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“Director Hoover?”

J. Edgar Hoover tipped his hat. “Coordinator Carr…”

What was the Director of the Bureau of Investigation doing here? “These people kidnapped me! They’re Actives!”

“Yes, I am aware,” Hoover said. “I recently accepted Miss Hammer’s application to be a BI special agent. She will be working for me now.”

Hammer beamed with pride. “Thank you, Director. I suppose that makes it official.”

That news seemed to surprise Garrett. “Really? I didn’t think you hired women or Actives.”

“Times are changing, Mr. Garrett, and the BI stays at the forefront of change. Recently, I’ve decided to reexamine some of the applications that were rejected in the past. Perhaps if I had more gifted agents on the payroll, heinous plotters, such as our good Doctor here, would not prosper.”

“This one is a Mouth.” Carr knew he had to think fast. “He forced me to say all sorts of terrible lies.”

Garrett leaned back in his chair. “You know how we Mouths can be.”

Hoover nodded. “I’m familiar with Mr. Garrett’s tricks.” He reached into his suit coat, removed a small orange box, and opened the lid. The sphere in the center was spinning. The Dymaxion nullifier was placed in the center of the table for him to gawk at. “I believe this belonged to you.”

Carr felt all of the blood drain from his face. “No… It can’t be.”

“I was on the other side of that door. This device was running the entire time. However clever Mr. Garrett thinks he is”-Hoover explained as Garrett grinned and rested his hands on his ample belly-“there was no magical influence during the recording of your conversation.”

The Coordinator tried to respond, but couldn’t find his voice.

“In addition, we have some very questionable documents with your handwriting on them that were gathered up by a Traveler before your office was swallowed, not to mention several people who are willing to testify that you kidnapped and tortured them. We shall continue this discussion at BI headquarters.”

“But you can’t-”

“You made too many mistakes.” Hoover’s voice grew cold and dangerous, “But most of all, you shouldn’t have tried to embarrass me in the papers. Nobody gets away with that. Take him away, boys.”

Faye Spellbound

Epilogue

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 demons’ 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, or 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 Active 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 flaut 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 amp; 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 has been delivered.”

Sullivan had already said his goodbyes to Browning. 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.