In Hero Years... I'm Dead Delux Edition

  The interviewer, a cute girl whose blue eyes were wide enough that I was ready for the orbs to fall out and bounce over to me, smiled blindingly. “And is it true you’re being considered as the lead in a new ‘Young Puma’ series?”

  “I would be honored. My agent says…”

  I tuned him out as Victoria joined me and scattered the EMTs. “You ready to leave, old man?”

  “Yeah.”

  She handed me the pictures of Puma. “Amazing, huh? All this chaos, and these survived?”

  “I guess there is a God after all.” I leaned on her, grateful for her taking my arm. She guided me down the wheelchair ramp to where the limo waited. I managed to get in by myself, despite stiffening up terribly. She climbed in the other side, then offered to help me with the seatbelt.

  I managed it. “I’m not that old.”

  “I saw. Nice throw.”

  “It’s been a while.” I looked at her. “When you were talking to that Twister, what you said…”

  Victoria frowned. “He was ready to kill you. I had to make you have zero value. I knew he’d do something stupid. He did. I got him.”

  “Yeah, you did.” I turned to study her reflection in the glass. “But those words... Vixen said them for all the reasons you just explained. But you, Victoria, you meant them.”

  “I…”

  “Do you honestly think it would be better for you if I’d had my brains sprayed all over the Hall?”

  “Yes.” Her reply came quickly, but lacked sufficient vehemence. “Absolutely.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  I looked at her full on. “You better. I’m making some decisions about the rest of my life. I don’t know what your mother expected I’d see here. I have my suspicions and I got that message before the ceremony became ground zero. After that, though, having Puma die…, well, I’ve gotten more of a message. What I decide to do is predicated in part on you.”

  She turned away. “Why don’t you just forget I exist?”

  “Kinda tough when you’ve saved my life twice now.” I shook my head. “Fact is, I don’t want to.”

  “You should.”

  “No. I had twenty years taken away from me. There’s nothing I can do about that. But you’re a piece of my life, and I can’t forget it. I need to know the ground rules here, Victoria. Why would you be better off if I’m dead?”

  She stared silently at her reflection. It wasn’t until she exhaled that I realized she’d been holding her breath. I had, too. Finally she turned to face me. “If you were dead, you couldn’t hurt me the way you hurt my mother. I won’t let anyone ever do that to me.”

  “Good luck with that.” I balled my fist to keep my hand from trembling. “Buy yourself an island. Trust no one. Let no one close. That’s the only way you’ll accomplish that.”

  “That what you did?”

  “I could have but didn’t.” I shook my head. “Here’s the deal. I’m going to be in Capital City for a while. I knew it well twenty years ago. It’s changed. I want to see if it can be my home again. Okay? And I’d like to see if you and I can get to know each other.”

  “You’re never going to be my father.”

  “You know, funny thing about the word father. So many meanings, and so many shades of meaning. It’s true. I haven’t been your father so far; but a father’s role changes through the years. Some guys are good at one part, some at another.”

  “Some not at all.”

  My eyes narrowed. “True point, but a cheap shot since you don’t know if I would have been good or not. But, the deal is this: you can run any time you want, any time you feel uncomfortable, but you only run if you feel uncomfortable.”

  “What if I don’t like your deal?”

  “It’s the only one I’m offering right now.”

  “What’s your half of the bargain?”

  “I don’t get to run.”

  “Ha!” She stared at me incredulous. “Great track record on that, old man.”

  I lowered my voice. “Have you seen me run since we met?”

  She stared out the window again. “So, what, you want to help me with my homework or something?”

  “I want to help you get to know me. Doing that, you’ll better know yourself. In your line of work, that’s more valuable than you know.”

  She bit back whatever was on the tip of her tongue, then nodded. “Okay, you have a deal.”

  “Good.”

  “You know, it’s only because my mom would make my life a living hell if I said no.”

  I smiled warily. “I kinda got that impression.”

  “You don’t want to ever see her mad.”

  I would have agreed, but the limo pulled up outside the gallery and Selene was waiting for us at the curb.

  Two suitcases stuffed with everything I owned waited beside her.

  Victoria let me get out first and didn’t feel compelled to hurry in my wake.

  I held a hand up. “I know. You want to know what the hell I was thinking.”

  Selene arched an eyebrow. “And?”

  I shrugged wearily. “It’s time I retired.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Selene’s expression softened all but imperceptibly. “Good. I’m glad to see my efforts will not be wasted.”

  “Efforts?”

  “Later.” She turned her gaze on Victoria. “Right now, young lady, you and I have some talking to do. I am not pleased.”

  Victoria folded her arms across her chest. “Mother, what was I supposed to do?”

  “I gave you one task.”

  I raised a finger. “Actually you gave her two tasks. I got the message you were sending.”

  Selene’s incendiary gaze swept over me. “Regardless, she failed the other one. And don’t think for a moment you’re winning points with her by trying to shield her. She’s not foolish enough to buy into so obvious a ploy.”

  “You know, mom, I was going with it.”

  “Victoria Louise Kole, we’ve had a long standing agreement, and you violated it. We are going to deal with this.” Her eyes narrowed. “You couldn’t take care of your father, so let’s see if you can get his luggage upstairs without bruising it.”

  Victoria shot me a sheepish glance, then quickly snatched up my suitcases and hauled them inside. She made straight for the elevator and didn’t look back.

  Selene stood there, her nostrils flared, slowly shaking her head. “She is such a handful.”

  “I gather this isn’t the first time for this conversation.”

  “No.” That one word came with the finality of a vault door closing. “You have no idea the times I cursed your name–or would have if I’d known it–after she decided to follow in your footsteps.”

  “My footsteps?”

  “This is my snit. Don’t you dare interrupt with logic.” She frowned mightily, then exhaled sharply. “How are you? How bad is the head cut?”

  “Mr. Evan’s do will be ruined. I need some stitches. Four maybe five.” I shrugged. “Achy, sore, stiffening up, but that’s nothing.”

  My throat closed, strangling words, as I remembered Puma.

  Selene gathered me into a hug and held on. I tried to keep it together, then just clung to her and started shaking. Tears came. I managed not to cry out loud, locking my jaw against it, but the pain vibrated through me. I wanted to stop, but every time I thought I could manage it, another tremor ripped me.

  We stood there on the street holding each other for I don’t know how long. Gotta love Capital City. No one noticed. If they noticed, they affected not to notice. If they remembered, they worked hard at forgetting.

  Finally she pulled back a bit and took my face in her hands. “Tears are okay, you know, as long as you’re not crying for yourself.”

  I closed my eyes, shutting off the flow. “Thanks for reminding me.” It came as barely a whisper.

  She acknowledged it with a caress, then led me into the building and elevator. We e
merged in her apartment and she guided me to my room. Victoria was no where to be seen, but my luggage had been unpacked.

  Selene sat me down on the edge of the bed, inspected the scalp wound, then returned with rubbing alcohol and a suture kit. “No need to call a doctor. Besides, you don’t have insurance.”

  I smiled. “That was the reason I always had so many identities. Got me a group rate.”

  She chuckled even though it wasn’t funny and set to work. I didn’t make a sound. Cleaning the wound hurt like hell, and having it sewed up again wasn’t any fun. Worst of all was this acetone-based artificial skin she sprayed over everything. It stung fiercely–feeling a lot like having an electrified knitting needle shoved through my skull.

  When the pain subsided she brought me a sandwich, but I wasn’t hungry. I just stripped off my clothes, washed the blood off, then climbed into bed and tried to sleep. I wasn’t having much success, so I turned the Murdoch on and caught the coverage of what was being labeled “Horror at the Hall.”

  Perception of what had happened was already being shaped into a narrative that made sense. The core crime, it seemed, was Panda-moanium’s vendetta against the actor, Tony Ramoso. After he’d outgrown the role as Gravilad, Ramoso had turned down a script written by Panda aka P. Anderson Cash. Cash, driven mad by the rejection, had plotted for a long time to exact his revenge. His attempted murder of the actor became the central theme of the event.

  The disruption of Redhawk’s induction to the Hall of Fame was never mentioned.

  Puma’s death got some serious play, but largely through Ramoso’s eyes. Because there wasn’t much footage of Puma in action–and it takes time to do a Ken-Burns from stills–the initial coverage was sparse and full of errors. The news outlets might have had obituaries on file for many notables, but Puma wasn’t one of them.

  Puma did fare well in points, however. He was credited with silencing Panda-moanium and saving not only Ramoso and me, but by projection, over a hundred others. Factoring in power levels, he earned thousands of points in his finale. The news found some octogenarian who had Puma on his Superfriends team, and built a story around their having been pals in World War II. That feel-good piece sufficed until they put together a mawkish tribute to Puma.

  The heroes who’d fought at the Hall also did well in the points race. What I found curious was that they were all lower level heroes, all in the Bruiser class or below. While no heroes had been there in uniform for the ceremony, apparently none of the bigs had deigned to change into their costumes. Many had good reasons for not being there, while others offered no excuses and then gladly launched into analysis of what had actually happened. Their considered opinions trumped eye-witness reports. Though, to be fair, many of the eye-witnesses were heroes looking to pump their points.

  Having been there and seen what I’d seen, I’d have thought there was no way to candy-coat what had happened. In addition to Puma, a dozen other people had died. Two of heart attacks, one from one of Panda-moanium’s sonic blasts. She’d been Ramoso’s handler. The other nine were crushed to death as the crowd panicked. Thirty others were injured badly enough to be hospitalized–most of those from being trapped in the crowd.

  Heroes had not fared well. A few in line for the port-o-lets caught a sonic blast and went down, but they were counted among the civilian casualties. A trio of heroes had emerged in costume at roughly the same time and huddled up to form a supergroup on the spot. Panda-moanium caught them with a concentrated blast as they brainstormed what they should name their group.

  All in all, it had been an unmitigated disaster striking at the very heart of Capital City and the heroes that protect it. This, however, wasn’t the way it got covered. That wasn’t what the news media needed for a story. An insane villain with several carloads of minions was a story which would run its course before Panda ended up in Death Valley.

  The media needed more, and so they shaped it into more. They scraped the stink off a turd and sold it as fertilizer. Then they used it to sell a lot of detergent, cars and beer.

  From the very beginning the experts insisted this was a ultra-sophisticated operation. It had been executed with split-second timing by trained commandoes, and lots of footage showed up to illustrate the military precision with which Panda, his China Dolls, and the others worked. Hero reports and the ubiquitous Mr. Ramoso sang the same song, then the mayor and Colonel Constitution III chimed in. The operation was indicative, they said, of advanced planning and “unconfirmed reports” added that Panda had been scouting the site three years previously in preparation for the attack.

  Of course, that sort of twisted logic meant each of the Hall’s other six million visitors were scouting it for an attack.

  While there was no evidence that the operation was sophisticated, the experts insisted it was. Why? Because they had a vested interest in making people believe it was. If it was a sophisticated operation, they could be excused for not having been able to prevent it. It had worked around all their precautions because of superior planning. Continued surveillance and stepped-up efforts would be enough to prevent the same thing from happening in the future, and all the experts pledged that would be exactly what would be going on.

  The fact is that it wasn’t sophisticated. The criminals had gotten all their stuff in because security guards had been overwhelmed by people bringing souvenirs to be signed. The press of people made it impossible to inspect more than one out of twenty bags thoroughly. More bottles of beer had been confiscated than weapons by a factor of ten.

  Moreover, two van-loads of the Sea-demons street gang had arrived late. The terrified crowds outside had rioted, beating several gang members badly, turning their vans over and setting them on fire. In a sophisticated operation, the Sea-demons would have been there on time instead of getting lost on the Turnpike.

  The only evidence hinting at sophistication was the lack of warning, but that just meant that it had gone off so quickly that no one had time to leak it.

  The operation took no more forethought than having a farting contest at a chili cook-off, and yet the experts insisted it must have been planned by a criminal mastermind. Doctor Sinisterion’s face appeared on screen whenever the mastermind card was played. He finally appeared on the Murdoch, in the midst of his book tour, and denied any participation. He did, however, suggest he’d be working up a chapter about the operation for the book’s enhanced digital edition, which would be out next year.

  The criminals could have easily punctured the sophistication balloon, but what was in doing that for them? Being part of a grand scheme, well executed, meant far more than the truth. They pulled in points and several suggested they were going solo or were being recruited by other villains. Panda’s second in command, Little Miss Dragon, had already taken over the China Dolls and would neither confirm nor deny a plan to spring Panda from Death Valley.

  The big winner coming out of the whole affair was Tony Ramoso. Producers had watched events unfolding in real time and put together the “Young Puma,” series proposal. It had a green light almost immediately. They decided, in an effort to keep it relevant, to move it forward in time. He’d no longer be fighting the Axis. He’d go to Baghdad and battle the Al Qaeda branch of the month. He’d still have his Soviet ally–a woman this time named Glasnost. The idea of “openness” was best applied to her body-language, and her superpower, as nearly as I could determine, would be somehow remaining inside her skimpy costume.

  The most horrible thing about it all was the most simple. I’d been there, but the more I watched, the more my memories filed themselves away in the boxes the media gave me. It seemed okay that Puma’s death, as noble as it was, had been secondary to the attempt to murder Ramoso. And that Redhawk’s day of honor had been ruined didn’t matter at all. Sure, the news mentioned that he’d recovered and captured a couple of China Dolls, but it was a complete side story and was abandoned once they had Puma’s tribute available.

  I watched, fascinated and horrified, until Se
lene switched the Murdoch off at midnight. “No matter how long you watch, it’s not going to get any better.”

  “Am I naïve, or were things always this way?”

  She smiled. “You want me to tell you it’s only gotten bad since you’ve been gone?”

  “I want that, but I won’t believe it.” I sighed. “I shouldn’t complain. I remember a time or two when a story got spun in my favor. Still, I thought it was different.”

  “It was different.” Selene leaned back against my chest of drawers. “Time once was when ghost stories were told around campfires, or while children huddled in bed. Those were scary stories, sure, but also cautionary tales. Beware of strangers. Don’t go out alone. Let us know where you are. Obey your parents. We all thrilled to them even later in life because they let us be kids again, even if just for a moment.”

  She tapped the Murdoch. “Now it is different. Here’s your storyteller. He’s full of ghost stories. They’re not meant to be cautionary tales, they’re just meant to scare the hell out of you. Why? Because fear infantilizes us. We stop being rational adults, capable of detecting truth from falsehood and making decisions. As children we become compliant, seeking safety and willing to follow an adult’s instructions.”

  “That doesn’t explain the preoccupation with Ramoso.”

  “Pure misdirection, the staple of sleight of hand. You should understand that better than most.” She shook her head. “I’ve watched a little. What’s the big fact that’s getting forgotten?”

  “This was really a shot at Redhawk and the Hall?”

  “Absolutely. Panda-moanium bitch-slapped everyone. He was strictly Bruiser class, maybe only Welterweight. Everyone in Cruiser and up will be looking to make a mark. Panda may be off to Death Valley, but he’ll be riding the top of the villain list for a couple weeks. That’s a major hit to other folks’ income.”