Fid's Crusade

by David Reiss

  “I think I’ve heard of them. New guys, righ—” he paused mid-question and went silent.

  “Eric?”

  “So, you’re fine then?” Nyx asked, patiently.

  “Absolutely,” I affirmed.

  “I only ask, because the first hit I get on recent news of Doctor Fid is shaky cel-phone footage of you with your arm cut off,” he explained. “And I’m pretty sure you had both arms earlier tonight.”

  “Tis but a scratch?” I tried.

  “Christ, Doc,” he sighed, “I’m not doing Monty Python bits with you. Let me get dressed, I can be up in Boston in a few hours.”

  “Thank you,” I smiled gratefully. “But, really, don’t bother. I’ll have my arm re-attached by then.”

  There was a long pause.

  “How?” Starnyx sounded exasperated.

  “Medical nanotechnology. I’ll have function back in eight hours.” Which was a good thing, since my civilian persona had a face-to-face meeting with the Governor of Connecticut this afternoon to discuss opening a new research facility in Middletown. “In twenty-four hours, I’ll be good as new.”

  “You’re a scary man,” he chuckled, sounding relieved. “Ok, I get it. You’re fine.”

  “I am.”

  “Keep out of trouble, Doc, I’m going to get back to bed. Stay in touch, yeah?”

  “Of course.” It was an odd feeling, having someone who cared for Doctor Fid’s wellbeing.

  He hung up, and I closed my eyes to think.

  There would be news cameras present when Terry Markham shook hands with the Governor; if the infamous Doctor Fid were seen in public still injured, more distance would be added between the two identities.

  I was reasonably certain that I could free up sufficient space in the Mk 31’s chest cavity to hide my arm if I bound it tight against my torso. And if Doctor Fid regained a limb at a later date, well, the villain was known to have cloned body parts in the past.

  The benefits of a few months subterfuge would more than outweigh the minor inconvenience of not being able to use my right arm in combat. A one-armed Doctor Fid would need to make a few public appearances. And then, perhaps, I’d find an excuse to get out of town for a few days.

  I could use a distraction.

  ◊◊◊

  Traveling long distances as a technology-based supervillain could be complicated. There were logistical issues; with every mile covered, one was further from repair and resupply. Shipping tools, parts and other sundries ahead of time could alleviate some of the difficulties, but it was simply unfeasible to transport sufficient materials to cover all possible eventualities. One also risked valuable equipment being lost in transit or discovered by overzealous postal employees.

  A well-stocked cargo-container was usually more efficient than a collection of boxed components mailed separately. There were still issues to be addressed: weigh-ins, bribes, inspections, etc. A single container was, however, far easier to plan for, track and protect.

  I'd determined that the safest and most reliable method of travel was to transport my equipment by myself, driving a sixteen-wheeler or moving van, or supervising my heavy-combat aerial drones as they carried a shipping container across country. This approach generally required the greatest amount of time and attention dedicated to the process but resulted in much-improved peace of mind.

  In this instance, the latter approach was deemed superior. A shipping container was outfitted with my latest stealth technologies and conveyed cross-country by a small fleet of drones; air-traffic pathways and areas of high-population density were avoided.

  If I were flying alone, my powered-armor could have covered the distance in a half-dozen hours; covertly moving alongside the airborne mobile-supply station, however, the expedition from Boston to the Yosemite Valley would require several days journey. Camping in the wilds between towns offered sufficient time to rest, to plan, to practice operating the Mk 31 with only a single arm, and to regain perspective.

  I never used to spend time immersed in nature when I was younger; this “vice” was relatively new. Before Bobby's death, before Doctor Fid...my life was academia. Intellectual pursuits monopolized my every waking moment. When I became Bobby's guardian, he'd had to teach me how to play games or how to run in the park. I was a quick study, at least. Despite the decade between our ages, my brother was an excellent instructor.

  Camping, though...that’d been a lucky accident. Early in my career as a villain, resources had been significantly more limited; the matte-black Mk 3 could only hold about four hours of charge, so I’d acquired a cheap and inconspicuous work van to transport my equipment closer to my targets. One night, the vehicle overheated near the border of Pennsylvania and West Virginia and, unable to perform adequate repairs in the dark, I set up a rudimentary camp and waited for sunrise: just me, a few million dollars’ worth of powered armor and weaponry, the northern Appalachian Mountains and a cloudless sky.

  I'd studied astrophysics for years, but it still felt as though I was seeing the stars for the first time. No interpolated radiation maps, no composited images or mosaics...I could see the arc of the Milky Way, tints and shades of color that photos never quite captured. The universe seemed so vast that my own pain felt infinitesimal in comparison.

  The air tasted of greenery, clean and almost painfully chilled as the night deepened. Insects buzzed, owls hooted and small mammals called to each other, scrabbling through the shadows. Somewhere in the distance, a creek burbled. I watched and listened, mesmerized, until the living melody eventually lulled me to sleep. I wasn't overwhelmed; I was...subdued.

  The planned heist in Charleston never occurred; with the van's repairs completed the following morning, I returned to my south Boston laboratory to design the star-field motif that has been echoed upon every iteration of Doctor Fid's armor since the Mk 4.

  I kept my arm comfortably slung—hidden within the Mk 31’s torso—for the entire journey to Yosemite Valley. My destination was a rural, sparsely populated area of the Sierra Nevada mountain range and I wasn't expecting to be seen on this jaunt, but unannounced visits to a supervillain's lair sometimes resulted in attention-getting explosions. If any portion of this mission were observed, I preferred that any recordings still showed Doctor Fid to be missing a limb so as to maintain the ruse.

  After nearly six years of searching, I was moderately certain that I’d finally located the source of Apotheosis' practically indestructible alloy.

  When Fid's reign of terror first began, the Doctor was oft compared to the west-coast-based supervillain Apotheosis. Both of us had risen to notoriety very quickly, and both of us wore faceless suits of black armor. The similarities were, in my opinion, primarily superficial: Doctor Fid's physical abilities were granted entirely by mechanical means, whereas Apotheosis displayed superhuman strength even outside his armor. Also, while Doctor Fid initially became feared for his use of ranged weapons and energy manipulation, Apotheosis had been a hand-to-hand fighter par excellence. His primary weapon was a gold-headed mace capable of crumpling a battle-tank's chassis.

  When Doctor Fid’s scepter made its first public appearance, Titan joked that I had mace envy. I rewarded him with a barrage of attacks so fierce that he’d never repeated the jibe.

  From what information I'd been able to glean third-hand, Apotheosis' technology had been remarkable. His suit adeptly enhanced his natural abilities and allowed him to stand toe-to-toe with some of the most imposing heroes in the United States. Most impressive, however, had been the alloy used to construct his formidable tools. My own best efforts were nowhere near as durable; I'd been forced to develop structural integrity fields to support my own armor's sturdiness and even then the results were inferior. In addition, the strange material was undetectable by any known scanner.

  Apotheosis vanished after a terrible battle at sea and was presumed dead; the secret of his magnificent armor was assumed to have died with him.

  Recently, however, I'd unearthed a clue: south of Y
osemite, a bit northwest of Coarsegold, Apotheosis' civilian identity had owned a ranch with multiple supposedly depleted and abandoned gold mines on the property. Careful analysis of archived satellite footage, however, implied that the mines had seen some use during the period that Apotheosis was active. My investigation discovered no unusual transactions involving gold, so it was likely that the excavation was intended towards some other goal. If those mines concealed an ore with unique properties—and if I could gather sufficient samples—then perhaps I would be able to reverse-engineer the miraculous material.

  The shipping-container full of supplies was left hidden in the mountains, far from the nearest road or habitation, and I completed the journey to Apotheosis' ranch under cover of darkness. From high altitude, I dropped like a silent, ebony meteor; whatever defenses the compound might mount, I was certain that my own technologies would be able to weather a rapid approach.

  There was...nothing. A brief blip that may have indicated a sensor sweep, but no other defenses activated at all. No automated turrets, no heat-seeking missiles or high-powered laser grids...By the time my feet touched ground, I was worried that I’d chosen the wrong address. I rechecked GPS coordinates and created a rapid wire-frame three-dimensional model to compare against satellite imagery. This was, in fact, the correct location.

  The similarities between Apotheosis and myself were even more superficial than I’d imagined. If I were to die or disappear unexpectedly, the automated defenses surrounding my hidden laboratories would likely render the surrounding areas uninhabitable for decades. Hm. In retrospect, that seemed excessive and short-sighted. Many of the technologies stored within my lairs could be put to beneficial use even without my guidance; others should be incinerated immediately. I made a note to revisit disaster planning.

  A maudlin thought, considering the possibility of one's own demise. I blamed it on the time spent alone in the wilds; clear skies and nature's glories can make one introspective. Apotheosis was missing, likely dead. Kenta Takuma was dead. I was better defended than most who shared my chosen career, but the Mk 31’s missing arm was testament that even I could suffer harm. When I revived Doctor Fid, it was with the primary goal of deposing the unworthy idols, but with the additional intent of using a villain’s resources and freedom to create world-improving machinery. If I were honest with myself, I would have had to admit that the former motive burned like obsession, but the latter was more likely to become my triumph. AH Biotech was already working to release a simpler variant of the medical nanites that coursed through my veins, as well as aeroponic farming technologies and genetically-engineered algae that could be used to make seawater potable in a cost-effective manner. There were other tools, however, that would remain hidden if calamity befell me: protected in perpetuity by heavily armed automatons. That would need to change, but I was loath to surrender such powerful technology to the public without shepherding the release.

  Still musing about the future, I deployed microdrones and set about exploring Apotheosis’ property.

  The buildings were empty but had not fallen into deep disrepair; there was evidence that workers came by every few weeks, at least, to cut back scrub and to repair damage from weather and animal activity. The dirt road that snaked throughout the property was also reasonably well maintained. The main ranch-house was painted an only-slightly-faded mustard yellow. Five bedrooms, three bathrooms, a workmanlike kitchen that boasted sufficient space to prepare food for staff and guests. The outbuildings, too, were in decent repair. This had been a working ranch prior to Apotheosis’ downfall; archived satellite footage showed tourist buses to and from the property.

  Hm. This close to Yosemite National Park, tour buses attracted little attention; they were also not required to stop for inspection or at weigh stations. Such a vehicle would be an ingenious method to transport materials to and from the area. And a large arched garage was located suspiciously near to the mouth of one of the supposedly abandoned mines…

  I left a handful of microdrones to continue mapping the property while I flew to investigate the garage myself.

  The garage had a side entrance; it buoyed my hopes when I discovered that the physical lock was mere window dressing for a much more intricate hidden electronic mechanism. The other buildings seemed mundane in comparison. This lock, on the other hand, was a piece of custom work created by a worthy mind. Apotheosis’ prior presence here was confirmed.

  The lock included an analog radio component, measuring shifts in both frequency and amplitude over time; the exact desired sequence shifted every few seconds. Certain pins within the physical lock, too, carried an electrical signal; other pins would need to be grounded. I imagined that Apotheosis must have carried a physical key (with certain cuts electrically isolated to make contact with specific pins within the lock) and a transmitter to manage the radio code. Perhaps the transmitter had been built into a keyfob, perhaps not.

  Overcoming the security system would be the work of an entire evening. I was sorely tempted to simply cut through the garage’s wall instead but was uncertain what signals might be sent if the lock were bypassed in that manner. I summoned a larger drone from its hiding place in my cargo container and bade it to bring me supplies. When the drone arrived twenty minutes later, my efforts began.

  ◊◊◊

  “I need to teach you to pick locks.” Starnyx had said, years ago when he only knew Doctor Fid.

  “I’ve built machines for that purpose,” I'd objected, any defensive tone in my voice masked by the powered armor's programs. “My designs are more efficient than similar tools available to law enforcement.”

  “Nah. Learning to pick locks isn’t about picking locks. Not to us,” Nyx waved his hand dismissively, his amusement plain. “It’s about hacking.”

  “How so?” I was intrigued; Starnyx’s skill as a hacker had always impressed me, and I was always willing to improve my own capabilities.

  “I cracked one of your programs. That thing you did last year, with the New York Stock Exchange? Elegant math, clean code, beautiful work.” His costume hid his face but I could hear the smile in his voice. “Seriously, it was gorgeous.”

  “Thank you.” It was genuinely gratifying to hear my work praised by someone that I respected. Back at MIT, a much younger and more innocent Terry Markham had regularly received such feedback; for Doctor Fid to receive such a sentiment was unheard of.

  Still, my vocoder and body language control algorithms kept me from preening too visibly under the praise.

  “The thing is, the intrusion was written like an engineer. I figure, you must have studied every security component, yeah? Understood ‘em top to bottom, every piece of hardware and software...I bet you figured out cable lengths, just to account for minute timing issues?”

  I nodded.

  “I bet your lockpick gun is the same, yeah? Deep scan to measure the pins and tumblers?”

  I nodded again.

  “Ok…when you pick a lock by hand, you don’t know what the ‘correct’ position of each pin is. You look at the lock and choose your tools based on experience…A short-twist tension wrench, a small diamond pick, whatever…Then you use practiced skills to poke at the lock ‘til you feel something slide into place. You build outwards from that success.” Starnyx's voice dropped as he described the process, a reverent whisper. “It’s a mindset. Every great hacker I know can pick a lock.”

  “Ahh,” I said, feeling enlightened. “Show me?”

  He laughed and pulled a set of picks from his pocket.

  Once my armor was modified sufficiently to allow for my own practice, I'd been an apt pupil…but I'd never been able to wholly divorce myself from what Nyx referred to as 'the scientist approach.' I found that I was most comfortable when I proceeded from both angles simultaneously: exploratory probing and deep analysis, both aimed towards achieving the desired goal.

  ◊◊◊

  The sun was just beginning to warm the eastern horizon when I'd found my solution. The tricki
est bit was reverse-engineering the random-number generator associated with the radio amplitude modulation. The lock's near-silent click granted me a greater sense of accomplishment than I'd felt after defending my first dissertation.

  Giddy and smug, I had to consciously remind myself not to become overconfident before opening the door and slipping inside.

  The garage's interior was pitch-black; there were no windows nor skylights nor any seams to allow even a pinhole of light within. More microdrones were deployed, flitting like fireflies; they provided illumination in the visible spectrum as well as infra-red and sufficient sound for sonar mapping.

  It was just as well that I hadn't tried cutting through the exterior walls in order to gain entry. I could see, now, that the interior surface of this structure had been reinforced with Apotheosis' strange alloy; the ground, too, though it was difficult to determine to what depth the material extended. The black metal was visible to the naked eye and but wholly imperceptible to my scanners. I was able to determine its presence primarily by identifying minor discrepancies between visual cues and radar maps.

  The level of dust was even and undisturbed; no one had entered this garage in quite some time.

  There was a tour bus, its windows blackened and its passenger-section gutted such that the entire volume could be utilized for transporting cargo; it did not look to have been tended since Apotheosis’ disappearance. The tires hadn’t yet succumbed to dry rot, but a quick evaluation showed that a full fluid change would need to be performed before the vehicle were safe to drive. The diesel fuel had broken down, and the lines would need be flushed lest sediment overwhelm the fuel filters or clog the engine. Gaskets would require examination and the cylinders freed. Making the bus ready to travel would require significant time and energy. Still, I thought, it might make for a more comfortable journey back east.

  Near the rear of the garage, I found a section of floor slightly out-of-level with the remaining surface; it could have been a lift for vehicle maintenance, but an elevator to a lower level seemed more likely. Sonar and ground-penetrating-radar were of limited use—Apotheosis had found some method to confound both; scans indicated a solid rock foundation that was simply impossible given the available visual evidence—but I could detect electric motors below. I stepped onto the eight—by-eight-foot platform and (on a whim) generated a radio transmission using the same algorithm that opened the side door.