Tales of the Red Panda: The Android Assassins Read online

  Tales of the Red Panda:

  The Android Assassins

  by Gregg Taylor

  Copyright 2012 Gregg Taylor

  Kindle Edition

  All Rights Reserved.

  For Tess

  Danger is your middle name

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  One

  Everyone agreed it was a perfect day for flying. The sun was bright and warm but did not yet beat down with the oppressive heat that would come later in the summer. There was just enough of a breeze to keep the day from becoming still and hot, barely moving the windsock above a lazy sort of lolling flap. The slight wind carried away the smell of oil and fuel that of necessity pervaded the airfield and left behind only the promise of a fine adventure. Mechanics in crisp white coveralls buzzed about the gleaming form of the aircraft like industrious worker bees. The day carried just exactly the note of expectation that such an event ought to.

  Within the passenger lounge, those about to take to the air could do little but stare out the great picture windows in impatient delight at the fine looking craft. Truly it was a sight to see, with its mighty engines ready to propel them to great heights and silver skin glowing with reflected sunlight, almost obscuring the bold letters along her side that read Bennett Aviation. The great hangar just beyond the airship bore a matching standard as did the lounge in which the passengers waited, but the signs hardly seemed necessary. Everyone in Toronto knew that it was Marcus Bennett who had built this airfield just north of the city, casting his bread upon the water in the belief that the future of air travel was as bright as this fine summer day.

  Just five years ago, men had smiled indulgently when Bennett had said that one day travel by air would eclipse the passenger railways. Certainly that time had not yet come, as even this mighty ship could only carry twenty travelers. But the same men who had once patronized him now wondered if perhaps he had not been correct, and silently wished that they had invested in the future as Marcus Bennett had. He had invested all he could – money left from his family fortune, profits from his numerous patents – and sunk it all into this venture. Bennett himself was far from ready to crow, as his fledgling airline was not yet a profitable enterprise, but a glorious day like this was enough to make any man dizzy with hope.

  And yet on this particular day, Marcus Bennett seemed unusually grim. He put on a good show as he walked about the passenger lounge, receiving handshakes and congratulations from his wealthy patrons. As the child of a privileged family, Bennett had known many of these people his entire life. After all, only those with a great deal of money to spend could afford this sort of voyage, and for them, getting to New York in a fraction of the time of a normal trip was well worth the price. Every flight he greeted was like old home week for Marcus Bennett, and it was a role he normally seemed to relish. Today, however, he seemed preoccupied. He left the lounge and made for the office where his chief mechanic was due to meet him prior to boarding. As he closed the door, the gay atmosphere of the departure lounge was replaced with a seriousness that matched Bennett's own. A half dozen employees watched Bennett quietly as he lit a cigarette and stared impatiently at the clock.

  Six minutes later the outer door opened and a big man walked in, cleaning his hands on a cloth as he did so. The airline magnate crushed his cigarette out as the man took off his cap and approached.

  “She checks out right enough, Mister Bennett,” the mechanic said seriously.

  Bennett frowned. This report was rather more casual than he had hoped. “You're quite certain, Zachary?” he asked sternly. “These are unusual circumstances, to say the least.”

  If Zachary took offense at the question, he tried not to show it. “We've checked this bird from nose to tail, Mister Bennett, and then checked it again. We've run every inspection in the book and a few more besides. This machine is as sound as they come.”

  Bennett nodded and licked his lower lip nervously. “I am sorry,” he said. “Of course I trust your work, and that of your men, completely. But we have never received a threat like this before.” Bennett lowered his voice slightly, but his message was no less intense. “If we are to go ahead, I must be certain that our passengers are to be safe.”

  Zachary shook his head. “This threat, Mister Bennett,” he began, “what did it say, exactly?”

  Bennett cast an involuntary glance around the room, then reached into the pocket of his linen jacket and produced a sheet of yellow paper, folded over twice. Zachary opened the sheet and read the short, typewritten message within:

  The New York Special must not take to the air. If you defy the Viper, disaster will follow, just as it has struck Page, Welles and Church. This is your only warning.

  The mechanic folded the paper and handed it back to his employer. “What does he mean by 'Page, Welles and Church'?” he asked.

  Bennett looked exasperated but answered, “There are a number of business concerns in the city that have suffered a series of… accidents in recent days. This 'Viper' seems to claim that they were not accidents at all, and that he himself may have been their cause.”

  “Well, I can't speak to that, Mister Bennett,” Zachary began, “nor about any kind of man that calls himself the 'Viper', but I know that ship. There has been no sabotage, there is no mechanical defect of any kind. She's as air-worthy as any craft that ever took to the skies and if I didn't think so I wouldn't let anyone board her, much less you, sir.”

  Bennett smiled in spite of himself. His airline was still a fragile concern. If others were to trust it, he had to be seen to do so himself. He was taking the New York Special today, putting his own life on the line if this “Viper” was to be believed, and Zachary clearly felt that this was the cause of some of his boss' concern.

  Thank you, Zachary,” Bennett said, his smile growing tight with his resolve. “You may get her ready for boarding.”

  Ten minutes later the procession from the passenger lounge to the aircraft began, with all the gaiety of an Easter parade. Within an impossibly short time these wealthy sons and daughters of Toronto would be ready to take in the shows and nightclubs of New York City, and upon their return each of them would speak of the grand adventure of it all. It was exactly the sort of word-of-mouth that Bennett needed if his vision were to be realized, and yet his heart was leaden as he made his way across the tarmac and ascended the stairs into the craft.

  As he boarded he caught the eyes of Tom Morrison, his most experienced pilot. The two men spoke not one word before the other passengers, and exchanged no more than the most professional of nods, but Bennett could tell that the airman shared the confidence that Bennett's chief mechanic had
expressed. In a profession that lent itself to bravado, Tom Morrison was the kind of pilot who let his flying do the talking. But when he did speak, it was easy to get the feeling that if wings were attached to an old rain barrel, Morrison could fly her, and make excellent time.

  Just beyond Captain Morrison, Bennett could see his co-pilot sitting at the controls, busily engaged in his pre-flight checklist. Bennett had spared no expense and hired the best for his fledgling airline, and there was no reason on Earth for him to doubt the capabilities of a single man. He settled into a seat near the doors and watched the remaining passengers climb aboard, each rustling past him down the aisle engaged in excited conversation with their fellows.

  The last of them was seated as the mighty engines roared to life and began to warm up, filling the interior of the craft with the low, dull throb of the great motors. At last Bennett breathed a sigh of relief. If he was still concerned about the threat of this so-called “Viper”, there was no sign of it upon his face.

  Just then, he chanced to glance out of the window and saw the lanky form of Jerry Olson, one of his office boys, racing through the expanse of space between the offices and the ship, waving his long arms frantically. The air crews halted their removal of the steps that led to the craft, and moments later Olson was aboard with a frantic look in his eye as he squinted to find his employer in the cool darkness of the plane's interior.

  Bennett quickly waved the young man over and motioned for him to sit down in the open seat next to him. Jerry was an excitable young fellow, and Bennett did not want his passengers to catch the fever of his consternation, whatever the cause might be.

  “Mister Bennett,” the young man began, gulping for air as he did so, “there's a telephone call, sir.”

  “A telephone call?” Bennett hissed in disbelief. “Jerry, you are aware that we are about to take off for New York City, are you not?”

  “Sir, yes, sir. But the caller, he says… that is…,” Olson was sputtering now, and the passengers seated nearby were beginning to notice. Bennett calmed him with a gentle wave of his hand and a forced smile, and Olson remembered his place and leaned in close to whisper. “The caller says that he has information that you need, sir. Information about this man who calls himself the 'Viper'.”

  Bennett started in spite of himself. Olson could understand why. This call could be the break his boss had hoped for, that the police would need if they were to have a chance to stop this fiend before his campaign began in earnest. Bennett nodded to the young man and rose from his seat. As he made his way to the door Captain Morrison caught his eye.

  “You want us to wait, sir?” the pilot asked gravely. He knew that Marcus Bennett believed that if air travel were to succeed, it must overcome its reputation for delays.

  Bennett shook his head. “Keep to the schedule, Tom. Best of luck.”

  “No worries, Mister Bennett,” Morrison smiled. “It's a fine day for flying.”

  Bennett could hear the throb of the engines grow to a roar as he hurried back to the office. He opened the door to see that half of his staff appeared to be listening on extensions, waiting for their employer to appear. One of his secretaries pointed him to an open line. He lifted the receiver to his ear and everyone in the room held their breath.

  “Marcus Bennett speaking,” he puffed, a little winded.

  On the other end of the line a cold voice cackled. The girl on the switchboard turned quite pale.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Bennett barked. “Who is this?”

  “This is the Viper, Mister Bennett,” the voice droned. “You have defied me. You must now pay for that insolence, but it was not yet time for you to pay the ultimate price. You must not yet share the doom of your aircraft.”

  Bennett held the receiver away from his face. “Someone stop that plane!” he hissed. But the sounds from just outside told everyone that it was too late. The New York Special had taken to the air. “Call the tower, get them back!” Bennett implored.

  The voice on the telephone resumed its hard, cold laughter. “Too late, Marcus Bennett. Far too late. You have defied the Viper, and the penalty is due!” The laughter began again, and the staff began to race to the windows. Bennett did not have to look. He could hear the mighty engines of the New York Special tearing themselves apart as they flew faster than they were ever meant to, straight towards the ground. He could feel the shudder through the acres of concrete as the airship plowed into the runway from which it had just departed. And over the cries of his staff and the sounds of the great explosion that followed, Marcus Bennett could hear one thing:

  The cold, hard laughter of the Viper.

  Two

  The early summer evening brought a slight chill to the air. Not enough to make one wish for the warmer days to come, but just enough to blanket the downtown in a thick fog billowing in off the lake. Through the mists of those low, rolling clouds, it would just have been possible for eyes that were cast upwards to catch a fleeting glimpse of a lithe, athletic form soaring high among the skyscrapers. Few would have braved such a gesture, for the same fog that hid the mysterious shape made excellent cover for the denizens of the night, and in Toronto there were still terrors in the gaslight.

  But had a pair of eyes held on that narrow patch of sky between the towers, they would have beheld a sight as remarkable as any they could hope to see. Unmistakably female in form, the shape held herself aloft like a hunting hawk might, soaring on thermal waves of air, holding her place in the sky as only one with long practice and a love of danger might ever hope to do. Kit Baxter had both in spades.

  A year and a half earlier, she had been a city taxi driver without much hope of ever being more. She worked hard, took care of her mother and tried to hide her disappointment at her lot in life as best she could. After all, there was no use in complaining when so many had things much worse. The city teemed with those whose lives had been taken apart by the darkness of those days, and Kit Baxter had been grateful that she was not yet one of them. Adventure and excitement were the stuff of magazine stories, and not meant for her.

  And then, as if by fate, she had crossed paths with a certain wealthy young gad-about named August Fenwick. Even with her natural disdain for the wealthy, she could not help but know who he was as he owned almost half the city, his fortune untouched by the Depression that had destroyed so many lives. To Kit he had seemed arrogant and worthless until she realized that this was exactly what he wanted her to think. Her and all the world. For by a stroke of fortune, it became clear to Kit Baxter that this young wastrel was in reality the masked man of mystery known only as the Red Panda. In his brief career to that point he had already turned the predators of the city into his prey, and become the honest citizens' greatest friend. His identity hidden by a bright red domino mask, he handed out fistfuls of justice to those that would oppress the men and women of Toronto, and gave hope to all who had once feared that no one had the strength to take up their fight.

  It seemed a whirlwind to her now as she arched her back and swooped through the clouds of nothingness once again. She had become his driver, playing ignorant of his dual identity while helping him in his fight all that she could. And finally when the act had become impossible to maintain, he had given her a chance to join him in a life of adventure that few young women might have longed for, but to Kit Baxter meant all the world. He had trained her, given her powerful tools like the retractable gliding membranes she now used to course through the cool night air, and today she fought at his side as the Flying Squirrel. She was driver, partner, confidant, side-kick and friend to the most remarkable man she had ever known. If there were some part of her that wished for more, Kit Baxter tried very hard to keep it to herself.

  She felt the sudden proximity of the tower to her left, its hulking mass of steel and concrete like an iceberg in the sea. She tightened the position of her hands within her steel-grey gauntlets in a gesture almost invisible to those who did not know to look for it. Suddenly the controls concealed
in her costume fired the astonishing Static Shoes she wore. Their power repelled her away from the wall gently, and she began to allow herself to circle down slowly through the thickening wall of fog below her, towards a rooftop that she never doubted was there.

  As she approached, she pulled her feet forward and arched her neck and shoulders back in a heart-stopping gesture that caused the rush of air to billow in the gliders like a pair of sails, slowing her descent. She fired the Static Shoes again and lowered herself gently and silently onto the flat, stone-covered rooftop as the gliders pulled back into her costume with the barest whisper. She landed and immediately lowered herself into a low crouch like a cat. There was someone else on this rooftop, she could feel it. The fact that she could not yet place them meant that it was almost certainly him, but that was all the more reason not to be taken by surprise.

  She kept in the tight crouch for ten seconds. Twenty. She almost held her breath, but she knew that he was stubborn and would wait for the slight gasp she could not help but make if she denied herself air for long with her heart still racing from her flight. At last she decided to concede the battle of wills, but only with her characteristic display of poor sportsmanship.

  “Are you just the most stubborn man in the world,” she sassed, “or are you undressing me with your eyes again?”

  Suddenly, without a sound, the night seemed to coalesce into solid form. A tall man in a long grey coat loomed out of the fog and stood before her, his matching suit immaculate and well-cut. His hands were sheathed in bright red gauntlets that matched his necktie, and his grey fedora perched above a domino mask in the same crimson color. The eyes within the mask were blank whites that revealed nothing of the orbs behind them yet seemed to glow with a fire of their own, and Kit Baxter still caught herself gasping a little at the sight of them. But tonight, even through the darkness and the fog, she was certain that she could just see the flush of color in his cheeks. She had scored a hit.