by David Reiss
“The heroes brought her back,” Aaron agreed, “but you fought for her.”
“I gave up,” I choked out. “She was still out there and I gave up.”
“I’ve known you a while, Terry…if there was anything else that could’ve been done, you would have done it.” He smiled, “And besides…it looks like she forgives you.”
Whisper had paused in her play to wave to Aaron and me, eyes bright and smile broad. I waved back and the games resumed.
“I’m sorry it took so long to come visit,” I apologized.
The current CEO of AH Biotech chuckled. “Dinah was anxious but she understood. It’s only been a week since you got her back.”
“It’s been a busy week.”
There’d been hearings, and interviews, and paperwork, and meetings with psychologists and family services to discuss what the future might hold. Some of the offered advice had been heartbreakingly powerful.
There’d been chores aplenty, too, for Doctor Fid.
The sudden hush crashed like a wave, a pressure that flowed from the door and stilled conversation as the pulse traveled. The calm was not complete; a few whispered curses still sounded, as well as the quiet, shrieking complaint of chairs being pushed back as patrons shifted to see what had captured the attention of their peers. There were murmurs of disbelief, too, and a growing sense of tension. Of fear.
Grim as death, I floated slowly past the stunned door attendant and into Lassiter’s Den: Doctor Fid resurrected, or perhaps Doctor Fid’s ghost. Neither option boded well for those criminals—many of whom were patrons here—who had chosen to invade Boston during my brief absence.
All eyes followed my unhurried progress; only one man seemed completely unperturbed.
“Good evening, Doctor.” William Wasserman had tended bar here for far too long for strange events to faze him. He’d been hand-drying highball glasses when the front door had opened and not paused a moment as I made my entrance.
“Bill,” I greeted, nodding in acknowledgement. The older man was about to respond when another voice interrupted.
“I heard you were dead!”
The speaker was one of Blackjack’s minions, drunk enough that he failed to notice his fellows’ panicked expressions. I turned to face his table and the occupants flinched under the weight of my mask’s inhuman regard. I let the moment linger; Blackjack had been among the villains who had been quick to invade my territory.
“Yes,” I agreed. “I was.”
The costumed lackey continued to ignore the panicked expression of his peers. “But…you’re here.”
“I am Doctor Fid,” I stated simply.
This time, the silence was absolute as the patrons contemplated the simple response’s implications. To some, my answer was no explanation at all…to others, the implication was obvious: Death was a concern for lesser mortals. Any who challenged Fid were challenging a greater being, a creature who’d evolved beyond their understanding.
It wasn’t true, of course. Modified clone bodies and Akashic transfer capabilities granted some level of safety, but no defense was perfect. Still…rumors of Doctor Fid’s immortality—started first by Blueshift then whispered among nervous heroes who were not fully informed as to more recent agreements—had begun to spread. Said rumors would find more fertile ground within the villainous community, now.
William Wasserman cleared his throat. “Would you like a pint of Starnyx’s favorite? We just tapped a new keg.”
“Thank you, but no.” I paused and let the silence linger. “I would like a Sazerac Cocktail, please.”
The air went out of the room.
In bearing witness to Doctor Fid’s apparent resurrection, the gathered patrons had already suspected that they were present for a momentous occasion. The weight of significance now redoubled; all here were familiar with this place’s tradition: Ordering the Ancient’s final drink was tantamount to announcing one’s retirement.
“Of course, sir,” said the bartender simply.
In silence, the room watched as the aged bartender plucked a chilled rocks glass from the fridge behind the bar and poured within a small measure of absinthe…just enough to wet the glass’ sides when swirled; the few drops of excess were discarded, poured off in a quick and smooth flick of his wrist before the glass was set aside. A second vessel, a mixing glass, was swept up and ingredients added: a demerara sugar cube, a bit of water and a few dashes of two different flavor bitters.
In all the world, it seemed, the only noise was the harsh grinding as Lassiter’s Den’s mixologist used a wooden muddler to pulverize the contents like a spice mixture blended to a paste within a mortar and pestle.
No one said a word as William Wasserman added crystal-clear ice to the mixing glass and carefully poured measures of cognac and rye whiskey. And they held their breath as the concoction was mixed with a tall barspoon, strained into the absinth-kissed rocks glass, and topped with a twist of lemon peel.
“Doctor Fid.” The barkeep handed me the drink. “It has been an honor.”
“Thank you.”
As always, everyone stared in the hope that perhaps this time I would remove my mask, that they would finally catch a glimpse of the man within Doctor Fid’s fearsome armor. But…no. Legends endure when mysteries remain. A straw-like appendage snaked from my forearm and stabbed into the drink, and I sipped at my cocktail.
William Wasserman was a master of his craft and the drink was perfect. He was also a master of reading his patrons’ intentions, of predicting their needs; I’d expected that he would be able to guess at the tone I’d intended to set, and there was a subtle glint of humor in his eyes as he asked, “May I ask what your plans are for the future?”
“I intend to return to my territory,” I replied, nodding gratefully, “to return to my studies. It will be peaceful there.”
I ignored the rising whispers as the patrons discussed my words. Doctor Fid may have remained deceased within the official Department of Metahuman Affairs paperwork, but within the supervillainous community it would be known that New England was still Fid’s domain. And very few would risk causing enough chaos to draw the Doctor from his retirement.
I finished my drink, paid my tab with a handful of gold coins taken from the Ancient’s lair, and quietly left the villains’ bar behind.
“Are all of you absolutely certain?” I asked, the Mk 40’s vocoder unable to entirely strip concern from my voice. “This is not an easy quest that you are considering undertaking. I’d understand if you were having second thoughts.”
“It’s our home,” the White Tigress replied, her R’s rolling into a throaty rumble.
“We’d thought our world lost,” Psion added. “If there’s a chance of recovery, we should help rebuild.”
The rest of the Knights nodded in solidarity.
“This interdimensional transport platform will only travel in one direction,” I warned. “It may be months before I complete a reusable device to join you or to bring you back.”
“We’re needed there. We belong there.” Shrike’s expression was grave. “I don’t know that we’re ever coming back.”
“You’ve made arrangements with the DMA?” I asked; from what I understood, the Department had made special accommodations for the Knights on account of WildCard’s ability to shift his powerset to include healing. I expected that the local hero teams would be none-too-pleased to return to a more natural recovery time after injury.
(With the sudden absence of the only known metahuman healer on the East Coast, there might be an opportunity for AH Biotech to negotiate exclusive treatment contracts. I made a mental note to call Aaron with a suggestion.)
“We have,” Psion confirmed. “And we’ve said our goodbyes.”
“I’ll send you along with a small assortment of tools and equipment to help support a settlement: Power supplies, water filtration units, an automated hydroponic farm, and a few other odds and ends. Camping equipment and radios, of course.”
&nbs
p; “It’ll be enough to help us get started,” Shrike smiled. “Thanks, Doc.”
I considered breaking the hero’s arm one last time for tradition’s sake. Somehow, it seemed inappropriate so instead I motioned for the team to take their places on the platform, standing among the carefully labeled crates that I’d already loaded in preparation.
“The Brooklyn Knights are among the finest heroes that I’ve ever had the opportunity to stand against,” I declared. “Tell Valiant that more equipment and supplies will be forthcoming. And…Good luck.”
I triggered the device and, in a flash of light, the Knights were delivered back to the universe from which they’d come.
“What do you think,” began Miguel Espinoza, “about starting a reparation fund for victims of Doctor Fid’s violence?”
This was our first meeting as parole officer and parolee, and he’d chosen to meet in our civilian identities at the Markham estate. It was strange, interacting with the Red Ghost when his mask was off; his inflection and body language shifted in ways that must surely have been subconscious on his part. Fierce intelligence still glistened in his eyes, but gone was the sensation of being in the presence of a dangerous predator.
“That sounds like an ambitious endeavor, and I wish you well of it.”
Miguel’s expression was unimpressed. “I meant that you should start one. You returned the gold, but we both know that Doctor Fid built up a sizable criminal fortune beyond that. You should start a reparation fund.”
“That is beyond the requirements of my agreement,” I objected evenly.
“Yes, but if you’re going to be working among heroes now…you should put that wealth to positive use.”
“It’s being used to fund the construction of armor and equipment intended to save the world,” I replied. And perhaps a few side projects; one does need to maintain one’s hobbies, after all. “That is a positive use.”
Miguel frowned. “I don’t understand you. Your civilian identity is wealthy enough; why hold on so tightly to your illegally obtained funds? I never believed you to be selfish.”
“My reasoning is pragmatic; I sacrificed close to fourteen million dollars’ worth of equipment to rescue the schoolchildren in Chile, and I expect that future rescues might be equally expensive. And besides…even if I could guarantee that the funds would never be required to fund future projects, I still would prefer that the money not be misspent.”
“Compensating your victims would be misspending?” he said, voice full of scorn.
“Many of them, yes.”
“What of Michael Tannenbaum? He’s been in a coma for seven years.”
“And before that, he was a banker who used his position to launder money for a Mexican cartel; the only payment he required was the occasional delivery of an undocumented immigrant brought over by the cartel’s coyotes. Tannenbaum tortured them to death for his private snuff films.”
In that instant, Miguel Espinoza became the Red Ghost even without the scarlet cowl; his eyes narrowed and that strange sense of intensity swelled forth. “You are certain of this?”
“I am.”
“How?”
“Spectacularly illegal surveillance and information gathering techniques.” I shrugged, “If I could have found a legal way to connect him to his crimes, perhaps I would have turned him in. Perhaps not. I very much enjoyed hurting him.”
Miguel shook the Red Ghost’s presence from his psyche and grimaced. “That’s not the way a hero should think.”
“I agreed to work with heroes…I didn’t agree to become one.” I chuckled sadly. “I’m not sure that I can.”
“You misunderstand. It’s not the way a hero should think…but I believe I would have enjoyed hurting Michael Tannenbaum, as well.”
“You wouldn’t have hurt him,” I stated. “Wanted to, perhaps, but you’d have restrained yourself.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Spectacularly illegal surveillance and information gathering techniques,” I repeated, allowing a hint of amusement to creep into my tone. “I’ve watched you for quite a while.”
He glared. “That answer does not fill me with joy.”
I shrugged, smiling in what I hoped was a disarming manner.
Miguel sighed, “I made a list of other victims who’d come to significant harm at your hands, in the hopes of convincing you. Are you going to have similar tales for all of them?”
“I very much hope so. We should go through your list to be certain.” It was my turn to grimace. “If I’ve made mistakes, then you are correct: Reparations should be made.”
“Thank you.” Miguel looked smug, as though my concession had confirmed some secret judgement on his part. “You may not be a hero, but I think that perhaps you are not a villain either.”
“I was Doctor Fid,” I disagreed. “Today, on the other hand…Today, I think that I am just the man who wore Doctor Fid’s armor. Who’s first on your list?”
20
Terror on the Boardwalk
by Michelle Courvoisier (KNN)
Passengers aboard Cape May whale-watching vessel Eclipse were at first delighted to see a Humpback racing through the early morning waves, but marine biologist Karen Vickie knew something was wrong.
“Humpback whales are known for their acrobatic leaps, but they are generally slow swimmers. When they are feeding near the surface, humpbacks usually keep under three miles per hour. This whale was sprinting, pushing hard,” said Vickie. “I knew immediately that the whale was distressed.”
The passenger’s delight turned to horror when a mammoth crocodilian maw emerged from the depths and grabbed the hapless whale out of the water. The violence of the attack rocked the nearby boat, though fortunately no tourists were tossed overboard. Even before the bloody froth had settled, the terrified passengers were able to discern a monumental shadow sliding below their boat…and speeding directly towards nearby Atlantic City.
The unfortunate humpback whale was the monster’s first victim, but it was not the last.
At 5:47AM, the six-limbed goliath climbed from the surf and immediately barreled into the Tropics Resort and Casino. It is estimated that the lizard-like monster claimed more than a hundred victims in only the first few minutes of its assault.
The twelve-story-tall colossus turned its attention to devouring all in its path. Local superhero team, the Jersey Devils, arrived on-scene within minutes but were unable to do more than slow the rampage. Unfortunately, team leader Grenadier was injured in their initial assault and later succumbed to his wounds.
The remaining Devils fought bravely and saved hundreds—perhaps thousands—of lives, but the behemoth wasn’t put on the defensive until the arrival of the New York Shield—accompanied by a new armored hero identified as Lazarus, the Azure Knight.
DOCTOR FID WILL RETURN!
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Acknowledgments
Completing the first three books of The Chronicles of Fid has been an extraordinary adventure, and I’ve been both proud and humbled by this accomplishment. I did not, however, do all this work on my own.
I’ve been blessed with a wonderful group of beta-readers who have offered their time, their advice, and their feedback. This book is better for each and every one of their influence: My Mom, of course, and two of my oldest friends—John and David. For this book, I was also lucky enough to receive helpful commentary from two gentlemen I met through the online community of r/fantasy: James B. and PaladinOfCosh.
It would be impossible even to e
stimate how many times I’ve pulled my housemate Jeremy aside to bounce ideas around or ask his opinions about specific scenes. Furthermore, the image that became this novel’s cover was his brainchild.
Thank you all.
About the Author
While growing up, David was that weird kid with his nose in a book and his head in the clouds. He was the table-top role-playing game geek, the comic-book nerd, the story-teller and dreamer.
Fortunately, he hasn't changed much.
David is a software engineer by trade and a long-time sci-fi and fantasy devotee by passion, and he lives in Silicon Valley with his partner of twenty-six years.
Also, two young cats who are increasingly jealous of the author’s time spent typing instead of petting.