Superheroes

by Margaret Ronald

  The fed threw him a quizzical look. “What do you mean he wouldn’t let you?”

  “After all those times he’d kicked my ass, it was Nantech who brought me in for the last time. Fifty-something, alcoholic Nantech was the one who taught me my final lesson, and that pissed him off. Pissed him off so much that he wouldn’t let me go. Every time I moved to a new neighborhood, he’d track me down and make damn sure that everyone in town knew who I was; who I’d been. Every time I tried to start over, he’d show up and destroy everything I’d built. Town after town after fucking town. You can’t even begin to imagine what it was like.”

  “No,” Bryerson coolly conceded. “No, I can’t.”

  Marshall took a deep breath, released. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer: “Even though the law said I’d earned a clean slate, he wouldn’t let it go. And because he wouldn’t let it go, I had to suffer—along with everyone I cared about—on edge every second of every day, afraid to let my guard down, relax, make friends, get a fucking library card knowing I probably won’t be around to use it.”

  “Did you report him?”

  “Of course I reported him.” Marshall was spent, resigned. “But what the hell was anyone going to do about it? He was The fucking Imperial.” He shrugged. “Sure, they were sympathetic. They paid for my relocation. And the next one. And the one after that.”

  “Hunh.” Bryerson shifted back in his seat and stared out at the darkening sky.

  “It’s impossible to set down roots, start a family, knowing that sooner or later, that other shoe’s going to drop and it’ll all come undone.”

  A solemn silence settled between them. Bryerson sucked his teeth, considered, then popped the glove compartment. He pulled out the two bottles he’d taken from the hotel minibar, dangled them in front of Marshall’s face, Chivas and Tanqueray. Marshall took the Chivas.

  “To the future,” said Bryerson.

  They unscrewed the caps, toasted, and knocked back their contents. The whiskey was warm and comforting.

  A sweep of headlights suddenly intruded on the moment. Bryerson uttered a breathless “shit” at the sight of the three black town cars pulling up. Dark-suited men and women hopped out and were met by two of the plainclothed federal agents stationed outside the Science Center entrance.

  “Go! Go! Go!” whispered Bryerson, then opened the door and stepped out to greet the new arrivals with a cordial “What’s the problem here?”

  Marshall slipped out of the SUV and started toward the entrance. “NSA!” he heard someone bark. “We’re going to have to ask you to stand down.”

  “You can even ask nicely, but that don’t mean we will,” countered Bryerson.

  Marshall risked a glance back, saw the NSA talker speed-dial his cell phone and hold it out to Bryerson. “Well, how about if your boss asks nicely?” Bryerson hesitated, then took the phone. “Hey, you!” called Mr. NSA, spotting Marshall as he reached the doors. “Stop right there!” Marshall ignored him and kept right on going, through the entrance and into the building. “Hey!”

  Once inside, he picked up the pace, hopping the turnstile and crossing the main hall where the last of the Science Center staff were being corralled and ushered toward the back exit. He was met by McNeil, who wanted to know: “What the hell is going on out there?”

  “They said they were NSA.”

  McNeil reacted, snapping his fingers and motioning a couple of his men over to the entrance, presumably to run interference. Then, quickly over to Marshall: “Let’s go!”

  The door marked employees only was locked. McNeil shouldered it open and, guns drawn, they swept in and down the narrow, carpeted hallway to the second door with the keycode. McNeil pulled Marshall aside, allowing one of his men to step up and deliver a flurry of well-placed kicks to the frame. On the fifth blow, the door splintered and gave. And then they were flying down the stairs to the bleak, gray, wide concrete corridor. They hurried up to the steel-reinforced door with the biometric lock. Again, Marshall was motioned away. He backed off, halfway between the door and the stairwell, and watched as one of the agents pressed a brick of plastique up against the lock. McNeil waved the remote. “Clear the area.”

  “Hold it right there!”

  They froze. A half-dozen NSA agents charged down the stairs. Mr. Cellphone waved his identification. “Agent Rose, NSA. We’re ordering you to stand down.” The NSA agents muscled their way in to take up position directly in front of the door, forcing McNeil and his men farther back down the opposite end of the corridor. “We’re taking over this investigation.”

  “The hell you are.” McNeil was livid.

  “Feel free to check in with Agent Bryerson upstairs. You’re in no position to argue.”

  A tense standoff. “What the hell is going on?” McNeil demanded to know.

  “We’re here to deal with a threat to national security.”

  Marshall stood by, helpless, a mere spectator to the proceedings. He threw a glance up the stairs, briefly considered heading back up and slipping away, then decided against it. He needed to see how things played out, had to ensure Virtue’s peaceful surrender. And as he considered the many ways it could go sideways, his gaze trailed back down and fell on a lone shoe, a black pump, peeking out from beneath the stairwell behind him.

  “Bullshit,” he heard McNeil say. And then, a dawning realization. “No. You’re here to protect your asset.”

  Marshall ignored them and slowly drew near the stairwell, glimpsed a pool of blood, then a stockinged foot.

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” he heard McNeil say. “He’s still your guy.”

  “You’re done here.”

  But McNeil wasn’t quite done. “Virtue was too valuable, so rather than cut him loose, your people just looked the other way. You didn’t give a damn what he did on his off-hours so long as he played ball with you. And now you’re here to rein him in before this turns into a public clusterfuck.”

  Around the corner, tucked beneath the stairwell, lay the body of Muriel Henry. Her eyes were wide, her neck angled awkwardly. Her right hand was a gory mess. The thumb was missing. The thumb! Marshall heard Rose say, “Good night, Agent McNeil.”

  “Wait!” shouted Marshall, spinning around and starting toward them. “Wait!”

  They all turned, their looks a mixture of annoyance and confusion. Rose opened his mouth to say something— At which point the door they were standing in front of blew out with such force it took out the surrounding concrete frame, pulping Rose and three of his associates against the far wall, knocking everyone else off their feet, and bringing sections of the structure down on top of them.

  Marshall blinked, found himself flat on his back, ears ringing, eyes stinging from the smoke and drifting particulates. Disoriented by the concussive burst, he could barely make out the figure calmly striding down the corridor toward him. The ringing in his ears faded to an utter silence that, had he been thinking straight, would have positively terrified him. Pushing himself up with one arm, he used the back of the other hand to wipe away the tears. The scene snapped into focus and he watched the new Downfall suit, in all its glossy jet glory, stride past. It moved deliberately up the stairs and was gone. At which point the silence suddenly gave way to an onrush of sounds: the spit and sizzle of damaged circuitry, distant alarms, his own labored breathing.

  Marshall pulled himself up and stumbled down the corridor, over the broken bodies and severed limbs to where McNeill lay, staring up at the ceiling, wild-eyed, swallowing quick shallow breaths. Marshall hunkered down beside him. “Hey.” His voice broke. “Hey.” Steadier this time. McNeil met his gaze, looked through him and away. He was bleeding profusely from a leg wound. As Marshall tore off his shirtsleeve and applied a tourniquet, sounds carried down to them from the cavernous main hall. Shouts and gunfire, followed by staccato barrage of heavy ordnance. More shouts raised, less authoritative, frightened. Another barrage and then a sickening hush. “You’re going to be okay,” Marshall tried to reassure
him. But McNeil was barely there.

  Marshall rose, a mounting fury fueling his determination to finally step up and sever the links to his former life once and for all. He stumbled over the rubble and into the lounge, intent on finding something, anything, he could use from among the storehouse of weapons.

  What he found, instead, was Adam Virtue lying facedown on the floor of his own lab.

  Marshall went to him, gently turned him over. His mentor looked shockingly old, tired. His face and neck were bruised, his eyes unfocused at first. Then, a dawning recognition alighted. “Marshall.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Adam—”

  “I was selfish. A coward.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I wasn’t there for you, and I’ve spent so long trying to make up for that mistake. I’m sorry I let you down.”

  “Adam, you’ve never let me down. You were like a father to me.”

  The old man’s whispered response gave way to a convulsion, and then he was still. The life had finally left those bright blue eyes. And as Marshall sat there, cradling Adam’s head in his lap, those last words hung in the air: “I am.”

  The mezzanine level was a ruin of blood-spattered debris and littered corpses, the plaintive cries of the injured and dying punctuated by the sounds emanating from the robot zoo exhibit. A blackbird’s whistle. The call of a stag. A hole had been blasted through the ceiling, a still-smoking crater that peered out into open night. And, accompanying the view, the staccato beat of a helicopter, the rattle and boom of heavy ordnance. Marshall hefted up the weapon he was holding, right hand gripping the stock, left hand supporting the weighty pulse barrel, and made for the stairwell that would take him up.

  He kicked open the door and stepped out onto the roof. Overhead, the Apache circled a hovering Downfall and loosened a brain-shaking fifty-round burst from its 30-millimeter M230 chain gun. The high-energy penetrators tut-tut-tutted against the impenetrable suit, barely forcing it back a foot or two from its wavering mark. Marshall leapt back under protective cover as the rain of red-hot shell casings clattered down around him. Then, another fifty-round burst, again barely fazing its intended target. The Apache swung round and wide. Downfall rotated effortlessly in place, tracking the copter as it pulled back, hung in the air, then fired off one of its Hydras. Marshall ducked away from the open doorway. The 70-millimeter rocket impacted with an explosive force that shook the building, followed by the whistle and tag of high-velocity fragments.

  He hazarded a peek. Downfall, who had apparently shrugged off the rocket attack with no ill effects, raised his arm. A multibarreled bracelet shifted and formed, solidifying as wrist-mounted persuaders. Marshall jumped back out onto the roof, swung his weapon high and fired. The bolt of blue energy erupted with a punch and sizzle, sailing wide. Downfall fired off his persuader, but the copter was already on the move, banking and sweeping as the ordnance missed its mark. Downfall revolved in midair, tracking his target as it came round.

  Marshall steadied himself, took careful aim, and fired. The punch, sizzle, and this time, a direct hit. Downfall hung in the air, back arched in a tortured pose as the blue energy played over him, then plummeted and struck the roof with a sickening thud.

  Past experience told Marshall to leave nothing to chance. He closed the distance between them quickly, cranking the charge on the weapon and leveling it at his target. Downfall was struggling to rise, the ebb and flow of the suit’s suddenly unstable molecular structure shifting liquid-like across his exposed chest and back, revealing islands of vulnerable flesh. Marshall pulled the trigger. The weapon clicked and died with a protesting whine. Shit.

  Downfall turned—and took a two-armed swing of the heavy stalk off his protected temple, a mere glancing blow that caused him to stumble back in surprise. Marshall cursed his instincts, followed up with a barrel strike to the more vulnerable unprotected chest area. Too slow. Downfall intercepted the blow, twisted the weapon out of his grasp, and delivered a backhand sweep that would have caved in his skull had Marshall not had the presence of mind to duck. Marshall followed through with a mid-core punch. The suit’s free-flowing construct shifted, absorbing part of the impact. Marshall felt his hand break, the fourth and fifth knuckles shocking numb, but the second and third knuckle scoring flesh and winning an unmistakable and satisfying rib fracture, staggering his opponent. Marshall sprang back and spun around to deliver a roundhouse kick to the injured area. He was inhumanly quick, but no match for Downfall, who caught his ankle, swung him wide, then let go, sending him skittering across the rooftop to crash against the brick perimeter abutment.

  Downfall advanced, the smart chip in his suit already adjusting to the attack on its neural network, the active nanite shield’s unstable pattern shifting back to uniformity. Marshall knew it was now or never. He jumped up to meet his advancing opponent, springing forward with superhuman speed, ducking another blow and coming in with an open-hand, closed-fingered strike designed to end it there and then, pierce the chest wall and penetrate the heart. Instead, the blow was deflected with almost casual indifference, snapping his left wrist in the process and catching his lower jaw with a glancing blow that broke it as well. Marshall staggered back, had his foot catch the abutment, and toppled. Almost over—but Downfall saved him, grabbing him by the collar and snapping him back, swinging him around, away from the drop, up close, then delivering a restrained headbutt that broke his nose, fractured the occipital bone below his left eye, and brought him to the precipice of consciousness. His knees gave out and he collapsed.

  He was beyond exhausted, his body spent, his mind scrambling to maintain focus as Downfall stepped up to loom over him, triumphant. The king is dead. Long live the king. Marshall tasted blood and spat. In his weakened state, he barely managed it. The spittle dribbled out the side of his mouth and ran down his cheek. He tried to lift his head, but even that proved a task too Herculean for his present state. And so, he waited.

  Downfall gave a shake of his head, reached up with his right hand, and triggered the remote on his arm band, dialing back the suit. It swept away like a black tide, retreating to just above his shoulders to reveal a smiling Terry Langan. “Hey, Marsh,” he greeted him. “What’s up?”

  Marshall was surprised. Honest to God he was. And if he’d been up to it, he certainly would have expressed his dismay at the shocking turn of events. But he wasn’t, so instead, he settled for a disgusted grunt.

  Terry shook his head. “What a difference eight years makes, huh, buddy? Bet you kind of regret not taking Virtue up on his offer now.” Terry paused, as if awaiting some sort of response, then continued: “Some of us aren’t as lucky as you, Marsh. We don’t get everything handed to us. We have to seize our opportunities, make our own future, you know what I’m saying?”

  Fuck it. Ignoring the overwhelming pain, Marshall pushed himself up to a sitting position.

  “New suit, new name,” said Terry matter-of-factly. “I’m considering going with … Munition. What do you think?”

  Marshall gathered himself, looked up at his former friend, and, despite the state of his jaw, managed: “Munishuns.”

  “What was that?”

  “Munishuns,” Marshall repeated. “Ith plural ya thtupid fuck.”

  “Is it?” Terry frowned, considered, then shrugged. “Well, fuck it. Who’s gonna correct me?”

  A crack of gunfire interrupted their conversation. Both men glanced over as— A shadowed form stepped out of the doorway and slowly advanced on them, arm extended, gun in hand, the other hand supporting his shooting wrist. Agent Bryerson stepped into the light.

  Terry smirked and went for the arm band, but Marshall had already calculated the move, expending his last reserves to lunge forward and slap his broken hand over the trigger. Terry tried to pry him off, but Marshall’s hold was a superhuman death grip. Another gunshot. Another whistled miss. Bryerson quickly closing the distance.

  Mars
hall never saw the blow that shattered his left clavicle and forced him to release his hold. As he fell back he heard the third shot, saw Terry reach for the arm band and then suddenly pause as if reconsidering. A look of deep concern fell over him as he reached up and cupped his chin. He pulled his hand back. It came away slick and sticky. The fourth shot blew through one cheek and out the other, shattering teeth and bone. Marshall saw his old friend teeter and drop out of sight.

  Dizzy and disoriented, he watched Bryerson step into view and casually empty his clip into his target. Then, he turned and addressed Marshall. But Marshall couldn’t hear him. All was silence as the darkness crept in on him, closing out all but a tunnel to his former reality, growing tighter and dimmer. Bryerson, at the other end of that tunnel, yelling something at him.

  And in a sudden moment of clarity, Marshall marveled at their ingenuity. If only his cluttered mind had caught it earlier: that group shot of The Terror Syndicate, the pixyish Silver Sylph practically leaning up against her teammate Doc Arcanum, Virtue’s endless benevolence. His whole life, the answers had been there all along. He’d simply been asking the wrong questions. And he thought of Allison and how different things could have been and how he would have loved to start over with her one more time, really start over. And then the darkness claimed him.

  Contusions, abrasions, multiple lacerations, concussion, occipital bone fracture, shattered left clavicle, compound wrist fracture, multiple rib fractures, dislocated right shoulder, punctured lung, right elbow fracture, multiple fractures to both hands, fractured jaw, fractured nose, rotator cuff tear, ankle strain, groin pull, and a partial tear of the left ACL. All in all, he got off lucky. By the time they wheeled him into the OR, his bones had already started to reknit, much to the amazement of the medical staff, who were then forced to rebreak and set the radius and ulna of both forearms.

  He was in terrible pain through those initial twenty-four hours as his advanced regenerative abilities kicked in to repair the damaged muscles, patches of scar tissue fibers taking form overnight and guaranteeing a less than restful sleep. By morning, however, his body was breaking down the scar tissue, restoring muscular alignment, and he was feeling well enough to go for a short walk—down the hall to Room 217 to pay McNeil a visit—only to be intercepted by a cantankerous nurse and ushered back to bed. When he tried again later that day, slipping out during what seemed like a quiet enough moment, she was waiting for him. After that, a large intern of Samoan descent stationed outside his room ensured there would be no third attempt.