by David Reiss
“And I’ll have the Lemon Grass Chicken,” I added. The waiter smiled in acknowledgment and wandered off to his next table.
The restaurant wasn’t terribly crowded; the dinner rush hadn’t started yet. In another hour there would be a line of hopeful diners waiting outside. For now, half the tables were empty and the hum of background conversations wasn’t intrusive. Aaron knew the owner, and we’d hired this restaurant for catering parties at AH Biotech several times.
“It’s good to see you, Terry. You’re looking better.”
“I’m feeling better. A bit.” I grimaced. “Some days are better than others.”
“If there’s anything you need…”
“Just time,” I said, then considered for a few moments before adding: “And company once in a while.”
My friend smiled, “That, I can do.”
“Thank you for the invitation.”
“No problem. I’ve been told that it’s important to drag you away from math once in a while.”
“Oh?”
“I spoke to your coworker. Alex, I think his name is?”
“Alex Hoffman,” I confirmed. “He was my T.A. back when I was a professor at M.I.T..”
“The Doctor Markham he describes is very different from the Doctor Markham I’ve always known,” Aaron noted, curiously.
I paused before answering. Even ignoring the remarkably large number of surgical alterations that I’d made over the years to forge myself into the roles of Doctor Fid and AH Biotech CEO, I’d undergone hundreds of hours of acting and social training. Back when Alex had known me, I’d been an awkward introvert; by the time I’d met Aaron, I’d learned how to pretend at being an assertive extrovert. In the time since, the mask had settled until it almost felt real.
In a very real sense, I was a different person than the Doctor Markham that Alex had known back at M.I.T.
“I was much younger then,” I finally explained.
“But you’re happy with what you’re doing?”
“I think that ‘happy’ is the wrong word,” I admitted. “I’m…distracted. It’s easier to get lost inside my head when I’m doing pure research. It’s all numbers and no emotions.”
Aaron’s brows furrowed. “That doesn’t sound healthy.”
“I’m not ready to be healthy,” I gritted out, voice sounding strained even to me. I took a deep breath and waited for the tension in my chest to fade before continuing. “I think this is what I needed.”
“Okay,” he grimaced. “If it’s what you need, then…good.”
It wasn’t good and we both knew it. Fortunately, Aaron was a kind enough friend to allow my pain to go unspoken.
“And, how are things going with you?” I asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Keeping the lights on at AHBT?”
“Doing well.” Aaron sipped at his water, then looked around the room. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter: “Although, truthfully, I did have an ulterior motive inviting you here.”
“Oh?”
“When you were at the helm, we fast-tracked a lot of products for testing, but I’ve been getting pushback from the FDA…” he trailed off. There was a strange note of nervousness in his voice that momentarily confused me.
“You don’t need to bribe anyone,” I chuckled, unable to hide my amusement when I realized what he was asking.
“Oh, thank God.” Aaron’s embarrassed relief was palpable.
“It’s all above board, but there are politicians who owe us favors,” I explained. “I’ve donated to a fair number of campaigns and attended lots of boring fund-raisers. I’m sorry, I should have given you the list months ago.”
On a somewhat more morally questionable note, I’d also spent years hacking confidential medical records and private mail archives to ensure that the company was always in a good position to address the personal needs of prominent politicians and businessmen. With any luck, Aaron would never need to employ a similar level of skullduggery in order to keep the company on track.
“And now I’m embarrassed for even implying-”
“Don’t be,” I smirked playfully. “If I’d known who to throw money at to get the artificial reef project approved, I would’ve poured a fortune into someone’s pocket.”
“You ’n me, both.”
“So,” I smiled, “which project were you hoping to get fast-tracked?”
“The bone graft enhancements. Theo says we’re ready for human trials…”
“If Theo says it, then it’s true.” I used my neural tap to silently run a few database queries. “Hmm…I seem to recall that the director of the CBER is Senator Sutliff’s brother-in-law. Sutliff will answer your call and he can arrange a face-to-face, but that’s the sort of relationship you can only push at once or twice. I have another idea, but it would take about six months.”
“I was being told more than two years, so six months ‘d still be an improvement.”
“The head of the CDRH has a close relationship with Paradigm Labs, and our nanites could repair Professor Paradigm’s stroke damage.”
“The nanites aren’t licensed for neural disorders yet,” Aaron objected. “We’ve been approved for testing, but that’s going to take years.”
“Get the Department of Metahuman Affairs to sign an exemption.”
“Paradigm isn’t a metahuman.”
“But he’s a licensed hero and his company is a powerful government contractor. The DMA will push it through.” I sipped at my own drink, then set down my glass. “There’s a fair amount of overlap between the CDRH and CBER; if the Center for Devices and Radiological Health is in your corner, the Center for Biologics Evaluation and Research will follow.”
“That’ll work.” Aaron smiled, looking satisfied. “Thanks.”
“I’ll write up some notes on relationships to keep track of and suggestions as to which politicians to contribute to,” I added. “This part of the job takes a bit of practice, but you’ll do fine.”
“I appreciate it.”
There were still horrors in my past that could never be righted. With Professor Paradigm’s symptoms repaired, however, at least one of Doctor Fid’s crimes could be erased from existence.
We both fell silent as our waiter arrived with our appetizers.
When I’d been CEO of AH Biotech, I realized, the company’s future had been brittle…dependent solely upon my insight. Too much responsibility had rested upon my shoulders, and too little had been shared among my peers. If I’d lost a single battle, the company would have fallen with me: hundreds of extraordinary, dedicated workers betrayed by my arrogance.
Aaron would be better. Already, he was delegating…preparing for the future. The company would survive beyond my influence and beyond his as well. AH Biotech would be a legacy for which Terry Markham could be justly proud. And, perhaps, a legacy that Bobby and Whisper would have been proud of as well.
If only the part of me that was Fid would stop howling.
14
Two Young Heroes Hospitalized due to Communications Failures.
By Brett Deutch, KNN
(KNN) - For prospective heroes hoping to eventually become licensed by the Department of Metahuman Affairs, the training programs offered by local state-sponsored superhero teams have long been an attractive option. While critics have complained that such programs are poorly regulated, the curriculums generally include a wide array of scholastic material as well as the physical skills necessary for a career in metahuman law enforcement; graduates can generally expect significantly improved probabilities to earn their license on their first attempt, and are more likely to gain employment with premier-level state-sponsored superhero teams.
For decades, the training program offered by the New York Shield team of heroes has been considered to be the most prestigious among all courses offered on the East Coast. Alumnus from the so-called ‘Junior Shield’ are head-hunted by talent scouts across the country. Students of said program trust their safety—and their futures—to the m
ore experienced superheroes who serve as their mentors.
On Thursday evening, that trust was betrayed. Two members of the Junior Shield—Brute and Exbow—were hospitalized when they were directed into a deadly conflict against the Red Hook Spiders.
“They shouldn’t have been there,” said Junior Shield Team-mate Cherenkov. “We all know that this job can be dangerous, but following proper procedure is supposed to limit the risks. Two-person scout patrols aren’t supposed to be deployed in high-risk areas. Not ever!”
“My student is correct,” New York Shield leader Cloner stated with uncharacteristic seriousness. “There’s no excuse. The patrol shouldn’t have been deployed into that region without backup nearby, and the result was very nearly tragic. Brute and Exbow are both excellent recruits and I couldn’t be more proud of their performance when they were thrust into a highly stressful confrontation. They did good. The fault lay upon their trainers, and I take full responsibility. It’s no secret that the New York Shield has been experiencing no shortage of technical difficulties lately, but that is no excuse. We should have been double-checking that our messages were transmitted accurately.
“Our procedures have been updated,” the hero continued. “This cannot be allowed to happen again.”
“I made beanie weenies,” Alex informed me through my office’s open door.
I looked up from my calculations, “Did it come from a can?”
“Of course.”
“Well,” I put down my pencil, “in that case, let me get a bowl.”
He beamed in approval and I followed him out the door.
The building itself was still barely occupied and the ‘break room’ was little more than a meeting area with a sink and a coffee machine against one wall; a refrigerator and a microwave had been set along the opposite side of the room. The new cafeteria would be much larger; construction was expected to start any day now. I found a bowl in one of the cabinets and rinsed it while Alex re-heated the beans and franks in the microwave.
“How’re things going on your end?” Alex asked, grabbing a bowl and silverware for himself.
“It’s coming along well,” I replied. “I’ve gotten the go-ahead to bring in a few office-admins to help with paperwork and organization. I was wondering if you wanted to sit in on the interviews?”
My former teaching assistant looked surprised. “Do you need me there?”
I shook my head, “No, I just thought that it would be good for you to be familiar with the hiring process.”
“I’m just a mathematician, Terry.”
“Even so. Learning how to evaluate prospective employees might be a useful skill to learn.”
Alex paused before answering; the microwave beeped, and pulled our lunch from within. The scent of brown-sugar baked beans and highly-processed meat-products flooded the room. Conversation stopped while we filled our bowls.
“I don’t mind learning new skills,” he finally said, stirring his franks and beans with a spoon. “But I’m a pure math guy and I love what I do. I have tenure and enough seniority that I can take time off for projects like this. I’m not gonna have ‘prospective employees’ any time soon.”
“Ah.” A rueful smile twisted at my lips, “I’m sorry, that was presumptive of me; I’d been thinking that you would be an excellent candidate to take over my position here when I move on. It would have been pleasant to leave someone I know and trust in charge.”
“I’m honored. Really.” Alex shrugged. “But I’m here for the research, man…not the stock options.”
Unsure if I should feel proud or jealous, I raised a spoonful of beans and frankfurters to my lips and chewed very slowly.
“Do you…,” Alex begins to ask, “…have any threes?”
“Go fish!” Bobby giggles.
I’ve never taught in this cavernous auditorium, but the raised dais with the broad wall of chalk-boards has made this room a favorite for after-hours mathematical exploration. A quiet little office and a stack of notepads is acceptable for some projects; others require expanse. There is something invigorating about covering wall after wall with scrawled proofs, and then being able to step back and drink in all that progress at once.
This lecture hall can seat five-hundred and sixty-six with uncomfortable wooden amphitheater chairs stretching into the distance; I remember being cramped in the middle of those masses, feeling small and out-of-place, straining to see the chalkboards that I now claimed for my own. During class hours, the hum of so many intent, focused students gave the space a distinct sense of energy and pressure. Now, the room is empty and the scratch of my chalk writing echoes.
“D’you have any fives?” Bobby asks.
Almost empty, I mentally amend. Alex is keeping Bobby entertained, playing some strange card game at the front of the dais.
“I have two fives.”
“Hah!” Bobby awkwardly fiddles with his cards, separating a few out then laying a stack face-down. “D’you have any jacks?”
“Go fish!”
“Aww…”
They play and I inscribe obscure notations and discover connections and develop proofs and this moment is everything that I want from the world. I can hear the relaxed joy in Bobby’s voice with every turn of gameplay and I write faster, riding the wave of enthusiasm towards some ineffable truth, something magical that only these formula will be able to reveal. By the time I move on to the next blackboard, Bobby and Alex have started another game. The music of creation carries me forward.
Time passes. More blackboards are filled, and I scribble on even as the card games draw to a close.
“Hey,” Alex says, “it looks like your big brother is going to be busy for a while. D’you wanna grab something to eat?”
“Yeah, okay.”
I know to start wrapping up, to let this inspirational frenzy fade, to sit in one of those uncomfortable wooden seats and transcribe my notes. But I also know that I have time before the pair returns, fed and happy; Bobby, eager to return home and play with his action figures before tiring and going to sleep, and Alex eager to take his own notes from the scrawls I leave behind.
In two months, Bobby will be dead and I’ll have begun my mad stumble down a violent, bloody and hateful path towards a vengeance that would never be realized. But right now—in this moment—life is wonderful.
“Great!” Alex says. “I have Beanie Weenies back at the office.”
I wasn’t jealous, I decided, nor had I any real right to be proud. I was simply amazed.
“These are good beans,” I said simply, and maybe Alex somehow heard several decades’ worth of mixed sorrow and gratitude in my in my voice because his eyes were shining when he nodded in agreement.
The footsteps approaching my office did not match the rhythm and cadence that I’d come to recognize as belonging to my former-TA/current peer. They were, however, familiar. Reluctantly, I tore my attention away from the chorus of calculations swimming through my consciousness and re-focused upon the outside world.
“Doctor Markham?” the Red Ghost knocked on my door. “Do you have a moment?”
“Of course,” I replied. “Come in.”
It was still strange to see him in costume during work hours and in a civilian setting. At night, his crimson cloak seemed to bleed from the shadows, enshrouding the hero in an aura of menacing gravitas. Under fluorescent lights, it was just a length of admittedly-high-quality fabric dangling from his shoulders. The cloak’s hood was pulled back and even his highly-advanced and custom-designed cowl looked somehow cheap when viewed during the day.
There had been many periods during which finding Doctor Fid’s nemesis so visibly wearied would have been cause for gloating, but now I felt only concern. The bags under his eyes (visible through the opening in his mask) had settled to the color of dull bruises, and his normally piercing and fiercely-intelligent gaze was tempered by fatigue. He looked…sallow.
“I apologize for appearing without warning,” the Hispanic hero grimaced. “
The last few months have been unusually busy, and I haven’t been able to grant this project as much attention as it deserves. Please, know that I value your work even if I haven’t been here to express my appreciation.”
“That’s quite all right. I’ve been watching the news, I do understand.”
With the apparent death of Doctor Fid, a handful of super-powered criminals had moved into the New England territory; the Boston Guardians were doing an admirable job of keeping the public safe, but were certainly being called into service at a more frequent schedule than that which they had become accustomed to. The problems were exacerbated by the fact that the team had been temporarily short-handed; the Red Ghost’s wife, Regrowth, had been put on paid administrative leave while the D.M.A. performed their investigation into Doctor Fid’s death. The Red Ghost had also been pulling double-duty, traveling to and from Manhattan to assist his friends in the New York Shield.
“Everything is proceeding along our original schedule,” I continued. “I was about to get a mug of coffee. Join me, and we can discuss the details?”
Even the mention of caffeine was enough to release the tension gathered at his shoulders. “That sounds wonderful. Thank you.”
We didn’t speak again until we’d both acquired our lifegiving elixirs.
“I’ve hired a contractor to secure the network,” I began. “He’s doing an excellent job.”
The contractor in question had come to Doctor Fid’s attention under his online alias; LuckySeven was the current leader of the hacktivist cooperative originally formed by my friend Starnyx. In his civilian identity, on the other hand, he was a celebrated computer security expert. The data to be secured at Crimson Technology was theoretically dangerous, and I trusted in LuckySeven’s ethics to ensure that company data would never escape to the world at large.
“I’ve been told that convenience and security are diametrically opposed,” the Red Ghost mused. “Are you sure that your contractor has chosen the correct balance?”