Fid's Crusade

by David Reiss

  Regrowth was staring at me with a horrified expression. I decided not to expand upon the neurotropic and pharmacological regimen that I'd embarked upon in addition to my many surgeries. Given her parentage, there was a chance that she'd find the conversation professionally interesting. There was also a chance that she would call for aerial military strikes next time I was seen in public, collateral damage be damned.

  “Also, some of them are unkind,” I added, as though it were an afterthought.

  It wasn't.

  The petty meanness of some of the FTW members burned at me. They were profaning Starnyx's memory! Illogical accusations were not gainsaid, and casually cruel japes were met with apathy rather than rebuke. I’d always expected for ‘heroes’ like Sphinx and Peregrine to be awful; it was more jarring to see such behavior from those from whom I’d expected better. And yet, they were people that Nyx, that Eric Guthrie, had cared for.

  My fists were clenched and glowing from gathered energy; when had that occurred? I de-powered the weapons systems and forced my hands to relax.

  Regrowth and the Red Ghost were both looking at me without judgment or fear. The dynamic had changed, somehow. It seemed to me that, only a half hour prior, they would have leaped to violence at even the hint that my ire had been raised. Now, they simply waited me out.

  “The man behind Starnyx's mask was a genuinely kind and decent person,” I finally said quietly. “And both of you know what horrors lay in my own past. The fact that Nyx accepted me as a friend gave me hope. I wanted to believe that he saw something in me that was salvageable…But if he was friend also to those those boorish children, then maybe he just didn't mind being friends with monsters.”

  Regrowth's voice was gentle, “Your friend saw something in them that could be nurtured. They may be boorish children today, but Starnyx was hoping to help them grow into something better, tomorrow.”

  “You didn't know him. How can you be so sure?”

  “Because that's what it sounds like he did for you,” her expression was sad and supportive; it was strange to recognize that, only a handful of minutes earlier, she'd had her gauss cannon trained upon my skull.

  Life as a supervillain is odd, sometimes.

  “Earlier, I spoke of rebuilding Starnyx's legacy,” I murmured, “but it seems I hadn't even realized what Starnyx' legacy was.”

  “You are Starnyx's legacy.” The Red Ghost sounded certain. “You and all whose lives he touched. If you want to continue his work, focus on helping his people.”

  “And maybe find out more about what's going on with the Shield and the Legion refugees,” Regrowth added. “Heroes need to be held to a higher standard. If you find more dirt on 'em, make sure the eff-tee-dub shouts it loud!”

  I stared down at her for what was probably an uncomfortably long moment. “...I owe you a significant apology, Regrowth.”

  “Oh?” She tilted her head. “Why so?”

  “I've overlooked you, pre-judged you based upon incomplete evidence,” I shuffled a foot, embarrassed. “Possibly it was simple arrogance because your powers are poorly suited to stand in opposition to my armor, or possibly due to latent sexism (in which case, I owe you two apologies), or perhaps there were other factors. No matter the cause, you have deserved more respect.”

  “That's kind of you, but I hope this doesn't mean that I should expect three-o'clock wake-up calls.” Regrowth seemed amused.

  “No,” I barked in short laughter. “But it's good to know that there are more 'heroes' that are worthy of the title.”

  “It's good to know that there are villains that are looking to put that title behind them,” she replied, simply.

  I had nothing to say in response to that. I was still Doctor Fid! I just wasn't sure what that meant anymore.

  “You've committed a great many evil acts, but I believe in forgiveness.” The Red Ghost pulled back the hood of his cloak and I had the strange feeling that it was Miguel Espinoza that was looking up at my faceless helm. “I'll work with you to bring your inertial dampening technology to the public, safely.”

  “I don't deserve forgiveness,” I admitted.

  “Deserve's got nothing to do with it,” he rasped, imitating a famous actor. His voice shifted back to its normal tone and cadence, “Being forgiven isn't your choice. Only whether your regrets are real, and if your remorse will help shape your actions moving forwards.”

  Again, I was struck silent. I nodded gratefully and lifted slowly from the ground. “I'll be in touch once I've begun preparations.”

  And then I was soaring home.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Squatters were living in my childhood home.

  The property hadn't been sold when Mother and Father had died; Bobby moved to Massachusetts to live with me, but I'd intended that the house pass to him when he came of age. Utilities, grounds-keeping and maintenance were all relatively minor expenses even then. We'd visited, Bobby and I, several times. Cleaning our parents’ rooms had been a task that I'd seized for myself. That pain, I'd thought, I could spare my younger sibling.

  ◊◊◊

  A small bottle slips through my numb fingers, and the loose plastic lid rattles to the floor; I reflexively bend to pick up the bottle-cap but the damage is done. A few drops of my father's aftershave are shed upon the linoleum counter, scent redolent with flowers and citrus and musk, and I'm lost to memories of warm hugs and gruff reassurances, of a hand ruffling through my hair and of a patient, proud voice reading theoretical math texts aloud for me even when he didn't understand the material. I'm bawling like a child, like I hadn't when my third-grade science teacher accused me of cheating and humiliated me in front of all my peers, or when Kenny Bryant had punched me so hard that the school nurse called an ambulance. I'm not ready for this. How could anyone be ready for this? Bobby still needs a mother and a father.

  So do I.

  “Terry?” A young and hesitant voice queries from the craft room across the hall. “Are you okay?”

  “I'm fine.” I lie, choking back my tears. My brother needs someone to be strong and I'm the only person here.

  Bobby needs me.

  ◊◊◊

  Slowly, the books and toys and remaining sundries migrated north to my smaller place in Cambridge. The house felt emptier with each visit but it had never stopped feeling like home.

  I sold the property two months after Bronze let my brother die. Terrance Markham had faded and Doctor Fid was not the sentimental type.

  Obsessive, yes. Sentimental, no.

  The property had changed hands thrice more over the decades, and the latest owners were an elderly couple who spent most of their year living in Florida. Local homeless teens had taken note of their absence: the window in what had once been my bedroom had been pried open to make for an unobserved entrance.

  My micro-drones explored.

  The unexpected tenants had taken blankets and sheets from other rooms to build their nest, stolen pans from the kitchen, and were slowly but surely making a disaster of the downstairs bathroom. For the most part, however, they were keeping to the back half of the house: less chance of being observed from the street, I suppose.

  I don't know what triggered my curiosity. I don't know why I sent a squadron of drones to fly over the old place. A strange whim while taking a break from manufacturing records for false identities and fake holding companies, perhaps. A welcome diversion from banal busywork. Why at that moment, for the first time in years?

  If I flew there myself, I wondered, would it still feel like home?

  The intruders were causing damage. Not much, yet; torn sheets, drops of candle-wax in the carpet, and enough debris and fast-food wrappers scattered about to attract pests. If they stayed longer, the damage would be worse. The current homeowners shouldn't have to endure the costs of repair. And yet, the intruders were kids...guilty of little more than vandalism and breaking-and-entering. If this shelter were lost to them, it might be some time before they again found a relatively safe
haven.

  Several weeks of research into means of communicating with difficult young adults had yet to grant me the ability or patience to successfully engage with the FTW's more volatile members. It had, however, granted me some nagging empathy towards the hardships such youth endured. The interlopers were criminal, certainly, and were causing harm to innocents. But a truly just resolution must take root causes into account in order to determine appropriate levels of culpability.

  More information would be required before a plan could be formulated.

  **Whisper, sweetheart?** I sent to my ward via neural interface; she was visiting her friend Dinah at the moment, at my CIO's house. **May I ask a favor?**

  This was, I realized, as close to telepathy as any human had ever experienced. A cascade of dimensional fissures and mystic convergences had precipitated the emergence of a vast array of superhuman abilities, but psionics had until now still been a thing of fiction. Technology, I thought smugly, had trumped superpowers yet again.

  **Mm!** Whisper affirmed. She was able to convey more than words via the network link; her cheer felt like a quick hug, a ghostly touch that left phantom warmth on my skin.

  **There are two teenagers illegally residing within the house in which I was raised,** I shared, **Could you help me find more information about them?**

  **You can’t find them?** she asked, surprised.

  **They don’t have driver’s licenses or criminal records, and no one has reported them missing,** I explained. **Facial recognition and fingerprint searches in the usual databases haven’t been useful.**

  **I’ll see what I can find in school yearbooks and social media,** Whisper chirped cheerfully.

  **Thank you.**

  Whisper's ability to perform non-targeted, broad media searches was already far superior to my own software. Faster, and able to make intuitive leaps that the algorithms I'd designed could never match. Clever girl! She would talk me into a trip to the aquarium in payment for this favor, I was sure, but that was no great hardship. Whisper liked making faces at fish through the glass, and I could think of no more enjoyable way to spend an afternoon than to watch her run alongside the viewing window as the tank’s inhabitants swam past.

  (Her fascination with sea life was a recent development; we'd been on our way home from a session with one of the child psychologists with whom we had consulted with prior to Whisper's upcoming citizenship hearing when she'd informed me, eyes literally glowing with adorably grave childish intensity, that she needed to find a clown fish. Fortunately, the New England Aquarium had an excellent reef exhibit.)

  I reburied myself in the laborious efforts to create false identities and shell companies; the Red Ghost had already been provided with prototypes and sufficient detailed information for him to begin his own tasks. He’d already approached investors and begun the process of filing for patents. My manufacturing plant would need to seem wholly legitimate and completely untraceable before the Ghost began to outsource production of the inertial dampening technology.

  I dared not leave even the slightest trace of evidence leading back to my civilian identity; despite my respect for the man, I knew the Red Ghost to be a hero. Furthermore, I knew him to be an annoyingly competent investigator. He may have agreed to work with me to accomplish a greater good, but I was certain that he would try to delve deeper…just in case.

  In his place, I would certainly have done the same.

  A new company appearing out of the ether might attract attention; an existing enterprise with known capabilities and relevant expertise, however, would more easily pass inspection. A lengthy corporate history and an existing workforce did much to hide minor irregularities. Fortunately, a well-regarded manufacturer in Tennessee was available for acquisition.

  According to my own research, the business was basically sound…but had recently lost their two largest accounts to a competitor that outsourced its labor overseas. One such loss would hurt, but two had been catastrophic. Nevertheless, they had a highly skilled staff, top notch manufacturing equipment and a decent management team. I (or rather, one of my shell companies) would soon make an offer. Post-acquisition time spent in optimization and reorganization would help hide any secrets that I would need to conceal within their manufacturing process. With any luck, a contract with the Red Ghost’s soon-to-exist company would quickly return Putnam Circuitworks to profitability.

  Unfortunately…for this task I couldn’t use even a penny of Terry Markham’s legitimate funds. Moving sufficient volumes of Doctor Fid’s illicit fortune, however, could increase the risk of detection. To avoid such, time-consuming effort was put towards establishing shell companies and false identities, creating detailed plans and meticulously-forged paperwork, and backing all these steps with a staggering amount of hacked government records.

  It was a boring and tedious endeavor; meeting my civilian identity's responsibilities as CEO, continuing (with little success) my self-imposed goal of befriending and mentoring members of the FTW, investigating the link between the New York Shield and the alien Legion refugees, and spending time with Whisper all took much of what waking time remained. The latter, at least, was enjoyable...but I itched to return to research, to immerse myself in the creative frenzy that had once dominated my existence. Alas, my obligations had grown too many for me to allow myself such self-indulgent pastimes. The list of tasks before me was Sisyphean, but there was still progress to be made.

  ◊◊◊

  “-also licensed the technology to emerging markets in EMEA and CALA regions, growing our exposure overseas and significantly increasing our market share. The short-term expenses are estimated to be recouped in less than twelve months,” AH Biotech's CFO finished her presentation. “And now, back to Terrance.”

  “Thank you, Ananya,” I answered, smiling professionally to the camera. “The improvements that we've made to our product lines have generated seventeen percent more revenue for Q2 over last year's numbers, and marketing has reported tremendous interest in the upcoming first-aid and first-responder med-kits. I'd like to personally thank every member of our teams who have all worked tirelessly to make this quarter a success. There have been a sea of challenges, but you've weathered the storms and sailed past them. We've accomplished great things, and I look forward to accomplishing more great things with you in the future. Thank you!”

  The applause was polite but muted, which was expected given that only a few of the employees who my comments were directed towards were present. The room was filled primarily with management staff, investors and financial-news reporters; the rank and file employees rarely attended such events; many watched the broadcast as it was livestreamed, but most would review the recording later.

  “Thank you, Terry. We will now open the floor for audience questions,” Aaron added. “If you are listening remotely and you have any questions, press one to record your question and the moderator will add your question to the queue.”

  I sipped at a glass of ice water that tasted pleasantly of freshly-cut cucumber and mint, feeling accomplished. The technical aspects of my work as CEO were easy; the public relations aspect, however, was exhausting!

  The first three questions were sales-related; Kimberly handled those smoothly, deferring occasionally to our regional directors for more detailed information and allowing her staff to shine. Aaron answered a technical question related to the new Middletown branch office, and Victor spoke about our advancements in generating accurate results from computer simulations in conjunction with physical experiments.

  In the front row, the formally-dressed, gray-haired chairman of the board gestured to Aaron. He looked every bit as dour as when he'd confronted me at the steakhouse.

  I successfully repressed a smile of anticipation.

  “Mr. Collins, you have a question?” the company's CIO asked.

  “I do, Mr. Schwartz,” the activist investor spoke in an emotionless monotone. “Over the last twelve months, expenditures in research and development have con
sistently grown at a rate far greater than revenue increases. Profit margins have undeniably been impacted. Do you feel that these unchecked expenses are in any way responsible for the downward trend in our stock's value?”

  A disquieted murmur spread through the room; it was unusual for a board member to air grievances so publicly.

  “I'll take this one, Aaron,” I interjected. “We've made significant improvements in efficiency this year; while we strive to provide our researchers with the resources necessary for success, those budgets have been carefully adjusted in-line with projected profits associated with each project.

  “The greatest expansion in research and development expenses has been related to a new project that required hiring experts with non-biotech specializations and investing heavily in infrastructure. Eleven relevant patents have already been approved, several more are pending, and we are well positioned to establish ourselves as a global leader in medical nanotechnology treatment options. Every new hire and every penny spent on infrastructure will be needed in the coming months. As of this morning, I'm pleased to announce that our medical nanite program has been approved for human testing.”

  The murmur was louder now, surprised and enthusiastic. The timing had been particularly fortunate: the Secretary of Health and Human Services had (through a carefully surreptitious intermediary) offered to approve the study if he were allowed to participate and was guaranteed not to be a member of the placebo group. The ill man's desperation had allowed this project to catapult forward years ahead of schedule and I'd thus been granted the opportunity to derail the board of directors' attack.

  The room exploded with questions, including some from my fellow executive officers. I'd kept this news close to the vest, expecting that the information would prove useful at this meeting.