Fid's Crusade

by David Reiss

  Miguel Espinoza (the Red Ghost’s alias) had been sniffing after records concerning the transfers of ownership of properties surrounding my ex-lair. Like all the other supposed base-of-operations to which the heroes had ever tracked Doctor Fid, it’d been chosen more for its suitability for combat than for research purposes; no hero had ever discovered the true laboratories or manufacturing facilities, only facades intended to serve as backdrop for violent encounters. This location had been no different, and yet somehow the Red Ghost thought to investigate more deeply than in the past. Some arcane bookkeeping divination had sparked his interest in property titles; it was possible that comparable voodoo might find a similar connection to the firms from which I'd planned to reap profits with reconstruction.

  There was no direct link to Terry Markham’s holdings, but even so I was forced to isolate the relevant accounts...it would be years before I could safely launder those earnings! The twenty-two percent surge in AHBT’s stock price offered little consolation, nor did the company’s contract to supply field medical kits to the U.S. Army’s infantry branch. Any fortune from publicly traded stock could not so easily be funneled towards questionable purchases without raising red flags. I’d been counting on income flowing into Doctor Fid’s shadowy network in order to fund the final pieces to rebuild the massive Mk 29 heavy combat armor and replacements for my combat drones.

  Conflicts with the Red Ghost always brought mixed feelings. When my research revealed his secret identity, I’d expected to uncover a few of the usual character flaws; instead, I’d found a conscientious man with no history of violence or difficulties with the law. He’d progressed in his civilian career through talent, skill and hard work rather than backstabbing or politicking. No known enemies or past disasters. Miguel was helping both of his nieces pay for college (he’d never married and had no children of his own) and volunteered at a soup kitchen on his days off.

  I’d have nominated the man for sainthood if he hadn’t perforated my intestines with my own damned rifle. Also, he’d cost me seventy-three-point-one million dollars from Doctor Fid’s criminal empire, money that could have been put towards the development of a proper doomsday weapon! Defeating him always rewarded me with a spark of vicious pride and a pang of terrible guilt.

  I’d purchased four Red Ghost toys over the years. Two were given to Hideki, one was incinerated in a fit of rage, and the last resided in my most treasured vacuum-sealed and UV-resistant glass case. Bobby would have loved that action figure.

  Damn the man.

  CHAPTER TWO

  There existed three suits of powered armor within my arsenal that were capable of fitting through a standard door frame; of those, the Mk 31 possessed the most puissant defenses. The Mk 28 boasted superior armaments but was also in desperate need of repair. The Mk 33 was faster and equipped with exceptional stealth technologies but lacked the layered shaped-force-field emitters that had been built into my thirty-first design.

  The Mk 31’s size held numerous advantages. I had, for example, found that an extra six inches of height often cowed a nervous crowd of civilians more effectively than a two-decade history of mayhem. Also, the suit was broad enough to block off a narrow corridor but still sufficiently mobile to navigate common obstacles. In this armor, I’d once battled the “superhero” Gamma through an underground parking structure. The twelve-foot-tall lummox had struck his head on the concrete beams supporting the ceiling so many times that it’d seemed a mercy when I finally rendered him unconscious.

  (My reconnaissance mini-drones captured footage of that entire battle; an edited video with glorious, high-definition slow-motion footage of every exquisite impact had been set to ‘O Fortuna’ and posted on the Internet anonymously. Heh.)

  I wasn’t expecting to make use of the Mk 31’s combat capabilities that evening, but one could never be too careful. Lassiter’s Den could be a strange place.

  Six or seven decades prior, Lassiter’s Den had been a privately-owned restaurant standing on the border between two criminal syndicates’ territories. The owner, John Lassiter, offered to pay protection to both organizations if their members promised not to fight within his establishment and the bemused crime lords had agreed. Members of both cartels started eating and drinking there regularly, and the Den became known as a safe location to make deals or perform negotiations.

  Over time, other gangs began to take advantage of the food, drink and safety. Even after the initial two criminal empires had long since faded into obscurity, the tradition remained: Minor altercations were perhaps unavoidable (and a fair number of differences were taken outside and settled violently) but the interior of the restaurant and bar was inviolable. There was a bouncer at the door, but his responsibilities were limited…in the end, it was the Den’s clientele who enforced Lassiter’s Truce. Costumed villains and criminal masterminds were now common patrons.

  Encased safely within the Mk 31, I dropped from the sky like an ebony comet to land near the entrance, and the doorman allowed me in with the dismissive blasé that only New Yorkers seemed able to manage. Anti-gravity and inertial dampening technologies permitted me to move quietly, without heavy footsteps or causing any damage to wooden floors. Even so, there was a moment of silence as I entered the bar area. Doctor Fid was rather recognizable.

  Even in the midst of criminals and villains, Doctor Fid was intimidating.

  “Bill,” I nodded to the bartender. “Still have Sam Adams on tap?”

  “Yes sir, Doctor Fid.” William Wasserman looked to be in his early sixties, of average height and build with gray thinning hair and a professional smile. He was renowned both for his discretion and for his encyclopedic knowledge of prohibition-era-and-earlier cocktails. Rumor had it that the Ancient once gave Bill a handful of gold coins as a tip for a perfect Sazerac; supposedly, the Ancient left the bar weeping and disappeared into history. It’s just a local legend, of course, but the old-timers always looked up when someone ordered that particular drink. Bill had tended bar here for so long that he was an institution.

  “A pint, then.” I sat at a stool near the center of the bar. Some ne’er-do-wells came to the Den and immediately tried to find the darkest corner in which to sit, but not I. My intent was to be visible! I belonged here and I feared no one.

  My beer slid into my waiting hand. Instantly, I was the center of attention. Surreptitious glances, as the gathered patrons waited to see if I’d take off my helm, if they could catch a glimpse of the elusive Doctor Fid’s face. Instead, a tentacle-like straw snaked from my forearm and into the liquid.

  The disappointment was audible: soft sighs and whispered curses. I reflexively cut my external speakers so that my own brief laughter wouldn’t be broadcast aloud.

  Lassiter’s Den was less crowded than I’d expected, even for a Thursday night. I recognized most of the faces (either by sight or by database query) but not all. There were a few parties of gangsters or members of syndicates, small groups that watched the costumed patrons with wary respect. A handful of old-timers, retired criminals that still put on spandex for a night of socializing with friends. A couple of civilians, even, who stayed out of the way. There was a running joke here in the Den that half the faces you don’t recognize were actually heroes acting undercover; the other half were Cloner.

  And then, there were the real villains.

  Blackjack was sitting at a dark booth in the corner, eating dinner with what I presumed to be two of his henchmen. He was a tall, broadly built blond man dressed in black-and-gunmetal-gray tactical gear with several of his trademark truncheons hanging from his belt; the other individuals at his table were dressed similarly but lacked the size (and, presumably, superhuman strength and toughness) of their employer. Blackjack had the look of a long-time boxer, ears disfigured from abuse and a nose that looked like it spent more time broken than healed. Fresh bruises and one eye swollen near shut hadn’t dampened his mood; he was laughing with his men.

  Siren and Jynx were at another booth; the siste
rs’ masks were off and it looked like Siren was comforting her sibling. Jynx’s back was facing me, but I judged from the slouch of her shoulders that she was going through a bad time; I’d read that her on-again-off-again boyfriend Loose Cannon had been arrested. I didn’t have much sympathy for a woman who once took a pre-school hostage, and Loose Cannon had a nasty habit of injuring non-combatants purely for intimidation’s sake. A bit of misery couldn’t fall upon a more deserving couple.

  I could, however, feel sorry for Siren. As near as I could tell, she’d only become a supervillainess to protect her younger sister. As far as my not-inconsiderably-detailed research could unearth, she’d never initiated violence and even occasionally moved to curb Loose Cannon’s excesses. And yet…she’d stood at their side through horrors.

  Bullwhip was drunkenly arm-wrestling Minotaur at another table. How did they even get inside? They were both at least a head taller than the Mk 31 armor, and Minotaur’s horns shouldn’t have even fit through the front door.

  (I’d deployed a few microdrones earlier to build a three-dimensional map of the building, so now checked their progress. Ah. A basement entrance connected to an unused subway tunnel. Interesting. I set up a calendar reminder to task a few hundred microdrones to construct a map of all the tunnels under New York. Who knows when that might come of use?)

  Last, but certainly not least, I believed that Klown was looming in the darkness near the restrooms. Creepy murderous bastard. His powers do something strange to my sensors, so I was only guessing at his actual location.

  I was grateful for the relative peace, but also disappointed; the information broker that I’d hoped to find was not present.

  “Are you here for Nyx, Doctor Fid?” Bill asked, drying a glass with a clean bar towel and then placing it on a shelf behind the bar with surgical precision.

  “I was hoping to see him, yes.” When I’m wearing Doctor Fid’s armor, my body language is carefully programmed to maintain an intimidating and emotionless aspect. I should, literally, have no discernible tells...And yet, the bartender at the Lassiter’s Den always seemed able to guess.

  He’s not psychic. Telepathy was only a myth, and I’d checked thoroughly for other metaphysical phenomenon.

  “He’ll appreciate the support.” The bartender picked up another glass and began drying it. “It was good of you to come. I don’t think he’ll be here tonight, but he might be by tomorrow.”

  I remained motionless, thoughts swirling.

  During the course of my criminal career, I’d had several occasions to work alongside other villains; I’d traded technologies or even offered more concrete assistance when short-term goals overlapped. If asked if I’d any friends among the supervillain community, however, the only name that would come to mind would be Starnyx.

  Nyx was a co-founder of the FTW, a hacktivist organization that used questionable methods to oppose corporate greed. Most members of the group boasted no special abilities save an Internet connection, coding skills, and a compatible ideology. Starnyx and a half-dozen other members, however, possessed superpowers. Their talents were collectively put towards raising awareness for their cause in sensational (and often embarrassing) manners; CEOs all across the country crossed their fingers and prayed not to be a target when rumors arose that ‘Eff-Tee-Dub!’ would be making another broadcast.

  He was intelligent, knowledgeable and highly skilled in a wide range of fields, and a highly engaging debater; scrupulously nonviolent, Nyx was a genuine crusader for his cause. In a better world he would have been considered a whistle-blower or hero, but in this world he drank at Lassiter’s.

  Of more immediate use to me, the affable and gregarious Starnyx had become a cynosure—a central hub through which gossip and information within the villain community flowed. I’d flown south to Manhattan largely because I knew he’d be able to point me towards a relatively trustworthy buyer for my wares. In the wake of the Red Ghost’s recent interference, my cash reserves were somewhat depleted, and I’d been considering selling some of my more illiquid assets.

  I hadn’t heard a whisper from Starnyx. No contact had been made on any of the anonymized dead-drops, email accounts or burner phones that I’d set up so that he could reach me. Automated data-sifting algorithms generally highlight any information about Starnyx (or his secret identity) for me; nothing had been reported recently on any of the major news networks, no arrests or unexpected hospital stays. The FTW hadn’t announced any major actions recently, either. And yet, the bartender’s wording had implied that Nyx might require emotional support.

  I left William Wasserman a generous tip and departed from Lassiter’s Den without a word.

  ◊◊◊

  Early in our relationship—a few years after Doctor Fid had come out of ‘retirement’—Starnyx had used his exceptional technical expertise to locate one of my laboratories. We’d spoken a few times prior, but I hadn’t considered him particularly close...and yet, there he had been: waiting outside in plain sight of my security cameras, costumed and carrying a six-pack. I’d considered letting my automated defenses deal with the intruder—or simply activating the self-destruct mechanisms and escaping before the explosions grew too intense. Curiosity had outweighed wrath: I’d donned Doctor Fid’s accoutrements and allowed him entry.

  “Hey Doc. I was hoping we could chat a bit.” He’d seemed remarkably unconcerned by the weaponry that my heavy-combat drones kept trained upon him as he entered the primary floor of the lab. Starnyx’s costume consisted of a khaki military-style jumpsuit, a brown belt with a wide array of pouches, a matching tactical vest (more pouches!), and a simple domino mask. “I brought beer!”

  “First, you’ll tell me how you found this place.” Every sensor array that I could think of was tasked with searching the region for evidence of more FTW members or other intruders; I uncovered nothing untoward.

  “Of course,” Starnyx smiled. “Serious data mining. I generated a bunch of lists and looked for overlaps.”

  “What sorts of lists?”

  “Ok, example one...I knew that you operated out of the Boston area, and I knew that you’d need to be able to move machinery onto the property...I could eliminate some areas because the roads aren’t wide or strong enough to handle heavy loads. I could also eliminate areas whose only path included low bridges or overhangs. So...one big list.”

  That was a reasonable assessment. I could, theoretically, use my larger drones to airlift equipment to one of my workshops, but doing so would require accounting for visual observation, radar, etc. Trucks and cargo containers were significantly more discreet. I nodded for Starnyx to continue.

  “You’d need privacy. That can be managed several different ways...trees, high fences, physical isolation, etc. That cuts down the previous list a bit, though. I also believed that you wouldn’t use too much power because the utilities companies would notice...so I looked for properties with atypically low power usage. You have your own generators, I assume?”

  I waved him onward, intrigued now. I could already foresee other applications for these methodologies. Also, ways to avoid being noticed in the future.

  “I also have a few methods to identify possible false identities and the owner of this property was flagged. The birth certificate, social security and tax information were all perfect, but the owner didn’t have any social media presence at all.”

  Easily fixed, in the future. It would be a simple affair to simulate the banal postings of an average civilian. Stock images, pictures of restaurant meals, lies about recent purchases, and mindless political rants filled with false equivalencies and poor logic...maybe a few cat videos. I nodded again, “Continue.”

  “There were still hundreds of possibilities. I hadda spend a fair bit of time examining satellite and traffic-cam footage to whittle the list down further. I flagged a whole bunch of locations on WBZ’s traffic helicopter footage. This site had three different shipping containers move through over the last few nights...And that leads into why I�
��m here.”

  “By all means…” My audio systems were programmed to automatically mask my voice, maintain an even delivery and remove subtle emotional vocal cues when I spoke. The program was, however, unable to wholly eliminate dry sarcasm from my reply. “…Do explain.”

  “Please,” he smiled, but his voice sounded strangely sad, “Whatever you’ve got planned for the next two weeks…don’t do it.”

  “That seems a strong request.” Other villains had made such appeals when they believed my actions might interfere with their own. Some attempted intimidation (and were subsequently taught the error of their ways), while others offered bribes or favors. Until this moment, however, contacts were made via anonymous messaging services or e-mail; discovering my lair and appearing unannounced made Starnyx a new and unique threat. I triggered my suit’s heightened emotion algorithm: the stars projected upon the armor’s surface began to slowly swirl, the red glow at the armor’s seams intensified and my voice was projected at a higher volume. “What do you believe that I intend for the coming month?”

  “You’re going to start a fight.”

  “Battles are hardly unexpected, in our line of work.” My vocoder failed to eliminate scorn from my raised voice.

  “Not a battle...a fight.” He shrugged helplessly. “No crime, no benefit, no higher cause…just an ugly, violent fight.”

  I reflexively lowered the intensity of my armor’s display as my thoughts whirled. Nyx was known to be opposed to unnecessary violence; still, whatever I’d been expecting from the slim villain, a moral appeal hadn’t been it. It concerned me, however, that Nyx was referring only to this particular planned action. For a long moment, I remained silent and motionless as I considered the ramifications.