Crossover Earth '98
GOLDEN MEMORY
The little man flew.
He flew without grace, legs stiff and arms at his sides, face turned into the wind, hair and beard ruffling as he arced down Steiner Street and banked to follow Fell. The sharply canted Victorian rooftops of San Francisco snapped by underneath. Below, he knew, people were shading their eyes, looking up, pointing, calling: Hey, Janie, hey, Ed, you gotta see this ... He should be looking down, smiling, waving back. He was not.
The sylph's wingbeats were loud in his ears, and he could feel its grasp all around him. It was a feeling no more firm than the wind, but still it bore him up. He could hear the angry hissing of its breath. (Does a creature of living air breathe?) It resented having to bear his offensive solidity, his loathsome weight, into the insubstantial purity of its home. But it would obey him. Lightly cupped in his fist, the one not sheathed in shining metal, was a tiny figure of a butterfly. Take a dram of quicksilver and freeze it with the dust of amber and azurite, an invocation in Latin, and the light of the quarter moon. Carve it into the right shape with a diamond-tipped stylus and clean it with the blood of a milkweed, and the spirits of the air will be yours to command. For a while, at least. A week's work for an hour's flight. He could have walked. He would have preferred to walk. But it wouldn't have looked right, Lynette said, and his wife was usually right about that sort of thing. He had to make an "impressive entrance," she told him. So he flew.
Golden Gate Park ahead, shadowed and green. The little man dipped lower, heading for semicircular stand of trees on the northern side of the park. A crowd was gathered there before a temporary stage set beside a canvas-draped bulk. Already most of the seats on the stage were filled. He recognized a deputy mayor, the parks commissioner, and a couple of the city's businessmen, but most of the others were unfamiliar to him. Had it been up to him, he would have arrived half an hour early, but again, that would not have been an impressive entrance. So he was almost late instead. As he spiraled down toward the stage, he could at last see the upturned faces, waving hands, and flashing cameras, and hear the shouts. Gravely, he raised his gauntleted hand in response, the metal glinting in the sunlight.
The moment his feet were securely on the stage, he opened his hand, and the sylph snatched the little silver butterfly with the blue-and-orange wings from his palm and whirled it away on a blast of wind that flapped ties and skirts, rattled branches, and sent the parks commissioner's hairpiece Frisbeeing off in the direction of the bay. People laughed and pointed, and the commissioner turned brick red. The little man murmured a quick apology, making a mental note to send the man a bottle of hair restorative. Then he turned to glance over the crowd. A few furious-looking people near the back waved signs reading NO MORE MAGIC, REMEMBER SEBASTIAN, and even THOU SHALT NOT SUFFER A WITCH TO LIVE. Reporters and cameramen studied him with narrowed eyes. (He noted with amusement that Channel 8's people had secured a better site than the others, atop a low hillock. Lynette would have arranged that.) But most of those gathered in the shady grove were looking at him with nothing more than simple curiosity and astonishment.
This was a superhero? Well, he could fly, so he must be. But superheroes were supposed to be big guys with muscles the size of farm animals, dressed in colors brighter and more improbable than those found in children's breakfast cereal. This was a little beardy guy in what looked like an old sweater, short enough to walk under a dinner table just by ducking his head. But the deputy mayor was shaking his hand and flashbulbs were going off in a rapid cascade. The deputy mayor grinned out in the direction of the cameras. "We're honored to have with us today," he shouted above the noise of the crowd, "San Francisco's new superhero -- the Gnome!"
"Dr. Milo Tagelohn," the little man said quietly but firmly. His voice did not carry over the crowd as the politician's had. The deputy mayor was a tall man, and was trying to hunch himself slightly as if he thought he could make the difference in their heights less obvious. It was the sort of well-meaning "consideration" that irritated Milo the most. He disengaged himself as quickly as possible and started toward the seats, trying to keep the frown in his mind from showing on his face. He was forced to shake a few more hands for the benefit of the cameras, but finally the gathered dignitaries settled down and seated themselves.
The deputy mayor spoke first, of course, but Milo stopped listening before long. It was a speech meant for the cameras rather than the listeners, great rolling sentences that wore words like honor and duty and pride as ornaments. The crowd applauded dutifully at the right points, and the deputy mayor paused each time, waiting for the last few claps to sound before continuing on quickly, anxious to reach the next applause line. Milo tuned back in when the thin, sandy-haired man two seats over from him rose and approached the lectern. "Alton Dallas, ladies and gentlemen," the deputy mayor announced, reaching out to seize the thin man's hand. "He's the reason we're here today. He exemplifies the best of our public spirit ... " Milo knew it would be discourteous to check his watch, but he would have estimated that it was a good five minutes before the deputy mayor finally gave the lectern over to Dallas, with obvious reluctance.
Dallas tugged at the cuff of his ill-fitting suit and grasped the edges of the lectern before speaking. "My sister was one of those the Sallorians took hostage back -- well, you know when it happened. The Militants got her, and all those others, out of the Sallorian burrows. Even though -- even if they did nothing else, that'd still be worth remembering -- that they gave my sister back to me alive. I want something more to remember them by than an empty base. And I think other people do, too. That's why I made this, and that's why I'm giving it to the city."
A few moments' silence, and then scattered handclaps sounded from the crowd. The deputy mayor practically sprang out of his seat, grabbing Milo's shoulder and pulling him toward the front of the stage. "The city thanks you, Mr. Dallas!" That got more applause than Dallas's entire speech had. "And now, to unveil the statue itself, the Gnome" -- ("Dr. Milo Tagelohn.") -- "but first, he'll say a few words ... "
There were chuckles as aides hurried over with a stool for Milo to stand on so he could be seen above the lectern. He touched the flap of his waist pouch, where nestled among his tools were six index cards with the speech Lynette had written for him on them. Then, taking a breath, he dropped his hand to his side and looked up to face the audience. "There is little I can add to what Mr. Dallas has said. The Militants changed the world for the better. As -- as should we all."
Milo took the microphone from its clip and, jumping off the stool, moved to the side of the stage. "You are here to see Mr. Dallas's work, not listen to me talk. And I want to see it myself." That got a genuine laugh, even though he hadn't meant it as a joke. Darting a brief, puzzled glance at the crowd, he bent to take hold of the ornamental cord and gave it a yank. The canvas shroud came apart, rattling to the ground and revealing seven figures -- five human, one inhuman, one cat -- all in greenish-brown bronze. They looked out toward the city, heads up and posed alertly, as if listening for the call that would summon them to life.
Milo studied the memorial, barely hearing the noise of the crowd behind him. Dallas had captured the Militants well. Delta stood at the front, spine straight and hands clasped behind his back. Spider, fierce and hideous but somehow protective, loomed behind the group. Gray-masked Nightmare stood with his arms crossed, pistol at the ready. Shamus Malarkey was depicted halfway through his transformation from flesh to steel. The Enigma's blurred features and indistinct form seemed to melt into the shadows between the other figures. Highpockets had his hands raised and fingers curled, shaping something only he could see. And Gerald was curled up at his feet, head on his forepaws as he peered lazily at the onlookers.
"I realize many of you recall the Militants fondly," Milo continued, turning back to the crowd, "and like all of you, I hope they still live somewhere. Be assured that I do not intend to take their place, though I will keep their trust as best I can. I think that following the example they set is the best way I -- that any of us -- can keep their memory ... golden." Milo turned to the statue, ungloved hand stretched forth. His skin prickled, as it always did. The crowd gasped as the rough metal spat sparks and shimmered, and slowly the dark metal was replaced by the gleam of gold, shining brilliantly in a shaft of afternoon sunshine.
Milo lowered his hand and looked at his work. It was only a thin veneer of gold, and it wouldn't last. But as a gesture, it was good. The cameras would love it, Lynette would love it, and most importantly, it was the truth. This was what he wanted the city to know -- not that he could make an impressive entrance, but that he knew well his duty and responsibility to the city he had claimed as his own. But even as he looked over the wondering faces before him, he felt a worm of doubt. What would they remember tonight? His words ... or the gold?
A motion at the back of the crowd caught his eye, and he glanced that way to see Lynette herself standing beside her station's camera crew, waving frantically. He knew what she was signaling: time for the impressive exit. The moment of sudden peace was broken. Milo stifled a sigh as he reached into his pouch. "Thank you all for having me here," he said. "I hope you will excuse me now, as I have other duties to attend to." He dropped a rune-etched silver coin to the ground, and in a cloud of smoke and a crack of imploding air, was gone. Only Channel 8's cameraman picked up the quick, sour twist of Milo's lips as he vanished. Lynette made sure to edit that part out before the tape went on the news that night.