I hope your committee will not permit doubts as to constitutionality, however reasonable, to block the suggested legislation.
—Franklin Delano Roosevelt,
Discussing the Active Registration Act, 1933
San Francisco, California
Three Months Later
The front page of the newspaper was just as frustrating as usual. Roosevelt’s Hundred Days were continuing, rolling out program after program. Only one of which really interested Jake Sullivan, and even though they knew about him, he’d be damned if he was going to obey any Active Registration Act on principle, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to wear an armband in public with the floating anvil logo that identified him as a Heavy.
In other news, the OCI hearings were still going on, despite Bradford Carr managing to hang himself to death with a shoelace in his jail cell. The Grimnoir were in the clear, but most of the Society was very uncomfortable being icons to a large section of the population. George Bolander’s legend had grown faster than the plant life in Oklahoma, and the now famous photograph of Heinrich Koenig bounding across the god of demon’s back wielding a pickax had helped catch the public’s imagination as well. Heinrich was rather proud of that photo. For a group that had fought in secrecy its entire existence, becoming public heroes took a bit of getting used to.
“Mr. Sullivan! Mr. Sullivan! A moment of your time, sir?”
He lowered the paper, scowling at the reporter. Sullivan wasn’t used to being well known either. Even though he’d only been Public Enemy Number One for a few days before the warrant had been rescinded, it was hard to shake off that level of infamy. Plus, he was one of only a handful of people who had been identified in the newspapers as a knight of the Grimnoir, which meant that no matter how much he hated the idea, nor how uncomfortable it made him, he was now one of the public faces of the Society. Most of the others were lucky enough not to have been identified by the OCI, which meant that they didn’t have great big targets painted on them for the Imperium or any of the many other groups that the Grimnoir had pissed off over the years.
“Please, Mr. Sullivan, just a few words with you?”
There was no use beating around the bush. He had never been good at keeping a low profile anyway, and the reporter’s shrill voice had got the attention of everyone else sitting in the lobby of the UBF station. Now folks were looking at him. “What do you want?”
The reporter stood there with a notepad and a pencil. “A quote on what you think of the President’s latest proposal.”
“For the needs of a nation? Sounds like horseshit to me.”
“We can’t print that, Mr. Sullivan.”
He checked his watch. It was about time to go anyway. He had a flight to catch. Standing up, he towered over the reporter. “What do you want me to say?”
“Well, our readers want to know what the reaction to the ARA is—”
Sullivan held up one big hand. He didn’t like being seen as a spokesman. Nobody had voted him in. If they wanted somebody who could say something well-reasoned and eloquent they could talk to Dan who was serving as their voice in D.C., or if they wanted something impassioned they could talk to Francis who was back running UBF. All Sullivan was good for was honesty. “I’ll tell you what I think of the registration act.”
The reporter got ready to scribble furious notes. All of the other passengers waiting for dirigibles were watching him now too. Some of them kindly, others suspiciously, and a few with outright hatred on their faces. “Go ahead, sir.”
“FDR can go to hell. I’m a man. Not a type, not a number, and sure as hell not something that can be summed up as a logo to wear on my sleeve. A man. And I ain’t registering nothing.”
“The president says that having Actives identify their Powers in public will keep everyone safer, what do you think of that?”
Sullivan picked up his bags, over two hundred pounds in each hand, and tried to walk away.
“Where are you going?”
“On a trip.”
The reporter followed him. “Do you really intend to flaunt the law, Mr. Sullivan?”
“Yes. I do.”
“But the penalties are steep. Fines, imprisonment, they’re even talking about—”
Sullivan stepped into the elevator. “I’ll deal with that when I get back, but right now I got bigger fish to fry.”
The doors began to close, but the reporter shouted one last question. “And what could possibly be more important?”
Sullivan didn’t answer until the elevator doors had slid shut and he was alone. “Saving the world.”
The cargo was almost loaded. The last of the crew had arrived. The brand new airship docked at the private section of the air station was the most advanced craft ever built by United Blimp & Freight. They were ready to depart.
“Jake Sullivan, reporting for duty, Captain.”
Bob Southunder was standing on the catwalk, hands clasped behind his back, inspecting his new ship. “Good morning, Sullivan.” They’d needed an experienced captain and crew, and there was nobody who knew the business better than Pirate Bob and his marauders. “The last of Browning’s crates have been delivered.”
Sullivan had already said his goodbyes to John. The Cog had spent the last couple of months building some new weapons systems for this mission, and he’d kept Sullivan busy testing them out. Sullivan was rather excited to try the Spiker Armor in action. Some of the defensive gadgets and improvements that Buckminster Fuller had come up with though . . . Now those made him nervous.
Southunder went back to critically examining the airship. “What do you think of her?”
The Traveler was a twin-hulled dirigible with lots of horsepower and guns. “Francis said she’s fast and packs one hell of a punch.”
“I still miss my Zeppelin, but I do believe she’ll do nicely. I’m not so sure about the crew, though. They don’t have to like each other, but they do need to trust each other. Otherwise accidents can happen out on the sky. In my experience I’ve found that the judgmental ones tend to fall overboard, must be their swollen heads throwing off their balance.”
Everyone aboard was a volunteer who knew the risks. Southunder was like a father to his pirates, and Sullivan trusted the knights that were accompanying them. Heinrich had seen to the recruiting, and Sullivan knew that the Fade had put together a solid bunch. So there was only one person who Southunder could be talking about. “He’ll do what he’s supposed to.”
“We can’t have one bad apple always looking for trouble.”
“Looking for trouble is our mission . . . I’ll go talk to him.”
“Thank you, Sullivan. I’ll get us in the air.”
As expected, Toru was in his quarters, sharpening his sword. The former Iron Guard did not bother to look up when Sullivan entered. “Are we ready yet? I feel my ancestors grow impatient.”
“Your ancestor murdered half of this crew’s ancestors.”
“I see.” Toru replied as he examined the blade. “Then their ancestors should have ducked.”
“You going to pick any more fights?”
“Only with the Enemy, and should we live through that . . . The two of us have one to finish.”
“As long as you keep them in that order, fine with me. But where we’re going, the Imperium will try to stop us. These men need to know which side you’re gonna be on if that happens.”
“Do you wish me to give them my word? It is said that a warrior does not make promises. For everything we speak is a promise. If a warrior says he will do something, then it will be done. If a warrior speaks, it is a vow. I have already said why I am here. We will fulfill the duty of the Dark Ocean.” Toru finally put the sword down and glared at Sullivan. “Tell your men the entirety of the Imperium would not stand in the way of fulfilling the final command of Okubo Tokugawa. The Imperium will come to understand the coming danger or they will perish. I will make them understand the truth of this.”
In Toru’s head were the memories of a man that had fought the Enemy before and lived to tell about it. They needed him, whether they liked it or not. “You’d damn well better.”
Toru bowed in response.
Sullivan went forward, deep in thought. One small group of men were going to try to do a job that the Chairman had built the whole Imperium for. The Grimnoir were loved by few, feared by many, and hated by more. No one in authority would listen to them about the Enemy, and even some of the elders doubted his sanity. No one had seen Faye since the god of demons had been banished, so it could be safely assumed their strongest Active was dead. Half of his friends were staying in the states to fight a war of propaganda and diplomacy, while the rest of them were embarking on a suicide mission against an alien threat.
General Roosevelt had once told the 1st Volunteers that a leader fights a war with the resources he had, not the ones he wished he had. Now it was Jake Sullivan’s turn to be the leader, and his resources were a hundred men, a fancy blimp, guns, magic, and a whole lot of guts.
The view out the window shifted. The Traveler had lifted off.
The search for the Pathfinder had begun.
