by David Reiss
“His name was Jerry Stross.” I said. “He had a wife, now responsible for raising a child alone, who is drinking heavily due to difficulty dealing with her confusion and anger and self-doubt. He had a thirteen-year-old son whose online journals are rife with terrified worry that it was something he did that made his own father so depressed. And I think that the Legion would not have known anything about the FTW investigation if not for the Sphinx's informant.”
“No,” Valiant denied, though he didn't sound so very certain. “You're just guessing, Doctor.”
“I am,” I acknowledged again. “But I also wonder how the Red Ghost came to the Legion's attention. He was with you and Sphinx on your most recent adventure among the stars. Could he have let something slip, I wonder? Mentioned something that made her realize that the Red Ghost might be a threat to her carefully maintained neutrality?”
“That's...vile,” the hero slumped. “I don't want to believe it.”
“Believe it or don't believe it, it matters little to me.” Doctor Fid's voice lowered to a sotto growl. “I'll keep searching until I find my truth. Starnyx was my friend.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I get it,” Valiant looked grim. “I hope that you're wrong, but I get it. What's your next question?”
“I think that I've learned all that I set out to learn, today...But I'll see to it that the ten patients in the greatest danger are treated for their illness. The next time that you're here, you'll be able to play catch with the occupant of room 317C.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” he replied, sincerity and gratitude making his voice shake.
“You're welcome.” Behind my mask, I smiled. “Now, hit me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“There are children watching,” I noted. “They should get the opportunity to watch the mighty Valiant chase off the despicable Doctor Fid!”
“You'll be careful?” he grinned fiercely, massive hands curling into fists. I imagined that I could hear the excited whispers from behind the glass windows that overlooked the hospital courtyard.
“You have my wor—” I began. And then he hit me with sufficient force to liquefy concrete.
I cackled with maniacal glee and discreetly shifted to allow him to guide the combat away from hospital grounds.
◊◊◊
The battle lasted twenty-two and a half glorious minutes, though the first three probably didn't count. That time was spent trading relatively light blows as we clashed and soared away from any densely populated area. News camera drones followed as best they could, though, and the footage was awe inspiring. When we reached the Appalachian foothills, the brawl had begun in earnest.
The Mk 35 had functioned flawlessly.
I could have fought on (beyond even the twenty-two and a half minutes!) but my drones had identified several other heroes approaching. Their interference would have complicated the scenario, and so I fled to safety with head held high. I'd managed even to bloody Valiant's lip and leave him stunned as I made my escape! The new warstaff was, however, destroyed in the endeavor. Perhaps an imaginary artificial sentience similar to my sister would be willing to help construct an orichalcum-framed replacement for a make-believe villain very much like me...
Another benefit of so public a conflict: The media's narrative had shifted. No more were they questioning my every action, nor were they rallying the public to declare me pariah and oppose me at every opportunity. Doctor Fid was now mentioned quietly, fearfully. The recent prurient interest in Doctor Fid's depraved past was replaced by hushed terror at what the infamous villain would do next. As it should be.
I no longer worried about being swarmed by heroes and vigilantes if Doctor Fid traveled at night. Once more, the majority cravenly lowered their eyes when I flew overhead, desperately hoping that I intended to become someone else's problem.
The change allowed the opportunity to perform other errands.
Prototype sensors of various design had been placed throughout Manhattan. It was fortunate that, sometime prior, my drones had completed their map of all the tunnels under the city; the heroes might look away when I flew overhead, but these days I was trying to avoid more eyes than only those of heroes. Whenever possible, I traveled underground.
Under the assumption that the Legion spies would monitor centers of commerce and politics, I'd focused primarily upon the region surrounding Wall Street and the United Nations. Carefully-constructed replicas of Joan the Glassblower's psionic activity detection device were constructed at each array. The effort was time consuming and required a significant percentage of my automated manufacturing plants operating around the clock, but I had high hopes that the results would be worth the expense.
The goal was to detect the psionic activities of one of the alien enemies, and to record more detailed data about how the telepathic ability functioned. The hope was that, if the efforts bore fruit, they would provide sufficient information to develop a portable scanner that could be used to track and isolate the Legion officers' base of operations.
I wasn't yet certain what my course of action would be when I found my enemies' lair.
Sudden and overwhelming violence was always an option, but I had to presume that course of action would spur the Legion's main forces towards invasion. The Earth was not prepared for such an attack. Worse, I could find no evidence that preparation efforts were being made.
How entrenched must the Legion agents be, to have dissuaded the existing powers-that-be from taking even the most basic of precautions? There had been little research performed towards establishing orbital defenses. No significant funding had been set aside to enact early warning systems, or even significantly improved solar-system monitoring. Sphinx had correctly recognized the threat of an alien onslaught more than half a dozen years prior, and in all the time since it seemed that the planet's supposed defenders had done little save attempt to delay the inevitable.
I'd wondered why Valiant had been so free with information; I'd expected to need to threaten, bribe and cajole, but he'd offered material intel with little hesitation. I now suspected that he, too, was uncomfortable with the concept of ceding all initiative to our adversaries. The Legion would make its decision sooner or later. Delay served no purpose if the time were not used to fortify defenses against both possible modes of attack.
I had ideas but even Doctor Fid had his limits. I would exhaust the entirety of my resources to little effect if it came to direct conflict with an alien armada. My fortune and ever-growing manufacturing base could be put towards creating weapons of mass destruction that would lay waste to a significant number of attacking vessels...but a planet was too vast to be defended by so few. The Earth would burn behind me as I battled on.
So, perhaps delay would indeed be the order of the day. A temporary reprieve, while further data was gathered, and greater resources acquired. If worse came to worst, the option of sudden and overwhelming violence would still be available.
◊◊◊
Terry Markham was on a conference call with AH Biotech's directors when the sensor logs were confirmed. Notifications pinged across my neural net and even a cursory glance at the data made my eyes widen and my face hurt from suppressing a vicious grin.
The meeting was completed in as quick and professional a manner as could be managed.
**Whisper?** I sent a silent message to the little android who was waiting at home. **Are you busy?**
**Not really,** Whisper replied, sending the vague impression of a blanket castle and fake-tea with Amelia. **Are you okay?**
**I am, but I think that I'm going to need your help. Could you pull up some data on the creation of Westler-Gray crystals?**
**Mm!**
**Theoretically, do you think that an orichalcum containment chamber would be able to suppress the neutrino pulse?**
**Maybe? Wait. Yes,** Whisper paused, her confusion feeling like a tentative hug. **Why? Is something wrong with the crystal in our reactor? I haven't seen any dangerous readings...**
&n
bsp; **No, nothing's wrong. But I have an idea that will require a great deal of energy...and progress needs to be hidden until the plan is ready for implementation.**
**It's going to take a long time to build,** she warned. **It takes weeks to grow even a small W-G crystal.**
**And I'm going to need at least six more full-sized reactors,** I acknowledged.
**That's...more than a terawatt of power generation capacity.** She sounded awed, and rightfully so. That value was two hundred and fifty times as much energy as could be produced by the largest nuclear power plant in the United States. **Are we going to take over the world? Oooh! I want Hawaii! Dibs!**
My office door was, thankfully, closed; I nearly fell over restraining a paroxysm of laughter, and the image of their CEO shaking with uncontrolled giggles would likely have affected my carefully-cultivated image of controlled intellectual reserve. At the very least, it would have been difficult to explain why I was having trouble breathing.
**No, Whisper. We're not going to take over the world,** I assured her. **But I think that we may be able to save it.**
**Oh. That's good, too.**
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The manufacturing infrastructure that Doctor Fid had spent decades building (and concealing) was operating at full production, but the current project would require more resources than I could possibly fabricate on my own. Already, I was burning through supplies that had taken years to acquire, exhausting reserves I'd believed could never be expended. To reduce the load on my hidden factories, millions of dollars’ worth of Doctor Fid's personal assets had been liquidated to gather additional materials. Managing logistical issues had become an immediate and tedious chore.
When the CSE in Cambridge placed orders for components necessary to build one Westler-Gray reactor, the financial activity had been noticed by two supervillains. Gathering resources to build six reactors would raise red-flags to even the most oblivious investigator! Purchases needed to be spread through shell companies so as not to attract undue attention.
It wasn't enough to hide the fact that Doctor Fid was building six maximum-sized Westler-Gray reactors. I needed to obscure evidence that new reactors were being constructed at all.
Given that the Legion had used the Red Ghost as a weapon against me, I had to assume that they were certainly aware that Doctor Fid was continuing Starnyx's investigation. And since I'd killed one of their number, I presumed that the slightest indication that I was taking offensive action would provoke an extreme response.
Simply by existing, I was putting the Sphinx's carefully orchestrated status quo at risk. Sooner or later, the detente would be ended; my work would need be completed before the Legion's primary forces acted or else all would be lost. It was a race, and the finish line's location was a secret held only by the enemy. My only option was to sprint as quickly as I was able and hope that my destination was reached before the Legion moved the goal posts.
(Somewhere, Sphinx was likely scrambling to alter the aliens' calculus. If my actions had tipped the scales towards a decision of destruction, she was no doubt working to make conquering a more palatable option. Not completely; just tilting the balance sufficiently to confuse the issue. Annoyingly, I was currently benefiting from her efforts. The thought made me retch.)
Some items were stolen (Titanium-vanadium containment spheres could be re-machined from the boilers found in certain specialized nautical salvage yards. Scrap theft was already a problem at those sites, so a few extra missing pieces would not even be noticed) and others hidden within larger purchases (Disassembling thermal receivers from a new solar-power farm provided all the aerogel that I would need). A great deal more was funneled through Putnam Circuitworks; with the inertial-displacement orders on hold, the Tennessee-based component manufacturer was available and had both the skilled labor and the contacts to generate many necessary parts. Even better, their recent restructuring had been orchestrated such that information about their contracts was very compartmentalized; my shell companies could place perfectly legal orders, and Putnam Circuitworks would perform all the tasks necessary to keep their deliveries confidential.
When all this was over, Doctor Fid was going to need to rob Fort Knox again.
◊◊◊
“Senator McClelland! It's a pleasure to meet you.” I smiled and shook the man's hand, then stepped aside and gestured for him to come in. His aide smiled pleasantly and entered as well.
“Please, call me Tony.” He was in reasonably good health for a man of his eight-two years, taller than I with a full head of hair that still had a fair number of dark strands among the gray. He wore an easy, affable grin that made me think more of a kindly grandfather than the shrewd political operative I knew him to be. “Thank you for the invitation.”
“It was my pleasure, sir,” I chuckled. “Although, I thought that there would be more people...?”
“This isn't a photo op, son,” he laughed softly and shook his head. “You've put a great deal of money into my campaign; I wanted to meet you face to face.”
“Well, I arranged for food thinking that there'd be a crowd.” I flashed my teeth in brief, self-deprecating amusement. “I shouldn't have assumed.”
“More food for us, then,” he motioned towards his assistant. “Craig here is young, he'll eat you out of house and home if you're not careful.”
“Well, my caterers will do their best to defeat you both,” I shook Craig's hand as well. “Good afternoon, I'm Dr. Markham.”
“Good afternoon.”
I led the Senator and his companion deeper into my home.
“Truth is, I'm not hungry just yet,” Senator McClelland apologized as we walked. “But I wouldn't say no to a drink.”
I changed directions towards the den, my preferred room to sit and socialize. “What can I get for you?”
“A finger or two of whiskey would be just peachy.”
The senator's assistant looked as though he wanted to object but knew from long experience that he'd lose the argument. I hid my own amusement with a gentle cough.
“I can do that. Anything for you, Craig?”
“Water, please,” the younger man replied gratefully.
“He'll have whiskey, too,” Tony McClelland insisted, eyes sparkling. Craig rolled his eyes but didn't object.
“You want your drink on the rocks?”
“Well...damn, son. And here I'd thought we were going to get along.” His playful glare had no heat in it. “Why 'd you want to do something so terrible to a poor, innocent glass of spirits?”
“Some of my guests are heathens and I am on occasion forced to bend to their strange ways.” I held my hands up in mock supplication. “Gentlemen, make yourselves comfortable...I'll be right back with our drinks.”
“Bring the bottle!” the Senator called after me. “We might want to visit a while.”
How much of his behavior was an act, I wondered, a practiced patter to put donors and voters at ease? How much was just him being an old man, tired of pretense and comfortable in his own skin? I couldn't know and supposed that it didn't really matter. The aged Senator was sponsoring the Synthetic Americans' Rights bill; he could have been as phony as a three-dollar bill and I'd still cheerfully toast his health.
A serving tray made it easier to carry the glasses, liquor and a pitcher of water back to the den.
“Johnny Walker Blue,” Tony McClelland brightened. “Bless you, son. Your association with heathens is forgiven.”
“Well, thank you. I was worried.” I handed over his glass, then lifted my own to my lips.
“I think that I can hear children playin' outside.” The Senator sipped at his drink. “Is that your girl?”
“Yes, that's Whisper. She's visiting with her best friend; her father’s outside watching them.” I couldn't help but beam happily. “I'm afraid that they are a bit loud when they're playing with Dinah's puppy.”
“No, it's a beautiful sound. Kid's laughter, I mean.” The senator smiled wistfully. �
��You ever have biological children of your own?”
“No, I never did.”
“My wife and I had two sons and two daughters, and they gave me eight grand-kids. I just met my first great-grand-daughter a few weeks ago.”
“Congratulations!”
“Thank you.” His grin was infectious. “I probably wasn't the world's greatest father, but I figured out the parenting thing by the time the grandkids started visiting. It's nice, hearing 'em play.”
“I'm still getting used to it,” I admitted. “I lived alone for a long time...This is better, but it's also still new.”
“Life'll change on you, son.” He raised his glass. “Most times life'll kick you in the teeth, but sometimes the surprises are wonderful.”
We both drank to wonderful surprises.
“I read in the Times that you were going to build new bodies for your girl, Whisper, as she grows up?”
“That's the plan,” I nodded. “They can't stay kids forever.”
“No, they can't,” he gestured with his glass. “But enjoy it while you can! You're goin' to need good memories to sustain you through the teenage-rebellion years.”
“Good memories and a fair amount of good whiskey,” I joked in return, and all three of us laughed.
“My second grandson...” The Senator's laugh faded, his expression turning melancholy, “He had a tough time of it, his teenage years. He grew out of it, though! I know you're not supposed to have favorites, and God knows I love 'em all, but of all my grandkids...Danny was the one I related to the best. He was planning on coming into politics after his second tour of duty.”
“What happened?” I asked sympathetically, even though I already knew the answer. As soon as Senator McClelland had mentioned his family, I'd used my neural tap to scour internet records to get more data; a decade earlier, the man's grandson had been mentioned in several newspaper articles for his bravery under fire. His obituary was touching.
“Enemy sniper,” the elderly politician grimaced and finished his glass in one gulp. “Enjoy the good times and don't take a minute of it for granted.”
