Fid's Crusade
Page 13
A few of the patrons of Lassiter’s Den groaned, but others laughed at the raunchy absurdity. The comedian beamed happily, shook a few hands and started making his farewells.
To me, it felt an odd epitaph: the weakest joke of the evening saved for last! Then again, perhaps the choice to end on a low note was yet another argument in favor of the comedian being Cloner in disguise. His later efforts as a crime-fighter had been lackadaisical at best. Even as his powers continued to evolve and improve (demonstrating the facility to summon bodies of varying race, gender and appearance), his performance as a hero flagged. Never again had Cloner stretched himself to reach the potential that was showcased in the battle of Central Park. One of the founding members of (arguably) the most powerful group of superheroes in the United States, and he quietly disappeared from public view. An entity so thoroughly accepted to be non-threatening that the patrons of a supervillain bar joked about his possible presence but never stopped drinking.
Once upon a time, Bobby had guided Bronze’s metallic action figure through epic battles against imaginary monsters and natural disasters. I’d taken on supporting roles, assisting my brother in his ongoing quest to save the world. Cloner had been my toy of choice.
Was it just us, I sometimes wondered? Some genetic quirk or strange mental trick that rendered my brother and me incapable of identifying heroes worthy of the title? But no, the problem was more pervasive. My brother and I played with brightly colored plastic action figures because those were the heroes marketed to us. Those were the characters that we were taught to idolize. If the system were not hopelessly corrupt, Doctor Fid wouldn’t have been a necessity. But that was the world we lived in.
Real heroes didn’t get toys made in their image.
◊◊◊
We didn’t attend the wake held at Lassiter’s Den. Whisper and I mourned, in private but not alone.
◊◊◊
“—but your search tree is seriously unbalanced.” The speaker, a hacker who went by the handle LuckySeven, wasn’t visible. The footage was of low quality: poor resolution and relatively few frames per second. A simple video chat program, optimized more for security and low-bandwidth than for fidelity.
“Yeah..Yeah! Ok, yeah, I see it.” The Asian boy in the center of the screen looked briefly elated, before frowning thoughtfully. Over his shoulder, a half-dozen others could be seen moving about; it was the interior of a familiar warehouse, well-lit and spacious, with a community of like-minded hackers and activists living within. The variation in age of the FTW members was striking: grizzled and grey-bearded admins working alongside teens. There were two visibly non-human members (alien Legion refugees? The smaller of the two looked to be a child) as well.
“Simple isn’t always faster, y’know?” LuckySeven commented helpfully. “Use a self-balancing tree.”
“I have to keep the binary’s size down, though. Can only reliably get a few kay through before garbage collection is triggered.” The time of day wasn’t clear; there were windows visible in the background, but they’d been carefully blacked out to keep any light from escaping. Somewhere off camera, a ping-pong game could be heard; spectators groaned or cheered with every point scored.
“Swipe Helios’ red-black tree code!” LuckySeven didn't sound much older than the teenager that he was talking to. He must have started young; he'd been a remote member of the FTW for years. “It’s tiny, ‘n it’ll work with your data set.”
“I wanted this hack to be mine, man.” The unnamed speaker leaned back in his seat, his body blocking less of the screen. Over his shoulder, a series of high-powered force emitters and shield projectors had been mounted on wheeled chassis. The force emitters looked to be tuned to focus downwards. Foundation crackers, most likely part of a controlled demolition plan.
(Not my design; Nyx could have taken plans from any of the four construction drones that my records say were obliterated in the fire, but he’d chosen to use an older, more well-known and admittedly much less expensive configuration. Perhaps he'd expected the emitter to be left behind?)
“Dude, if you’re not stealing from Helios, you’re not really trying. The shoulders of giants, yeah?”
“Yeah.” The kid's t-shirt advertised an obscure skateboard company. He looked relatively skinny, but his skin reflected the monitor light oddly. Greasy, like he ate too much junk food and didn't shower enough. Too much time in front of a computer screen, most likely.
“Seriously, you have the bones of a great exploit here.” The admiration and pride in LuckySeven's voice was clearly audible. “That’s all you.”
“Thanks.” The younger hacker seemed flustered by the praise. Behind him, an older FTW member with shaking hands was unbolting the side panel of the shield projector. “Oh, hey, what’d she say?”
“Who?”
“That girl, Valerie?” The kid smiled teasingly, as though he knew the answer before he asked. The man behind him was working with fluid certainty; he'd delved into the innards of that device before.
“Oh, man…That was, like, weeks ago.”
“So, what’d she say?” The younger hacker leaned forward, blocking view of the man laboring behind him.
“It, ah, didn’t go well.” Now it was LuckySeven's turn to sound embarrassed.
“Hah!” The kid leaned back for a moment. Behind him, it was clear that a panel had been removed; several high-voltage circular connectors looked to have been reconfigured.
“Hey, man, I deserve sympathy!”
(From off camera, barely audible, Starnyx' voice could be heard: “Hey, Jerry? Whatcha working on?”)
“Dude, I told you she was a bitch!” The kid waved his hands expressively.
“She’s not!” LuckySeven sounded aggrieved.
(The man reconfiguring the force-field projector, Jerry, responded to Starnyx with a noncommittal mumble. “Nothing. ‘m sorry.”)
“She is, man. You stalk her social media, you saw what she did to Tammie291?” The younger hacker leaned forward, his concerned and empathetic expression taking up most of the screen real-estate.
(“Jerr, that unit's all buttoned up. It doesn't need any maintenance.”)
“That was almost a year ago.”
(Much more quietly, from the sweating and shaking man reaching elbow deep into a high-energy reactor housing: “I'm sorry.”)
“It was freaking harsh, man.”
(“No!” Nyx' voice wasn't loud, but the sudden urgency was clear. His psychic precognition only offered a few seconds of warning in case of danger, but it must have just triggered. “Don't touch tha—”)
“She's not li—Shit!”
Things happened quickly. The kid on-screen, the young hacker's eyes widened in surprise and he began to turn. Someone was yelling. A blue glow suffused the room for a fraction of a second, and then there was a moment of chaotic movement. The video flashed white.
“Paul...?” LuckySeven was talking to a blank screen. “Pauley, what happened? You there?”
◊◊◊
Eric could have escaped. Perhaps not unscathed, but there is every indication that he might have survived. The way Starnyx's powers worked, that remarkable sense of danger in the world around him...he could have identified locations that would have been relatively safe from the deadliest forces of the blast. Lunged for a corner protected by a concrete pylon, or stepped into a section of floor that would have been partially shielded by a collapsing balcony. He'd done it before: Survived explosions and slid between bullets from automatic weapons fire! With only a second or two of preternatural notice, his superhuman agility might have granted sufficient time that he could even have fled through a window.
A forensic analysis of the video showed another story. In two frames, reconstructed using a broad array of digital enhancements, Eric could be seen diving across the room. He'd caught up the smaller alien, the child, and twisted away from the force-field emitter.
Starnyx used his own body as a shield, a tragically heroic attempt to save the
young alien refugee's life.
The child's body wasn't recovered, but the DOMA report demonstrated that the subsequent fire would have been fatal for any who’d survived the initial blast. Jerry Stross' suicide note was posted on his online journal minutes before he forced the shield-emitter's reactor to go supercritical. Cloner's action figures were still available at toy stores as part of the 'Classic Shield Collection', and the stock market responded favorably to news that the FTW was no more. The world is flawed.
Every once in a while, I pondered the distinct and unfortunate possibility that reality simply wasn't salvageable. I'd said as much to Nyx, one night years past when were were both deep in our cups. He'd just smiled and shook his head. “Nah, Doc,” he'd said. “The world ain't so bad. There's an awful lot of good here, 'ss just quieter.” At the time, I'd quietly assumed his view to be a pleasant lie. An optimist's dream! Viewing the last two frames from the video chat footage, however, I knew my friend to be correct.
For more than two decades, Doctor Fid had raged a violent war against flawed idols. They dressed in bright colors and shouted entertaining slogans for the news cameras, but they were made of lead beneath their gilded surfaces. Teasing, brash and defective creatures like Cloner were so loud that I never stopped to listen to the silence in their wake.
The world was poorer for the loss of Kenta Takuma and Eric Guthrie. Still...any world that spawned “villains” such as them was worth saving.
Those gloating reporters and executives who cheered the FTW's demise were mistaken. The FTW had, instead, gained a new armored and heavily-armed member. I would take up the duties and imperatives encoded within their charter, and would forswear unnecessary violence. For my friend, and for my friend's friend...It was the only worthy tribute I could offer. Be good, the FTW's manifesto directed. Be loud. I could not promise to excel at the former, but I was confident in my ability to accomplish the latter. Doctor Fid would see to it that Beazd and Starnyx's legacy lived on.
CHAPTER EIGHT
To: “Lucky Seven” ‹lucky7@hush332.ca›
From: “Doctor Fid” ‹doctor.fid@..›
Subject: Condolences
LuckySeven,
My condolences for the loss of your friend. I'm sorry to say that I’d never met him, but a cursory examination of his social media profile indicates that he was trusted, respected and cared for within the community.
It may seem a petty and superficial thing, to attempt to glean deep meaning from an examination of a young man’s work…but he’d adjusted his code’s indentation patterns and function-naming conventions to match your own. The shift in programming style was slow and subtle, but noticeable when comparing newer works against his older repositories. To me, at least, that speaks of a deep level of admiration and trust.
Paul Harris was a talented individual and I’m certain that he was grateful for your mentorship. Again, you have my condolences.
To: “Doctor Fid” ‹doctor.fid@..›
From: “Lucky Seven” ‹lucky7@hush332.ca›
Subject: Re: Condolences
Thanks. It still doesn't feel real. I appreciate you reaching out, but I gotta know...How'd you find me? This isn't a publicly search-able address.
- L7
(P.S. Careful about using that handle, even as a joke. About a decade ago, there was a hacker who used the name 'Dr_Fid' on I-Chat. Bad things happened to him.)
To: “Lucky Seven” ‹lucky7@hush332.ca›
From: “Doctor Fid” ‹doctor.fid@..›
Subject: Re: Re: Condolences
LuckySeven,
I was friends with Starnyx; he taught me a few useful tricks. I've attached a program that trawls relevant internet sites and uses usage patterns to create likely associations between accounts. A fair amount of computing power is required to take best advantage, but you're welcome to look the code over.
(P.S. I am not so proud that I would punish any who take my name in vain. The hacker in question wasn't sought out because he used my name as his handle; he was punished for using my name as his handle while peddling narcotics to children.)
To: “Doctor Fid” ‹doctor.fid@..›
From: “Lucky Seven” ‹lucky7@hush332.ca›
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Condolences
I'm sorry, Doctor. I didn't mean any offense! I just thought you were some kid that chose the handle for shock value or as a tribute. We see that a lot.
I've been reminded that u and Nyx were close. I didn't know him as well as I'd have liked, but he was an inspiration, you know? He was a great guy. I'm sorry you lost your friend, too.
-L7
To: “Lucky Seven” ‹lucky7@hush332.ca›
From: “Doctor Fid” ‹doctor.fid@..›
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Condolences
LuckySeven,
Thank you. No offense was taken, I assure you.
I was hoping to reach out to whoever has taken over the reins at the FTW. Starnyx was indeed my friend and I have resources that I would like to donate towards any rebuilding efforts. My historical means of making contact with the organization have, unfortunately, been disrupted. Could you point me towards the group's current leadership?
To: “Doctor Fid” ‹doctor.fid@..›
From: “Lucky Seven” ‹lucky7@hush332.ca›
Subject: The organization
No one's really stepped up, yet. Things are crazy on the forum and it's going to take a while before everything shakes out. Also, no offense meant because I have mad respect for your l33t skillz, but a lot of us won't like getting help from you, not while we're trying to get our own balance, y'know? If the FTW is going to stand for anything going forward...we need to stay true to the original charter.
I'm sorry. Again, no offense meant!
-L7
To: “Lucky Seven” ‹lucky7@hush332.ca›
From: “Doctor Fid” ‹doctor.fid@..›
Subject: Re: The organization
LuckySeven,
You should throw your hat in the ring. The FTW would be well served by a leader with sufficient integrity to stand up to someone with my reputation. Again, no offense was taken. You needn’t apologize!
I know that my past actions have not been in keeping with the FTW's ethos, but I wasn't planning on offering up instruments of destruction or providing funding tainted by the violence by which it was acquired. I wanted to offer my skills and technical expertise. I would very much like to join the FTW as a member.
To: “Doctor Fid” ‹doctor.fid@..›
From: “Lucky Seven” ‹lucky7@hush332.ca›
Subject: Re: Re: The organization
Join this chat.
-L7
Welcome to #SYNChat!
‹encrypted private channel established›
Lucky7: You'd need to take the oaths.
Doctor.Fid: I know.
Lucky7: Normally, that's a private thing. You're a public figure, though. It'll have to get leaked.
Doctor.Fid: I thought that would likely be the case, yes.
Lucky7: You'd need to mean them!
Doctor.Fid: I know what it means, and I wouldn't make the promise if I didn't intend on following through.
Lucky7: I mean it, man. You join us and then you show up on the news handing Titan another beating it'll frigging wreck us. That's not what we do.
Doctor.Fid: Starnyx was my closest friend, I wouldn't betray his memory.
Lucky7: No unnecessary violence. That’s not exactly the approach you're known for.
Doctor.Fid: My old approach hasn't been working.
Lucky7: You seem to be doing ok.
Doctor.Fid: I can do better.
Lucky7: Mmm...Still tempted to say no.
Doctor.Fid: Why?
Lucky7: Because Jerry Stross killed a lot of good people. He killed Paul. It's not fair if he's the person who finally defeats Doctor Fid, too.
Doctor.Fid: ...Explain your logic?
Lucky7: No hero's been able to keep Doctor Fid down. Your arm go
t cut off 'n you came back stronger! Now, you're going to hang up your particle cannon because of something some suicidal jackass did?
Doctor.Fid: I'm not doing this because of Stross. I'm doing this for Nyx and Beazd.
Lucky7: I'm not sure I like the idea of Doctor Fid being defeated by the FTW, either.
Doctor.Fid: I'm not defeated. I'm inspired. I have no interest in giving up, only in changing. In Starnyx' memory.
Lucky7: Ok.
Doctor.Fid: Ok?
Lucky7: Ok, yeah, ok. I'll sponsor you in, introduce you around.
Doctor.Fid: Thank you.
◊◊◊
“You feeling all right?” Aaron asked absently, most of his attention focused upon the large pool and his daughter’s swim class. “You disappeared from the office for a few days.” The air was cool, crisp and thick with the scent of chlorinated water. The open space and high ceiling made the sound of children’s laughter and playful shrieks echo loudly.
“I received some sad news, I’m afraid,” I grimaced. Across the broad pool, Whisper was splashing about somewhat ineffectively as she learned to swim. Her recently-replaced skin and synthetic musculature had (among other improvements) been altered to maintain variable buoyancy, and Aaron had suggested that Whisper join his daughter’s class. “A family friend passed away.”