by David Reiss
“Five months ago,” the Ghost said, voice full of horrified judgment. “His PO notified me about the 'accident'.”
“Given the timing of your confession, Sphinx, can we assume that Doctor Fid's video influenced your decision to come forward?”
“Not at all, Ted,” Sphinx responded, and I was strangely certain that she was lying. I wasn’t alone; the Red Ghost’s scoffing was audible over the radio. “Peregrine and I decided to contact the district attorney right after the Staten Island fire.”
“And why is that?”
“The guilt had been eating at us both for months, but...we never talked about it. Loyalty and fear kept us silent. Peregrine felt that he couldn’t come forward without implicating me, and I couldn’t say anything without implicating him.” She sighed, but it sounded rehearsed to my ears. “The explosion at the FTW headquarters shocked us both out of inaction.”
“So, what does this mean for the future of the New York Shield?” Ted asked. “Losing two members so suddenly must surely be disruptive.”
“Oh, neither of us are leaving the Shield,” Sphinx reassured. “A federal judge agreed that active duty on a state-recognized superhero team would count towards our community service.”
“That's good,” Joanne sounded relieved. “It’d be a shame to lose two of New York's most powerful protectors.”
There was a bitter taste in my mouth, and my teeth were clenched together so tight that my jaw ached. No censure, no consequences…their ‘punishment’ would be to continue their day-to-day lives unhindered.
I imagined broken bodies and cities on fire. It was a calming vision.
“We’re still here to protect the people of our city,” Sphinx declared serenely. “I suppose that’s why I felt compelled to announce our sentences here. We were talking about the threat that the FTW may pose now that the notorious Doctor Fid has joined them, and I wanted to remind all of your viewers that the FTW has lost much more than they've gained. Good men and women were killed in the fire, and another former member lost to a terrible, tragic error in judgment.
“Peregrine and I are facing justice for our choices. Where the FTW goes from here is their choice: whether they decide to honor the ideals of their fallen, or instead allow themselves to be led down a darker path by their newest member...whatever choice they make, the New York Shield will stand ready.”
I growled loud enough that Whisper shrunk away, surprised.
To the casual listener, Sphinx’s argument might have sounded as though it were intended to reassure the people of New York. I recognized the emotionally charged rhetoric for what it was: a direct attack upon my support within the FTW.
My petition for entry may have been approved, but the vote had been a near thing. Many members had worried that my very presence would change the group's dynamic. Indeed, some who had voted in my favor had expressed exactly that hope: that I would direct more aggressive conflicts upon our targets. The false dilemma that Sphinx had proffered would embolden those comrades who wanted to change the status quo and make wary those who wanted to uphold the principles set by Starnyx and Beazd.
It wasn't the end of the world. There would be drama, arguments on the forums, a few members might take a leave of absence in protest...but nothing would come of this. All that I would need to do is honor my oaths and eventually the furor would die down. Sphinx's verbal jab was naught but an irritation and a waste of my time. In a real sense, though, time was no longer a pressing issue. The only endeavor that I'd already been planning to assist the FTW with had been the revelation of Peregrine and Sphinx's crimes. I would—I'd thought—at least have been able to finish Starnyx's work! Now, the organization's efforts regarding that issue would certainly be curtailed. Already, members were posting cheerful messages celebrating their win.
To me, however, this tasted more of bile than of victory.
◊◊◊
I'm bent over a workbench, studying a circuit board through a desktop-mounted magnifying glass. Anguish permeates my every waking moment, but mere physical pain cannot compete with the need to create! I limp and groan and suffer, right arm bound tight in cast and sling. The fracture is clean but the limb continues to discolor and swell. Though my bruised and bloodied face aches from the effort (two molars lost to a broken jaw; replacement teeth were in progress but not yet ready for implantation), still I grin.
A cracked rib makes breathing an agony. Blood fills my mouth and occasionally dribbles between cracked lips to further stain my shirt. And I am as close to being happy as I've been in years. What a battle!
This circuit board is only a prototype; the final design will need be fabricated at a much smaller scale, hardened and sculpted and shaped to precise specifications. The model, however, can be created by hand.
The cortical reorganization surgery has, unfortunately, produced inconclusive results; I have yet to induce true ambidexterity. There are further avenues available for future experimentation, but my temporary solution has been to filter my sensory perception and flip body control laterally so that I can solder left-handed without significant impairment. Time is of the essence; the next attack will have to be soon if I'm to capitalize on the media frenzy. Doctor Fid's new armor will need be ready by the time I heal.
A few months more and I could be done with this. Done with Fid, done with Terry, done with everything. The maths are complicated, but thus far my projections regarding public response have proven to be satisfyingly accurate.
An exhaustive study of memes and tropes and archetypes informs Doctor Fid's behavior patterns. A carefully orchestrated symphony of violence and horror reinforces the narrative. Simple demonstrations of strength would have been wholly insufficient; I’d needed to do something spectacular. Before I finally confront Bronze, Doctor Fid's reputation as a dread supervillain needs to be established firmly in the minds of all.
The time had been right for a display of power, and the fight had been glorious.
When experts and enthusiasts debate and declare rankings among superhumans, their discussions inevitably focus upon second place. First place is, after all, beyond dispute. The mighty Valiant is unmatched in raw strength and invulnerability; his flight speed marks him among the fastest of superhumans, and the energy he projects from his hands strikes with greater force than a battleship's main cannon. In his storied seventeen-year career, the handsome African-American hero has fought alien invaders, inter-dimensional beasts and dozens of powerful supervillains looking to make a name for themselves. He has (rarely!) been tricked or trapped or outmaneuvered, but never overpowered. Colorful action figure signs declared that no one could stand against the undefeatable Valiant!
Three months into the new millennium, at a White House ceremony to honor the hero's wartime service as an enlisted soldier, those marketers have been proven wrong. For twelve full minutes, I battled toe-to-toe with the fabled hero, fighting him to a standstill while all the world watched and held its breath! Doctor Fid has twice crossed paths with Valiant before and escaped cleanly, but this time escape wasn't the goal; the Mk 11 Warframe (now too damaged for repair) stood nearly fourteen feet tall, broad and powerful and the culmination of every scientific discovery, every engineering breakthrough and every act of theft since Bobby's murder five years earlier. Tens of millions of dollars’ worth of equipment poured into one extraordinary, mythic combat! With this battle, fought before the eyes of horrified politicians and countless mass-media cameras, Doctor Fid has finally made himself legendary. I'd retreated when it became plain that reinforcements would soon be arriving, but all the world would remember the sight of Fid, laughing maniacally while trading blows with their undefeatable hero.
Five years of anger and self-loathing. Five years of tragedy and disgust. Five years of drugs and misery and self-inflicted experimental surgeries and destroying myself in the name of righteous vengeance. And now, the end is in sight! Doctor Fid's starfield-embossed armor is so universally feared and hated that the epic conclusion of my quest is fin
ally within reach. When I recover, I will finally be able to face Bronze and expose us both for the monsters that we are.
An alert chime grabs my attention. Odd. Why would an obituary catch the attention of one of my internet data trawling algorithms?
CHAPTER NINE
From a quarter mile's distance, I directed a series of non-visible-spectrum lasers upon the warehouse's windows and performed interferometric analysis upon the reflected beams. Atmospheric conditions strained the system's efficacy, but even so software algorithms were able to detect minute vibrations and convert the signal to sound. Boisterous laughter. Multiple conversations... some low and personal and others that seemed to involve small crowds of enthusiastic participants. Downtempo electronica music, loud enough to be heard but quiet enough not to interfere with communication.
The din was painfully nostalgic.
I'd visited Nyx at the Staten Island facility several times. The cadence and tone and comfortable humor...I'd never been a part of this community before, but this had been my friend's world. I'd send a coded message to indicate that I'd arrived and he'd step outside, always with a fond smile for those he left behind. The FTW had shined a scathing light upon corporate greed and overreach, but Starnyx had once confessed that he hoped that this would be his legacy: this society of idealistic renegades.
With a light heart, I landed and let myself in the front door. My current armor, the newly designed Mk 34 Stealth, was the least imposing model yet produced. It was close to form-fitting and added only a few inches to my natural height, offering only limited protection. There were no visible armaments; the star-field motif remained, but the angry red glow characteristic to most of Doctor Fid's other armors had been omitted. The helmet and faceplate had even been subtly humanized to offer a hint of jaw and cheekbone. It was a kinder and gentler Fid that entered the FTW's new meeting place.
Within moments, the levity and casual camaraderie had been replaced with a tense, uncomfortable silence. The music’s volume was lowered, and all eyes turned towards me; some expressions were fearful, others judgmental, and others filled with outright scorn.
There was, I thought, a non-zero percentage chance that I was a monumental imbecile.
“I've been working on an algorithm that trawls social media sites to identify possible sources of biographic leverage against corporate executives,” I explained. “It's based loosely on some work by DarkPixie21 and MortarThyme.”
The armor's vocoder had been reprogrammed to allow more emotional depth to carry within Doctor Fid's voice. I'd hoped that it would make me more approachable; instead, I sounded...unsettled. Annoyance at my own insecurity flashed into anger and I took a slow, silent breath to dispel the unwanted emotion. Still, no one else spoke.
“Are either of them here?” I asked finally. “I was hoping to collaborate.”
My sensitive microphones identified a young voice frantically whispering, “Say 'no', man, say 'no'!” to his compatriot near the line of refurbished pinball machines. Ah. Facial recognition identified the speaker as one of the three people that I'd suspected of being the notorious hacker MortarThyme.
Someone coughed nervously.
It had been four months. Four months, and my reception was less well-received than it had been on day one! I'd been a fool to hope that Sphinx's sly attack upon my position within the FTW would be limited to a comment within a single radio broadcast. Her efforts hadn't been blatant; given the controversy regarding her crimes, the uptick in media appearances made by the tarnished heroine was unsurprising. Somehow, she guided the conversations to my membership in FTW. Always, mention was made of past misdeeds.... Actions that I'd performed during the old, bad years before my 'retirement'. Victims' names were slipped in and obscure incidents described with just enough tantalizing detail to inspire the media to perform more detailed follow-up stories: my most regrettable atrocities spun into a constant news cycle.
Last night's expose had focused on my battle against Clash. Objectively, it hadn't been a poor documentary. The section about reconstructive surgery and physical therapy had been presented in a genuinely interesting manner.
I was guilty of horrors, no doubt. I'd been unhinged. Unfettered. Rage and self-loathing had twisted me into something horrific; the embers of that insanity, I oft worried, still resided somewhere within my soul...but that fire had long been banked and the ashes were cold. For Nyx, I'd taken the oaths and hoped to forge a new future...and yet, here in the community he left behind, there was no solace to be found. My truest friend's legacy had no place within it for the likes of Doctor Fid.
“I'll just send an e-mail, then,” I mumbled uncomfortably. “I hope that you all have a good evening.”
I fled.
◊◊◊
I chose to start a biotechnology firm for logical reasons: There was profit to be made, certainly, and the opportunity to accomplish grand goals. Also, it was one of the sciences in which a highly skilled team of researchers could easily eclipse my own capabilities. I was intelligent and sufficiently well-educated to work alongside professionals, but I wasn't a true pioneer. I did, however, certainly have enough talent to recognize pioneers when I saw them. In a company focused upon biotechnological exploration, Terrance Markham could be a CEO rather than a scientist. The great task before me, therefore, was to create an environment in which those pioneers might flourish, and to point those pioneers in useful directions.
There were other responsibilities, of course. Building a successful business had required any number of new skills to be studied. Fortunately, I was a fast learner.
AHBT flourished and our teams accomplished miraculous feats. Genetically engineered microorganisms were created to synthesize lifesaving medications at a fraction of the traditional cost. Trauma bandages were fabricated that sped up clotting without generating scar tissue. Corals were modified to thrive in hostile environments and repair ecological damage. Inexpensive filters were devised to improve emergency water supplies, utilizing antibacterial and antimicrobial compounds created by altered yeasts. The medical nanite project had been a stretch, requiring the hiring of researchers and engineers with skills outside of our biotechnological base. The version we intended on marketing was nowhere near as comprehensive as the swarm that infested my own body (achieving the results that I'd enjoyed required access to Doctor Fid's sensors and a decade's worth of regular deep medical scans), but the project had, even so, proven successful beyond our expectations.
The company was well on its way to proving that the world might be saved without requiring the intervention of spandex-clad false idols.
Choosing to incorporate, too, had been a rational decision. Growing a private business to a size sufficient to handle massive government contracts would have taken decades, and I was not quite so patient. A well-implemented IPO had served to dramatically expand the company's available funds. Stock grants and options had also increased my personal wealth dramatically.
There were, however, downsides.
“You have a fiduciary responsibility to your stockholders, Terrance,” Henry Collins said dryly, cutting his perfectly-cooked steak with Pythagorean precision. His skin was rosy-pale and smooth like that of an infant that had barely felt the touch of the sun. “The board is very concerned about some of your recent expenditures.”
The formally-dressed, gray-haired man was the current chairman of the company's board of directors. He knew absolutely nothing about the AHBT's products or its business model. I would have been honestly astonished had he ever demonstrated the capability of defining 'biotechnology' without looking the term up. Instead, Henry was an activist investor elected by other activist investors and maintaining a professional smile in his presence was more draining than running a marathon. And we'd barely started the meal's third course!
“I thought that might be why you suggested we meet here,” I managed a friendly chuckle. “I brought some projections with me...best and worst-case scenarios.”
I offered him a folder;
when he didn't move to accept it, I left it by the side of his plate.
“You committed a small fortune of the company's money to that ocean...thing.” Henry gestured minutely with his fork. “It's good publicity, but you need to keep a closer eye on the bottom line.”
“We have buyers lined up for the technology once it's been proven,” I reassured him. “We'll make our investment back in less than eighteen months.”
“I'm not here to talk about next year's profit margins.” Henry lifted his chin pointedly. “I'm here to talk about this quarter. Profits are down, Terrance. Our stock is down five percent since the earnings call.”
“And up eighty percent over this time last year,” I pointed out. “We're a healthy company...This is just a minor dip.”
I remembered one morning when my parents and I had walked the Longfellow bridge; Mom had let me push Bobby's stroller and the fog was so thick we couldn't see the opposite shore. Cars barreled from within the dense cloud and disappeared again in moments, and we could hear a train approaching for minutes before it exploded into visibility. It was loud, and the wind seemed terribly violent to a small child like myself. My hands had gripped the stroller's handle as hard as I could manage, but still I had felt helpless and overwhelmed. Calculating wind shear and force vectors did little to calm my shaking arms.
Henry Collins' pale blue eyes reminded me of fog.
“I am eating a wonderful steak, accompanied by wine-braised mushrooms and the best truffled macaroni and cheese I've ever tasted,” the well-coiffed man stated evenly. “What I'm not doing is looking over the numbers you brought. I don’t have to; I know what they'll say: Another slight dip in profits next quarter, followed by at least two even quarters before we start gaining again.”
“Profits may be lower than some projections, but we're still well in the black,” I countered. “We have several products in the pipeline that look to be highly lucrative.”
