by David Reiss
“You play a dangerous game, Doctor.” There was warning in his tone, but also confusion; this confrontation was not playing out the way he’d expected. With millions of lives—millions of MY PEOPLE—at risk, Skullface had expected deference. The conflicted anti-hero I’d pretended at being would have been thoroughly cowed.
But I’d had plenty of time to reprogram my brain and excise that version of Doctor Fid, and I’d used some of that time to think. The kidnapping of Boston’s populace had been an escalation the likes of which the world had not seen in half a century. The act was a statement of power, yes, but also a declaration of war! The world’s heroes—and many villains—would rise against him in an unstoppable force. The decision only made sense if Skullface had truly believed that he was approaching his endgame: that (with the Ancient’s manuals in his possession) he would somehow become invincible.
I saw now that there was more to his plan…an outside force that had driven Skullface to this excess. I may have appeared in this realm uninvited, but I was certain that he’d planned on bringing me here irregardless. For him to have prepared this stadium and the horrific throne, I sensed that he was trying to impress the observers. This was theater! It wasn’t enough that he defeat me; he needed to be seen accomplishing the task. The entities in the stands were watching me but they were watching Skullface as well. There was power at stake; power enough that Skullface was willing to risk everything for a chance to bring Doctor Fid low.
The Ancient had mentioned enduring a similar ritual in his journals. Doctor Fid was no one’s supplicant, and I did not intend to follow his script.
“That backbone belonged to Dr. Chaise,” I informed the seething villain. “I’m afraid he doesn’t need it anymore.”
While Skullface had chosen to hire mercenaries from out of town to avoid attracting my attention, he hadn’t been sufficiently careful to verify that none of his people had had family in Boston. It had taken only minutes to talk Chaise’s location out of one ex-minion who’d been imprisoned in upstate New York. I’d done my bloody work and then used information peeled from the unfortunate madman to build the portal that brought me to this subdimension.
And besides, Chaise had nearly killed Regrowth. The Red Ghost might not appreciate a psychotic scientist’s slaughter as an engagement gift, but he probably wouldn’t object too loudly.
It was difficult to read emotions from a skeleton. From his body language, however, I imagined that Skullface had realized what I’d done: I’d offered a direct challenge, taken something of value from his domain in the same manner that he’d taken something from mine. Skullface no longer had the option of simply declaring victory if I handed over the Ancient’s lore. The observing horrors would expect more.
“So,” the towering villain’s skeletal hands gathered into fists that shook with rage as he looked down upon the spine from what had once been his most trusted subordinate, “You’re no hero after all.”
“I am Doctor Fid,” I replied grimly, feeling the truth lock into my soul. The label of ‘hero’ or ‘villain’ no longer mattered—not in the face of rage so cold that it felt like ice burning in my veins. I was beyond them. “I will be whatever the mission demands.”
“And what’s your mission?” He’d regained his bluster; his tone dripped with mocking scorn.
“To take back what is mine,” I gestured to the crystal (a stasis crystal, my drones had confirmed) behind him. “And to prove once and for all that you don’t deserve the Ancient’s legacy.”
I dared not admit aloud that the size of the stasis crystal was daunting. I’d read about such things: mystical constructs intended as prisons. A physical representation of subspace storage similar to that which I used to hide my warstaff when it was not in use; even small crystals were, supposedly, difficult to create. The amount of skill and power necessary to forge a stasis crystal large enough to house an entire city’s worth of population was astounding.
Fortunately, time didn’t exist in subspace; if the sorcerer had done his work well, the abductees would be returned having endured less than a heartbeat’s duration of discomfort. It was an odd thing to be hoping for skill and artistry from a man that I fully intended to murder.
“You said you came here to bargain,” he scoffed. “Those mission goals don’t sound like you intend to negotiate.”
He was hoping to catch me in a lie, I knew; according to the Ancient’s writings, the entities that moved among the stadium seats were entertained by misdirection but enraged by deceit. Being caught in a falsehood might encourage them to support one side or the other in the inevitable violence. I wasn’t certain how these creatures from far-flung dimensions might augment Skullface’s powers and I had little desire to find out.
“I said that I came prepared to bargain,” I corrected. “And I am willing. I offer truce between us!”
His growl was feral and flame poured from his eye sockets; I doubted that he expected me to be so knowledgeable about the watchers, but the Ancient had written about his dealings with extra-dimensional creatures. To the observing entities—eldritch beings in constant conflict—even a temporary armistice was a valuable commodity. To Skullface, on the other hand, peace would be of no benefit. If he accepted, our conflict would be concluded…but he would not gain the resources that he had hoped and sacrificed for. “I refuse!”
“If there cannot be peace, then I have nothing else to offer,” I declared gravely, as though disappointed by the answer I knew would be given. And then triggered the Ancient’s handwritten ledgers to self-immolate.
“NO!” In a flash, he’d charged forwards…but it was too late. The skeletal villain reached into the ash, heedless of the heat still radiating from the crate’s melted, glowing shell. “What did you do?!?”
“Initiated hostilities,” I laughed, summoning my warstaff and spinning it easily. “Your move.”
He roared and hellfire streamed from his open jaws, but I was already moving. I dodged to the side then shot forward, shifting my grip and swinging the staff like a massive baseball bat. Skullface was ready for me; he’d summoned weapons of his own and my attack glanced off a shield’s edge.
The next few passes were spent taking each other’s measure; he’d chosen a double-edged arming sword to accompany his heater-style shield and was blisteringly fast in its use. The blade left ink-black trails of ghostly force in the wake of every swing, humming with power and promising a painful death if I misstepped. For my own part, the Mk 35’s onboard combat algorithms enhanced my reaction speed until I could keep time with the strikes. My staff was a whirling windmill of parries and counterattacks, intended more to harry and enrage than to damage.
And then we both began to add non-physical attacks to our repertoire. Balefire clashed with plasma and masers were deflected by a mystically-enhanced shield’s surface. The coliseum’s gray stone floor shook, developing blackened scars and vicious chips as we circled.
Even my most sensitive microphones could detect no voices, but I somehow knew that the things in the bleachers were howling with excitement and blood-lust. I bellowed back at them, delivering a kinetic-energy blast through my orichalcum-framed warstaff that caught Skullface under the chin and threw him back into the stadium wall with earth shattering force. He was already back on his feet—lifted by crimson tendrils of mystical force—when I shot forward to capitalize; his sword swung in a horizontal arc that might have ended the battle if I hadn’t shifted backwards in time.
The blade had cut through my forcefield as though it were nonexistent; I suspected that it would have done the same to my armor and flesh as well. No matter. It was simply a question of taking more readings and remodulating my shields until I’d found a functional model. I offloaded my body’s movement to the Mk 35’s combat algorithms so that I could concentrate on analysis.
The red coils of energy settled around Skullface’s limbs, appearing to guide his movements as he resumed the offensive: a mystic equivalent to my armor’s programming. And so we foug
ht, so-called ‘magic’ versus science, a frenzy of powerful blows and swift blocks while preparing for the next stage of combat.
I had just finished making adjustments to my defenses when Skullface spat an incantation that tore at my spirit to witness. Gravity twisted; for a moment I weighed less than a feather, and then suddenly more than a battleship. Inertial-displacement systems strained to resist the shifting forces but the response was too late: the ground spread open its maw. I could only roar in impotent rage as the earth crashed around me like a tsunami of granite and cobble.
◊◊◊
Bobby uses both hands to pile identical action figures into my grasp. “You play Cloner. I’m Bronze.”
Bemused, I follow my brother to the rec room where he’s used piles of books and laboratory apparatus to set up his battleground. It’s good to see him more outgoing; in the first few weeks after our parents’ car accident, he’d barely spoken at all. We’d spent much of that time traveling back and forth from my childhood home to my house in Massachusetts. Now that we’ve both moved to Boston permanently, he’s begun to make friends at his new school. He still grieves but isolation doesn’t suit him.
Mourning for Mom and Dad while being responsible for Bobby’s welfare is a constant struggle. It feels like putting on a mask: masquerading as though strong, playing the role of caregiver and big brother…while every part of me wants to break down weeping. I’m only nineteen! Mom and Dad were supposed to be here when I accepted tenure. They were supposed to sit in the front row when my work on the Nobel prize winning astrophysics study is announced. They were supposed to love me, like I love them, forever.
But Bobby is setting up his toys, and sometimes he smiles and laughs. For his sake, I can pretend to do the same.
“So, Bronze, who are we fighting today?” I have one of the Cloners ask. I’m caching others in strategically useful locations on the makeshift map. Bobby has set up sections of high-ground where a combatant would have a clear view of the field, and ravines where individuals could take cover.
“We’re fighting Chaos Overlord!” Bobby replies in a childish gruff voice that I’m sure he thinks sounds like his favorite hero.
“I thought he was dead?”
“He came back,” Bobby wavers, losing his husky tone. “The bad guys always do.”
My knowledge of current events isn’t always accurate, but it is my understanding that Chaos Overlord has not, in fact, reappeared. But…Bobby is probably right; the heroes never found a body. Chaos Overlord probably will return, because he’s a villain and villains cheat. I hate him and everyone like him. Villains deserve to be hated. If the gray-and-orange costumed super criminal can cheat death, why can’t people who are infinitely more deserving? Why not our parents? It isn’t fair.
Bobby is thinking similar thoughts; I can see it in his downcast eyes, the tremble of his lips.
“We’ll catch him this time,” I state through my Cloner figurine. “He won’t get away again.”
I dare not tell Bobby, but right now I hate the heroes too. They let this happen. Chaos Overlord will come back, and eventually he’ll be captured and eventually, he’ll escape again. The heroes are just part of the cycle, and it’s only people with brightly colored costumes and superpowers who get to play. Everyone else just gets run off the road by a drunk driver and their story ends. A sad-faced police officer knocks on their eldest son’s door and tells him that he’s afraid that he has bad news. Two lives end and two more are shattered and I hate everything except for my little brother.
“It’s your turn,” Bobby says, softly. He finds his Chaos Overlord figure and sets him up on top of a pile of textbooks.
“Okay,” I fake-whisper. “I’ll take high and low, you come up the middle.”
Bronze and the Cloners creep towards their opponent, and then battle is joined.
◊◊◊
I awakened slowly, which should have been an immediate warning that something had gone horribly wrong; every armor since the Mk 7 has included an onboard medical system that could pump adrenaline, amphetamines and any number of other chemicals into my system in order to shock me to awareness when needed. But I was drowsy and disoriented, and my throat felt as though I’d gargled shards of broken glass. An attempt to rub the weariness from my eyes, however, was unsuccessful.
My arms were trapped. Was the Mk 35 disabled?
A painfully hot breeze flooded over my face and a shiver of apprehension shot up my spine, jarring me back to full alertness. I blinked my eyes open and beheld Skullface, sitting once more upon his throne. The shattered remains of the Mk 35 lay at his side, and I was encased shoulder-deep within a stone prison.
“I recognize you,” Skullface commented conversationally. “You’re that CEO, the one who had my vase.”
I strained ineffectually against my bonds. “The vase doesn’t belong to you.”
“It belongs to the Ancient’s heir!”
“Precisely,” I smiled, tasting blood between my teeth. “I think I’ll keep it on my mantle.”
Skullface stood from his throne and stepped towards me, and I saw now that he had shrunk from his oversized state to his mortal form; were I not buried in solid stone, we would have stood eye to empty eyesocket. I could hear flames crackling inside his empty chest. The eerie yellow-green flickering glow illuminated his bleached skull from below, and tendrils of smoke and fire occasionally licked upwards to caress the underside of his jaw.
“You are not the Ancient’s heir,” the creature growled.
“Am I not?” I chuckled. “I’m the only living soul who’s read his journals.”
Skullface reared back, angry flames roaring up his non-existent throat to pour from his jaws and eye sockets, and then struck me with an armored skeletal fist.
Stars filled my vision and I remembered my first evening camping in the Appalachian mountains. How small I’d felt beneath that endless sky, and how alive the night had seemed. I remembered the sound of the breeze coming through the trees in waves, from a gentle rustle building to a steady thrum, the entire canopy resonating until it drowned out even the drone of insects and birdsong and animal calls. I’d never taken Bobby camping; he would have loved it so much…
I spat tooth-shards at my assailant’s feet and laughed. “The books are burned. Gone forever! If I am not the Ancient’s heir, then no heir will ever be found.”
Skullface punched me thrice more, powerful blows that made a ruin of my face. The last blow landed with a meaty thwack and I felt something shift under my left eye. He hadn’t broken my jaw yet, though, so my laughter continued unabated.
“You live,” the skeletal villain hissed, “only because I think that you are the sort of villain who would deny enlightenment to the rest of the world, but keep copies for yourself. Did you create copies before you destroyed those journals?”
“Of course I did. But they aren’t for the likes of you.” I stood corrected; my jaw had at least a hairline fracture and I heard it click oddly as I spoke. There was a wet and bubbly tone to my voice, too, that was unnerving. I couldn’t help but giggle at the sound.
“I am the world’s greatest living sorcerer!” Skullface snarled. “I’ve bargained with otherworldly beings beyond your comprehension. I traded my very flesh for knowledge and power!”
“None of that makes you worthy.”
“Who do you think you are, to stand in judgment? You’re just a man in a metal suit…I can see your tattered soul! You don’t have even the slightest talent for magic.”
The metal suit was a powerful tool, but the seeds of my less-wholesome persona had taken root in my soul long before the first armor had been constructed…fertilized by every childhood pain, every insult, every lonely moment, every loss, and every triumph. I closed my eyes, still chuckling softly to myself; all of me hurt, but I knew that Skullface’s aspirations were undone.
“I am victorious!” the skeletal villain bellowed, and I knew that he was addressing the shifting things in the bleachers more tha
n he was talking to me. “I have defeated my foe, and I have earned my prize!”
“And I am Doctor Fid!” I countered as loud as I could manage, and it sounded true even from Terry Markham’s ravaged lips, with no vocoder or speaker to relay the decree. “You have won nothing!”
The explosive charges within my skull detonated.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Disorientation is the wrong term. I shot towards the stars, fell into an endless chasm, and lay at eternal motionless rest…simultaneously. I was blind and saw all of creation, deaf and yet the whispers overwhelmed. The calm was terrifying, and something was missing, something I had no words for but still I ached for its return.
And then the moment passed and I was encased within the Mk 38, plummeting towards Skullface.
The warstaff’s wreckage might be salvageable given sufficient time in a workshop; for now the smaller scepter felt comfortable in my hand. Lightning gathered at the pommel and one backswing slammed Skullface backwards as an explosion of dust and gravel heralded my arrival.
Sadly, some instinct had warned him of the blow; he’d shifted with the force of it and was barely injured. Still, his gaze shifted from the shattered corpse enclosed in stone to me, skeletal maw hanging open in disbelief.
I could not help but feel a moment’s sadness for the loss of my first body; like Theseus’ ship, every board and spar had been replaced…but there had been an emotional tie to my past, a persistent connection to the creature who I’d once been. Despite all the modifications that I’d made over the years, somehow, those had still been the arms that had hugged my parents and held Bobby when he was still an infant.
Perhaps when I was done with Skullface, I could scavenge a few spare parts for nostalgia’s sake.
“How…a soul transfer?!” he scrambled to his feet, still in shock from watching my former body’s bloody eruption. “But you aren’t a mage!”
“In his heart of hearts, neither was the Ancient,” I crowed. “He was a scientist! And I’ve had his journals for more than a week.”