I returned to the FCCSL branch. A throng packed the lobby, though very few of them seemed to be in line. Most were just sightseeing. A few were on hands-and-knees looking for bits of window glass or other souvenirs. Gawkers at the crime scene. I’d seen it before, but usually only when things had been awash in blood.
I found Penny at her desk behind a phalanx of flowers. She barely recognized me, but let her boss know I’d returned. Mr. Baker was overjoyed to see me. I deposited the cash with him and we loaded three grand onto a cashflash chip. With his guarantee of a solid financial reference, Harrison Bing could begin shopping for a place to live.
I’d never really found building an identity that tough. The trick was to avoid looking like you were hiding. When I found a place I’d introduce myself to the neighbors, ask about local restaurants and generally present myself as someone who would impose a little bit on their lives, but not much beyond borrowing a cup of sugar or inviting them over to see movies of my day at the beach. Most folks shy from aggressive friendliness. Those who don’t are generally people who desperately need a friend. That can be a problem, but usually they just wait by the phone and that keeps them out of trouble.
And they usually can be counted on for a great alibi.
Scandal also helps. Most folks love learning intimate details of their neighbors’ lives. Bring different women home two nights in one week, or two in one night, make the right amount of noise, and folks will watch for you. Share a confidence, let them assume you’re two-timing someone, and some will alibi you, others will condemn you. If you’re being investigated, making investigators track down those ersatz leads buys you time to disappear.
I downloaded a couple apartment guides from a street kiosk and retreated to the Bluebell. Bennie wasn’t at the desk. The drone taking his place never even looked up. In retrospect that should have sent a flag up.
Likewise the empty lobby.
I missed both clues. Secure in my room, I studied the guides and bookmarked a number of promising leads. Tomorrow I’d clean out room, burn Rick Murphy, and get down to some serious work.
The only thing I’d miss was my peanut butter connection.
I finally dropped off to sleep just before midnight. They were watching somehow. They were smart enough to wait for me to be deep into a REM cycle before they hit. I’ve got no memory of it–a concussion will do that to you. I reconstructed it, however, and dreams filled in all the details.
Technically those would be nightmares.
Four Zomboyz burst through the door. That woke me up. I tossed back the sheets, which tangled one of them up, but that was purely by accident. A boot to my gut doubled me over. A knee to the face missed breaking my nose, but swelled an eye shut.
I stumbled back, caught my heels on the shrouded Zomboy. I went down. They piled on, beating the hell out of me. They might not have had much combat experience, but they were happy to practice.
Somehow I threw them off and got to my feet.
That’s when their patron walked through the door. Tall, with a flaming jack o’lantern for a head, wearing vintage duds that would have made him a dandy back when the Dutch owned the town, Baron Samizdat gestured with a white-gloved hand. Glowing, red-gold fire blasted me through the window. My heel caught on the fire escape. I flipped over and hit the far tenement wall face first.
At least that put the fire out.
I was probably unconscious by then. If I’d been awake, I’d have seen the dozen other Zomboyz waiting in the alley below. I’m not sure–being as how I was naked and falling four stories–that I could have done much about that situation, but I’m quite sure it would have stuck in my mind.
Grant had been right.
Heroing was a young man’s game.
And I was far too old to be doing my own stunts.
Chapter Eight
The only good thing about having your eyes swollen shut is that you never get to see the bruises until the purple has faded. I don’t know how long that took. Long enough, anyway, for the stitches on my back and scalp to itch like mad.
I’d have scratched, but that would have required moving. Not happening. Two reasons. First, stiff limbs, lots of pain. Not broken-bone pain, but close enough.
Second, I’d long ago learned that after a beat down, movement often invites more of the same.
It’s a horrible thing to come to awareness trapped in a shell that hurts. All the pain makes your body anxious to get away from whatever was causing it, but that wasn’t possible. Panic builds and you scream, even if it’s only inside your skull.
I made a bid for sanity by cataloguing sensations other than pain.
The tug on one arm suggested an IV. Then there was the catheter. I really didn’t want to be seeing what collected at the other end of that tube. Whoever had me apparently wanted to keep me alive for a little bit longer. Of course, they could have been anybody, but when you’re clutching at straws, you might as well be hopeful.
I was in and out a lot. Concussion will do that. Likewise drugs. Degrees of pain came and went. Sedation–a good thing short term, but having my wits dulled wasn’t going to get me out of trouble.
At some point my nose started working again. My prison didn’t smell bad. Swelling went down in my hands enough that I could clutch the sheets. Once upon a time Graviton could have told the thread-count by touch alone. I just knew it was high. This again inclined me toward optimism. Most captors, if they worry about sheets at all, don’t concern themselves with thread count.
I decided I probably needed to open my eyes. I waited until I heard someone enter the room, then cracked one. Low light, easy to adjust to, good; though it made seeing her tougher. No mistaking her, though.
“Three days?” I thought I’d spoken clearly, but it came out as a croaked whisper.
She managed to parse the words regardless. “Five. You’re old. You heal more slowly.”
“You didn’t want to be my friend.”
“You need more than a puppy to change your dressings.” Selene sat on the edge of the bed. She took my hand in hers and I tried to squeeze. Zero strength. I couldn’t have squished the yolk on a soft-boiled egg.
“No need to show off. You’re still tough.” She caressed my hand. “You’d have died otherwise.”
“Why didn’t I?”
“You’re incredibly lucky.” Her voice lost its wistful tone and I closed my eye. “You pissed off the Zomboyz by busting up the robbery. Baron Samizdat couldn’t afford to lose points to ‘Old Dude with yo-yo,’ so he had to set things right. Someone connected the dots and sold you out.”
“Bennie.”
“Whoever. Could have been a dozen of them. Here’s where your luck came in. The grocery guy got wind of what was going down–it was private, not public, so no bids. He reached out to Kid Coyote. He intervened and kept them off you, then Gravé showed to scatter them. You were hurt badly, so he teleported you to Grant’s place. That exhausted the kid. Grant called me. I had him bring you here, then I called in some favors and got you some private treatment.”
My head sank further back into the pillow. “I’m sure that made sense.”
“But not to you?” She sighed. “The world’s changed a lot. You know about Grant.”
“I saw.”
“Word got out that Graviton was hurt badly. To fight it, Graviton recorded a message–you can see it in the Hall of Fame or find it on YouTube–saying he and L’Angyle had been called to her home dimension to preserve her kingdom. Real white knight stuff. It sold a lot of commemorative plates. Funds her work.”
“They’ve never returned?”
“Gravé and Andromeda sometimes relay messages–time moves slower there, the battle continues, another plate comes out. They’ve never come back. Never will. And it’s a good thing.”
“How is it good that the world lost its greatest heroes?”
“I could explain it, but you’d never believe.” She grabbed me beneath the armpits and shifted me into a sitting position. I m
arveled at her strength. It hurt like sin but I didn’t so much as groan. “Open your eyes.”
I complied, cautiously. Hell, even that hurt.
She’d left the bed and reached a hand behind the flat panel on the wall. Something beeped. A Murdoch began to glow. She tossed a remote control beside me.
“Watch. Any channel, doesn’t matter. I recommend BCN and Superbio. Couple others are good. FHC will amuse. Anything else, you’ll have news on the quarters, specials when things are visual, and ticker at the bottom.”
“Beer and chips, too?”
Selene folded her arms and glared. “I wasn’t joking when I said you almost died. I’ve got pictures. Over a hundred fifty stitches from glass, serious abrasions from hitting the wall and I lost count of individual bruises from boots, fists and the odd stick. You pissed blood for three days. Doctors thought that was a miracle, since they figured you had about a pint left in you. Grant didn’t see any broken bones. You could have spent an hour in a cement mixer full of bowling balls and come out with less soft-tissue damage. It was touch and go. And for a while, go was the smart bet.”
I started to speak, but she held up a hand. “No, no posturing. None of this, ‘they haven’t made the bullet yet,’ or ‘I’m too mean to die.’ That macho crap might make Zomboyz wet themselves, but it’s never stopped a bullet or closed a wound.”
“Selene, old habits die hard.”
“Old habits will kill you if you don’t let them die. But you’re not going to be one to let them die, are you?” She pointed at the Murdoch. “Watch. Watch and learn. The world you abandoned has changed. Learn it for yourself. This is no place for your old habits.”
I watched. Hours on end, I watched.
BCN was the Battle Classics Network. Twenty-four hours a day of footage of hero and villain battles. The morning line-up included a series of “Greatest” battles, then shifted to “First Time” fights. A lot of those had an amateur video quality, showing young heroes who desperately tried to keep the fight in frame. Some had friends shooting the video, and a few intercut footage from nearby security cameras. After that came group battles, vendettas and a feature on up-and-coming heroes. They even had a two hour block that featured villains.
Superbio provided the stories of the world’s hottest heroes. Exploitative and dwelling on relationships and scandals, it had a compelling formula. They showed just enough for you to like the hero, then fear for him, feel for her and ultimately made them dreamy enough that fans could swoon.
But before they did that–every twelve minutes–viewers got the chance to buy official logo-wear and other items. The Graviton collector plates did look nice. Might have been the drugs, but I’d have bought.
Then there was the text-slither at the bottom of the screen. A hero’s name would come across followed by a string of numbers and letters. The teaser promised full details at FHC, which turned out to be the Fantasy Hero Channel
On FHC the numbers became clear, and that scared me. I was still a bit dreamy from painkillers so nothing should have made sense. What I’d see on the crawl was something like this:
1020105 Gravé C2 E0 R1 H7 KO3 $0 PD .2 Tot Pts: 4.6
That referenced his part in my rescue. Captures, Escapes, Rescues, Hits, Knock outs, Bounty ($) and Power Differential were the various categories. Gravé had been credited with capturing two Zomboyz, one rescue, seven hits, three knock outs, no money recovered and the power differential between him and the Zomboyz left him at .2, so he only got 20% of his amassed points. Rescues and escapes are worth ten points, which is why Vixen scored big in the bank deal. All totaled, Gravé earned 4.6 points for his part.
This brought back something Randy had said about Kid Coyote–about his being a good choice as a Superfriend. Superfriends were what folks called the heroes in their fantasy leagues. If a hero is active and does well, a Superfriends team benefits. Players who draft well earn money and prizes. I’d already seen Randy’s tip sheet, and FHC was full of adverts for others.
I actually had an entry: Old Dude with Yo-yo. The incident at the market rated me at C0 E0 R1 H4* KO4 $0 PD 1.25. I got 22.5 points for that battle. Of course, Old Dude with Yo-yo was unranked, and Superfriends were restricted to one of eight classes. And once someone connected Old Dude with the victim in Gravé’s fight, I’d be in negative points.
Villains, of course, got ranked on similar scales and, if adverts for merchandise were to be believed, had their own fan base.
As weird as the numbers were, the fighting itself is what made me feel as if I’d never return to action. It even had me thinking that wasn’t a bad thing. I watched for four days straight. Once I got past the old Crimson Skylark doing color commentary, I saw why Selene made me watch.
In battle after battle heroes and villains unleashed incredible displays of power. Windows exploded. Furnishings were reduced to splinters. Buildings took incredible amounts of damage–sometimes coming down completely. Vehicles got crushed, citizens had to be rescued, fortunes vanished from banks and crime sprees built until one or more heroes came together to stop the villains.
That’s what happened with Twisterian and the Twisters. The bank had been the fourth in a series of capers, which made Twisterian a hot commodity. His Superfriends ranking was flying high, and since Power Differential was calculated based, in part, on class and rating, knocking him off would really do wonders for a hero. Likewise, even being defeated by a higher ranked hero could work for a villain because the PD would be boosted in his favor.
Twistron the Twisterian had uploaded his plan of attack to an auction site. The Green Avenger–the guy who had put him down in the street–had won the bid, then turned around and sub-jobbed out fighting the henchmen. Vixen had won the bid for interior rights. Kid Coyote and Blue Ninja combined to get the street rights. Everyone knew the place and time of the caper. The camera crews for BCN and the news networks showed up, so that fight got covered from every angle possible.
While heroes and villains pumped out a lot of power, damage got restricted to property and soft tissue. Tasers and sonic shotguns–what they called the blunderbusses–weren’t designed to kill. Vixen’s pistol shot mercy bullets that knocked her enemies out. In fact, the asterisk on Old Dude’s Hits indicated that he’d broken bones which, were I ranked, would have cost me points.
In the new world, everyone played nice. On purpose.
Pretty much the only reason the Zomboyz hadn’t killed me was because they’d always restrained themselves. They didn’t know lethal techniques. They didn’t have any desire to kill. It didn’t make sense in their world. If Old Dude came back, a vendetta would develop, and that would be great for points production and publicity.
Regardless of their self-imposed limitations, the heroes were bigger and faster than I’d ever been. And almost everyone had powers, even the guys down in the Ultralight class. Kid Coyote and Blue Ninja came as close as there was to what Nighthaunt, Redhawk and I had been: guys with tricks and a scary schtick. Even they were preternaturally quick. It could have been training or better food or just youth.
It really didn’t matter. Either one of them could have generated the damage it took a dozen Zomboyz to do, and without breaking a sweat.
Grant hadn’t been completely correct. It wasn’t that heroing was a young man’s game, it was that today’s heroes were a different species. I’d felt all big and bad in kicking Zomboy tail, but they weren’t anything more than I was. Heck, they didn’t even have yo-yos.
And that was another weird part of how things had changed. Gangs like the Twisters and Zomboyz were farm teams for the villains. You take a street kid who’s got a knack for petty theft, jump him into a gang, train him up and see if there’s anything there. Villains use the gangs for support, trade members back and forth, and recruit sidekicks. If a villain produced enough other villains, he could retire on his cut of their revenues. One estimate suggested The Napalm Nihilist cleared a billion a year in legacy cash.
Heroes came out other ways–pre
p schools mostly. A kid shows promise, someone sponsors him for a school and a sidekick is born. Or, in the case of Gravé and Andromeda, their parents introduce them and their careers take off fast. Near as I could tell, Kid Coyote was strictly homegrown–blue-collar kind of hero with a small but dedicated following.
We’d always called heroing “the game.” Commentators still used the term, but now they meant it in an entirely different way.
And I was on the sidelines.
Selene didn’t talk to me much while I was watching. That’s mostly because I pretended to be asleep when she came in. When we did talk, we kept it light. Only once did I make the mistake of expressing pride in Vixen’s ratings. Selene went cold, so I left things there.
Finally, on that fourth evening, she shut the Murdoch off. “Seen enough?”
I nodded. “Lots of changes.”
“Everything has changed.” She sat on the bed once more. “Tell me what you saw.”
“I saw a lot of big angry people bashing the hell out of each other, denting huge chunks of real estate in the process. People bet on the fights. When I went to the bank after the robbery, the manager’s executive assistant had tons of flowers on her desk. They were all from admirers who’d seen her on the Murdoch, right?”
Selene nodded. “Back up a point. All that damage. Think. How much of it have you seen in your wanderings?”
“Not much.”
“Want to guess why not?”
My shoulders slumped. “There’s a fortune being made in reconstruction.”
“Nailed it. Take your bank. The employees got double-time and a half for the robbery. The windows got replaced before the end of business and cost a fortune–and several companies bid on it with windows already painted up because they knew the battle was happening. Insurance companies pay out for all the damage.”
“And consumers get soaked.”