Fid's Crusade

by David Reiss

  The board's chairman frowned slightly as he performed mental arithmetic. Any embarrassment or anger on his part would surely fade quickly. If there were anything that I was certain of, it was that I could count upon greed to guide Henry Collins' actions more consistently than any other emotion.

  This wouldn’t be the last time that he would try to oust me. Collins was obsessed with short term profits, and AH Biotech’s lofty goals would require long-term planning to accomplish. This was no victory; it was a delaying action, and it one that would likely reward millions of dollars to a group that I would much preferred to set ablaze. But it was one battle, at least, that could be temporarily set aside.

  ◊◊◊

  “I found them!” Whisper chimed, offering her doll Amelia for a kiss before climbing into my lap. “I found them both.”

  “I knew you would,” I smiled and gave the petite android a hug. “So, who are they?”

  “Brian Lamont and Ethan Samuelson,” she said, a hit of smugness present in her tone.

  I felt momentarily dizzy as she dumped a gigabyte of supplementary data directly into my brain.

  “Brian is listed as being presumed dead?” I began sorting through the files, mentally.

  “Mm.” Whisper lowered her eyes sadly. “There was a fire at their cabin in Ithaca, only he and his sister were supposed to be there.”

  “Heavy snow that weekend.” I mentally searched archived weather records to confirm. “Cold enough to make survival unlikely, if he'd left the house on foot.”

  “Mm. But he did!”

  “Are you certain? Perhaps he wasn’t in the house at all. Perhaps his sister had dropped him in town...?”

  “I think he started the fire by accident…Look at 031127118 and 031127119.”

  I reviewed the relevant files and frowned thoughtfully. Locked social media comments (shared only among a few of Brian Lamont’s friends) bragging that his sister had just gotten back from New Hampshire and had bought a hoard of fireworks for him. I shifted mental focus to absorb the chief's report; it had been a very hot fire and the department's response had been delayed by the snow. Human remains had been found - Brian's sister, unfortunately - but most of the evidence had been inconclusive. There was, however, some indications that the back door had been knocked inwards.

  Brian had been an athlete, heavy and strong for his age. It seemed very possible that he’d kicked open the door to no avail. The fire had spread too quickly, too much smoke, too much heat. Somehow, Brian had gotten to the road and disappeared. If he’d felt responsible for his sister’s death, it seemed plausible that he might have run away from home rather than face his family.

  It was easy to imagine: charging into the roaring flames, blinded by heat and deafened by the roar as the cabin was consumed. Throat burning from too-long spent screaming his sister’s name, praying for a miracle and being denied.

  “He’s not a supervillain, is he?” I asked hesitantly

  “What?” Whisper looked confused. “No!”

  “I was just checking,” I reassured her. “And the other boy, Ethan Samuelson, looks to just be a runaway?”

  “Mm,” she acknowledged. “From his foster parents. His mother didn’t report it, though.”

  I perused the background information that Whisper had gathered, quickly. Ah. Ms. Samuelson continued to receive state support checks for housing the boy; the lack of police report was thus explained.

  Ethan appeared to be a troubled kid. He'd bounced between foster homes and fled several times in the past. No hints of abuse at his current home...just an angry child, unable to find peace among the families forced upon him. I did, however, find records of violence at his schools. Fights both in and out of class, though he often claimed self-defense in pre-punishment interviews. A young man, quick-tempered, searching endlessly for his place in the world.

  I silently pored through Ethan's records to be certain that there were no indications that he was a supervillain, either. Really, the pair of them were only an origin-story away from holding cities hostage.

  “Brian should be reunited with his family,” I mused. “His parents would be overjoyed...they could mourn together, and heal, and perhaps struggle through his guilt before it burrows permanently into his soul.”

  “Mm!” Whisper agreed cheerfully. “What about Ethan?”

  “Reading between the lines in his guidance-counselor interviews, I would guess that he is looking for a family but has never felt a perfect connection with the families that fostered him.” It did seem, I noted, that he had at least found a companion in Brian Lamont.

  A plan coalesced, and I began composing a letter.

  ◊◊◊

  With star-field motif disabled, Doctor Fid's's armor was naught but an inky shadow as it dropped from the skies. Areas of the compound below were well-lit but there were sufficient dark spaces for my silent landing to be unnoticeable. The lidar, radar and sonar arrays surrounding the site were, of course, no significant obstacle for the Mk 34's stealth technology.

  While many of the alien refugees had integrated into society, a significant percentage had chosen to stay at this facility. Their giant ship rested at the encampment's center, no longer functional as a space-faring vessel but still capable of generating power and providing for the day-to-day requirements of the beings that had arrived here, seven years past. Five thousand sentients made up a population comprised of seven separate alien races, and all found some level of protection and acceptance on Earth.

  That had been a strange week. Aliens had visited our planet before, but never en masse. It had always been individual heroes or villains come from afar to settle interstellar grievances upon our soil. Heroes had gathered as the massive craft approached, ready to defend the planet against the possible threat. The refugees' broadcasted message of peace and desperation had been translated with only seconds to spare; the Sphinx had already ordered the gathered heroes to attack, and Valiant, the fastest and most mighty among all his allies, had been moments from tearing into the ramshackle craft when the order was rescinded.

  The aliens had courageously traveled unimaginable distances, political refugees seeking freedom and safety, and had nearly faced annihilation upon first-contact with costumed 'heroes'. How remarkably unsurprising that had been!

  Weeks of painstaking research had finally succeeded in identifying this evening's target: Starnyx' contact within the refugee encampment. Gathered intelligence had indicated that she (apparently, sexual dimorphism was relatively common throughout this galaxy) was most likely to be alone, working in a hangar that had been converted to an art studio.

  A small swarm of microdrones assisted in plotting an undiscovered approach. The studio's door was unlocked; I stepped in after sensor readings confirmed that my quarry was alone.

  Seeing the alien in person, I could understand why my CIO, Aaron, had wondered if Whisper was of one of the refugees' species. She was humanoid in form, hairless, and sufficiently slender to be described as elfin; her eyes, too, glowed white with a natural bio-luminescence. The obvious difference between she and Whisper lay in coloration; the alien artist was a sea-foam green hue, paling near to white at her throat. A seemingly-random series of darker irregularly-sized spots speckled her temples and formed a trail down the back of her head to her spine. The female alien was, incongruously, wearing what looked to be store-bought jeans and a t-shirt as she worked at the furnace.

  There were no records indicating what her name had been, prior to arriving on Earth. She'd been a well-regarded community leader, a politician who had helped form a secret resistance with sufficient resources for the refugees to escape from Legion space. Here, she was known simply as Joan the Glassblower. And her craftsmanship (spread carefully throughout the hangar, in safe niches that would not hinder the flow of creation itself) was exquisite. Tall vases with swooping, organic lines, multi-hued and delicate. Surreal, brightly colored glass representations of animals (some earthly, some alien) seemed ready to leap from their r
esting places. Glasses and platters and sculptures caught the light and glowed like precious gems.

  “I would not have expected you to be appreciative of the arts.” There was a musical quality to the alien's voice, as though someone had taught a violin to mimic speech. It was beautiful but distinctly inhuman.

  I'd spent too long staring and had failed to notice the alien refugee turning to face me.

  “Even monsters know beauty when they see it. You know who I am?” I asked, triggering the star-field ornamentation to fade into being upon my armor's surface.

  “I do.”

  “I was hoping that you might be able to answer a few questions,” I said quietly, in Doctor Fid's highly masked voice.

  “And if I do not answer?” Joan the Glassblower was putting away her tools, setting each down in its place with a reverence that seemed almost religious.

  “Then I leave, unfulfilled,” I promised. “Only...That dolphin, the red-and-gold one near the window?”

  “What of it?” Joan's luminescent eyes blinked twice. Her body language and facial expressions were similar enough to human that I could detect a distinct aura of curiosity in the alien artist's demeanor.

  “Is it available for sale?” I paused. “Or for trade?”

  “I do not create art for monsters,” Joan answered simply, then stilled with her eyes closed as though waiting for a blow to fall.

  A brave creature, then, to stand upon principle even when expecting punishment from a powerful threat.

  “I understand.” I acknowledged her fortitude with a slight bow. “It is only that the dolphin would not be for me; it would be for an innocent little girl who loves the ocean.”

  She made a breathy sound, discordant and brief. None of the analytical programs present within my armor were capable of deciphering its meaning. “Tell me why the dolphin caught your eye.”

  “It is a relatively simple piece, though the subtle mix of colors layered within the glass is remarkable,” I started. “Also...there is something about the arc of the dolphin's leap that drew my attention. The angle, perhaps, I don't know. That dolphin is not hunting or straining against gravity or escaping a predator…it's playing.

  “That dolphin is feeling joy,” I finally admitted, not certain how or why I knew it to be true. “I wanted to give joy to my- to the little girl who I mentioned earlier.”

  “Little girls deserve joy. The dolphin will be my gift to her. She will unwrap the package herself, and you will not sully my art with your touch.”

  “Thank you.” Behind my mask, I winced at the harsh judgment in her tone. Still, I was grateful on Whisper's behalf. “Will you hear my questions?”

  “I cannot stop you from asking,” the alien artist replied simply. There was a stool in front of the furnace; she carefully slid it closer so that she could sit.

  “Five and a half months ago, you were contacted by a man who introduced himself as Starnyx.”

  “That is not a question.”

  “No,” I agreed. “It was a statement, intended to provide context for my first question.”

  Joan made another discordant noise. “Speak your first question.”

  “What did you speak of with Starnyx?”

  She sat, silent and still.

  “Did you understand the question?”

  “I did.”

  “I see,” I tried again. “What did you and Starnyx discuss?”

  “You said that if I did not reply, then you would leave unfulfilled,” she tilted her head, expression sad. “I did not answer and yet you are here.”

  “I hoped to learn more than silence”

  “Hope is important, but it is sometimes misplaced.”

  “In vain, perhaps, but never misplaced,” I shook my head. “The wildest, most unlikely of dreams can inspire one to accomplish the impossible. Did you not hope to find peace and safety, when you escaped to the stars?”

  “I did,” she emitted a mournful hum. “And now, the peace and safety of my sanctuary has been invaded by a murderer, under cover of night.”

  “I do not intend to threaten you or this place.”

  “You are a terrible creature, Doctor Fid, and I do not trust your word. I have seen recordings. The dolphin will be wrapped for a little girl who deserves joy.” Her expression was one of fierce determination. “But you get nothing else from me, no matter what tortures you employ.”

  She expected me to hurt her, I realized, believed wholeheartedly that such treatment was inevitable. Still, on principles that mattered more to her than life itself, she'd drawn her line in the sand and chosen to stand her ground. I could see in her eyes that she would not waver, even in the face of a threat as inexorable as the coming tide. Her indomitable will would hold her steady even as the waters consumed the beach behind her and rose to swallow her whole.

  “Please,” I said finally, “I'm sorry if I frightened you when I first entered, and I know what reputation I've earned...but my friend is dead and I'm trying to complete his final work. I know he spoke with you. Will you help me?”

  “No,” Joan replied simply.

  “Very well. I will wait outside while you package the statue for travel.” I dimmed the displays upon my armor’s surface and slipped out, disappearing into the darkness to the left side of the workshop.

  Almost five minutes later, the door opened. Joan the Glassblower whispered, “Come back inside.”

  I did.

  “The Starnyx I met did not seem like the sort of man who would befriend a killer of men.”

  “He was a good man,” I agreed. “I was—am still—surprised and honored by his friendship.”

  “How did you come to meet him?”

  “There is an establishment in Manhattan where costumed criminals gather. I occasionally attend to trade for information or materials; Starnyx was a regular patron.”

  “You became friends, then?

  “No. That came later,” I laughed quietly. “He tracked me to one of my laboratories to talk me out of a violent action.”

  “That sounds more like the Starnyx I met.” She made a delighted trilling noise, the muscles of her throat vibrating visibly. “While I packaged the dolphin that is a gift to an innocent little girl who loves the ocean, I also looked for updated information about you. There is news that you have taken the appropriate oaths to join Starnyx’ organization.”

  “He…did not want me to remain a monster, I do not think.”

  She smiled, and I wondered at how remarkably human her expression appeared, even as her lips parted to reveal the broad, chisel-like front-teeth of a pure herbivore. Was smiling a common visage throughout the galaxy, or was it a learned behavior as part of her cultural immersion upon arriving on Earth? From what I'd gleaned of her background, she'd certainly had prior experience blending with other cultures.

  In recent years, several villains and heroes have become entangled in interplanetary intrigue or caught up in adventures among the stars. I've had no experience in it; to the best of my knowledge, Joan the Glassblower was the first non-supernatural, non-Earthborn sentient who I'd met in person. I lacked sufficient grounding to judge if her cheerful countenance was innate, or a studied behavior.

  (Some have expressed the opinion that Klown was, in fact, an alien. I didn't believe it. That repugnant psychopath's hatred towards humanity is too visceral, too personal for him to be an outsider. Malice so intense could only be born out of long exposure. Someday, I really ought to think of an excuse for Doctor Fid to extinguish him.)

  “I will not help you, but I will help Starnyx. This is still his quest!” she insisted. “I will answer questions that will help you complete Starnyx's investigation.”

  “Thank you,” I bowed my head respectfully. “What did you and Starnyx talk about?”

  “The first time your friend visited, we spoke of the colony ship's impact.” There was sadness and longing in her melodic voice. “Our pilot had been quite convinced that, despite the length of our journey, the vessel would have no d
ifficulties making a safe landing.”

  I reviewed my own footage of the downed craft recorded from my own approach and noted the damage that was still present, seven years later. There had been news-camera drones present as well, with video taken from several angles. A suspicion began to form. “Something went wrong, I take it?”

  “There was a systems failure and we lost one of our engines while we were still in low orbit,” Joan hummed mournfully. “The crash cost over nine hundred lives, including that of my cousin.”

  “I'm sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” she nodded in return. “I take comfort from the fact that their deaths were not in vain. In a strange way, the tragic accident may have preserved the lives of all who survived the impact.”

  “Oh…? How so?”

  “When navigating outside of a gravity well, our hyperspace technology is very difficult to track. That is how we escaped Legion space,” Joan's smile was sad. “When used near a planet, however, the hyperspace pulse is apparently easy to detect. The Legion would have been able to locate us, and they would never leave us in peace.”

  “May I ask…why did you attempt landing at all? Surely there were other ways to bring your people to the surface.”

  “We didn't know,” the alien woman explained. “There are scientists and engineers among us, but the Legion had carefully controlled information about our hyperdrive technology. We only learned of the danger as we worked with your earth scientists.”

  I resolved to review the findings, in case the refugees had been misinformed.

  “Is there any way in which I can access your ship's sensor logs from before the impact?”

  “Starnyx asked the same,” Joan again looked amused. “I will get that for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome.”

  “You mentioned that Starnyx returned several times. May I ask what else you and he spoke of?”

  “As I said...many things. Music theory. Art. What it was like living under the Legion.”