In Hero Years... I'm Dead Delux Edition

by Michael Stackpole

  All this made me realize I needed to learn about the ratings system, bidding and all that, but I really wanted to put that off. First, I really didn’t like the system. Second, and more to the point, while timing the market could make a lot of money, timing it would not be easy. As a dealer my job was to lock in profit and minimize loss. Speculating was the antithesis of that.

  I did visit a number of other dealer showrooms. They varied from the kitsch of a carnival sideshow to the somber tones of an exclusive club where you got issued a smoking jacket when you walked in the door. The nicer the digs, the higher the prices–though the carnival did have some extremely high-end items which, it turned out, were part of the owner’s collection. He had a railroad tie which Graviton had tied into a knot, which was available at the low, low price of 20K.

  The connoisseurs could afford such items, but seldom went shopping themselves. They had agents who scouted things out. The connoisseurs also tended to specialize. They collected C4, for example, or pre-Cold War, preferring depth as opposed to breadth in their collections. Costumes, if authenticated, brought very high prices. Equipment went next, depending on how often it had been used and how common it was. Spookstars and Cat’s-claws didn’t fetch that much, whereas the white uniform Nighthaunt wore during the Big Blizzard had been auctioned for a million and a half.

  That, clearly, was the market to shoot for. Selene already had a way into it, but the contacts were only part of the puzzle. High-end collectors went for prestige as much as the item. They needed a reason to buy from Milos Castigan. Certainly the collectors would talk amongst themselves, and I would do well if they began to vie for the pleasure of having “a Castigan” in their collection.

  Which meant Milos Castigan had to be quirky, difficult, a genius, with wares no one else could get, and no desire to part with a single one. That wasn’t the original personality I had for Castigan, but Milos was going to be moving in a whole different orbit than before. The “affect” would be great.

  On the other hand, I did need cash flow. Enthusiasts on the lower levels of collecting needed a way to get in on the game. The shop would have to be schizophrenic. Customers would have to feel welcome to a point, then want to get further. Milos would have to tell all sorts of folks “when you are serious, then you come see me.” People want what they can’t have, and will pay dearly to get it.

  And they will pay yet more if there is an air of exclusivity to it all.

  My business plan broke down simply. I would start by selling things in the online market, offering fair market prices and bidding fiercely for items I could flip. I made a rule, however, that I would set a limit and never go above it. If I won, great, if not, that was okay, too. What was important was creating a persona of someone who knew the true price of things, and who would not get caught up in the frenzy of an auction.

  The things I offered would come with a Castigan certificate of authenticity. The item would be graded from 0-9 on two scales: Condition and Provenance. An item rated a 99 was in mint condition and came complete with a backstory and chain of evidence that left its authenticity unquestioned. Moreover, Milos would offer a grading service for other people’s items. In fact, a Castigan rating would double or triple an item’s price.

  That last bit of my plan became true for a simple reason: I posted it on Castigan.cc.com. If it appeared there, it had to be true–everything on the Interwebz is, after all. I jacked the asking price for rated items by at least 50% over the median price for similar items, creating the illusion that the certification was valuable. And by refusing to authenticate some items, I made it imperative to collectors to find something I would rank.

  In terms of plans for the shop, I divided the space into three parts, as if it was a tobacconists’ store. The main section would have glass case fixtures with the items well lit. Each item would come with a uTiliPod-friendly infrared emitter which would download the item’s image and provenance. I wouldn’t display too many things–to promote the illusion of scarcity. I’d rotate them frequently to make it look like the stuff was moving fast.

  The second section would be the security vault. I’d put everything behind a stainless steel security wall with thick glass windows. Through them a customer could make out framed uniforms hanging on the wall, as well as one of Redhawk’s early motorcycles. A bunch of helmets lined a shelf, and other one-of-a-kind things–including battle debris and a few paintings–would be crafted into tasteful displays. They’d all be priced appropriately, and infinitely more rare than the Spookstars and signed photos in the main room.

  Many enthusiasts would want to be admitted to the third area: the back room. Castigan–no one would call him Milos more than once–seldom permitted this. “When you are serious, you talk to Castigan.”

  I kept the back room for stock, tinkering and repairing things, though I did to plan adding an intimate reception area. That’s where I would spend most of my time working and researching. When people buzzed for admittance, I’d roll dice to determine how long I’d take to buzz them in. The more impatient, the longer they cooled their heels. I couldn’t wait to see how many would look straight at the security camera and remonstrate about what would happen if I didn’t let them in.

  I’d made my plans and within a week the security vault installation had begun. I had intended to be there for the entire operation, but it went overtime and ran into Puma’s Memorial service. Reluctantly I bundled up against the rain and went down to a warehouse two blocks from the Hall of Fame. Selene and Victoria met me there and we made the long walk through a dim, subterranean tunnel to the Hall.

  Assistant Professor Arcanus used his Mystic Arts to blanket the courtyard with a spell that would distort all images being shot from the legion of helicopters hovering above. Some heroes had arrived in costume–they entered through the Hall proper, walking along a red carpet and braving a phalanx of reporters. I guess it would be cynical of me to point out that these were the heroes who didn’t show the day Puma died.

  Oh, and Tony Ramoso made that walk, too.

  Others, like Grant and the strikingly beautiful blonde young woman beside him, came in civilian clothes through the tunnel. The girl was Andromeda, his daughter. She’d inherited his abilities, while Gravé had gotten their mother’s. I remembered Victoria saying something about her having abandoned heroing.

  I recognized a few faces from the old days. Most of Puma’s colleagues had long since passed on. Same for his enemies, for the most part. I took another look to see if Sinisterion had put in an appearance. He hadn’t.

  He’d just dance on the grave later.

  The Heroes Wing of the Hall had a memorial wall, with small granite plaques commemorating the fallen. One space had been opened and Puma’s great-granddaughter, Diana, placed a gold urn within. Arcanus lifted the granite slab and blue lightning from his palm played over it. The stone fused into place, inset with Puma’s name, his emblem and his vital dates.

  Diana touched the stone, tracing the symbol, then dried a tear. She looked over at people who must have been his family–one child, four adult grandchildren and ten great-grandchildren, including an infant. She then drew a piece of paper from the pocket of her black jacket and unfolded it.

  “On behalf of Puma’s family, I want to thank all of you for coming here today. Pops would be surprised and happy with the turnout. He never would have imagined so many famous people would be here.”

  She sniffed and dabbed at her nose with a hankie. “Pops was a humble man, who was proud of his accomplishments, but never vain about them. He was just doing his duty–first in the Army, and then for mankind. He’d been given a gift and he couldn’t let it be squandered, even though it took him away from his beloved wife and family. You understand that, in ways we can’t.

  “He was in the twilight of his career when many of you came up. He always saw you as friends and colleagues. Though he never would have considered himself your peer, he celebrated your every victory, mourned your defeats, and cheered your rec
overies and return to the great battle. He corresponded with many of you, and cherished your replies.”

  Diana paused for a moment to brush away tears. “Some have suggested it was ironic that he died here, at the Hall, when the Hall had never inducted him. He never expected it and used to hush us when we’d complain about the injustice. He came here on Saturday not to spite anyone, but to celebrate Redhawk and, just once more, to be among the people he most admired.

  “While we are all sad at his passing, we take some joy in how he passed. Dying in his sleep wasn’t the way Pops was meant to go. Even though he had slowed down considerably, he never complained. When he saw the chance to help just one more time, there was no question in his mind of what to do.”

  She looked up from the trembling paper and forced a smile. “So, I leave you now with his words, uttered so often as to be his catchphrase, and the last words he had for me on that day. ‘Be good.’ Please, remember him and be good.”

  The crowd thinned slowly, with costumed heroes paying their respects first. Somehow Ramoso ended up flanking Diana as if he was part of the family. Probably no one else noticed and fewer cared. I wondered why he did it, then realized it was because if he waited for the costumed folks to head out first, he’d have the press all to himself later.

  And, true enough, by the time I got to the head of the line, he’d vanished.

  Diana didn’t recognize me. I didn’t expect she would–I wasn’t covered in blood. She looked simply overwhelmed. While she and Puma’s daughter had cried during the ceremony, the rest of the family was remarkably dry-eyed. That couldn’t be good.

  After I worked my way through the family, I paused a moment at the memorial. I pressed my hand to the stone and offered a little prayer. God had not been particularly receptive to my prayers in the past. I figured it was a grudge, but He should be over it by now. I wasn’t asking for anything for myself, after all, and Puma deserved all the rewards Heaven could offer.

  I joined Selene and Victoria over at a black marble slab with names incised in it. The Roster of the Vanished. That was the problem with people working under secret identities: you never knew what happened to them. A guy gets run over by a bus or chokes on a hot dog and no one would ever know he had once been the Puce Panther.

  Selene studied the rolls, then pointed to a name. “You’re listed.”

  “Shouldn’t I be?”

  “By all means.” Her eyes narrowed. “Here’s the funny thing. Over the past fifteen years I’ve studied this scroll a hundred times. Until today, it never bore your name.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Terry flew halfway across the dojo, landed hard and bounced. This time, though, he didn’t flip around and come up on his feet. He skidded a bit, then rolled to a stop. He raised a hand toward me, then tapped the mat three times quickly.

  “I need a break.”

  Stripped to the waist, soaked with sweat, I shifted from foot to foot in the center of the floor. “Oh, c’mon, we’re just getting warmed up. This feels great.”

  “That’s just P-crud talking.”

  I spun. Grant stood in the doorway in his gi. He nodded once, then moved to the side and began to stretch. His gi was white, with a double-width black belt. He wore a black shirt beneath, one of those skin-hugging mock turtles guys wear to show off their muscles. He used it to hide scars.

  I frowned. “P-crud?”

  “Post Costume Rage Disorder. P-crud” Terry grabbed a towel from a bench and pulled a water bottle from a cooler. “A shrink named Doctor Blink came up with it after working with a bunch of retired heroes. Manifests in one of two ways: most often you completely shut down, drink beer and eat cheese worms until you become this big orange ball sitting in front of the Murdoch.”

  I mopped my forehead with my forearm. “In the other form you want to beat the crap out of friends?”

  “A certain amount of domestic violence occurs, yes.” Grant glanced at Terry. “We were lucky. We retired involuntarily, but we had a mission. I wanted to get healthy again, and Terry helped me with that. We were able to take our energy and frustration and channel it into something positive.”

  I nodded. “You never noticed the frustration over not being able to pop something because it was masked by everything else?”

  Terry laughed. “He’s smarter than he looks.”

  “If he was that smart, he’d have figured P-crud out before this.”

  “Very cute. Glad to know the circus gives you clowns time off each week.”

  The two of them shared a laugh, then Grant looked very seriously at me. “It’s one thing to know what may be coming down the pike, and quite another to deal with it. Working out here will help, but you’re going to need a hobby.”

  “I have one. The business.”

  Grant nodded. “I looked at the auction bid sheets you handed me. You’re right. Six of the nine items are counterfeit. I’ll get them withdrawn.”

  “Actually, you could help me out a lot if you’d let me deal with it in my way. That’s provided Gravé would be willing to act as your agent in the matter.”

  “You really have a bass Lee Rocker used that you’d be willing to give him?”

  I smiled. “See, I’m much smarter than I look. Gravé backs Castigan up on declaring those items fakes and Castigan gets instant credibility.”

  “I’m good with that, and I’ll authenticate things for you.” Grant bent over, his feet and palms both flat on the floor. “I’d be happy to tie rebar into a knot for you, too, but these days I have trouble with shoe-laces.”

  Terry toweled the glow from his head. “I have some stuff you might be able to use in your shop. The power armor, of course, could never be released, but I have this one suit I wore to the Inauguration, and then again to the opening of the Hall. It’s lightweight, too. I could do better with graphene laminates now, but it was state of the art then. It’s a one of a kind, low mileage.”

  I smiled. “That would be great. I wouldn’t sell it without your okay, of course. Set any price you want and I’ll double it.”

  He shrugged. “There’s a little nostalgia there, but I gotta be realistic. I got a niece and nephew in Bayonne who are hitting college age. My brother, Marvin, has kept me away from the kids–he never approved of my lifestyle. But the kids are bright and he’s one of those guys who’s always waiting for his ship to come in. That means he’s got no money, and they’re going to need tuition. You sell the armor, we set up a foundation and they get scholarships.”

  “Deal.” I let him drain his bottle of water. “You ready to go again?”

  Terry shook his head. “Not me. I can’t figure out what kind of fighting style you got going there, but you’re kicking my ass regularly. That’s why I asked the boss to suit up.”

  “Grant?”

  The world’s most powerful hero stepped onto the mat and bowed. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  I returned the bow, then set myself. My heart raced and I had to remind myself that he could no longer move mountains. He’s just a man. I smiled. He’s also built like a linebacker who could wrestle gargoyles into submission.

  Grant attacked. He came in quickly and snapped a kick at my gut. I twisted back to my right, then continued the spin. I ducked beneath a roundhouse kick, then came up quickly. I caught his calf on my left shoulder and pushed.

  He went over. He landed on his back, but slapped the mat, breaking his fall. It sounded loud enough I imagined plaster cracking on the ceiling below. He hopped back to his feet, then dove low at my ankles.

  I leaped above his grasp and kicked back. Coming up and around in a pike backflip, I landed just in time for him to tackle me around the waist. I jammed an elbow into his ribs and dropped to my left knee. I spun, hoping his momentum would break his grip, but it didn’t happen. He hung on, lifting me from the mat and hurling me through the air.

  I landed hard on my chest and bounced, just as Terry had. It didn’t help that I rolled to Terry’s feet. Had I been him, I’d have been
gloating, but he just looked surprised.

  “How in hell did you do that, Grant?”

  Grant stood in the center of the mat, bouncing from foot to foot, much as I had. “I didn’t worry about his style, I just worried about him.”

  I got up and grabbed a towel. “No style to be worried about. I’m out of practice. You got whatever random access memory could produce.”

  Grant shook his head. “Hey, I’m not going to pry. No need to be tossing out chaff, okay?

  I blushed. “Okay.”

  He nodded. “Since I got busted up, I’ve studied a lot. Bits and pieces of a bunch of things make up what you’re doing. There’s a style–a myth, if you listen to those who think they know the way of the world–called Dafeng. Means bumblebee. In it you do what you have to in order to eliminate the enemy. You sting, and like a bee, it doesn’t matter if you survive or not, because the enemy is dead.”

  Terry clapped me on the shoulder. “Okay, this is the place where you claim you don’t know what he’s talking about, I choose to believe you, and we can talk about something else.” He looked over at Grant. “And you’re his sparring partner from now on. I’m allergic to bees.”

  Grant smiled. “I’m not. Want to go again?”

  “In a minute.” I grabbed a bottle of water and Grant stretched. “I’ve got a couple questions that both of you probably can answer. They’re about the Hall.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Okay. Why weren’t any of the mainline heroes at Redhawk’s induction?”

  Terry shook his head. “Politics.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “The Deuteragonist Society called for a boycott, and most folks honored it.”

  “Who are they?”

  Terry opened his hands. “This is a lot of ancient history, but you were gone when the Hall opened. The Hall negotiated a deal with the heroes to control revenue and images, which worked out since anyone wanting to control that stuff himself, in those days anyway, would pretty much have to give up his secret identity to pursue the lawsuits. Discovery and so forth, and the right to confront an accuser. Sidekicks were included in the deals, pretty much as property of the primary hero. Redhawk and a few others escaped that, but they’d already become independent before the deal went into effect.”