Behind Distant Stars

by David Reiss

  And this was why I considered the Red Ghost to be my nemesis. Not his powers, nor his talent for combat, nor even his annoyingly effective detective skills…but rather because he was a genuinely good man. His remorse was sincere and I could not hate him for his part in this particular debacle. Doctor Fid’s purpose was to punish heroes for their missteps; the Red Ghost made few, and yet he still opposed Doctor Fid.

  Also, he’d once used one of my own re-engineered gauss cannons to blow a two-inch hole through my small intestines. The ghost had an admirably efficient approach to combat when properly provoked. Damn the man.

  “Well, for my part, I forgive you.”

  “I don’t deserve that,” he shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Deserve’s got nothing to do with it,” I rasped in imitation of a famous actor’s line, and then hid my wince at the Red Ghost’s startle; the sudden return of my aches and pains must have been making me loopy.

  “I said that to someone else, relatively recently.” Red Ghost barked in short laughter. “Strange the way the world works.”

  Doctor Fid had been more than a little bit drunk when he’d sought out his long-time nemesis at two-forty-seven AM to have a heart-to-heart; during that conversation, the Red Ghost had delivered that line in much the same manner. I still wasn’t certain that the business deal that we’d eventually embarked upon was the wisest choice, but (under the false guise that he’d reverse-engineered Doctor Fid’s inventions) the crimson-clad hero had begun the efforts to release some of my safety-related technologies to the public. Unsurprisingly, the Ghost was donating the majority of his profits to charity.

  “You mentioned that you had news?” I changed the subject, not-at-all-subtly.

  “I do,” the masked man nodded. “Did you want your head of security here?”

  “I have a consultant that I work with, but he’s not here at the moment.”

  He frowned, “You should have a team on-site.”

  “I hardly think that would be necessary…The people who tried to take me are in jail.”

  “The man who hired them is not,” Red Ghost insisted. “He might try again.”

  “Is Skullface even still a threat? I thought that he’d be avoiding Boston after…”

  “After Doctor Fid implied a threat on national television?” The Red Ghost smiled wryly. “It’s unlikely, but Skullface has made foolish decisions in the past.”

  “I’ll talk to my consultant,” I nodded. “Have you found out why Skullface targeted me?”

  “Actually, yes.” He sounded apologetic, as though somehow disappointed that the motivation was so base. “Last year, you won an auction for a piece of artwork that he wanted.”

  The only item that I’d acquired via auction had been a piece formerly owned by the governor, reputedly received as a gift from the supervillain known as the Ancient. Though beautiful, it was not terribly prized among collectors. Its only real value lay in the legend behind it: that some few of the Ancient’s gifts had contained clues as to the whereabouts of his lost hoard of wealth and knowledge.

  Skullface was on a treasure hunt, and he’d targeted Terry Markham in Doctor Fid’s city to begin his search. The sheer gall was remarkable. I couldn’t think of an easy way to retaliate without compromising my plan to pretend at heroism; under most circumstances, Doctor Fid’s response would be apocalyptic.

  “All this for a vase,” I sighed. “Ah, well. Thanks for bringing this to my attention, at least.”

  “You’re welcome. Oh,” his expression once again grew serious. “I do have some more information about Skullface and his employees; hopefully, it will be helpful for your security consultant.”

  “That would be very much appreciated,” I chuckled softly. “First, though, can we take a break? My ward was hoping to meet you.”

  “I’d be delighted.” And now his smile returned, broader and more genuine.

  **Yay!** Whisper cheered into my head.

  ◊◊◊

  Gratitude wars with jealousy.

  The infant—my brother—looks up at me with wide and curious eyes. He’s in the small crib, though he doesn’t crawl very well yet. Even without the off-white vertical wooden bars, he wouldn’t get far before Mom or Dad could scoop him up and bring him back to safety.

  I can lift him. Mom lets me hold him, sometimes. I’m good at being gentle.

  I reach between the bars and touch Bobby’s palm; he closes his fist around my finger and answers my delighted laugh with his own. His hands are soft and warm, and his fingernails are like needles.

  I smile and Bobby lights up, grinning toothlessly with an expression that is more pure than I have words to describe. He squirms and waves his free hand and kicks his feet. Bobby doesn’t want to let go of his big brother’s finger.

  Repeating an earlier experiment, I tap on the edge of the crib gently to form a simple sequence: one tap, then two taps, then three, then four. I repeat this several times and then added a change. One tap, two taps, three taps, six taps.

  Nothing.

  He doesn’t squeeze my finger, doesn’t change expression…He just smiles that giddy smile up at me, ecstatic at the attention.

  “Hey, kiddo. Whatcha doing?”

  I start in surprise and twist to look up at my father; he’s standing right behind me and I hadn’t heard him approach. Bobby doesn’t let go of my finger; his grip is surprisingly firm for hands so small. He’s tiny, though. I could pull away if I really wanted.

  I don’t want.

  “I was just testing Bobby’s pattern recognition skills.”

  “I think that you’re going to have to wait a while for Bobby to start counting with you.” Dad chuckles softly and gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “He’s just a baby.”

  “Just a normal baby,” I reply wistfully.

  “Yup…He has ten fingers and ten toes.” He kneels next to me. “I checked at the hospital.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “You have ten fingers and ten toes, too.”

  “But I’m not normal,” I don’t cry. I have more control than that.

  “You’re special.”

  I lower my gaze.

  “Bobby is special too,” Dad says.

  “How?” I lift my hand slightly, enjoying how Bobby tugs even tighter on my finger.

  “He’s my son. He’s your brother. He’s special to both of us.”

  “That’s not what I meant when I was talking about being normal, and you know it.”

  “I know what you meant, Terry,” he makes a disappointed clucking noise with his tongue. “But you’re my firstborn son. You’d be special to me, no matter what.”

  “I…” The words feel heavy in my throat, “I just was hoping that Bobby was like me. So I wouldn’t be alone.”

  “You’re not alone, kiddo.” Again, the hand squeezes comfortingly at my shoulder. “You have a Mom, a Dad, and a little brother. And you’ll have more friends, too.”

  It’s not the same, I’m about to say. I’m too strange for people to care! But then Bobby makes an odd giggly noise and kicks his legs and I feel suddenly dazed.

  He’s a baby. His brain isn’t freakish like mine is. He’s a decade younger than I am and I can think of a thousand ways that we’re different from each other…but Bobby doesn’t want to let go of my finger.

  “Hey, Dad?”

  “Yeah?” he smiles, but not in my direction; both of us are looking down at the baby.

  “I just figured out something important.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Being a genius doesn’t mean that I’m not being an idiot.”

  He snorts in laughter and leans against me. We find some squeaky toy that is (I think) supposed to be a cartoonish representation of a bluebird and play peek-a-boo with my brother.

  Maybe being different doesn’t mean being alone, after all.

  ◊◊◊

  As he turned onto the main road, the hero’s long crimson cloak snaked sinuously behin
d him; it seemed almost alive, willful and hungry. Given what I knew of the Red Ghost, I imagined that the material had been carefully chosen to enhance the effect. It didn’t seem the sort of detail that he would leave to chance.

  I tasked a sensor array to take careful measurements and recordings of the Red Ghost’s beautiful motorcycle as he sped away. I had no need of a cape, but the bike…that was a wonder.

  Thus far, the evening had been equal parts exhilarating and exhausting.

  If there were any superhero whose investigative skills I genuinely admired, it would have been the Red Ghost. He was observant, open-minded and methodical. Even casual interactions with him felt like a sparring session, jabs and holds gentled lest too much be revealed and an entire defense collapse. Enclosed safely within the Mk 35 heavy-combat armor, I would still be wary if he stood in opposition. The Red Ghost had never been known to employ a weapon that might scratch the Mk 35’s surface, but still I’d be more comfortable battling Gamma or Titan any day. Resourcefulness and raw will made for a danger far greater than the ability to throw cars or shrug off plasma-blasts that might liquefy solid stone.

  The man hidden behind that red cowl, Miguel Espinoza, was the single greatest threat to my plans, my identity and the life that I’d built for myself. Given a thread to tug at, a hint of impropriety, and he could tear my world apart.

  **You like him too,** Whisper noted mentally. She sounded tired; she didn’t experience weariness the way a biological being might, but her quantum psyche did experience highs and lows.

  **I do,** I admitted. **He’s the exception that proves the rule: a good person, wearing a hero’s mask. If there were more heroes like him Doctor Fid would never have existed.**

  She paused, and I heard her feet in the hall as the little android approached physically.

  “He’s not the only one,” she said quietly. “Valiant is good. And Regrowth. And maybe Shrike and the rest of the Brooklyn Knights.”

  “This is true,” I grimaced. “And others. I made a list after the battle at the Mercer-Talon building.”

  That had been one of the largest assemblages of superheroes in the modern age; when it became clear that the heroes were outmatched, many scattered or retreated from the field…A surprising number, however, stayed to rescue civilians or to protect the wounded. I hadn’t expected to see so many, rising above themselves and risking true sacrifice for their fellow man. It was humbling. It was awe-inspiring.

  It was intensely annoying.

  Punishing the unworthy had always been among Doctor Fid’s highest goals; that task was easier when I could assume that choosing to wear spandex and a mask was—by itself—evidence of a moral failing. Maintaining that assumption was more difficult now that medical nanites had repaired the last of my neural scarring. The self-inflicted surgically-induced sociopathy that I’d once inflicted upon myself had now faded, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to choose targets worthy of discipline.

  Not impossible, of course. Titan had thoroughly earned his place on my docket! And there were so many others, too many, enough still to make my blood boil with rage.

  I shook away my anger and looked down to face my ward, brows furrowed curiously. “Why mention them, sweetheart? The good ones, I mean. Where are you going with this?”

  “You work with the Red Ghost and contribute to Valiant’s charities and help others without them even knowing…but you still talk about the heroes as though they’re all bad,” she lowers her eyes. “And I don’t think it’s fair. Cherenkov is a hero. And Doctor Fid’s a hero now, too.”

  “Doctor Fid is not a hero,” my back stiffened. “It’s just pretend.”

  “It’s not pretend to the people you saved,” she replied quietly.

  I pulled the little android into a gentle hug. “They’ll hate me again, soon enough.”

  “The day you saved me, you told me you were a bad man,” she pressed the side of her head to my chest. “But you were my hero, too. Maybe you can be both.”

  “No!” I growled, and then winced and softened my tone when I felt Whisper squirm uncomfortably. I let her go. “I’m sorry, but no. Bad people can’t be heroes. Bad people aren’t worthy.”

  “I don’t want to be a bad girl.” Whisper looked up and her glowing-blue gaze met my own; she sounded forlorn, and I heard a slight tinge of fear that broke my heart.

  “Then don’t. Be a good girl,” I tried to comfort her with a gentle grin. “You can be a hero for both of us.”

  “What about Doctor Fid?”

  “I can be a bad man who does good things,” I decided. “Is that enough for you?”

  “Yeah,” she smiled tremulously. “Yeah. It is.”

  I gave her another hug, then returned to my work when she scampered back towards her room. There was much to do: Stanley Morrow from Capewatch had reached out to Doctor Fid hoping for an interview, and an affirmative response would require careful planning. I needed to put more thought into the means by which a functional brain-tape technology would be introduced to the public. And more wildfires had erupted in California that Doctor Fid could work to contain.

  There was little rest for the wicked, and even less for the sort-of-kind-of wickedly benevolent.

  ◊◊◊

  Tired, reeking of soot and ash, I was making one final patrol circling downtown Boston when a tree waved for my attention. It was not quite so late that I was willing to be rude towards one who had earned my respect; to the best of my knowledge, only Regrowth had such fine biokinetic control over plant life. Doctor Fid’s Mk 36b medium-duty armor slowed in its flight, hovering silently while the oak’s branches creaked and groaned. A bough pointed west, and other trees along that route echoed the movement.

  I flew west.

  Regrowth was a heroine and a member of the Guardians but I had no reason to expect an ambush. She’d been present when I first contacted her paramour (the Red Ghost) for the late-night discussion which resulted in the secret business dealings that allowed his new company to market my inertial displacement devices to car manufacturers, potentially saving hundreds of thousands of lives. Also, Regrowth was aware that I had uncovered her civilian identity.

  Even so, I summoned medium-combat drones to soar high overhead—just in case. Heroes can be unpredictable.

  The helpful trees guided me to the south-west corner of the Boston Public Garden. I floated lower, where Regrowth appeared to be meditating cross-legged on a park bench. She was wearing her traditional green-and-brown, close-fitting full-body uniform, and didn’t seem at all bothered by the evening’s chill. A sensor reading confirmed that she’d had temperature-regulating functionality added to her deceptively-simple-appearing costume. There was padding and light armor sewn within as well. The design was elegant and clever; I approved.

  “You wished to speak with me?” I asked, the armor’s vocoder stripping weary curiosity from my tone.

  Regrowth opened her eyes. “I do.”

  “So.” I settled to the ground. This location was well-chosen; we were surrounded by sufficient greenery to conceal our meeting from prying eyes. Also—should hostilities arise—Regrowth was at her most powerful when surrounded by a wide variety of flora. Here, she could have fought off even the notorious Doctor Fid until reinforcements arrived. Behind my helm’s featureless face-plate, I could not help but smile. “What can I do for you?”

  “You can tell me what the hell you’re up to,” she stated evenly. There was no anger in her voice, but the bushes and trees surrounding us shivered with tension.

  I’d gotten used to heroes treating me with a wary respect; Regrowth’s straightforward demands were a pleasant change. If conversing with her lover was a sparring match, then a confrontation with Regrowth was being stalked by a powerful predator: there were no tentative jabs or attempts to feel out her opponent—there was only measured analysis followed by a pounce for the throat. When dealing with supervillains, at least, she tended to get to the heart of issues without indulging in the usual bant
er.

  “Is it so hard to imagine,” I began carefully, “that I might be looking to make amends for my misdeeds?”

  “No,” she quirked a smile. “Remember, I was there when you spoke to Red Ghost. I know that there’s a human being under that armor. It’s very easy to imagine you choosing to make amends.”

  I paused before replying, taken aback; Regrowth’s response wasn’t at all what I’d expected. Given that she’d opened with the accusation that my recent actions were part of a larger plot, I’d anticipated only scoffing dismissal. Also, I was surprisingly touched by her high opinion of me. I’d acted a monster for so long that being acknowledged as ‘human’ was high praise, indeed.

  “Then, why do you think that I’m up to something?”

  “If you were serious about turning over a new leaf,” she explained, “You wouldn’t do it with theatrical heroics. You’d build something extraordinary, something to improve the world.”

  “I did that,” I raised my hands defensively. “Or have you already forgotten the battle against the Legion?”

  “You saved the Earth,” she shook her head, and I could hear amused gratitude in her voice. “But I think that’d have only been the start if you were really seeking redemption.”

  “Perhaps I have projects in the works, machines that are not yet ready for public consumption?”

  “No. You’re Doctor Fid.” Her lips twisted into an appreciative smirk. “You’d wait until the new technology was ready and lead with that. It’s your greatest strength, but you’ve always been too proud of your toys.”

  I tried to think of a counter-example from my long career but was unable to do so. After every setback, Doctor Fid had returned to his labs and only emerged when a new and improved suit or drone had been designed. It was, I supposed, a reasonably predictable pattern. Damn it.

  “What would you say,” I asked quietly, “If I told you that this wasn’t an act and that I was serious about trying to become a hero?”

  “I’d tell Miguel, and he’d believe you,” Regrowth replied, equally gentle. “And he’d be very disappointed if you were lying.”