In Hero Years... I'm Dead Delux Edition

by Michael A. Stackpole

  But as Nighthaunt had always been fond of saying, only the craven become criminals. While they outnumbered us and should have driven us back into the hole, they’d been raised their whole lives thinking that guys in costumes are heroes. Heroes always win. Each raider was thinking that there was no way he could stand against the three of us. Those with any sense of self-preservation weren’t going to step forward. They’d be more than happy to let the suicidally eager take the first shot.

  They did, coming hard and fast. What the front-liners lacked in intelligence, they made up for in ferocity. A few shot, but most bashed us with shields. They tried to use the weight of their attack to push us into the hole. It looked at first as if they might succeed, then the Man in Brown shattered a Lexan shield with a single punch. That give a few people pause–not just those stuck with plastic splinters–and that bought us some breathing room.

  A few guys–insane, crazy-mean guys–kept coming. It didn’t take killing to stop them, but there had to be some serious convincing to put them out of the fight. With them my shock-rod served better as baton than a cattle-prod. Snap a wrist, crush an ankle, break a jaw or scatter teeth and even the most hard-headed guys will reconsider. While Redhawk still seemed reluctant to hand out bone-breaking punishment, The Man in Brown had no such reservations.

  Just as the raiders had been pushed back enough to clog the entrance, they gathered themselves to counter-attack. That’s when Vixen and the cops hit the right wing. Folks in the back started tumbling down the stairs. Their yelps eroded morale, but didn’t break it.

  Then the earth shook. A terrific metallic din rattled everything, drilling into skulls. It didn’t take a degree in rocket science to realize the giant robot had gone down outside. The bright ones figured we had allies–powerful allies—and the rout began.

  Just to emphasize the virtues of retreat, Gravilass streaked through the shattered skylight. Her eyes glittered hotly. A sonic shotgun melted into slag. Serious resistance evaporated. Things devolved into a grand game of tag, which Vixen, Gravilass and the cops played avidly.

  Redhawk turned and looked at the two of us. “I don’t know who you are, but you’re a welcome sight.”

  The Man in Brown doffed his helmet. “It’s fun working with you again.”

  Redhawk’s jaw slackened. “Graviton? But, but…”

  I frowned. “I thought we left you back in the lair…”

  “I got to thinking about what you said and, well, you had that jet bike there and…”

  “And even though you can’t leap tall buildings anymore…”

  “Hey, I made it halfway.” Grant, sans glasses, smiled, as happy as I’d seen him since my return. “I thought about how, in all my adventures, I’d never truly been in jeopardy.”

  Redhawk frowned. “What about…?”

  “Doesn’t really count.” Grant shifted the helmet under his other arm. “I may have recovered from my injuries, but without facing the fear of being hurt again, I could never be completely healed.”

  Redhawk looked at me. “And who are you?”

  I told him.

  Shock again slackened his expression. “But, you can’t be. You inherited this whole plan. I mean, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree…”

  My eyes narrowed. “What?”

  “You’re Sinisterion’s son.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “No one told me, per se. I heard something once. A slip. After I became mayor, I looked up the coroner’s records on Sinisterion’s wife. The coroner had noted that she’d had at least one child.”

  “Who gave you the hint? When?”

  He folded his arms. “A long time ago I’d asked Nighthaunt why you were joining C4 and I wasn’t. He just smiled and said ‘you keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.’ When I asked why you were an enemy, he said, ‘Blood will out.’”

  My stomach tightened. “It all makes sense now.” I laughed–too close to my father’s laugh for comfort.

  Grant watched me closely. “What’s so funny?”

  “Mr. Big has been playing Redhawk, Constitution and me off against each other. He’s been making us thinks the others are the mastermind behind this all. But his plan had been growing and slipping into place for years. Vicki was right. He’d groomed someone else for my part in events: Sinisterion. Then when Sinisterion retired and went public with his book, he needed another patsy. He arranged for me to be released. He knew I’d come back here. I was primed to come for you, Redhawk.”

  “Why me?”

  “Austria. Twenty years ago. I’d been set up. It was easy to imagine you were part of it.” I shook my head. “Damn, this has been coming together for as long as I’ve been gone. Longer maybe.”

  “Who?”

  “Who else?”

  Redhawk’s eyes half shut. “No, it can’t be. He’s dead.”

  “No, he’s not.” I tucked my shock-rod in the holster and nodded off toward North Winchester County. “Haste Manor may be gone. Nick Haste may be gone, but Nighthaunt lives. He’s in his Mausoleum. He’s orchestrated all this.”

  “I can’t believe…”

  “Yes, you can, Greg, you know he’s Mr. Big.”

  Redhawk shook his head. “But why do this to his city?”

  “Good question.” I shrugged. “Let’s go get an answer.”

  We surveyed the carnage from the top of the stairs. Grant had pulled his helmet on again. He would become known as Karate King–he slapped a couple of Kid Coyote’s spare Ks on a gi for a publicity shot–and captured hoods moaned at the sight of him. The cops were rounding people up, cuffing them together in little circles, while Gravilass hovered above them and glowered.

  I found Coyote on the stairs outside with Vixen and Puma. “I need to borrow the car.”

  He tossed me the weapons’-system key. “No staying out late, and be sure to fill the tank.”

  “Gotcha, dad.”

  Redhawk and I slid into the seats. The engine purred. I slipped it into gear and we roared down the stairs, weaving our way around shards of giant robot. I let Terry know that we were off and he should coordinate with The Man in Brown on rounding up gangs. He didn’t ask about anything else and I didn’t tell.

  Redhawk pointed to the right. “North Winchester’s that way.”

  “Need to make a stop first.” I took us south, into Market Square. The roving bands hadn’t gotten this far yet, so we traveled in relative quiet. At least, it was quiet until I skidded the Chaser to a halt in front of the First Capital City Savings and Loan and launched two armor-piercing rockets. Both blew through the glass easily. The first cracked the vault’s case and the second knocked the door off the hinges.

  Redhawk looked at me. “You’re going to be able to explain this, right?”

  I drove into the lobby, leaped out and entered the vault. Hooking an attachment onto one of the shock rods, I punched the locks on my other safety deposit box–the big one–and pulled two smaller cases from it. I shoved one toward Redhawk, but he raised his hands.

  “I really don’t want to be an accomplice.”

  “It’s a first aid kit. You’re cut.”

  He took it. “What’s the other one?”

  “Last-aid kit. Let’s roll.”

  I’d visited the Mausoleum once, which is to say I’d awakened there with Ethelred assuring me that Earl Gray Tea was great for concussion. I’d been helping Nighthaunt clean up a human smuggling operation down on the docks. A bullet had clipped one of the concussion grenades in my belt.

  Nighthaunt had appeared a bit later, bringing me street clothes from Tim Robinson’s apartment, then led me out through the Manor. That ride included two pneumatic tubes that traveled very quickly, so I had no good idea how far or in what direction the Mausoleum had been located.

  Redhawk directed me to the Mausoleum’s external entrance. Its location should have come as no surprise. We rolled into to an aging and poorly maintained graveyard beside a dilapidated chapel. The Highgate cemete
ry had hit the news a couple times as a place where Satanists were supposed to summon unholy spirits. Viewed from atop the chapel hill, the Haste Manor fire would have been spectacular.

  We stopped just shy of a row of family vaults below the hill. One had been sunk deep into a mound, with a doorway wide enough to let the Haunted Hummer get in and out. I made a comment to that effect.

  “It’s one of three vehicle entrances. He alternates to let the grass grow. He even brought in dirt from other parts of the state. You know, in case someone took a sample from the tires and used analysis to pinpoint the Mausoleum’s location.”

  “He’s clever. I’ll give him that.”

  “And he’s watching us right now.”

  “I figured.” I got out and opened the last-aid kit on the hood. “My father made these. I use concussion charges, he added shrapnel. I have a cutting torch, he made it a compact laser. Everything stepped up a notch. Thumb-flick a lever and throw.”

  Redhawk shook his head. “I’m good.”

  “But he knows everything you’re carrying. Hell, he made it all.”

  Greg jerked a thumb at a smaller mausoleum. “You think we’re getting in if he doesn’t want us in? That place was built to withstand a nuclear strike. The passages are booby-trapped. He can drop a tunnel on us.”

  “Sobering thought.” I loaded my pouches. “Knowing that, you’re still going?”

  “I am.” He turned and opened his arms. “You hear that, Nick? I’m coming in. You know it’s over. Let’s just finish this and no one will get hurt.”

  When someone says something like that, it either falls into the category of “prophetic pronouncement” or “famous last words.” Maybe wishful thinking.

  Me, I was hoping to get out of there with most of my parts intact.

  And the second I thought that, I knew it wasn’t going to happen.

  Redhawk ran over to the small Kane family vault and pushed a stone fleur d’lis on the lintel. Nothing happened. He pressed it again, but the cast iron door remained closed.

  “Nick, don’t do this.”

  “Greg, get out of the way.” I leaned into the Chaser, called up my last armor-piercing missile.

  “Wait.” He pushed the ornament a third time.

  The door clicked and screeched open on rusty hinges, trailing cobweb tendrils.

  I shivered.

  Redhawk produced a small flashlight. I followed him in and figured the door would close behind us. I inserted a small wedge above a hinge.

  A sepulchral whisper came from hidden speakers. “The way for your retreat will remain open. Run, while you still can.”

  Redhawk shook his head. “I wasn’t taught to run.” He pulled aside a sarcophagus lid. Stone scraped and the floor panel withdrew. A tunnel extended into darkness. He climbed down the rusty ladder affixed to the wall.

  I joined him at the bottom. His light didn’t penetrate very far. It flashed over two bronze statues, a man and a woman, flanking a dark corridor. They were dressed normally for a night out, and looked happy. In fact, were it not for bullet-holes which looked to have been burned into them with a blowtorch, Thomas and Helen Haste would have been a perfect couple.

  “They weren’t like that when last I saw them.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Ten years, at least.” Greg’s shoulders sagged. “Before his comeback attempt.”

  Further along, red spotlights flicked, illuminating another statue. This one was half again as large as the ones we stood before. It had been cast in iron and was of Nighthaunt, but Nighthaunt as a Stalinist State champion. Spookstar in one hand, grapnel and line in the other, tall, feet spread, heroic. Inhumanly heroic, transformed by a sculptor into something greater than a mere man with a bag of tricks.

  Nighthaunt’s voice echoed through his sanctuary. “Leave now.”

  We came on.

  Ten yards into the corridor a hologram of Ten-pin, one of his greatest enemies, materialized, accompanied by the soft thoob of a compressed-air cannon from the left. A small bowling ball–eight or nine pounds tops–whistled past. Another one clipped me in the shoulder, spinning me to the ground.

  Redhawk crouched, tugging at my arm. “Don’t stay down.”

  “But they’re flying up there.”

  “That’s what he wants. That’s what Ten-pin wanted!”

  A rumble sounded from within shadowed walls. Plates slid open. A bowling ball tidal-wave flooded the corridor. I pushed off as they hit me, passing beneath Redhawk. He’d leaped up, somersaulting above the roiling mass. Bowling balls smashed into me. The armor helped a little, but I really could have used a helmet.

  Worse yet, the balls drained into gutters. Nighthaunt recycled them in a never-ending river.

  I fished a small grenade from my utility belt, flipped the switch, and rolled it off to the right. Five seconds later fire vomited back out a small hole. Half the wave stopped.

  Redhawk came down in the other half. He stumbled. Maybe I heard something pop. I grabbed him and pulled him deeper into the Mausoleum.

  “Move it.”

  He hissed in pain. “Right ankle, not good.” He flashed his light on it, then groaned as if the light alone hurt. The ankle was already beginning to swell.

  “You can go back.”

  He shook his head. “Nope. That trap, twenty-seven years ago. Nick stuffed a broomstick into a bowling ball’s holes, jamming the intake. After we captured Ten Pin, Nick had it dismantled and brought here as a trophy. We worked for months to install it.”

  I looked at the statue again. “That bodes ill.”

  Another twenty yards in and Jackal Lantern burned to life. Flaming pumpkins arced low back and forth across the corridor.

  “How acrobatic are you?”

  “Both ankles are working.”

  “Those pumpkins, they’re decorations on blackened, razor-sharp pendulums. Lantern had a thing for Poe. They’ll sheer through steel.”

  “And you walk across them?”

  “That’s how I did it.”

  “Worth a try.” I timed the first one. As it came back, I leaped up and caught the shaft. I passed from one pendulum to the next, timing my leaps carefully.

  Toward the end of the run, as I rode the blade high to the right, a smaller pendulum swung through, traveling perpendicular to the larger ones. It caught me square in the back. The armor held, but the impact pitched me toward the last two pumpkins.

  I reached out and caught a larger pendulum’s shaft. My momentum carried me around it, above the cutting blade, then I released and twisted through the air. I landed in a three-point crouch, beyond the furthest one, steadying myself with my left hand.

  “Damn!”

  Redhawk, landing beside me on one foot, squatted. “What?”

  “Spike, on the ground.”

  “How bad?”

  I held up my left hand and was grateful his light didn’t shine all the way through. Blood glistened on the stigmata.

  “So much for my piano recital.”

  “Sorry, first aid kit is still in the car.” He glanced back at the slowing pendulums. “I can get it.”

  “Nope.” I pulled a bandage from my utility belt and wound it around the hole. “Let’s go.”

  Another step further and the corridor lit up in a giant, nine by nine grid. Glowing numbers appeared in some of the boxes, but the rest were empty.

  Redhawk grinned. “Belle Geste and her Sudoku trap. Nines are safe.” He limped onto the first one and waved me after him.

  Then the floor flashed. The nine evaporated into nothingness. Another nine appeared three squares in front of him, and four to the right–each unreachable given his condition. Electricity climbed Redhawk’s leg like ivy growing up a tower. Every muscle in his body contracted, bowing his spine. Redhawk collapsed, convulsing once.

  I dragged him from the puzzle. He was still breathing and had a pulse.

  “He’s not dead.”

  “The lifts. More insulation.” Deep laughter
filled the darkness. “How good are you at Sudoku?”

  “Not my cuppa....” I pulled a grapnel from my belt and sank it into the nearest pendulum’s wooden shaft, right up at the top. I tugged to make sure it was secure, then timed the pendulum. I tossed a small grenade at the pivot-point, then yanked hard on the line.

  The grenade exploded, destroying the joint. The blade kissed stone. Sparks ignited. The pendulum tottered for a moment. Another yank and it fell forward. It crashed over the Sudoku grid, shorting out a couple of panels.

  I mounted the shaft like a balance beam and crossed quickly. I reached the other side safely, twenty yards separating Nighthawk and me. “I didn’t bring a bottle.”

  Other red lights came up, revealing Nighthaunt seated in a massive granite throne. A gravestone formed the back. A chiseled cherub smiled down. Capital City had been inscribed on the headstone, founded in 1655, dead as of today.

  Nighthaunt removed the video monitor glasses and set them aside. He applauded mockingly, then stood. “It had to come down to just us. I’ve known that for years.”

  “Because we’re so alike, or because I’m Sinisterion’s son?”

  Another voice, a familiar one–an impossible one–answered. “It’s both, actually, isn’t it, Nicholas?”

  I spun.

  Sinisterion stepped off the balance beam. “The two of you are exactly alike, and that, my son, is why you must die.”

  Chapter Forty

  Nighthaunt clapped slowly and loudly. “Very good, Leonidas. I’d not wholly accepted your death.”

  “A necessary ruse, Nicholas.” Sinisterion stroked his chin. “But you have yet to answer my question. Will you tell him the secret, or shall I?”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about, Doctor.”

  My father’s sinister laughter filled the Mausoleum. “As you wish, but I do have to know, did you figure it out, or were you told? Oh, wait, you protest that don’t know. That means Puma must have told you. One of his little notes, was it?”

  Nighthaunt’s fist slammed the arm of his throne. “Yes, it was Puma. A damnable note, an infernal note.”