After a while, Tommy got out of the car and stretched, after which he moved around and took a seat on a park-style bench just opposite the driver's door. The sound of the rain lightly drumming on the carport was oddly soothing.
"Wanna hear a story?" he asked her.
"What kind of story?"
"A story about people like me."
"Yeah, very much." He had her full attention.
"Like you said, you hear a lot of things. I'm here to officially set the record straight," he said quietly, in a tone of mock grandeur.
She smiled.
"There've always been people like me, you know. I don't know why we can do the things we do." He shrugged his shoulders. "But we're all born of normal parents, most all of us live the normal span of years, and when we have children, those kids are as normal as their grandparents were. Each and every one of us is unique, a one-off."
"Okay, but how come no one ever heard about people like you until the 1930s or 40s?"
"Advertising."
"Oh, seriously."
"No. I am being serious. At least advertising is part of it. There are three things you have to remember. First, there've never been that many of us. Also, before—I dunno, 1800 or so—humans were shitty at keeping records, afterwards much better. Finally, and this is maybe the most important part, societies are intensely suspicious of those they see as different. That was especially true in the olden days."
While Tommy was talking, the detective opened her door and spun to face him, her feet now on the running board and her arms around her knees.
"What does that all mean?" she asked, giving him a long and uncertain look.
"It means no one wants to be burned at the stake. Camille, not all people like me are bulletproof. And there aren't that many of us. I don't know exact numbers, but I doubt in the old days there were ever more than a few hundred of us around at any given time. The vast majority of those've simply wanted to live quiet lives, free from the suspicions of the witch-hunters and inquisitors of their age."
"But not all of you?"
"Exactly. But that's where bad record keeping comes in. Most of us keep our heads down by instinct, but some are different. In the old days, those few who had the inclination to make themselves widely known, or the hubris to try and set themselves up as gods on ... I dunno, Mount Olympus, or wherever, simply became part of the warp and woof of history, badly written and poorly sorted out as it was in those days. But history does remember them in some way or another."
Camille thought about his words for a moment. Mount Olympus? There was much of what he'd just said that she didn't fully grasp, but she wanted to hear the whole story.
"So, what happened in 1800?" she asked.
"The world began to change. Though that wasn't so apparent at the time. First, the population exploded. As near as I can tell, we've always been a steady portion of the populace. More people means more of us."
"At that same time, the World just became, I dunno ... smaller. There were faster boats and steam engines, of course. That isn't what I mean. What changed was the way people communicated. The printing press had been around for centuries by then, but it wasn't until after 1800 that a mass literacy emerged. Newspapers became widespread, followed by the telegraph, radio, film, television, satellites. Now, well ... the Internet. The World became a tiny, tiny little place almost overnight."
"All of that did what?" she asked. "Made it easier to document your existence?"
"That was a large part of it. What new media technology really did was make it easier for the government to track people like me. Monitor comings and goings. Governments nowadays are huge information machines. It's hard to hide from the government these days."
"There isn't another soda in there, is there?" he asked, changing tack abruptly.
Camille rummaged around and emerged from the car with the lunch bag. She handed it to him, returned to the car to retrieve a blanket, and took a place next to him on the bench, now wrapped against the chill. The rain finally had come in earnest, and drops beat down generously on the canopy. Traffic on the road was at a complete standstill.
He pulled the last sandwich from the sack and aimed it in her direction. "Ham, turkey, and Swiss," he offered seductively.
"I shouldn't." She still was hungry, but the unseemly tingling she felt at his act of simple kindness told her she shouldn't have sat so close to him. It was more than his beauty. There was something else about him.
Olympus.
"Halfsies?" he gestured. She smiled helplessly, and he gave her the half with the wrapping paper.
"Okay," she began, a little bashfully. "I only know what I read on the Internet. What is the ... Why does the government ..."
"Care about hiding the existence of people like me?" he added.
"Yes, exactly."
"To banish the dark? And before you ask, no. I'm not joking. Camille, I'm not a social scientist. I only know the things I've seen and heard. In the old days, people like me had to fear accusations of black magic. What's the equivalent of that in the Age of Reason?"
She didn't know what to say and gestured as much.
"I don't know either," he replied. "I suppose those in power see the existence of people like me as being too destabilizing, too—something. I've even heard words like that, 'destabilizing elements.' All I know is starting around the end of the Napoleonic Wars that keeping the existence of people like me a secret became a priority for most Western countries."
"And non-Western countries?"
"Every country eventually adopted policies to deal with folks like me. It didn't really begin in the U.S. until ... I think it was 1870-something. But this country was always cutting edge. They were the first to do more than try and keep us hidden. They wanted to recruit people like me into government service. Problem was they were clumsy at even finding 'extraordinary people,' as they called us back then. So it was sort of hit and miss at first. But it set a stage."
"For what, exactly?
"For recruitment. Virtually every country has tried to organize their 'extraordinary people' at one time or another. Most did pretty crappy jobs at first, and some weren't very forgiving of folks like me who didn't join the national effort."
"Okay, I think I know where this is going," she said. "Join the national effort or ... what?"
He gifted her with a smile. "It's not as bad as you might think, at least in countries like the U.S. Here, starting in the late 1800s, people like me were given a choice. You can join the national effort, use your Gifts for the common good, or you can forego using your abilities entirely."
"I see. And if you decided you didn't like Door A or Door B?"
"Then things would get very unpleasant. But it almost never came to that. Most of us kept hidden what we could do. Those few of us who had poor impulse control—who weren't able or willing to stay out of the public light—always had the option of migrating to more tolerant countries. Either way, it was a step up from the Middle Ages."
"No one wants to be burned at the stake," she repeated back to him.
"Exactly."
"So, what did this 'national effort' look like?"
"They were looking for Gifted soldiers, mostly. The U.S. was first, but the European countries had better luck. By World War I, most'd built small arsenals of super-powered soldiers to protect their interests."
"The Germans had this squad of soldiers who fought on the Western front. Their leader was a career soldier named Klein, who they say could breathe toxic gases, unfiltered. He was murder in trench warfare. They had another team member who could hurl heavy objects incredible distances with almost unerring accuracy. Apparently, no Allied aircraft was safe within five miles of him. The British, French, and other countries had similar teams, but all were selectively used and were considered Top Secret."
"Which is why no one ever heard of them?"
He nodded in the affirmative.
"What changed in the 1930s?" asked Camille. "Didn't all the major belligerents start publicly promoting the existence of 'secret weapons' or 'super soldiers'?—at least that's what they say on conspiracy sites."
"I'm not a hundred percent certain what changed after World War I. It probably was mere pragmatism. Look ... by the 30s, the existence of folk like me had been an open secret for years, and the media revolution had hit a highpoint. It may not seem like it now, but newspapers were incredibly influential in those days, and the power of radio was beginning to spread. I sort of suspect national leaders thought the propaganda value of revealing such secrets—or of leaking them—outweighed any downside, especially given that it seemed inevitable such secrets sooner or later would become common knowledge."
"Not that ideology wasn't important," he continued, "especially at first. Hitler was champing at the bit to prove to the world he had a super race. He trotted out a small handful of films showing super-powered athletes doing miraculous things even before the '35 Nurnberg Rally. They sort of fell flat, though. The integrity of the films was suspect, and, to their credit, most Gifted Germans had no taste for the Nazi state and either fled or joined the resistance. As near as I can tell, no Gifted athletes competed in the Berlin Olympics."
"The U.S. had the best luck using the Gifted to propaganda and strategic value. Starting in 1940, they published comic books and pulp novels by the millions. Hollywood even produced some video shorts and cartoons showing the Gifted at war ... or usually actors playing them. The packaging was fantastic. They were always done a bit tongue-in-cheek to leave those on the Homefront wondering if people like Master Guns or the Frogman actually existed."
"Who?" Camille laughed.
Tommy smiled so broadly it took a moment for him to continue.
"There were dozens of comics put out chronicling the adventures of fictional superheroes fighting the Axis. And there were a few dozen more put out about actual Gifted service members, though some of their Gifts were embellished or downplayed for security reasons. One of those guys was a German emigre named Rauf Stein, who'd joined the Marine Corps in '40. He went by the handle 'Master Guns.' He was astonishing—strong, fast, aggressive. He could take bullets like you wouldn't believe. He had his own comic from 1942 to '46, although he'd actually died on Iwo Jima in early '45."
"The Frogman was a guy from Tacoma named Jeff Kovar. That kid was amazing. He could hold his breath for more than two hours, swam like a fish, and could stay in the water almost indefinitely. The guy could even tread water in his sleep. He used to solo pilot a patrol-torpedo boat loaded with explosives up to within a few miles of a Japanese military port and scuttle it in the shallows. Then he'd ferry the explosives into port, underwater, in a sling. The guy sunk more Japanese naval tonnage than most American aircraft carrier groups did."
Camille couldn't suppress a smile at his description. She began to talk but fumbled. She began again. "Did you ever ... well ... 'Frogman' and 'Master Guns'..." she hesitated to ask.
"No," Tommy said flatly but with a smile. "I've never had any sort of codename or handle. And to anticipate your next question, I've never worn a mask ... or a cape." He began to chuckle.
She'd agreed not to ask questions about him personally, but his kindness emboldened her.
"How old are you?" she asked suddenly. "I'm sorry. I know I wasn't supposed to ask about you, but you look like you're my age ... and you talk about these things like you were there."
He answered after a short time, his lips still set in a friendly smile. "I know most of what I've told you from the stories of others, all of them people I trust. But, yes, I am a lot older than I look." It was clear from his tone that he would say no more on the subject.
"I'm sorry for prying," she said. He seemed to think nothing of it, and Camille changed the subject. "But everything you've told me is leading up to 1991, isn't it?"
"Yeah, it is."
He took a final bite of his sandwich and seemed for a moment lost in thought. When he spoke, his tone was mild, but an unreadable look had crossed his face at her mention of that time.
"Camille, I can't talk about '91. I will say this, you're right in what you said about the 30 and 40s. World War II was a watershed. The U.S. government came within inches of admitting the existence of people like me. Unfortunately for government censors, as plausible as denial was for civilians on the Homefront, hundreds of thousands of servicemembers worked alongside Gifted soldiers, sailors, and marines and many saw firsthand what they were capable of. They were the generation who trusted people like me the most. The Gifted helped them win the war, after all. Those in the Greatest Generation are also the greatest generation of believers."
"Except for anyone old enough to remember '91?" she added hesitantly.
"Yeah. Except the Greatest Generation trusted us. Those decades after the War were the best time to be Gifted. Many of us came home from the War with a strong sense of civic duty. Some set themselves up as private troubleshooters, helping common people and fighting crime and corruption. As long as such people didn't go too far overboard, the government left them alone."
For reasons Camille couldn't discern, an apologetic look crossed Tommy's face. "It was a different time," he concluded.
Camille hesitated again. The specter of mysterious and powerful figures fighting for justice stirred something in her. It always had. But she realized, too late, that she'd struck a nerve in bringing up '91. She'd asked about it out of the blue and now, awkwardly, wasn't certain how to continue. After a few nervous breaths, she pushed forward with what she hoped was a more innocent question.
"Does the government still recruit people like you into the military?"
"Now? I don't know. I do know they did after World War II. During the Cold War, though, the emphasis in the U.S. was getting people like me into clandestine services. Every major country had programs to identify and recruit. It's one of the reasons the Soviet Union ultimately went belly-up. They devoted enormous resources to finding, enhancing, and even trying to breed and create people like me. It was ultimately all a waste ... and a disaster."
Camille wanted to know more but realized from his reaction and tone that asking further questions would be unbearably awkward. She looked up at the road.
"Looks like the rain is letting up and traffic has started to move." She stood up, rolled the blanket, and put it in the back seat. After a little food and an hour relaxing, she felt refreshed. "Thanks for the story ... and the eats. I needed that, and the break, in the worst sort of way."
"You ready for your lieutenant?"
"I am ready to face that balding street thug," she rumbled fearsomely.
Within a few minutes,they were in the car and moving back toward the city at a respectable rate ofspeed.