Starfall

by David Reiss

  I hated every moment of it, but I’d been so incredibly grateful.

  It had been the same after Bobby died…the same, but very different: it had been children who visited, then. Bobby’s friends, confused and grieving; I should have been the one to tell stories or offer advice, but the words had stuck in my throat so I’d cried with them instead.

  The Markham Estate needed to be made presentable, so I stumbled mechanically to the teleportation platform: Doctor Fid’s ghost, leaving his once-favorite hidden laboratory behind.

  I rematerialized in my home office and stared at the closed door that separated me from the rest of the house. It was—like much of the house’ accouterments—an understated extravagance. Solid oak, stained and polished to a warm tone with elegantly simple hand-carved molding. Heavy brass fixtures, cast from antique molds but machined to modern standards of quality.

  When first I’d bought and upgraded this house, it was nothing but a prop intended to demonstrate the taste and success of Dr. Terrance Markham, CEO of AH Biotech. It had been a place to wine and dine investors and to hold informal meetings with the executive staff; the space hadn’t really been lived in until Whisper had joined me. Even then, this office had felt as though it were mine alone.

  On the other side of that door was Whisper’s home. I left the entrance closed and worked to make order of my room, first.

  I started by separating the books into categories, and then alphabetizing each section by author name. A pattern emerged: the mathematical and scientific texts were well-worn, whereas the collection of handsome leather-bound works of philosophy and fiction were in near-immaculate condition. I dusted and sorted until my desk was bare and my shelves full, then moved on to sort the papers in my inbox. Contracts, notes, bills…everything found a place. Pens and pencils separated to different sections of the hardwood desk’s main drawer. My laptop computer—only used for AH Biotech business since all else was managed more directly via neural-interface remote access to my server farms—secure in its charging station.

  Only when there was nothing left to accomplish was I able to will myself to open the door. And so I made my way slowly from room to room. There was something comforting about the task, almost meditative. There was little thought involved…only action, simple and straightforward. I cleaned. I polished. I organized.

  Eventually there was only one room left, but there was no force on Earth that could have made me enter Whisper’s bedroom right then.

  It was too late in the evening to buy flowers, so I spent the night designing weapons of mass destruction instead.

  In the end, I decided upon arrangements of white roses and lilies mixed with the occasional grouping of blue hydrangea. The store keep at the most highly-recommended local flower shop was helpful and sympathetic.

  (How strange it must be, when half of your customers come in to celebrate the happiest moments of their lives, and others stumble through the doorway to memorialize their worst. Emotional whiplash was not a risk that I’d faced in any of my prior careers. Whether at the chalkboard, the boardroom, or the battlefield…the mental state of those I interacted with had always been fairly predictable.)

  The weather was gray and foreboding clouds loomed from horizon to horizon; it had rained during my slow walk to the flower shop and my rumpled clothes were still clammy. I trudged on, arms hugged to my chest against the chill. Automated medical systems hidden beneath my rib cage altered my heart-rate and blood-pressure to keep the frigid temperatures from becoming dangerous but did nothing to aid against discomfort.

  A black German sedan swerved to the side of the road and skidded to a halt a few paces in front of me. I let my hands drift to my sides on the off chance that I might need to fight or flee, but almost immediately realized that would be unnecessary; I recognized the vehicle.

  The passenger side window lowered as I approached. “Terry?”

  “Aaron.” I smiled sadly to the current CEO of AH Biotech. “I was going to call you later.”

  “What are you doing out here?” he asked, brows furrowed with concern.

  “Walking,” I replied acerbically, and then—realizing that the one-word answer was unnecessarily rude—I added, “I needed some air and I had errands.”

  “Well, climb in…I’ll give you a ride.”

  “My clothes are a bit damp,” I warned.

  “My upholstery will survive,” Aaron chuckled wryly, then his voice dropped low and serious. “C’mon, Terry. Get in the car. Please?”

  I sighed and accepted the offer, clambering into the sleek car. Reflexively, I catalogued the make, model and options, and felt momentarily pleased. This vehicle—the car my friend used to chauffeur his daughter to school and lessons—included the inertial displacement technology that I’d gifted to the Red Ghost’s company.

  Aaron turned on the heated seats before signaling to merge back with traffic. Lower tech, but appreciated nonetheless.

  “I’m sorry for interrupting your afternoon.” I closed my eyes, feeling as though I was shrinking in on myself. “Just…drop me off at home, you can get back to whatever you were doing.”

  “Nothing to interrupt,” he responded easily. “I was out here looking for you.”

  My brows furrowed; if I were developing a search path based upon prior information, this particular road wouldn’t have been a high priority pathway to explore if I were looking for Dr. Terrance Markham. “How…?”

  “Someone from Microbiology heard that you’d been spotted walking in the rain. He was worried ’n asked if I knew what was going on.”

  Willy Natchez’ preternaturally odd luck must have struck again.

  “Well, thank you.” I had the grace to look embarrassed. “A bit of water wasn’t going to kill me, but this is appreciated.”

  “My pleasure.”

  For a while, we drove in silence. Aaron’s body language and curious glances fairly screamed that he was aching to question me, and I was grateful that he chose to restrain himself.

  “It’s been a bad couple of days,” I offered in explanation. Keeping my friend in suspense seemed needlessly cruel.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” He spared me a sad, supportive smile. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No,” I said, then reconsidered. “Yes. I want to host a remembrance ceremony for Whisper. You know the children that she and Dinah used to be friends with; can you help me get in touch with their parents?”

  “Of course.” His voice was heartbreakingly sad. “You tried everything, then?”

  “Everything.”

  “Damn,” he sighed. “I knew that it was a long shot, but I still hoped…”

  “Yeah,” I closed my eyes. “Me too.”

  “I’m so sorry, Terry.”

  As if on cue, thunder shook the car. The skies wept, and my friend and I wept with them.

  “I met Bobby.”

  It seemed as though my voice shattered the heavy silence; I’d been standing there for minutes and Whisper’s bedroom had been heart-wrenchingly quiet.

  “Not my Bobby, of course. Another Bobby, alive and grown up, from a different universe.”

  I sat down on the edge of the bed, gingerly. Despite my care, Whisper’s body was rocked slightly as my weight settled; it almost looked as though she was shifting in her sleep and the thought made my heart clench.

  “He’s a hero. A good man. You would have liked him.”

  That was surely true. Whisper had been able to see good in me. The good she would have seen in Bobby would have shone like the sun. They would have gotten along famously, laughing and playing together and taken turns teasing me. I couldn’t help but smile at the thought.

  “He wrangles his world’s Professor Paradigm the same way my teacher’s assistants used to take care of me,” I chuckled. “The other-universe Paradigm would get distracted by a promising theory and leave a coffee mug on the edge of a table, or a giant pile of books discarded on a chair…Bobby’d just be there, quietly cleaning up and letting P
aradigm stay focused.”

  Whisper had occupied a different role. She’d been supportive, of course, but also a forceful and innovative partner. Where Bobby had just smiled and enjoyed being around me when I was energized by a math problem, Whisper had giggled and argued about proofs. She’d been extraordinary.

  “I paralyzed this world’s Professor Paradigm,” I admitted, taking Whisper’s cool and lifeless hand inside my own. “I didn’t mean to. I just…I just wanted to hurt him.”

  I had to look away, unable to bear the judgement I imagined on her face.

  “I know you wanted me to be a hero, but I fear that’s going to be Doctor Fid’s final legacy: a man I should have liked and respected, stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. I’m so, so sorry.”

  For a while, I had no words; I held Whisper’s hand and let the silence swell.

  “I would have done anything to save you,” I finally said. “You know that, right?”

  I stared at Whisper’s face, praying for only the second time in my life for her eyes to light up, for her to be awakened by my desperation, to smile and reassure me. Other people receive miracles. Even if I were horrifically unworthy, then surely my little sister was more deserving?

  But…no.

  “I decided to let Nyx stay with Aaron and Dinah,” I whispered sadly. “The puppy will be happier in a happy home.

  “This isn’t the way it was supposed to end.”

  Whisper was supposed to grow up and inspire the world, to leave me behind and become something wonderful. A heroine. A healer. My little sister could have accomplished anything! I would have been so proud. I was still proud.

  I was still broken.

  “Everyone thinks that Doctor Fid is dead now,” I continued. “Regrowth destroyed the Mk 39 while I was in it; if the Akashic transference device hadn’t been functional, if I hadn’t had a spare clone ready…that would have been the end. But I’m still here, and you’re…you’re…”

  Gone, I couldn’t say.

  “I, uh, I’ve started building a Mk 40 armor—I gained access to your father’s foundry for the orichalcum, I thought you wouldn’t mind—but I’m not sure if I’m ever going to wear it. Maybe Fid should stay dead.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  Even as I said the words, I knew them to be a lie. I didn’t know what I was going to do with my life, didn’t know how I was going to live with myself, didn’t know what the future held at all. But I did know at least one task that still lay before me.

  With exquisite care, I lifted Whisper’s empty shell from her bed and carefully carried her across the room. I’d decided upon a pale-blue casket lined with comfortable silk and cushions. Even the sight of the delicate-appearing receptacle made my eyes sting, and I couldn’t help but flash back to the memory of another too-small coffin and another lost sibling.

  Whisper was gently laid within and posed as though resting with her arms hugging her favorite doll—Amelia—to her chest. The android looked so tiny, a slender and strangely alien little angel.

  There was a hiss of equalizing pressures as the casket’s transparent cover formed and hermetically sealed.

  “You were the best little sister anyone could have asked for,” I told her.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t the big brother you deserved.”

  The ceremony was lovely.

  Both children and their parents were kind and respectful.

  I didn’t shatter the Earth’s crust and doom all of humanity to a horrific demise.

  All in all, I judged the day to be a great success, and—once the last sobbing, sympathetic guest had left—celebrated by turning off my enhanced liver functionality, opening a bottle of exceedingly overpriced scotch, and drinking myself unconscious.

  12

  My head throbbed in time with my pulse and the back of my throat burned. The stench of vomit and stale urine was overpowering. For the love of Tesla, I wondered, how many medical systems did I override last night?

  The answer was, apparently, ‘too many’; megabytes of warning logs were thrust into my consciousness via neural interface, flooding past too quickly for me to make sense of in my current addled state. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the headache actually worsened. I dared not open my eyes lest my skull explode. Figuratively.

  Actual detonation would have required triggering the surgically-implanted explosive charges. That idea was remarkably tempting, but new clone-bodies were costly and time-consuming to create…I only had two left at the moment and a hangover seemed a poor excuse to discard my akashic identity’s current housing. This state was awful, but I’d borne far worse.

  Discomfort and I may have been old friends, but it was also true that I’d become accustomed to many little luxuries. Warm blankets plush with fine down, for example, or sheets exquisitely woven from Egyptian cotton, or a mattress carefully matched to my preferred sleeping habits.

  A slight shift of my weight sounded the creak of springs and crinkle of synthetic sheets. The bed in which I lay was not my own.

  I remained limp and—with my eyes closed—concentrated upon my other senses.

  There were two people nearby to me; from the even breathing and lack of other movement, I hypothesized that one was asleep. The other was mumbling soft obscenities to himself. There was a rhythmic aspect to the latter person’s delivery, and the audible whisper of fabric brushing against a hard surface. He (and it was a ‘he’, judging by the voice) was likely sitting on the floor and rocking back and forth.

  Echoes carried. There were no carpets or drapes to soften the noise, and there was a tinny quality that hinted at stone or concrete floors. Concrete seemed more probable; I’d visited more than one overly-melodramatic villain who insisted on making their lairs in caves or castles with traditional stone flooring, and the tone just didn’t feel right for either possibility.

  The place reeked of sweat and desperation. And—in the distance—I heard other voices, a constant hum of activity. I could make out none of the words, but could guess at the gist. Indignant and poorly-acted declarations of innocence, bawling requests for assistance, and sharp anger, all contrasted against calmer, more professional tones that ranged from sympathetic to bored to aggressive. When I rubbed my fingers together, I could feel the oily residue of ink; I’d been fingerprinted recently.

  A police station.

  It was self-evident that it had been my civilian identity who’d been apprehended; if any suspected that Fid was still alive and that I was he, a rather different dungeon would have awaited: a high-security Department of Metahuman Affairs facility, surrounded by swarms of D.M.A. agents and smug, gloating heroes. The local constabulary would only have been contacted to help with crowd control.

  Seeing no reason to continue feigning unconsciousness, I groaned and rolled to sit upright on my cot. One bleary glance at my surroundings confirmed my supposition. I’d originally guessed that it might be one large room, but I saw now that each of my compatriots had been placed in our own section, separated by bars. My own cot was at the end, against a wall. The holding cells were relatively tidy—it stank, but it appeared as though the walls and floor had been recently hosed down; the odor’s source was the cell’s inhabitants rather than the chamber itself.

  I sniffed at my own shirt and winced, then took stock of my own condition. At some point in the evening, I must have completely disabled the medical-nanite automated treatment functionality that usually addressed even major injuries as a matter of course. One of my eyes was slightly swollen, my lips were cracked, and my knuckles had been scraped raw.

  Apparently, I’d been in a fight. A minor fight, at least—these wounds were purely superficial.

  There was a notice stenciled onto the opposite wall informing any cell-occupants that audio and video monitoring equipment were both present; a too-fast recovery from my injuries might be noticed. As such, when I reactivated the medical nanites flowing through my veins, they were programmed to avoid repairing any e
xternally-visible damage.

  I closed my eyes once more and waited for the pounding in my skull to fade.

  “Dr. Markham?” someone asked.

  “Yes?” I re-opened my eyes and peered wearily at the speaker, a young uniformed officer.

  “Your bail’s been paid,” the young uniformed officer explained. “Come with me.”

  “Of course.” I swayed to my feet and waited for the cell door to be opened.

  The discomfort was still too intense for me to use my neural interface to remotely hack police records, but whatever I’d been arrested for could not have been terribly severe; for any serious crime, I would have had to wait for a bail hearing. From what I’d overheard at Lassiter’s Den, that process often took days. My personal lawyer was quite competent and she might have had the Governor on speed dial…but even so, I was reasonably certain that I hadn’t been insensate long enough to appear before a judge.

  A sudden flood of adrenalin washed away the edges of my headache, leaving only wary tension in its wake. It wasn’t my lawyer who was waiting for me at the end of the hall.

  “Dr. Markham,” greeted the Red Ghost. “I was so sorry to hear of your loss.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, hoping that my confusion wasn’t too visible. There was still paperwork to be signed, I was sure, but the officer left me alone with the scarlet-clad Hispanic hero.

  Valiant may have been the strongest opponent that Doctor Fid had ever faced, but the Red Ghost had always been the most dangerous. He was devious and methodical in a way that most costumed strongmen were not. The Red Ghost had been Doctor Fid’s adversary—Doctor Fid’s nemesis—for more than a decade. Dr. Terrance Markham, on the other hand, had crossed paths with him only a few times. The Red Ghost’s presence here was unexpected.