Behind Distant Stars

by David Reiss

  A few months back I’d had the opportunity to destroy Cuboid’s body, shattering it into at least seven separate distinct parts. Good times.

  “Her name is Whisper,” I grinned. “Mostly, I’m just relieved that she wasn’t hurt.”

  “Still, it must have been terrible,” Pam sympathized. “Watching you be taken, I mean.”

  “I’ve talked to her about it, of course. She’s a strong girl, though, and I wasn’t held for long.” I nodded, looking at the female co-host approvingly. “It’s good of you to ask after her! She loves this show, I’m sure she’ll be ecstatic.”

  “She likes superheroes?” There was pleasant interest clearly visible in Stan’s warm smile.

  “She does, but I think that she likes you two more,” I laughed. “Whisper thinks you ask entertaining questions.”

  “We do try!” Pamela looked positively delighted.

  “Who’s Whisper’s favorite hero?” Stanley asked.

  “It used to be the Red Ghost, but it may have changed to Titan.” I maintained my pleasant smile as I lied, despite the sour taste in my mouth. “It was Titan that saved me from the kidnappers.”

  “I was expecting you to say Cuboid,” Mr. Morrow shrugged sheepishly. “I shouldn’t assume.”

  **Tell him Cuboid is mean!** Whisper transmitted via my neural tap. She’d never forgiven the older artificial intelligence for ignoring her friendly greetings, months before.

  “She’s expressed pride in Cuboid’s accomplishments. He is, after all, the world’s most famous artificial intelligence.” Whisper blew a raspberry directly into my skull, but I persevered. “But the Guardians are a local hero team and the Red Ghost was her favorite.”

  “But Titan saved your life?” Pamela queried.

  “That’s why I’m here,” I feigned an earnest expression. “I wanted to tell my story, and offer my gratitude to Titan and all the rest of the Guardians for their efforts to keep the peace here in my hometown.”

  “You should re-think your praise,” boomed Doctor Fid, his terrifying voice seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Stanley, Pamela and I jerked in surprise.

  (My own startle was simulated; I’d reprogrammed my nervous system to make my reactions seem realistic. For the duration of the broadcast, my autonomous response would be carefully augmented to overcome any unnatural hesitation on my own part.)

  Pam turned wide, startled eyes towards her co-host. “Is…is that…?”

  I was looking to the left, so I missed the moment when the Mk 36b strode from shadow into the studio. The reaction from the camera crew was immediate; furniture and equipment were bowled over as the staff scrambled for cover. Someone screamed briefly and then was quickly shushed.

  I spun immediately, then froze.

  There stood Doctor Fid. The armor’s surface absorbed light, so thoroughly non-reflective that the villain seemed almost a silhouette…an imposing, six-and-a-half-foot tall and vaguely man-shaped hole in the world. There were stars visible within that blackness, pinpricks of light and color as though I was staring into the deepest and clearest night sky imaginable. There was no sense of contour, no sense of solidity; instead, there was only the disorienting certainty that I could reach into the infamous villain and touch the cold vacuum of space. Only at the joints were hints offered as to the powered armor’s three-dimensional shape; smoldering lines of crimson bled from the seams, an angry glow as though something infernal was encased within. The helm itself was faceless, featureless and disturbing in its lack of humanity.

  Modifying the Mk 36b for autonomous movement had taken only a few hours. The suit was being piloted remotely via neural interface; combat effectiveness would suffer if I attempted to multitask, but the armor was certainly still capable of being used for intimidation purposes.

  No one dared move, lest they attract the monster’s attention.

  “Do not attempt to contact the authorities,” I had Doctor Fid intone. “I intend no harm towards anyone present, and I will not be here long.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the aging host was pale but rallied gamely. “We appear to have been joined by Doctor Fid. Doctor, welcome to CapeWatch.”

  For a moment, the armor held stationary: the world’s most heavily-armed statue. Finally, Fid nodded graciously. “Thank you, Mr. Morrow. It’s a pleasure to be here.”

  “Why are you here?” I asked Doctor Fid and the faceless, implacable helm turned to face me.

  I had designed that armor. I’d built the Mk 36b with my own hands, and I was controlling the suit myself via neural interface; even so, I felt a shiver along my spine when under that intense, emotionless gaze. I steadied my nerves and straightened my back; the motion was calculated: strong enough to imply bravery but not so tense as to imply insolence.

  “I come bearing truth,” Doctor Fid replied.

  “Truth about the Guardians?” Pamela probed. “You mentioned that Dr. Markham should reconsider his appreciation…”

  “I did,” Fid’s deep voice rumbled. “Footage of your ‘rescue’ has been uploaded to the Internet, and will be shown here as well.”

  The video-screen behind Pamela and Stanley powered on suddenly to display an aerial view of a familiar SUV driving southwards away from Boston. We all turned to watch. The camera crew, too, seemed to regain some semblance of professionalism now that their initial terror had faded. They spread out to right any fallen equipment and made certain that their footage was well-framed.

  “Are those the kidnappers…?” Stan asked curiously.

  “Yes. My drones were flying high above and Dr. Markham was in no immediate danger,” the fearsome armor waved towards me, and the screen shifted to display a backscatter x-ray view of the vehicle’s interior. “As you can see, your captors were all secured safely in their seats. You were resting loose within the storage area, unconscious. What occurred next was no accident.”

  The image shifted again, a standard full-color view but now in very slow motion. Pamela gasped wordlessly as Titan darted from one side, striking the SUV with what looked to be the force of a speeding locomotive. Metal crumpled and the vehicle was launched off the road, hitting a ditch and tumbling ferociously.

  I couldn’t help but cringe at how limp I appeared in the video when centrifugal force flung me through a side window to land face-first in the grass.

  “As you can see, Titan acted with blatant disregard for a civilian’s safety. You are a lucky man,” Doctor Fid told me with grave certainty. “The odds of surviving such an impact were not in your favor.”

  I could only nod, briefly.

  “Why were you following the kidnappers?” Pamela pressed, curiously.

  “I was hoping to trail the abductors to their employer,” Doctor Fid replied. There was a finality his tone that dissuaded any follow-up questions about what fate was intended for Skullface.

  “If it’s all right, I would like to return focus to Titan’s actions.” Stanley began, “I’d like to remind our viewers that—at the Mercer-Talon Incident—Doctor Fid revealed terrible crimes that had been committed by two formerly-well-regarded members of the New York Shield. A few weeks ago, Doctor Fid confronted the young hero Cherenkov and offered advice on how to be a better hero. And now, with this video…Doctor Fid, is it safe to say that you are working to hold heroes accountable for their mistakes?”

  Under my mental direction, the empty armor turned its attention upon the show’s host.

  “You already have a guest,” Fid rumbled. “Invite me back another time.”

  And then the fearsome villain nodded in something akin to respect and acknowledgment to the three of us assembled, and silently returned from whence he’d come: floating silently into the shadows and out of the studio.

  (A temporary teleportation platform had been constructed in a rarely used stairwell; once the Mk 36b had ‘ported back to the laboratory, the drones would make quick work of disassembling the platform and flying off unseen.)

  “…Aaaand I think that
now would be a good time to break for commercials and a new pair of trousers,” Stan joked. “After these words from our sponsors, we’ll return to speak with Dr. Terrance Markham about these new revelations. I’m Stanley Morrow, and this is KNN CapeWatch.”

  The two co-hosts were invigorated when filming resumed; our interview was delightful, ranging from the philosophy of heroism, to the history of my company, to proposing humorous suggestions as to what the initials in AH Biotech’s name stood for.

  (“Apocalyptic Horrors.” I joked, deadpan. “Because I’m secretly a supervillain. Bwahahahah.”)

  We discussed the Synthetic Americans Rights Act, the tribulations of dealing with medical insurance bureaucracies and a host of other topics. And if I still looked the part of an injured, bruised man…I also displayed Terry Markham to be self-controlled, alert, thoughtful and capable despite his hardships.

  The board of directors decided against my ‘temporary’ replacement.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Cherenkov shared a link.

  1 hr. - Public

  Week Two of training with the Junior Shield…Who knew being a superhero would involve so much homework? :( Cloner is a taskmaster, but I’m learning a lot. Tomorrow, we’re going on a field trip to train in the Simulation Chamber upstate!

  Comments:

  Janet Hine: Good luck!

  TallBrian43: Homework lol. That sucks ballz.

  - Cherenkov: It’s not that bad, really. It’s mostly learning laws and procedures for working alongside different organizations. How to gather evidence, how to perform a citizen’s arrest, etc. We’re learning about forensics too, it’s awesome! nothing like on tv, though.:/

  - TallBrian43: Sounds cool

  Triumph: I remember my first time at the Chamber. You’re gonna have a blast! And don’t worry, they never put the newbies through a Kobayashi Maru sim. :)

  - Cherenkov: What’s a Kobayashi Maru sim?

  - Brute: An unwinnable sim, just to test how you deal with adversity. It’s a reference to a really old movie.

  - Majestic: ‘Really old’ :( I saw that in the theater!

  - Brute: Did they have theaters when you were a kid? I thought it was all just cave paintings and shadow puppets around the campfire.

  - Majestic: Ouch!

  - Jason Green: A no-win scenario.

  BlueEyedGirl: Good luck in the Simulation Chamber!

  - Cherenkov: Blue Eyes! Hey there, I haven’t heard from you in a while. Thanks!

  BlueEyedGirl (Private message): After you got hurt, I wasn’t sure if you wanted to hear from me.

  Cherenkov (Private message): No worries. You told me where I could find Doctor Fid, I’m the idiot who shot him in the back. My fault!

  BlueEyedGirl (Private message): Still, I’m glad you’re all right.

  Cherenkov (Private message): I’m doing great. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be working with the Junior Shield now! Don’t feel guilty.

  BlueEyedGirl (Private message): Yay!

  Cherenkov (Private message): So, how’ve you been doing?

  BlueEyedGirl (Private message): Ok, I guess. I was sort of angry with my brother about something, but then he got hurt and I feel guilty about being angry with him.

  Cherenkov (Private message): Is he okay?

  BlueEyedGirl (Private message): Yeah, he’ll be fine.

  Cherenkov (Private message): I’m glad. What were you angry about?

  BlueEyedGirl (Private message): His, um, career. I was hoping that he’d make a change because I asked him, but he doesn’t seem to want to. It's hard. I don’t want to grow up and live like he does.

  Cherenkov (Private message): He’s trying to convince you to follow in his footsteps?

  BlueEyedGirl (Private message): No! Kind of the opposite.

  Cherenkov (Private message): Then don’t worry about it. Don’t give up your dreams for him, but he shouldn’t have to give up his goals for you either.

  BlueEyedGirl (Private message): I guess. I just worry…his job isn’t safe.

  Cherenkov (Private message): Neither is mine! I was put in the hospital by Doctor Fid only a few weeks ago. Some careers are worth the risk, y’know?

  BlueEyedGirl (Private message): Yeah. Sorry…

  Cherenkov (Private message): Nothing to be sorry about. Hey, you’ve talked about your brother before and it sounds like he’s a good guy. If this is really bothering you, you should talk to him about it.

  BlueEyedGirl (Private message): Thanks. I’ll do that soon! For now, I have to go…I think we’re about to have company.

  ◊◊◊

  **Um. Terry?** Whisper called, her mental voice sounding strangely tentative. **You should probably come home.**

  **Can it wait about forty-five minutes?** I asked. It was only a bit after supper; I was currently working from my deep-ocean manufacturing facility while wearing Doctor Fid’s mostly-obsolete Mk 31 light-duty armor for its pain-relieving benefits. I’d just finished laying out a prototype circuit-board, an experiment to improve myoelectric control of simulated muscle-fibers. If it functioned as predicted, I could think of applications for prosthetics and ultra-lightweight strength-enhancing suits. Also—once Terry Markham had publicly recovered and could afford to take vacation time—some more surgical self-modification. For what I had in mind, a week-long medically-induced coma would be required for neurosynaptic remodeling to be completed.

  **Not really. I noticed on satellite footage—we have a visitor approaching the front gate.**

  I used my neural tap to stream video from the home security cameras that surrounded Terry Markham’s property, blinked in surprise, then signaled the Mk 31’s emergency speed-release. The armor fell away in chunks as I staggered towards the teleportation platform. **I’ll be right there. Thank you!**

  **You’re welcome,** she chirped cheerfully. **You have to introduce me!**

  “We’ll see,” I said aloud, dizzy from the rushed teleportation and the sudden return of bone-deep aches and pains. I’d managed to get back to my home-office before our guest arrived; Whisper was waiting for me and I gave her a brief hug.

  The front gate’s intercom buzzed.

  Technically speaking, I didn’t need to press the reply button on my home-office desk, nor did I need to lean towards the microphone. The security system was linked to the home’s private network, and that was at my complete mental control. In this case, I did reach for the panel if only to reassure myself that my hands were steady. There were no indications of trouble, but even so…this was not a meeting that I could have predicted.

  “Yes?” I asked politely. “Can I help you?”

  “Dr. Markham? I’m the Red Ghost of the Boston Guardians,” the costumed Latino man replied, looking straight into the visible camera. “I have more information about the kidnapping attempt and was hoping that we could talk.”

  “I’m afraid your mask makes that difficult to prove,” I lied; my security system’s hidden sensors took very detailed scans. “Could you demonstrate your powers to verify your identity?”

  “Of course.” His crimson cowl did nothing to hide the brief approving smile that touched his features before he dissolved into a red mist.

  I buzzed the gate open when he re-solidified.

  The Red Ghost had arrived riding a sporty, powerful-looking electric motorcycle that matched the color of his cowl and long, flowing cloak; the bike looked custom and was likely the work of Professor Paradigm. One of the few currently-active genius-inventor heroes, Professor Paradigm worked on the west coast and supported himself by selling vehicles and communication equipment to other superhero teams. Grudgingly, I had to admit that his aesthetic sense was exquisite. I’d never been particularly enamored with motorcycles in the past, but even a screen-shot of the Red Ghost’s bike made me wonder about how the wind would feel on my face as I hugged corners on twisty mountain roads.

  “Welcome.” I met the hero at the front door and paused only a moment to spare a lustful glance at the two-wheeled ma
sterpiece parked at the driveway’s end. “Please, come in.”

  “Thank you,” he grimaced, “I wasn’t certain that you would allow me onto your property.”

  “Until the lawsuit is resolved, I don’t think that Titan would be welcome,” I admitted, “but I don’t hold you responsible for your superior’s actions.”

  AH Biotech’s lawyers had insisted on pursuing a claim against the parent corporation that supported the Guardians. I didn’t expect that we would win—the modified ‘good Samaritan’ laws that heroes operated under protected their legal interests unless malicious intent could be proved—but it was very possible that there would be an out-of-court settlement.

  “Again, thank you.” His frown deepened. “And I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For not stepping forward, myself.” He looked away, plainly embarrassed. “I should have told you of Titan’s mistake.”

  “Why didn’t you?” I asked. I’d certainly come to expect better from him.

  “Honestly? Emotional whiplash. I was as angry as I have ever been.” He closed his eyes before continuing, “When I saw that you were alive, I was too grateful to think.”