“Guns? Psh, guns can change a life; end a life, damage a life, poison a life—and bombs? They can take-out buildings, roads, and infrastructure. But compassion? To fight an enemy with love and respect? There's no bunker or bandage for that. There's no rock you can throw to repel love, and no wall you can build to stop respect. Compassion is the mightest of weapons.
“I mean, look at me: I can atomize a bitch with a right hook, but I can't change someone's mind, let alone change the whole world. Only a few special people can do that. People like Martin Luther King, or my girl Harmony.”
“What's her name?”
“Harmony, man, I said it-”
“No, um, her- Is that her real name?”
“Depends on the term Real. What is Real? Is Real who you are or who you were born? Guy's born with a dick but thinks he's a girl—so which is Real? Harmony's born in old slave country, but her back's straight and she speaks like a prophet—so which is Real?”
“Uhh…”
“Which would you rather read about: the superheroine Harmony, or the seamstress Clio Wallace?”
“I see.”
“Ain't nobody gonna write books about Clio Wallace and Ajax Madison. But Harmony and Radiation Brother? Well, that gets people going. They hear ‘Clio Wallace’ and they think ‘basic black chick,’ cos ain't nothing special about that surname. It's a slave's surname.”
“Not necessarily—the Governor of Mississippi has that same-”
“You ever see a black guy, last name of Jefferson? You think some pasty peddler ran around the Ivory Coast snatching-up folks with the last name of Jefferson? No! They were the Bambas, Amaris, and Sidibes until they got shackled, sold, and branded; called Robison, Charlie, and Steven by their masters. They weren't people, they were property; they lost their surnames. Lost them in the Atlantic Ocean.
“Lincoln's decree unshackled them from the irons but it didn't free their souls. With no heritage, they had no surnames; so more often than not they took the names of their former masters. How fucked is that? And if they didn't take their masters’ name, they reached for the Founding Fathers—the only white men whose surnames granted them a semblance of decency in an indecent time.
“Now you've got little negro boys and girls running around, with the last names of dead presidents—Washington, Hamilton, Taylor, Johnson, Jackson—shit, I'm fucking Ajax Madison! Sometimes still you see a fella, last name ‘Freeman.’ How on-the-nose is that? What better way to say ‘Official Product of American Slavery’ than to slap the surname ‘Freeman’ on your baby's birth certificate?
“There's no sense of identity in Black America, and we're still treated like slaves cos of it. Worse yet, I don't think it's our last names—no, it's not. America's too tied still to the imagery of a colored man, and we can't change our color. I think if we could choose, everybody'd be born white.”
Ajax looks to the water, where his reflection is shredded by the wake of the riverboats.
“All we earned in the Emancipation Proclamation,” he laments, “is a new kind of ownership—not membership—in these supposed ‘United’ States.”
Pvt. Page stares at the metal floor. He feels the rumbling of the engine now more than ever.
Ajax exhales. “Alright, fuck. I'm tired. Are you tired?”
“Tired?” Page proclaims. “I'm tired of all this bull shit!”
“Cool your heels, Geronimo.”
Page shakes a fist. The ebony giant smiles and feigns throwing a punch at the greenhorn.
“Hey,” Page says, pulling back. “Remember the bunker at Ong Thanh Stream?”
“Yeah?”
“You really vaporized a motherfucker,” he says, spilling his words like an amateur thespian.
“Woah, Mikey, are you cussing now?”
“Hey, I… I use profanity every now and again.”
“I dunno, you said it as if you were saying it for the first time.”
“I've been known to swear. I'm in the Army, and soldiers swear. I'm a soldier. I swear.”
“Alright,” unconvinced. “Yeah, I vaporized a motherfucker. What about it?”
“How'd the Radiation come into Radiation Brother?”
Ajax shrugs. “Birth, man.”
“Shit.”
“Yup.”
“What's the coolest part about it?”
“I dunno. Sometimes my fists glow green; I still think that's pretty cool. But I'm accustomed to it all now. You'll get the hang of yours someday.”
“Maybe—I honestly keep forgetting it’s there. I never even knew it was there! I can’t feel it, or ply it; it's just something that keeps me going, like a heartbeat, or a colon.”
“Don't compare your gift to your shit-pipes, man. That's something that'll keep you alive long enough to become something great. Look at your environment—isn't it fortuitous that you've been placed in circumstances where you can get the full-potential outta your gift? How many soldiers do you think would sell their soul just to make sure they made it home alive? Yeah—all of 'em. Hell, most guys covet our invulnerabilities just cos they wanna save the guy next to 'em; their buddy, who also wants to go home in one piece and ticking.”
Page looks away, turning red.
“Don't waste your time here, man. You could do some real good. Maybe not change the world, but saving a few lives? That's worth taking a hit or two.”
“It's just so…”
“What?”
“Like, the apprehension, and the- It's just intimidating.”
“Yeah.”
“And, like… so what do I do?”
“You admit it.”
“Admit what.”
“You know.”
Page hesitates. “Well, then I said it already.”
“You seem rather defensive for someone who's supposedly laid his cards out on the table.”
“What more do I have to say?”
“How about you actually verbalize the problem you have with yourself. If you don't admit it, and get it out in the open, then it's gonna live-on within you, like a dirty secret you're too ashamed to confront.”
“Fuck,” he hems, looking at the floor; twisting his ankle.
“Man, just say it.”
“I'm, like-” he sighs. “I didn't want to be a soldier. I wanted to go into business administration!”
“We aren't dealt the hand we want, Mike. And we can't change the circumstances of our lives, we can only adapt to them. Humans adapt. That's what we do. So confront the problem and adapt.”
“But I don't want to-”
“Jesus, Mike, how old are you? I had no idea you were so sheltered. You've been here almost a year and you haven't yet manned-up.”
Michael retracts his lips.
“Life throws shit at you—that's life. Adapt or die. It's all Darwinism, man. You can't choose what happens to you, but you can choose how you react, so make the right choices—the smart choices, the strong choices—and you'll keep going.”
“What are my options here, huh? Kill or be killed?”
“Yes!”
“That's so primitive!”
“War is primitive! It's animalistic! You take two clans at odds and you make 'em fight to the last man standing. If most of the clan dies, well—in the terms of war—victory comes at a cost, and at some point it's more about the victory than the cost.”
“See, I don't want to be a part of that!”
“That's why they make it so ideological! ‘No, we're not fighting to take a colony, we're fighting to liberate the natives!’ ‘We're not fighting for geographic influence, we're fighting for democracy!’ ‘We're not fighting to uphold slavery, we're fighting to uphold state rights!’ Oh, su—ure!” he scoffs. “Look, I knew a guy back in New York; called himself the Dark Patriot. Screwy guy but very perceptive. He had this one quote that stuck with me… ‘The world's a stage, and we're all players.’ Hmph. Ain't it the truth.”
“What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Imagine, Mike—the
puppeteers send you to an arctic wasteland and tell you that the enemy has eight eyes and purple skin, and they say the enemy wants nothing more than to eat your babies and destroy our National Parks. Then they hand you a rifle and point you in the direction of the enemy. What do you do?”
“Um,” he shrugs, “I see what you're saying, so-”
“But what would you do, if you were just an average guy—a guy with a family and a steady job and a nice town he's never strayed far from?”
“Well, I guess I'd take that rifle and-”
“Slaughter as many slopes as you can before the war's over? Yeah. Play the role you were cast for.”
“See, though, I didn't audition.”
“It's a company theatre. Everyone's a performer—even you,” he points. “You buy name-brand groceries so you don't seem poor. You get a new car every few years so you seem successful. You spot-clean your house before your visitors arrive, because you want them to think you have your shit together. And when life beats you down, because yours isn't as magical as the ones in the magazines, you swallow the lump in your throat and you scold yourself for crying, because crying is weakness, and if you're weak then you're worthless, right?”
Rain patters the greenhorn's nylon hood.
“Well, if I'm wrong, then admit it.”
Mike exhales, “I, uh… sure, no, I don't wanna get hurt. Who wants to get hurt? Sexual masochists, sure, but that's about it. I don't want to get hurt, even if it won't kill me; I don't want pain. I don't want to be put in a position of anxiety, of fear, up against the unknown. I don't want to always be looking over my shoulder. I want to be safe. I don't need to be brave, I just need to feel safe. I don't have the same amount of courage as all you other guys. I'm not strong. I'm scared of everything. I'm scared right now.”
“Shit, Mike, we're all scared. Every one of us has something to lose—even me—and that rattles us. It's what makes us afraid, and it's only because we're afraid that we can be brave… Courage isn't so much a replacement for fear as it is an antidote, or a mask. We're brave in the face of fear because the only alternative is to die… Fear doesn't go away; fear lives within you, using hard times as a means of taking control. Either you let it overpower you, or you bury it—accept it, and smother it—and you get to work.”
“It can't be that easy.”
“Courage is a choice just like everything else.”
“What about all those people throughout history who were innate bravehearts? King Richard, Joan of Arc, Alexander of Macedonia, and Churchill, Lincoln, Washington—even Martin Luther King?”
“You think the Reverend King never felt fear? He grew-up black in a severely segregated part of America; and, the more vocal he's become, so has grown the ferocity of his opponents. We recognize him as brave only because he persists, and he persists despite his fears of harm; instead, powered by this fear of oppression, he persists… might it worsen should he back-down…
“And George Washington was in the same position, only more physical. He had to rally, inspire, and coordinate a rebel army of farmers and artisans against the dominant empire of the world. His persistence and vision made him stoic in the face of a traitor's death. And when the rebels finally won, they asked him to lead the country politically, to which he declined. With public admiration so high, he was afraid of seeing himself become a king of this newfound commoner's country. Instead he agreed to serve for only four years—a self-imposed limit on his power—and he institutionalized his courage for every president thereafter…
“See, there's fear within every man, and it can either motivate or cripple him. For soldiers and politicians—and even businessmen—when the lives and livelihoods of others depend on your success, that fear magnifies tenfold, and only the strongest of wills can endure without cracking…
“Consider your father.”
“He's a natural warrior," Pvt. Page blurts. "He's unflappable.”
“Doesn't mean he's not afraid of death, or your death, or the death of his men. He's ice cold on the outside but he puts himself between the enemy and his men whenever he can. He always leads from the front despite his fear of death, because he values the lives of his brethren above his own.”
“My dad's got a stone heart, there's no way he'd-”
“He'd take a bullet for you, knowing full-well you'd survive any injury and he wouldn't.”
Mike stares, transfixed. “He told you that?”
“He didn't have to. I can see it in his eyes.”
Mike looks away, consumed in thought.
Ajax continues, “You know, my father always talked legends of the war—never any personal or gruesome stories; only the glory and the myth—and one'a the tales he told me at bedtime was of ‘The Candyman.’ It was far-fetched but I liked it. I thought it was like the ones of the Four Freedoms—fanciful characters and exciting scenes; all badasses and bravado, even if largely embellished…
“My second full-day here in ‘Nam, I was meeting at the MACV compound in Huế City, with the Special Operations Group, and we've just begun when…in walks your dad—the Candyman—and all the stories are instantly proved true. I asked him all about the legends and he told them back to me in far-greater detail than my dad ever could. And as we talked, we became friends. Turned out, too, we ran with similar circles in and around Manhattan.
“Your dad was always the center of attention, even when he'd sit by himself and drown in his thoughts. People would talk about him on the far sides of the room, regaling each other on your father's endurance, feats, and martial intuition. I found out, too, that he didn't like talking about those himself. Hence the legends.
“I've since wondered why he indulged me; why he let me in but nobody else—not even his own son.”
Mike's ears perk.
“Yeah, I always- Cos he'd talk about you; about how well you were doing in school and what your mother was like, but it never went beyond that. He didn't share these personal details with anyone else, and—I know now—he didn't even share it with you.”
Mike gnaws on the inside of his cheek.
“He's a stubborn sonofabitch, your dad. Chooses when and to-who to talk. Chooses his own orders over those given to him. Chooses who to listen to; who to associate with-”
“Who to disassociate with…”
“Hm,” Ajax bites his lip, “yeah—sorry about that.”
“Who then? Cos now I know he was around Manhattan all those times he said he wasn’t.”
“How’s that?”
“You said ‘similar circles.’ See, I was always under the impression he was overseas, on some clandestine operation. Now you’re saying he was often within a few miles of home yet he still played the foreign agent.”
“Oh, um… Say, Mike, I’m not saying I know how often he was or was not around. All I know is who he’d come cozy with; other people I knew that he did, too.”
“Okay.”
“Knowing their names won’t make it any easier.”
“Okay.” Mike waits, gripping the wet railing. “And?”
“I’m just saying what I know; I’m not implying anything happened.”
“Spill already.”
Ajax sighs. “Well, there was Vixen-”
“Wow.”
“Hold on, Mike—like I said, I don’t know what all did or did not happen. ‘Vixen’ is just her stage name; real name—if you can call it her Real name—was Vanessa Walton, the, um, daughter of some Plexicon vice-president."
"And who's that?"
"Mister Walton? I don’t know, Mike. I don't know anything about her dad, other than that he raised her with access to all sorts of instructors—martial arts, fencing, sharpshooting, gymnastics; I think she qualified for the Nineteen-Sixty Summer Olympics in, uh—I can’t recall. Anyway, she skipped out on a world stage in favor of street work; can you believe that?” He scoffs, “She was a nihilist; probably didn’t give two shits whether or not she took home a gold medal…
“Yeah, instead she accepted a job
at her dad’s telecom company, Plexicon, as some in-house fixer. I think they did defense contracts, too. Shady business, but her ruthless poise and eclectic skills only made her perfectly suited for the role—and she loved it. She was a lone wolf and the city was her open prairie. You know, she had eyes like… black holes: dark, and cold, and deep—and they sucked you right in. Her gaze was electric.
“Don’t get me wrong—I was with Harmony when I met her, and nothin’ funny happened—but when she’d curl the corner of her mouth, and her eyes would focus in on you… it was very carnivorous, and very enticing. She could make any guy think they were falling in love. That’s why she took the name—Vixen.
“Lone wolf, she may have been, but she loved the inner-circle of superdom. She didn’t have any innate powers, no, but with her qualifications—like your dad—she was one of us as much as anyone. And, man, she loved it. She was a master of seduction, and yet the nightlife had complete control over her; sunk its teeth in her backside and never let go. Man, she went gaga for the glamor.
“Made sense, too: her idol—if it were possible for her to have one—was Calypso, a.k.a. Heather Claremont. Fiercely independent woman; never partnered with anyone, and never aligned with any agendas. She just did her own thing. I mean, sometimes she and I worked together—if we found ourselves trying for the same outcome—but other times we’d work against one another, and she could really go toe-to-toe with me.
“Hell, she could fuck-up anyone and everyone. She’d cast these- what’d she call ‘em? Eh… Constructs, I think. Like, psychic energy, man, it’s crazy. You know, force fields, and weapons or tools made of just, like, psychic energy—purple, green, glowing all sorts of colors; yellow. Crazy shit. Real ‘blow your mind’ kinda powers. I mean, her shit fades eventually, but she could outfit an army with immaterial, indestructible weapons if she were so inclined.” He chuckles. “But, nah, she’d rather be out in the streets, doin’ her own.
“Wasn’t always bad, you know? Lots’a stings, busts, and stag parties I saw her around at. Kinky for sure; swung every which and way. Flirted with men and women alike; works the room; works you over; gets her claws in you. She never hosts the party but she sure-as-shit runs it, the second she walks in the door—or, more likely, sneaks in through the skylight, or some air vent. Never takes the obvious route. Never can be pinned her down, unless she wants to be pinned down, you know what I mean?
Supers Box Set Page 16
