“I’m in your debt,” I tell him. “If I can ever help...”
“You can always help, Vincent. There may not be a global crisis every day, but somewhere, someone always needs help. Some days you might rescue the whole planet from disaster, and that’s a grand feeling, I’m certain. But others, you might just save one person.” He takes Julius’s fork and cuts up the asparagus, returns it to his good hand. “The harmony you feel when you’re using your gifts, that’s God’s way of telling you you’re in the right place. Julius taught me that.”
On the TV, the hovercar lifts off and whisks into the clouds, leaving the news copters in its wake. I know the place I should be. “Send me to my boys,” I say.
Magus smiles, and I’m staring at crooked boards nailed into the trunk of an oak. Above me in the battered tree house, voices whisper. “But there’s no way we could survive traveling into a black hole,” Nate says.
“Sure there is,” Thomas insists. “We’ll protect the ship with a quantumsix bubble shield.”
“There’s no such thing,” Nate tells him. “Uncle Ecklar says that anything going into a black hole is squished down to a molecular level. It’s called spaghettification.”
There’s a silence, then Thomas says, “You can’t talk like that when you go to pre-K. You’ll freak the teachers out. Just pretend, OK?”
I glance toward the house, and like a blessing, my ultravision returns for an instant. I spy Sheila in her study, asleep on the couch with a textbook on her chest. Above me, Nate answers his brother. “Affirmative. Our research mission will go forward.”
I would love nothing more than to climb the ladder and accompany my sons as they venture into the vast unknown. But this is their world, I recognize that, and I have no business interfering. Besides, I have a phone call to make.
Inside the HALO, I find the first communications portal I can and dial up the hovercar. As the connection is made, I think of the things I might say to her. You were amazing. I’m so proud of you. I wish I could’ve been there with you. Then comes her voice. “Hovercar Delta,” she says. “This is Venus.” And I think about what I want her to hear most, the most important thing. “It’s me, Deb,” I say. “I’m alive.”
* * *
Three days after the death of King Chaos, Bigfoot and the Jersey Devil are grilling steaks and drinking beer, listening to the Ice Queen recount her part in what’s already been declared the greatest battle in the history of the Guardians. When she finishes, Bubba says, “Chaos told me he had to take me out first because I posed the biggest threat.” Those nearby, Kid Cyclone, Speedstress, a handful of others, nod as if listening to Scripture.
Deb and I can hear them clearly, though we’re far from the crowd. “Bunch of bullshit,” she says to me, both hands around one of my arms. Of course she’s right, but I’ve reached the point where I don’t mind the blending of history with fiction.
My sons, predictably, are flanking Ecklar, the guest of honor at this farewell party atop the HALO. Clouds drift above us, and my friend glances skyward now and then. His calculations are complete, and he’s confident that sometime this afternoon, the vortex to Andromeda will open. He expects a one-man craft, probably a fellow scientific explorer, maybe even a drone rescue ship. Regardless, today he will see his home world. I wonder how he’ll be greeted by his trio of wives, and how many grandchildren his seventeen kids have produced during his exile on Earth. At his side, Nate says, “Come on, I was just starting to get the hang of it.”
“Absolutely not,” Sheila cries. “Uncle Ecklar is taking his battle suit with him. That’s final.”
She stands behind the boys. Deb, right next to her, says, “Amen. We’ve had enough excitement around here.” She smiles at me, and I grin. She is radiant, even more confident and bold since the victory over Chaos. The video of those final moments has been in constant play, and the whole world recognizes her now as a hero of the first order. At the official press conference, reporters focused their questions on her, asking what inspired her to such ferocity. “Love for my family,” she said. “The people of Earth.”
At the following photo opportunity, held on the airfield itself, Titan was a class act, giving credit to Clyde for thwarting Chaos’s evil plot. Titan, a spinmaster without par, explained that it was Clyde’s idea to fake a rift in the Guardians, have me pretend to quit the team, to make Chaos think we were weak. “All-Star knew a division might help lure Chaos into the open.”
The only thing that stunned me more than hearing this on the TV—I watched the whole deal live from my sofa—was the way the reporters nodded and took notes. One more insane fabrication that no one’s doubted.
Ice Queen turns up the volume on Bubba’s karaoke machine and starts singing “My Way,” dedicated to Ecklar. She’s off-key, but it’s sweet. Gypsy, on a day pass from New Horizons, walks with Titan to the middle of the helipad, where they begin slow dancing. Deb tugs on my arm and tilts her head toward them. “No,” I say. “Let them have this to themselves. We’ll have plenty of time later.” And this, impossibly, is exactly how I’ve felt these last few days, like the possibilities before me are suddenly without limit. This strange elation began when Deb returned to the HALO, found me and the boys playing in that open farm field. Maybe it was the adrenaline of the battle. Maybe it was the glow coming off her. But when she floated from the hovercar and into my arms, when she embraced me inside a burning hug, I wasn’t afraid—of her love or of failing or of not being good enough. I wasn’t afraid of anything. Without speaking, we left the boys to their games and went to our quarters and locked the door. And so soon after, it wasn’t a big deal when I didn’t reach for my nightstand drawer. It barely occurred to me, but it was a decision I made even in the midst of the physical ecstasy, a moment when I chose to go on, to try. On the nights since, and in the early mornings when we wake tangled together, we haven’t had any grand conversations, no formal declarations of our intentions. But we both know what it is we’re doing.
Ice Queen finishes the song, and scattered applause breaks out. Bigfoot abandons the Jersey Devil at the grill and grabs the microphone. “This one goes out to a little buddy of mine with a big head and a bigger heart.” Bubba starts belting out “We’ll Meet Again,” and I bring my eyes to Deb’s. We stroll onto the helipad, joining Titan and Gypsy. All-Star has taken Ice Queen’s hands, and Speedstress has hoisted Ecklar into her arms. Huan, wholly human and dressed in a long, lovely jade gown, steps over to Nate, and Thomas drags his mom onto the impromptu dance floor. Smiling and light, we are all swaying to the song’s rhythm. Deb squeezes my shoulder and looks into my eyes, and I know she wants to be alone with me. She knows my desire matches hers. And this will come later, I’m certain. She puts her head on my chest. This is as real a thing as I’ve ever felt, this silent understanding between us about our new project—nothing less than making a new life.
Then, in the midst of the chorus, a crackling sound rattles the clear blue sky, like a thunderclap. Bigfoot stops singing, but the music goes on. As everyone turns, I find Ecklar’s face, and he grins at me. We nod at each other, and all of it—the friendship and the love and the sadness—is understood. Directly above the HALO, a darkness begins to swirl, like a tiny hurricane at high speed. Rainbow-colored lightning flares within the pitch-black core. People applaud and whoop as if we were watching fireworks. As the phenomena expands, the size now of a football stadium, Ecklar’s eyes narrow with concern. He climbs out of Speedstress’s arms and weaves through the clapping crowd, over to me. I lean down. “Vincent,” he says. “Something’s not right.”
At that moment, a long metallic needle pierces the spinning storm. It is the prow of an enormous gray spacecraft, sharp and angular. Along the sides are what look to me like turrets with cannons protruding from them. This ship is not a rescue vessel but a battle cruiser.
“Malkovians,” Ecklar says, and he’s charging toward his armor. Two more ships emerge behind the first. “It’s an invasion!”
From torp
edo holes in the ship’s underbelly, twin rockets streak our way. Automated lasers from the HALO blast them from the sky. Everyone turns from the explosion, diving flat-bellied to the deck, and shrapnel rains down on us. Deb and I scramble to our feet, and already a few heroes are in flight, led by Titan and a pissed-looking dragon. Deb says, “Come on!”
But I hesitate. “I’ll get the boys to safety. You go kick ass.”
She shakes her head. “Sheila knows where the shelter is.” I follow her gaze and see my ex, shepherding Thomas and Nate, crouching low but charging toward the shield doors.
Deb says, “They’ll be safe when those ships are destroyed.” She extends one hand, palm up. “Get me up there.”
I reach out and take my wife’s warm hand in mine and feel her go weightless. Next to me, she floats, and flames engulf her hair. Above us, a series of explosions shake the air like sonic booms. More menacing ships pour through that vortex, the beginning of what must be an armada. With my free hand I make a fist and raise it, aim it toward the battle raging in the darkening sky. I tighten my grip on Deb’s hand, and she squeezes back. Finally together now, side by side, we’ll go help save the world.
Acknowledgments
For core support, I’m grateful for my wife, Beth, as well as our boys, Owen and James. I hope this book helps them both understand why Dad’s at his desk when they wake up. I also recognize the keen eye of Warren Frazier for encouragement and instrumental feedback on early drafts of this story. For their camaraderie, I thank my many good colleagues at Shippensburg University, among them Zach Savich, whose generous response to a whiny phone call led directly to this manuscript finding a home. I’m grateful for the many comic book writers and illustrators who delighted me in my youth and taught me so much about the art of narrative: Peter David, Neil Gaiman, Frank Miller, Alan Moore, Chris Claremont, John Byrne, Art Adams, Jim Starlin, John Romita Jr., Kazuo Koike. Lastly, my deep thanks to Michael Griffith, an editor who earns that title on every page.
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