Behind Distant Stars

by David Reiss

  In addition to his raw physical capabilities, Skullface employed magical attacks that were sufficiently dangerous that I was wary. His cruelty, too, was reason enough to be on my guard; captives had been rescued from his clutches, but never willingly released. Any unfortunates that the heroes failed to locate in time inevitably were retrieved post-mortem. My plan to gather information by waiting to confront my kidnapper was seeming less enticing by the moment. If a confrontation with Skullface were inevitable, being safely encased within the Mk 35 Heavy Combat armor would be much preferred.

  Fortunately, I had my abductors outnumbered one against three.

  Military Boots and Passenger continued to talk amongst themselves, and Barry’s attention was on the road. No one was watching the vehicle’s cargo. Very slowly, I began shifting underneath the wool blanket until my questing fingers found a fire extinguisher. Heavy, but not so large as to be unwieldy; it would make an effective hand-to-hand weapon.

  Doctor Fid was a veteran of hundreds of battles. The person I was when outside of my powered armor, however, was not. I’d learned to take a punch and grit my teeth through pain long before adulthood—the benefit of near-constant childhood bullying—but I’d known better than to fight back. As an adult, when Bobby was murdered, when I started the process of becoming Fid…I’d taken martial-arts classes and studied combat with the same devotion that I’d once applied towards applied mathematics or quantum physics. Beyond the sparring that took place during my lessons, however, there had never been an occasion for my civilian identity ever to become involved in a physical dispute.

  My lips pulled back into a fierce anticipatory grin. It felt as though my birthday and Christmas had both come at once! I needed only to wait for an opportune moment in which to enjoy the present that fate had offered me. Sensor data and live footage from my overhead drones was streamed to my neural interface; it would take careful planning and precision timing to initiate my offense at a moment when no other drivers on the busy interstate highway were endangered.

  Even when I had been at my villainous worst, I’d endeavored to avoid allowing innocent bystanders to become collateral damage. My civilian identity would need to be even more careful; even minor casualties would increase attention. While the secret identity of Doctor Fid was well insulated from Dr. Terrance Markham, it was never truly safe to relax under the media’s scrutiny.

  The best-case scenario would be to escape without witnesses and to return home without explanation. The police would assume that I’d somehow paid off my kidnappers, and a threatening letter from my lawyer would ensure that no information was released into the public eye. Given that my company worked with genetically engineered viruses, bacteria, and other biotechnological marvels, it was likely that certain three-lettered federal agencies would eventually be informed; there would be questions as to the nature of the compensation that I’d offered my abductors, but that could be handled easily enough. Moving a sizeable sum of money to an anonymous offshore account would add authenticity to my replies; while waiting for my escape opportunity, I hacked a bank in the Cayman Islands to begin preparations.

  Despite all my training and plans, I could not wholly suppress an annoyed growl when my aerial drones detected unexpected company. Fortunately, road noise muffled the sound such that none of the vehicle’s occupants turned to check on their supposedly-unconscious cargo.

  **Whisper, do you know if tonight’s episode of CapeWatch is supposed to be a live-presentation or pre-recorded?**

  **It was recorded this afternoon,** Whisper replied. **Why do you ask?**

  **Oh, no reason.** I mentally sighed, resigned. **I’ll be home soon.**

  And then the car was flipping end over end, a chaotic roar of impact and shrieking metal and shattering glass.

  “Fuuuuuuuu-” Military Boots shouted; he, Barry and Passenger had all been wearing their seatbelts but were still jerked about wildly as the vehicle caught the edge of the road and tumbled off the road. Unsecured, I bounced forward into the passenger compartment, smashing face-first into the back of the driver seat and then sideways into an already-broken window. And then we were spinning chaotically and, dazed, I could not keep track of every impact. Something heavy struck the side of my skull and the world contracted to a single point of light, and then nothingness.

  ◊◊◊

  “Oh, honey. What happened?” My mother clucks disappointedly and gathers me up into a hug. The embrace is warm and gentle, but her fingers are dry and scratchy from over-exposure to paint thinner; she’s been in her studio again this afternoon. A wildlife painting, I know; a noble stag silhouetted against the moon. The sketches are beautiful.

  “I tripped,” I say. My lip is bloodied and I have abrasions on my forehead, one elbow and one knee. My shirt – an orange, yellow and brown striped polo shirt that I’m fond of – is ripped near the collar and I’m smudged everywhere with mud. My backpack, dropped near the front door, was still dripping. Reluctantly, I try to pull away; Mom shouldn’t need to get dirty. Not for me.

  “Uh-huh.” She doesn’t let me escape. “And what really happened?”

  “You know what really happened,” I whisper; my voice is so quiet that even I have trouble making out the words. I relent and return her hug.

  “Was it that Bryant boy again?” she asks, pulling away only far enough so that she could look me in the eyes.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You’ve never forgotten anything in your life,” she frowns. “Not even from when you were a baby. Was it Kenny Bryant?”

  “Yes. No. Not really,” I nibble at my lower lip, suckling at the salty and metallic taste of blood. “He was there.”

  “I’m going to call his mother again,” Mom tells me. “He needs to stop this.”

  “No. It won’t help,” I inform her seriously. “Last time, he just stopped when the teachers were watching. Except for science class, ‘cause Mr. Phalen pretends not to notice no matter what anyone does.”

  “You should stop correcting Mr. Phalen in class,” she chides.

  “He should stop being wrong in class,” I riposte. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Honey, of course it matters. They’re hurting you!”

  “This is just the way it is. It won’t last.” My studies indicate that violence is likely inevitable; in media and in academic papers, records of bullying within school-age populations were ubiquitous. I generally avoided the soft sciences, but in this case there had existed a broad enough range of sociological studies that I’d been able to construct useful mathematical models: aggressive, bullying behavior towards smaller and vulnerable individuals was within the range of normal behavior for children of this age. I was the statistical outlier, not them. I was the freak. “It’ll be better once I get into college.”

  She hugs me again but doesn’t look convinced.

  “It’s all right.” It feels odd, having to comfort my own mother. “If I don’t react, they get bored after a while.”

  “After hurting you for a while, you mean,” she bites out. “If it wasn’t that Bryant boy, who was it this time?”

  “Louis,” I admit.

  “Louis Nguyen?” She blinks. “I thought he was your friend?”

  “I don’t have friends,” I state matter-of-factly. “They all hate me.”

  “They don’t hate you,” Mom sighs, wrapping her arms around me in another hug. “They don’t know you well enough to hate you.”

  I know that she is wrong; I don’t really understand hatred, but I’m fairly certain that knowledge is not a prerequisite. Correcting her, however, seems like it would be counter-productive.

  “Don’t worry, Mom,” I murmur. “I’m getting used to this.”

  She breaks into tears, and I can’t figure out why.

  ◊◊◊

  Grass was pressed against my cheek and I hurt everywhere.

  There was a moment of terrifying panic when my reflexive attempt to poll my armor’s system-telemetry failed; it took a few gr
oggy seconds to remember who I currently was and what had occurred. I must have been thrown clear of the wreckage because I could see the SUV’s smoking remains behind me.

  And there was Titan, standing victorious at the side of the road over my now-handcuffed kidnappers.

  Groaning in pain, I tried rolling to my side and pushing up to a kneeling position. Medical telemetry from one of the devices embedded within my ribcage confirmed that I had no broken bones, but I still felt as though I’d been fed through an industrial shredder. Pain had never been a stranger to me; the sheer abundance of injuries, however, marked this occasional as exceptional.

  “You shouldn’t move.” The Red Ghost was at my side, a gentle hand trying to keep me still. “An ambulance is already on its way.”

  I shook away his hand and forced myself upright, mentally replaying video gathered by my drones: the seven-foot-tall, muscular form of the silver-clad Titan barreling from concealment to strike the speeding SUV’s rear driver-side wheel with enough force to whip the vehicle into a spin; the SUV had slid sideways off the side of the road, hit a ditch and flipped, shedding debris and glass as it tumbled over a hundred feet. I hadn’t been ejected until the vehicle had nearly come to a halt. I couldn’t help but wince at the image; in the video, I looked limp and lifeless.

  **I’m fine!** I quickly assured Whisper, knowing that she had surely been monitoring all of my drones’ feeds. **No permanent damage done at all.**

  **Mm,** Whisper acknowledged, but she didn’t sound convinced.

  “What…” I rasped, then coughed up a bit of blood; I’d bitten my tongue while being rattled about in the crash. I spit out shards of glass as well. “What’s going on?”

  “You were kidnapped.” The Red Ghost spoke evenly and professionally, but I’d spent enough time watching him as Doctor Fid that I could recognize the anger warring with worry in his voice. “We’ve captured the men responsible.”

  Most of his attention was upon me, cataloging my wounds and attempting to determine what emergency treatment might be needed. The Red Ghost did, however, spare a moment to glare at the leader of the Boston Guardians; he had not, I gathered, approved of the method Titan had used to stop the car. While he was distracted, I ordered my medical nanites and other internal devices to keep myself alive but otherwise mimic normal human response; I didn’t want Doctor Fid’s nemesis to notice anything unusual about my civilian identity. Instantly, the painkillers that had kept my discomfort manageable faded and I began to shake.

  “Stay still,” the Red Ghost directed, helping me to lay down again. From this close, I could see that the Hispanic hero looked exhausted; his deceptively-simple cowl hid most of his face, but I could see the hollow under his eyes.

  “What…happened?” I asked

  “There was a car accident.” He made a face as though the word ‘accident’ tasted sour on his tongue. “Titan rescued you. You know who we are?”

  “The Guardians.” I managed a brief, trembling smile. “I recognize you.”

  “Well, you’re safe now,” he assured me.

  The other Guardians – Aeon, Regrowth, and Veridian – had gathered around Titan as he began interrogating the injured-but-still-conscious trio of kidnappers. If I’d been in my armor, my sensors and auditory enhancement algorithms would have easily been sufficient to listen in; instead, one of my well-concealed high-altitude drones used a non-visible laser-interferometer as a microphone to record the conversation.

  “Are you well?” Red Ghost asked, brows furrowed in concern. I’d turned a strangled laugh into a hacking cough when Titan had accused my abductors of working for Doctor Fid.

  “Water,” I croaked. “Please.”

  A straw was placed against my lips and I sipped carefully, thoughts swirling. My original plans were now in disarray, but the afternoon was not a total loss. I’d be able to gather useful information about my captors by listening in on the interrogation, at least. Passenger had already broken, telling Titan about how Skullface had contacted him and how long the operation had been planned. Military Boots was grunting irritably, answering questions in monosyllables, and Barry was stoically silent.

  The ambulance would perform basic tests and bring me to the nearest hospital, but I could refuse treatment in favor of promising to see my private physician; there were security and financial considerations when a CEO is incapacitated, after all. The Guardians’ media machine would work to keep this incident out of the news since it would inevitably become apparent that my injuries had occurred as a direct result of Titan’s actions. So…aside from the crick in my neck and the myriads of contusions and lacerations that now covered my body…this result was objectively superior to many possible outcomes.

  My subjective experience was less favorable.

  Sirens were audible in the distance and I groaned, aching and annoyed. When I eventually returned home, at least, I could use the systems in my armor to reprogram my pain response. For now, I just closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing. And debating if it would be worth the efforts necessary to get tarantula-hawk hornets into Military Boots’ prison cell. Probably not; according to the audio I was recording, Military Boots had just accidentally told Titan where Skullface’ current lair was located, which meant that Skullface was likely to get to the poor bastard before I did.

  “So,” I rasped. “My sister and I were supposed to see CapeWatch this evening. Did I miss anything interesting?”

  The Red Ghost didn’t answer at first, so I let my eyes flutter open to see if he was still here. He was staring down at me in amused disbelief, looking from my wounded state to the cataclysmically wrecked SUV and back again. Finally, he began to laugh.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The heroes abandoned me to the emergency medical team’s care and sped off, presumably in an attempt to catch Skullface unawares. I wished them well of it but didn’t hold out much hope. The planning of this crime had implied a level of paranoia that would not easily be overcome.

  Sadly, my certainty that the Guardians would want to suppress news of my kidnapping (and subsequent injury) proved to be unfounded. There were reporters already present when I arrived at the hospital; ‘rescuing’ a local entrepreneur was apparently just the sort of publicity that Titan wanted for his team. Fortunately, a helpful EMT assisted me to make a phone call to AH Biotech’s legal office before I departed the ambulance. It would have been unfortunate were AHBT’s staff surprised by a sudden blitz of questions.

  The ghouls had their cameras ready but were unable to get much footage of my gurney before the emergency-room personnel swarmed and rolled me into the hospital. I could tell from the technicians’ expressions that I looked a fright; biometric telemetry indicated that I was positively covered in contusions, abrasions, and lacerations.

  “Can you tell me your name?” asked one doctor, shining a light in one eye then the other to check for an uneven response. He was a balding African-American man, slim and tired looking, but clearly focused upon his work.

  “Terrance Markham,” I replied calmly. The sensors spread throughout my body reported that I’d suffered a concussion in the initial accident and that medical nanites had already repaired the bulk of the damage. The microscopic devices had, however, now been reprogrammed to ignore any externally visible injuries; there had been too many witnesses who’d seen me now, and an unnaturally-fast healing rate might inspire unwelcome attention. The tiny machines’ only current focus was upon deep-tissue repair and internal swelling while ignoring the superficial issues like blood loss from my many cuts.

  Hospitals have a unique smell to them. There is the strong presence of disinfectant, of course, but that can never quite cover the scent of human suffering. Of sweat and blood and vomit and urine and defecation. I’ve always admired emergency room staff; maintaining their will to do good in this environment must take phenomenal resolve. They were, I thought, truer heroes than anyone who wore spandex.

  “And do you know what today’s date is, Terrance?”
/>
  I told him the date but had to bite my lip to keep from continuing on to speak the millisecond-accurate time; my neural tap allowed me to retrieve chronometric data from atomic clocks in orbiting satellites. The remnants of the head injury must have still been inflicting minor difficulties—I’d never made that mistake before, revealing information from my neural interface out loud.

  “Excellent!” the doctor smiled. “And can you tell me what happened to you?”

  “I could,” I began, “but I thought that would be a matter for the police?”

  “This is just for diagnostic purposes.” His brows furrowed curiously.

  “Very well,” I exhaled slowly. “I was kidnapped by a villain named Skullface, and my life was saved by the Boston Guardians. My injuries are the result of a car accident that occurred during the rescue attempt.”

  The doctor looked up at the EMT to confirm my story, then turned to a nurse. “Patient is aware of his surroundings and is exhibiting no slurring or delayed speech. No evidence of vomiting or imbalance and pupils are normal. Mark down that there’s no evidence of a concussion.”

  “No stiffness in my neck, tingling or numbness in my extremities, or loss of bladder or bowel control.” I grimaced only slightly to avoid straining the skin around my split lip. “I’m not a medical doctor, but I am First Aid/CPR/AED certified.”

  “Well, I’m going to run some more tests anyway. Can you feel this? How about this?” He used a probe to check for areas of numbness and checked my pulse at my extremities. He and his technicians took notes of my blood pressure as well. “No evidence of spinal injuries or internal bleeding, but we’ll know more once we take x-rays and an MRI.”

  “No,” I interrupted calmly. “If there’s no indication of immediately life-threatening injuries, I’m refusing treatment beyond bandages and stitches.”

  “The tests are perfectly safe,” the doctor insisted.

  “I know.” I forced a wider and more comforting smile, despite the discomfort. “I’m the CEO of a major corporation and there are security concerns. My private physician has already been notified and is standing by.”