Subject 12

by S. W. Douglas

  TV cameras. Goddamn the man for not telling me anything!

  "Oh, Charlene? Grid Iron was blackmailing her into sleeping with him for a couple years now. She's here to make sure he's dead and so that whoever he'd hired to kill her if she didn't show up doesn't miss seeing her." She twisted her neck till it cracked. "It's amazing what's come to light since the bastard died."

  "I can imagine," I said dryly.

  I turned my attention to the audience. They had a hard-bitten, world-weary look about them. Their uniforms and costumes were so new they squeaked and had been ironed till you could shave on the creases, but they couldn't hide all the scars, the stubble, or the bloodshot eyes. As I watched I saw several hipflasks make some surreptitious and quite a few not-so-subtle movements towards mouths. True, this was basically a funeral, but even still.

  The assemblage looked like nothing more than a costume party at the psych-intake ward of a VA hospital.

  The speakers started to blend together after the fifth one. They all were saying the same thing and they all sounded like they had the same level of sorrow --- none. I heard so many insincere compliments, so many lies and obfuscations, so much bending and twisting of the truth I felt like it was making pretzels during a yoga class. Somewhere on Capitol Hill in Washington DC. During a Republican filibuster.

  There were still at least two more speakers before the Titans were to speak. One of them looked familiar and the other one wasn't anyone I'd ever seen before, but he wore his US Navy uniform and first lieutenant's insignia well. He was rather young, but he obviously had a reason to be on the stage even if I didn't. The familiar one went first and after the nasal whine started I tuned back out. I was going to have to speak. That was enough to know.

  I tried to pick out costumes and faces I could recognize among the gathered supers as I sat, waiting for my turn. I saw a few I knew. Stretch, as we'd called him on the street, was sitting in the third row with his arm wrapped around a scantily-clad young woman who leaned heavily towards the dental floss and postage stamp school of costuming. I couldn't tell if the embrace was paternal, fraternal, or something that might require explaining later. The embossed yellow G on his chest still looked ridiculous to me, but it'd been a staple of every costume he'd had since his first. I was surprised to realize I'd never learned his "official" name. Sitting three seats down, and with a buffer of a single empty seat in every direction, was Violet D'Oprencia, staring at me with her milky orbs and a smile that I'd always thought impossible without medication. Violet was a psychic warrior --- quite potent as far as those things went --- and credited with stopping a small-scale invasion of non-corporeal aliens. Any of the details made public were sketchy at best, but she'd been awarded a couple of high honors for her trouble. As my eyes searched her face she locked eyes with me and threw me a sloppy salute followed by a nod. I felt my eyebrow rise against the mask as I began to question what the hell that meant. She threw her head back in silent laughter so I moved on.

  The closer ones exhausted, I sought the rows further back. The auditorium was almost completely full and despite the dim lighting I could see clearly all the way to last row. I saw Goldscream and ThunderBlast, holding hands as they prayed, rocking back and forth in their trance. Ruby Coletta grooved slowly in her seat, the white cords of her headphones clearly visible against the dark red of her costume. Helldraw and Blackwitch were there with their twins, all the female supers within five seats spending all their time and attention staring at the babies instead of the stage.

  Okay, so this wasn't the C-list I figured would want to turn up. This was a solid B+ audience, and some of them would be on the A-list if they had spent more time politicking and less time doing the right thing.

  My attention became much more focused when I saw how Blackwitch had modified her costume. Breastfeeding was so much easier if you have nothing but cloth flaps between lips and nips.

  And thus I was entertained for the last two speakers. The lieutenant turned out to be Grid Iron's nephew, but after a bright start he managed to slip into recriminations and mumbling, all before the first page of his prepared speech was turned. I stopped paying attention after the third promise to bring Grid Iron's killer to justice.

  I could have sworn I heard a quiet snore from Wildcard. It was a good thing, too, because it called me back to the stage in time to see Jackhammer shaking the lieutenant's hand and directing him back to his seat. I stifled a yawn and willed the stream of memories that had been running through my head to stop.

  Ever try to listen to someone talk while the same twelve seconds of a song plays in your head? It was something like that only it was the same twelve seconds of a thousand different music videos.

  So Jackhammer began to talk. He spoke briefly but eloquently, bringing almost everyone's attention back to what was going on, but he only mentioned Grid Iron's name once. Also, every platitude and story was very broad and could have been about pretty much anyone. His speech was a masterwork of bullshit, but bullshit I could respect. I applauded with the rest of the audience when he was finished and saw that everyone else on the stage was following suit.

  Corrine was up next. Her speech was also short, more to the point, and blunt. It promised vengeance against the murderer and honor to whoever found him or her. I saw about half the audience smirk.

  Wildcard, of course, wasn't expected to speak. Venom got that honor instead. She said less than a hundred words before she sat down again. That left me to speak, unprepared, and with a revulsion in my gut that threatened to spew superheated hatred everywhere. I tamped down on it and let myself be directed to the podium and microphones.

  I cleared my throat and looked at the audience again. Many eyes were turned my way and I could feel the gazes on my back from those seated behind me. The expectation was almost palpable, as was the question of who was I.

  Well. Here goes nothing.

  "Hello." I swallowed with a very dry throat. "For those of you who don't know me, and I'm guessing that's pretty much all of you, my name is Hammer. I'm new. So new, in fact, that I didn't really know Grid Iron at all well. Actually, I only met him once.

  "I can tell you a few things from that meeting. First off, he was not a good man." I ignored the sudden murmuring in the audience and pressed on. I knew what was riding on this but I was not going to lie. "Secondly, he was a bully. Anyone who spent any time around him would agree with me. Third, and most important, he was a human being. An imperfect, flawed, human being.

  "Who here can claim to be anything but? Yes, I see you Y'stral. Other than you, who could claim to be otherwise? I am flawed. You are flawed. We all have skeletons in our closets."

  I had everyone's attention by this point, though it wouldn't be true to say that much of it was charitable. I tried to forget about the TV cameras and pushed on.

  "I don't think at this point that I need to say I didn't like him when I met him, but it's not what I thought of him that really matters. Each of us must have formed our own opinions and nothing I can say should change that. The man is dead. All that remains of him other than an empty shell is the record of his deeds and his words. Perhaps that should stand taller than he ever did, in the end." I paused long enough to lick my lips under the mask. "I remember an interview he gave when he first joined the Guild. I was in the military at the time and stationed overseas, my unit standing down after a long combat tour fighting Islamic militants during the insurgency in Egypt, and one of the guys had just received a package from home. I'd traded him for a copy of some magazine, I can't remember which one, and one of the top stories was about Kurt Reginald DeStreeter III's recent retirement from the world of sports." The memory had come to me while I was stepping up to the podium and I wanted to run with it. "We all know the real reason why he left since it's no longer a big secret, but at the time everyone in the know was playing it close to the chest, and the story was more about what his leaving was going to mean rather than why he was going. Anyway, in a sidebar to the main story was a transcript of
some interview he'd given to a reporter for one of the big television networks. I remember it because some of what he'd said has always stuck with me."

  I cleared my throat before I pressed on. The last part of what I'd said was so true a laser beam would have looked bent in comparison.

  "He'd stressed honor and glory, both for himself and the Guild, as two of the main reasons he'd joined. After that was his promise to always protect those who couldn't protect themselves." I looked longingly the glass of water placed for me at the podium but decided I didn't want to risk rolling the mask up to take pull. "As if the fancy words weren't enough, he'd wrapped it all up with some trite line about sacrifice for the greater good." I let my last words hang in the air for two seconds before taking a deep breath and pushing on "Those words stayed with me because they reminded me of why I'd joined the military in the first place. Honor. Glory. Respect. Duty. They're pretty words with plenty of meaning, depending on who you talk to, but the context they're used in is what really defines them. Duty we all understand. We feel it every day we put on our uniforms and our masks. Duty to protect those too weak, too helpless to protect themselves; to guard them against the chaos and darkness that threatens to overwhelm and destroy them. Duty to shed our blood and give our lives, if necessary, to keep them safe." The murmur became one of agreement. "Respect we earn, but we must give it in equal measure or it becomes a mockery of itself. Since playground bullies and career politicians we are not, I think this is something we all want to avoid. Honor is more than glory, and this is something many of us forget; it's also a way of behaving towards others. Honor is given, but it also must be upheld or it's meaningless. Sacrifice is sometimes needed, sometimes unavoidable, but should never be trivialized. We have to decide for ourselves if it's worth it and history be damned if they think otherwise. We live in the moment. It's our lives on the line, not theirs.

  "Grid Iron is dead. In his passing he left a wake of deeds and words that we must remember and honor in our own ways. His words stood tallest of all to many, and in the end were, perhaps, his greatest gift to us. I know that I will do my best to live up to those words."

  I hesitated for a moment so I could form my next few words with care. I cleared my throat to cover the lapse.

  "Each of us should walk away from this memorial knowing that we do our best to live up to the example he left us. The example both in fact and in the imagination of the world with his words and his deeds. We should all strive to follow the path of honor, of duty and sacrifice, that he described, but we should also know that we are all," I nodded at Y'stral, "human: Flawed, imperfect beings prone to our own vices and mistakes, but with something indomitably noble at our cores: So if we should stumble or go astray while walking that path we should stand up, dust ourselves off, and get back on it. In the end it's the struggle and the journey that matter the most, so we too may leave behind an example that others can admire and seek to emulate.

  "Thank you."

  The applause was spotty at first, but soon it built into a generous roar that made me feel better about having been there. It wasn't a standing ovation. It didn't need to be.

  And then there was the after-party. Everyone except Y'stral the Gothariane (to whom ethanol was forbidden, toxic, and way too much fun) attended and a few others who hadn't been at the memorial showed up to have some drinks. As promised, about half an hour after the first bottle was opened, in walked Clarence The Justice Fiend.

  Judging by the smell he was more than a few away before he even got there.

  I watched him move through the crowd like a crowbar through a wall --- loudly, slowly, and with much complaining. He also started to spew jokes, comments, insults, and every other thing short of a lynching or a flogging I had thought possible to prove just how much of a racist heart beat inside that puffed chest of his.

  And to think, I'd already decided I couldn't have liked him any less than I already did.

  Violent men in violent times will clash. It's a law of society or nature or both; I never bothered to figure it out. The issue at hand was whether or not I'd find a way to keep myself cool or if there was going to be blood before the day was over.

  I wasn't placing bets.

  "Oh, great, the Asshole of the Month Club president is coming our way," Corrine said to our little group. "Everyone look sharp. Hammer, keep your mouth shut no matter what he says, alright?" She put her arm around Jackhammer, though it looked to me more like a restraint than a gesture of affection.

  I slipped the lower half of my mask down over my mouth and set the bottle of beer I'd been nursing on a nearby table. Mister personality's approach sent my stomach fluttering to my throat and tendrils of adrenaline analogues through my system. The closer he got the more on edge I felt and the louder the voices and stronger the memory fragments became. For an instant all I could see was the look on his face as he slammed me into the wall. The urge to wipe it away by putting my fist through it became almost overpowering and then was gone. I found I'd taken half a step toward him.

  "The son of a bitch could have at least put on something dressy if he wasn't going to wear his costume." Venom had ended the conversation she'd been having with a super whose skin was an attractive shade of emerald green when she'd seen Clarence's approach. She was closing ranks with the rest of us. "I know the e-mail I sent said he was to come in full costume, not that I should have expected more out of the creep."

  Wildcard shifted his position to partially interpose himself between me and the approaching super but I gently edged him aside. If my costume wasn't going to protect me then it was better to know sooner rather than later. We exchanged a look and he nodded, his costume changing into a darker compilation of colors. The red in particular looked like clotted blood. It felt appropriate.

  "Reportin' for duty," Clarence slurred, firing off a salute that was neither snappy or well-executed. "Point me at the bar and get the hell out of the way." He laughed. Corrine looked disgusted.

  "Clarence, you ain't wearin' your costume." Jackhammer's voice was amazingly controlled. If I'd been in his shoes I'd have yelled it.

  Background conversations started to die as people stopped pretending they weren't following Clarence's progress through the room.

  "I don't take wardrobe suggestions from sluts, kikes, sissies, or niggers. Sir." He twisted the last word like a knife and grinned. His ugly face looked even uglier. At the word "kike" I'd seen Corrine flinch. "Y'all can tell me what to do but y'all can't tell me what to wear."

  I put my hand on Venom's shoulder to reassure her that it was alright. The motion seemed to catch Clarence's eye because he turned his head in my direction.

  "Who the fuck is that?"

  "My name is Hammer," I said neutrally, extending my hand. He didn't take it.

  He cocked his head to the side and his forehead furrowed. "What kind of faggot name is that?"

  I lowered my hand. "English, last I checked." I refused to be bated. I did, however, feel something start growling at the back of my mind.

  "Sounds like another word for a fucking cocksucker to me."

  The gauntlet had been thrown down. This was going to happen. I felt relief at the inevitability even as a small thrill rant through me.

  "Jackhammer, why do you put up with such an insolent pet?" I didn't turn my head or even blink as I stared into the abyss that was the soul behind Clarence's eyes. The growl was louder, demanding. "Someone should teach it some manners."

  "What the fuck did you say?" The anger was building in his voice and eyes, not that there was a lot of distance to travel before he got to enraged. Fury seemed to be his natural state.

  I directed my next comment directly at Clarence. I didn't seem able to stop myself even if I'd wanted to, and I really, seriously didn't. "What's wrong? Taking it up the ass make you deaf?"

  "What?" His voice had taken on a shrill, dangerous edge. I could see his fingers curling into fists. The room had basically fallen silent. "What did you say?"

  "I guess so
." I gently eased Venom further away from me and took a step forward. If what was about to happen was what I thought it was then I didn't want her catching whatever he was going to throw at me.

  "Hammer! You lose your fuckin' mind?" Jackhammer hissed at me. I ignored him. Some part of me was asking the same question anyway.

  "You take that back," Clarence spat, realization finally penetrating the alcohol (or whatever he was on) fogging his brain.

  I smiled. I could feel the mask shift in time with my lips. "Why? Truth hurt?"

  "Fuck you!"

  "Oh, you'd enjoy that, wouldn't you?" I cocked my head to the right and winked, sliding my hand over the front of my pants to up the ante. "You like it from behind or do you like to look into your lover's eyes as he fucks you like a two-dollar whore?"

  He threw a punch that almost broke the sound barrier. I caught it, twisted his arm, smashed my left forearm into the outside of his elbow hard enough to make it pop out of place, shifted my body to let the momentum of his swing carry him further forward, and allowed gravity to do most of the rest of the work. My weight, added to his, threw him further off balance and he went down. Right as we hit I released his arm and clambered onto his back, grabbing his other arm and, despite the unbelievable strength he had at his disposal, twisting it into a hammerlock with my left hand, my right grabbing his hair and driving his face into the floor two or three times. He hit hard enough to rattle bottles together across the room. My beer fell, unheeded, and spilled what was left into the carpet.

  I didn't mind. Some might scream alcohol abuse, but as far as I was concerned I was better off. It hadn't been that good to begin with.

  He thrashed around --- if it was in pain or an attempt to throw me off I couldn't say --- but I held on grimly. It was like trying to hold onto an alligator on crack only with a lot more muscle and a lot fewer teeth.