The Midlife Crisis of Commander Invincible: A Novel (Yellow Shoe Fiction)

by Neil Connelly

  Flashes of light ahead tell me I’m nearing the fight. I hear Clyde shout, “Villainess, the American people are under the protection of the Guardians!”

  I charge past a nest of antiaircraft guns and immediately see the camera set up on a tripod just past the fake rocket and the detonator for the real explosives. Clyde is standing in a perfect hero stance before the lens, his hands glowing yellow. And at my feet is my wife, acting defeated though her eyes are clear and bright. She turns to face the deck and whispers, “It’s over, Vince. Let him take you out.” All this is being beamed out live to the world.

  Clyde says, “Evil can never defeat good.”

  This is such a horseshit line that just for a second, I really wish I were a villain. I wish I had an excuse to kick the shiny teeth from his skull. And I’m not even that surprised when I find my body granting my wish. I hurl myself at Clyde, my arms stretched out to tackle him, but he cartwheels to the left, leaving me to smash into the camera. I get to my feet amid the shattered pieces. Deb yells something, but I ignore her.

  Clyde steps toward me, drops his hero smile, and says, “Now look what you’ve done.”

  I drive a right into his gut, and his body careens back into the rocket. He’s flat-backed on it when I grab both his arms and spin him around, fling him hard into the railing. He nearly goes over. When he recovers and gets his feet beneath him, he makes the mistake of looking at me, just in time to catch my left fist on his jaw. He collapses to the deck, and I feel it swelling in my heart, the glee of malice. I stand over my vanquished foe, a hero bested, and I find myself searching for the words King Chaos might say at a time like this. And just like that, when I realize who I’m imagining for a model, the tumblers turn in my head, and my question about Bone gets answered. I know how he’s stayed hidden all these years. And this, this changes everything.

  I don’t know yet just what to do with this revelation, but with the leverage it might give me, I know enough to stop beating on Clyde. I step away and say, “That was for the bullshit with J.D.” My heart rate is calming. “And that regretting-things-getting-ugly crack.”

  Deb helps him sit up. “Jesus, Vince.”

  Clyde spits blood and says, “You’re through. I’ll have your license revoked for this.”

  “Right,” I say. “Like you’re going to announce to the world that I kicked your ass, and that proves I’m incapable of being a hero. Interesting argument.”

  We’re all quiet for a few seconds, and Deb asks, “What’s that beeping?”

  “I’ll find a way,” Clyde says. “I swear it. You’ll never wear a mask again.”

  Deb rises and walks over to the death-skull missile. I say to Clyde, “Save your speech. I’ll tell everybody you single-handedly defeated us both. And I’ll take your lame-ass deal.”

  My wife turns, her mouth just a little bit open. Clyde stands up, and I go on. “That’s right. I’m retiring. I’ll handle this business with Bone, and then I’ll hang up my cape. You’ll both get everything you want.”

  Deb studies my face, not quite sure whether to believe me. This just shows that my wife knows me as well as anyone, but that nobody knows you entirely. Her eyes brighten, and she crosses over to me, wraps her arms around my neck, and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Oh, Vince,” she says.

  That beeping accelerates, and now Clyde goes over to the fake rocket. When he looks up from the control panel, his eyes flash wide, and he snaps his ring up to his mouth. “This is All-Star. Detonation sequence has been triggered. Imminent explosion. Evacuate the Endeavor.”

  He looks at us. “We’ve got to go.”

  “Come here,” I say, and I wrap one arm around Clyde, pull him into my chest. Deb slides inside my other arm, and when I reach around her, I feel that she’s already engaged her telekinetics, making herself and Clyde essentially weightless.

  We’re in the air then, silent and in flight. At the thundercrack behind me, I don’t turn, and the shockwave from the explosion comes up like a tailwind. It shoves me a bit, but I maintain control.

  I land on the nearest observation vessel, and Clyde and Deb run off to attend to the other Guardians. The Ice Queen rubs at rope burns on her wrists, giving Kid Cyclone dirty looks. Bubba, back to his normal size, is shivering inside a towel. The Jersey Devil has a nasty black eye—eggplant purple blooming on dark brown skin—and the Speedstress is bleeding from an ugly split lip. No doubt, we’re a stellar bunch of heroes.

  Content that she’s not needed in a command capacity, Deb comes back to me and quietly asks, “You meant it, what you said back there?”

  I nod.

  Clyde steps over, and clearly he’s about to start some kind of argument about all this, probably try to fire me on the spot, when an audible gasp from the crowd turns all of us toward the ship.

  The mighty Endeavor has cracked clean in two. The nose rises slightly, and then that whole section slips beneath the waves. Strangely, the back end floats on just fine, as if it hasn’t noticed the water rushing in. Or maybe it’s just sinking more evenly, lowering itself into the ocean. It’s still on fire, and as the flames reach the sea, they hiss and extinguish. Soon the deck is swallowed, and now only the observation tower remains visible. It looks like a submarine submerging, ready to begin a crucial mission. But this comparison, of course, is only my mind at work. Everybody here knows the truth. We’ll never see this ship again.

  One by one the octogenarian marines begin to stiffen. They release their grips on their walkers and their canes and stand as best they can at attention. With trembling fingers, some wipe tears from their cheeks. A few reach for handkerchiefs. But every one of them raises a tight hand to forehead in a sharp salute. If it were my place, I would join them. Because right now, especially with the plan taking shape in my mind, I feel as if I am their brother. I know they are not honoring the metal that’s sinking to the bottom of the ocean. They weep for fallen comrades, the glory of the past, the men they used to be.

  SIX

  Passing over the Great Wall of China. Evading Explosive Projectiles.

  The Revenge of Gigantus. Logic and Desire.

  A Job Offer Refused. A Plan Revealed.

  A Vow Recalled.

  A few miles ahead, a white glistening castle that looks disturbingly like a cathedral rises from the swampland of south Jersey. Titan Spire. The two-lane highway below me, which I’ve been following since I left the turnpike, is crowded with minivans and SUVs packed with children and traveling at unsafe speeds. The digital billboards on either side form a kind of neon corridor. They advertise discount hotels, restaurants, an outlet mall. Not quite a decade ago, when Arthur showed me this land and announced his intentions, there was nothing here but pine forests, marsh, and mosquitoes. On the road below, the caravan of families begin to honk their horns, and when I squint I see why—a huge sign that arches over the highway with blinking letters: WELCOME TO TITANLAND.

  While the civilians begin jockeying for a prime parking spot, I peel high and to the right, toward the top of the Spire, where Arthur lives and from which he oversees his tiny empire. From my airborne vantage point, I can make out rollercoasters rising above the trees like serpents from the ocean, a monorail looping around the compound, a slow-churning Ferris wheel, and a pyramid painted the colors of Titan’s costume: silver and red. The perimeter of the park is a replica of the Great Wall of China, and when I pass overhead, two warriors aim spears my way.

  I hang in the air for a second, trying to take it all in. It’s an entire city, really. There must be five thousand people down there right now, happy families making memories together. I suppose I envy Arthur his success. Not only was he his generation’s finest hero; he also had enough marketing savvy to cash in on his name. Some nights on patrol I’ve found myself wondering if he felt it coming, the end of the way things were, or if his leaving brought it on.

  He’s made a lot of changes since I was here last—the outer wall, a waterpark, something that looks like a high school football stadium. B
eyond them all, I see the ocean, out past the spires. Sheila and I brought Thomas here on opening day, and everything went wrong. The automated rides malfunctioned; the toilets backed up; people were dropping from heatstroke. We bailed out, jumped the rear fence with the help of my superpowers, and found we had the shore to ourselves. The three of us spent the afternoon beachcombing barefoot and making sandcastles. It was a simple, easy few hours, the kind I once took for granted.

  A high-pitched whine interrupts my reverie, and I see a smoky trail snaking through the sky. A tiny rocket zips over the park, flame flickering from its tail. At first I take it for some kind of amusement, but then I see it’s a heat-seeker, hot on the trail of a caped figure in silver and red. I reach forward with my fist, and just that fast I’m in pursuit, looking left, right, up, down, for other threats. It’s been years since I’ve seen Titan in action, but the old man hasn’t lost a step. With blazing speed he dodges and spins, rolling like a fighter jet to evade the missile. I was never as fast as him, and I have a hard time closing the gap as he buzzes past the Ferris wheel, dips straight through the curve of a loop-the-loop rollercoaster, drops down and skims the water of a fountained lake surrounding the Spires. Since I’m following, I see all the park goers turning their heads, screaming and pointing. I’m reaching for the Danger Ring, ready to call in backup, when I see my chance to save the day. Arthur’s looped around one of the turrets of his home and is coming back now, leading the rocket right at me. It’s true I’m not as invulnerable as I once was, but I figure a small rocket can’t do more than shake me up, so with both fists leading the way, I fly straight at my one-time mentor. For an instant it seems like we’re playing chicken, and for the first time he sees that he’s not the only cape in the sky. His eyes go wide, and he shakes his head madly, even saying “no-no-no” I think, trying to cut off my sacrifice, but I’m committed. I fix my gaze on the target behind him and pour on what speed I have, double fists aimed ahead, and he has no choice but to bank up to avoid a collision. The rocket’s nose begins to curve after him, but I have the angle now, and with skill I thought I’d lost long ago, I snatch the goddamn thing like a lofted ball.

  Only I didn’t count on the rocket to keep burning, and though I’m strangling it, it propels us both in a dizzy, looping, spinning roll. We’re like two birds locked in combat, each unable to fly, and we’re dropping fast, heading for civilians with all-day passes and cotton candy. I could let it go and hope for the best, but instead I rely on old instincts. When in doubt, break things. So I squeeze with all my might and feel the metal giving way, and I wonder what happens when a bomb breaks in two.

  A battering ram slams my chest, black and red flash across my face, and I’m tumbling sideways, seeing the fountains, the sky, the Spires. I can feel myself starting to black out, and I try to gain control, but it’s no good. I’m too groggy, arcing like a man shot from a cannon. Then the spinning stops, and the world around me stills. I’m at rest, in the air, and Titan’s maskless face is a foot from mine. He’s wearing a headset of some kind, with a tiny mike hanging before his mouth. Arthur says, “You’ve put on a few pounds,” and I feel his arms cradling me.

  He lowers us to the ground in the center of a food court, one with white cobblestones. Even before I set my feet down, we are surrounded. Arthur holds up a hand, a gesture that creates a small perimeter, and announces in a booming baritone, “That’s just a sampling of the thrills you’ll see at The Revenge of Gigantus, showing again today at four and then the nighttime show at six in Hero Amphitheater. The best action’s in the air, so every ticket’s a front row seat.”

  Children rush forward holding tiny notebooks shaped like Titan’s silhouette, and he bends down and begins signing autographs. Between beaming smiles, he touches the headset at his ear and says, “Big Red. Sector Seventeen. Priority Extraction.”

  The spinning has left me feeling a bit nauseated, and if I were smarter, I’d take a seat. But not in front of the fans. Instead, I post my hands on my knees, take a few deep breaths, and shake my head to clear the cobwebs. My stomach hasn’t calmed, but I can’t look weak, so I straighten. And my eyes spread over the kids, over the parents waiting behind them taking pictures, to the back of the crowd, where Sparkplug stares my way. My dead friend is standing beside a wagon loaded with popcorn, not twenty feet from me, and his expression is a mixture of sadness and pity. I decide that as soon as I get my wits, I’ll push through the civilians and make a go of pummeling a ghost. But then, just next to him, I see Mr. Squid, a tentacled villain who once tried to melt the polar ice caps. This makes no sense because he can’t breathe air, and he’s also absently holding one of those autograph books. I look around and see more: a girl with her hair dyed white dressed as Gypsy, a soft cuddly version of Ecklar, something like a college mascot. There’s got to be a dwarf in there. And worst of all, of course, is my own doppelganger. He’s two inches taller than me, and his shoulders have a muscular curve mine lost years ago. I tell myself it’s probably stuffing. Three kids are asking for his autograph, which makes me feel good.

  Arthur leans into my ear. “Help is on the way. We’ll be out of here in sixty seconds.”

  A guy in his thirties steps up to me holding a corndog on a stick and hands me his notebook. “Would you mind?” he asks. I reach for the pen he’s offering, but when the smell of that corndog hits me, I can’t be held responsible.

  The vomit splatters the white cobblestones between me and the fanboy, and Arthur drops an arm down to safeguard the kids waiting for his signature. A half-dozen men in red jackets and sunglasses jog into the courtyard, and one announces, “Titan! There’s trouble in the stadium!” The others jackets extend their arms and cordon us off.

  Arthur signs a last autograph, stands tall, and says, “That’s all the time we have here now, folks. Evil never sleeps!” They applaud like maniacs. Under his breath, he asks me, “Can you fly?”

  I nod, though I’m worried about it. Still, I won’t be carried.

  After he lifts off, I follow. My stomach is empty and tight, and when I see the loop-the-loop rollercoaster, I look away. Titan slows, and we float side by side. He glances over and says, “So who the hell taught you to fight?”

  “I take it you weren’t worried about that rocket on your ass.”

  “Not when my effects boys had the self-destruct button queued up. On weekends, that rocket chases me three times a day. Only we’re supposed to save the firework display for the folks who paid extra. Come on, I’ve got a story to finish.”

  With that we angle down into the stadium, where indeed about five hundred people are gazing upward. In the middle of the field stands a forty-foot-tall replica of Gigantus, a robotic creation of General Mayhem that siphoned radiation from nuclear power plants. Arthur clears his throat, then reaches up to his headset. “It’ll take more than a rocket to deter me, Gigantus! And now you’ve really got trouble! Commander Invincible fights by my side!” This booms through unseen speakers.

  The robot’s head tilts back, and it faces us. Its headlight eyes fix on me. Even though I know the threat is phony, my stomach calms, and I feel battle ready.

  Arthur takes his hand from the headset. “Care to have the honors?”

  “You bet,” I say. And it’s true, I remember the day in the desert when we toppled the real thing. It was marching for the spent fuel rods stored outside Yuma and had just walked through a truck stop. I lured it into the shade of a building-sized balancing rock, and Arthur pushed it over, crushing its titanium shell.

  “Be gentle,” Arthur tells me. “Just tap the chin. The whole head is rigged, and my guys are watching.” He glances over at what looks to me like a press box.

  I make a fist and swoop down, fly over the heads of the roaring crowd, and soak up the energy of their cheers, then I flip on my back, scoot through the giant’s legs, and launch straight up. Even up close this thing looks pretty real. It must have cost a fortune and a half. So I keep Arthur’s advice in mind and barely slap the metal cheek.
On cue the head springs back, sparks fly out, and the whole monstrosity drops backward with a satisfying whump. The fans applaud and whistle. I take a quick victory lap, bathing in their admiration. Then I land on the riveted chest of the vanquished foe. Titan sets down beside me, and the crowd goes wild. They are wide-eyed and clapping madly, as if we just saved them from some genuine menace. I wish I could say it doesn’t feel great, that this rising in my head is only the rush of adrenaline.

  Ten minutes later, we’re landing on the balcony at the apex of the highest white spire. I’m waiting for Arthur to ask what I’m doing here. It’s been six months since I’ve seen him last, at a cancer benefit in Albany, I think. But he’s always been a patient man. He reaches for an iron loop on the wooden door. “Sorry I couldn’t make the party last night,” he says, then steps inside his penthouse.

  I’ve been in his home before, but it always sets me back. Hardwood floors, a fireplace, paintings lining the walls. It feels like a mansion in the sky. “Yeah,” I say. “I got your note.”

  “How’d things go?”

  “Gangbusters,” I say. “Turned out to be a surprise and then some.”

  He unfolds the mike from his head and says into it, “Big Red. In the bird’s nest.” He drops it on a table, drapes his cape over a chair, and turns his attention back to me. “You don’t sound very festive.”

  I’m about to start in when three ladies, girls really, appear suddenly. They are dressed in silver skirts and red jackets, each one size too small. It’s impossible not to notice their exposed midriffs and how their breasts are pressed together. A tall blonde, likely Scandinavian, holds a bottled water, and a bouncy redhead with ponytails carries a bowl stacked high with apples, oranges, and pears. Bringing up the rear is the tiniest of the trio, and I can’t be sure of her ethnicity, but I’d guess it’s somewhere close to India. I’m bothered by the fact that they remind me of females from the comic book version of the Guardians, all thick chested and thin hipped. I wonder about Arthur’s selection process, if he’s deliberately populated his private world with cartoon caricatures. “Sylvia has drawn your bath, sir,” the shortest one tells him. “What does your guest require?”