Behind Distant Stars Page 13

  “I’m sorry,” I sighed, “It’s been a long day. I shouldn’t be bothering you with this.”

  “It’s all right,” she smiled. “I wasn’t asleep.”

  Technically, she didn’t need sleep at all. Allowing her subconscious to make emotional linkages to the vast amount of data that she accessed every day, to collate between actual and virtual experiences, did seem to assist in her ongoing process of assimilating new hardware. Her emotional matrix—stored in quantum state across multiple data centers—was maturing beautifully.

  “Waiting up for me?” I smiled.

  “Not exactly. I was doing research! Um. You know, KNN producers reached out to several hero teams before agreeing to let CapeWatch set up your program? Just to get opinions and things?”

  “I assumed that they would.”

  “I read the studio execs’ email; the Red Ghost convinced them.” Whisper looked uncomfortable. “He, um, wrote a pretty nice essay about you. Here, you should read this.”

  She inserted the files into my brain and I absorbed it quickly.

  “This is…lovely.”A frown formed at the corners of my lips. “Kind, supportive and hopeful.”

  “Mm,” she agreed.

  “He thinks I could be a hero,” I whispered, uncertain if I should feel pleased by his regard, or angered that someone I respected understood me so poorly. The dissonance was dizzying. “This is…worrisome.”

  “Mm? Why?”

  “We’re in business together, he and I,” I explained. “I’d rather not disrupt our professional relationship when the plan is done and the ruse discarded.”

  “You like him,” she admonished. “You don’t want to lose his respect.”

  “That is true as well.”

  “Don’t worry,” Whisper consoled. “Even when you aren’t pretending to be a hero anymore, you’ll still be a bad man who does good things. The Red Ghost ’ll understand.”

  Was I particularly fortunate, or was that simply an inherent trait that younger siblings be more wise than their elder? Given the way my luck usually trended, I was tempted to believe the latter. Whichever case was true, I was humbled and grateful.

  CHAPTER NINE

  "Lift eighteen inches," I told Valiant. "And stop. Good.”

  It was remarkably quiet despite the size of the gathered crowd. The onlookers kept their distance—the work site was dangerously unstable—and had concentrated around the hastily strung-up barricade tape perimeter. There were news crews, fiercely intent but speaking in almost reverent tones; there were also desperate parents and worried relatives and throngs of hopeful well-wishers. I’d anticipated shouting and wailing, furious anger and thrown bottles. Instead, there was only the pressure of their gaze and the weight of their longing.

  I orchestrated an invasion.

  Forty-one of my smaller construction-drones crawled into the wreck like a swarm of metallic cockroaches escaping from the light, joining the hundreds of microdrones that were already present below. Some of the newly arrived robots sacrificed themselves, attaching permanently to twisted i-beams so that their structural integrity fields could shore up the groaning steel. Others deployed manipulating arms to shift fragments, to quickly cut away dangerous scrap and to weld supports into place. The remainder were tasked with exploration and monitoring, feeding mountains of data for me to sift through and analyze.

  “Ok, good. You can let go.”

  And he did, carefully. His hands weren’t shaking; Valiant’s strength was legendary. Lifting a few thousand pounds of debris was no stretch of his abilities. In a different situation, he might have dived into the wreckage, tossing steel and concrete aside as though it weighed nothing. Now, however, he took a deep breath and waited slowly for my next order.

  “That one next. It can stand a three-foot lift, but move slowly.”

  The afternoon sun was sweltering and I was grateful for the climate control systems in the Mk 35 heavy-combat armor. There were no birds and few clouds; just the open blue sky, beautiful and clear and offering no escape from the oppressive heat. Even Valiant had sweat beading at his brow, and I’d seen footage of the massive African-American hero diving into the mouth of an active volcano.

  He stood at seven and a half feet yet always felt taller. There was a density to him, a presence…an instinctive awareness of his raw power that tugged at some long-forgotten instinct and told one’s subconscious to be wary. I’d faced him in battle three times and that sensation never dissipated. His sky-blue and white costume had gathered red-brown stains from rust and dirt as we’d worked; we’d been here for more than an hour already, delicately lifting and shifting and shaping the mass of what would have been an enormous office-complex had the construction been completed.

  The recently repaired Mk 35 stood fourteen feet tall and yet I somehow felt as though Valiant towered over me.

  “How are they doing?” he asked, the hint of a worried smile touching the corners of his lips.

  I consulted my sensors.

  “Stable,” I replied. “Scared, but holding up; they have fresh air now, and my drones are providing light. I have a supply train bringing in fresh water and snacks. One of the teachers is having them sing.”

  “Can I hear?”

  I routed audio to my armor’s external speakers; I’d been focusing on the maths—the calculations necessary to forge a safe path through chaos—so I hadn’t really listened. It had been just one more data stream, less pressing than updating models for metal fatigue or shifting stresses.

  Only half the children were singing, I thought, and their voices were untrained. I wasn’t fluent enough in Chilean Spanish to catch all the words; it was a slow and hopeful song with a catchy chorus, something about a spider that was lost and alone but climbing towards the sun. Some of the voices were thready and weak while others were enthusiastic. I’d been able to explain that the mighty Valiant was here to save them, and that had been enough to stop the majority of tears. Many of the voices, too, were off-key or missed the song’s beat.

  It was one of the most beautiful things that I’d ever heard.

  “Let them hear, too.” The hero nodded towards the gathered onlookers, his eyes wet with unshed tears. “Play it for them.”

  “If this doesn’t work, it would be cruel.”

  “Then we’d damned well better make sure this works.”

  After a moment’s consideration, I nodded; my larger construction automatons were gathered along the edges of the disaster site, waiting for my orders to converge. For now, I made use of their speakers as I relayed the signal.

  If I’d thought the crowd silent before, then I’d been mistaken. A hush descended and it felt as though the entire planet were holding its breath. There were a few choked sobs, a few prayers, and then one by one the gathered crowd joined to sing along. Rusty voices, throats tight from too much time spent weeping, slowly gained in strength until I imagined that I could feel the chorus in my chest even through my armor.

  With my face hidden behind the Mk 35’s featureless mask, I could not wipe away my tears. So instead I turned to Valiant, voice gruff only to my own ears. “Good. We’re ready for the next lift. That large chunk of concrete can be lifted free; the shifting weight won’t cause any problems.”

  This couldn’t go wrong. I wouldn’t allow it.

  The sinkhole had opened after the tremors faded. What must it have been like in that school? To the frightened children, and to the brave teachers reassuring their charges and trying to keep them calm? There must have been a moment when the shaking stopped, when they all exhaled and believed themselves safe. And then the world tilted horribly, betraying their trust.

  It was positively astonishing that so few died in the initial fall; the ground had dropped away in a consistent cascade, providing just enough support that the small building was almost entirely intact when it settled into the depths. Rescue crews had begun their assessment and the news broadcasts were calling it a marvel.

  The aftershocks hit and th
e sinkhole widened to reach a nearby construction site. Onlookers could only watch in horror as a quarter million tons of steel and concrete poured on top of the schoolhouse below. The roar of the collapse had been phenomenal but it hadn’t been loud enough to drown out the screams of the families who had already been gathered at the perimeter.

  Again, the hapless children had defied the odds; the skyscraper’s skeleton twisted and complained as it crumpled, wedging itself to form a precarious framework of creaking spars resting against the school’s rooftop. The majority of the debris was still held back by that imbalanced obstacle. Once again, the number of deaths had been minimal.

  A miracle, the reporters said breathlessly. While they thanked God, I only wished that I was sufficiently religious to believe that I might earn a few moments in God’s presence; even a second would be time enough to fully charge my warstaff’s main weapon. My sensors had been able to confirm that there were at least nine young voices missing from that chorus, and nine families who would flinch every time the word ‘miracle’ was spoken in their presence.

  It was up to Valiant and myself to ensure that there would not be a tenth child silenced.

  “Okay,” I told the taller man, “my drones are in place. This next one is going to be an eight-foot lift, and you’ll need to take a half-step to your right as you reach max height. That section right there.”

  When the Earth’s mightiest hero had arrived with the intent to save the day, the local heroes had stood aside. Valiant was renowned worldwide for his rescue work, and yet he’d been able to shift only two girders before the entire structure had creaked and begun to settle…threatening to crush the survivors below. A camera had been focused on the hero’s face; I’d been watching the television from home with Whisper at my side. In that moment, Valiant had looked so lost that my own chest had ached in sympathy. My ward-slash-adopted-sister met my eyes and I’d nodded; within seconds, I’d hacked a few radios that were within range of Valiant’s hearing to relay four words in Doctor Fid’s modified voice: “I’m on my way.”

  “Good,” I said, when the lift had been completed and my automatons had welded further supports in place. “We’ll have a path cleared in no time. That I-beam next…”

  ◊◊◊

  “Terry!” Bobby’s eyes light up and he launches himself at me like a pouncing leopard. If the six-year-old lacks the agile coordination of the feline that he’s emulating, then he makes up for it in enthusiasm; he crashes into my legs and wraps his arms around me in a tight hug. “You’re home!”

  “Mmm-hm! I just got here.” I muss his hair and he twists away to pat it back into place with both hands. I can’t help but laugh; he looks exactly the way that I imagine I must look when Dad does it to me. He utters the same indignant whine while hiding a secretly pleased smile.

  “Are you here all summer?” Bobby grabs my hand and tugs me towards his play area.

  “That’s the plan!”

  My schedule has become more flexible since I completed my bachelor’s degree. Much more of my research and coursework is self-guided now, and arrangements have been made for me to keep in contact with my supervisor over the holiday. I fully expect to take advantage of my time here. I want to finish designing a high-efficiency internal combustion engine design for sale to an oil company. They’ll bury the patent, of course—a more efficient engine meant less gasoline sold—but the sale would still be lucrative.

  I’d had to forge a false identity to arrange the sale; even my reputation at MIT isn’t enough to convince a large company to purchase technology from a teenager. So, I used a name similar to my Dad’s and the bank lets him deposit the checks because they think it’s just a misspelling. Neither of my parents like the skulduggery, but they can’t argue with the results; sales like this one help cover unexpected scholastic expenses like Michael.

  My parents wouldn’t let me—sixteen now—attend college alone; they’d located a responsible masters student to be my dorm-mate. The proceeds from my sales help pay his tuition, and in return he watches out for me. Mike takes the work seriously and I rarely find solitude while on-campus.

  I don’t begrudge him for his scrupulous nature; my parents need the reassurance that I’m safe. I also have to admit that I’ve certainly benefited from his advice and assistance. Even so, I’m definitely looking forward to quiet isolation while at home. When my little brother is done with me, of course.

  “We’re playing heroes,” Bobby tells me, holding up an action figure. “I’m Defender. Who’re you?”

  I study the terrain. Bobby has taken over this section of the living room; some toys and books are spread haphazardly across the floor, but the majority are collected into painted wooden bins. Dad makes them; I’m sure that the colorful boxes that he’d once made for me are stored safely in the garage. Much of the remaining floor space has been transformed into a battleground.

  Villains have taken the high ground atop a cushion stolen from the couch. I see Metalstorm and the Ancient there, surrounded by a palisade of foam building-blocks. I don’t recognize the other two figures in the villains’ lair, but that isn’t surprising. My studies have taken up the larger portion of my schedule these last few years, and I’ve had precious little time available to follow the careers of new heroes or villains.

  Heroes litter the field below. Resolute lies prone with his arms bent at odd angles, and the Gray Dragon has a toy car resting on his chest. Bantam is face-down at the foot of the cushion plateau; I imagine that the diminutive hero must have tried rushing the evildoers’ base and been taken down by Metalstorm’s attacks.

  “I’ll be Bronze,” I say, looking for Bobby’s favorite action figure.

  “No, you can’t,” he objects. “Bronze controls metal with his mind. He can’t fight Metalstorm, it wouldn’t be a good story!”

  “But Defender and Bronze are friends. Wouldn’t Defender call his friend to help if he knew he was fighting someone like Metalstorm?”

  “Nuh-uh. ’Cause Metalstorm would run away instead of getting beaten up, and Defender wants to get Metalstorm for beating up Blue Bandit.”

  “Why’d Metalstorm beat up the Blue Bandit?” I ask, still looking over the throng of figures to decide on a which hero I will choose. “Aren’t they partners?”

  “Nuh-uh,” Bobby repeats. “Blue Bandit’s a hero now, he helped Defender save New York.”

  I’d overheard a few of my fellow college students talking about a recent threat to Manhattan but hadn’t investigated further. The Blue Bandit was more of a super-powered burglar than a villain; if he truly had helped save the city, then I can understand why he might have been granted a pardon and been allowed to join a superhero team.

  Although high-school was less traumatic than middle-school and college is less painful still, my understanding of friendship is still largely academic. Being hurt by betrayal, on the other hand—that I can comprehend fully. More than one of my fellow students has attempted to ‘befriend’ me with the sole intent to take advantage of my work. All in all, I think that I would have preferred physical bullying. It makes sense that Metalstorm would seek revenge against his former colleague.

  “So, maybe Defender would call his friend in secret?” I find a metallic action figure where it is placed carefully in the corner. “Then Bronze could sneak up on Metalstorm and Metalstorm wouldn’t know to run away. Then Bronze and Defender can work together to fight the Ancient and the other villains!”

  “You’re playing it wrong,” Bobby whines. “It has to be a good story, and Defender has to beat Metalstorm himself ’cause Blue Bandit is HIS friend now.”

  I choose an action figure that depicts the lioness-headed heroine Chimera; Bobby’s smile lights up when I try to imitate her famous roar.

  “She hates the Ancient,” the six-year-old explains. “It’ll be a good fight!”

  Chimera is right to hate the Ancient, I know. I’ve stumbled across a few of his scholarly works (no publication would dare refuse his submissions; not aft
er what he did to the editorial staff of the American Journal of Clinical Nutrition) and I have to admit that his logic and scientific rigor is sound. His methodology, however, is often horrific.

  Now that I think about it, one of the papers discusses using magic and science to create animal-human hybrids that (at least superficially) resemble Chimera. None of the kidnapped test-subjects had survived more than a few weeks after the study was completed, and I can see why the heroine might hold a grudge.

  “Dyefendyer,” I growled, trying to mimic the heroine’s odd, throaty speech pattern. “De Ancient has tyoo many henchmen! I’m going tyoo fly around deir base and draw dem out.”

  “I’ll be ready to help!” Bobby replies, moving his action-figure into position. Defender can’t fly, but he can cover ground with remarkable speed by leaping tens of yards at a time. While Chimera circles high above the villains’ lair, Defender will follow and take potshots at any goons who try to shoot her.

  “Rarrrr!” Chimera begins her diversion, and battle is joined.

  The actual assault takes more than an hour to adjudicate; I portray the minions when Defender attacks and Bobby plays the villains. The fight goes back and forth, but in the end Metalstorm is captured and the Ancient escapes while the heroes are busy rescuing hostages.

  “So, was that a good story?” I ask while I begin putting away some of the toys.

  “Uh-huh!”

  “Even though one of the villains got away?”

  “Being a hero isn’t about winning every fight,” Bobby informs me, uncharacteristically serious. “It’s about being a good guy! They had to save everyone! Defender ’n Chimera ’ll catch the Ancient next time.”

  “They will, huh?” It seems increasingly likely that I’m going to be playing Chimera tomorrow, too. I’m going to practice imitating her roar just in case.

  “Uh-huh,” Bobby says with the same level of certainty that I use when defending a mathematical proof. “The good guys always win eventually.”