I turned from her, furious, and watched the crowds waiting for actor autographs. I wasn’t going to begrudge them making money, but it’s like having Picasso sitting all alone and the guys who forged his work raking it in. And retired heroes living in poverty?
“How is it that they’re so bad off?”
Victoria rejoined me, her voice lower and calm. “Revenue sharing is based on air-time and ratings. Most of the old guys don’t have battle footage. Unless they’re picked up for a series, they don’t get anything. And then there’s taxes.”
“Taxes?”
“The big deficit reduction package passed eighteen years ago had a couple sneaky provisions in it. It targeted ‘passive income.’ The IRS went back and calculated how much heroes services were worth, assumed they were compensated for them, and then started pulling back taxes from royalties.”
I shook my head. “But even in my day we weren’t compensated.”
“Turns out a couple heroes had back-door deals with charitable foundations. The government figured anyone capable of hiding an identity could hide money. And since most heroes had a hard time holding down a job–being absent so often and beat up and all–they never put much into Social Security.”
“So, they don’t get much, and what little they get is taxed to death.”
She pointed back toward Puma and the others. “You made sure he was going to be the highest grosser today, all under the table. Some actors have done then-and-now shots and cut the hero in for a piece of the action, but those folks are rare.”
“The money goes through the Hall?”
“To guard anonymity and guarantee distribution.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Sixty percent of revenue is split among active heroes, ten percent goes to ‘reformed villains’ and thirty goes to the Hall itself. Half of that goes into pensions. The IRS takes its cut. Splits are all pro rata based on ratings.”
“And the Hall controls all rights?”
“They did until the strike ten years ago. Now heroes can cut their own licensing deals, though the Hall gets a piece. And there are a few foreign franchises that have come in outside the system.” Victoria shrugged. “All I know is that my lawyer puts a check in my trust fund each month.”
Puzzle pieces swam though my head, and not in any semblance of an orderly school. I had a million questions, but music began to play from the dais. We headed in that direction and picked seats toward the back. Several giant Murdochs guaranteed we’d see everything.
There was a lot of jostling for aisle seats. I studied how people moved. They were very practiced–too much so. They wanted to appear normal, but also watched and were conspicuously wary. Heroes all, I had no doubt, in disguise, always alert.
Victoria gave one guy a glare. He moved toward the center of the row. She took the aisle seat and I joined her one in. She nodded toward the dais. “You knew Redhawk?”
“We’d met.”
“He had a good run. In at ten, out at thirty-five.”
Retired for five years. I found myself envious, but whether it was the long career or retirement, I wasn’t quite sure. “What does he do?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. No one does. Nighthaunt’s caution rubbed off on him.”
The music built to a crescendo, then sank back down as a tall man in a dark suit, with purple shirt and tie, came to the podium. “On behalf of the Superhero Hall of Fame, I would like to welcome you all here. We come to honor one of our own, Redhawk, for the many great accomplishments he’s achieved in his long and storied career.”
The Murdochs gained intensity as a highlight reel played. It began as expected, showing Redhawk and Nighthaunt fighting side by side. The two of them did work well together. I had always suspected that Redhawk anchored Nighthaunt in reality. While Nighthaunt clearly understood the criminal mind, it took Redhawk to understand normal human beings and prevent Nighthaunt from retreating into his Mausoleum.
And I meant that metaphorically as well as literally.
The highlights moved through his early teen career and when he went out solo. It included a lot of shots of Redhawk with other heroes. While there one was clip of a battle I was pretty sure I’d been at, I never appeared on screen. Finally it moved into the last decade of his career and he fought some heavyweights. He’d always been clever and a fast learner. If someone had made the effort to nail him to the wall, it would have been curtains.
But then, the way the system shifted meant things moved in his favor. If lethal force wasn’t an option, suddenly those who couldn’t generate lethal force became more powerful. Redhawk proved resilient, and often came back when villains thought they’d dispensed with him. Under the new system, he was the record-holder for escapes.
After the highlight reel, dignitaries and friends began their testimonials. Graviton appeared on screen, as did Nighthaunt, the Mayor, Governor and President. I liked the President’s remarks the best, despite their being the most general. She was funny. The Mayor was most on point, but he didn’t even try to get a laugh. He even quoted one of Redhawk’s corny battle cries and looked pained in the effort.
Finally, as the last tribute faded, the music began again. I didn’t recognize it, but the various smiles indicated everyone else did. I shot Victoria a quizzical glance.
“It’s the Redhawk theme from the first Nighthaunt movie. You musta seen it. Everyone did.”
“Once more, I disappoint you.”
“And still batting a thousand.”
Finally the Master of Ceremonies–who turned out to be Hall’s director and a hero who’d been known as the Amethyst Ferret–welcomed Redhawk to the stage. “And here he is, this year’s sole inductee to the Hall of Fame, the Amazing Redhawk!”
The crowd roared as Redhawk mounted the stage and strode to the podium. Tall, slender and clearly well muscled, he had some spring in his step. The shock of red hair had a few white strands in it. The dark lenses on his cowl kept me from seeing his eyes and the wrinkles at their corners.
Victoria elbowed me. “He’s in good shape for an old guy.”
I applauded mechanically, keeping a smile on my face. The hair was a wig. It covered a Kevlar and ceramic plate which protected his skull. His boots had lifts giving him another two inches. Where the red of his cowl come up over his chin it hid a prosthetic. Not only did that protect his chin in a fight, but it altered the shape of his jawline to help him avoid exposure.
And I knew that fact because he’d adopted the technique from me.
The body armor had been cinched a bit tight–he was breathing fast but shallow. He’d packed on a few pounds. It tends to happen in middle age, especially when you stop exercising and don’t watch your calorie count.
Or don’t have it watched for you.
Redhawk took the podium and raised his hands to quiet the crowd. “Wow. The last time I faced this many people it was in one of those dreams where I’m standing here naked and don’t know what to say.”
Mild laughter. Folks knew more would come.
“I’m honored to be back in Capital City and can’t believe I’ve made it into the Hall. It’s been my honor to serve with the giants who have done so much for the city and the world. Nighthaunt, my mentor and friend, I would be nothing without him. Graviton, well, the number of bullets he stopped that were headed for me, I can tell you, wing and a prayer, folks, wing and a prayer.”
The crowd joined him in chanting “wing and a prayer.” It must have been something he started using after I went away.
“And Colonel Constitution, well, I huddled behind that shield a few times–with all three of them, in fact. I knew the second Colonel Constitution when he was just First Amendment. I was best man at his wedding, and godfather to the current Colonel Constitution. These are the great men and women who have set the standard for our behavior, and I don’t just mean those in a costume. It’s for all of us–and in retirement, I am one of you, a citizen.”
He pointed past us, toward the Hall. “I remember when
the Hall was opened and our first four inductees were enshrined. That day was a proud day for me and I dared hope, just maybe, I might someday be included. I never thought I’d have this honor, you know, but I hoped maybe I would be mentioned in some account of the exploits of great heroes.
“And now, this is a dream come true.” He worked a finger up beneath his cowl to swipe at a tear. “And in closing I just want to say that I hope all of you take the lessons of the great heroes here today: courage in the face of adversity; sincerity, loyalty and fellowship are the elements that make all of us great. Believe in yourself, in your neighbors and in your city. There is nothing you cannot do, no goal will be denied to you and, someday, you will receive the rewards you most richly deserve.”
The crowd rose in a standing ovation. Most of it did, anyway.
Those who didn’t, produced guns.
And when Panda-moanium shrieked, all Hell broke loose.
Chapter Twelve
I’ve always hated shriekers. In C4 we classified them as “Sonic assault, area effect,” which just meant they could hurt a lot of folks all at once. Shriekers have been around forever. Banshees out of Celtic Myth. The Sirens that Odysseus had to deal with. Even the modern military tried to get into the act, developing sonic crowd-control weapons that could make you puke.
Or worse.
Brown Fury used a prototype that sold a lot of adult diapers before she was apprehended.
Panda-moanium’s voice sounded like sheet steel being ripped by a reciprocating saw, and pumped through bag-pipes. People started screaming. I clapped my hands over my ears as I turned to face him–which is when I wished I had another set of hands to cover my eyes.
Lots of pop psychology has been written about how and why heroes and villains choose their personae. What gave Panda-moanium his inspiration I don’t want to know–unless it was a recreational pharmaceutical and he’s offering franchises. He appeared as an oversized toy panda, with glowing red eyes and long, titanium claws. He held a length of what was supposed to be bamboo, likewise of titanium, and used it to focus his sonic blast. Vuvuzela on steroids. He shrieked again and blew Redhawk through the back of the dais.
Chaos reigned. Civilians scattered. The China Dolls–Panda-moanium’s chief allies–and an agglomeration of gangs including Zomboyz and Twisters who’d made bail, worked in teams. The gunners used tasers and sonic shotguns to drop people, while looters darted in, scooping up watches, wallets and other valuables. The Dolls were especially good at looting, moving through the crowd doing the whole Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon thing. A wave of gang members swept toward the actors’ tents, completely unopposed.
Victoria vanished. Ditto many of the people seated around us. Long lines formed before the port-o-lets, as hero after hero dashed inside for privacy. If just one of them lit off a smoke-bomb they could have all changed at once, but in the panic, none of them seemed to be thinking straight.
I picked up a folding chair and snapped it over the back of a Zomboy looter. He went down hard. I dove forward, catching him with an elbow to the jaw. That put him out and luck was with me. Two taser barbs shot past my shoulder and tagged a woman overstuffed into an Amazing Girl costume.
Once down, my aching body decided the need to get back up was seriously overrated. I rolled to my hands and knees, but a grazing shriek knocked me back onto my can. Mildly stunned, I stayed down just a heartbeat too late.
A Twister grabbed my hair and hauled me onto my knees. He pressed the sonic shotgun’s muzzle to the side of my neck. “Thought you wanted to be a hero, huh?” He screwed it tighter into my flesh. “Big mistake.”
Then Vixen appeared five yards in front of us. “Yours is bigger.”
“Go pick on someone else, chica. At this range, I’ll blow his head off.”
Vixen shrugged and lowered her hand to the pistol holstered on her right thigh. “Like I care. Kill him. Wound him. Give him a sucker and sing him a lullaby. It’s all the same to me. Come to think of it, if you actually do kill him it’s better for me all the way around. Do it.”
The Twister’s voice wavered. “I just might.”
“Talk is cheap.” She suppressed a yawn. “I don’t have all day. Do it.”
He jerked my head to the left. The concentrated blast would vaporize my flesh and unhinge my jaw. It would pulverize bone and drive fragments into my brainstem. It might, in fact, blow my head clean off. If I survived, it wouldn’t be for long and I’d only be good for parts.
And I couldn’t do anything to save myself.
Vixen drew and shot so quickly and smoothly that even though time had slowed for me, I still never saw her move. Two pops from her pistol. A thwak and a gurgle from the guy holding me. His grip slackened and I fell forward again, shaking. He collapsed over my legs and his shotgun clattered to the ground. I kicked my way free of him, then looked up. Vixen had vanished.
I tried to grab the shotgun, but I was shaking too hard. My hand wouldn’t close. Couldn’t let myself blame fear. It had to be the adrenaline.
I wanted to believe that lie. I also wanted to stay down. Very badly I wanted to stay down. But I couldn’t. I forced myself up.
Gravilad, running blindly, barreled into me. “Save me, save me!”
He clung to me with the desperation of a drowning man and spun me around. “Not the face. Not the face,” he screamed. “You can’t do this to me! I’m a star!” Tears soaked his mask. Other fluids darkened his tights.
I tried to shove him off, but he wasn’t having any of it. He kept grabbing me and trying to get behind me, using me as a shield. I couldn’t punch him, couldn’t throw him and I was getting dizzy. He yelped again and, coming around, I finally saw the reason for his panic.
Panda-moanium was coming for the both of us, raising that bamboo to his mouth.
I dropped to a knee, urgently seeking that shotgun. Gravilad belly-flopped down, cowering, and yanked my shirt. I sprawled onto my back. He tried to burrow under me like a Great Dane beneath a dish-towel.
He wasn’t fooling anyone. Well, except himself.
Panda-moanium drew in a breath. He swung the bamboo toward us. I stared down the bore. It looked like a cannon. It had dropped Redhawk from fifty yards, and here we were a shadow’s-length away.
He shrieked.
And then, for a split second, a man eclipsed Panda-moanium. He stood tall between us and the barrage. A heartbeat, no more. He caught the blast square in the chest. It blew him out of his boots and tumbled him on past. Then the lee part of the blast lifted me off Gravilad and dumped me beside my savior.
Puma.
The actor cowered. “My agent wouldn’t let me read your script!”
I came up on my knees and, ignoring the blood, I dug into one of Puma’s utility belt’s pouches. Second on the left. I pulled out one of his Cat-claws. As Panda-moanium loomed up over the actor, I let fly.
The black steel crescent spun true. It punctured the speaker over Panda-moanium’s mouth. Electronics sparked and smoked. The villain’s head jerked back. He staggered, scattering chairs.
Suddenly Blue Ninja and Kid Coyote hit him with tandem karate kicks. The bamboo went flying one way, Panda-moanium another.
And Gravilad crawled away in a third.
I reached down and pulled Puma into my lap. The sonic blast had shredded his uniform. Bone fragments were white islands in a red ruin. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth, but his eyes were clear.
He patted my arm. “I know you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We broke the cycle, didn’t we?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did I ever tell you about the time…”
I shook my head, my tears splashing down. “You don’t have to. I was there, remember?”
“Yeah, you were.” He nodded once, then closed his eyes. He said one more thing, but it just came out as bloody bubbles.
Didn’t matter. I heard him. “Be good.”
I held him for a long time. I held him long after the
battle ended, long after an EMT pronounced him dead. They did humor me and gave him some oxygen, but nothing was going to keep his heart pumping. It had been big as all the world and most of his sternum had pinned it to his spine.
Somewhere they found Diana, or she found us. She knelt on his other side and held his hand. We both cried. I told her that he’d spoken of her at the last, and that his last message for her was to ‘be good.’ That got her crying even more, and she stayed with him as they loaded him into an ambulance.
By then the EMTs had pulled me away. They wanted to make sure the blood on me wasn’t mine. Most of it wasn’t. Somehow I’d cut my scalp. They wrapped me in a blanket and had me keep a compress on my head. It would require stitches and they wanted to take me to a hospital. When Victoria finally appeared, she overruled them and they let it go. The ambulances were already packed to bursting.
The battlefield had been transformed. Blood, bits of chairs, pieces of clothes and bandages all marked the fierce fighting. One of the tents had collapsed, and in the aftermath two more went down–forming suitably dramatic backdrops as news crews interviewed survivors and combatants.
I’d thought heroes had been fighting to get into the port-o-lets, but that was nothing compared to their battling to get in front of a camera. Several of them squared off, then they began to form teams. Voices rose and I was expecting renewed hostilities.
And given that everyone was still jazzed on adrenaline, it would have been something to see.
The Amethyst Ferret showed up in his uniform and organized the heroes. They all towed the line, since he was the gateway to getting into the Hall. So he ranked them based on ratings and started parceling them out.
I tried to ignore the sideshow. I tracked where Vixen was in the crowd–she’d done well because she’d dealt with a number of hostage situations and racked up the rescue points. She got done quickly and rescued me from the EMTs.
But not quickly enough.
Within earshot Gravilad eulogized Puma. “He was a tower of strength in the evil maelstrom. I was doing what I could, but I’m just an actor. I felt I needed to help though. Then a citizen panicked and just clung to me. I tried to get him to safety, but he went down and pulled me with him. We couldn’t escape Panda-moanium. I thought for sure we were going to be killed and then, there he was, Puma. He saved us and, even though he was dying, he stopped Panda-moanium. He was the last of the great heroes and I will not rest until he is recognized by the Hall of Fame.”