Tales of the Red Panda: The Android Assassins (6 page)

There were only three other news-hawks crowded around the
barricades when Jack Peters arrived, and they all looked like they wanted to be
somewhere else. Peters knew just how they felt. It had only been a day and a
half since what the papers had dubbed the Midnight Massacre in spite of the
fact that it had happened around nine o'clock in the evening. Scores of
innocent people dead or missing, countless more wounded, some seriously, a
neighborhood in ruins, and here he was. A newsman has to make hay while the sun
shines, and an accident down at the Harrison Proving Grounds was not going to
win the jousting contest for column inches today.

Jack unfolded his long legs out the door of his old jalopy,
picked up the camera that Editor Pearly had insisted he lug along and loped off
to join the thin crowd at the barricades. He could see Bailey from the
Sentinel
, chewing on a toothpick and
leaning heavily on the wooden sawhorse that was intended to keep back the
throng of reporters that had failed utterly to materialize.

Peters nodded. “
Paulie
,” he said.

“
Petey
,” Bailey said, not removing
the toothpick or looking directly at Jack.

“Been here long?” Peters asked, knowing full well what the
answer was.

“Long enough,” Bailey drawled. “How'd you draw a crummy
story like this?”

Peters shrugged. “I assume I'm being punished for
something,” he said. “It's true often enough as makes no odds. You?”

Bailey grinned and said nothing, which Peters assumed meant
that his fellow reporter had been sniffing around the
hen-house
again. Bailey had a reputation for taking a lap around the typing pool every so
often, and that didn't play well at the conservative
Sentinel
. “Forget I asked,” Jack said with a wave of his hand. “If
it's in the doghouse, it's probably a dog.” The two men chuckled ruefully.

There was a derisive snort from Bailey's left. It was some
kid neither of them had ever seen, with a shiny new press pass from the
Telegraph
in the band of his hat.

“Yes?” Bailey said scornfully.

“It sounds like a crackerjack story to me,” the kid said.

Bailey looked at Jack and mouthed, “Crackerjack,” and both
men snorted.

The kid was undeterred. “Come on, you two comedians wouldn't
kill to have a story like this any other day?'

“Sure we would, kiddo,” Jack said, “but it
ain't
any other day. It's today. There won't be much in
tomorrow's paper that doesn't have the words 'killer robots' in it. This is
good for a paragraph below the shipping schedules. If that.”

“How can you know that?” The kid was a glutton for
punishment, you had to give him that. “You haven't even been in there yet.”

“Because we know what the other story is, junior,” Bailey
snapped. “Unless this explosion comes with free roast beef and dancing girls,
it
ain't
gonna
get much
play. We got a couple of hours left to carve off a slice of the Midnight
Massacre that hasn't been written up six times in the last two days, and I'm
sick and tired of waiting for the department spokesman to put in an
appearance.”

“What's the hold-up?” Jack asked.

“It's probably
Winnick
,” Bailey
growled. “He likes to work a big crowd. Makes him feel important. So we wait.”

“I guess so.” Peters' eye was drawn a few yards away where
he saw a familiar face. “Hang on a minute,
Paulie
,”
he said, walking away.

“Peters, you get anything, I want it,” Bailey said quietly.

“I'll bet you do,
Spanky
,” Jack
said with a grin. “I'll bet you do.”

A dozen long strides carried Jack Peters to the side of a
fresh-faced police constable, standing at attention as if ready to hold back
the rampaging hordes of Toronto newsmen in the unlikely event that they should
appear. There were plenty of police who would talk to Peters before they'd talk
to any other reporter and plenty more that crossed to the other side of the
street when they saw him coming, but Jack reckoned that he had home-court
advantage here. The constable in question was Andy Parker, and like Jack Peters
he held down a second job as an agent of the Red Panda.

“Afternoon, Andy,” Peters said jovially.

Andy Parker said nothing and stared straight ahead.

“Oh-ho,” Peters said, “it's like that, is it? The strong,
silent type?”

Andy Parker said nothing and stared straight ahead.

“Like those British guards, what do they call them?” Peters
asked, lighting a cigarette. “Beefeaters? Is it Beefeaters? Don't they all eat
beef?”

Andy Parker said nothing, but his eyes moved a little.
Just enough to allow him to glare at Peters for an instant.

“Come on, Parker, be a pal,” Peters cajoled. “I got places
to go and human tragedy to sensationalize.”

Andy Parker said nothing and stared straight ahead.

“It's
Winnick
, isn't it? He'll
bust you down to crossing guard if you spoil his show, won't he?”

Parker closed both his eyes just long enough to suggest a
nod.

“Un-huh,” Peters said, disgusted. “He's a little man,
Parker. I hear he wears lifts.”

Parker snorted as he held back a peal of laughter.

“Can you officially deny any knowledge of same?” Peters
grinned. “No? 'Sources within Toronto Police refused to deny reports that
Departmental Spokesman Captain Clarence P.
Winnick
wears elevator shoes. Or high heels.' It's got a nice ring, don't it?”

Andy Parker's hand moved to rest on his nightstick.

“Un-huh,” Peters said, spotting an officer walking towards
the barricade. “Nice talking to you, Andy,” he said as he moved away.

“Get a four-part exclusive, did we?” Bailey was grinning so
hard the toothpick in his teeth was in grave peril of snapping at any moment.

A little man in a long blue dress uniform stopped on the
other side of the sawhorse and looked scornfully at the tiny group of
reporters. He pulled out a pocket watch and flipped it open, as if unable to
believe his eyes.

“Come on, Captain
Winnick
,” Bailey
pleaded, “this is all you're
gonna
get today. Can we
get on with this, please?”

Winnick
frowned and did not
respond directly, but held up a hand as if to silence a crowd. “Gentlemen of
the press,” said
Winnick
. Bailey nudged Peters in
time to see that the kid from the
Telegraph
had actually written that down. Both men struggled to contain themselves.

Winnick
looked pained and glared
at the two reporters. “Gentlemen of the press,” he began again, “no doubt you
have many questions about the grave events of earlier today. We can begin with
any questions you might have before we tour the scene.”

The kid's hand shot up into the air. Peters interrupted.
“For Pete's sake, Captain, can we skip the Socratic method today? We've all
been upstaged by the Midnight Massacre, let's just accept it and move on.”

Winnick
looked sour, but he seemed
to nod a little and took a deep breath before speaking again. “At one o'clock
this afternoon a test commenced before a panel of investors and representatives
of our federal government. Harrison Arms Manufacturing was to conduct a display
of the capabilities of their new armored transport, the HM-111B, nicknamed the
'Wildcat'. The transport was designed to move men and machines through areas of
live fire and extreme peril with the greatest possible degree of safety.
Harrison Arms president Quincy Harrison made a short speech of welcome and the
test began with some simple maneuvers. Almost immediately the machine began to
emit plumes of thick, black smoke, and then shook as a series of explosions
tore through it. Police services are continuing our investigation, but it
appears that the blasts originated within the fuel system. All four members of
the test crew were killed, but they are not being identified until their next
of kin have been notified. I will now take any questions before a brief
opportunity for pictures.”

The kid's hand shot up again. Bailey was having none of
this. “
Winnick
, can we do questions while we walk?
It's not like you can't manage the crowd.”

Winnick
was flustered, but he
agreed. Two junior officers moved in to remove the barricade, but Peters and
Bailey just walked around it.

“Have investigators ruled out the possibility of sabotage?”
the kid asked.

“Nothing has been ruled out at this time, though it is
considered unlikely,”
Winnick
growled in his most
impressive fashion.

“Why is that?” The kid was finding it tough to write and
walk at the same time.

“The device had a full check and a clean bill of health from
a dozen mechanics immediately before the test. Any sabotage would have had to
occur from within the machine while it was in operation, and that would
certainly have been a suicide mission.”
Winnick
was
pleased with this line of questioning.

“Will Mister Harrison be available for questions?” the kid
asked.

“You'll have to communicate with his office, but until such
time as the police investigation is closed, Quincy Harrison will not be making
a statement to the press.”

The small group was nearly to a pavilion beside a
grandstand, beyond which was an open field. Peters could smell whatever was in
that field, and they would be close enough to see it in a moment.

“Were any of the spectators injured?” The kid didn't let up.

“No, but several were overcome by the smoke.”

“Are any of them available for questions?”

“No, but we will have a list of witnesses for you to, follow
up with as you see fit,”
Winnick
said as they turned
the corner. The kid seemed pleased.

Jack Peters let a low whistle escape as he spied the twisted
mass of metal in the middle of the green field. The kid was right about one
thing,
on another day this would be front-page news. He
began to walk closer.

“I must ask that you not proceed any closer than this for
photographs, Mister Peters,”
Winnick
scolded. “This
device is considered secret by the Ministry.”

“Or what's left of it is anyway,” Bailey growled, wishing
he'd bothered to bring a camera.

“Hey
Winnick
,” Peters pointed, “
that
bit there, where the blast punched a hole right through
the armor, you're saying a
fuel
explosion did that?”

“That is what our investigators believe at this time, Mister
Peters.”

“There couldn't have been much left of that crewman,” Jack
muttered.

“In fact, Mister Peters, one body was not recovered at all,
and all of the others were torn apart pretty badly by the ferocity of the
blast.”
Winnick
seemed to enjoy saying that last
part.

“I'll bet,” was all that Jack Peters had to say as he began
to snap photographs. Editor Pearly might stick this story on page twenty-six
below the crossword, but he had a feeling that the Red Panda would want to see
these pictures. Something wasn't right here. Something wasn't right at all.

“Incompetence!” Gilbert MacKinnon's fist crashed down on the
great mahogany table within the conference room of the Club Macaw. “Nothing
short of the most blazing display of incompetence this city has ever seen!”

There was a chorus of assent from around the table. Chief
O'Mally
stood at the opposite end of the table from
MacKinnon, who had now fully installed himself as the head of the committee.
O'Mally's
ears were red but he had otherwise reigned in his
temper, in part because he did not wholly disagree with the condemnation with
which he had been served.

“You knew the test of Harrison's armored transport was a
likely target for this fiend who calls himself the Viper,” MacKinnon began
anew. “You knew the time and place where the test was to take place, and you
had ample opportunity to defend it against attack. And yet here we are, with
another of the city's great industries near the brink of collapse!”

Quincy Harrison, smaller than ever within his tweeds, seemed
to shrink still more at this, but he did not disagree.

“And before our young friend Mister Fenwick can leap forward
with another defense based solely on your inability to thwart a different
criminal madman,” MacKinnon raised his hand dismissively towards August
Fenwick, who had not moved or spoken, “let me say that I consider that to be no
sort of excuse at all,
O'Mally
. Though perhaps it is
a sure sign that what our city needs the most is a new Chief of Police!”

At this,
O'Mally's
clipped,
military-style mustache bristled, but a small, tight smile appeared beneath it.
“Perhaps it is, Mister MacKinnon,”
O'Mally
said
calmly. “Perhaps it is. And if there is a man at this table who can tell me
precisely what
I or my police force
could have done
differently to save Harrison's machine, I will gladly recommend him for the
position. It is true that my force is stretched thin by the panic caused by
these terrible attacks of Captain Clockwork's mechanical army, but I fail to
see how a greater police presence could have prevented this explosion.”

There was a derisive chorus at this which
O'Mally
ignored as he pressed on. “The machine was checked
and re-checked by Harrison's own teams of engineers. The only people near
enough to the craft to cause it harm were the highly trained operators, none of
whom had the smallest prospect to survive such a calamity. Neither my
investigators nor those in Mister Harrison's own employ have yet found any
proof that this disaster was anything more than another terrible accident.”

“Preposterous!” Marcus Bennett cried. “That was no more an
accident than the destruction of the New York Special!”

“I share that belief myself, Mister Bennett,”
O'Mally
said forcefully. “I ask merely what I could have
been expected to do differently to prevent an attack which we do not yet even
begin to understand.”

“Excuses!” MacKinnon thundered. “When you knew the very time
and the place in which it was to occur!”

“He did know, didn't he?” a voice interrupted, as if
thinking out loud. Every man in the room turned to face August Fenwick where he
sat draped in his chair like a truant schoolboy. He smiled to find himself the
inadvertent center of attention. “Forgive me, Gilbert, but you raise an
interesting point.”

“Well?” MacKinnon sighed.

“Thus far, for every disaster of which this 'Viper' stands
accused of engineering, the time and place have been open knowledge. Page and
Welles, the accidents within your plants could have happened at any time, could
they not? There was security, yes, but no great secrecy.”

“What are you getting at, Fen?” Welles asked in frustration.

“And of course, the schedule of the New York Special was a
matter of public knowledge. Anyone who could afford a morning
Chronicle
could have had all the details
they needed. But the test of Quincy's transport, that was a matter of secrecy
even within his own company, known only to a few
hand-picked
men. The only other people to have the complete details were Chief
O'Mally
and the rest of us who were in this room when
Mister Harrison revealed the details of the test to him.”

“I see what you're suggesting, Fenwick,”
O'Mally
said. “One of Harrison's senior managers must have ties to the Viper! The link
must be there!”

“Perhaps,” August Fenwick said casually.

“This is foolishness,” Quincy Harrison said, his outrage
overcoming his grief. “Every one of the men you accuse has been known to me for
years. And what is more, each of them holds a substantial number of shares in
Harrison Arms Manufacturing. If the company should fail,” Harrison's voice
faltered at the suggestion, “each of them would stand to lose everything.”

“And that is just exactly where
we
stand, Chief
O'Mally
,” Byron Page
said, quite distraught. “I understand that the destruction of innocent people
by these mechanical men is grave indeed, but if the companies represented at
this table are allowed to fail, it will plunge this city into a darkness from
which it will not escape for a great long while. We have seen in recent years
the cancer that poverty can become to a city, the way it can spread despair and
darkness like a plague. Please understand that it is this which we are
desperate to prevent.”

Silence hung in the tastefully appointed room for a moment.
Every man at the table, captains of industry and members of the privileged
class to a man, knew that there was more to Page's speech than the simple truth
it represented. His company had not recovered from its string of accidents, and
he faced the prospect of real ruin and the loss of
everything
which
generations of his family had built. And yet the words that he had
spoken were no less true. If Page's company were to collapse, hundreds of
families that had thus far escaped the darkest days of this Depression would
soon be thrown into despair.

Chief
O'Mally
nodded gravely.
“Thank you, Mister Page. And I assure you that I am well aware of the stakes,
and will do everything in my power to find the links to the Viper and bring him
down. I ask only for your patience. This city has been driven almost to the
brink by these senseless attacks of android assassins, and if we cannot bring
Captain Clockwork to justice before that powder keg of terror explodes, then there
might not be enough left of this city for the Viper to dominate.”
O'Mally
appeared momentarily embarrassed by his own
hyperbole, but the men of the committee only nodded gravely.

From somewhere behind
O'Mally
a
door opened, but he did not turn around. Only Ian James appeared to react to
whomever had entered, and he merely glared and shook his head.
O'Mally
continued, “For the first time, we have a real
break in this case. A substantial number of mechanical men responsible for what
the press has dubbed the 'Midnight Massacre' were left intact and are being
studied by top men even as we speak. It is my hope that they will make a
discovery that will allow us to put an end to Clockwork's reign of senseless
terror and focus the full weight of my police force on finding this 'Viper' and
thwarting his plans once and for all!”

O'Mally
was not much of a public
speaker – he was a career cop, not a politician, but he did inspire
confidence and the men around the conference table seemed mollified for the
moment.

“Very well,
O'Mally
,” MacKinnon
said. “I only pray that it will be soon enough to prevent calamity.”

“Perhaps I can be of assistance on that front, MacKinnon.”
Again the faces around the table turned towards August Fenwick. “I don't
pretend to understand anything about mechanical men or any such gobbledygook,
but I think that I can buy Chief
O'Mally's
experts a
little time to do whatever it is that they do,” Fenwick waved his hands
dismissively. “Mister Page, the banks will not advance you funds nor will
investors, as they have lost faith in your company. I have not.” Page looked up
suddenly without meaning to. “I share the belief of this committee that a
single force is behind these attacks on otherwise healthy companies. I shall
instruct the boards of directors at my various corporate divisions to advance
Page Holdings needed funds. And that goes for every company represented here.”

There was a moment of silence with some
brief
,
awkward looks exchanged
. “I understand
your trepidation, gentlemen, but I am speaking of fair investment at fair
prices. This chair is not occupied by the robber baron that it might have been
a generation ago…” There was some quiet laughter around the table at this.
“…And I feel certain that, had he lived to see these dark times, my father
would have let his… business instincts be overwhelmed by the voices of his
better angels as well.”

There were a few discreet looks exchanged that suggested
this charitable view of the late Thomas Fenwick was not shared by all, but the
mood of the committee was one of palpable relief. For the second time in recent
days, Chief
O'Mally
was forced to feel grateful to
young August Fenwick, though of course he did not say so. There were handshakes
all around, and only one listener seemed dissatisfied.

“That was a pretty speech,
Auggie
,”
came a voice that sounded as if being extremely pleased with itself was its
usual state. The meeting was breaking up, and Ian James moved around the table
to intercede.

“Fenwick, you remember my son, Wentworth,” the elder James said
with a slight scowl at his son's casual attire and lab coat.

“Yes, of course,” Fenwick said with an air that suggested he
very well might not recall the new arrival at all, and if so only slightly.

“Of course he remembers me, Father,” Wentworth James said.
“We were at school together.”

Fenwick smiled slightly and raised an eyebrow, looking as if
he were thinking of nothing so much as an excuse to be somewhere else.

“He was my lab partner for years,” the younger James said
with a gleam in his eye, “and he used to be almost as clever as me.” Wentworth
James watched Fenwick's eyes and saw the counter-claim that he did not hear. If
James was surprised by his inability to bait Fenwick into their old rivalry, he
did not show it. But he did seem a little disappointed.

“Used to have quite a good brain back in the day, old man,”
James said, “and now you don't pretend to understand… what was the word…
gobbledygook? I do hope that when my dear old father shuffles off this mortal
coil I don't turn into a fool as well.”

Fenwick smiled and said nothing. Ian James was mortified
however. “That's quite enough, Wentworth,” he scolded as if speaking to a
small, disobedient child. “I apologize for him, Fenwick. Always did love the
sound of his own voice.”

“Yes,” Fenwick smiled, “I recall.”

“If you're quite done playing, Father,” the younger James
said, “
perhaps
you'd like to be on hand for the launch
of the new power plant?”

“What's that?” James sputtered. “Yes, yes of course.”

“Quite a clever piece of work,
Auggie
,
if I do say so myself,” Wentworth said. “It'll serve the power needs of James
Laboratories for years, and then some. Save a fortune and make five or six new
ones at that. But I don't suppose such 'gobbledygook' would interest a… captain
of industry like yourself.”

“No,” said Fenwick with a smile, “I don't suppose that it
would. Nice to have seen you again.” And with that, he was gone.

“For heaven's sake, Wentworth,” his father said, “have some
sense of propriety.”

“If you say so, Father,” Wentworth James said, “but mark my
words, there is more to August Fenwick than meets the eye.”