Gruefield 18 (Tarnished Sterling Omnibus)

by Robert McCarroll

"You're also here until you demonstrate behavioral reform," Razordemon said. He stood in the doorway, clad in his red-and-gold hero suit. Like all such outfits, it hugged his form closely. Though some sharp edges along the organic curves indicated metal plates and blades under the fabric. None of his skin was visible, but his body language carried a veiled threat. "Or we can throw you back to Stone Ridge if you're incorrigible. You've only got suspended sentences." His voice was calm, even, but carried a menace that shredded Ed's bravado. He sat down meekly. "That's a good start. The four of you are part of a pilot program. Our goal is to help powered delinquents become productive members of society."

  Errol raised a hand. "But I haven't got any powers."

  "You've also moved further down the road to supervillainy than the others. So it balances out."

  "Wait," Ed said. "What did he do?"

  "Sharing that information is up to Errol."

  "I'd rather not say," Errol said.

  "Now you're just teasing," Lazar said.

  "I didn't bring it up," Errol said. "I just said I didn't have powers."

  "Enough," Razordemon said. "We have work to do. This is a residential program. During the week, you will stay at a halfway house, and there is a curfew."

  "A curfew?" Ed asked, an indignant tone creeping into his voice.

  "Part of the day at the halfway house, or the whole day at Stone Ridge. You may have been loose since the deal was stuck, but now that the program has started, you must abide by its rules."

  "Okay, okay."

  "On the weekends you will be permitted to return home if you wish. Those of you who do not have a home or wish to remain at the halfway house may do so. Whichever choice is made, the curfew still applies. You will be required to wear location monitors to verify compliance. Tampering with these will get you booted from the program. School attendance is also mandatory. This leaves weekday afternoons for your community service."

  "So what will we be doing?" Kevan asked.

  "You and the Community Fund liaison will be helping the Metro PD. There is no one liaison, and you should expect that role to change hands. I am the program coordinator and compliance officer."

  "Do we have to run around as ourselves?" Ed asked. "I mean, you guys get masks and codenames."

  "Did you have something in mind?" Razordemon asked.

  "I had a codename, it was Earworm."

  "Is that some sort of parasite?" Kevan asked.

  "It's a song that gets stuck in your head when you hear it."

  "While you can pick out a code name and put on a mask, you are not community members, and you are not licensed heroes. That means you can be required to unmask and identify yourself to law enforcement," Razordemon said. "Beyond that, we can accommodate any of you who want to emulate community members. We are meant to be role models... most of us anyway."

  "I do have a question," Errol said.

  "Ask."

  "What am I supposed to use? I mean, if this is a behavioral reform program, isn't it a bad idea to be running around with weapons? That sort of thing is usually at cross purposes."

  "You're not primarily violent offenders," Razordemon said. "Nonlethal weaponry is permissible. I know you're familiar with less-than-lethal arrows, you fired one at a classmate."

  "That counts as non-violent?" Ed asked. "What about the guy who punched a cop?" He motioned at Kevan.

  "I said primarily. Violence has not been your first resort. And Kevan reasonably believed himself to be under attack."

  "About the Community Liaison," Lazar said. "Do we have any guarantees we're not going to get stuck with the member who brought us in?"

  "Not as a general rule," Razordemon said. "But in your case, no team members of Eight Beta will be tasked with being Liaison to this program. We will only be using freelance community members."

  "Eight Beta? What sort of team name is that?" Ed asked.

  "A placeholder," Razordemon said. "The team was only founded this past summer."

  "Do we get a team name?" Errol asked.

  "Junior Redemptioners," Razordemon said. "Anyway. In addition to being the basis for passing or failing, good behavior earns you point which can be used to buy freedoms such as time to stay out past curfew or simple luxuries within the halfway house itself. Inappropriate behavior will result in revocation of privileges earned."

  "Luxuries such as?" Ed asked.

  "Television or computer time, non-emergency use of cell phones, requests for a deviation from the proscribed menu."

  "Oh."

  "Those are luxuries?" Ed asked.

  "You guys are spoiled," Kevan said.

  "What would we use computer time for?" Errol asked. Ed and Lazar stared at him, dumbfounded. Errol gave them a quizzical look in return. "What?"

  "I don't believe you just asked that question," Lazar said.

  "I've never even owned a computer and I can think of several things," Kevan said.

  "While we're on the topic," Razordemon said. "There will be a content filter maintained by the Community Fund IT department on all Internet traffic at the house."

  "My friends are a lot better than your average parent regarding such technology," Shiva said.

  "Thank you Shiva, but I think they understood the implications."

  "I think Ed's got his head in this backwards," Lazar said.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "All your questions say you're looking at this as how much we're losing from normal. Try looking at it through the lens of how much we gain over prison."

  "I was only in prison a couple of days, it's not my normal frame of reference."

  "Prison wasn't bad," Kevan said. "Clean clothes, three walls, two meals a day, a bed with no bugs, and a working toilet. It was a step up from where I had been sleeping."

  "Three walls?"

  "Bars don't count. This program sounds like a dream come true."

  "Okay," Ed said. "I will try to take Red's perspective on this. Though I have to admit I've never slept anywhere that was missing walls."

  "That viewpoint may be your best shot at making it through this program successfully," Razordemon said. "Do any of you have any questions regarding what we've covered before we move on?"

  "I sort of asked them while we were going," Ed said.

  "In the afternoons," Errol said, "Will we be forced to wear tights?"

  "If you mean the standard issue hero suits," Razordemon said, tugging at his own sleeve. "Yes. You will be allowed to select your own color scheme and pattern. Additional functional attire over them will be subject to approval. Attire for style purposes can be purchased through good behavior points. We will come up with a better name for these points sooner or later."

  "Well, shit," Lazar muttered.

  "Profanity use is regarded as a negative behavior," Razordemon said. "The Fund Board would prefer that those minors associated with us not use what they regard to be vulgar language."

  "Ed's going to be in trouble," Lazar said. "When he gets excited, he starts f-bombing the place."

  "Are you kidding me?" Ed asked. "I get most of this..." he paused, his mind substituting a few different words before settling on "...stuff. But no profanity?"

  "You have no problem with embarrassing outfits, but swearing is your hangup?" Errol asked.

  "Given the crap he wore when we were breaking into places, he's probably happy that he'll finally get a real hero suit," Lazar said.

  "Will you shut up?" Ed said.

  "Arguing and fighting are also negative behaviors. For more obvious reasons," Razordemon said. "There will be a printed set of guidelines to cover all of the specifics."

  "So what's next?" Errol asked.

  "Two things left on the agenda. First. You will be required to m
ove into the halfway house by the end of Sunday. You may move in earlier if you wish. Sunday evening you will be fitted with your ankle monitor for curfew enforcement. Our design is not visible even under a hero suit, so you should not have trouble with it."

  "And the second?" Ed asked.

  "Some of you are familiar with the Byrd family." Lazar and Ed exchanged glances in the pause before Razordemon continued. "Matilda Lee Byrd has recently agreed to sell the personality rights to Ranger Roy to the Community Fund. She attached one condition to the transaction. Someone associated with the Community Fund has to take up the Ranger Roy legacy, that is, assume the codename and don the costume. We've decided to let one of you four have the opportunity to volunteer."

  "I already have a codename," Ed said.

  "I'll do it," Kevan said. "I don't want to have to come up with my own code name."

  "I was about to decline anyway," Lazar said.

  "He can have it," Errol said quietly.

  "All right, I believe that covers everything."

  "Can I get a ride from here to this house?" Kevan asked. "I haven't got anywhere else to go, I might as well get settled."

  "Me too," Lazar said.

  "I thought you lived with your mom," Ed said.

  "We're not on speaking terms after she tried to have me declared crazy and had her lawyer try to block my plea bargain."

  "Seriously?" Ed asked. "My dad pushed me into this program. He lectured me about not following in his footsteps and avoiding his mistakes."

  "What kind of mistakes?" Kevan asked.

  Ed gave a nervous chuckle and glanced towards Razordemon.

  "I know who Norman Wilson was," Razordemon said coldly. The edge on his voice was almost sharp enough to bleed.

  "Back in the day, my dad was Hymnomancer, a real Tier One threat. But he was sent to Stone Ridge twenty years ago. They just recently paroled him."

  "If he went to prison several years before you were born, how is he your dad?" Errol asked.

  "Conjugal visits."

  "The best example he can give you is his willingness to reform and become a productive member of society," Razordemon said.

  Part 2

  Warm light filled Errol's room from the bedside lamp. Barely twice as wide as the neatly-made twin bed, the room felt even smaller from the furniture in it. Under the solitary window sat his desk, neat piles of books sorted by subject sat along the back edge. In the space between the foot of the bed and the closet door was a large, hand-made wardrobe. Darker splotches marked where he'd applied too much stain to the wood. Errol had made it with his grandfather when he was younger. Hephaestus had operated the power tools to shape the wood, and Errol had done the gluing and staining. Thinking back on it, Errol was amazed at the patience the old man had shown at his sloppy, if enthusiastic, work.

  Pulling a suitcase out of the space under the wardrobe, Errol set it on the bed. Leaving it open, Errol opened the drawers at the bottom of the wardrobe to collect undergarments. Moving on to the closet, he extracted more Leyden Academy uniforms than street clothes. Carefully folding the garments into the suitcase, he tried to judge how much he should leave behind. There was a light knock on his door.

  "I'm decent," Errol said. Hephaestus opened the door. Gnarled and twisted, the old man had a permanent stoop from the bend in his spine. He had a hawkish nose and a sharp face with a burning gaze. His fingers were curved and knobbly, clutching a metal mask. He wore a plaid shirt and heavy denim pants. Hephaestus moved over to the wardrobe and opened the main doors.

  A half mannequin sat inside. Shorn off at the waist, the boots to the outfit it wore sat next to it. The mask Hephaestus placed on its head was forged in the form of a classically handsome face. Attached to it was a skullcap with a wig of wavy blond hair. To complete the illusion that the hair wasn't a wig, two red straps were affixed to the mask. One ran at headband level, the other connected the back of the jaw to the first strap at the back of the head. The rest of the outfit was modeled after a stylized suit of roman armor. The chestplate was molded in the shape of an idealized male torso. Strips of armor hanging from the waistband made the bottom of the under-tunic resemble the fringe of a skirt. Armored bracers ran from wrist to elbow, but the upper arms were bare. The greaves on the boots similarly protected from ankle to knee. A red cloak was clasped at the throat with a cameo bearing a winged archer.

  Errol quickly closed the wardrobe, trying not to look at the armor as he did so.

  "I've been adjusting it to fit your current size," Hephaestus said. "You're taller than your father was."

  "Thank you, sir," Errol said. "But I don't think you needed to bother."

  "Did you misrepresent Razordemon's words?" Hephaestus asked. "You know that armor is bulletproof. I don't want you going into dangerous situations unprotected."

  "You seem awfully calm at my ruining this family's reputation."

  Hephaestus reached up and put an arthritic hand on Errol's cheek. "What's done is done. I see now that you were never meant to follow in your father's footsteps. That does not mean, however, that you have stopped being my grandson, little Eros. That doesn't mean you can slack off. If you're going to be working for the costumed heroes, you are going to impress them so much that they're going to want to recruit you." Hephaestus took his hand off Errol's face. "There is a piece of this panoply that requires a little instruction." He opened the wardrobe and tugged the cameo from the socket at the collar of the breastplate. The cloak dropped as it came free. Slipping a loop of delicate chain over the mannequin's head, he moved the amulet to Errol's neck.

  "I thought it was decorative."

  "On the contrary," Hephaestus said. "This is more valuable than this house and every possession in it." He pressed a finger against the cameo and said one word, "Wings." Bright white feathered wings spread out from Errol's back and brushed both ends of the room at once.

  "That's magic, it hardly seems like you," Errol said. He touched the cameo and repeated, "Wings." The wings melted away on a slow scatter of white feathers that faded from existence.

  "I got it at an estate sale," Hephaestus said. "Everyone there thought it was a cheap pendant." He turned it over to show where the word 'wings' was written in white grease pencil on the back of the stone. "The trigger phrase had been smudged, leaving the remainder unpronounceable. So no one realized what it did, let alone that it could be fixed just by cleaning it and writing a new trigger word or phrase."

  "I see, sir," Errol said.

  "It has to idle twenty minutes for every minute it's on. At full charge, it holds an hour of flight time," Hephaestus said. "You don't have to wait for it to fully recharge to use it again, but you still only get that twenty-to-one charge ratio."

  "Flight?"

  "You heard me. Now, what you haven't told me about was your impression of the other boys."

  "They are crass, rude, and well... delinquents. It will be a test of patience to deal with them."

  "Do not look down on them for their vices, but do not permit yourself to be dragged down to their level either. Incorruptibility will infuriate their sort more."

  "I understand."

  "And you will not be getting away from your archery practice for this. After church, you will go to the range."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Don't forget to say grace even if the others don't respect it."

  "I won't forget."

  "Tomorrow I need help laying sod. My back isn't as strong as it once was."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I'll let you finish packing."

  Ed Wilson couldn't stand watching his parents acting like newlyweds, no matter how understandable the circumstance. But in the little two-bedroom bungalow, there wasn't any place to get away from it. Too much had changed when his father had been paroled. The house suddenly felt too sm
all, he'd been forced to dress like a yuppie, and they'd started keeping tabs on where he went. The yellow-walled living room was almost the epicenter of the problem. It was where they crossed paths most often. Ed rested his hand against the side of his head so he couldn't see them cuddled up in the corner of the couch. He turned up the television to have something else to listen to, even if it was the news.

  "This is Agnes Phelps on location for PCN on Fourteenth Street, where witnesses say a body fell out of the sky and landed among the traffic. Police have not made an official statement, but one officer has said that they have ruled out suicide. With the lack of tall buildings in this area, speculation is rampant--" The TV clicked off. Norman Wilson dropped the remote on the coffee table. The wiry, gray-haired man frowned at Ed. Gwen pushed her blond hair behind her ears and looked over at her son, a bit of sadness creeping into her eyes.