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

  “Oh, I get you. I also get that your system is crashing and you’re whistling past the graveyard.”

  My uTiliPod rang, cutting my rant off. I checked the caller, then took it. “Castigan here. Yes. Fascinating. He will? Excellent. It would please Castigan to do so. This evening, that can be arranged. No, it is Castigan’s pleasure. Good-bye.”

  I lowered the uTiliPod and glanced at Greg. “Did you really hire Nypawbyedeemay to help bolster C4 II?”

  “They come highly recommended.”

  Selene’s blue eyes tightened. “Russians? A foreign security company coming here, to Capital City?”

  The mayor gave her a sidelong glance. “This firm is good and, given the current budget projections, is what we can afford.”

  “But didn’t two dozen people die when they handled the hostage situation at the Bolshoi?”

  “They’ve been retrained and equipped with non-lethal weapons.” Greylan looked at me. “Have you already got a source in my office? Is that how retired you are?”

  I held my hands up. “I’m innocent in this one. That was The O’Lily Forum. Turns out your Police Commissioner is going to be on the show tonight to discuss this latest hiring. Castigan will be there to comment.”

  Constitution rubbed his hands together gleefully. “I can’t wait.”

  I smiled. “Trust me, son. You’ll wish you had.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  That packet of papers began to bother me. It couldn’t have weighed more than a pound, but it got to feeling like a sack of wet cement perched on my chest. I didn’t like the system. I didn’t want to be part of it, but those papers pulled me in.

  And then there was the glance Selene shot me when I challenged Colonel Constitution. She didn’t believe I was retired. Not one little bit.

  That gave me pause. If she didn’t believe it, why should anyone else? Why should I believe?

  I reviewed everything through new eyes. I looked for the truth. It wasn’t at all what I expected.

  The Castigan personality wasn’t the eccentric I’d envisioned twenty years before. He was combative, annoying and guaranteed to antagonize people. I might no longer scare folks, but being aggressive kept them at bay. Different tactic, same result.

  And managing Kid Coyote’s career wasn’t a retirement strategy. It wasn’t about him at all. I saw him as a younger me. I was using him to prove I still had game. Through him I’d prove myself worthy of the Hall of Fame.

  All things considered, my father was more retired than I was.

  That flash of weariness on my father’s face broke something inside me. We’d fought against each other. He’d always been strong and irrepressible. Knock him down, he’d come roaring back. Resilience was his greatest strength, and I had a good chunk of that from him.

  There comes a point, however, when you just want to rest. The struggles you’ve been through wear you down. Victories and laurels may cause you to smile, but that’s because you’ve forgotten the pain and hard work that went into winning them. Then a new challenge comes along. It’s a challenge that looks like so many others. You already know how things will turn out. You’ll probably win, so you begin to wonder if the effort is worth it.

  That line of thought led me to one, inescapable conclusion. The battle I was fighting was against getting old. I wanted my youth back. So stupid. I may have seen a half-dozen heroes and villains who could skip around in time, but never had I seen anyone who could turn back his personal clock. They all got old and, despite the wonders they’d seen, the things they’d done, they all got tired.

  There was a time for all of us to go.

  The bell was tolling, and it was tolling for me.

  Accepting that fact depressed me. Visions of sitting in front of a Murdoch eating cheese doodles danced in my head. I’d get old. I’d get fat. I’d collect umpty-squillion stray cats and live in an apartment clogged with trash.

  That was it. I was done.

  Instead of surrendering to that nightmare, I headed over to the gym. Getting tossed around wouldn’t help my feelings, but it would burn calories.

  Rule for the newly retired: don’t go to the gym feeling like hell.

  Grant caught me with a simple hip-toss that sent me rolling across the mat. I never did break my fall. I made a flapping sound, like a flat tire. I finally flopped to my back and just lay there.

  Grant loomed over me. “You okay?”

  “Nothing broken, but you probably already knew that.”

  “The boxers with the kittens are nice, too.”

  I sat up, looping my arms around my knees. “You ever miss it?”

  Grant sat and began to stretch. “Pieces, sure.”

  “Even after all this time?” My heart sank. “I want to be retired, but…”

  “You want to be needed.” He shrugged. “The Murdoch shows all these disasters. Since I retired, there have been five tsunamis that have killed 3.2 million people. I could have saved them. Or I could have helped build the Mars Colony or could have checked for life on Io or…”

  “I get the picture.”

  “You have it tougher than I do.” Grant held up his half hand. “I had no choice. You really don’t, either, but you have this illusion of choice. While we all can see that the youngsters are really good, we have to believe we could have taken them. And we resent the hell out of their failure to realize that about us.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Your kids don’t appreciate what you were able to do?”

  Grant laughed. “Andy got my powers, but her mother’s sensibility. She understands the hero thing, played with it for a while, but prefers the way of Gandhi to pounding things to pulp. Gravé has a better sense of things, but is all wrapped up in fashioning his own life as a rockstar-superhero. His world and my past don’t really intersect. More importantly, the current context really makes our exploits irrelevant. We did things they can’t do, mainly because we had to.”

  “Do you think they could…” I held my hands up. “No, strike that. Wrong question. Down that path lies madness.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Whether you thought they could or couldn’t do what we did. Your answer wouldn’t matter. If I was willing to ask the question, I was thinking of following up, double-checking your logic. That means I’d still be playing the game.”

  “No, it just means you’re a thinking individual.”

  “Grant, don’t take this wrong. You have always come at things from a perspective of invulnerability. If some amped-up psychopath in mechanical armor decided to knock over a bank, you showed up and opened him like a can of peas. You were always good at multi-tasking and prioritizing, making decisions on the fly.

  “A Felix, on the other hand, has to think ahead. Puma might have been able to keep the same loads in his tool belt, but I constantly shifted stuff. I had multiple costumes and must have overhauled the Chaser a half-dozen times. And that rocket bike, you don’t want to know how often I reconfigured it. Thinking ahead was part of my game.”

  He considered that for a moment. “So then part of your retirement is to stop thinking the way you did. Which is going to be like cutting off a limb.”

  “Maybe, or maybe I just need a hobby.” I smiled. “I don’t know if I can be happy repairing and selling trinkets. If not, I’ll have to try something else.”

  “There’s always Sudoku.”

  “Math as martial arts, no thanks.” I got up and hauled him to his feet. “You had fun, that night in my old lair, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, being back in the uniform was a lot of fun.” Grant chuckled. “And Terry’s been over the moon. I think his new hobby is tinkering with some of his armor.”

  “He gonna franchise the Golden Guardian out?”

  “Who knows? He’s turned down deals in the past.” Grant’s eyes narrowed. “So, here’s the question. Why didn’t you play dress-up in your old lair? There were complete uniforms there, behind a hidden panel the kid doesn’t even know about.”

 
I had to think for a moment. “Maybe, just maybe, I realized the game was over.”

  “Or you were afraid the siren-song would be irresistible?”

  “Probably.” I thought back to the fight in the Nimura laboratory. “Kind of a sad thing, isn’t it, when you think you could make a comeback, but you know it won’t really happen?”

  He nodded. “Don’t follow Nick’s path.”

  “I don’t understand. I saw him the other day–heard him, actually. He’s keeping his hand in.”

  “Not really.” Grant sighed. “I talk with Redhawk from time to time…”

  “I know he’s the mayor.”

  “Oh, okay. Nick tries to keep his hand in, but he’s not been the same since he got beaten down. He tries to help out. His heart’s in the right place, but he drinks. We tried to have an intervention. L’Angyle came back for it, zapped him sober so he’d listen, but it didn’t matter. He’s obsessed with the idea of a criminal mastermind who will take over Capital City. Sinisterion was on the top of his list. Probably still is, then we have Belle Jeste, Squire Enquirer, Helllash…”

  “I thought Helllash died right after I joined C4. Didn’t we get sued?”

  “Yeah, this is his daughter. She decided to become the Mary Kay of crime. Her costume stuff was good, but she had trouble importing weapons. She concentrated on the clothes, added bondage lines, and got wholly into home sex-toy sales parties. She makes a ton, but Nick’s convinced her profits are going to finance an army that will take over Capital City.”

  “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out there.”

  “But Nick’s cried ‘Wolf,’ too many times. Even if there was someone out there, the chances of Nick picking up on him would be zero. He has an easier time remembering the old days and gets confused a lot.”

  “But for the grace of God there go I.” I sighed. “Okay, look, from here on out, no more talking about crime or the underworld or anything. I am out, well and truly out. And I mean it.”

  Grant looked me up and down again. “Not to torture you, but you look like you’ve just had twenty years lifted off your shoulders.”

  “Ouch.”

  “I think fast on my feet, remember?”

  “Didn’t need the reminder.” I drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He was right. I did feel younger. The whole need to compete was gone. I could look at things objectively and didn’t have to invest myself in them. In fact, avoiding investment was critical because if I did become tangled up in things, I’d get mangled just like Puma’s old cape.

  The reason I felt younger is because I’d just pulled myself out of a deathtrap. It took a second for that idea to fully crystallize, but there it was. I didn’t have a dog in the fight that is Capital City. I’d be insulated like every other citizen. I’d done my time, I’d earned a chance at another life.

  And now I’d actually be able to live it.

  I thanked Grant, then hit the showers. Before I stripped down, I called Selene and Vicki on the uTiliPod. I convinced them both to join me for lunch. Selene was free, but Vicki had something at half-past one. I agreed to meet her at noon near her appointment.

  Then I made one more call, to O’Lily’s producer and canceled Castigan’s appearance. Castigan would continue to live, but not as a combative curmudgeon. He would just be a curiosity. He’d make money, he’d fix things, and that would have to be enough.

  As for helping Kid Coyote, I could still do that. Looking over capers and breaking them down was really just math and easier than Sudoku. I’d just provide him options, but I wouldn’t go seeking information. I could teach him how to gather it, but I was going to be a mentor, not a manager.

  I arrived at Maison Chartreuse on the Park before either of the women and secured a table on the terrace. I ordered fizzy water with a slice of lime and a cheese platter. While waiting I forced myself to concentrate on what the different cheeses tasted like. I sought nuance and new experiences. I wasn’t ever going to get rid of my powers of observation, but I could learn to use them for more than figuring out the criminal mind.

  Mother and daughter arrived together, and from the expression they shared, they noticed the change in me instantly. I waited for them to be seated, then smiled.

  “It’s over. I am truly done.” I took Selene’s hand in mine. “Thank you for supporting me and not calling me a liar every other time I’ve said I’m out.”

  She squeezed my fingers.

  “And you, young lady, will have to do without my help.”

  Vicki raised an eyebrow. “I never needed your help. In fact, aren’t I always saving your life?”

  “You won’t be doing that, either, any more.”

  “What about Diana?”

  “She’ll still have a job with Castigan. A new Castigan. Much nicer. Much odder.”

  My daughter stared at me, then looked at her mother and back. “I want to think he’s lying, but…”

  “No, I think he means it.” Selene smiled. “I’ll let the mayor know about your decision.”

  “Thanks.” I waved a hand at the cheese. “Please, help yourselves. I like the Brie.”

  The lunch started out a bit awkward. Okay not quite as awkward as in that “Uncle Henry comes to Thanksgiving Dinner in a mini-skirt and nipple clamps” way, but all the pauses seemed pregnant and some of the levity forced. I kept the discussion mostly on food. Everyone has stories about food and the weird things they’ve eaten. Soon enough we were laughing and the folks around us were smiling out of reflex.

  Selene and I decided to split a napoleon for dessert and ordered coffee. Vicki glanced at her watch and excused herself. She kissed her mother on the cheek, then came around and did the same to me.

  “You know, for an old dude, you’re weird, but I guess you’re okay.”

  “I’m supposed to say thanks, right?”

  She smiled. “You do that, and I’ll work on the compliments.”

  “Thanks.”

  Our coffee and dessert arrived just as Teratronic and the Tech-heads hit the jeweler kitty-corner from the café. Cobalt Cobra, resplendent in his blue uniform and hooded cloak, dropped from the roof, and Vixen slid from an alley. He’d bid for the caper, then subbed the minions out to Vicki. Cobra met Teratronic head on, his blue beams mixing with her gold to create these wonderful green phantasms. They’d had a love-hate relationship for going on six months now, and usually fought to a standstill.

  Vixen, with her whip cracking and pistol barking, dropped four minions before they’d rappelled to the sidewalk and scattered the rest of them.

  One of them came running past us. It would have been child’s play to trip him. A couple of ice-cubes in his path, that’s all it would take. He’d have gone down quickly and Vicki could have claimed another hit.

  But I didn’t move.

  I didn’t even feel the urge to move. I was just a spectator watching professionals play a game. But I didn’t have to play. My days of playing were over and good riddance.

  I did, however, smile.

  I had Cobalt Cobra and Vixen on my Superfriends’ team. I was going to clean up.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  I had to work at retirement. It was pretty much like any new activity: it took a while to get used to. Once you fall into a routine, however, it works. Part of it was just talking myself into that routine.

  The mind is a funny thing. A long time ago, back when I had a career, right after I’d started actually being a hero, I had a couple of quick successes. Sure, the Azure Spider and Queen of Thieves had seen better days, but they’d fought Colonel Constitution (both the original and II) to a draw a couple of times. In retrospect I probably caught them on a bad day, and I’d certainly been lucky, but I popped them and was feeling great about myself.

  That’s when I ran into a group of guys so amateurish and bungling that they didn’t have a name, didn’t have a uniform and the trace evidence they usually left at the scene was an empty case of Black Label beer bottles. They’d st
eal anything that wasn’t nailed down, from copper pipes to a pallet of bottled water–which broke their truck’s axle when they hit a speed bump.

  As inept as they were, I couldn’t get them. A shock-rod would bounce funny or wouldn’t go off. I’d roll an ankle on a beer bottle, and once the original Chaser got tagged by a semi while I was hot on their tail. Couple times, in blind panic, they led me on a chase that wandered into some battleground between the Titanium Titan or Incarnadine Death and the Deathettes slugging it out with Graviton.

  Heroes are known by their enemies and until some reporter dubbed them the Drunken Bandits, they were just a bunch of clowns. Once they had a name, they became a little bolder. That meant that I tried harder. No one else took them on. They were my nemeses, so I was stuck with them.

  And stuck looking like a complete doofus the whole time.

  Then, one night, as I was lurking high up on the O’Neil building, Puma found me. He was semi-retired at the time. He brought coffee and there in the shadow of one of those art-deco eagles, we had a chat.

  He gave me a smile. “I got two things to tell you. First, I talked to a homicide cop once. He told me that the folks who get away with murder aren’t the smart ones, nor the dumb ones. The dumb ones are just too stupid to get away from the scene of the crime. Cops arrive at the house, Mr. Stupid’s covered in blood. They arrest him and make a case.

  “The smart ones, they’ve got all the angles covered. You’re investigating a crime and you miss a clue, they’ll point it out to you. They’re trying to get on your side, being helpful.”

  I nodded. “Sure, but what’s the chance an amateur is going to pick out a clue a seasoned detective doesn’t?”

  “Exactly. They make it too perfect, with the evidence pointing at everyone but themselves–even the sort of stuff that should. I mean, I’ve been married to Mrs. Puma for forty years. I love her something fierce, but there are times I’d like to kill her, and her me.” He laughed. “She hates patching bullet holes.”