little . . . impediment vanished, for which I'm truly, truly sorry, Rick."

I shrugged and smiled.

"Her loss. My gain. I saw my chance and here I am."

I still had not broken myself of the habit of staring blankly at beautiful women who showed up at my apartment.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm making you very uncomfortable, aren't I? I'm just not your type, am I? Too old?"

She drained her glass and started to stand up. My smile stopped her in her tracks, half-in and half-out of the chair. It was a pose designed to redirect the blood flow of any red-blooded male, with her ample chest jutting out in front and her firm, round ass behind.

"What?" she asked.

"My type? Shawn, I don't have a type. I basically haven't had a relationship since the accident that put me in this chair. Up until two weeks ago, I hadn't had sex in that long either." 

As she sat back down, I knew that she could hear the pain in my voice. She had a thoughtful expression on her face, and was absent-mindedly twirling a strand of hair in her fingers.

"So if I seem at all reluctant," I said, "it's because I have so little practice in responding to a beautiful, sexy woman . . . sitting in my apartment . . ."

"Throwing herself at you?"

Shawn Michaels stood up and walked over toward me. She turned and sat that gorgeous butt right in my lap.

"Honey, when I came here tonight, I wanted what Angie had, a night of great sex. And now that I've gotten to know you a little, you know what I want?"

She was kissing my face as she spoke, soft gentle kisses that left my skin hot and wet and tingling.

"What?" I asked, more a gasp than a real question.

"To know you better first," she said. "I want a date. I want to date Rick Handley. I want him to pick me up tomorrow at my place and take me out to dinner at Carson's."

"Carson's?" I asked with a laugh. "We can't get into Carson's."

Carson's was the best restaurant in Charleston.

"I'll take care of that. Do you know the Prince Arms?"

"Sure," I said. "You live there? Nice."

"It is," she agreed. "Six-thirty? We'll have a drink and then go to the restaurant."

'That sounds wonderful," I said.

"Yeah," she said softly. "I'll see you then, Rick."

She stood up and smoothed out her skirt. I wheeled her to the door and bolted it behind her. Wow, I thought. Just wow.

I would have loved to have dreamed about Shawn Michaels that night. Instead, my dream started with Lash LaRue's sidekick, Al "Fuzzy" St. John, a man who had apparently modeled his beard after a swarm of bees. He wore a badge just as he had in King of the Bullwhip. What the hell was his name? Ah yes, Fuzzy Q. Jones. Deputy Fuzzy Q. Jones.

He was the first one to see me as I pushed through the swinging doors of the saloon. In true sidekick fashion, he hitched up the pants that were threatening to slide off his non-existent hips.

"Hep ya, there, young fella?" he asked.

"Buy you a drink, mister?" I asked.

He smiled, a look he might be better off dropping from his repertoire. At least until he could afford a few more teeth. We both ordered whiskey. Fuzzy downed his in one gulp while I learned that I didn't have any money in my pockets.

The saloonkeeper was understandably upset and even Fuzzy took a few steps away from me.

"So you ain't plannin' on payin' for this whiskey, friend?" the saloonkeeper asked. It struck me that the word "friend" might be a piece of hyperbole. 

"I intended to pay," I said. "I intended there to be money in my pocket."

"You're a funny man," the saloonkeeper said. He hauled a nasty-looking pistol out from behind the bar. It seemed clear to me that we had all gotten off on the wrong foot. Some of us were also overreacting a little.

"Mr. Wizard!" I screamed. "I don't wanna be a Swiss cheese!"

"You don't want to be a what?" Wizen asked.

"For Christ's sake, can't you make my body tingle a little first? It freaks me out to be there one second and here the next."

"So what did you learn?"

"That they're not very friendly people. And that I need money."

He apologized profusely, but assured me that he had "saved" the game. 

"I don't want to go back to that game," I said. "They were about to shoot me in that game. This time -- just this time, Wizen -- we need to start a new game."

"Very well, Rick," he said with a sigh. He waved his hand and I was back in my bed. I fell asleep quickly, expecting to be summoned once again. But when I woke up on Saturday morning, I realized that the only thing that I had dreamed of was showing up late for my date with Shawn. Or showing up without my pants. Or showing up and finding someone else there. Or forgetting it entirely.

Only the latter was not actually possible. There was no way I was going to forget a date with Shawn Michaels. I couldn't have forgotten a date with anyone. When I had told Shawn in a fit of honest self-pity that I hadn't had a relationship in twelve years, I hadn't mentioned I hadn't even had a real date during that time. 

My mom had assured me when I went to college that there would be lots of girls who would want to date me. Even if that was true, none of them had given me any indication of that. I was the "guy friend" during college, the one that the girls asked about other guys. Perhaps they thought I was some sort of eunuch. Later, Allie had set me up with a couple of blind dates, and I had gotten a few women to accompany me to the theatre. It only occurred to me afterward that they were more interested in the advantages of the handicapped seating section than in me.

I had certainly never been to Carson's before. The best restaurant in Charleston may not be on a par with, say, the best restaurant in New York, but coat and tie are still de rigueur. I spent an hour deciding which tie looked best, and then trying to find a shirt that matched. Apparently both had been purchased to go with a suit that I no longer owned, so I had to start all over again. Finally, by around two o'clock, I had the outfit assembled. The shoes were shined, the tie pre-tied. I found a baseball game that brought me to five o'clock, leaving me only an hour to get nervous all over again. I did a little research on Lash LaRue. Showering, shaving, and dressing took up another chunk of time. Finally I was just too nervous to stay. I figured if worse came to worst, I could just wheel slowly. Or wheel around the block. Or just wheel in circles for a while.

"You look marvelous," Shawn effused when she opened her door. That was the word I was going to use, and I stumbled trying to find a substitute. The first word that came to mine was "delicious." She was dressed in a cream-colored short-sleeved cocktail dress that perfectly complemented her tan.

"You look incredible," I said, finally finding my voice. "Thanks for not wearing heels. You know how we guys are about dating taller women."

She laughed, a full, musical sound that immediately set me at ease.

She leaned down and gave me a soft kiss on the lips."

"I think this is going to be fun, Rick Handley. Come on inside."

It was a wonderful evening. I hate to admit it, but the memory of walking into Carson's with Shawn Michaels, and watching heads turn one after another, will stay with me forever. She had not only made a reservation, but had managed to get us one of the best tables in the place. 

We spent the evening just eating and talking. A meal at Carson's is an experience to be savored, with each course more spectacular than the next. 

I wheeled her home at ten o'clock, the city lights blotting out everything except the full moon. I grew more and more nervous as we approached her apartment. 

"Can we talk for a bit?" she asked as we reached the well-appointed lobby. She gestured to a couch. I slowly wheeled myself forward.

"What's wrong?" she asked after perching herself on one end. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Why the long face?"

"Because this is where you tell me that you had a great time but you think we should be friends."

She stared into my eyes, a look of incredulity passing over her face.

Then she started laughing. If I had thought her laugh musical before, this one was symphonic. It started softly, a low chuckle. She looked at my face, which I'm sure held a sad but earnest expression, and her laughter rose in pitch. She leaned back in the sofa and tears came to her eyes. She was holding her sides. I had to make a conscious effort to lift my eyes to her face in order to avoid staring at the long legs that were stretched in front of her. Finally, after another fit of giggling, she wiped the tears off her cheeks and scooted forward to the edge again. Her eyes twinkled at me.

"I really want our first time to be bareback," she whispered.

"Sure," I said.

"Normally, I insist on the guys taking their share of responsibility," she said. "But down in Florida, with the sun and the drinks. You know how that it is."

She rolled her eyes. I had no idea how it was.

"So I got tested on Thursday," she said. "I was hoping to have the result of my tests today. But my doctor says they won't be in 'til Monday."

"So," I said, stalling for time, "this whole conversation has been about sex, right?"

"God, you are such a find," she said. She grabbed my face and pulled me forward for a long, slow kiss. "You're beautiful, Rick Handley. I love you."

After I made my way back to my place, I spent a few minutes just staring at my lucky self in the mirror. I told myself that I was on Cloud 9, that all the way home my feet had never touched the ground.

And then I looked down at my legs and just started laughing.



What Feats He Did That Day Pt. 05



CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"Hep ya there, young fella?" Fuzzy asked.

I reached into my pocket first this time. I already knew that there were some coins there; I had felt them as I pushed through the doors. But I was deathly afraid that Wizen had done something stupid, like giving me an Eisenhower silver dollar. To my relief, the coin I pulled out was era-appropriate. I tossed it onto the bar. The saloonkeeper put a bottle of whiskey onto the table. "Join me, Deputy?" I asked.

He didn't mind if he did. None of this "on duty" nonsense for Fuzzy Q. Jones.

"So what brings you to town, stranger?" Fuzzy asked, downing his first glass.

I was about to explain when we were interrupted by a voice booming across the room.

"So you're what passes for the law in these parts?"

We looked over to see two men standing in the doorway. They were obviously up to no good. It wasn't their black hats, not in a Lash LaRue movie. Lash always wore black. No, it was the evil sneers on their faces. That, and the way they drew their guns as they approached in that bow-legged swagger that suggested they'd spent too much time on horseback.

Fuzzy started to visibly tremble, not a sign that inspired confidence in a deputy. It was perfectly appropriate for the character of Fuzzy though. The man was the quintessential comic Western sidekick. 

"You got the badge, friend," one of the men said. "That makes you the law."

"What are you smilin' at?" the other asked me.

"Boys." 

I acknowledged them with a tip of my hat. It was only a matter of time now. Fuzzy looked down, apparently startled to find a badge on the vest he was wearing over his checked shirt. He looked back at his accusers with eyes like saucers.

"Boys, somethin' ain't right here," Fuzzy said, swaying slightly against the counter. He grabbed drunkenly for the bottle of whiskey. "I was just -- I was just havin' a -- hic -- drink here with my pal and --"

And the whip came in right on cue. I didn't see it, of course, but I heard the crack. We were all transfixed by the sight of the gun flying out of the hand of the guy nearest me and across the bar. All of us except Fuzzy, who grabbed the bottle in his fist by the neck and broke it over the head of the other one.

"Problem, gentlemen?" Lash LaRue asked as he let the doors swing closed behind him.

He had drawn his gun as well, and had it trained on me and the disarmed man he apparently assumed was my companion. The other fellow had dropped like a stone.

I looked at Fuzzy with eyes that asked for assistance. He grinned at me and turned to Lash.

"Nothin' too difficult, Lash. This here's my new friend, er, . . ."

"Rick. Rick Handley."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Handley. You new in town?"

"That's right," Fuzzy said, holding up the neck of the broken bottle. "I treated to the first bottle here, but we were unable to finish."

"Guess that make's it your turn, Mr. Handley," Lash said. "Set us up here, Sam."

So much for the other coin. But buying drinks for Fuzzy and Lash, it turned out, was enough to establish myself as one of the good guys. And under prompting from Lash, the saloonkeeper finally fessed up that I had also paid enough to entitle me to room and board.

My training began that afternoon. In many ways, the whip was harder to master than the sword. At least I had never cut my own cheek with the sword. When we finally quit for the day, I had improved considerably. By the end of Sunday evening's training, I was even better. It would be awhile before I would approach Lash's requirement that I be able to knock a tin can off a fence. But I was the terror of broad sides of barns across the West.

**********

Shawn and I both attended Monday morning's press briefing. Pete Simpson announced that despite the diligent efforts of the Governor's staff and his family, no record could be found to substantiate the Governor's clear recollection of reimbursing Amalgamated Coal Company for his travel on the company's plane in each of the last five years. He passed out an accounting of the amounts that the Governor was nevertheless sure he had paid. And he announced that in order to avoid any further distractions from the important work of state governance, the Governor had dispatched a cashier's check to Amalgamated. When they located proof of the earlier reimbursements, Amalgamated would refund the amount of the cashier's check minus the cost of the most recent trip. 

The line about distractions was straight out of the press spokesman handbook, but Pete was clearly pleased with his delivery. He was also surprised that I raised my hand.

"So according to this accounting, the amount paid for the current year was about equal to the amount for the year before, and the year before that?"

"Yes, of course," he answered, annoyance creeping into his voice. "Depending on his pro rated share of the airplane's costs, of course. Is there a problem?"

I tried to keep the smile off of my face.

"Without intending any disrespect, Pete, he went on the last four trips by himself, right?"

"Yes."

"And this year he went with you?"

He started to nod and then realized where I had led him.

"Who's paying for the costs of your trip?"

The silence that followed was intense. Pete clearly had no idea how to answer that one. The press corps clearly had no idea of asking another question until that one was answered. Pete and I locked eyes. Then he blinked.

"My costs are more difficult to calculate, of course, because I returned early to deal with this whole non-issue of yours, Mr. Handley. You will be provided with that accounting by the end of the day."

He left immediately thereafter.

A reporter from Beckley leaned back in his chair and gave Shawn and me a smile.

"I don't believe I've ever seen him turn quite that color red. You know, young man, if you're going to ask him a question that causes his head to explode, you should probably take my place in the front row."

We shared a laugh and then Shawn and I went back to the Messenger and began pounding out the story. Shawn drove over to the statehouse in the late afternoon to pick up Pete's accounting so that we could include that as well. Then we sat down and finished. 

It was a hard night of work. It was nine o'clock by the time we were done and both of us were exhausted. Shawn's test results still hadn't come back yet, so it's not like I had really missed anything. We had some cheesecake and coffee at a late-night deli down the street and then called it a night. 

**********

"So you and Shawn actually wrote a story together?" Alison asked the next day at lunch. 

"Yeah," I said. "I think it turned out pretty well. Don't you?"

"Full page headline. What's not to like? Still, it was your story. Now you're sharing it with her."

I shrugged.

"We shared the last one," I pointed out.

"Just the credit," Allie said. "Not the writing."

 Alison studied me for twenty uncomfortable seconds.

"Something wrong?" I asked.

"What else are you sharing with her?"

"Nothing. I have no idea what you're --"

"Oh, bullshit, Rick. I saw the way you looked at her yesterday. Tell me you're not sleeping with her."

"I'm not sleeping with her."

"Thank God."

"Not yet."

"Rick! Come on. You know you can do so much --"

"Allie." I interrupted her. "Don't. Please. Just don't."

She didn't. She looked down and twirled her fork in her salad. 

"Friends?" she asked.

"Friends," I agreed with a sigh.

"She's very pretty," Allie agreed. "And smart."

"And she hasn't always been the nicest person." I conceded that Alison had a point as well. "Give it a chance, okay?"

"For you?" Allie said. "You bet. Say what ever happened to the other part of the story?"

"The sex?" I asked. "Funny you should bring that up. My source called me last night after I got home. She asked the same thing. I told her that unless I got confirmation from somebody else or she let me use her name, there was no story."

"Yeah. Rachel would never let that into print. What does Shawn think?"

I studied my potato chips for a while and looked up at Allie.

"I, um, haven't shared that part with her yet." 

Allie started giggling.

"It's different," I said.

"Sure." Allie was still giggling. "One's just sex. The other's journalism."

"And sex," I pointed out. "But I promised the woman I wouldn't give out her name. Can't go back on a promise in this business."

"Pussy or no."

"Allie!"

"What? She has one, right? Oh yeah. You don't know that yet, do you?"

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

"Are you gonna eat that roll or not?"

**********

The sex angle sputtered back to life the very next morning. I arrived at work as early as I always did and found an e-mail waiting for me. The return address was a Yahoo account that I didn't recognize. I skimmed it more than I actually read it. Then I printed it out, tore it off the printer, and raced over to the statehouse.

Shawn was happy to see me and quickly made room at her desk. We listened to Pete explain some exciting new regulatory clean water initiative that appeared to relieve the mining industry in particular of any responsibility to keep its tailing piles away from potable water. He quite happily explained in answer to questioning that the program represented a careful balance between the needs of industry and those of consumers. After taking a few more bored questions about it, he recognized me.

"Mr. Handley?"

"Mr. Simpson, I asked you a few weeks back if there were any women on the plane to Texas"

"Oh for Chrissakes," Pete barked. "Who are you, Johnny one-note?"

"Maybe," I said. "Can I actually ask the question?"

"Certainly," he agreed with sarcastic politeness. "Whatever you like."

"You avoided the question, sir. You told me there was a flight attendant. So I'll ask it again. Were there any women passengers?"

"No, there were not."

"No sex on the plane? No bondage? No, um, sado-masochism?"

Pete Simpson was glaring at me with triumphant malice. I was aware of grumbling behind me. 

"What the fuck are you doing?" Shawn whispered.

"Mr. Handley, this is an incredibly insulting line of questioning. The answer is no. I'll answer one more question, Mr. Handley."

I could feel the weight of my colleagues' doubts. I decided to skip the sex entirely and take one last shot.

"During the trip, after he learned about the Messenger's article, did the Governor at any time say, 'Who the fuck is Rick Handley?'"

"I'm sure he did," Pete answered with a harsh laugh. Several of my colleagues laughed as well.

"And did he then identify me as 'That cripple that does the obituaries?'"

The press spokesman handbook called for a sneer and a lightning fast denial. I got a red face and an open-mouthed stare. The laughing and grumbling stopped.

"Who told you that?" Pete demanded.

The room had gone completely silent, the silence speaking more eloquently than anything that I could say. It was Shawn who spoke first.

"So you don't deny it?"

He finally blurted out that he couldn't imagine the Governor saying such a thing. He turned on his heel and his aides followed him out of the room like dust behind a whirlwind.

"So what the fuck was that?" Shawn asked after we exchanged the noisy pressroom for a quiet table at Lin Fong's, the only decent Chinese restaurant in Charleston.

"I got this e-mail this morning," I said. I handed it across the table.

"'Friday night,'" she read. "'BDSM! Starting on the plane! Yeah, baby!'

"What is this?" she asked in a quiet voice.

"I don't know for sure. My guess is it's a little personal diary that somebody keeps on his PDA. Somebody who was on the trip, though. The dates correspond perfectly. And this. 'Four days here, still no doves.' And see this one here? He writes, 'Gov infored of Mess. article. "Who the fuck is Rick Handley? The cripple who write the obits?"'"

"Who sent it to you?"

"I haven't any idea of that either," I said. 

"So where'd all the sex stuff come from?"

"Well, there's this part. 'Swapped with Bill. Dee-lightful.' And here. After 'still no doves,' he writes 'plenty of chicks though.'"

"It could be a forgery."

"Sure," I said. "That's why I decided to spring it on Pete like that. See how much of it was true. But it also fits with what got me into this story. Somebody on the inside told me that this whole trip was an industry sponsored orgy.

"I fucked up starting with the bondage stuff, though. I looked up this BDSM thing on the 'net and it stands for Bondage, Domination and Sado-Masochism. But those questions didn't even make him flinch."

"So who's your source?" Shawn asked in a hurt tone.

"Yeah, I know. I should have told you before. I'm sorry, Shawn. Really. But I can't give you the name. I promised."

"How does he contact you?"

"Cell phone," I said. "I got a call on Monday, actually. Wondering what the fuck was happening with the story. Weird, huh?"

"So maybe she sent you this?"

"Maybe," I agreed. "I don't think so, though."

Shawn's use of "he" and "she" was an old reporter's trick, designed to make a reluctant source slip and allow the reporter to at least rule out one gender. I was a reporter too, though. 

Shawn leaned forward and smiled.

"So I'm supposed to get my test results back today. Sorry for the delay. Dinner tonight?

"How about tomorrow?" I asked. "This press conference is gonna make the local news tonight. If I don't crank out an article, Rachel will have my butt."

"Tomorrow I've got book club," she said. "Friday?"

I nodded.

"Promise?"

She reached across the table and took my hand in hers.

"I promise," I said softly. Like that was necessary.

**********

That night I didn't wake up in the middle of another bullwhip lesson from Lash. I was disappointed because I had actually done quite well so far. I could knock the can off the fence three times out of five and was gradually increasing the distance at which I was effective. Even using just the tip of the whip I was batting around .300. 

Instead, I woke up in Wizen's lab. Both he and Francesca were there.

"Is something wrong?" I asked, bolting upright in bed. "Is Ken okay?"

"He's fine," Wizen said. "Now that you are at least familiar enough with the whip, I wanted you to start sitting in on his training occasionally. Maybe doing a little of your own work with the light whip."

"Here's your chair," Francesca said. She started to push it over. I almost took control myself and "drove" it the rest of the way. But she was so eager to please that I couldn't do it. I let her push it next to the bed and then I climbed into it.

She accompanied us down the bezombied corridors until her father informed her that she was permitted to come no further.

"It's fine with me," I said.

"It is the Council," Wizen explained. "Council would be displeased to learn she knows of your existence, let alone that of the Morlings and the battleground."

"It's okay, Rick," Francesca said. She gave my hand a squeeze. "I understand."

"That makes one of us," I said, glowering at Wizen as his daughter took two steps backward before turning and striding quickly away from us.

"You know, I don't mind the idea of fighting this Morling for Francesca, or even for you. But I gotta tell you, the idea of doing it for this precious Council of yours doesn't really thrill me. Not that they're bad necessarily. I just hate secrecy. Particularly on stuff like, 'oh, yeah, your world's about to be invaded.' There are too many government people in my time who insist that things will be fine as long as we sit back and trust them."

His eyes widened in alarm.

"Richard, we are approaching the battleground. I must ask you to keep your heresies to yourself."

"Whatever."

The battleground turned out to be an outdoor stadium with a sand-covered floor. We emerged into the sunlight, the first I had seen it in all my visits with Wizen. Ken was already inside, warming up for his morning practice. He greeted me like an old friend.

"Rick!"

"Hey, Ken," I answered. "How's it going?"

"Pretty fair, buddy. Can't complain. Wizen, right? Nice to see you again. You recognize this place, Rick?"

I looked around before finally shaking my head.

"It's the Rose Bowl!" he said with a laugh. "Preserved like it was the Roman Coliseum. Who'd have guessed that the world government would be in Pasadena? Pretty funny, huh?"

"Yeah. So what's this?" I gestured at what looked like an obstacle course. Two pathways led from a wooden platform at one end. The course's most prominent feature was a series of balloons, some of them atop small poles and others atop larger ones. There were balloons tucked between walls and balloons hidden behind jumps. Each of them was numbered.

"Like it?" Ken asked. "I designed it myself, to teach me to react quickly and use the light whip accurately. Have a look.

"Let's do the odd numbers, Slick!" he yelled out to his sponsor.

"Slick?" I asked.

"Slick, Slisken," Ken said with a big grin. "This place could use a few more nicknames."

"Tell me about it," I said. "It's like Night of the Living Dead."

Ken gave me a puzzled look. I was always forgetting that he hadn't lived during the last quarter of the twentieth century.

He jumped down onto the dirt floor and strode to one end.

"Ready?" Slisken yelled.

"Ready!" Ken acknowledged.

"To the right, go!"

Ken headed down the path on the right at a jog, his eyes constantly scanning from side to side. The light whip trailed behind the cylinder he held in his right hand. He had evidently activated it while he was approaching the platform.

"Five!" Slisken yelled.

Ken spotted balloon number five at the same time I did. He tucked into a roll, gauged the distance, and struck. The tip of the whip exploded the balloon.

"Seven!"

Balloon number seven was atop a large pole. The light whip was already growing longer. He stopped and performed a ritualized dance that involved backing up and doing a shoulder roll to his left.

"What's he doing?" I asked Wizen out of the corner of my mouth.

"Simulating the Morling's attack on him. He must avoid his opponent's lash while his own whip lengthens."

I nodded, staring in awe as Ken leapt to his feet and jumped to the side. His whip, now twenty feet in length, snaked out toward the balloon and popped it.

"Three!"

The third balloon was behind him, tied to the ground behind a low wall. It was much too close for a twenty-foot whip. He turned it off, letting the light rope fall to the ground. As he ran toward number three at an oblique angle, he thumbed the control to max, quickly growing the whip once again. As he flew by the wall, the whip flicked out once again. The third balloon burst apart.

He missed number one after that, but redeemed himself on the thirteen, eleven, and five balloons. I simply stood there and applauded after he finished.

"Holy shit!" I said. "That was incredible."

"Missed number one again," he said with disgust. "I always have trouble with that one."

"You got six!" I pointed out. "Out of seven!"

"It only takes one to get killed," he said. "Here. Give it a shot."

He tossed me the cylinder.

"I can't do that!" I exclaimed.

"Nobody expects much, kid," he said. "But you gotta be prepared. And you gotta start sometime. Take the evens. Slick will call out the balloons."

It was a disaster. I missed the first two, managed to hit the third, and had to fly in circles while the whip grew after I accidentally turned it off approaching the fourth. It was another one of those tall poles.

Finally I flicked the whip toward the balloon. In the midst of my follow-through, I realized that the whip was still not going to be long enough to reach the balloon. I hastily opened the thumb control, but instead of creating a rope just long enough to bring the tip in contact, I played out far too much line. The whip's momentum was spent as it flew by the balloon. Instead, it gently wrapped itself around the pole two or three times. The coil of light slowly slid down the pole and came to rest on a band of steel halfway down the pole to which the two guy wires were attached.




What Feats He Did That Day Pt. 05



Lash would be ashamed of me.

Ken, on the other hand, thought it was hysterical. 

"Don't worry, kid," he said between whoops of laughter. "You'll get better."

Disgusted at my own performance, I flicked my wrist to try to free the whip from the pole. It had exactly the opposite effect. The whip tightened around the pole, neatly slicing through the wood just above the steel. As we watched, the pole flipped end over end and dropped to the ground. The balloon burst with a loud pop.

I turned off the whip and blew on the end of the cylinder before I slid it into my belt. I smiled at Wizen and then at Ken and Slisken. They were all rolling their eyes and shaking their heads. Still, it was better than being laughed at.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Shawn and I finally had our second date on Friday night. I was stunned to find Shawn more nervous than I was. The idea of any woman being more nervous than me was odd enough. The idea of Shawn Michaels being nervous at all was astonishing. 

Maybe I was just being oversensitive. Maybe Shawn Michaels had the same insecurities and fears as everyone else. Although the look on the face of Sam Weathers as he sat in his taxi and watched us exit Shawn's apartment building suggested otherwise. His jaw dropped as soon as he saw us. Then he actually got out of the taxi and opened the door for her.

"Thank you, sir," she said, drawing her long legs into the interior so he could close the door.

"You've never helped me in, Sam" I grumbled as we both moved to the driver's side of the taxi.

"You ain't ever showed up in anything like that," he explained. 

Shawn was wearing a black dress that had caused my jaw to drop as well when she first answered the door. 

"I show up in a wheelchair!" 

I opened the door and lifted myself into the seat behind Sam's.

"And I always take care of your chair, don't I?" he asked, taking it to the back of his van and storing it there. "You don't want me opening the door for you, Rick. You like your independence."

"Shawn likes her independence too," I said. 

"Shawn likes to have doors opened," Shawn said sweetly. "Thank you again, Sam."

"My pleasure, miss. Where may I take you two fine people?"

"Antolini's," I said.

"Italian," Shawn said, grabbing my arm and pressing herself against me. "The food of love."

"Um, yes."

Shawn giggled all the way to the restaurant. When the wine arrived, she offered a toast.

"To Rick Handley, the scourge of Charleston!"

"To Shawn Michaels," I said. "The co-scourge."

Our article was set to appear in Monday morning's paper. Rachel had killed the story I had written on Wednesday night. She had just smiled when I reminded her that every other paper in the state was going to have the story after the morning's press conference."

"They have his failure to deny your questions. And that's it. They don't have your e-mail, do they?"

"As far as I know they don't," I said. "They didn't get it from me."

"So they have no idea what your questions even meant. I bet that if you show Simpson the whole thing in private, you might be able to get him to admit that they did bring women on the trip. Just to limit the damage from this. Then you'll have a story. We can print the whole of the message as a sidebar. Okay?"

"Okay!" 

I was pumped. Partly it was the upcoming article. But the delay also meant that I now had the rest of Wednesday night free. I eagerly picked up the phone to arrange a late dinner with Shawn. I got the machine. I called again half an hour later and got the machine again. Damn and damn again. 

Shawn showed up late at the next day's press conference. Pete was just about finished with his formal statement when she slid into the seat beside me. She gave me a squeeze of my hand and a smile that said she was happy to see me.

When he asked for questions, Shawn was the first to raise her hand. Pete smiled as he called on her.

"One question, Pete." Shawn said. "How did you do with your hunting?"

"My hunting?" he asked.

"The doves," Shawn said with a smile. "How'd you do?"

"I'm West Virginia born and bred, Shawn. I don't have blank days hunting. Who's next?"

Shawn sat back in her chair and turned to me.

"At least now we know the diary wasn't his," she whispered to me.

"True."

"What happened to your article, anyway?"

"I'll tell you later."

After the press conference had ended, we talked over coffee at the Java Cava. 

"Rachel really shocked me," I explained. "She thinks that the diary is credible enough to run with it. She suggested I give Pete a chance to comment on the whole thing this afternoon and then spend tomorrow writing a real analysis."

"So what are you doing with the, um, sex thing?" 

 I shrugged.

"Rachel wants to print what's in the e-mail," I said. "Other than that, it depends on what Pete has to say."

"And if he says the whole thing is a fake?"

I smiled at her.

"First of all, he had his chance to deny the cripple remark yesterday and again today, after everyone else's article came out. So we know that's true. And second, he's not really in that good a position to call anything a forgery, you know?"

She gave me a half-hearted smile and I invited her to come with me when I met with Pete that afternoon.

Pete was unusually calm when we arrived. When I handed over the e-mail, without the address of course, his face registered surprise but not shock. He read it slowly and sighed before he addressed us.

"All right. Were there women on the plane and on the trip? Yes, there were. Will I tell you which of the Amalgamated executives brought female friends? No. Will I tell you any of the names of those executives? No. Did the Governor bring a companion? No, of course not. Did I? No."

"So this is a diary of the trip?" I asked.

"I think we both know the answer to that," he answered.

Shawn and I both waited him out.

"All right. Yes. I'm sure it is a diary kept by someone who accompanied us on the trip."

"It ends the same day you returned," Shawn observed.

"So it does," Pete said softly. "I imagine the party was pretty much over after everyone learned of your article. But as you note, Shawn, I wasn't there."

"And the BDSM?" I asked.

"Neither the Governor nor I have any recollection of any unusual behavior on the plane," he said. "But it was a fair-sized aircraft."

"So it's possible?"

He gave me a rueful look.

"Anything is possible."

**********

"Did you save room for dessert?" the waitress asked us when we had finished our meals. "Some tiramisu, perhaps?"

"Some what?" I asked her.

"Tiramisu," she said more slowly. "Lady fingers in cream."

"Mmmm, that's just what I had in mind." Shawn said. She was looking directly at me, her eyes sparkling.

The waitress probably thought Shawn was interested in ordering something more. I knew better.

"Just the check, please." I said.

"No dessert?"

Shawn gave her a look that spoke volumes.

"I'll get the check," the waitress said.

"I'll call Sam," I said.

"This is what I like," Shawn said as she sat back with a smile. "Service."

We started kissing in the taxi on the way back from the restaurant. Sam had asked whether we wanted him to wait after we stopped at the Prince Arms to drop Shawn off. Shawn had simply suggested that if he took that stop out of his itinerary, he could call it a night. Sam got it before I did. Of course, he didn't have Shawn Michaels' lips distracting him.

She sat on my lap and we kissed on the elevator. We kissed in the hallway. We kept kissing all the way to the bedroom.

"I want to make love," Shawn moaned into my ear.

"Me too," I said.

"Take off those clothes and get in bed, Rick," she said, climbing off the chair. "I'll be right back."

I pulled myself into bed and undressed down to my shorts as she walked into the living room. I heard the door to the refrigerator close and then heard her walking back. She appeared in the doorway and leaned against the doorjamb, inviting me to study the outfit that she had chosen for our date. Her little black dress was an updated version of the classic. The straps riding on her upper arms rather than her shoulders revealed a beautiful expanse of her tanned torso. The fabric hugged her generously curved figure, exposing a sexy six inches of her thigh when it ended. The effect, particularly with her carefully styled blonde hair and devastating smile, was overwhelming.

"Somebody likes," she said, nodding at the obvious bulge in my crotch.

I managed a greedy smile.

"Excellent," Shawn purred. 

She had hidden one hand behind her back, and she pulled it out to reveal an odd sort of prop, a plastic cup with the WV logo of the "U" on it that I had bought at the one football game I had attended. Her choice made more sense when she reached inside it and pulled out an ice cube, holding it between her pursed lips and gently sucking.

"Hot in here, isn't it?" she asked. She had taken the ice cube out and was rubbing it slowly across her cheek, down her neck, and back across her chest. I stared as little drops of water tricked down her skin and disappeared beneath the dress's low neckline.

"I'm afraid that's still not enough," she said, dropping her voice even lower. She put the nearly melted ice back in the cup and reached behind her back. I could hear the zipper opening. She returned her hands to her sides and stepped toward me. With a little shimmy of her shoulders the dress dropped to the floor.

She took another step forward. She was probably stepping out of the dress, but my eyes were much higher up. They were flicking between the black lace demi-cups that held Shawn's breasts and the thin black thong that matched her garter belt and stockings.

"Much better," she purred.

But still not good enough, apparently. She took another ice cube out and began sliding it down her left breast. The ice cube and her fingers disappeared inside the lace cup and her heavily lidded eyes and rounded mouth suggested that she had applied it to her nipple. She gave her right nipple the same treatment and then took yet another ice cube and held it against the skin just below the little white rosette in the center of her bra. 

She stood there, breathing deeply, her breasts rising and falling. A rivulet of water trickled down her belly to her navel. She followed it with the ice cube, sliding it down, circling her navel, and then guided it into her thong. I followed her fingers beneath the thin fabric and found myself holding my breath as they went deeper and deeper.

Her fingers were empty when she pulled them back out. She raised them to her mouth and slowly licked them off one at a time. 

"Think you can find it before it melts?" she asked me.

I opened my mouth and heard myself say nothing by "uh" for five seconds before I finally added "no."

"But I'd be happy to try," I added eagerly.

She gave me a brilliant smile and reached behind to unfasten her bra. She joined me on the bed and we began to make slow, delicious love. Shawn was far more skilled than Angie -- and far more practiced. But she shared the younger girl's delight and enthusiasm. She appeared to enjoy my technique and gladly shared with me a few techniques of her own. When we lay together later, her head resting on my shoulder as she snuggled under my arm, I think we were both sated.

It was not the time I would have picked for another lesson with Lash LaRue but I had never had any choice in the matter. It was a disheartening lesson and when I awoke afterwards in Wizen's room my dissatisfaction apparently showed on my face.

"You had a problem?" Francesca asked. She was sitting in Wizen's place at the end of the bed.

"No," I said. "Well, yeah. I seem to have plateaued. Where's Wizen?"

"He was summoned to Council after he brought you here. He asked me to monitor you. I sensed something was wrong so I ended your training early. Perhaps your heart wasn't in it."

"Perhaps," I said with a smile. My heart, after all, was lying next to Shawn. It was only my head that was wandering around the time-space continuum.

"It is much to ask of you."

Francesca got up and turned away but not before I caught a brief glimpse of that ineffable sadness that I had sensed when I had first met her.

"Not at all," I said as gallantly as I could. 

She turned back and gave me a half-smile.

"We ask you to train for a battle you may not fight. We may ask you to fight a battle that matters not at all to the world in which you live. It is selfish."

"You did agree to give me the drug in return," I pointed out. "True," she acknowledged. "But it is a very small price. I would have given it to you regardless."

"I know. Shall we have another picnic?"

Her face brightened considerably.

"That would be delightful," she said. She moved to the food console and asked me what I would like.

"Fried chicken?" I said tentatively. "With some potato salad and lemonade."

"I will ask."

She said it as if she didn't expect it to work. But in a few seconds the room was filled with the unmistakable smell that can only be fried chicken. She turned to me with an expression of amazement and showed me the tray. Then she waved her hand and we were back in the park. She handed me some chicken and a bowl of potato salad and then poured two glasses of lemonade from a pitcher. 

I looked around at the trees and the birds and the butterflies.

"I'm surprised you don't spend all your time here," I said. "You don't, do you?"

She smiled and shook her head.

"Helping father requires far too much time."

"Maybe that's why I see so few people in the corridors. They're all hanging out in parks like this.

I watched Francesca take a bite of fried chicken. She chewed it slowly, savoring the unfamiliar taste.

"Seriously, why do I see so few people in the corridors?" I asked.

"This is amazing," she said before turning her attention to my question. "There are few needs that cannot be met inside peoples' dwellings."

"That's kinda sad, you know."

"Sad? They are all content. Council provides."

"Maybe. I'm not sure I could just do 'content.' And your Council kind of freaks me out."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Like the fact that nobody knows about the Morling crap. I mean, if my world could be wiped out at the end of next week, I'd like to know that."

"What could you possibly do?" Francesca asked.

"Just know it," I said. "Be scared. Be hopeful. Be worried about what would happen if Ken can't fight and some schmuck in a flychair has to take his place. I'm not saying your Council is bad, understand. Just way, way too secretive. For me. Would you rather not know about the Morling?"

She thought for a long time.

"No," she finally said, staring off into space. "I do prefer knowing. That would be father returning."

She waved her hand and the illusion dissolved. We looked up to see an oddly pale Wizen walk through the door.

"Father?"

Francesca jumped to her feet.

"Is something wrong?"

He looked at her and then at me.

"Ken was hurt today. They have reattached his right arm."

"What happened?" I asked.

"It was a freak accident," Wizen said. "We were unaware that it could even occur."

"What?" I demanded.

"He missed one of his targets and the whip slammed into the sand. It turned it to glass."

"Oh, my God."

"Yes. Glass with sufficient reflectivity to send the whip back upward. It snapped back and severed his arm."

"But you can fix it, right?" I asked.

"Certainly." Wizen waved his hand as if it were nothing. "He will have full use of the arm."

"Good," I said.

"In a month. We cannot accelerate the rehabilitation of his muscles. Any more than we could speed the effect of the drug on your legs."

I stared at him, my mouth hanging open.

"You begin training with the light whip tomorrow, Richard. Next week you will be our champion."

It was dark again. I could feel my heart slamming against my ribcage as if I had just awakened from a nightmare. Shawn was sleeping peacefully at my side, her breaths regular and deep. And we were not alone. I could hear someone in the living room. After a moment, I could make out a small penlight, its beam shining through the door to the bedroom.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I shut my eyes as the light played across the floor toward the bed. It lingered on us for a moment and then flicked away. I heard the intruder walk toward the dresser and then toward the bed. He was uninterested in us, though. He stopped beside us and reached down. I could hear the change in my pants jingle as he picked them up.

If he wanted my wallet, I thought, he was more than welcome to it. I had maybe thirty-three dollars in there along with the usual credit cards. It was hardly enough to make it worth his while to commit robbery. When he found that that's all he was getting he was going to be royally pissed. He was willing to take that chance, though. I heard him drop the pants and then make his way back out to the living room. He opened the door to the hallway and left.

"Shawn," I whispered.

"Mmmmm," she murmured.

"Shawn. Wake up."

"Why, lover?"

"Cause I've just been robbed."

That did the trick.

"You what?"

"There was a guy," I said. "I think he stole my wallet."

"Why didn't you yell?" she asked.

"And then what? Most people aren't afraid of guys with wheelchairs," I pointed out. "Or of naked women. Come on. I've gotta call the police."

By the time the officers arrived, we were both dressed. Shawn had opted for a pair of my jeans and an old shirt, but she still looked hot enough that both policemen gave her long looks of appraisal. Then they both gave me long looks of amazement. One of them took our statements -- my statement, since Shawn had slept through the whole thing -- while the other looked around the apartment.

"No sign of a break-in," he reported back after his survey. "He must have picked the lock."

"That wouldn't get him through the deadbolt and the chain," I pointed out.

The policemen traded glances.

"There's nowhere else for him to get in, sir," the first one said. "Perhaps you neglected to fasten them."

"I always fasten them," I said.

Maybe you were a little, um . . ."

"Distracted," his partner added.

"Yeah. Maybe you were a little distracted tonight. Did you notice him throwing the deadbolt and the chain, ma'am?"

I could tell from Shawn's expression that she was not pleased. I thought she probably resented being ogled like that. It turned out, though, that she was more upset at the officers' treatment of me.

"No, officer," she said, her voice breathy. "I was far too distracted myself by his sensuous lips and soft caresses." 

They both frowned. They finished up within 15 minutes and promised to send me a copy of their report.

"Are you okay?" Shawn asked after they had left and I had locked us in.

"Sure. Although it's going to be a while 'til I can sleep. Would you like some tea?"

We were interrupted by a knock at the door. It was one of the policemen. Standard procedure required them to look through the trash cans on their way out of the building and there, on the first floor, they had found my wallet.

"Was there anything else in your pants, sir?" he asked.

I thought for a moment and then quickly wheeled myself into the bedroom. My cell phone was missing. The officer suggested that I notify my carrier and told me that, in light of his discovery, it was unlikely that the "case" would be investigated much further.

We thanked him for his hard work and I finished making tea. It was only two-thirty and we decided to try to return to sleep. Or at least to bed. Once we were settled, though, I sat bolt upright in bed.

"Shit!"

"What now?" Shawn asked.

"My cell phone. It's got her number in it."

"Whose number?"

"My source. I gotta call her."




What Feats He Did That Day Pt. 05



"Your source? For the dove-hunting stuff?"

"Yeah."

"Can't you just call her tomorrow?"

"No." 

I flicked on the light and pulled myself into my chair one more time. I rummaged through my desk and found the phone book.

"Hello?"

"Suzanne, this is Rick Handley."

"Who?"

"The reporter. From the Messenger. Remember?"

"What time is it? Fuck! It's not even three."

"Suzanne." I made my voice as hard and cutting as I could. "You need to listen. Someone just broke into my house for and stole my cell phone. I think they took it because it has the number of your cell phone in it. I know it's not your cell phone, but these people won't take long tracking it down to you."

The line was silent when I stopped talking.

"Are you still there?"

"Yes," she said, her voice small and weak. "Oh, God. What should I do?"

"I'm going to call you a taxi. He'll call you and get your address. When he gets there, he'll bring you here. I'm going to give you my credit card and a calling card. I want you to go somewhere -- don't tell me where. Wait a week. Then call me at the paper. Leave a number where I can reach you on my voicemail."

"I can't just --"

"You can. Just call in sick. Suzanne, I'm sorry. These people mean business. You know that better than I do, right?"

I hug up and called Sam Weathers. He was equally sleepy but he finally agreed to comply. An hour later his taxi pulled up outside my house with Suzanne and a small boy inside of it. I handed Sam the thirty-three dollars from my wallet and told him I'd give him whatever else it cost later. I assured Suzanne that everything would be fine.

By then it was almost four o'clock. Shawn had retreated to bed shortly after the phone call. I crawled in next to her and was rewarded with a sleepy kiss on the shoulder. I didn't sleep at all, of course.

**********

My first session of light whip training on Sunday night was an unmitigated disaster. The hardest part was controlling the growth of the whip. If you didn't let it grow, it would fall off. Use it or lose it, so to speak. But that meant that your whip was constantly changing. You had to make constant adjustments in order to effectively use it. And I still hadn't mastered the regular whip. 

Fortunately, the first part of the day was great. It wasn't that Shawn and I spent the whole day making love. In fact, she left after we had a leisurely Sunday breakfast. But I did spend the day in that post-coital bliss that lets you find the hidden pleasures in everything else you do, from reading the paper to cooking dinner. At one point while I was watching the ballgame on Sunday evening, I found myself laughing aloud for no reason whatsoever.

When Shawn slipped into her seat next to me at Monday morning's press conference, I slid my hand underneath the desk and gave her hand a squeeze. She rewarded me with a brilliant smile and together we got ready to listen to Pete Simpson. The media was angry. Today's story demonstrated that Pete had lied to us before, in this very room. We were used to being misled; that was part of the job, both his and ours. But lying crossed a line. We were out for blood.

And we were denied. Krissy Mackley appearance in Pete's place sucked all the anger out of the room. Her announcement that Pete had delivered his resignation to the Governor on Thursday evening sucked all the air right after it. The resignation, effective Friday, had allowed Pete to accept a position with Amalgamated Coal. The Governor had appointed Krissy to take his place.

As her first matter of official business as the new press secretary, Krissy apologized to the media for the statements that had been issued by the Governor's press office. Then she turned to me and delivered a personal apology on behalf of the Governor for any derogatory terms that he may have uttered in his misguided effort to protect the reputations of any women who may have accompanied Amalgamated's executives on his recent trip to Texas.

Then she changed the subject. Joe DiBianci would be taking over as the Governor's personnel director on an interim basis while Elizabeth Day was on medical leave. It was imperative that the legislature pass the Governor's transportation initiative this week. The Department of Natural Resources was investigating the water quality of the New River.

"Are there any questions?" she asked.

Of course there weren't. We were all still stunned.

"Bullshit," I muttered as the press conference came to an end.

"What?" Shawn asked.

"'Personal apology.' 'May have uttered.' 'Misguided effort,' my ass."

"Hey, pal," she said, rubbing my arm. "You won."

"You never win in the newspaper business," I said. "Only the politicians win. Even when you catch the bastards lying, it only means you managed a stalemate this time. Because they'll just try to do it again and again. There's always another chance for us to lose and them to win. 

"Aren't you the cynic?" she said with a bright laugh.

"I'm sorry," I said. "You're right. We did good, didn't we?"

"We did great!"

"Yeah. How about a late breakfast?"

"Mmm," she purred. "I love having breakfast with you."

Her eyes were sparkling.

"I was thinking about the deli," I confessed. "Since we are being paid to work."

"Spoilsport."

**********

My light whip lessons continued each night. My progress was slow and fitful. Ken showed up to help me out but his experience with working legs was completely different from mine in the flychair. 

**********

"You did it, didn't you?"

Allie and I were at our usual Tuesday lunch.

"How can you tell?" I ask.

"That smirk on your face," she said. "The one that says I got laid by a beautiful blonde over the weekend."

I shrugged.

"I'm not one to kiss and tell."

"Up until now there hasn't been anything to tell," she teased me. "You haven't been one to kiss."

"Very funny, Coles."

"It is," she insisted. "You all suave and nonchalant. It's very cute."

"Shut up."

She just laughed and then dropped her voice.

"So it was good, right?"

I gave her a dirty look and she laughed again.

"It was good for her too," I said.

"Ooh, I'll bet it was, tiger. Rick Handley the stud."

I rolled my eyes and she changed the topic.

**********

I spent Tuesday afternoon and all of Wednesday writing obituaries. It wasn't until Thursday morning that I had to pay any attention to the Governor's office. And that was only because Rachel called at 7:30 in the morning.

I wheeled myself over to the statehouse where I found the Morgantown Observer's Charlie Beckett waiting to talk with me. 

"Did you get a chance to talk to Shawn?"

"Today?" I asked. "All I got today was a call from my editor telling me to get my ass over here this morning. Why?"

"I just wondered what you thought about Betsy Day. So you didn't talk to her yesterday either?"

"Shawn? I haven't seen her since Tuesday. Who's Betsy Day?"

"The Governor's personnel director."

It took me a while to remember where I had heard the name before.

"The one on medical leave?" I asked. "Am I missing something?"

"I got hold of the police report. Apparently somebody tried to kill her."

"No shit."

"No."

"Wow."

Charlie was looking at me like he was trying to gauge my reaction and I finally told him that I still didn't understand why Shawn or I would be interested in this.

He shrugged.

"I told Shawn yesterday," he said. "Police say that Betsy was looking at your article on Saturday on your paper's website and made two calls to the Governor's personal residence on Saturday evening. Whoever drugged her on Sunday tried to erase that record from her computer. Then they tried to make it look like a suicide. Fortunately, she was able to call 9-1-1 before she passed out."

"Holy shit," I said calmly. "What do you think it means?"

"I got no idea," he said. "I was hoping Shawn was going to tell me. Now I'm hoping you can tell me."

It was my turn to shrug.

"I got no idea."

He smiled.

"Will you let me know when you do?" he asked.

"Yours will be the second newspaper I talk to, Charlie."

"Asshole," he said, still smiling.

"Journalist," I reminded him.

"Same thing," we said in unison.

The wheel back to the office produced no answers. It wasn't until Rachel called me into a meeting with Bill McIntyre after lunch that lightning struck.

"Did something happen between you and Shawn?" she asked.

"Something?"

"I'm trying to figure out this e-mail I got at 11:00 last night. The one I read at seven o'clock, just before I called you."

"Rachel, I don't know anything about an e-mail."

I swallowed hard and decided that Rachel needed to know the truth.

"Shawn and I have been dating," I explained. "For about two weeks. She was in my house last Saturday night when I was robbed."

"And you argued?"

"No."

"Why do you think she resigned then?"

"Resigned?"

She passed me the e-mail. It was short and blunt.

Effective immediately, I resign my position with the Charleston Messenger. Shawn

I felt like my heart had stopped. I looked up at Rachel and Bill.

"Why?" 

"I was hoping Shawn was going to tell me," Rachel said. "Now I'm hoping you can tell me."

I stared at her for what seemed an eternity. The words she had just spoken were exactly the same as those Charlie Beckett had used that morning when he was talking about Betsy Day.

It was the final piece in the puzzle. I gasped for air.

"Are you okay?" Bill asked. "Rick?"

"A minute," I said. "Give me a minute."

"I'll get some water," Rachel said. She dashed out and returned with a glass that I downed in a long swallow.

"BDSM," I finally said. "Betsy Day, the Governor's personnel director. B.D."

Rachel got it first.

"And Shawn is . . .?"

I nodded.

"S.M. It all fits."

"But she worked on the story with you," Bill objected.

I was still having a little trouble breathing. It took me another thirty seconds before I could answer him.

"She was working for them. Trying to control the damage. To keep me focused on the money. And off the sex." 

I swallowed and continued.

"The break-in. I told you somebody must have overheard me telling Shawn that the source's number was on my cell phone. But they didn't need to have somebody overhear me. Shawn was there. I told her myself."

I gave a small, harsh laugh.

"I always lock the door of my apartment. And I did on Saturday night. Shawn got up and unlocked it."

And I had just lain there on the bed, waiting for her to return with her glass of ice. Waiting for her to entertain me.

"Oh, Rick," Rachel said. "I'm so sorry."

"Me, too," I said. I could feel a tear running down my right cheek. "Me, too."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Rachel and Bill had both suggested I take Friday off. I had declined. What would I do in my apartment? Besides, I had a story to write. 

Alison listened to my story on Friday morning in stunned silence and -- bless her -- resisted the temptation to tell me that she had told me so. Instead, she began contacting her sources in the Police Department to get a copy of the report that Charlie Beckett had told me about. 

She did Charlie one better. She was friendly with one of the first policewomen to reach the scene. Her friend added a few details, including the story of a clumsy attempt by the State Police to muscle their city colleagues off the case. Curious, Alison made a phone call to a source in State Police Headquarters seeking confirmation. That woman produced a damning e-mail from the Governor's chief of staff demanding that state forces assume jurisdiction.

Alison also learned the police had discovered that Betsy Day had left an e-mail trail of her own. After being unable to reach the Governor by phone, Ms. Day had fired off a note telling him that she had no intention of falling on her sword like Pete Simpson. If she got even one question about "BDSM," she wrote -- initials that must have blazed like a neon sign to her -- she was going to tell everything she knew.

I was keeping busy as well. Around ten, I trekked out to the airport to renew my acquaintance with the men who worked for Jerry's Charter Service with photographs of Pete, Shawn, and Betsy. The guy who had reported seeing the "suit" with the two "babes" boarding the Amalgamated plane couldn't identify the suit to save his life. But babes were another matter. Gentlemen like this always found babes easier to remember. BDSM.

Upon my return, I started going through the corporate directory on the Amalgamated Coal website, looking for "Bill," the man with whom my diarist claimed to have swapped. The only "Bill" senior enough to have been invited on a trip like this was William H. Conde. I picked up the phone and punched the numbers.

It turned out that Conde was a fairly new executive with the company, one who didn't know enough to hang up on me after I managed to talk my way past his secretary. I told him that we had information that he had been on the company's dove-hunting trip to Texas, and that he had brought a companion with him. 

"You can't print that," he whispered.

"Tell me why, Mr. Conde."

"My wife," he said. "My family."

"That is a problem," I agreed. "I'll tell you my problem, Mr. Conde. I don't care who from Amalgamated Coal is screwing who. Until they start screwing the citizens of West Virginia. If all I have is a name at Amalgamated, that's where this article will start and end. If I get more, it won't even start there. Okay?"

There was a long silence.

"Mr. Conde?"

"Yes," he said finally. "Go ahead."

"Was Governor Platte on the trip?"

"Yes."

"Did he bring a companion?"

"Yes?"

"Do you know her name?"

"Betsy something," he said. "Nobody used last names."

"Did his press secretary, Pete Simpson, go on the trip?"

"Yes."

"And his companion?"

"Shawn," he answered. "Again, I never knew her last name."

Even now, I could hear the arousal in his quavering voice. It seemed obvious to me that Bill and I had something in common. We had both slept with Shawn Michaels. But I had to ask.

"Did you and Pete Simpson engage in anything that could be termed 'swapping'?"

"We, um . . ." he began. "We had sex with each other's, um, companions."

"Did you swap with anyone else?"

"No."

"Was there anyone else on the trip named Bill?"

"No. Why are you asking me these questions?"

"I take it you haven't seen the paper this week?"

"I only read the Wall Street Journal," he said.

"Pity," I said. "You miss a lot that way. I hope your wife doesn't take the paper. Now let's talk some more about Governor Platte."

By the time I was finished I had all the information I needed. He didn't know any of the financial details of the trip, but I wasn't really interested in those at this point. He knew plenty about the rest of it. 

Allie and I were still hard at work when the newsroom began to empty out for the weekend. Finally, she pulled her chair over to my cubicle.

"How are you?" she asked.

I looked down at the notes I had finished taking after another series of phone calls.

"Shawn Michaels and Elizabeth Day were on a flight from Houston, Texas to Miami, Florida on the same day that Pete got back here," I told her. "They both flew from Miami to Charleston the following Saturday, when their vacations supposedly ended."

"I'm sorry," she said. "Guess that kind of seals it, huh?"

"Yeah. You know, sometimes it really sucks being a reporter. I'm not sure I really want to know everything."

"She didn't love you, Rick."

"You know, I think she did, just a little. I could hear it in her voice sometimes. Then I blew it out of all proportion, of course."

"Maybe you should turn this over to somebody else."

She laughed when she saw me stiffen in response to her suggestion.

"I'm a reporter," I protested. 

"Can't let our feelings get in the way, can we?" she asked with a smile.

"Nope. Not even a little."

"Public's right to know . . ."

". . . and all that," I finished.

"You're a damn good reporter, Rick Handley," she said. "And a damn good guy. You going to be all right this weekend?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Al. I'm going to be writing."

"Charleston calling Mr. Pulitzer. Phone call for Mr. Pulitzer." 

"From the Charleston Messenger?" I asked. "I don't think he accepts collect calls."

Allie threw back her head and laughed. We both knew I had as much chance of winning a Pulitzer Prize as I did of dating one of the Olsen twins. We both knew that it didn't matter. I had a story to write.

And a whip to master. But I had been practicing journalism for far longer. It was no wonder that I was better at that. 

Ken did his best not to show it, but he was as concerned as I was. 

"You need a day off," he said.

"Now?" I asked. "The fight's a week from fucking tonight!"

It had been a frustrating session even before he shared the "results." Ken had designed an algorithm for measuring success. Or so he claimed. I wouldn't have known an algorithm from an African drum rhythm. What I did know was that my effectiveness with the light whip had plateaued just like my skill with the regular whip had. Now I had a number for it: 43 percent. Up from 38 the day before. Down from 45 the day before that. 

I didn't even have half a chance to win this fight. 

"I know, buddy," Ken said. "You're trying too hard." 

Easy for him to say. Ken had made steady progress. He had been at 84 percent before his injury. 

"Why were you doing it?" I asked.

"Doing what?"

"Fighting the Morling. Why did you agree?"

He gave me an odd look.

"It's my job."

"Fighting aliens?"

"Fighting enemies," he said. 

"Enemies of the United States," I pointed out. "Which doesn't exist."

"It's still my planet." 

He spoke as if that should settle the issue. Maybe for him it did. He turned to Wizen.

"I don't want to see him here tomorrow, sir," he said. "Sunday night is soon enough."

**********

"I want to talk to your Council," I told Wizen on Sunday evening. I had propped myself on my elbows as I lay on his bed.

He looked alarmed.

"Council?" he asked. "I doubt very much that --" 

"I'm the one putting his life on the line for them, aren't I?"

"Yes," he agreed. "For which we have agreed to give you the drug."

"Yeah. How soon can I meet them?"

"Three days?" He pulled a number out of thin air.

"Okay. Just summon me when they're ready. I'll just be sitting in my apartment, waiting for you."

"But your training," he sputtered. "Ken is waiting for us."

"That's true. Tell him it's up to your Council. I wouldn't wait too long if I were them, though. You know better than anyone that I need the practice."

I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes. I opened them again after a few seconds.

"Not going to send me home?" I asked.

"I must consult with Council," he announced. "Francesca!"

Francesca and I had another lovely picnic until Wizen returned. The Council, it appeared, had reluctantly agreed to expedite my appearance.

Karsk, the only councilman I had already met, occupied the center chair of the nine that towered above me behind the shiny steel table. His colleagues were equally colorless, capable of little more than a scowl.

"You wanted to see us," Karsk stated.

"I want to bargain."

"Bargain?"

"The contest is in less than a week. You have no time to find and train a new champion."

"You seek to extort us?" the man on the far right asked.

"I seek to bargain," I repeated. "I fight your champion, you --"

"We give you a drug that allows you to use your legs," another man said, his voice dripping with disdain.

"A reward that doesn't cost you a thing," I countered."

Council exploded into rancor. Karsk hushed them up and asked me what I would prefer.

"My fifteen minutes of fame."




What Feats He Did That Day Pt. 05



"I don't understand."

"An artist of my era said that one day everyone would be entitled to fifteen minutes of fame. I want mine. Fifteen minutes on your comm channel to talk to your people. To explain why I'm doing this. To let them know who I am."

I was aware that it was an extraordinary request. At our picnic, I had asked Francesca if it were possible to communicate with all of the people on the planet. She had explained the existence of the comm channel, although she had never seen it used.

Council excused me while they discussed it. I had them over a barrel, though. And it wasn't a request in which they could discern any immediate harm. They would activate the comm channel the following evening.

I thanked them and joined Wizen, who had waited in the antechamber.

"What did you receive?" he asked.

"Home field advantage," I answered.

We proceeded to the arena. Balloons trembled at the approach of my flychair. I reached 68 percent.

**********

"So, get any?" Allie asked me on Monday morning.

I leaned back and laughed.

"How quickly do you imagine I work?" I asked.

"The old Rick?" she answered. "The old Rick would still be pining over Shawn Michaels. This Rick? I wouldn't be surprised if you had a threesome over the weekend."

"In my dreams," I said with a laugh. Actually, I had had a threesome in one of my dreams. But that had been several weeks ago now.

"No," I continued. "I just wrote. Take a look."

I tossed the story to her. 

"Rick you don't have to do this," she said, gesturing at the byline. By Rick Handley and Alison Coles.

"Read the rest," I said. "Maybe you won't want it there."

We both knew that wasn't true. She grew more and more excited as she read the story. Rachel and Bill came in half an hour later and the two of us joined them in a conference room.

"This is great, Rick," Bill said after he had read it. "Don't you have somewhere you're supposed to be in fifteen minutes?"

"I don't think so."

Bill looked at Rachel and raised an eyebrow.

"Shit," Rachel said. "You're officially the new statehouse reporter. I forgot to tell you."

I stared at her.

"Sorry," she smiled.

"Bitch," I muttered. "I can't make that briefing on time." 

They both laughed.

"As long as you make tomorrow's," Rachel said. "You can call up a buddy about today's. Now let's get back to work. It may eventually be a great article, but the middle part is too weak. Back to work, people."

It took until Monday afternoon to get it finished to the satisfaction of everyone in the chain of command. That left my Monday night free to do some writing of my own.

**********

"People of Earth!"

It had sounded a lot more impressive when I had practiced it in front of the mirror. Now it sounded hokey. I decided to press on.

"My name is Rick. Uh, Rick Handley."

Perhaps a public speaking course in college would have been a good idea.

"This coming Friday I am going to do battle on your behalf against a creature called a Morling. The Morlings are from another star system and -- Jesus Christ! Is that a Morling? That thing is twenty fucking feet tall!"

Karsk had put me on a split-screen and flashed a picture of a horrible creature on the other half. It had green, scaly skin and a vaguely humanoid face with a wide mouth stretched in a sneer between two upward tusks. What would correspond to thighs on my body were easily as big as my torso. And it had four arms, an upper set that came from its shoulders and a lower set that grew from somewhere out of its back.

"You are a fucking son of a bitch," I muttered.

"You wanted them to have the truth," he said with a sneer of his own.

I turned back to the camera.

"That's very true. I did want you to have the truth. Your Council believes that you would be better off never knowing about this fight taking place. If I win, life goes on as usual. If I lose, you all wake one morning to find yourselves living under alien rule, never knowing what your Council did, or could have done, to stop it.

"Where I come from we refuse to let our government tell us what was best for us. Freedom of the press, the freedom to find out what our government was doing and let everyone know about it -- is the single most important of our liberties. And as Benjamin Franklin, one of the founders my country, once said, 'They who would give up an essential liberty for temporary security deserve neither liberty nor security.' Thomas Jefferson, another founder, said, 'The press is the best instrument for enlightening the mind of man, and improving him as a rational, moral and social being.' I am a member of that press, and it is my job to tell the people what the government wants us to tell them and also what it does not."

I glanced over at Karsk, who was clearly upset at the tenor of my little presentation. It was time to back off. For a little bit.

"But I'm not here to tell you how to run your society. I'm only here to help you try to keep it. And to do that I need you. The fight will take place this Friday in the former Rose Bowl. What I need is your hopes and prayers for my success. I need to know that you're pulling for me. If you can come and cheer me on, that would be even better. I'll fight better knowing that the people of Earth are behind me."

The rest of my little talk went pretty much along the same lines. A paragraph devoted to my handicap. Then a paragraph devoted to the need to study history. A section on the wonderful work done by Wizen to get me her to fight the Morling. Then a section on journalism.

During the last part, the comm channel that I was using to monitor the broadcast went dark.

"You cut it off," I protested.

"Your fifteen minutes was up," Karsk said. "Are you happy with your bargain, my friend? Giving up the use of your legs? Was your little speech worth it?"

It wasn't a great speech. But I was still happy with my choice. I smiled at him as enigmatically as I could. I left the room, picked up Wizen, and headed back to the arena for another session of training.

We didn't speak along the way. But we did pass a man and his son. Their eyes remained on the ground until we got closer. But then the boy lifted his eyes to mine. He smiled. I winked at him. 

That evening I scored eighty-one percent.

"Not too shabby," Ken said.

"Nope," I agreed.

"I was thinking about something. You know how I got injured?"

"Something to do with glass and mirrors?" 

"I was wondering whether we could turn that to our advantage. If you were to throw your whip at the ground . . ."

"Disarm myself?" I asked.

"May I?" he asked.

He reached for the whip and took it in his left hand. He thumbed it open and waited until he had a ten-foot rope. He turned suddenly and slapped it toward the ground. I cringed, waiting for it to snap back again and slice off his left arm. Instead, he thumbed it closed. As his earlier accident, it took but a single stroke to both glassify the sand and reflect the rope on its chosen path. This time, the free strand of rope flew upward, bursting one of the balloons directly in front of us.

"That's not too shabby either," I admitted. 

**********

My article appeared on Tuesday morning.

On Wednesday the Governor of West Virginia submitted his resignation to the Secretary of State. Lieutenant Governor Melissa Stewart was sworn in to take his place.

On Thursday, I was up to 93 percent efficiency with the laser whip. I decided to try Ken's trick. It worked well the first time. But I didn't quite thumb the control closed fast enough on my second attempt. I managed to duck quickly enough to avoid any injury to my arm. But I did feel my cheek sliced open. Blood trickled down my cheek. I turned back to Karsk and Slisken.

"I don't suppose either of you fellows has a Band-Aid?" I asked.

**********

The day of the fight was boring, at least in real life. The excitement of getting a new governor had settled down. She had appeared at Thursday's press conference herself, answering questions about her plans for the next two hours. She had impressed all of us with her knowledge and determination. But Friday morning she had given the podium back to Krissy. And Krissy, newly installed as press secretary, had transformed herself into the very model of an efficient, informed spokesperson. She screwed up only one tiny thing. She must have studied the manual overnight. This was going to be no fun at all.

I spent Friday afternoon finishing the last of the obituaries that I had been assigned. On Monday morning, I would be the full-time statehouse correspondent of the Charleston Messenger.

"Well, I'm off to spend the weekend with Eric's parents. How about you? Headed for a bar to pick up babes?" 

"Right," I said with a laugh. "Based on my byline in the paper?"

"No." She shook her finger at me. "Based on the fact that you've gotten so damn sexy in the last few weeks. Even today you look different."

"Lack of sleep," I said.

"That's not it. I mean, I can see that in your eyes. But there's something else. Something sexy."

"Thanks," I said with a smile. "You're nice to say so, Allie. Maybe it's this unshaven look."

I passed my hand over the stubble on my chin. I had been so focused on the fight when I woke up that shaving had completely slipped my mind.

"Or maybe it's that scar," she said. She waggled her eyebrows at me.

"What scar?"

My fingers went right to it, though, even as I asked the question. Right to the scar on the right-hand side of my chin. The one that Wizen had said would always be there after he had healed it with some sort of electric gadget. I absent-mindedly fingered it as I stared off into space.

"So what are you doing this weekend?" Alison asked.

I felt a surge of energy coursing through me as I turned to answer her. I could see the change reflected in Alison's expression. Her eyes suddenly widened and she pulled back, as if I had suddenly grown larger. 

My voice was firm and confident. I was conscious of a smile playing across my lips and a twinkling in my eyes. 

"I'm saving the planet."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Rick Handley, time traveler. The warrior of the future. God, this was cool.

Rachel and Bill stopped by after Alison had left and invited me to go out for a drink to celebrate my new assignment this week. I declined. I didn't think it was a good idea for my long-term future at the paper to have my supervisors watch me grining like an idiot and touching my jaw all evening as if I had some sort of obsessive-compulsive order.

There had been hints all along that the whole thing wasn't a dream. For one thing, Wizen had explicitly told me that. As I had told Andy, however, that was exactly what I would expect a character in my dream to say. My teachers had always told me that I had an excellent imagination. I could have dreamed it up; that was well within the realm of possibility. Unlike the alternative -- the idea that the whole thing wasn't a dream: now there was something outside the realm.

As I ate dinner and watched a ball game on Friday, the realization that the fight would be real, with real consequences for both me and my descendants, slowly began to terrify me. The result was that when I finally did crawl into bed, I was much too excited to sleep. Halfway through my second sleepless hour of the night, I was suddenly struck with panic. What would happen if I didn't go to sleep at all? Would the Earth perish? Would my descendants be enslaved? I shut my eyes tightly, determined to keep them closed until I nodded off.

Then I remembered that evening with Alison's friend Parker. Wizen had snatched me when I wasn't even asleep, when we were in the middle of foreplay. I didn't need to be asleep for that son-of-a-bitch Wizen to work his magic. 

"Is something wrong, Richard?"

I blinked my eyes open. Wizen and Francesca stood side-by-side at the foot of the bed. 

"Wrong?" I asked.

"You seemed quite angry when you appeared," Francesca said. "Perhaps he was just steeling himself for battle, Father."

"Right," I said. "That must have been it. I see you guys are going formal, huh? You look great."

Both had exchanged their normal robes for more colorful attire. Wizen's robe was white, and decorated at all the edges with embroidered vines of a color green that I had never seen before. Francesca's robe was an exquisite pale blue with a velvet border on the collar and cuffs that most closely resembled fresh cream.

The robes stood in contrast to their somber expressions.

"You two look like you're going to a funeral," I cracked. It wasn't until I saw their eyes drop to the ground that I realized what I had said.

"Sorry," I mumbled. "Poor choice of words. Any last-minute details, Mr. Wizard?"

Council had been in negotiations with the Morling fleet for the past day.

"Your chair has been slowed to that of a normal human run," Wizen said. "And you will not be able to fly higher than the Morling's head."

"So nowhere near as high as one of its arms, huh?"

Wizen's face took on an anguished look. 

"Hey, it's no problem," I assured him. "I get nauseous flying that high and that fast, anyway. Well, we'd best get this show on the road, huh?"

"What would you like for your attire?" Francesca asked.

I looked down. I was in the plain tan robe that they usually dressed me in when I arrived.

"How about a pair of jeans?" I asked.

"Jeans?" Wizen said. "What are jeans?"

He turned to Francesca.

"Do you know anything about jeans?" he asked her.

Her blush was exceptionally becoming. Evidently "jeans" were in fashion only among the younger set. She waved her arm and my robe was gone, replaced with a nice, tight pair of Levis. 

"And on top?" she asked, gesturing at my naked chest.

"I think we'll just leave it like this," I said. I was as proud of my pecs as I was of my arms. Rambo had nothing on me. Other than functional legs of course.

I brought the flychair over and climbed in. Together we proceeded down the corridors. I could tell that something had changed immediately. We passed another boy, this one walking with his mother.

"Good luck, Rick!" he called out. 

His mother quickly hushed him but gave me a shy smile as we passed. 

I knew exactly where Francesca turned away every time she escorted me to the arena. When we passed it this time, still three abreast, I stopped in mid-flight and turned to her.

"Your cheering section may be small," she said before I could speak. "But we will do our best to be loud."

But it would not be small either. Even from underneath the Rose Bowl, in the tunnel where I was to make my final preparations for the fight, I could feel the crowd in the seats above me. It was not that they were noisy -- these people were not experienced spectators -- but that their hopes and fears were nearly palpable.

Karsk, Slisken, and Ken awaited me in the room that led to the floor of the arena. They were standing with another flychair.

"We have prepared this one for you," Karsk said as I approached.

"He prepared it," Ken said with disgust. "I had nothing to do with it."

"Because?" I asked Karsk.

"The bottom is mirrored," he answered with a sly smile. 

"And it responds to my brain, like this one?" I asked.

"Yes," Slisken said.

The chair rose and dropped in response to my commands. And then it flew toward the wall, slammed into it at full speed, and dropped to the floor, utterly useless.

"I like this one," I said. "But thanks."

Ken offered me his hand.

"Good luck," he said.

"Thanks, pal."

Slisken and Wizen bowed toward me and wished me well. Francesca stepped forward and kissed me on the cheek.

"Thank you, Rick," she whispered.

Only Karsk stood between me and the door.

"On behalf of Council . . ." he began formally.

"Oh, tell Council to fuck off," I said. I turned and winked at my friends and then flew around Karsk to open the door.

I flew into the arena. The cheer from the crowd deafened me. The sunlight blinded me. And then just as quickly the crowd went silent. I knew the reason why. The Morling had entered from the other side. As my vision cleared, I saw him lumber toward the center, his mouth curled in its perpetual sneer. He played his light whip from side to side, as if to ensure me of his mastery.

I did the same as I flew to meet him. I wanted to let him know that he was in for a fight. I reached the center first, of course. The only advantage that we humans appeared to have over Morlings was our speed. That probably went along with our flight reflex, which was doing its best to overcome my training and courage.

"The chair has been explained to you?" I yelled as he closed to within twenty feet.

"Yes." His voice was a hoarse bass. Green saliva dripped from his tusk-filled mouth as he spoke. "It runs away at the same speed as Earthers. It will not help you, Earther."

"Perhaps not," I said with a smile. 

I sent the chair into a flip to the right at the precise instant that his lower right arm came forward -- the one he had held behind his back, and to which he transferred the whip in one smooth motion.

It was a standard Morling trick. Right out of the Morling whip-fighting handbook, so to speak. It was not until after my broadcast that it had occurred to either Ken or I that Council would have film of the earlier Morling fights. It had not occurred to Council that it might be important. They didn't have Ken's experience with fighting, however. They also didn't have my unshakeable faith in the infallibility of video replay.

The first fight was of little use to me beyond exposing the Morling's opening move. He whipped out his lower right arm and the whip neatly cut his opponent in half just below the torso. 

The second fighter had at least been prepared for that move. He had ducked and rolled. He had struck out with his own whip. And a surprised Morling had not moved fast enough to avoid the lash. But the wound was not close to mortal. A few thigh scales fell to the floor of the arena. And then the Morling had begun to hunt.

He had stalked his opponent across the floor, forcing him into a corner where he could easily cut off the human's escape. The human had retreated, completely negating his speed. Instead, the fight had become a matter of the Morling's far longer reach. The human could grow his whip, but the longer it got, the harder it was to control. The Morling's victory had taken considerably longer this time -- seven minutes -- but was just as certain. In the end, the ugly thing had stood over his second victim and beat his chest in triumph.

As I rolled away in anticipation of the Morling's first strike, I heard his whip whistle by my face, something which my training had never simulated. I lashed out with my own whip and watched it miss by a good five feet.

The fight was on.

Ken and I had decided that I needed to take advantage of the one benefit that the flychair conferred on me: unlimited stamina. Unlike a legged human, I could move constantly, darting in to strike and then moving out to present a smaller target. We had learned, as the Morlings no doubt had known for centuries, that the whips had a break-even point. That was the setting at which the production of new light almost matched the disappearance of the light at the tip. So there was always an optimal distance at which to use the whip. Because of the difference in the length of our arms, that distance was closer for me than it was for the Morling. 

Now all I had to do was actually hit him with the whip.

That was proving harder than I would have imagined. The Morling was almost a stationary target. It was way bigger than any of the balloons I'd been destroying. But I had to spend so much time playing defense that my offense suffered. I decided to retreat for a moment to settle my nerves.




What Feats He Did That Day Pt. 05



My flying backward emboldened the Morling. His mouth widened into what his fellow Morlings probably took to be a smile. To me it just looked like a way for him to drool more.

His whip lashed out again but I was just out of range. He took a plodding step after me and struck at me again. As I ducked to the right, I realized that he was fighting the last fight he had had against a human. The human retreated, the Morling followed, and victory was his.

Not this time, Charlie. I retreated a little more and he chased me. Then I suddenly sent the chair forward at its highest speed, aiming just to the left of his chest. Before he could react, I had passed flown his upper and lower arms. I turned as I flew by, judged the distance, and snapped my light whip. I heard his bellow and the roar of the crowd before I noticed his lower right arm lying on the ground. I had severed it at the equivalent of the elbow.

It hadn't been a bellow of pain, though, but one of rage. Evidently these Morlings didn't injure easily. That would be a problem. Another problem would be the ease with which he retrieved his whip. He reached down with his lower left hand and grabbed the cylinder that had fallen to the ground. The fucker was ambidextrous.

I was stunned to learn that, so stunned that his next attack caught me unprepared. He cracked his whip as he turned around. I rolled to the side but not anywhere near in time. The tip of the whip grazed my upper left arm, tearing open a piece of the skin. 

The crowd gasped and I was could see, out of the corner of my eyes, that they had leapt to their feat. The pain was nearly unbearable and I was sure that when I looked down I would find the arm bloody and mangled. But the cut was neat and virtually bloodless. The whip had apparently cauterized all of the blood vessels that it had severed.

The Morling completed his turn and opened his remaining three arms wide as he roared at me. I decided that it was time to implement our plan. I retreated again as I circled the whip around my head. When I judged the distance right, I brought it straight down toward the ground.

My timing was perfect. I clicked off the light flow at the precise instant needed to send the rope hurtling toward the Morling. My aim was perfect. It flew straight toward his face, a 10-foot snake of writhing light.

But my luck had run out. The Morling had taken another step toward me and had stumbled over his own arm lying on the floor of the arena. He nearly went down to his knees; it was low enough, at any rate, to allow the light rope to sail harmlessly over his head. He staggered forward and once again I learned that I had been too slow to react. As the whip rushed toward me from overhead, I turned a somersault to the right. 

This time, he had taken that into account. I heard a sickening scream of metal as the whip sliced through the bottom of my chair. I lost power immediately and began tumbling toward the ground. The crowd gasped again. And as I saw the ground rising to meet me, I held out my hands in a futile attempt to brace my fall. The last thing I remember thinking was that a mirror on the bottom of the chair would have been a very handy thing to have.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I was probably unconscious for no more than a minute. It was long enough for the Morling to move astride me, standing there and beating his chest as if he had just slain a dragon. I was aware that my left arm was broken. It had evidently taken all my weight along with that of the flychair. The flychair now pinned me to the ground. My right arm, which still gripped the still functioning light whip, appeared to be undamaged. 

I pushed the thumb control forward as the Morling began his usual victory oration. His head was directly above my own, so that as he spoke, he showered me with his hideous spittle.

"Finally," he said, "a worthy foe. I congratulate you, Earthers, for finally selecting a true competitor. I honor this human."

He paused, evidently looking around the arena to share his triumph.

"He has lasted longer against a Morling than any being in known space."

That was small consolation, in my view. I tested my left arm. It hurt like hell, but the fracture wasn't compound. Blinking through the agony, I felt myself lifting the chair up off me. I was never going to be able to push it off all the way; my hope was to simply gain enough room to let me roll over.

"The story of his death will be told on planets across the galaxy."

Also very kind of him. I turned my body to the right, hoping to roll onto my back. At the same time, I could feel the closeness of his hand. He entwined what passed for fingers in my hair. He pulled me even closer to him. Perfect, I thought. Just let him hold me up for another second or two.

"I shall mount his head upon my wall of honor."

The hell you will. I whipped my right hand, along with the whip, beneath my body. The whip followed. As I twisted myself in his grip, I sent the whip toward his head, my one last chance to snatch victory from the hideous tusked jaws of planetary defeat.

I had miscalculated. As usual. The whip was far too long to pick up any speed. It was far too long to do any damage. He made no effort to get out of its way. He just stood there, his head no more than ten feet above mine, his greenish saliva dripping into my face and eyes, and let the light rope coil around his neck -- once, twice, and then a third time.

The Morling caught me in his gaze and raised his light whip above his head to deliver my death blow. He sneered at me. I smiled at him. Then I flicked my wrist to try to free the whip from his neck. I felt it tighten around his neck more than I saw it. What I did see, quite clearly, was his head separate from his body and fall toward me. Followed, very quickly, by the rest of his body.

**********

I woke up in a room that I had never seen before. I was lying in an extraordinarily comfortable bed. That alone suggested I was no longer in the future. Wizen's bed had been cold and metallic. This was soft and plush. The rest of the room was equally plush. The walls were a painted a rich red. The floor was carpeted -- carpeted! -- with what appeared to be a thick blue pile. There were two ornate oak doors, one at each end of the room.

For a minute I entertained the idea that perhaps I had died, and that heaven was actually a bordello. Sweet. But then I glanced to the corner and saw my flychair. I hadn't died after all. I summoned the flychair and was quite surprised to find myself completely free of pain. My left arm felt weak but moved freely. Even the tear on my shoulder had been repaired.

As I climbed into the chair, one of the doors opened. She walked in with a radiant smile that I had also never seen before

"Francesca!" 

"Rick," she said. "The physicians tell me your recovery is complete."

"The arm?" I asked. I waved it in the air. 

"It will take a while for the muscles to recover," she said. Then she grew serious. "We tried to repair your legs but the atrophy was far too great. Apparently our drugs only work on a more recent injury. I am sorry, Rick."

"I'd already bargained that away, Francesca. Apparently I'm an even better negotiator than I knew."

"But the rest is fine, "she continued. "The broken jaw, the shattered cheekbones, the broken femur, the ruptured spleen."

"Shit," I said. "I thought I'd done pretty well."

"You did most wonderfully well, Rick Handley." Francesca practically glowed with happiness. "The Morlings have kept their word and departed. You are healed and well enough to joke with us. Please accept my humblest thanks for the service that you have done us."

"Eh," I said, waving a hand at her. "It was nothing, ma'am."

"It was very much indeed, Rick. It has been decided that when you were healed, you would be greeted by twenty-six virgins."

She clapped her hands and a parade of girls, each more beautiful than the next, began to stream out of the door she had left open when she entered. I met Alessa, Branay, and Caskie. I met Karrsten, Lessar, and Minkala. I met Weslin, Xandra, and Yassmin. They filed past me. The first three shyly shook my hand. The next girl, Dmeter, was slightly braver and kissed my cheek. After Natal, they turned into full mouth kisses. By the time Trenya pushed her tongue between my closed lips, I was completely unaware of anything else. When I was finally able to look up, I was a little surprised to see Francesca ushering Zarras back out of the room through the other door.

"That was it?" I said. "Just a greeting?"

"You expected more?" Francesca asked, once again filling the room with that musical laugh. "You are a greedy man, Rick Handley."

"I am," I admitted. "Plus I was shorted."

"Shorted?" she asked.

"There were only twenty-five," I said. I looked toward the open door, waiting for the final virgin.

"You counted?" She laughed again.

"Well, no," I answered, still looking toward the door. "They showed up in groups of five. Five groups, five each, all alphabetical."

"And which letter did you miss?" she asked.

It took me a minute to figure it out.

"F," I said slowly. 

I turned to look just in time to see Francesca drop her gown to the floor behind her. She stood there, her blonde hair framing a face that I could not believe I ever thought unattractive. She was beautiful. Her body was perfect, from the smallish cherry-tipped breasts to the long, exquisitely muscled legs.

There was only one thing lacking: confidence. There was a look on her face that I was used to seeing only in a mirror. The last three women whom I had "dated" -- Parker, Angie, and Shawn -- had confidence in abundance. They knew exactly what effect they had on men.

Francesca simply had no idea. As I paused to drink in her beauty, I became aware of a doubt flashing across her face. And I still couldn't bring myself to speak.

"No?" she whispered. A tear formed in the corner of one of her eyes.

I held out my arms to her.

"Most definitely yes," I said.

She ran across the room to me.

"Are you sure," I asked as she came to a halt in front of me, "that you don't want to save this for a man you --" 

She quieted me with a finger across my lips.

"I have saved it for a man I will love forever," she said.

I looked up at her and opened my mouth. I slowly sucked her finger between my lips and watched in awe as she closed her eyes and trembled.

I put my arms around her waist and pulled her to me. She tumbled into my lap and began to kiss me with passionate hunger. I kissed her back, with the profound gratitude I felt for the gift she was giving me, and with the sheer raw joy I felt to still be alive.

We were an odd couple: a virgin in her late twenties who had no clue what to do; and a paraplegic whose only sexual technique involved the use of an arm that didn't quite function properly. We spent the night laughing, crying, teasing, touching, and ultimately loving. By the end of the evening, we fit together perfectly. It was the most special night of my life. Our parting the next morning was far more bitter than it was sweet.

**********

"So how'd that saving the planet thing go?" Alison asked when she arrived at work on Monday morning. Her tone was just what I needed to bring me down to Earth.

"Just fine," I said with a shrug. I rapped my hand on the desk of my cubicle. "Knock on simulated wood veneer nothing else happens while I'm gone. How were the prospectives?"

"Not quite as far away as I'd like them," she answered. "I suppose it's normal to have doubts about getting married, isn't it?"

"Sure," I said. It occurred to me that they didn't usually follow this closely behind the engagement but it wasn't my place to say that. Allie was smart. Smart enough to trust her heart.

We chatted about this and that for another half hour before I had to leave for the week's first press conference. As everyone had expected, Betsy Day would not be returning to her job. Krissy introduced her replacement and invited me to ask the first question, wholly unaware of the irony of her suggestion.

"I'm sure you'll do an excellent job, Ms. Dalrymple," I said in lieu of a real question.

"Please, Mr. Handley. Call me Suzanne."

A mocking "oooh" drifted forward from the back of the room.

"Don't mind them, Suzanne," I said, raising my voice above the din. "They're a very jealous bunch."

"I'll keep that in mind," Suzanne said. Her eyes were dancing. "Does anybody have any actual questions?"

There were a few questions. There would always be a few questions. They were innocuous. They produced innocuous answers. It would be that way for the next year. 

In fact, the next year turned out to be an incredibly boring time to be on the statehouse beat. Our new governor was almost too good to be true: ethical, competent, inspirational, empathetic. And on and on. We spent a few months trying to prove that it wasn't true, but in the end we all gave up. The state had gotten very lucky.

I won a couple of newspaper awards, although the Pulitzer eluded me. I tried to turn the ones I did get into jobs with bigger newspapers in Pittsburgh and Cleveland. I made it to the interview stage both times. 

I did date during the year. I even dated Suzanne, but we had too much history together. 

I made love a few times. I even had a "relationship." She dumped me in the spring. She said she needed more adventure in her life. It wasn't me, of course; it was her.

So I didn't have a date for Alison and Eric's wedding. I was one of Eric's groomsmen -- a bargain for making Eric's sister one of Allie's bridesmaids. Allie had gone back and forth with her doubts. In the end, though, she had decided that she loved Eric and that she wanted nothing more than to be his wife. I supported her as best I could. 

The wedding was lovely. Aren't they always. Angie was her sister's maid of honor. She brought a boyfriend who wasn't Brad Pitt but who was pretty damn close. Still, she did me the honor of a turn on the dance floor while she sat in my lap on the wheelchair. I danced with Alison. I danced with Rachel. Rachel even invited me out afterward for a drink. I declined. Rachel was a beautiful woman, but I had come to realize over the past year that none of the women I had met were "it." Maybe that was why I had only had the one relationship.

Sam was waiting to pick me up when the wedding ended. He drove me back to my apartment. I wheeled myself over to the couch and just sat there in my tuxedo and bow tie.

"Bring me back, Mr. Wizard," I murmured. "Back to the future."

I closed my eyes and smiled. Another movie. I really had to start reading more books.

I felt a change in the air and blinked my eyes open. I was lying on Wizen's bed again. The room was quiet, except for the hum of the machinery that Wizen had built to transport me through time. Neither he nor Francesca was around. But there in the corner was my flychair. It came when I summoned it as if it had only been a day since I had left and not a year.

After I found nobody at home, I flew into the corridor. I met a man almost immediately. He was wearing a particularly fine robe of pale blue. His friendly brown eyes found mine almost immediately. 

"Rick Handley," he said in an astonished tone. He thrust his hand toward me. "I am Petrous. It is an honor to meet you."

"Hi," I muttered. I was equally astonished. No one had even been honored to meet me. No one had ever offered to shake my hand in this era. It felt strange.

"You are puzzled by the handshake," he said.

"Yes," I answered. I nearly jerked my hand back. A mind reader?

"Ever since your speech I have devoted myself to the study of history. It is fascinating. I have done my best to revive this custom. Thank you so much."

"Uh, sure," I said. "No problem."

"It was a year ago today, was it not? Your victory over the Morling?"

I thought for a moment. It was indeed exactly a year.

"You have come for the ceremony, I do not doubt," he continued. "They will be pleased."

I followed him down the corridors to a large room. He found a seat and I hovered at the back.

I found a hard lump in my throat when I finally realized what it was. Francesca stood at the front in a robe of pure white. Wizen stood next to her and next to him was a kindly looking man with his arm raised as if in blessing. On his other side were three people: two men and a woman.

Francesca held something in her arms. I heard a cry and she lowered her head to look and whisper. It was a baby. This was a christening. One of the men must be her husband. Perhaps the beautiful young man with whom she would have been licensed to have two children waited for her all this time. That would make the other couple the child's godparents. I found myself trembling but it was too late to leave now.

"And the name?" the man in the middle, now quite obviously the priest, asked Francesca.

"Rick," she said. "Rick Handley."

There was a murmur of approval. The priest smiled. I couldn't help but smile myself. Naming their son Rick Handley Whatever was a very nice thing to do.

"Then I name thee --" He paused. "No middle name? Petrous tells us that the custom was to have three names."

Francesca turned to her father with a look of despair.

"I don't know," she said. "Father, I don't know his middle name."

With a start, I realized that she was talking about me. She wanted to know my middle name. Handley wasn't going to be his middle name. It was going to be his last name. I found myself unable to breathe. This was my son.

From deep within me, I summoned the strength to command the wheelchair to rise. I cleared my throat and spoke.

"My middle name is Fort," I said. 

The entire gathering turned, their faces stunned.

"It's a family name," I explained. "But I would be honored if he could have Wizen as his middle name."

"Rick!"

As carefully as she could, Francesca thrust the child into her stunned father's arms and took at a dead run toward me. Only the anti-gravity device in the chair prevented us from both from tumbling backward as she jumped into my lap and began kissing me. I kissed her back, although perhaps without the same passion.

"Is something wrong?" she finally asked.

"Not at all," I said with a smile. "May I meet your husband?"

"My what?"

"Your husband. The beautiful young man you married."

I gestured toward the front of the room. She looked and then burst out laughing. 

"Rick Handley," she said. "Did I not say I would love you forever?"

"Well, yes."

"Those are my friends. Our child's two godfathers. We thought it best since his real . . ."

She began to cry.

"Since his real father was lost in the past."

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked. "Why didn't your father summon me?"

"My father has never summoned you, Rick. He merely created the channel by which you came. It has always been your choice."

By then Wizen had joined us in the back of the room. He cradled our son in his arms.

"We left the channel open after you returned home," he said. "In case you wanted to visit."

"But the power," I said. "You said it took an enormous amount of power."

"We persuaded Council to adopt our suggestion. We -- what is the expression? -- petitioned them for the redress of our grievances."

I smiled and buried my head for a moment in my darling's shoulder. It was another minute before I could speak again.

"Forever?" I asked softly.

"For all time," Wizen said. "So you may come and go as you please."

"Thank you, my friend."

Wizen accepted an old-fashioned handshake. Then he handed me my son.

"You will stay?" Francesca asked. "For a while?"

"I will stay," I said. "Take my place at the christening. Play with my son. Probably fall in love."

I raised an eyebrow at Francesca to see the tears rimming her eyes and the smile on her face grow even larger.




What Feats He Did That Day Pt. 05



I looked over at Wizen.

"After that?" I said, playing with Ricky's chubby little finger as I pondered the question. "I'm thinking of starting a newspaper."

*

My thanks go out, first and foremost, to my editor, Hermit, without whom this would be a far poorer, and far more poorly written, story. My thanks also to those of you who have read the whole story, and particularly those who have sent me e-mails encouraging me, e-mails gently pointing out errors, both typographical and substantive, and even e-mails disagreeing with my choice of words or plot. I have read them all. Now that this story is finished -- the first multi-chapter "saga" I have finished in the past year -- I would love to hear from even more of you. Please let me know what you thought. Thank you. Marsh