No Hero

by Tom Andry

  "No," his brow furrowed, "why would it need to?"

  "To assist you and all that?"

  "Oh, my Handheld has a connection to everything it perceives. I can access it all whenever I want." He held up the device that he'd been working with since he began with Khan. He turned back to my assistant, "All right, I think we have what we need. Now Khan, I have some theories as to what is going on with you, but there is only one way to be sure. I'll need to take some during-and-after performance measurements. Can you speed yourself up without actually moving?"

  Khan shrugged, "I suppose, I've never really tried it."

  "Well, it seems plausible," Medico responded. "I'd like you to stand here "accelerated" for three seconds while Assistant and I take some measurements. Then run for twenty-three seconds. And then stand here again for three more. That should give you a second or so to spare.” He directed his last question to me, “I assume he can rest here for the requisite time afterwards?"

  I nodded, "You might want to change the sheets during the running part. Starting to get a little ripe in there."

  The doctor continued, "Good, we'll take some measurements again when you are asleep. By the time you wake up, I should know something."

  Khan shook his hand, "Thanks Doc." He reached up to where his ear would be behind the fabric of the suit. He touched a point on the hood and a shimmering field appeared all around him.

  "Now before you go running off," I interjected, "take this." I handed him a small, flat disk about the size of an ashtray. "And you too, Ignaro. These are trackers. We'll be using them to monitor your whereabouts." I shrugged at Khan's look of concern, "Just in case."

  The doctor replied, "Good idea. I suppose you have more for my other patients?"

  "Yeah, I've got a whole mess of them," I replied, gesturing behind me toward my cabinet. "All you'll need to do is call me and let me know when you've handed one out and to whom. You can make up whatever story you like, but make sure you get them to carry it on them. They aren't going to do anyone any good if they just throw them on their nightstand after you leave."

  He nodded. "Assistant, are you ready?" the doctor looked at his Handheld. It looked like a large calculator with oddly shaped buttons and an overlarge, for a calculator, screen. "Good," he replied to the device. He pointed the Handheld at Khan, waited a moment and then said, "Alright, BEGIN!"

  For three seconds nothing seemed to happen except that Khan's facial features seemed to soften slightly. I realized it was because he wasn't standing exactly still and it was causing a slight blur. Then suddenly, he was gone. What I presumed was twenty-three seconds later, he reappeared, his features strained and jittery. A few seconds later and he was gone again. We checked the bedroom and found him, face down, sweat pouring from his body. He'd changed the sheets (and cleaned the room from the looks of it), but I could only hope he had the foresight to put some plastic down underneath. The room already stank like a teenage boy's locker room.

  The doctor and Assistant waved their respective measurement devices over Khan a few times and Assistant even touched him on a few occasions. All the while, the doctor murmured to himself, occasionally asking questions of Assistant, which were answered silently. I left them to it and went back to my office to retrieve the additional tracking devices. A few minutes later, the doctor and Assistant joined me.

  "Now don't forget to pass these out to all your patients," I reminded him.

  The doctor took the plain paper bag from me and glanced inside.

  "Each one is labeled with a number. Just call my office and leave a message if Khan or I don't pick up. Let us know the number of the device, who they are and anything else you might think is relevant."

  "Eh..." the doctor looked confused, "how will I know what else might be relevant?"

  "You tell me," I retorted. "You're the one who thinks people are going missing."

  The doctor grimaced and turned to leave. Assistant picked up the jacket and hat, awkwardly, and donned them. A light started to glow from under the coat as it reached the stairs. Slowly, it floated down after its creator. I exhaled and closed the door at the top of the stairs.

  To the left of my desk was a small closet. Inside, I kept the terminal that Gale had left when she moved out. It was basically a small desk with a TV and keyboard built into the top. Inside were state-of-the-art electronics (as of five years ago). The terminal, among other things, connected somehow to Mind, the supercomputer that ran the space station where the members of The Bulwark lived. I was never sure how it made the connection. In fact, I wasn't quite sure that a supercomputer was a real thing. All I had to do was plug the terminal in and it worked. Through it, I had access to all of The Bulwark’s personnel files and databases. Mind could also be tasked with analysis if I wanted, but I was afraid if I did that too often they'd figure out that Gale had left this terminal behind and take it from me. While there were prohibitions and actual laws about advanced robots, Mind was the exception. It was rumored that it wasn't a machine program at all but actually a super that somehow melded with a computing device. It didn't really matter. As you got higher and higher up in the Super State government, laws became more and more flexible. What might land you in jail for the rest of your life as a tippy was a party favor for the super elite.

  I pressed the power button and watched the monochrome screen come to life. I knew that recently, the Super State developed some sort of wrist communicator, which accessed Mind and the Network. The Network was the best source of information on the planet. While most tippys had to rely on calls to experts or encyclopedias, with the Network, most of the world's knowledge was at my fingertips. Unfortunately, the Super State highly restricted access to the Network under the auspices of its use of proprietary technology. Honestly, while it was convenient, it wasn't something I used often. Just screen after screen of information.

  Ted, a while back, had built the trackers as a dare. One thing I had to respect about Ted is that he loved a challenge. I bet him he couldn't build a device that could be put in people’s pockets to track their locations all over the planet. Technically, he'd lost because it doesn’t work at magnetic north or south, but if he hadn't told me, I certainly wouldn't have known. Even though Ted is a low level citizen of the Super State, he still has access to technology and resources that the rest of us can only dream about. If not for Gale leaving the terminal behind, I'd be just as in the dark as everyone else.

  As the terminal came to life, I accessed the tracking program Ted created and saw a crude overlay of the city. The doctor was on his way to his next appointment; his beacon glowed extra brightly as he had nearly all the trackers on him. They would split into multiple dots on the map as he handed them out. I got a pad of paper and a pen and set it next to the terminal so I could list who went with which tracker. I got up to make a cup of coffee. From the kitchen, I glanced into my bedroom. Khan's snores were barely audible from my office, but they were a bit louder from here. I poured a steaming cup of the high octane brew and settled in to wait. In six hours Khan would know more about his condition and I'd leave him to monitor the doctor. I thought back to the doctor and Assistant and shuddered. When Khan woke up, the first thing I planned was a shower.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  Two weeks later I was pretty much at my wit's end. It seemed that the doctor's fears were unfounded. He'd given out nearly four dozen trackers (I had to have Ted make some more) to his patients. I'd been hemorrhaging money paying for the additional trackers, the personnel to follow all the patients, and all the other incidentals. Even though my expenses over the last two weeks were more than my last six months combined, with what the doctor had been paying me, I don't think I'd fully eaten through the first day's pay yet. That meant that I had two stops to make that day. The first was to my banker, the second to the doctor to tell him I was off the case. He might be willing to pay through the nose for his paranoia, but twenty-four hour surveillance was taxing and, frankly, I didn't want to work for the basta
rd for one more day.

  I'd personally followed the doctor as much as I could, mostly from a distance. A few times he insisted that I sit in on some of his sessions with people who didn't mind to get a sense of the types of patients he saw. He had an upbeat if slightly abrasive bedside manner, something that hadn't changed since back when I was still married. It consistently surprised me how little his manner bothered others. With the supers he was mostly okay. Sure, he focused more on the ailment than the patient, but no one really minded. With the tippys, it was different. It was like they weren't there. On more than one occasion, I watched a tippy spouse ask a question just to have the doctor give the answer to the super. While some seemed a bit put out, most tolerated his eccentric nature. When he was curing a debilitating disease, people could overlook a lot of idiosyncrasies.

  I had to admit that Medico obviously was at the top of his field as I watched him diagnose and cure ailments that I hadn't even heard of in the time it took others to change the oil in their car. The fact was that supers had special requirements: they were born different and more often than not they had ailments that didn't affect the general populace at all.

  Everywhere that the doctor went, so did Assistant. I was constantly surprised by how easily supers accepted the bio-mechanical robot. If the doctor were to wheel that thing into a store or mall, panic would ensue. But supers were so inured to such strangeness that they didn't seem to notice. As alien and strange as the construct was, they didn't even bat an eye. If there was ever evidence of the difference between tippys and supers, that was it.

  For my first stop of the day, I had to visit my banker because of the large influx of cash from the doctor. I had my money split up into a number of different accounts on and offshore. That way, if something happened to one bank, I'd still have a nest egg. Before this job, I had enough to retire on. Now I had enough to retire and live well. At only thirty-four, I wasn't exactly ready to retire though I couldn't tell you why. I liked my work, which was a bonus, but it was dangerous. It always felt like I was just one wrong move away from pissing off the wrong super. I did have contingency plans in place, but if any of those had to be used, I'd have to be in pretty dire straits.

  The drive to the TOP office was a short one. TOP, or Tippy Outreach Program, was a small, community based organization that provided counseling and support for people who were affected by supers. They were located in a small office in the center of downtown, which was basically within walking distance of my place. Well, walking distance if I wanted to get a bit of exercise. I didn't.

  Liz Novac, who runs TOP, is one of my oldest friends. We go back just as far as any two can - I think I was the first one she ever played house with. Our families have always been friends though we each went our own way as adults. She became a high dollar financial attorney for a multinational corporation while I seemed doomed to the life of a perpetual student. While she always seemed to know what she wanted, I never could quite figure it out. I probably hold some sort of record for most undergraduate degrees almost completed. While I was racking up student loans, she was pulling down six figures and living the high life.

  Of course, it all went pear-shaped when it turned out that the multinational corporation she worked for was a front for The Anarchist. The Anarchist, as his name implied, had planned to destabilize the world economy - somehow - and then plunge the world into anarchy for reasons that were never meant to be understood. I'm sure there is a psychiatrist somewhere getting a migraine trying to figure out why super-villains do what they do. Sure, some just want to kill everyone (and liberate the plants/animals/mother earth/etc.), but most don't really have much of a point. I mean, what was he going to do after his planned worked? Say, "Ha! See! Anarchy!"

  Anyhow, Liz couldn’t exactly include "worked for super-villain" on her resume with special merits such as "unknowingly crashed the economies of two third world countries while perhaps unwittingly funneling money to groups that may have assassinated four world leaders." There really wasn't any coming back from that sort of job history. She took what money she had left (which, I have to commend her, was considerable) plus the settlement from the Super State and started TOP. As a special favor to me, which I reciprocate on occasion, Liz handles my banking.

  When someone makes as many enemies as my job pretty much guarantees, he'd do well to hide his money. Liz makes sure that I don't have too much money in any one spot. I have bank accounts in almost every stable country on the planet, a considerable sum in gold and diamonds, and I'm told I hold a majority stake in a number of companies. Liz has assured me that no matter what happens, sans another anarchy plot, I should be able to retire comfortably. I live fairly humbly, though I overpay my assistant and the people I occasionally hire on to help out with stakeouts and odd jobs. The exorbitant fees I charge my clients pretty much ensure that I'm always in the black. Since I have very little competition, if they want my services, they basically don't have much of a choice. Since money means very little to supers, they generally don't mind anyhow.

  TOP was located downtown within the towering skyscrapers of the central business district. On the ground floor of many of the shorter buildings were multiple businesses, usually topped by high dollar apartments (similar to mine but much more expensive) or offices. While I didn't much mind going in through the front door from time to time, I generally opted for the back entrance. I parked in the garage across the street and crossed. Above the TOP office were a number of offices all connected by a common hallway. It was long and straight and, barring someone with X-ray vision or invisibility, nearly impossible for someone to see you without you seeing them. I stopped outside of a door marked Drs. Myer, Walker and Walkowski, and waited. When I didn't see or sense anyone in the vicinity, I entered.

  A lot of times, I feel like I'm being watched. This is in no way a superpower. It's a combination of paying attention to my surroundings and listening to my gut. When Gale and I were first married, she was moving her way up through the ranks of the supers. That attracted more than a little unwanted attention. My gut instincts helped us out more than once. To get accepted into the Super State, a person has to show that they have a power. For Gale, it was easy. She could control air, which is simple to demonstrate. Super geniuses have a much harder time than those with physical powers. That's probably why so many super-villains tend to be of the genius persuasion. During our fairly short marriage, she quickly climbed from a Level 1 citizen to a Level 3. Level 1 is just showing up. After qualifying for Level 1, supers pretty much never have to work again as the Super State gives them a stipend that would keep most middle class families happy. Ted, even after five years, was still a Level 1. To get to the next level, supers need to prove their worth. When a super gets a promotion, they get a stipend raise but are also called upon more often and for more dangerous missions. Reach Level 5 and a super becomes part of the government, usually a member of the earth defense force known as The Bulwark, where they have the entire coffers of the government at their disposal if they can justify it. Two years after we split, Gale reached Level 5.

  The perky receptionist took one look at me, flashed a perfectly white smile and said, "Ah, Mr. Smith! Dr. Walker is waiting for you in room four."

  I nodded and handed her my parking stub, "Why don't I go ahead and get this validated now?"

  She took the ticket and stamped it, handing it back.

  "Thanks, doll."

  I walked through the side door to room four. Inside was what looked to be a slightly outdated chair next to a tray filled with instruments that looked slightly more torturous than normal dental equipment. If anyone mistakenly went in here, they wouldn't necessarily think it was staged to look scary, but they'd probably ask to be taken to another room (or at least wouldn't object if it was suggested to them).

  I sat in the chair slowly, dreading what was about to happen. Reaching down, I pulled out the leather straps and wrapped them around my ankles. Again, I reached under the chair and pulled more leather straps to secu
re my thighs and waist. I reached over to the tray and took one of the tongue depressors from the glass cup and bit down on it. I leaned back on the chair, pressing my head hard into the headrest. I grabbed the armrests firmly and waited.

  Strictly speaking, the restraints weren't necessary. But Joe Blow off the street wasn't going to strap himself or allow himself to be strapped into a dentist chair. The purpose of the restraints was to set in motion the room’s mechanism. Liz had it installed years ago when she first moved in to the space. While technically, she didn't have to be close by for the mechanism to work, keeping an eye on it was easier that way. After about forty-five seconds, the tingling in my legs started.

  After that, it felt as if I was being turned inside out. Everything went dark for a moment and when I could see again I was about three feet off the ground in a room with a fully padded floor. I hit hard, the air pushed violently from my lungs along with the tongue depressor. It flew across the room smoldering on both ends. I curled up in pain for a minute or two as the aftereffects of the teleportation wore off. Once again, the same thought went through my mind: all this so I don't have to walk in the front door?

  "Ah, so you've arrived."

  I managed to lift my head. The illumination inside the room was minimal, so Liz was framed in light from the doorway behind her. She wore a dark coat and a slightly above-knee skirt with smart, medium heeled shoes. Her head was backlit so I couldn't see her face, but her hair - dark, straight and shoulder-length - was immaculate as always. She flipped the switch, bathing her pale features in light. She would've been plain by super standards though she was still plenty attractive. Her triangular face was well accented by a wide smile, clear skin, and small ears. She had her hair parted on the side and pulled behind one ear. Her smile was familiar and comforting if a bit unappreciated at the moment. Under her ever-present dark business suit was a red silk blouse.