by David Reiss
Behind
Distant
Stars
◊
David H. Reiss
CHAPTER ONE
The first strike took me by surprise, a blast of cerulean energies that splattered harmlessly off the back of my helm. Alarm shocked through my system and my heart pounded in my chest; the suit’s sensors should have detected and prioritized any threats before so near an approach. Their failure indicated the possibility of a dangerously competent enemy. Long-ingrained reflex guided my quick spin and energy-weapons activation, instantaneously ready to counterattack with deadly force.
My disbelieving gaze was still focused upon my opponent when the second ineffective beam reflected off my chest.
“Surrender, Doctor Fid,” my assailant demanded. “You won’t escape this time!”
I was floating a few inches above the ground and encased within what is often described as the most fearsome and technically-advanced powered armor in human history. Faceless, emotionless; the suit's surface did not reflect light at all. Within the black were displayed the stars, distant pricks of light and nebulae, the night sky held within my person. Were it not for the crimson glow that seeped from the armor's joints, Doctor Fid would have appeared an imposing man-shaped rift into deep space.
The silence stretched uncomfortably long.
“…Do your parents know that you’re out fighting crime at this hour?” I finally asked. “It’s a school night.”
Evidently, that was a poor choice of phrasing if my goal was to dissuade a rebellious teen-aged superhero from attacking.
The young hero scowled, flying a low circle around me and launching blast after blast of his blue-tinted energy beams. I was compelled to admit that (when sufficiently motivated by childish pique) the boy was capable of generating a fair bit of power. If I'd been wearing a version of my armor only a generation or three prior, I would have been forced to evade. Currently, however, I was safely cocooned within the upgraded Mk 36b: my latest medium-duty model, with frame and armor-plates upgraded to the remarkable orichalcum alloy. Only my now-legendary 14-foot-tall Mk 35 heavy-combat armor was mightier. The new force-fields held, and the hero's glowing streams of power poured off of me and boiled into the air.
Cherenkov was a relative newcomer to the superhero scene; a Manhattan-local social-media superstar who mimicked the melodramatic style of speech favored by many of the more publicity-savvy champions, he used recordings of his battles to build his brand. He'd been trending very high on the Internet recently and had used his popularity to crowdfund the purchase of his new admittedly-quite-professional-looking costume: A black bodysuit with white stripes and cobalt trim, constructed excellently from the highest-end of the skin-tight protective materials. His belt had a series of utility pouches and a simple domino mask hid his identity; when his powers were active, his eyes, eyebrows and close-cropped hair all glowed the same color as the energy blasts that he was so thoughtlessly throwing.
(The youth’s superheroic alias, at least, was worthy of approval; it had been Russian physicist Pavel Cherenkov who’d first identified the specific effect of radiation that caused certain forms of nuclear reactors to glow the same color as the boy’s energies. A proper reverence for luminaries in the scientific fields was admirable.)
I identified his nearby camera drones and began circumventing their electronic security, then floated higher off the ground to limit the chance that the boy's missed attacks would accidentally start a fire; he’d located me near some Hudson River docks and there were wood-framed buildings nearby.
“You should re-think your choices, child,” I sighed, though the Mk 36b's vocoder that disguised my voice also struck much of my weariness from my tone. “This cannot possibly end well for you.”
“I'm NOT a child!” he grunted, gathering himself and aiming his most impressive burst yet.
“Then stop acting childish. You literally cannot harm me,” I said as the pale-blue beam dissolved against my force-fields.
“I have to do something! You're a villain, and I'm a superhero,” he called back. “It's not rocket science!”
I'd been younger than Cherenkov the first time that I'd plotted an orbital re-entry as an amusing hobby-project; rocket science was no mystery to me. Why the boy continued to press his useless attacks, however, remained a conundrum. While I was certain that the young man was competent against lesser threats, I was Doctor Fid! For more than two decades, I’d left a trail of violence and destruction in my wake.
Just in case the child’s intent was to delay me until reinforcements could arrive, I ordered a small fleet of my microdrones to keep their sensors configured to watch for the approach of additional heroes. A remote-hack of the cellular phone that Cherenkov kept in one of his belt-pouches indicated that he hadn't sent any recent messages, but it never hurt to be careful. Buried amongst his private messages, however, was an e-mail from one of his fans that suggested a possible explanation for his continued aggression.
“You were a hero,” I objected, blocking his next blast with the palm of my hand. “At the beginning, when you first started your video channel. You stood up to bullies, took down local drug dealers, tried to make your school safe. But now you're just another glory-seeking fool, chasing ratings so desperately that you'd start a fight you have no chance of winning.” The email had suggested that fighting the infamous Doctor Fid would attract additional viewers and offered guidance as to where I might be found. How that knowledge had been acquired would be an issue to research at a later date. “You can have your footage, but I'm leaving.”
I aimed a pulse of kinetic energy at the flying teen, insufficient to cause damage but adequate to knock him back a few feet. Cherenkov's eyes widened and he crossed his arms over his chest to soften the blow as it struck. He looked surprised, as though the idea that he might be hit was somehow unexpected.
I have, in the past, swatted Peregrine from the sky and targeted Haste mid-sprint; Cherenkov was swift, but not nearly so quick as some of his older brethren. Had he never viewed footage of my prior battles? In any case, the lack of damage seemed to embolden him and he wasted several more blasts of his pale-blue energy attack upon my shields as I slowly drifted higher into the night.
“Do not attempt to follow.” From the information that I'd gleaned online, the young hero's flight power was limited in altitude. It would be a simple thing, to climb to the clouds and then make my exit.
“Hah! Run away, then,” he taunted, and I could hear the elation in his voice. “The forums are right, you have gone soft!”
“That,” I said, my departure halting as I slowly spun to face the superpowered social media celebrity, “was a phenomenally stupid thing to say aloud.”
“What are you going to do about it, old man?” he challenged, though I could see the frightened realization dawn in his eyes. There must have been some method to his madness, some specific drama that he’d intended to film; he was, however, suddenly realizing that I wasn’t following the same script. Cherenkov began to float backward reflexively, putting more distance between us.
The few paltry meters would in no way be sufficient.
“I'm going to give you some advice, Corey,” I chuckled darkly, the Mk 36b's vocoder altering my voice such that it dripped with menace. “You don't mind if I call you Corey, do you?”
“Wh-what?” The high-school-aged boy yelped and was shocked into stopping his slow retreat. “How did you...?”
“You activated your camera drones using your mother's credit card,” I explained. “Also, your first costume was constructed of SpectraMax Duraweave #112, and the only order for that color in this region was paid for from the same account.”
“You can't do that,” he blustered. “You can'
t just steal credit card information and unmask people!”
“I'm a villain, Corey, and this isn't a game.” I slowly floated closer. “But you needn’t be concerned about your identity being revealed; I've shut off your camera drones' audio.”
For two decades, the world’s mightiest heroes have stepped back nervously when I appeared ready for battle. If those same heroes discovered how many secret identities I had divined through via data-mining algorithms, the mass apoplexy would shake the world. In general, though, the information I’d gathered had been used only for research and planning purposes during the process of choosing which so-called ‘superhero’ would be my next target. Cherenkov was only the second to whom I’d revealed such knowledge, and I wasn’t certain that doing so now was a wise choice. Still, he’d irked me; I wanted the teenager cowed.
“Wh-what,” the young hero stammered nervously, looking very much out of his depth. “What are you going to do to me?”
“Advice, Corey. As I said. I'm going to give you some advice.” I summoned my ruby-pommeled scepter (one of Doctor Fid's more well-known implements of terror) to my hand and Cherenkov visibly flinched. At a mental command, the starfield pattern displayed within my armor began to slowly swirl. “And you are going to pay attention!”
“Okay! I get it.” He bit his lower lip, gaze occasionally flicking from side to side as though looking for assistance or escape. Neither was immediately forthcoming. “I'm listening.”
“Very well.” I aimed the tip of my scepter at the flying, glowing teen and he cringed. The boy’s shift in demeanor made me smile behind my faceless mask, but the armor’s vocoder removed all amusement from Doctor Fid’s threatening voice. “If you intend on being a social media star, I wish you well of it. You've developed the skill set to market yourself effectively, I'm sure that you'll be successful.
“But if you truly intend to be a hero,” I continued, “then you need additional training and significantly more backup. The 'lone avenger' act may play well to romantic archetypes, but it's far too easy to be caught off guard when you are alone. If you had four or five companions and stumbled across a threat too dangerous for you to manage, you might have been able to cover each other’s escape. But right now, your fate is entirely mine to decide.”
He gulped.
“My suggestion is that you reach out to one of the local hero teams; they have contact information for all the training facilities. Tuition is often waived for promising students, but even if not...I'm certain that your crowdfunding talents could be put to use.”
“…Uhh…”
“Training with one of the major schools will help when you need to be licensed and will make you eligible for lower insurance premiums. Being an uninsured vigilante right now may seem like fun, but the moment you turn eighteen the vultures will begin to circle.”
“…Okay.”
“Finally, and I can't stress this enough...think before you act. Sometimes, discretion really is the better part of valor! Justice is often better served by making a phone call to the authorities rather than intervening yourself.”
“Okay,” the now sullen teenager repeated, looking subdued. “Yeah, I get it. I will.”
“Good,” I stated evenly. “Very good.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“You're welcome,” I laughed softly. “And now, you can help me with a problem of my own.”
“Um. Okay...?”
“Apparently, some members of online forums have been saying that Doctor Fid has gone soft.” I swung my scepter experimentally, as though warming up my arm. “You and your cameras are going to help disabuse them of that notion.”
“What?” He looked surprised. “How?”
“As an object lesson.” It took a moment for the statement to sink in, and his eyes widened in fear. “But don't worry...I've already called for an ambulance and verified that you're covered by your mother's medical insurance.”
Cherenkov tried to flee, then tried to fight. Neither solution worked in his favor.
◊◊◊
An adorable little android was glaring at me.
“What?” I asked finally, setting down my soldering iron. This secret laboratory was isolated deep in the mountains, but since the new and much-safer teleportation platforms had been installed…this location was just as convenient as any other. Also, it was just as easy for my artificially-intelligent ward to find and surprise me here as it would have been at our home.
“You hurt him!” she complained, crossing her arms across her chest. This was her second body: a delicate child-like frame with no hair and skin too perfectly smooth to be human. Her expressive eyes, now narrowed accusingly, glowed robin-egg blue. “You were supposed to just let him go!”
“Supposed to?” I chuckled, “Whisper, Cherenkov attacked me, not the other way around.”
“Ok. Um,” the elfin android looked embarrassed. “I thought you’d just let him go. ‘cause he’s harmless, I mean.”
“I’d planned on it.” I stood and slowly stretched; the medical nanites that suffused my system did much to relieve the infirmities of middle-age and the wear-and-tear that a violent lifestyle inflicted upon my body, but for some reason did nothing to eliminate tension when I’d been slouching over a desk too long. I’d need to reevaluate their programming. “He pressed the issue and was in need of instruction.”
“He’s in the hospital, Terry!” Whisper objected.
“Some lessons are painful,” I frowned, reminiscing. “The important lessons, even more so.”
“I just…didn’t think that you’d hurt him, is all. He’s not much older than me.”
Technically, I supposed that she was older than the high-school hero. Her creator had started work on her program two decades prior, but she’d only gained sentience after a few years of work...and her emotional development had been stalled for several years due to hardware limitations. When I freed her from isolation, I’d granted her access to significantly more computing power and she’d since begun to slowly mature; the child psychologists who had been consulted all concurred that Whisper’s psyche seemed to be that of a perfectly healthy, albeit extraordinary, eleven-year-old girl.
“He’s a teenager, almost an adult,” I replied, although in retrospect I was possibly the worst person in the world to be judgmental about emotional development relative to one’s own age. I’d completed my doctorate by Corey Pierson’s age, and yet I’d been far older before I’d truly begun to understand responsibility; feeling more than a bit hypocritical, I smiled softly to the android that I considered to be my little sister.
I may have thought of her a sibling, but our actual relationship was more complicated. The first wholly artificial being recognized under the Synthetic Americans’ Rights law, Whisper was my civilian identity’s ward. There could be no replacing her deceased father/creator, so adoption hadn’t been an option. And besides, I didn’t know how to be a parent.
I’d been a big brother once before. I’d been a failure, then; this time would be different.
“You’re right,” I acknowledged. “I should have shown more restraint.”
“Mm!” she agreed.
“I’ll send a card, and make sure that no one else can trace his identity the way I did,” I sighed. “Fortunately, I did no permanent damage; he’ll be fine. He’s just lucky that he ran into Doctor Fid! There are villains in that neighborhood who would have done far worse.”
“Um. Yeah,” Whisper giggled nervously. “Lucky.”
“Whisper,” I spoke slowly, “have you been lurking on Cherenkov’s fan forums?”
“…maybe…?”
“And did you feed Cherenkov information about how to find me?” I’d been on my way back from a visit to the Lassiter’s Den, a secretive bar and restaurant that catered to supervillains. If the boy had confronted me only a few blocks earlier, other villains would have joined the battle to try and make certain that the location of their favorite watering hole was not compromised; it would have been
a bloodbath.
(An odd thought occurred to me; I happened to know for a fact that the current leader of the New York Shield - one of the most powerful superhero teams in the United States - was aware of Lassiter’s Den, but there had been no raids or attacks. Another mystery added to the queue, something to investigate further another time.)
“His eyes glow the same color as mine!” she defended, apropos of nothing.
What did his appearance have to do with whether or not she'd sent- Ah. It was beginning to sound as though Whisper had a minor crush on the young hero that I’d just finished pummeling. Oops.
“I just thought his videos would be more popular if he showed that he could fight Doctor Fid,” she finished, looking embarrassed.
**Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry.** I shifted to mental contact so that she could sense my self-reproach. The neural interface through which I controlled Doctor Fid’s armor had long since been upgraded such that we could communicate instantly via quantum-tunneled network, even if I were as distant as high Earth orbit. The capability to transmit deeper emotional content was an unexpected benefit. **You should have said something!**
**I was asleep.** She looked away, flustered. The updated programming and new body that I’d provided for her allowed for her to rest and dream; Whisper was still getting used to experiencing altered states of consciousness.
I checked my system’s log files to verify another suspicion. Cherenkov had been able to approach unnoticed because he’d been specifically designated as a non-threat to my automated systems. Whisper had been thorough.
**He seems like a good kid,** I comforted, then switched back to speaking aloud. “I’m sure that he’ll be back up and posting videos in no time.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, nibbling at her lower lip.
“I'm not positive, but I think it very likely. Anything else happen while I was out?”
“Not really.” Her expression looked absent while she parsed through thousands of media feeds. “Nothing worth mentioning.”
“In that case, I think I should get some rest, too.” I made certain that my tools were stored away properly then began moving towards the teleport platform. “Let’s go home.”