“OK,” she says. “But it did kind of sound that way.”
I turn from her and lean into the rail. A half-mile away, a small flotilla of observation ships bobs like ducks on a pond. Unexpectedly, Deb comes to my side and wraps both hands around my bicep. It’s her way, perhaps, of apologizing for being defensive. Dr. Janet says this is the key flaw in how we communicate, that each of us is constantly erecting barriers to genuine intimacy. She knows we’re in the superhero business, and she uses analogies she thinks are clever. “These barriers are like force fields,” she says. “They prevent your love beams from getting through.” I’ve been told that the only way to save my second marriage is to destroy my own force field, to be brutally honest in all things. So in theory, I should be looking for a chance to tell my wife that I put our son in harm’s way, that I nearly killed him while making him pretend to be something he’s not interested in. And of course there’s the bit about the stolen drugs. I have no intention of telling Debbie anything.
Even with all the trouble between me and my wife, or maybe because of it, it feels fine and good to be out here on the sea, both of us in our costumes, with the sun above us trying to break through the clouds. She squeezes and says, “Later on, you should come up to Pop’s. I think me and Nate may spend the night.”
“Maybe I will,” I say. “That might be nice.” Her family is full of strange but genuinely kind people. Though we’ve been married nearly six years, I still feel like an interloper among them. “Everyone would be happy to see you.”
“I haven’t forgotten your date with the boys. When the time is right, I’ll shift from wine to coffee and drive us home. We’ll sleep in our beds. “
The helicopter’s blades begin whirring, and we turn together to watch it lift off. Clyde moves over to the camera crew, which films the copter as it ferries the veterans to what looks like a military yacht in the center of that flotilla. From there, they’ll watch our little war game, witness the destruction of this monument to their youth. The cameraman lowers his rig, and the film crew heads for a second copter.
“I’m glad you’re on my team today,” Debbie says.
“I’m always on your team,” I tell her.
My corny line brings about an “Aw shucks” look, and a kiss feels imminent until Clyde approaches. Debbie releases my arm. He says, “They need a few minutes to get in prime location, then we’ll light this candle.”
“Sounds good.”
Thanks to a coin toss, I’m on Deb’s team of faux villains, trying to defend our battleship headquarters. Clyde, of course, has taken lead of the good guys, who will ultimately sink our ship after we’ve jumped through a few hoops. Naval experts have rigged explosives throughout the ship, linked the detonator to the fake rocket’s control. Rumor has it that members of the Tucker Commission are on one of those boats, that any flaws in our performance may be used as rationale against our continued funding. Clyde shared this information at the mission briefing. He’s the brainchild behind today’s media circus. When he got the request for a single hero to come help sink the Endeavor, he immediately saw the opportunity to combine the task with a training session. The fact that we’re about to broadcast our battle tactics to the entire world, including potential enemies, never occurred to him.
Behind Clyde, on the now-empty deck, the Jersey Devil shrugs off his overcoat and starts flapping his tiny bat wings. Kid Cyclone stretches his long legs, capped in cowboy boots, and does a few lasso tricks. The Ice Queen and Scarlet Speedstress lean into a rusting wall on either side of a porthole, chattering like high school girls. Vivian flashes me a look, and I add that elevator scene to the list of things I’ll never tell Debbie.
Clyde says, “Deborah, give me and Vince a moment, will you?”
My wife nods and steps away, but her eyes linger on me, as if she knows what is about to be discussed. Once she’s joined the others, Clyde sets one hand on my shoulder. “Vince, look, last night was a total mess. That business at Chili’s, that was my fault, and I’m man enough to admit it. It came across like we’re trying to force you out of a place you’ve worked hard to earn. What we’ve really done is prepared a pearl of a last chapter in the grand story that is Commander Invincible. One last gem for your crown.”
“I’m listening.”
“Two words, big man: Bone Crusher.”
I imagine a bald head, bulging shoulders, thick biceps. “Bone?” I say.
Clyde goes on. “We’d had him under surveillance for almost a week. How would you like to be the guy who brings in King Chaos’s strong man?”
“Where is he?”
“Don’t worry about that. He’s not a flight risk, and we have containment on the intelligence. We have time to plan this properly and get maximum exposure. Ecklar, Deborah, and me, we’ve all talked this through. It would be your operation from start to finish. You’d get full credit, right up through the official announcement.”
Bone’s capture would make the papers, maybe even the front page, but it wouldn’t get the headline. At the press conference after the arrest, a dozen bored reporters would scribble in their notepads. KQEP would show up, and surely the other local networks. Debbie would stand behind me in her Venus costume, doing her best impersonation of a proud wife. No doubt, though, good footage from a live capture would be in heavy rotation for a solid news cycle. Thomas and Nate would see me on TV.
“OK, Clyde. Say I play along. Then what?”
“You stay a full-fledged Guardian, just on reserve status. After Ecklar talked with you about this vortex thing, he debriefed me. With him leaving, I need someone who can operate the HALO, coordinate our combat actions in the field. You’ve got to believe in synchronicity. Everything happens for a reason, see?”
The station practically runs itself. Technically, it’s nearly sentient. “Sounds exciting.” I spit into the ocean.
“Be realistic, Vince. Not many men get a chance to finish on top. It’ll be like retiring after winning the Super Bowl. What more could you want?”
Clyde’s question prompts me to recall Magus’s wish offer, and I wonder how I’d like to go out, if I could write the script myself for my final heroic adventure. Defeating impossible odds to save a crashing jetliner? Heroic death stopping an asteroid?
“You think this through, talk it out with Debbie. We can go into specifics later. But trust me, this is better for everyone. Our charter’s bylaws address this issue, and there are legal means to accomplish the same result. But it’d be a terrible shame if things had to get ugly.”
The tone in Clyde’s voice tightens my hands into fists. He sees my anger rising and says, “Save it for the war game.” Then he turns his back and walks away, toward the waiting hovercar. He climbs in with Speedstress and Bubba, who activates the rotating jet rockets and pilots it into the sky. The Jersey Devil and Kid Cyclone fly alongside. The hero team has officially left the Endeavor. Even though we haven’t begun the drill yet, today I am a villain, and when the hell did they ever play by rules? I’m thinking hard about bolting up, snatching the Devil’s pitchfork, and piercing the hovercar’s engine block. See what the freakin’ bylaws have to say on that issue.
Instead, though, I work my way up a flight of winding metal steps and find Debbie and the Ice Queen in the control tower. When I enter, my wife is quiet for a minute. Then she says, “It’s not a bad deal, you know, Vince?”
The Ice Queen puts on a confused look, pretending she doesn’t know what’s going on. I take in the panoramic view afforded by the bridge’s many windows. “It’s a lot to think about. For now, let’s focus on why we’re here.”
“Right,” Deb says. She claps and says, “OK, so we’re the Terrible Trio, and we’ve supposedly stolen this cruiser and are now blackmailing the U.S. government. Unless we get a billion dollars and six of our compatriots freed from Megajail, we’re going to launch our death-skull rocket at Washington, D.C. It’s loaded with nerve gas, toxins, something like that. Odds are on the Guardians to come in under radar to a
void detection and try to take us out.”
Ice Queen pulls out a file and starts working on her white nails.
I say, “And there’s a 100 percent chance this piece-of-shit ship will get sunk in the process.”
Deb shrugs. “Well, yes. Clyde is going to override the launch codes and detonate the rocket. That’s the story—but all he’s really got to do is hit a big red button.”
“Guess we’re not too terrible,” Queen says. When she speaks, puffs of cloudy breath float from her mouth as if we were at the North Pole.
“Look, guys,” Deb says. “This is my command, and we’ve got to put on a good show for everyone. Even though Clyde wants everybody going threequarter speed, we need to run the other Guardians through their paces. That’s our role here. We don’t want anyone hurt, but the camera footage we gather will be used for training purposes. It’s also streaming live on the Internet.”
Deb confirms that our rings are in sync, then dispatches me to the bow and the Queen to the stern. I scan the horizon, pretend not to notice the observation vessels, and wait.
I’m distracted from surveying the empty sky by a stray thought—how has Bone managed to stay off the radar for so long by himself? The kid, just a teen back in Hamburg, could crush a cannonball in the palm of his hand, but he’s never seemed liked the brightest star in the sky. Once Menagerie tricked him into lowering his guard by turning into a puppy. He was more gullible than malicious, quick to follow the lead of a strong personality. If he would have come across a different kind of mentor, he could just as likely have been fighting on our side. A guy like that, he’d never be able to stay underground all these years without outside assistance.
“Contact to the northwest,” Deb says through my ring. A waterspout rises from the ocean.
“That’s the kid,” I say. “No reason for a show like that except a diversion.” Clyde loves reading books about combat tactics, so of course he’s got a diversion.
Deb’s way ahead of me. “Queen, give me an ice sheet to the southeast, now!”
I turn in time to see the surface of the ocean shimmer and freeze solid. An instant later, twin sprays of water in the distance tells me the Speedstress is pulling one of her favorite stunts, running so fast she won’t sink. In the next instant, though, she hits the Queen’s ice sheet, and her feet fly out from under her. Still traveling at highway speed, her body skids along the surface like a spinning torpedo, and she slams into the side of the Endeavor. There’s a dull whump! that makes me hope she’s wearing her safety helmet.
“So much for the sneak attack,” Queen says.
“Stay sharp,” Deb says. “They’ll come in force now. Vince, get airborne, take cover in the clouds.”
I zip up, admiring my wife’s battle tactics. One eye is on that waterspout, approaching fast now, so I’m surprised when I break through the clouds and find the hovercar a quarter-mile above me. “Engaging the enemy,” I say into my ring, and I fly straight up. Exploding light bursts like flak all around me, making me cover my eyes but not slowing me down. One of All-Star’s starbursts sizzles into my chest, causing me to veer left. My momentum carries me high around the car in a swooping arc. I glance back to see Bubba steering, Clyde standing in the back with both hands out. Brilliant beams of energy flow from his fingers. Staying out of range, I put myself a half-mile directly above them and then plummet straight down in a hell-bent nosedive. At full speed like this, with gravity helping, I can’t breathe, but it’s worth the look on Clyde’s face. He scatters starbursts into the air, but his aim is random, fearful. Just before my impact, Clyde ceases fire, and Bubba activates the hovercar’s proton shield. The translucent blue bubble shimmers in the sunlight. Ecklar designed it to withstand a thousand pounds of pressure per square inch, so there’s no way I’ll penetrate it. But I know a bit about physics, and I’ve been in a few pool halls in my time. I turn my face and drive my shoulder into the shield. At impact I bounce off, ricocheting into the sky. But the hovercar, safe inside its bubble shield, plunges down like a well-struck eight ball. “Yo, Deb,” I say into the ring. “Incoming.”
By the time I regain my equilibrium and make it through the clouds, the hovercar has crashed on the Queen’s ice sheet. Bubba and Clyde are trying to double-time it to the Endeavor, but they keep slipping. They have hero boots with crappy traction. On the bow, Deb and the Queen take shots at a twenty-foot-tall tornado, one with fire and one with ice.
Clyde sees me coming and shouts something at Bubba, who goes Bigfoot and shoots up to fifteen feet tall. As I buzz past him, he snatches my leg and drives me onto the ice. My body cracks the surface, but I don’t break through. He’s following the rules, going three-quarters. Flat on my back, I look up into his gigantic bearded face. With a shit-eating grin he recites, “I’m an authorized agent of the federal government. Cease your hostile acts, and you won’t be harmed no more.”
I get my breath back, shake off the pain, and reach for his hand around my shin. I get a grip on some fingers, say, “Blow me,” and snap them backward.
Bigfoot wails and withdraws his wounded hand, tucks it under his other arm. “Damn it, Vince! Now you done pissed me off.” At this size, Bubba’s already not thinking clearly, fuzziness compounded by the adrenaline of fake battle and the pain endorphins flooding his brain. So I’m not surprised when he closes his eyes and causes his body to inflate. He grows to twenty-five feet, then thirty. As he passes forty, I lift off from the ice, float up to his face level. When he opens his eyes, I can tell he has the IQ of a child, but his anger still registers. He’s about to say something when a sharp crackling sound brings his eyes downward. Like I figured, the ice gives way beneath him, and he crashes into the Atlantic, flailing in panic. At the Endeavor, Clyde is climbing over the rail.
As I fly across the ice, Clyde sprints along a gangway, heading for the battle. Now only Deb attacks the cyclone, which moves along the hardtop toward Clyde. Just as I reach them, he ducks behind the storm and slips past the control tower, surely on his way to blow up our rocket and sink our ship. I fight through the winds and land by Deb, kneeling over the Ice Queen trussed up tight in the Kid’s lassos. She looks pretty ticked. Deb keeps shooting volcano blasts into the whirling storm, but each one extinguishes on impact. She’s frazzled and can’t catch her breath. I drape my arms over her, shielding her from the wind, and say, “That little shit’s got to breathe too!”
She nods and focuses. I glance over my shoulder to see the show as the air around Kid Cyclone ignites. He’s suddenly at the center of a fiery tornado, one that consumes all the oxygen it can. Almost immediately, the winds die down, and through the dying flames I can see his lanky frame suspended in the air, gasping. He drops to the deck, clinging to his lasso, wearing those goofy boots with spurs. Deb, exhausted from this effort, inhales sharply, touches her chest, and says, “Clyde.” We start for the stern together.
But we haven’t taken more than a few steps before a high-pitched howl takes out our legs. The sonic pain drives me to my knees, but far worse are the mental images suddenly flooding my mind. My mother on her deathbed staring at the purple Jell-O. The empty sky, ridiculously blue, that my father’s rocket disappeared into. The moment Sheila let go of my hand on the bench in Washington Park and said, “I’m going to go ahead and file that paperwork.” This psychic assault is the work of the Jersey Devil, who can also turn invisible. He’s somewhere behind us, probably in the air.
I get to my feet and help Deb stand. “Try to block it out!” I shout. “I’ll cover you.” She’s crying, and I can only imagine the horrors he’s making her relive. “Go!” I say. The farther she gets away from the Devil, the less intense the nightmare effect will be.
On the deck, the Queen is writhing in the hogtie and screaming, “No! I promise I won’t! No!” I make myself ignore her and focus on my own terror. I realize that as I turn my head, the feeling of terror grows more and less severe, like a sound fading and rising. Looking over the port bow causes me to visualize last night, sh
oving my son into a piece of weaponry and nearly causing his death. I imagine what could have happened, the armor crashing to the Earth, and it’s like inhabiting a living dream, scrambling into that smoking crater and peeling back the steel. But I don’t turn away from the vision, despite the anguish it brings. Instead, I walk into it, past my bound teammate. And I find my beautiful boy with his head crushed in. I see the white bone of his skull and the meat of his brain.
“Queen!” I yell, and I look down at her, and her teary eyes come into mine, and I try to keep her here in this reality. I hold my open hand out to her. “It’s all J.D!” And in the next instant the flesh of my hand grows bitter cold, and an ice ball, hard as brick, takes shape. I turn back into the fear, see Nate disfigured and still dead but speaking somehow, saying, “Daddy, why did you—” and I pitch the ball with all my might into the center of the howl. The piercing wail ceases, and the nightmare vanishes from my mind. Fifty feet above us, the Devil, now visible, drops from the sky. He slams into the pad where the helicopter was earlier, but I don’t run to check if he’s bleeding or injured. Instead, I snap Cyclone’s lasso off the Queen, choking back sobs, and take off in pursuit of Clyde. He planned the Devil’s little sneak attack, and that was nothing like three-quarter speed.
As I tromp past the control tower, still bathed in the terror of those nightmare visions, I’m not feeling like a hero at all. All I feel is anger, the desire for vengeance, the need to inflict pain. And it’s cleansing, really. It’s a feeling just as pure as the desire to do good, even simpler in a way. After I kick Clyde’s ass, I’ll go back and pummel the Devil, even if he hasn’t come around yet. This is my absolute intention, and it fills me with delight and purpose. I know exactly what to do. Being a villain, it seems, provides a certain amount of indisputable clarity.
And even as I’m running, I can’t help but think, Is this why King Chaos was always cheery and laughing? Is this what it’s like to be evil?
The Midlife Crisis of Commander Invincible: A Novel (Yellow Shoe Fiction) Page 8
