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

  Of course, there were those in the system who would resist, simply because they wanted to be in control. They were riding a tiger of their own manufacture. They had to have the latest and hottest stuff, and once they paid for it, they needed to push it to justify what they had spent. If they sensed manipulation on a grand scale, they’d revolt, since they wanted to believe they were kings, not knaves.

  But if they saw you as a valuable partner, the sky would be the limit.

  I made a couple other interesting discoveries. Old C4 stuff, and things from any of the members, did retain value. The four Musketeers: Graviton, Nighthaunt, Colonel Constitution and Golden Guardian did the best and still had some active licensing deals in place. Otherwise, the current heroes dominated the world. Everyone else might attract curiosity-money, but little else.

  But then there as one exception to that rule: Redhawk. Prices for his stuff had spiked in the run up to the ceremony, then dipped again after. They still traded well above the five year average. Compared to any other sidekick, he was putting up Graviton-sized numbers.

  His prices remained high because someone was bidding up anything offered. That had speculators getting into the game, but the buyer–hidden behind a buying firm–would not be beaten.

  Nor would he bite on faked items.

  Before I could dig around much more, Victoria phoned back. We kept the conversation short and agreed to meet at a café on 28th, just below Graviton. Her voice betrayed little more than irritation at having to reschedule her day, but I caught the rumble of distant thunderheads.

  I hit the café early and resisted the temptation to spike my coffee. I sat out on the sidewalk, watching a line form around the next block at the Broken Spines bookstore. Most of the folks in line were normal, but a few wore Nighthaunt costumes. A couple of heated arguments broke out about authenticity, but Castigan resisted the temptation to go over and arbitrate.

  Victoria announced her arrival by tossing her purse on the table. It landed with the clank of a plumber’s tool kit. My coffee sloshed. She came around and stared at me, then pulled the chair out and sat in a huff.

  “There have been others, you know.”

  Direct hit with ego-piercing ammo.

  Twenty years, not knowing if I was alive or dead, and probably not caring for most of that, of course Selene had met and loved other men. Nighthaunt had offered to marry her. The remarkable thing would have been if there hadn’t been anyone else.

  That was the rational argument, but the heart doesn’t really care about logic. Betrayal echoed through me, and fear. If there had been others, there could be others in the future. What did I have to offer her? She was setting me up in business. Why? What if I failed?

  I shivered, then sipped my coffee. “Good afternoon, Victoria.”

  “Didn’t you hear me?”

  “Yes. Most of the folks in the bookstore line did as well.” I set my cup back down. “If you want to make a scene, have at it; but think about the impact it will have on your mother. I can’t be embarrassed. Given your conduct, I’m guessing you can’t, either. Your mother deserves better.”

  Victoria’s eyes blazed, but she lowered her voice. “No, you don’t get to say that. I do. She does deserve better. Better than you! You can’t discipline me. You don’t have the right.”

  “Good. Let’s keep this on us, you and me. What are you afraid of? What is it that I can do to you that has you so terrified?”

  “I’m not afraid of you.” She sat back, forcing disgust into her words to distract from the wariness in her eyes. “You can’t hurt me.”

  “I already have. I wasn’t there for you. I could leave again. The little girl inside you gets orphaned again.”

  She laughed. “Nice stab at pop psychology, dad! It doesn’t wash. I can take care of myself. I’m a big girl.”

  “You don’t want psychoanalysis, that’s fine. I won’t play mind games if you don’t.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  It was my turn to laugh. “No? What was your opening shot, then?”

  “I…” She glared at me.

  We called a cease-fire while our waitress refilled my coffee and brought her something that had no caffeine, no calories, lots of ice and was the color of a toad’s belly.

  Our waitress withdrew and I arched an eyebrow at my daughter.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Okay, it was meant to hurt you.”

  “It did.” The line at the bookstore began to move forward. “Lots.”

  “Look, I grew up thinking you were dead, okay?” She stirred the drink with a red straw. “When I was ten I tried to look you up among the lists of war casualties. That’s when the story changed. Mom told me you’d been a secret agent–you were missing so we had to tell people you had died in the war. So I hoped, some day, you’d come home.”

  I nodded. “Come home to my daughter?”

  “Sure, but mostly for my mom.” Victoria shrugged. “Things weren’t easy for her. I kept hoping and praying you’d come back. You never did. Hope turned into hatred. After all, you had to hate us. That’s the only reason you abandoned us.”

  “It wasn’t voluntary.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “And I’m not going anywhere.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “I’m retired. It’s over for me. I just want peace.”

  She didn’t believe me. I read it in her eyes. She’d push back on that point. We’d argue, not because the point meant anything, but because it meant we’d not be digging into her feelings.

  I never got a chance to steer the conversation onto constructive topics. A tall young man vaulted the railing and drew a huge pistol. His leather longcoat looked like a costume from a Goth revival of Joseph and the Technicolor Dream Coat. His hair had been dyed to match, though his black nails, darkened eyes and white pancake makeup betrayed his one-time affiliation with the Zomboyz.

  “I’m Spectral. This is a robbery!”

  He certainly had a gift for the obvious, but little else. Victoria sat with her back to him, inching her hand toward her bag. I caught her eye and shook my head.

  Spectral swung the gun around and pointed it directly at me. “You got a problem, pal?”

  I ventured a slight smile. “Castigan has no problems. In fact, Castigan believes this is a wonderful day. You said you were Spectral, yes?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Splendid, perfect.” I slid my chair back and stood slowly. “Castigan has been watching your progress. You were with the Zomboyz, no?

  “Yeah. Stay back.”

  “Castigan will not harm you. No. Castigan will help you.” I grabbed a plate from our table. “You will be taking our wallets and watches, yes? Of course you will, and this will net you some money, but there is something more valuable here.”

  “Say what?” Spectral frowned. “There is?”

  “Of course, my boy. Notoriety.” My smile broadened as I moved forward, using my body to hide Victoria. “Castigan will make you famous. We all will.”

  Spectral shook his head. This wasn’t going the way it was supposed to. “Get back. I’m serious.”

  “Castigan is serious, too, my boy.” I opened my jacket very slowly and pulled out a Sharpie marker. “You will rob this place. Your victims will be awed, but you can do much more. Castigan needs you to sign this plate. You will sign for everyone. Imagine the splash. Brazen robber signs autographs. Come on, people, bring him your plates so he can sign. Castigan will see to it that you get top price for your plates.”

  The others stood and brandished plates and cups. I stepped up and handed him my plate. “Sign and date, please. You must date it. And someone get a tablecloth and begin to collect watches and wallets, please.”

  The crash and clatter of place-settings crashing on the ground accompanied compliance with my request. People started tossing their valuables into the makeshift sack. Surprise melted into joy on Spectral’s face. He shifted his gun to his left hand then cradled the plate on it.

&nbs
p; He’d just signed his name and looked up to ask me the date, when Vixen appeared behind him. She pressed her pistol to the base of his skull. I stepped forward, rescuing my plate as she stroked the trigger. His eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed.

  I handed her the plate. “And now, you, Vixen, shall sign for Castigan. Date it please. She shall sign for all of you.”

  The patrons mobbed her. I took my plate and crossed the street. The police came and carted Spectral off. Autograph-seekers kept Vixen busy for a half hour, then she escaped.

  And fifteen minutes later my daughter handed me the marker. “I thought you said you were retired.”

  “I am.”

  “Like Hell.” She pointed across the street. “You executed a perfect sidekick distraction maneuver. At the end you used your body to jam his gun back against him. If it had gone off, it was one of the two of you that was going to get it.”

  “No, I just wanted the plate.” I thought for a second. I had just wanted the plate, hadn’t I?

  She read my eyes, then shook her head. “You poor bastard. You can’t retire. You’re just like my mother. I know you so well. It’s in the blood.”

  “Know me that well, do you?”

  “I can read you like a book.”

  “Really.” My eyes narrowed. “How are you with surprise endings?”

  “What?”

  I grabbed her arm and marched her into the bookstore. I snagged a book from a huge pile and followed the line to the back of the store. An autographing table had been set up, but according to one sign we still had a couple minutes before the author was scheduled to appear. The other sign said there would be absolutely no personalizations, and there was a three book limit. Both rules would be strictly enforced.

  Ignoring complaints from two Nighthaunts and a Graviton, I pushed through the line and into the store’s stock room, dragging Victoria along with me.

  There he sat, flanked by two goons, signing endless stacks of his book.

  The store manager tried to stop me, but I blew past her. I released Victoria as the first goon took a step toward me, then tossed the book onto the desk. “You’ll want to personalize that one.”

  Doctor Sinisterion, so slender, with an oversized head, hawk’s-beak nose, and piercing black eyes, stopped the book’s slide with a hand. “Will I?”

  “Yeah, you will.” The goon stopped my forward progress with a hand to my chest. “Make it out to Victoria. Your granddaughter.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Sinisterion didn’t bother to look up. “Carl, do you know how many bones there are in the human wrist?”

  The goon shook his head.

  “There are eight.” He signed the book slowly. “If you persist in restraining my son, you will have sixteen.”

  Carl stepped back stiff-legged and rocked from foot to foot like an unbalanced ceramic figure. He did look a little like a Toby Jug–big head, bigger girth, and just as empty.

  Sinisterion closed the book and held it out for Victoria. “You’ll want to take this, child, and run along home. Ah, do not protest that you are not a child. This merely proves you are.”

  She took the tome and hesitated, but Sinisterion was done with her. He looked at me. “I had such high hopes for you as a son, but you were a disappointment.”

  Victoria snorted. “He’s no great shakes as a father, either.”

  Sinisterion’s eyes tightened, then he nodded once, curtly. “Very well, child, you may remain, but you will speak only when spoken to.”

  I smiled. “Given what I had to learn from, not having me around as a dad wasn’t that bad, was it?”

  The snap of my father’s fingers forestalled a reply. “Anthony, you shall remain here in the back. Carl, take your position by the table. And you, my son, shall attend me.”

  Victoria almost spoke, but caught herself.

  Sinisterion smiled. “And you, child, shall await us in the coffee shop.”

  The manager led us to the table. Cameras flashed and people applauded. Those dressed as his nemeses applauded the loudest and one woman, an ample lass who had squeezed herself into an Astounding Cat-girl costume, fainted.

  My father had charisma, no doubt about that. Despite the warning about no personalizations, he chatted with people and added things to the signatures. He played coy about his book, calling it a ‘thought experiment,’ which his fans took with a wink and a nod. He complimented some on their costumes, and told others brief anecdotes which were neither in the book, nor true; but delighted them nonetheless.

  If I Was a Supervillain sold briskly, with one of the Nighthaunts coming back through the line three times, his arms heavily laden. The book covered grand criminal conspiracies, presenting case studies from the perspective of a criminal mastermind, if he was such. The anonymous authors of capers that had his fingerprints all over them were singled out for unstinting praise. Others were showed to have been incredibly lucky. Security companies were likely buying the book by the case to study for loopholes to close in their operations.

  And several of them would doubtless hire Sinisterion as a consultant. In fact, the same online source that had told me of the signing noted that while I was dancing in the Emerald Room, Sinisterion had been the keynote speaker at the Czars of Capital City annual banquet. The mayor, as it turned out, had actually introduced him.

  The manager wanted to cap the line at the end of the first hour, but my father insisted he would sign everything. Given his contempt for the common man, I should have been surprised. I wasn’t.

  I was bored. He knew it. He took steps to guarantee I would remain so.

  Which meant I had to escalate. And I did.

  The next person in line had a uTiliPod. “Here now, wouldn’t you like to have a picture with Dr. Sinisterion?”

  “Well, gosh, sure…” The guy had poured himself into a Graviton outfit. He had two less teeth than Grant had fingers. He handed me the uTiliPod then hugged up on my father and smiled broadly.

  My father did not smile. In fact, his expression was, well, not easy to describe. If the husky Graviton looked at the picture before going to bed, it would be a sleepless night.

  As much as my father loathed the touching–after all, Castigan’s reluctance to shake hands had come from somewhere–his allowing it drove Carl nuts. I almost sent someone to fetch Victoria so she could tranquilize him. My father noticed Carl’s agitation and dispatched him. In the old days, by dispatched I would have meant killed, but now he just had Anthony replace him.

  And then, after detailing Anthony to help Nighthaunt haul his multiple bags of books to the CRAWL, my father ended the ordeal. He thanked the manager, signing a book for her, and commanded Carl to watch from afar. I think that was less because he wanted to send Carl away, than I suggested Carl should join us for ginormous Pacify tea to calm his nerves.

  My father, when he wanted to, could look positively regal. Tall and slender, he wore his white hair combed back into a widow’s peak, emphasizing his head’s size. Once upon a time it had made him look imposingly intelligent. While he didn’t look like an idiot now, his body was showing its age. I wondered how he could keep his head erect on that slender neck.

  We got our drinks and joined Victoria. She closed the book and, again, started to ask a question, but stopped. I’m not exactly sure why–she didn’t seem overawed by him.

  He regarded me. “So they decided they were done with you.”

  “Probably because they were done with you.”

  Victoria raised a hand. “Can I get closed captioning on this conversation?”

  Sinisterion leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “You will find, child, that you learn nothing with your mouth open. Ears and eyes, on the other hand, are invaluable. Unless you are a congenital moron–and I submit that no child born of my son’s loins possibly could be–you are aware that he has been away from Capital City for a long time. I would vouchsafe he missed all your birthdays. With that knowledge to contextualize what we have
said, our meaning should be abundantly clear.”

  I rubbed at a temple. “That’s his way of saying that some of his enemies decided I could be used to restrain him. Problem is, he has lots of enemies, and they passed me around like the bedpan in a pauper’s ward.”

  My father shook his head. “What has happened to you? You were raised to be better than that. The finest schools, the finest tutors.”

  “Nature versus nurture, dad, and nature won out.”

  “You seek to scourge me with that, but I do not take it so.” He smiled indulgently. “Your work, through the years, was impressive. Stockholm. Mumbai. Mombassa.”

  “You forgot Lhasa.”

  “No. I didn’t like it. Pathetic.”

  Victoria flipped to a chapter titled Tibetan Turmoil. She looked at me, a question in her eyes.

  My father laughed. “Yes, child, that was your father’s work. Not the making of the plan, but its execution. Had I been on the other side, the results would have been significantly different.”

  “Keep telling yourself that.” I sipped my coffee. “After you wrote the book, they had no use for me. You must have cut some hell of a deal.”

  He shrugged. “I would have preferred a larger advance, but the royalty is substantial and I retained foreign, audio, film, game and electronic rights.”

  “You know what I meant.”

  “If I were the man they painted me to be, I might have amassed, down through the years, a legion of files on a variety of figures–much like the files J. Edgar Hoover once possessed. In fact, his files might have been the foundation of my collection. Certain figures might have realized that as damaging as the evidence they had manufactured against me might be; salacious revelations would hurt them even more. Most all of us have secrets we don’t want revealed.”

  He glanced at Victoria. “Do you know of your father’s early career?”

  She slowly shook her head.

  “Let me tell you how he broke my heart. The finest schools. The greatest opportunities. I had the means to provide him anything he desired. I shaped a path for him, a path along which he could grow and attain greatness.” My father paused for the sake of drama and looked into the depths of his cup. “He could have had anything, achieved any height. Everything they attribute to me would have been but a fraction of what he could have accomplished. And yet he chose to break my heart.”