from the Armed Forces. I _could_
order you to let me past."

"Sorry sir, no. Different chain of command."

Hershie controlled his frustration with an effort of will. "Fine then. I'll be
back tomorrow."

#

The building super wasn't pleased about the late rent. He threatened Hershie
with eviction, told him he was in violation of the lease, quoted the relevant
sections of the Tenant Protection Act from memory, then grudgingly gave in to
Hershie's pleas. Hershie had half a mind to put his costume on and let the man
see what a _real_ super was like.

But his secret identity was sacrosanct. Even in the era of Pax Aliena, the Super
Man had lots of enemies, all of whom had figured out, long before, that even the
invulnerable have weaknesses: their friends and families. It terrified him to
think of what a bitter, obsolete, grudge-bearing terrorist might do to his
mother, to Thomas, or even his old high-school girlfriends.

For his part, Thomas refused to acknowledge the risk; he'd was more worried
about the Powers That Be than mythical terrorists.

The papers the next day were full of the overnight cabinet shuffle in Ottawa.
More than half the cabinet had been relegated to the back-benches, and many of
their portfolios had been eliminated or amalgamated into the new
"superportfolios:" Domestic Affairs, Trade, and Extraterrestrial Affairs.

The old Minister of Defense, who'd once had Hershie over for Thanksgiving
dinner, was banished to the lowest hell of the back-bench. His portfolio had
been subsumed into Extraterrestrial Affairs, and the new Minister, a young
up-and-comer named Woolley, wasn't taking Hershie's calls. Hershie called Thomas
to see if he could loan him rent money.

Thomas laughed. "Chickens coming home to roost, huh?" he said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hershie said, hotly.

"Well, there's only so much shit-disturbing you can do before someone sits up
and takes notice. The Belquees is probably bugged, or maybe one of the commies
is an informer. Either way, you're screwed. Especially with Woolley."

"Why, what's wrong with Woolley?" Hershie had met him in passing at Prime
Minister's Office affairs, a well-dressed twenty-nine-year-old. He'd seemed like
a nice enough guy.

"What's _wrong_ with him?" Thomas nearly screamed. "He's the fricken
_antichrist_! He was the one that came up with the idea of selling advertising
on squeegee kids' t-shirts! He's heavily supported by private security outfits