by David Reiss
Today, I strained even to keep up with Terry Markham’s work. There were personnel issues that needed sorting, raises and letters of condemnation that required my research and sign-off, financial reports from multiple departments, information about public markets and competitors…Not to mention meeting after interminable meeting. The work that AH Biotech did was important (proving that it’s possible to save the world without spandex or flashy powers!) but I was having trouble focusing, and the day’s labor would not be up to my usual standard of excellence.
Also, I had developed significant regret for the existence of the open-door policy that I had long-ago implemented.
“-so we need to re-think our approach in MEA,” Kimberly said earnestly. “We’ve been hitting roadblocks increasing sales there.”
“So are our competitors,” I reassured her, struggling to maintain my even tone. “The market is soft in that region.”
“At the last earnings call, I got dinged pretty hard.” She shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t want to get surprised again.”
There was an ongoing feud between myself and the chairman of the board of directors. We had a fundamental philosophical disagreement, Henry Collins and I: I felt that the company that I founded should have the creation and marketing of life-saving biotechnological marvels as its primary focus, whereas he felt that the company’s primary focus should be funneling vast sums of money into his pocket. He’d issued several ultimatums over the last year, demanding that I cease investing so heavily in the infrastructure necessary for long-term growth; he also seemed to resent every penny spent on research and development instead of marketing.
Every once in a while, Henry Collins initiated an attempt to have me removed as CEO and to have me replaced by a more tractable executive; most of the harshest questions and comments at our investor meetings were placed by individuals from his camp. Thus far, I’d rebuffed his attempts by making the company so wildly successful that few felt the need to rock the boat. He and his supporters were being made wealthy by my hatred, but I let that rage simmer without acting upon it; the company’s goals were more important than my personal feelings.
Doctor Fid’s nemesis was the Red Ghost, but Terry Markham’s was Henry Collins. The Ghost once shredded my intestines with a gauss cannon, but I still maintained that Doctor Fid was the luckier of my two identities.
“Kim, you’re doing fine. I’m not going to tell you not to push in MEA, because I’m sure that you’ll grow our business there…But don’t worry so much.”
“My people are worried,” she countered, looking frayed. “I had to talk one of my best salesmen from jumping ship. When the financial news picks up a bad enough quote, it doesn’t matter what the truth is. People are nervous.”
“Ok.” I took a deep breath and tried to concentrate. “So, what were you hoping to change?”
“We should revisit working through a reseller in –“
“No,” I interrupted. “We shouldn’t.”
“Terry, they have business contacts that we don’t.” She wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“They have business contacts we don’t want.” My hands clenched into fists, hidden under my desk. “Warlords and dictators…we don’t need their money!”
Over the course of his long career, Doctor Fid had traded with many devils; my civilian guise, on the other hand, dared not do the same. AH Biotech needed to be beyond reproach.
Kimberly was silent for a while. Truthfully, she looked more relieved than upset; Kim was a compulsively good person, and the idea of approaching unethical resellers would never have sat well with her. The only reason she would ever have considered it was, I was certain, the external pressure being thrust upon her by the board of directors.
Straining against seemingly impossible odds could make good people make bad concessions. They think to themselves that the dark path is the only one available, or that if they don’t bend, then they will be broken. I broke, long ago; I created Fid and every horror that followed was by my own choice. My employees didn’t need to suffer the same destruction.
When AH Biotech had been founded, I’d been afflicted with sociopathic traits that were remnants of the many open-brain surgeries that I’d performed upon myself as part of my efforts to shape Terry Markham into a villain sufficient to fill Doctor Fid’s armor. My goals for the company had been logical and my methodology Machiavellian; it had only been enlightened self-interest that had guided me to seek out dreamers and idealists to make up my early employees. I was still constantly surprised by how remarkably effective that choice had been. Also, grateful for my brain-damaged-self’s foresight.
“We’re going to get beaten up again,” Kim said quietly.
“Then take the punches with a clear conscience,” I responded grimly. “As long as I’m in this office, you and your people won’t need to make that sort of compromise. If you need me to rally the troops, let me know!”
“I will.” She looked grateful, then tilted her head curiously. “Are you okay?”
“I have a headache,” I forced a comforting tone into my voice. “It’s nothing.”
It was one of my rare actual headaches rather than one of the migraines that accompanied Whisper hacking into my brain to alter my memories. Really, those incidents had been my own fault for failing to place safeguards before allowing her consciousness direct access to the same network of supercomputers that my neural link was connected to; her father/creator had, after all, been a supervillain named Apotheosis. I should have known to be more careful. Whisper, on the other hand, was blameless for the directives buried within her code, and we’d long since dealt with the problem. I was in need of analgesics now rather than an improved firewall.
“Well, you should get some rest,” she frowned. “You look terrible.”
“Thanks,” I chuckled wryly. “That’s definitely good for my ego.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“
“Don’t worry about it, I know what you meant,” I smiled, now more genuinely amused. “I’ll catch up on sleep tonight.”
We made small talk for a while, and it was a much-relieved Director of Sales that eventually left my office. I closed my eyes and slowly inhaled, light-headed and strangely dizzy. I was motionless but felt as though I was drifting backwards, a slow and endless fall.
“Hey, boss-man. You got a moment?”
I opened my eyes and affected a pleasant smile. “William. Of course, I have time. Come in.”
When I eventually returned home, I fell into my bed and fell asleep almost immediately.
And then, due to a malfunction in its guidance system, an oil tanker struck a reef off the shore of the Alaska coast. There were a limited number of individuals who could have responded quickly to a disaster on that scale; even fewer who had the technical expertise or equipment to safely contain the hazardous spill. I injected an adrenalin cocktail into my heart and slowly clawed my way from slumber’s grasp.
It took three hours of focused and intense labor, but Doctor Fid’s Mk 36b and an army of light-duty drones were able to avert ecological catastrophe. And then I fell unconscious in my armor and slept through the entire journey back to my deep-ocean lab.
Maintaining a secret identity was easier as a villain, I decided, when I woke up and called in sick; a supervillain had the option of choosing when to commit a crime or perform an assault. Heroes, on the other hand, are forced to be reactive, and thus on-call at inconvenient moments. I didn’t think that I would enjoy this aspect of the ‘Fid pretends to be a hero’ charade.
Feeling empathy for a struggle that superheroes faced left a bitter taste in my mouth. I would need to bring this deception to a close before pity or compassion arose; I was undeserving and so were they.
◊◊◊
“Are you awake?” Whisper poked me on the shoulder gently. She’d given me twelve hours to catch up on my rest, at least.
“No.” I yawned and twisted to lay face-down on my pillow.
**How about now?** S
he poked me in my brain.
“Ok, I’m awake.” I rubbed at my eyes. Over the years, I’ve experimented with using psychoactive drugs or electrical stimuli or adrenalin to keep myself alert, with varying levels of success; I’d managed nearly four days without a significant period of uninterrupted rest this time, for example. When it came to recovery, however, I’d discovered nothing that worked more effectively than a comfortable bed. “I’m awake.”
“Yay!”
I didn’t bother looking at the alarm clock; my neural link provided nanosecond-accurate time. Sleep had claimed most of the day, but I had to admit that I felt much improved now. Mentally spooling through my news and email notifications found nothing that required my immediate attention. “Hey, we still have a few hours of sunlight…Want to go out to the park?”
“Mm!” she affirmed, smiling cheerfully.
“Then git. I need to shower and shave.” I rubbed at my chin. “I’ll be ready in about twenty minutes.”
The little android giggled and scampered out of the room while I attended to my much-belated morning ablutions.
**Oh!** Whisper’s mental voice snaked into my head. **Terry, the Boston Guardians are going to be on KNN CapeWatch tonight; I think they’re going to be talking about Doctor Fid.**
**We’ll be home in time to watch the broadcast,** I assured her as I brushed my teeth. Even though we could both stream media directly into our consciousnesses via network connection, she still preferred actually sitting in front of the television for entertaining broadcasts. Watching together was a social experience and one that I was happy to share with her.
**Which park do you want to go do?**
**Oooh. Can we go to Carson Beach?**
I winced but forced cheer into my mental voice. **Sure, we can do that.**
**Yay!**
I didn’t mind the ocean. The Mk 35 and 36b had both been tested in the dark, deepest depths, and I often soared over the waves when en-route to one location or another. My adopted little sister, too, had become completely enthralled with the seemingly-endless expanse of blue-green water; one of her most treasured belongings was a glass statue of a leaping dolphin, and it was a genuine joy to watch Whisper splashing at the tide’s edge, giddy and enthusiastic.
But beaches held other memories for me: moments of bittersweet joy and heart-wrenching terror, of blood and pain and tears and hatred so strong that my chest ached just thinking on it.
Sadly, my traditional coping mechanism for dealing with mixed feelings—donning my armor and locating an unlucky hero to batter—was currently unavailable to me. Yet another unforeseen negative consequence of the theatrical farce that I’d embarked upon! Ah, well. In the immortal words of the patron saint of supervillains: Don’t plan the plan if you can’t follow through.
The beatings would be delayed ‘til another day.
◊◊◊
It had taken nearly a year of biofeedback training, intensive study and consultation with acting coaches before I felt comfortable pretending to be an extrovert. The curriculum had been necessary as I prepared to start AH Biotech; a CEO must project power and confidence, after all. I employed surgery, electromyostimulation, genetic alterations and a handful of other more esoteric methods to make myself taller and more aesthetically pleasing for the same purpose. When the mask of corporate executive Doctor Terrance Markham came off, however, I quickly faded back to Terry Markham, awkward introverted academic.
Whisper, on the other hand, was a natural extrovert. We’d arrived at high tide when conditions were at their prime; Whisper approached a group of children her own age and convinced them all to join her as she made sandcastles. She only looked vaguely human, but still she was quickly able to insinuate herself into their group. Remarkable.
I stayed on the boardwalk and watched her play. It was good to see her happy. It was good to see her get out of the house and meet new friends. But every once in a while, the wind would shift and the fresh salt breeze would hit me just right and I was at a different beach building sandcastles with my brother Bobby, completely ignorant of what was to come.
◊◊◊
The sun is high in the sky, and the heat beats down on me as the cool wind pauses. I use my forearm to brush at a bead of sweat on my brow, wincing only slightly at the feel of sand scraping at my face, and otherwise ignore the discomfort. I’ve consulted the relevant texts and performed some basic experimentation to confirm my initial calculations, but now that construction is before me my attention is riveted.
“It’s not going to work,” Bobby objects, but he’s giddy with anticipation anyway.
It’s very likely that Bobby is correct. I see now that there are many variables that I failed to account for: the breeze, the temperature…my preliminary calculations had been estimates only, but I’d built the forming tool anyway. And now, the sand-filled mold is at the center of our makeshift castle, a slim and high tower.
If I can successfully slide the mold up off the sand without destroying all of our work.
I’m careful, but my hands aren’t perfectly steady. Every tremble and I can see flecks shift, a few grains fall. And then, disaster.
Bobby is laughing at me, and I’m holding a slender tube over the ruins of our castle. The tall tower has tumbled, knocking over the smaller parapets and destroying much of the detail that we’d worked so hard to add earlier. And now I’m laughing too, because it was just ridiculous and the day is too beautiful to be annoyed.
(In my head, I’m designing a simple and lightweight derrick to lift away future sandcastle molds. Or perhaps a coiled energy field, to drive away the plastic using static electricity. A mist generator, to keep the sand at the appropriate level of moistness. With proper compaction and the correct ratio of liquid, an eight-foot tower is theoretically possible; I’ve done the math! But those are future projects, and Bobby is here now.)
“It’s your turn!” I grin, offering him a plastic shovel. “Show me what you can do.”
“I can’t,” his smile slowly fades. “You have to go to work at two, right?”
I blinked, then twisted to find my wristwatch laying on our beach towel. Once again, I’d lost track of time. I’m lucky that Bobby is better at that sort of thing than I am, or else we’d have missed our appointment.
“Can you drop me at the hotel?” Bobby asks plaintively. “I can read my comics there.”
“I wanted you to come with me for this one, kiddo,” I try to suppress my grin. “The meeting won’t be too long, I promise.”
“Aw, c’mon, Terr. It’s my birthday! I don’t want to just sit around while you talk science stuff.”
“It’s not ‘science stuff’, Bobby.” I don’t laugh at his tragically disappointed expression, but it’s a near thing. “It’s a deep-sea tetherless submersible drone…”
“Booooring. C’mon, please? Just drop me off.”
“We’re going to see Paul Riley.” I pause. “I really, really think that you want to meet him.”
“Why?” he asks plaintively. “You got me new comics to read and a new Bronze figure! I wanna go back to the hotel. Please? As another birthday present?”
“Wait, wait.” I motion for him to come closer. “I’m going to tell you a secret, something really important, but you have to be quiet, okay? You can’t say anything until we’re alone with Mr. Riley.”
“Okay…?” Bobby looks confused. He knows me well enough that I’m sure he can see my anticipation but doesn’t understand it yet.
“The superhero Bronze’s secret identity is Paul Riley,” I whisper, even though it’s a loud beach and no one was likely to overhear a casual conversation.
“No way!” Bobby’s eyes widen. “For real?”
“For real! I figured it out, and I wanted to introduce him to you on your birthday. We’re going to surprise him.”
He leaps across the ruined sandcastle and hugs me around my waist. The sand grinds into my sunburned back but I don’t care because I’m laughing too hard and everything is
perfect.
“C’mon, let’s get going.” I carefully peel out of the hug and start collecting the plastic buckets, shovels, and molds. “We don’t want to be late!”
“This is going to be the best birthday,” Bobby declares. “Ever!”
In forty-seven minutes, Bronze is going to let my brother die…but I don’t know that, so I grin goofily in response. Bobby’s hand is small and warm inside my own, and there is a giddy bounce in his step as we walk back towards our rented van.
◊◊◊
Whisper waved to me and I waved back, forcing a cheerful expression. The bulk of my attention, however, was upon the kidnappers.
I’d noticed the grey panel-van following us as we drove but hadn’t considered it to be a threat. Paparazzi, I’d thought, or perhaps a reporter looking for shots of the recently-acknowledged-as-a-U.S.-citizen little android; there had been a fair amount of media coverage when I’d sued the state of Massachusetts on her behalf after her citizenship hearing had been canceled. Also, we’d both been present when Senator McClelland’s Synthetic Americans’ Rights bill was signed into law.
Senator McClelland’s own grandson was a square-jawed military hero, his consciousness re-created after death from an extensive brain-taping experiment performed by a DARPA research project. His miraculous resurrection made for a feel-good story. Whisper, on the other hand, was adorable and tremendously photogenic; of course the reporters focused on her when writing their opinion pieces and editorials!
The van’s passenger had been carrying an expensive camera, so I’d dismissed them as no threat. Now, however, I noticed that driver and passenger had separated to opposite sides of the beach, and that the camera had been left behind. I used my neural link to activate and summon a small group of stealthed combat-drones, just in case; they would take nearly a minute to arrive.