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  (The Ghost’s sympathy, however, was predictable; in my civilian guise, I’d once had the opportunity to introduce Whisper. Unsurprisingly, she’d liked him.)

  “I wanted to come in person to let you know that Mr. Ferris is dropping all charges,” the costumed hero explained.

  With pain fading, memories began to resurface. I’d been sitting in the grass near to Whisper’s crypt, drinking, mourning, murmuring stories…there’d been a photographer, a vaguely familiar paparazzo trespassing on my estate. He’d snapped a few photos and ran.

  I clenched my fists and my torn knuckles stung. Obviously, I must have given chase.

  In that moment, I knew that I would never again turn to alcohol for solace. The consequences were too daunting. The photographer—Brian Ferris, I discovered upon hacking the police department arrest records—had survived my rage with only minor injuries. How terribly embarrassing.

  “You interceded on my behalf?” I asked.

  “I did, yes.” He grimaced. “I apologize, I should have asked permission first. The Guardians have had run-ins with Mr. Ferris in the past, though—he’s a bottom-feeding low-life, but he has friends in the media. He would have attempted to embarrass you in the news to pressure you to settle any legal proceeding. You don’t deserve that.”

  “I seem to recall that Mr. Ferris has made a profit suing celebrities in the past.” Such as Aeon of the Boston Guardians, for example. “How’d you convince him to back down?”

  “The camera that you destroyed was replaced, for one.”

  I didn’t bother attempting to hide my smug smile.

  “And I reminded him that there wasn’t a jury in the world that would convict a mourning father for chasing away a trespasser on the night after his daughter’s funeral.”

  And just like that, it felt like I’d been punched in the chest by Valiant.

  “I apologize again. I didn’t mean to hurt you…but the way you loved her? The way she loved you? That is the way a jury would see it. And as a hero whose job it was to stop monsters like Skullface, I am so incredibly sorry that I failed you both.”

  “Ah,” I said, smiling sadly, when I could breathe again. “Guilt. I’d wondered why you were here.”

  “The last few weeks have not been good ones,” he replied, and there was enough strain in his voice that his Chilango accent became more pronounced. “I suppose that I needed to succeed in helping someone, and you’d already been in my thoughts. When I heard of your arrest…I came here.”

  It was odd, to hear the Red Ghost say that he was performing a kind act not because it was the morally right thing to do, but instead because he needed the sense of validation that came with victory. The admission made him seem more human beneath his mask. I disapproved.

  But, even so…his assistance had been well-intentioned.

  “Thank you.” I offered my hand, and he shook it gratefully. “My first instinct would have been to fight him in the courts and the media…and you’re right, it would’ve gotten ugly. This is better.”

  Brian Ferris would’ve been ruined by the eventual fallout, I was certain. No other possibility was acceptable. The ensuing hubbub would, however, have attracted both positive and negative publicity…and I didn’t want Whisper’s name on the lips of reporters, comedians or political pundits who’d never met her.

  “You’re welcome.” The Red Ghost stood a bit straighter, as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “At some point—if you are willing—I’d like to contact you again to discuss a business opportunity…but you’ve been through an ordeal and I should let you return to your home.”

  “I look forward to hearing from you. But…call ahead before you come visit,” I said. “My house is too quiet, I probably won’t be spending too much time there.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “A laboratory, most likely.” I sighed. “I think I need to keep myself distracted…to avoid a repeat of last night.”

  “In that case, perhaps I might offer a technical challenge?” the Red Ghost looked hopeful. “I was originally planning on consulting with you because—as CEO of AH Biotech—you earned a reputation for being particularly effective at locating and motivating high-end research talent.”

  “Yes…?”

  “I run a company that licenses safety devices to automobile manufacturers,” the Red Ghost explained further. “The technology is based upon Doctor Fid’s inventions.”

  I couldn’t help but stare. “Yes, I recall reading about it.”

  “While the Doctor was alive,” he said, and I was gratified to hear a hint of sadness in his voice, “there were few researchers that would have been willing to risk being associated with such a project. Now…I would like to put together a team to study his technology and create more lifesaving devices.”

  “That does sound like an interesting project,” I said, hiding my weary bemusement behind a gravely serious tone. “Please, tell me more.”

  It wasn’t mere chance that had brought the Red Ghost to Terry Markham’s door. Despite the state in which he’d found me, I was still a promising choice to lead the project that he had in mind.

  He and I had previously met (after the Guardians saved my civilian identity from a kidnapping, and again when he’d sought AH Biotech’s assistance in administering medical nanites to a teammate) and he’d seen my professional capabilities. More than one news article had focused on my ability to lead the researchers and engineers who had powered AH Biotech’s rapid growth. I was already local to the location where the work would be performed and—perhaps most importantly—currently available. Given his sense of guilt and empathy, he would also no-doubt have been predisposed towards forgiving one night’s excess…especially since the target of my violence had been a man that he, also, had reason to dislike.

  Really, if I’d actively intended to insinuate myself into the Red Ghost’s business concerns, I’m not certain that I could have established a more perfect lure to attract his attention. And with Doctor Fid’s ‘death’, it should have been obvious that an opportunity like this would be coming.

  After all—unknown to any but he (and me)—there were components to his company’s inertial dampening safety devices that were beyond his capabilities to manufacture; Doctor Fid had secretly been in charge of the supply. The components were still shipping, but it would have been irrational to trust that the arrangement would continue long after the supervillain’s purported end.

  The Red Ghost was not irrational. Given his strong and understandable desire to continue selling the lifesaving equipment, the creation of a research team to reproduce Doctor Fid’s components was inevitable.

  The part of me that was still Doctor Fid saw this as an amusing opportunity. The rest of me saw a chance to do something good, something Whisper would have been proud of.

  I accepted the offer and signed the paperwork all in one day.

  “Welcome home,” Aaron smiled.

  After months away, returning to AH Biotech’s headquarters felt decidedly odd. Nothing had changed, physically; there had been no new construction, no obvious shifts in decor. Every face that turned my way was a familiar one, but their expressions were different now.

  When I’d worn the mantle of CEO, I had maintained a semi-informal relationship with my employees, carefully designed to maintain an air of approachability and camaraderie. The friendship and sympathy I saw in their gazes wasn’t new, nor was it unexpected. Gone, however, was the subtle sense of tension that often accompanied their pleasant greetings; these people weren’t looking to me for answers. Instead, they were looking to the man who’d welcomed me at the door.

  “This is your house now,” I replied. “I’m just visiting.”

  Aaron beamed and ushered me in.

  “Everyone’s going to want to see you,” he said. “If you want to make a speech, I could rally the troops.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” I shook my head. “I just wanted to wander the halls a bit, thank everyone in person
.”

  “Well, drop by my office when you’re done, there’s a lot to talk about.”

  “I will.”

  Aaron was drawn off into conversation with his Chief Strategy Officer and I was left to my own devices. For a long moment, I remained still at the lobby’s center. There was a hum to this place, a quiet resonance that tugged at my subconscious and created a unique sense of location. Since so many of the labs dealt with biological samples, the environmental controls were carefully segregated. Ducting for four separate heating and air-conditioning regions was hidden above the drop-ceiling panels; the sound of their operation was muted, barely audible throughout most of the building. Here in the lobby, however, the sounds funneled together into one quiet thrum.

  Decades ago, AH Biotech had been conceived as merely one aspect of my plan to re-mold Terry Markham into a form that suited Doctor Fid’s purposes. The company had grown beyond me, accomplishing extraordinary things. That was, I thought, more a function of the wonderful team I’d somehow gathered rather than being a consequence of my own leadership.

  Aaron was growing into the position of CEO. Research, development and manufacturing were all proceeding at a reasonable pace. AH Biotech didn’t need me anymore.

  With my chest tight with the odd mix of longing and pride, I managed something approximating a smile and began making my rounds.

  “I was so sorry to hear about your loss,” said Ananya in the finance department. “Whisper was a lovely child. I can’t imagine what you must be going through.”

  “I’m not all-right,” I replied, surprised to find that I didn’t need to fake gratitude for her sympathetic hug, “but I think that I might be all-right, someday.”

  “Hey, boss-man,” said Willy Natchez when I made my way to the microbiology lab. “It’s good to see you up ’n about.”

  “Thank you, William. I appreciated your notes.” He’d sent dozens of emails over the last few months. Rambling streams-of-consciousness, jumping from subject to subject haphazardly. I never responded, but Willy’s kindness was a force of nature; my silence would never have dissuading him from continuing his correspondence. Movie reviews, book suggestions, comments on politics or art or music…it felt as though he’d opened up his veins and poured himself into every unacknowledged letter. He never mentioned Whisper; instead, his missives were gentle—occasionally inappropriate and often irreverent—reminders of the humanity that Doctor Fid had tried to squeeze away from Terry Markham.

  “No problem,” he smiled cheerfully. “Just wanted to keep in touch.”

  “I’m going to be working on another project for a while, but I’ll try not to be a stranger.”

  “Not planning on competing with us, are you?”

  “No, this new project is going to be pure physics and math.”

  “Boring!” the native-American engineer exclaimed, a hint of laughter in his tone. “You ever want to come back ’n play with the fun sciences, we didn’t change the password on th’ lab door.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, and shook his hand.

  Words completely failed AH Biotech’s CTO. Victor just wrapped me up in a bear hug then clapped me on the shoulder to send me on my way.

  Everywhere, I was met with gentle sympathy and kind regards. Many were curious to hear what I had planned for the future (and wondered if I had plans to re-take the company’s reins), but all supported my decision to seek a new challenge.

  Once more, I was amazed at what I’d wrought. When this company had been conceived, I’d still carried the emotion-inhibiting scars of too-many invasive neurosurgeries; a complex set of computer programs helped me to perform staffing, to build a team that would fulfill the role I wanted AH Biotech to fulfill. Somehow, my algorithms had created something far more powerful than the sum of its parts.

  This could be my legacy, I thought. Not violence, not pain and heartbreak. This.

  But there was still more work to be done.

  When I’d been a professor at MIT, I’d had a tiny office kept in staggering disarray; I’d been too absent-minded, too inwardly-focused to consider the aesthetics of the space. There had been piles of books and notes strewn haphazardly upon every horizontal surface, chalkboards with scribbled calculations pushed into corners. I imagined that it must have been a harrowing experience for any students who’d braved my posted office-hours for assistance.

  As CEO of AH Biotech, my personal environment had been carefully manicured to impart a desired intellectual and emotional response within visitors. Hardwood furniture polished until it seemed to glow, cozy leather-upholstered chairs…everything chosen to feel solid: classic, comfortable, welcoming. The office had been intended more as a subtle display of wealth and taste than as a working space. There’d been a laptop computer present for appearance’s sake, but—once the door was closed—the majority of actual labor was performed via neural interface, mentally interacting with my server farms and carrying out whatever tasks were required.

  At Crimson Technology—the Red Ghost’s company—the office space I was provided was starkly sterile. White walls, simple furniture that looked as though it had just arrived from a plastics manufacturing facility. Everything seemed new and untouched, suited more for an automaton’s storage than for human inhabitation. It was rented office-space; from the scent, I guessed that the rooms had been repainted only a few weeks prior.

  It was, I thought, a decent starting point. A blank canvas.

  By day two, I’d acquired worn cabinetry from a local refurbished-furniture store, a few scarred chairs and filing trays…and framed posters of beaches and sea-life, a reminder of Whisper’s love of the Oceans. By day four, I was ready to greet the first prospective member of my research team.

  “Alex,” I smiled. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “You too, Doctor Markham.”

  “Call me ‘Terry’, please.”

  We were of a similar age, although my former teaching-assistant hadn’t aged quite as gracefully. Alex had been a lanky undergrad when last I’d seen him; now, his thinning hair had gone gray and a paunch had gathered around his middle. He’d weathered a life stooped in academia, whereas I’d had the advantage of significant genetic and surgical modification, clone bodies, medical nanites—and a somewhat more physically-demanding hobby than most professors endured. Still, his pleased expression seemed genuine and I could clearly see the echo of the friendly, fiercely intelligent youth who’d once helped to keep my classroom in order.

  “Terry,” he said experimentally, as though tasting the name on his tongue. The grin that followed implied that he found the more casual appellation appealing. “I was surprised to get your call.”

  “Good surprise or bad surprise?”

  “Definitely a good surprise,” Alex Hoffman laughed. “But I expected that you’d be going back to AH Biotech, and that’s not my field.”

  “Well, this project’s right up your alley. Iterated de-looping of orthogonal non-linear Westler wave functions will be directly relevant.”

  He blinked. “You’ve been reading my journal articles?”

  “Of course. After…you know, after Bobby…I never really found stable footing again in academia. But I still keep an eye on interesting developments.”

  “Well, thanks. I’ve been watching your career, too.” He hesitated. “Bobby ‘d be proud of you.”

  He is, I almost said; instead, I managed a strangled, “Thank you.”

  Bringing Alex into the Red Ghost’s orbit was a calculated risk; on the one hand…I truly was looking forward to working with Alex again, and he had an adequate understanding of the theories underpinning the work that we’d be doing. On the other hand…Alex had first hand information of my history that wouldn’t match what the Red Ghost knew of me.

  I’d long since scrambled old personal records and newspaper archives such that anyone who relied upon computer files would have been unaware that I’d ever had a little brother. The Red Ghost—one of the most talented investiga
tors that Doctor Fid had ever faced—had not been able to connect me to the Bobbyverse’s ‘Robert Hoffman’. If Alex mentioned Bobby in the Red Ghost’s presence, suspicions might be aroused.

  But the Red Ghost was not a hands-on CEO; his ‘day job’ as one of Boston’s premier superheroes kept him away from the office, and lately he’d been spending most of his spare time travelling to New York to assist the New York Shield with technical and logistical issues. Also—at least, from my two-decade-plus old recollection—Alex had never seemed the sort to indulge in idle gossip.

  Secrets could be managed, but individuals who could truly help with the science were few and far between.

  “So,” Alex smiled, “I only have one question.”

  “And that is?”

  “Will there be any academic papers published with both of our names on them?”

  “Almost certainly.”

  “In that case,” he rubbed his hands in anticipation, “where do I sign?”

  13

  “Hey, Terry?” Alex leaned into my office. “I think I need you to check my math.”

  “Just a minute,” I murmured, still focused upon my own calculations. I was writing out formulae by hand, filling sheet after sheet with methodical proofs. Entire binders had been compiled and I’d only scraped the surface of what would be needed.

  At first I’d been worried about accidentally revealing prior knowledge of the inertial dampener’s workings, but the process of reverse-engineering the data supplied by the Red Ghost had proven to be so interesting a challenge that starting from scratch had been preferable. This approach had revealed some interesting implications that I’d failed to observe while developing Doctor Fid’s protections. In addition to positing that improvements were possible, I’d also stumbled across a more general principle…a mathematical model that could be applied to several other multidimensional calculations.