.|. COHERENT COMICS PRESENTS ----X----------------------------------------------------------------------- '|` =====, ======== ====. ===. ======= ======= // // // )) //|| // // ===== // //===< // || //=== //=== // // // \\ //==|| // // `===== o // o // // o // || o // o ======= o Superhuman Tactical Resources and Affiliated-Field Experts original concept by Dave Van Domelen development by Marc Singer and Terrone Carpenter Issue #1, "Test Run" copyright 1995 by Marc Singer; a Legacy House production ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- [Cover shows the STRAFE team, Dan, Jen, Tony, Teller, and C.J., writhing in flames. Cover copy reads, "Trial by Fire!"] ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- "I still don't know about this," said Dan "Grind" Tracey, captain of the new STRAFE team of superhuman agents, as he donned his helmet. "It's too dangerous for everyone, even Tony. And especially C.J." Doctor Ellen Cortes stepped forward and fastened the helmet- strap under Dan's chin, to Dan's slight consternation. "You knew it would come down to this sooner or later. It's now or never. Now get out there, and don't worry." Dan checked all the fastenings on his suit, just to make sure they were secure. "That's easy for you to say, Doctor," he replied, "you don't have to go out there with us." But Dan wasn't one to complain, he was one to act, and he strolled through the hatch. Dan joined his teammates, who were all wearing the same black protective outfits. Most of them had identifying logos on their shoulders to distinguish them -- a dragon, a bird, an arrow and bullseye, and a gear- wheel for Dan -- but the fifth member, Carol Jackson "C.J." Brown, had no such logo. She hadn't been to graduate training at the Academy as the others had, and so was only a provisional member of STRAFE. The team's opponents were clad in white outfits with no distinguishing marks. And with the loud sound of a buzzer, the fight was on. Dan tersely told C.J. to hold back, while the rest of the team plunged into battle. Even though the men in white had no super powers, there were twice as many of them -- and they were much better armed. Jen Kleinvogel was the first STRAFEr to learn this; as she flew up to claim an aerial advantage, two of the White attackers produced gel-guns and caught her in a crossfire. One shell hit Jen, exploding and entangling her in a sticky gelatinous substance. Jen could no longer move gracefully; she tried dive-bombing the gunmen and body-slamming them, but they easily dodged and fired more shells, pinning Jen against a wall. Tony Drake charged across the room and came in for close combat before they could turn the guns on him as well. Dan and Jason William Teller charged in behind him, using the invulnerable Tony for cover. Tony plunged into combat quite fearlessly, but was soon overwhelmed by White attackers; his Academy combat training was almost nothing to them. They struck vicious blows which caused little damage -- they couldn't really hurt him anyway -- but tremendous pain, targeting his solar plexus and other nerve centers. It was an unfortunate quirk of Tony's invulnerability that he still felt pain, and the men were using that quirk against him. One fighter drove Tony to the ground with a nasty arm-twist, while another pinned him to the floor with gel. They're hurting us a little too gleefully, Dan thought, while he and Teller were the only ones who weren't afraid to hold back. It just happened that they were also the only ones left. As Dan flipped one White combatant into another, he turned to Teller and shouted, "Stop evening the odds, start winning the fight!" Teller, who had been shooting gel-guns out of White hands, severing straps that fastened high-tech toys, and otherwise showing off, grinned and complied. He started shooting at the Whites' faces -- they were all protected by visors -- using his telekinesis to steer the bullets and make sure they all found their marks. He didn't telekinetically push the bullets, though, leaving them with just enough force to break and cover the enemies' faces in paint. Meanwhile, Dan was mopping up the rest of the White squad. They fought well, but with standard SPIRIT style, and Dan had observed that before; he'd even picked up a little savate last week, precisely because it countered the SPIRIT style so well. Then an all-too familiar voice echoed through the gym. "Round two, men, up and at 'em!" The LEDs on White's suits began blinking, and the blinded troops started attacking once again. Dan's opponents also fought with greater precision, even striking at him when he was in their blind spots; Hendrick must have given them radar or some other sensory compensation. Now performing with greater efficiency -- reflex boosts in the suits as well, Dan speculated -- the Whites pinned Dan's foot with a lucky gel-shot. More troops raised their guns for the "kill," when something caused the shells to prematurely detonate in midair, spraying gel everywhere but on Dan. Teller dashed behind Dan, his paint-guns blazing -- he was shooting the shells before they could hit. "We need to do something fast, boss," he screamed, "'cause I'm running out of ammo and I don't think they'll let me reload!" There was only one choice. "C.J.," he reluctantly shouted, "it's time." C.J. emerged from her spot in the corner. There was a small tank on her back, no larger than a two-liter soda bottle; a thin hose attached it to the barrel she was now raising. The barrel itself was sleek and shiny, and might have been called "futuristic" back in an age when society expected to have a bright future. And when C.J. pulled the trigger, the barrel spat flame. The weapon was "supertech," engineered by people in Dr. Cortes's "Tesla Branch" who could make devices that violated the laws of physics. As a result, it didn't rely on napalm or thermite or other chemicals to produce flame, it just somehow created it. Cortes labeled it as "safe," although Dan wished he shared her confidence as the stream of flame rocketed past him. C.J. Brown had the ability to control and move flame, to such an extent that even "Scorch," their old classmate who was now in the Academy of Super-Heroes, wouldn't have scoffed at her. But C.J., like most of the superhuman Academy graduates who ended up in STRAFE and not ASH, had one unfortunate drawback: she couldn't *create* flame as Scorch could. Which was why she had to use this experimental device in a room full of people. At C.J.'s command, the flame curved and twisted in unnatural paths, first forming barriers between the STRAFE members and their opponents. Then she started looping the flame around, trying to push the Whites back into a corner. And it was working. All the combat suits were supposedly fireproof, White and Black alike, but nobody wanted to test it. "Teller, go help C.J., will you?" Dan said, with some degree of relief. But then a lucky White shot lobbed a gel-shell right at C.J. She avoided it, but it caught the tip of her barrel, gumming it up and shutting off the supply of flame. C.J. reached for the trigger and pulled back -- Dan shouted, but it was too late. Fire exploded out of the back of the barrel, where it joined with the hose. Only C.J.'s instincts saved her, as she willed the flame away from herself, avoiding certain death. But in her panic, she lost control of the flames she'd already produced, and the previously-orderly lines of flame suddenly fell into chaos. The gym was on fire. There were no flammable surfaces, and the sprinklers activated instantly, but the gym still plunged into smoke and chaos. C.J. managed to shut off her flamethrower, then started calming the flames. Then a White fighter picked the worst possible moment to charge across the gym and take her out with three swift kicks. With C.J. down, the flames again raged and produced smoke. Dan was aghast. "Those sons of bitches! Teller, leave me and finish off the trainers. End this damn fight now." Teller stood with his back to Dan, looking warily at the smoke and the sprinkler mist and the steam. "I don't know, boss, I can't see a damn thing in this." "Then just leave me before --" Three more gel-shells ended the conversation, and the fight. Guided by their suits' radar, the Whites nailed the last two STRAFErs with gel. "Are you people *idiots*?" Dan screamed. "You're pinning us down in the middle of a fire!" "No need to panic, Tracey," said Hendrick's voice over the gym's loudspeakers. "Our sprinklers have it under control." Indeed, the fire was almost doused, although it would have been out already if C.J. were still conscious. "Now, do you really think we're idiots, or is that just the pain of your first loss talking?" Richard Hendrick chuckled, as did several of the White combat trainers, who were slowly applying solvents to the gel. Teller unleashed a stream of invective on the trainers, cursing them for taking so long with the solvent and blaming their slowness on a creative genealogy which involved numerous animals and West Virginia cousins. Dan just tried to hold his head high and ignore the sneering faces of the trainers. He'd have a few words with STRAFE's director later, and get the trainers and their boss, the aggravating Hendrick, in severe trouble before the day was out. * * * * "How could you and your people be so irresponsible?" he snarled, as soon as the man entered the room. "You endangered the lives of everybody down there -- to say nothing of your rather spectacular failure at today's test!" Satisfied, Richard Hendrick returned to his chair and waited for Dan to respond. To his credit, Dan didn't react with anger or outrage or offense. There was always a tiny part of him that wanted to, but the rest of him consistently outvoted that part. Instead, Dan Tracey took a seat beside Hendrick at the desk of Dr. Davis Stern, STRAFE's founder and director. "It seems that Agent Hendrick has taken the words right out of my mouth," he calmly told Dr. Stern. "I'm sure you've heard all about the training session today." "I've been sure to tell him *all* about it," Hendrick said, "and I'll remind you once again, it's *Colonel* Hendrick now." "Needless to say," Dan continued, "everybody on my team was endangered by Hendrick's people. They not only pinned us down in the middle of a fire, they deliberately attacked the one woman who could've ended it." "Now, Daniel," Dr. Stern said, "let's not --" Hendrick rocked forward, almost leaping out of his chair again. "The fire would never have started if your woman hadn't lost control in the first place! She shouldn't be in this agency, and after watching your dismal performance this afternoon, I'm not so sure the rest of you should be, either." "Colonel, *we* weren't the ones who were brutalizing our fellow agents. Your people were using far too much force for a test run. Tony was treated far too roughly, and the savage attack on Carol is inexcusable." "Oh, you got a few paper-cuts and so we were playing too rough? Here's a news flash for you, kid, when you go on a real assignment, you won't have any safety nets, and the people attacking you will be playing for keeps. We can't afford to train you for any less." Dan was trying not to let Hendrick bait him, but he definitely wouldn't the man lecture him. "You don't want to train me at all, do you, Colonel? I noticed that the trainers today were all ex-SPIRIT agents" -- Dan's methodical mind called up the words 'Super-Powered Information Retrieval and Investigative Teams,' the name of STRAFE's predecessor, every time he used the acronym -- "and I bet you convinced each and every one of them that we were responsible for that agency's dissolution. You've never liked having superhumans in your line of business, have you?" Hendrick snorted. "What is this, amateur psychological hour? Well, here's my opinion: you took a loss today and you can't handle it. You need to keep believing you're perfect, and the only way to reconcile that with your defeat is to convince yourself that my men and I were conspiring against you." "If I really wanted to accuse you of a *conspiracy*, Colonel, I could point to the way you treated Carol. But I prefer to label that prejudice and incompetence." Hendrick jumped to his feet. "You arrogant little son of a--" "Gentlemen, gentlemen, *GENTLEMEN*!" Dr. Stern, who had been trying to break into the growing argument the whole time, had finally had enough. His voice cut through the hostility and commanded both men's attention, and at his harsh glare Hendrick sank back into his chair. "This argument is highly unbecoming for both of you," he continued, in a softer tone. "Dan, you simply can't levy charges like that against a fellow agent." Dan wondered if Hendrick really considered himself a fellow agent of STRAFE, or if his loyalties were still with the defunct SPIRIT, but he kept his thoughts to himself. "And Richard," Stern said to Hendrick, "your hot temper is just as out of place here as your trainers' tempers were in the gym." Hendrick started to protest, but Stern said, "We're trying to *teach* these young people, Richard, not hospitalize them. Now you both know you made some mistakes today, but I want you to put them, and this argument, behind you." Hendrick could tell which way the wind was blowing, and he instantly adjusted his sails accordingly. "That's right, Dr. Stern," he said. "After all, we'll have to be cooperating on real missions soon enough." "Sooner than you think," said Dr. Stern, dryly. "Tell everybody to report to the briefing room in a half-hour." For once, neither Dan nor Hendrick could think of a single thing to say. * * * * The superhuman STRAFE agents clustered on one side of the large briefing room -- C.J. would occasionally rub the nasty bruise on her head -- while Hendrick and a few other non-powered agents gathered by the opposite wall. The large gulf of seats in the middle was only occupied by Dr. Cortes and a technician from Tesla Branch. Dr. Stern stood at the podium, and an unfamiliar man sat behind him. Stern waited for several minutes, while unseen security technicians insulated the room from all manner of technological and psychic eavesdropping. Once the room was secured, Stern cleared his throat and addressed the group. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "today is an important date in the progress of our organization. STRAFE has received its first mission, a mission sanctioned by the United World as well as our own government. I'll let my colleague from the United World Security Council, Mr. Cook, fill you in." Stern stepped aside, and the man behind him took the podium. Tony, Jen, and C.J. all clapped briefly, then realized nobody else was doing it and quickly stopped. "Please, keep it up, it's nice to be appreciated," said the new man, in a thick Australian accent. Since the UW was headquartered in Australia, Australians tended to have an inordinate amount of staffers and influence in the organization. "My name is Bill Cook," he said, "and the UWSC has asked me to ask you to help us out on a bit of a situation." He pressed a button on the podium, and the room's lights dimmed. A picture sprang up on the clear white wall behind Cook -- a Chinese man in a business suit, crossing a busy street filled with taxicabs and bicycles. It seemed to be a candid, clandestine photograph. "This man is Kim Chao Lin," Cook said, "or Lin Kim Chao to his countrymen. He's a patent official for the People's Republic of China, moderately high in the bureaucracy. And he's expressed an interest in defecting, presumably taking his knowledge of Chinese technology along with him. Your mission is to get him, his wife, and his child out." "Of *China*?" Teller said. "I didn't think suicide was in our job description." Cook chuckled. "Not China, mate. Singapore. Mr. Lin and his family are going to be there for a conference this weekend, and as Singapore isn't completely under Beijing's influence, we figure it's the best chance we'll ever have at nabbing him. Correction: the best chance *you'll* ever have." Cook stepped around the podium and handed a bundle of envelopes to Teller. "Start passing those around. Inside you'll find maps of Singapore, an itinerary for Lin's stay, the works." Tony ripped his envelope open and was surprised to see its contents. "Paper, not disks?" Across the room, Hendrick snorted. "Paper has less risk of theft, especially from afar, and it's much easier to permanently destroy. Just be careful if you use your friend's flamethrower to do it, though." Stern glared at Hendrick, but Cook remained jovial. "Laugh all you like, Richie. The supers get sent in first. You and your spooks are strictly back-up." He turned to face the superhumans. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you that if you perform well enough on this job, a full UW sanction could be in the works. Very prestigious. Think about it." * * * * Jen stopped by C.J.'s room that night, after the long briefing ended. C.J. was meditating in front of a candle, twisting its flame into a variety of ornate patterns. "Hey, C.J., how are you doing?" Jen asked. C.J. broke her concentration, and the flame returned to its normal, flickering form. "I'm doing okay," she said, touching her purple bruise. "Hopefully this ugly Easter-egg will be gone in a few days." "Actually, I was referring to something else," Jen said, sitting on the floor beside her. "You looked pretty upset when we got the mission outline." "Hey, how would *you* like to spend a weekend sequestered with Hendrick and his boys?" she said. The candle-flame shot into the air simultaneously. The flame caused her to notice her own anger, and C.J. said, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap at you. I just wonder how I'm ever going to prove I deserve to be on the team if I don't get sent on the missions. And the prospect of spending the weekend with the bastards who kept me off this mission isn't pleasing, either." "Hey, I think it's a bitch, too." Jen placed a hand on C.J.'s shoulder. "You were doing great before that creep attacked you. You had all the trainers on the ropes." "Maybe." C.J. stared into the candle-flame. "But if I hadn't panicked when that gel-shell hit..." "Relax, it happens to the best of us. And if Hendrick's goons give you a hard time this weekend, I'm sure it won't be anything an ass-high flame can't solve." Jen laughed, but C.J. just stared into the flame and imagined what would happen if she went ahead and fried the bastards, the way she so dearly wanted to. In her mind, the flames roared out of control, claiming Hendrick, Jen, the rest of the team, and most of all herself... "Hey, watch it!" Jen's cry snapped C.J. back to reality again; the candle was now shooting up a foot-long flame, which whirled around like a dervish while candle-wax melted like ice under it. C.J. brought the flame under control, while Jen flew over to the kitchen, grabbed a cup of water, and doused the candle. "Are you sure you're doing okay?" Jen asked. "Of course," C.J. said. But she knew that only the external flame had been extinguished. * * * * Two of the male members were also having a late-night meeting. Tony and Teller, good friends since their earliest days at the Academy, were watching TV in the lounge. "All the talk shows suck now," Teller said. He was using the remote-control to change the channel, but in the most complicated way possible, banking the signal off various reflective surfaces in the lounge. Somehow, he always hit the control box and changed the channel anyway, but nothing caught his eye. "It's too bad O'Brien disappeared in '98 with the rest of the superhumans, or he might be doing new shows. His tapes are funny as hell." "Teller, aren't you the least bit worried about the mission we're leaving for tomorrow?" "Nah." With his free hand, he flipped a piece of popcorn up into the air; naturally, it landed in his mouth. Chewing, he said, "I figure the UW deliberately gave us an easy mission. I mean, why would they want a *patent official* for cryin' out loud? When was the last time China produced anything remotely innovative? Maybe this guy has knowledge of how China's ripping off American or Eurasian supertech, but I figure the UW just wants to see how we'll perform." "You mean like a test run?" Tony asked, a little too innocuously. "Yeah," said Teller, starting to wonder where his friend's question was leading. "Well, we all know how test runs can go." Tony rose from his chair, and he walked back to his room. * * * * Several floors above the team quarters, Bill Cook was packing most of his things. Shredding and burning the rest of them. There was a knock at the office door, and Dr. Davis Stern's voice called, "Can I come in, Bill?" "Of course, Davis, of course." He let the man into his temporary office. "What's keeping you up so late?" "Guilt, I suppose." Davis Stern did indeed look like a man whose troubled conscience wouldn't let him rest. "Bill, are you *sure* I can't tell them about the Anchor Effect?" Cook flashed his best grin. "Gotta keep the testing conditions pristine, mate. Gotta see how your team will react under certain circumstances. Besides, nobody's even proven that this "Anchor Effect" exists, certainly not as far away as Singapore. Your kids'll be fine." "But it's a hell of a way to send them off to their first mission... and to PROC territory, no less!" Cook wrapped a big, muscular arm around Stern's shoulders. "Davis m'boy, you have nothing to worry about. The proccies don't guard their patent officials. The little wanker probably doesn't even know anything important, he just decided he likes the Aussie dental plan better, or maybe he wants permission to knock the missus up with another kid. Whatever the case, the proccies won't miss him. Your kids will get out, you have my solemn guarantee." Cook leaned close to Stern, and dropped his voice to a whisper. "And your kids will probably get out with a UW commission... unless you blab to 'em about things the UWSC has determined they are not supposed to know. Comprende?" Stern nodded his head, and thus mollified, he left the office. Cook was satisfied that the man wouldn't tell his apprentice spies; Stern had worked too hard at building STRAFE to jeopardize this opportunity. That was fortunate. Cook did indeed have to keep the testing conditions pristine. He had to be sure all the test-takers were given the same questions. * * * * The Australian freighter plodded across the South China Sea, slowly carrying a cargo of foodstuffs to its ultimate destination in the bellies of Singaporeans. Reliance on foreign food shipments was a sore point in the pride of China and all of its satellite nations, but it was a necessary sore point, particularly on the overdeveloped island of Singapore. And the Singaporeans, who were still not completely under China's yoke, didn't particularly mind trading with non-Maoist nations; officially the reason was that the food kept the people strong and ready to oppose counter- revolutionaries, but unofficially Singapore tolerated a booming food market because there was a quick buck to be made in it. And so many ships like this one poured in and out of Singapore's docks daily. This ship was slightly different from the others, though, because it carried some very special crewmen. The eight people all resembled Malays or Tamils, and their I.D. bracelets said they were Singaporean, but they had only joined the crew in Perth. They didn't do much work, but the captain didn't seem to mind after they'd shown him their special commission. Now they gathered deep in one of the cargo holds, while the rest of the crew was preparing for docking. The oldest one finished up a quick recap of the group's plan. Underneath his thick goatee and dark brown skin color, he still had the same face as Richard Hendrick, but even his friends would have been hard-pressed to recognize him -- assuming he had any friends. Tesla Branch's disguise was quite effective, fake hair that looked natural and skin color that sprayed on by aerosol. It made them much more inconspicuous than eight Americans stumbling around Singapore ever would be. Hendrick, C.J., and two more non-powered back-up agents -- affiliated-field experts, to use the term from the team's own acronym -- would be providing support, while Dan led Jen, Tony, and Teller in grabbing Mr. Lin and his family. Hendrick didn't look too happy about leaving the field operation to rookies, but he had no choice in the matter; the UW had requested that the superhumans do the actual work, no doubt to evaluate them. And since he was on the job, Hendrick actually seemed to put his prejudices aside. He treated the team with something approaching civility. "I know we're in dangerous territory," he concluded, speaking in a rash whisper amidst the tall bales of grain, "but this should be a fairly easy run. If anything goes wrong, you can rely on us for support. Are there any other questions?" Tony Drake wondered how well he really could count on Hendrick and his men for support. He suspected his peers felt the same way, and he even suspected that Hendrick's men felt the same way about *them*. But nobody wanted to come out and say it. Instead, Tony asked "What if somebody gets left behind?" "Nobody gets left behind," Hendrick and Dan said in unison -- and they each looked surprised that the other said it. "In a worst-case scenario," Hendrick added, "we leave Lin behind before we leave any of us. I'm not sacrificing anything for a damn paper- pusher's amusement." "Or for the United World's amusement," Dan said. "I was talking about the United World," Hendrick said, with something that almost approached a smile. "Though Lord knows how they roped old 'Captain' Cook into doing this kind of job." Changing subjects, he said, "How's the tech holding up?" Dan held up what appeared to be a standard PROC Foreign Laborer ID bracelet, then flipped it open to reveal the microcircuitry within. "Communicators and signal tracers working fine." Jen touched her ear. "Chips are giving full translation for Mandarin Chinese, Cantonese, and all major local dialects." C.J. stroked her cheek, now light brown. "The disguises are amazing." The spray-skin hadn't just darkened all of her teammates' complexions, it had also lightened hers. Even her bruise was invisible. Teller opened the hidden pockets in his duffel bag; the pockets and everything in them were invisible to x-rays, chem-sniffers, and other sensors. Teller swept a hand over the disassembled gun parts, tranquilizer darts, and gel-shells, giving a thumbs-up in lieu of a vocal reply. A loud whistle sounded, and Hendrick said, "That's our cue." The STRAFE agents repacked their gear and rechecked their equipment, leaving no visible clue as to their real identities. There would similarly be no clue if they got left behind in Singapore -- they would just become an anonymous corpse, a statistic, and maybe a sad gleam in their friends' eyes. The agents climbed up on deck. It was a clear day, and in the distance they could see the tall spires of Singapore. From this distance, the city's darker warrens were quite invisible. That wouldn't be the case for long. Next issue: Things fall apart in the City of Lions. STRAFE #1 written by and c. Marc Singer.