Sam meets Mirabelle DeMurr.
I had not felt such rage for years. As a staid and benevolent college professor I was thought of by one and all who knew me as the soul of good-matured calm in every situation. Not at that moment. I wanted to kick his head off.
Unfortunately my blow merely left him bleeding and unconscious. I turned my weapon on the surprised second man who collapsed like a wet napkin without a sound. I helped the girl to her feet and gathered up her clothes. Then I stood by, my face averted to spare her modesty, and waited hoping for more of the bastards to come.
When she had put on her clothes and regained some semblance of composure, she whispered, “Thank you, sir.”
Her voice shook with emotion.
“You’re safe now,” I assured her. “All five of these goons have been disabled. I am a Secman. My name is Sam Candel. I’ll have this filth taken away as soon as I make sure you’re all right.”
I touched the call button on my wrist and a tinny voice in my ear said, “What’s up, Candel?”
“I have five bad guys on the ground ready for the plat. The charges are a 351 and a 33B, assault on a peace officer and attempted rape.”
The operator at the other end must have known my exact position because he didn’t ask where I was (global positioning had become a fine art). He merely grunted.
“We’ll have a ‘plat’ there in three minutes.”
The woman’s eyes were filled with tears. They widened when I told her what I was. From her expression I could not tell if it was surprise, fear or some other emotion.
“You are a Secman?” she said at last, searching my face like she was studying an alien being. There was uncertainty in her attitude. I gathered that the police did not often bother to rescue citizens. Here was my opportunity to learn more about this stunted society from one of its citizens.
“Yes. You seemed surprised. That’s what the police are for; to protect people.”
“Thank you again … Officer Candel.”
There remained an expression of doubt on her pale face, and something else.
At that moment there was a hum in the air directly above us and a paddy wagon platform jockeyed down to the pavement with two policemen aboard.
“Looks like three more slugs, Officer Candel.”
The driver was laconic.
“I saw the report on that guy you aced earlier and his two victims. You’ve been busy, sergeant.”
“There are two more in the ally,” I told him, “One’s a little beat up. They’re a bad bunch.”
An officer went into the ally. A moment later, the criminals, one after another, were floated behind the Secman at waist level to the paddy wagon where they were pushed to a cage at the rear of the platform. The repeated use of the police anti-gravity device was most interesting. It was an adaptation of the same principal that kept me aloft in my flying belt. I was even more determined to learn that secret.
“Sign the report,” one said with bored attention.
I was given a report form and an ordinary pen for me to sign a receipt for the bodies. They left, giving me a half-salute, and their machine rose into the afternoon sky with a muted whine, disappearing over the rooftops as quietly as it had come.
The girl was thin with a good figure. Her blue eyes were honest and direct and her features were regular but still pale from the attempted rape. She applied makeup and tried to smooth her long blond hair. I guessed that she was a little vain as well; dark hair roots told of a try at neatness. Circumstances and a lack of money had probably conspired against her.
I asked her name.
“I’m Mirabelle. Miss Mirabelle DeMurre.”
Next episode: Miss DeMurr is not what she seems.
Gene Paleno is an author and illustrator living in Witter Springs.
