Chic being the by-product of drinking the right beer, wearing the right shoes and eating the same brand of baked beans as Colonel Constitution.
Not everyone drifted with the cultural tide. Ground-level Murdochs had been pasted over with posters for some Grunge-Goth-Glam rocker named Gravé. City maintenance supervisors oversaw chain-gangs pulling community service. They scraped, but did so lethargically. More than once supervisors had to prod workers to stop them staring at the newly revealed images.
That was pretty much the only place where anyone interfered with viewerism. Murdochs were everywhere. Playing-card sized screens imbedded in bars lit taverns. Slightly larger ones graced diner booths. Upscale restaurants didn’t have them at every table, but just try finding a spot where you didn’t have sight-lines to one. People stared as they drank or ate. Images flashed, conversations lapsed.
Lenin once called religion the “opiate of the masses.” He meant television. He had opiate wrong, too.
Should have been embalming fluid.
Not wanting to be one of the living dead, I tore myself away from the colorful screens and flagged a cab. I gave the driver the address Selene had given me. He grunted and started chattering. I grunted at the appropriate moments. They came when he said, “Am I right, pal?”
Fourteen grunts later I paid him and got out in front of a ten story building on the corner. The bottom floor was the “Rock Solid Gymnasium.” I entered. The owner’s smiling portrait hung behind the reception desk.
I connected the dots.
A perky blonde looked up from behind the desk. “I can have an account executive with you in a moment, sir.”
I nodded at the picture. “I’m here to see Grant Stone. No appointment.”
“Would he know what this is regarding?”
I gave her an easy smile. “I’ve not seen him in years. I thought I’d say hello.”
She returned my smile, but slowly. “And who should I say is here to see him?”
That’s where I almost blew it. I had to think. I peeled back the years, but it wasn’t easy. “Tim Robinson. He probably won’t remember. It was a long time ago.”
“Please have a seat.”
I sat. The upscale lobby screened the gym from the street–visually at least. A gym’s scent is unmistakable, and pervasive. The rhythmical clack and clank of weights rising and falling made for a clunky soundtrack. Distant voices encouraged people to go for one more, then pretty laughter eclipsed them. Flirty-laughter, the kind you hear when the guy has used his best line and the girl is waiting for better.
Grant paused in the doorway, striking a heroic pose. In his nature, I guess. He broke it fast and crossed to me. Simple short-sleeved shirt, chinos and loafers–more casual attire than I recall him favoring before. He still sported the tinted aviator glasses. They’d always seemed to be an awkward attempt at appearing adventurous. His black hair had lost the battle with white, save for a stubborn forelock.
“Tim Robinson. Been a long time since I’ve heard that name.”
“Twenty years.”
“The prodigal returns?”
Not if you knew my father. I stood and offered him my right hand. “Good to see you, Grant.”
His right remained in his pants pocket. He offered me his left. “Passing through?”
“Maybe.” I shook his hand. “Gonna show me around?”
He nodded, then turned to the receptionist. “I’m not available for an hour.”
“Yes, sir.”
Grant waved me further into the facility. The room spread out. Mirrors covered the walls and Murdochs had been strategically placed so folks could watch while they sweated. Entryways to locker rooms stood on either wall and a juice bar lurked along the back.
“State of the art facility–my fourth, third in the city. Sauna, massage and hot tubs in the back, through the locker rooms.” He jerked a thumb toward the ceiling. “The thumps are from the dojo and the boxing ring. Cardio is done up there, too.”
I nodded. “Everything anyone needs to get in fighting trim.”
“Is that what you want, Tim? To get in fighting trim?” His questions came with a challenge.
“You tell me.”
He stared at me for a moment. His eyes tightened, then his voice. “How is it you’re even walking?”
“It pisses off the guys who don’t want me to.”
He took a moment to process my response, then nodded. “We have personal trainers. Terry Veck is the best.”
I followed his gaze. Veck I recognized quickly. He was older, of course, and had shaved his head. He’d gotten stout, but in that drill-instructor way. He was helping some skinny guy pump iron, really driving him. The victim was working hard–more out of fear than any desire to bulk up.
“Veck. He’s not…?”
“Golden Guardian? Retired eighteen years ago. Came to work with me.”
“What happened to his sidekick?”
“Goldie?” Grant shook his head. “You really have been out of it, haven’t you?”
“Buried any deeper, it would have taken a paleontologist to find me.”
“So why would a fossil come back?”
“I want to know why I was buried.”
Grant frowned for a heartbeat, but that melted into a smile. He turned toward the entrance. He was ready before I heard anything, or caught the white glare.
Had to expect that. Grant Stone wasn’t human, and had the hyper-sensitive senses to prove it. Last son of some distant planet that got eaten or sucked into another dimension or blew itself up, he’d rocketed to Earth as an infant. He’d been raised on a farm, had been an eagle-scout and otherwise all-around all-American Boy.
As Graviton, he’d been the most powerful being on the planet. Able to shift tectonic plates, so fast he could lap the sound wave he made breaking the sound barrier, and invulnerable; there was no stopping him. Well, not wholly true–magic gave him trouble, and jadarite could kill him. His radiographic-vision, nano-vision, hyper-hearing and therma-vision all provided him means for avoiding most traps; and when he got stuck, someone like Nighthaunt or L’Angyle–the French sorceress he’d eventually married–helped him out.
I turned toward the doorway too. A TV camera-man backed into the room, lights bright. Another one tried to maneuver around, but smacked into the doorway. Two reporters–both young, gorgeous and eager–thrust microphones into the face of a slender young man. He had a thick mop of wild black hair, smoldering eyes and half-sneered smile oozing equal parts contempt and amusement. Silver chains decorated his black leather jacket and silver buttons ran up the side-seams of his leather jeans. He had a couple t-shirts on, black over red, with the black slashed artfully. He’d bisected his own image on the black.
I glanced at Grant. “That the rock guy, Gravé?” I pronounced it like the hole in the ground.
“Grah-vey. Publicist thought it sounded better.” Grant’s smile grew. “Musician by day–well, by midday anyway–hero after hours. He doesn’t maintain a secret identity.”
Gravé held his hands up. “You know the rules, ladies. Outside the gym or no more exclusives.”
The women groaned, and the lights died.
“How can he have exclusives with two reporters at the same time?”
“One covers music, the other crime fighting. He comes here for peace and quiet.”
“High-powered clientele.”
“He’s also my son.” Grant waved him over and hugged him tightly. Father dwarfed son, but the hug was returned with equal affection. They broke the embrace and Grant kept his right hand hidden behind the young man’s back.
“This is Tim Robinson. Knew him a long time ago. He also knew your mother.”
I shook Gravé’s hand. “My pleasure. I don’t know your music. I’ve been on the road.”
“Where?”
“Europe. The Balkans.”
“Cool. I have a fan club in Montenegro.” He grinned easily, but his dark eyes watched me warily.
“Didn�
��t get over there.”
“Cool, man.” He nodded to the both of us. “Came to get a shower, do some scanning and bidding.”
Grant nodded. “Heard from Andie?”
“On the Cape. Beached whale. I talked her out of digging a canal.”
“What was she thinking?”
He smiled easily. “Like you wouldn’t have done it, Pop, and thrown up affordable housing and a hospital with the spare dirt.”
I smiled. “Wow, he really is your kid.”
“He and his sister are the joys of my life.” He turned to me. “Did you ever…”
“I know. Now. As of two days ago.”
“So she told you to come? Don’t answer. She must have. You wouldn’t have looked me up on your own.” Grant studied me again. “What do you want?”
“I need someone I can trust.”
“And you think that’ll be me?”
Gravé offered me his hand again. “Clearly you’ve got old times to talk about. Boring. Nice meeting you.”
“And you.”
“See you, dad.”
“I love you. Tell your sister to call me.”
“Check. Later.”
Gravé had given his father time to think, and time to hide his right hand again. “We need to do some catching up, Tim.”
“Your office?”
“Not here. Too many interruptions. Let’s get some coffee.” He turned around. “Terry, hold the fort. I’ll be back later.”
Terry waved, then went back to haranguing his charge.
We didn’t talk much on the walk. The idea that he and I were going to get caught up was for his son’s consumption–though I doubted the kid bought it. There’s not a kid alive who can’t read his parents like a book. It’s the only way to survive childhood.
Getting caught up implied chumminess, but Graviton and I hadn’t palled around back in the day. Part of that was the age difference. He and the others were already pushing fifty and I’d been was half that. I used to think they were pretty old, but now that I’d gotten to their age, it didn’t seem old. Then, at other times, I did feel like a fossil.
Halfway down the block Grant got us an outside table toward the corner of a coffee shop’s patio. We ordered and made small talk about people walking by. We avoided anything of substance. Maybe he was trying to find some sort of common ground or something. He was the type to at least try.
Finally our coffee arrived. He pried the lid off his and blew on it. Ironic. He could bask in the heart of the sun and was acting like the coffee could burn him. He added a couple packets of some sim-sugar and then fake dairy. I just took mine hot and black. Over the years I’d learned not to be choosy.
Grant leaned forward, his voice low. “Here it is. I never really liked you. I was opposed to your joining C4. I would have blackballed you, but Nighthaunt persuaded me. He said you were recommended highly. Your inclusion would set a precedent. I figured he hoped Redhawk would be invited to join, too, in a couple years. I didn’t think we needed you–you were just a pale imitation of him.”
“Any normal mortal with a bag of tricks was a Nighthaunt wannabe.”
“Well, here’s another thing. I never trusted you. Neither did L’Angyle. I was against trusting you with my secret identity, but I did it anyway. That was how we built trust in C4. You didn’t reciprocate.”
“Not for the reasons you imagine.” I met his stare. “I never betrayed your secret, and I could have. In fact, I knew it three years before you invited me to join the Capital City Crime Crusaders.”
Grant sat back. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Doesn’t mean I believe. How?”
“Simple.” I smiled at him over my coffee. “Sunscreen.”
Chapter Six
I’d seen that look in his eyes before, just once–a second before he’d used his therma-vision to deli-slice a tank. “Sunscreen?”
“Sunscreen.” I sipped some coffee, delaying enough to let him stew. “You covered your tracks really well. Grant Stone, world-renown travel writer and food critic, could travel anywhere–often did so secretly–and just happened to be in places where Graviton dealt with emergencies. You documented your travel perfectly. You had receipts for everything, on down to hotel housekeeping tips and packets of breath-mints. But nothing for sunscreen. You never needed it, you never thought of it.”
Grant closed his eyes. “Good Heavens! I had others look things over, help me cover my tracks. Even Nighthaunt gave me a clean bill.”
“Sure, like he’s ever seen the sun.”
“You have a point there.” He looked at me again. “I still don’t like the idea that you broke into my accountant’s office to get this information.”
“I didn’t.”
“No reason to lie about it.”
“Which is why I’m not.” I shook my head. “I temped for your accountant. It was good money. Added bonus: he did the books for a mob guy skimming from union pension funds.”
An edge crept into his voice. “Why did you go after me?”
“I was testing a theory.”
“Do tell.”
“A secret identity allows you to have a life. It protects your family, your friends. You had a solid one. Very tough to crack. It took me over a year and a half, paring down possibilities. And even when I narrowed things down, I couldn’t eliminate the Lamont Cranston factor.”
“The Shadow from the old radio serials?”
“Yes and no.” I set my coffee down. “On the radio, the Shadow was Lamont Cranston. In the pulp novels, the Shadow had merely borrowed Cranston’s identity. It looked like you were Graviton, but I couldn’t be sure Grant Stone hadn’t just lent Graviton his name to cover his travel. You’re home writing, he’s off saving the world.”
I leaned forward. “But that’s not the theory. See, any secret identity, no matter how good, can be cracked. When that happens, it’s all gone. I didn’t like that. Too vulnerable. Once I broke yours, the alternative became obvious. Don’t have a single secret identity, have many. Wear them like clothes and discard them as needed. The moment I thought one was blown, I dropped it.”
Grant nodded slowly, his expression easing. “So you made up Tim Robinson on the fly. We accepted it. Nighthaunt checked it out, gave you a clean bill. It wasn’t until after you’d gone, that we discovered how thin a tissue it was. Why didn’t you trust us?”
“I wasn’t raised to do much trusting.” Leaning back, I opened my hands. “You said I was a pale imitation of Nighthaunt. True, in methods and attitude. You always believed in the good of humanity; that people are not evil and selfish at their core. Like Nighthaunt, I tended toward the view that we’re more sinner than saint. You can be born good and trained to evil.”
“Yet another reason Nighthaunt wanted you in C4. Nature versus nurture.” He smiled briefly, then his eyes narrowed. “Didn’t you ever have anyone you wanted to protect?”
“Yeah.”
He looked at me expectantly.
I changed the subject. “Nothing makes sense here, Grant. What happened?”
“You really have been out of circulation, haven’t you?”
“Buried, remember?”
He leaned forward, keeping his voice low. “Two years after you vanished the villains formed their own counterpart to C4: Capital City Crime Cartel. The Al Qaeda of Villainy. Sinisterion was behind it, but that was never proved. They started a crime wave that took control of everything: rackets, drugs, prostitution, extortion, kidnapping and murder, all under central control. Kidnapping became especially lucrative.
“The Technomancer kidnapped the Mayor’s son and dared us to come get him. Argus Square, huge battle. It’s all been rebuilt. He’d put the kid in an explosive vest. I zipped in, pulled it off the kid, realized I’d somehow armed it, and flew straight up. I wanted to keep everyone out of blast radius.”
He paused for a moment, then pulled his right hand from beneath the table.
I stared. “Oh my God.”
His last three fingers had been blown off. White-worm scars writhed over the rest of the flesh. His thumb worked, but the index finger remained stiff.
“The Technomancer had anticipated me. The vest went off in two stages. The first exploded a small charge around a sample of jadarite. Took my fingers. Laid open my chest. I still have shards next to my heart. Knocked me out and I started to come down, the main charge intact.
“Golden Guardian and Goldie saw and flew up. Terry got me. Goldie snatched the vest away, flew up further. The rest of the vest detonated. Scattered pieces of Goldie from the Fishkyll to North River, all over the North End. Shrapnel from his armor killed two on the ground, wounded fourteen.”
His eyes grew distant; his hand returned beneath the table. “Terry was taking me to the hospital where my wife worked, figuring she could put me back together. Nighthaunt stopped him. They made a decision. Forever changed my life.”
I shook my head. “What?”
“Nighthaunt said he couldn’t take Graviton to the hospital. If Graviton were to die, there would be no stopping the Cartel. People would despair. Chaos would reign.”
It made vague sense. Graviton going down would be like the sun exploding. That sort of thing wasn’t supposed to happen.
“So…”
“So they brought me to the hospital as Grant. I’d been among those wounded in the blast, you see. And they demanded that my wife work on me, world-famous surgeon that she was.”
I slowly nodded. “But she couldn’t work on you because of the conflict of interest. With her ability to work magic, she could have gotten the jadarite out, repaired the damage.”
“She could have made me whole again.” He shrugged. “Probably not the fingers, but everything else. As it was, they got as much of the jadarite out they dared. I have a couple pieces deep, near my heart. I exert myself, terrible angina. Spasms. Things just don’t work right.”
“And if Graviton had appeared at the ER…”
“She could have saved me. Maybe.” Grant shook his head. “The stuff near my heart might have even defied her skills–magical and otherwise. That’s why she’s not gone after them since. Too risky.”
In Hero Years... I'm Dead Delux Edition Page 4
