Commando Bats Read online

She gave me a wintry smile. “I would rather cruise around blowing up crack houses and everything else that spreads so much misery, if that’s what we’re to be doing. Righting wrongs, I can do that. I’d like to do that. But how do I find them? Advertise on Craigslist?”

  “Athena hid us, on the pier,” I said.

  “Yes. The urge to keep this strictly to myself is so strong that I lied to my daughter last night. She was going to take me to some new play one of her friends is staging, and I begged off, because I don’t want her to see the house. I have never lied to my daughter before, ever. I lied to school this morning, claiming a dental procedure.”

  We got into her car. “Sorry about all this driving,” I said.

  “You cleaned up my mess, and incidentally rescued a block or two of very unhappy people. Since I do have a day, before I go back to learning to control my lightning bolts, I’ll go to the pier, my favorite place when I want to clear my head. That’s why I was there the other day.”

  “Kids these days?” I asked.

  “Not the kids. I like the kids, though there are some troubled ones. It’s the Administrivia — people who have never taught a day in their lives, who can’t spell, don’t know basic grammar. The closer I get to retirement, the less patience I have — and the faster they want to push me out.”

  She shut up then, and drove in silence until she let me off. When I reached the yard, there was old Twila again, calling from her shady balcony, “Nancy! You’ve quite a social life these past couple of days, eh? Is it a fella? It’s never too late!”

  I waved, and shut the door on her cackles.

  Shorted sleep and my morning’s exertions had done me in. I napped for the rest of the day, then played around some more with my robots, experimenting with driving them by their schematics until metal touched metal. Then I could flash to the new schematic.

  In this way I reached the front house’s wiring system, and then, through that, the local power grid. I sussed out some incipient problems in our aging Los Angeles infrastructure, then, sensing another world overlying mine — the world of computers, internet, surveillance — pulled back. I had no idea if I had an electronic footprint, or what to do about it if I did.

  It was late, so back to bed.

  Next morning, being Saturday, was my day for the laundry room at the house. I pushed my stuff into the yard, half-expecting Twila to be peeking out to inspect my dirty clothes, but she wasn’t there. Though I liked her — and loved her stories about World War II era Los Angeles — I didn’t relish the thought of the neighbors hearing about the elderly state of my underthings.

  And that gave me an idea.

  My wash chugging away, when I got back to my place, I dithered about whether or not I should call the other two. Smart or stupid? I was still dithering when my phone rang. To my surprise, it was Cecile.

  She wanted to meet, suggesting a very trendy but expensive cafe not too far away in distance, but a thousand miles from the reach of my budget. However, she ended with, “My treat,” leaving me nothing to say but, “See you at noon.”

  I showered then wrestled into my best linen drawstring pants and tunic-top as my laundry finished. The cafe was near Wilshire and Ocean Avenue, and this time they got there first, choosing a table that looked out into the street. I enjoyed the linen napery and the pretty silverware and dishes, all of which seldom come my way, as we went through greetings and ordering.

  That done, Bettina said, “What’s on your mind?”

  Cecile leaned in. “I’ve been learning something about strength. It impresses people, but it also scares them.”

  “Power,” Bettina said, “makes the powerless angry.”

  Cecile flicked a look. “Ralph didn’t make a peep about my hoodlum story.” Her diamond flashed as she turned her palm up toward me. “I didn’t know what else to say. When I got home the other night, I found him standing in the middle of the mess, staring around like he’d been shot. I was afraid to tell him the truth, that he’d use it as an excuse to lock me up in some mental ward.”

  I thought, you could bend him into a pretzel. But I guess she still saw herself as weak.

  “So I told him the hoodlum story, and he nodded, but he kept looking at my hands.”

  While Cecile spoke, Bettina had been gazing out the window at a bunch of teenage boys moving along in that typical teenage-boy drifting slouch.

  Cecile was too busy talking to notice. “Yesterday I got up and left early, so I wouldn’t have to talk to him. I did some shopping, and my mother wanted to meet in Westwood for brunch. I told her about Ralph wanting a divorce, and she was so angry that she insisted we drive straight to Beverly Hills so she could change her will. After that, I went to see Jack,” she said. “Because I know him.” She faced Bettina. “I remembered what you said, and I asked him straight out. He gave me a typical lawyer’s noncommittal reply, but yes, he knew. But there was something else. He was on the alert. He and Ralph — all of them — I usually only see them like that with other men. Ones they are up against, I mean.”

  Bettina said, “You think he heard about the furniture.”

  Cecile said, “Yes. He took me to Spago for a late lunch, and was full of reminiscences and aren’t-we-old-friends, but he didn’t offer to represent me. Instead, he recommended someone else, about whom he thinks highly, blah-blah-blah-de-blah. I think he was afraid of me. Just a little.”

  Bettina was staring out the window again, still watching those teenagers. Surprised at her rudeness, I said to Cecile, “You have to clean up the mess?”

  “That’s just it. When I got home, it was nearly six. I found the place looking like a showcase. Not a speck of glass anywhere. New furniture, even. And there was Ralph, offering to take me out to dinner, so we could talk things over. Hearty and smiling, like he talks to that hotshot district attorney he hates. I don’t know what to think.”

  Bettina hadn’t looked away from the window. Before the pause could stretch into silence, I said, “I might have an idea.”

  They both turned my way, but then Bettina said in a low, urgent voice, “I am sorry to be rude, but I think I saw one of my students. One of the ones I worry about. I need to walk over to that bank, just to put my mind to rest.”

  “Bank?” Cecile said in a sharp tone.

  With a quick “We’ll be right back,” to the wait person, we left, me doing my Lurch routine from walker to scooter.

  At the bank, the thick glass made the inside indistinct. I perceived someone frantically motioning us away.

  Bettina yanked the door open. I got a glimpse of ski-masked figures holding guns, and bank customers all standing around with hands high when Bettina snapped, “Marcus Clark, what is going on here?”

  From one of the ski masks a shocked teenage voice exclaimed, “Miz Wilson?”

  Silence. Then one of the figures swung a pistol toward the boy who’d spoken, and another whipped his weapon toward Bettina.

  Someone else inside the bank screamed, splintering the robbers’ and the customers’ attention alike. In that moment Bettina made her knitting needle hand and a thin beam zapped out, hitting a waving pistol. Her second zap went too high, and a shot rang out, shattering a decorative clock on the wall.

  Everybody started yelling and running, or hiding behind the desks. From the back came a loud male voice, every other word a curse, the gist being, “Get back! Get back! Down on the ground!”

  Cecile shoved the receptionist’s massive desk. It skidded across the smooth floor like a runaway train, catching two of the masked boys squarely in the backs of their legs. Both hit the ground hard, and were promptly dogpiled by angry customers.

  Budda-budda-budda! The shocking stutter of an automatic weapon froze everybody. A woman’s low sob was the only sound, then the guy who’d been cursing yelled in a harsh voice (freely inserting the F-bomb as verb, adverb, and adjective), “I will kill this broad if you all don’t shut up and lay face down on the ground.”

  “Lie,” Bettina said, sinking with d
ignity to her knees. “You lay things down —”

  “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” And to the woman he was holding against him, “Now open the vault!”

  The customers had all prostrated themselves. The masked guys slowly got up and began to sort themselves out.

  I crouched over in my scooter, with my left hand in my bag. I quietly pulled out my little robot copter, shut my eyes to get its schematic, and then let it go, my heart pounding.

  It seemed impossible the robbers wouldn’t see it, but they were either looking in the direction of the vault or glaring downward at the people lying on the floor as my minion shot up to the ceiling. I kept my eyes on it as I flew it toward the vault . . . Ah.

  It crashed into the massive door, then one of the guys said, “What’s that?”

  The toy hit the ground, a robber stepped on it, and Nasty Voice said, “Who did that? Who did that?” He followed with escalating threats which I didn’t hear, because I had the entire bank’s schematic.

  Things happened really fast after that. I triggered the silent alarm as the vault swung open, and Nasty Voice forced the woman inside.

  Then I cut the overhead lights and slammed the vault door, shutting off the commander from the rest.

  From the floor, Bettina sent out four beams the thickness of a knitting needle, and four guns went flying. At that point, a bunch of men plus the security guard began tackling the robbers again.

  Cecile whispered, “Open the vault.”

  I caused the vault door to open. The robber inside swung around with his weapon — and then the massive chair Cecile had hurled torpedoed him smack in the chest.

  “Thought he’d put the woman on the floor,” Cecile murmured.

  The woman scrambled out, rubbing her bruised neck as she stabbed repeatedly at something behind the counter. Already done, I thought as I slammed the vault door shut on the groaning robber.

  Then Bettina emerged out of the crowd. “I hear sirens.”

  Nobody was looking at three old women. They were all talking adrenaline-spiked questions and comments at each other as they hovered around the men who’d subdued the robbers, waving cell phones around as they filmed the robbers, the men, the robbers, the rest of the room.

  Cecile swung the bank door open and I scooted out, Bettina behind me.

  We reached the cafe two seconds before a fleet of cop cars drove up, effectively cutting off the street. Inside the cafe, customers were all staring past us through the windows at the street, exclaiming and wondering, as we sat down.

  Our food was there — the whole thing couldn’t have lasted more than five minutes max. My heart juddered against my ribs, paying no attention to its daily dose of blood pressure medicine; Cecile pressed her hands against her face. Her fingers shook. Bettina stared out in the street, her profile grim.

  Presently, Cecile dropped her hands, and I saw that she was laughing silently. Hysterical laughter bubbled up inside me, and I pressed my napkin to my face, as Cecile said in a tiny voice, “I threw a chair. What is it with furniture?”

  Nobody answered. I got control of myself, then said, “Do we tell anyone?”

  “No.” Bettina’s voice was short.

  I said, “That boy —”

  “I expect that all Marcus will remember is seeing me come in. He probably thinks I was a customer.”

  “Security cams?” Cecile whispered.

  Bettina turned her way. “Didn’t you see? Smashed. The boys must have done it right before we got inside.” She glanced down at her lunch, and began eating.

  Taking our cue, Cecile and I did the same. It was delicious, and food helped to re-establish a sense of normality.

  But nothing was normal anymore. Maybe would never be again. The first one to speak was Cecile. “Is that what we should be doing?”

  Bettina said to me, “You said you had an idea?”

  It took me a little time to get it all out, as I have to concentrate on my enunciation (and try not to drool), but I told them about Twila Dewey, ending with, “If we want to find wrongs to right, who better to ask about problems in their local community than old women? Maybe we could start a network.”

  Bettina said slowly, “I’m still trying to adjust to the idea that there might be a hidden world overlapping ours. What are these other women doing, who received Hera’s gifts? Are they fighting demons?”

  Cecile tapped her spoon against her cup. “What I still want to know is, what is wisdom? Why didn’t Hera fly her broomstick out to USC and corral a group of PhDs? But I admit, that was fun. I don’t think I’ve had fun like that since I was small.”

  Bettina said, “It was fun, but everything has consequences. Those boys were just hoodlums to you, but every one of them is some mother’s son.” She nodded at the bank, around which police and detectives swarmed, yellow tape extending every which way, and TV cameras filming everything. “Marcus Clark used to sit in my classroom drawing diagrams of motors. I want to find out what made him do that. And fix it, if I can. That is my definition of wisdom.”

  A small silence ensued, as people chattered and forks clinked and outside, police began to roll away, one by one.

  “I like that,” I said.

  Bettina raised her water glass.

  “I feel that I must begin with me,” Cecile said. “Fixing. But I agree.”

  I lifted my water glass, and so did Cecile. We clinked them together, and I thought, Commando bats, a new beginning.

  Did I hear unearthly laughter?

  Copyright & Credits

  Commando Bats

  Sherwood Smith

  Book View Café Edition: September 18, 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-61138-551-9

  Copyright © 2015 Sherwood Smith

  First published: Athena’s Daughters, Science in the Library, 2014

  Cover illustration © 2015 by Amy Sterling Casil

  Production Team:

  Cover Design: Amy Sterling Casil

  Copy Editor: James Hetley

  Proofreader: James Hetley

  Formatter: Vonda N. McIntyre

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Digital edition: 20150902vnm

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  Book View Café Publishing Cooperative

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  About the Author

  Sherwood Smith writes fantasy, science fiction, and historical romance.

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