Behind Distant Stars Page 17

  “Doctor Fid,” William Wasserman nodded to me. “We just received another shipment of Starnyx’ favorite.”

  “A pint, then.”

  The silence continued as the bartender poured my drink from the tap.

  Though my back was turned to the room, my sensors showed that several costumed patrons were coming to their feet; surely, I wondered, they would not dare attack me here? If they intended to break the Lassiter’s truce, the building itself—one of the most important landmarks in the criminal world—would surely be damaged; any attack capable of even catching my attention would render the beautiful bar and the wood-faced columns into kindling. I shifted power to force-fields, just in case, and subtly shifted so that my body would protect William from any energy blasts. I turned slowly, carefully, so as not to provoke an early assault.

  And then the applause began, followed by laughter and shouted congratulations.

  I checked my sensors but was unable to detect any mood-altering chemicals in the air, and a more detailed scan confirmed that there had been no accidental transportation to an alternate universe where the heroes sported evil goatees.

  “Most of them have families,” William murmured from behind me. “And so do I. My grandson is the same age as the children you saved.”

  Not knowing what else to do or say, I raised my beer in salute. The cheers were confusing but gratifying nonetheless. I’d originally come here to ask after Skullface’s location, but instead I found myself making small talk and shaking hands as the horde converged.

  Even when unexpected circumstances trended in my favor, I found it irksome when events transpired in a manner that made a mockery of mathematical projections. I’d studied the men and women who frequent Lassiter’s Den. I knew them. Hardened criminals drank here, fiends who would not balk at committing horrors to achieve their goals. Some patrons were vicious and cruel, others were misfits trapped by circumstance or poor past choices. Over the decades, a culture had evolved that included a quiet acceptance of even the darkest of villains, and a deep-seated disdain of heroes.

  This was not the reaction that I’d predicted. Fortunately, the facial recognition systems built into the Mk 36b identified someone in the crowd that might have indicated a possible explanation.

  “I’m going to pose a hypothesis,” I murmured, using directed speakers such that only William would hear. “I suspect that—when news of the events in Chile first broke—the patrons here were not inclined to laud my actions. I further suspect that at least one un-costumed civilian (and possibly more) argued in my favor, buying drinks to soften tempers and making speeches that emphasized the humanity beneath the villains’ masks. Eventually, the crowd’s views evolved.”

  “She didn’t say anything that I wasn’t already feeling, Doctor Fid.”

  I just chuckled, ordered a second beer, and then made my way through the crowd to find a short, stout civilian who was sitting alone and reading a book. I set the glass on his table and he looked up, eyes losing focus as he gazed at the stars within my armor’s faceplate.

  “I was thinking we should talk,” I said to Cloner, and sat across from him.

  A microexpression of surprise flickered across his face followed quickly by amused resignation. “How’d you know?”

  “My armor has very good scanners,” I disambiguated; the truth was that I had yet to create a way to identify one of Cloner’s bodies using technology. Every last method that I’d tried showed them to be an ordinary human, no different than any other person on the street. And yet Cloner had created and controlled hundreds—perhaps thousands—of unique bodies without any pattern to race, gender or appearance. This particular iteration I knew simply because I recognized it from two prior encounters: he’d been to Lassiter’s at least once before to entertain the crowd with bad jokes and had also been the last surviving Cloner from the battle at Mercer-Talon.

  Many years past, all of Cloner’s duplicates had been identical and that had been thought to be the limit of his power. He’d used those replicas as cannon-fodder, swarming into battle with slapstick humor and suicidal abandon but always protecting his original body. When that body was murdered by a villain named Spiker, it was assumed that the clones would soon perish…but they did not. Instead, the clones learned to create clones of their own and he’d overcome the identical-duplicate limitation. As long as one body survived—somewhere—Cloner could likely live forever and repopulate planets.

  “So,” the dark-haired man smiled, “What’d you want to talk about?”

  I used my forcefields to create an invisible semi-permeable dome around our table; no one would overhear our conversation. “I want to know why.”

  “Uh, you’re gonna need to be a bit more specific.” He scratched at his neck, as though his collar were bothering him; I’d spent hours watching footage of his battles, his interviews. Every one of Cloner’s bodies had its own unique nervous tics and reflexes, their own autonomic functions. The amount of processing power necessary to simply maintain his bodies at a ready state was remarkable; I reminded myself that he’d been an experienced veteran long before I’d built my first armor and that he was a hive-mind who could operate using the resources of hundreds of bodies at once. Despite his casual body language and informal language, his was an intellect worthy of respect.

  “Why did you use one of your other bodies to convince the patrons here to accept my presence?” I asked, directly. Cloner’s mental faculties might be a threat to be wary of, but not one to fear. I was Doctor Fid.

  “You’re a scary son of a bitch,” he grinned, taking up the glass of beer that I’d set on his table. “You know that?”

  “I do, yes.” Hidden within my armor, my smile was smug.

  “I meant scarily perceptive; I guess spine-chillingly creepy and intimidating fits too,” Cloner chuckled and took a swallow from his beer.

  “Thank you, on all counts,” I nodded in acknowledgment. “I would, however, still appreciate an answer to my question.”

  “Partially because you saved my life,” he replied, still smiling as though he had not a single care in the world. “Which sounds kinda selfish considering how many billions of other sentient life forms you saved from the Legion, but there you go. Also, the Red Ghost found out something that convinced him, and he’s my friend. You’re terrifying…but he thinks you’d make a good hero.”

  Unable to detect any nefarious intent, I considered the hero before me. He’d been effective and manipulative, yes, but not malicious. If Cloner were telling the truth—and I had no evidence that he was not, though I dared not take his honesty for granted—then it seemed likely that his actions would prove no threat to my long-term plans. Finally, I asked: “Do you know why he’s so certain?”

  “That’s not my story to tell. Ask Red Ghost.”

  “I’m asking you,” I growled, turning down the emotion-dampening aspects of the vocoder that created Doctor Fid’s voice.

  “Okay, okay. Jeez.” The overweight little man took a long drink, dark eyes still directed at my facemask. “You remember when you were accused of murdering him, ‘cause he overstressed his power and everyone thought he was dead, when he’d really just accidentally jumped to another dimension?”

  “I was there,” I replied dryly. “Of course I remember.”

  “He held a press conference, told everyone he was on an uninhabited alternate Earth, yeah?”

  “Yes.” Though he’d been close-lipped when I attempted to discuss the event with him directly.

  “Well, that was true…and it was months before he figured out how to get off that Earth. Time dilation stuff, you prob’ly understand that better ’n me.” Cloner shrugged. “The thing is, he dropped through a couple other alternate dimensions before he got back to this one.”

  Suddenly, the Red Ghost’s reluctance to comment on his missing time made sense; he was wary of my technology’s ability to recognize deception by analyzing body language, tone or biometric data. A lie of omission, however, was rarely
caught. Damn the man.

  “And in one of these alternate dimensions, he found information that led you to believe I would make a good hero?”

  “Yeah. But like I said…it’s not my story. Ask him for details.”

  I remained still, my thoughts swirling, and used the straw-like appendage that extended from my armor’s forearm to take a slow drink from my own beer. I could press for more information; Cloner was a talkative sort, it probably wouldn’t be overly difficult to lure out further information. On the other hand, I had the means to contact the Red Ghost…and I was painfully curious to hear the truth from his own lips. Rather than pushing the hero before me, I thought, it would be better to wait and receive my answers directly from the hero that I considered to be my nemesis.

  “I am grateful for your efforts,” I lied, “but you will stop now. Let me forge my own path.”

  “Sure, sure…if that’s what you want.” There was a playful glint in his eyes that made me doubt that he’d back off completely, but I believed that the overt manipulation would cease. If nothing else, I was certain that this confrontation would alter whatever game that Cloner was playing; he knew that I was aware now and would need to shift his tactics should he desire to continue his attempts to shape my choices.

  I nodded, satisfied, then straightened my back to sit a bit taller. “I do have one other question.”

  “Yeah?” he tilted his head, brow furrowed curiously. “Okay, shoot.”

  “Where,” I intoned, increasing the volume of Doctor Fid’s highly-masked voice and adding a threatening bass rumble, “can I find Skullface?”

  His grinned beatifically, “No idea. I was lying through my teeth when I spread the rumor. Red might think you’re a hero, but I still wanted to know where you’re getting your information. You have our internal notifications system hacked, yeah? The messages only went out a few hours ago, and here you are.”

  I chose not to confirm nor deny his assumption; Whisper had informed me that Skullface was in New York City so I assumed the hack must have been hers. I made a note to urge her to withdraw; the superheroic artificially intelligent being known as Cuboid may have been scarce since the battle at Mercer-Talon…but Cuboid was a member of the New York Shield. Interfering directly with their servers was dangerous.

  “All this, simply to sate your curiosity? You play a dangerous game.”

  “That wasn’t the only reason,” he grinned merrily.

  “And what, then, is your other reason?”

  “Remember after Mercer-Talon? I told the world that I owed you a beer. I just got most of this bar to buy you one. You’re welcome.”

  I couldn’t help it; I laughed before I thought to turn off my armor’s external speakers. Cloner looked annoyingly self-satisfied.

  “So,” he asked, “We done here, then?”

  “We’re done.”

  “Good, I gotta drain the lizard,” he belched and stood up. “Great beer, by the way.”

  He wandered towards the restroom, and I was gone before he returned.

  ◊◊◊

  Less than eight hours after I’d left a message at one of our dead drops, the Red Ghost replied with coordinates for a meeting; either I’d gotten lucky, or else he’d been checking the location regularly. The possibility of the former made me nervous, for the flavor of luck that usually rained upon me was of the sour variety. The latter raised my consternation even higher.

  If the Ghost was checking our dead-drop locations regularly, it was because he’d been hoping to see me. Why, then, hadn’t he left a note of his own? My mind swirled with possibilities, each more damning than the last. Had Regrowth informed him that my heroic actions were merely an act? If so, what was his intended response?

  In that scenario, I hoped that the Red Ghost chose violence. If he instead merely looked at me with sad disappointment, I would be forced to flee in shame.

  The codes within the missive were valid and indicated a late-night meeting in an abandoned warehouse near the docks; I knew the place. Technically, I owned it. It was nearby to one of the fake-bases to which I’d lured the Guardians and I’d snapped up several nearby properties through a complex web of holding companies. There was already a movement to renovate the region after the destruction caused by the battle, and I stood to make a hefty profit. Eventually. The Red Ghost had been a forensic accountant prior to gaining his superpowers, and I needed to be very careful before liquidating those assets. He and I may have been secret business partners, but he was also still a hero. If he uncovered even a thread of evidence, that thread would be tugged at until the entire tapestry unraveled. Greater care would be preferable so as to avoid conflict altogether.

  It was dark and low clouds blocked any hint of the moon’s light. There was some activity by the harbor; a shipment of furniture by the looks of it, with dockhands taking overtime pay to see the crates safely unloaded. My sensors spotted a few chartered boats in the bay; some were giving late night romantic tours, and others were seeking the bluefish schools that were currently in season. All in all, a quiet evening.

  The warehouse skylights were open so I slipped through and landed gracefully at the appointed time.

  The Red Ghost was waiting for me. In the shadows, his long crimson cloak faded to black; the hood was folded back, though, and the eyes behind his mask were gravely serious as he stepped into a sliver of light.

  “Doctor,” he greeted. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Is it?” I asked. “I wasn’t certain what to expect. Regrowth nearly died while fighting at my side.”

  “She didn’t die. You saved her life,” his lips turned up in a bright and honest smile. “For that, you have my eternal gratitude.”

  “Regrowth wouldn’t have been in that position if I hadn’t accepted her offer for help,” I shook my head, my shoulders hunched from the weight of my guilt. “I should have been more careful.”

  “Elaine is a strong, stubborn woman.” There was worry in his eyes, but also fond exasperation. “She makes her own choices. She made a decision and events turned south. Sadly, that happens in our chosen profession. But my fiancee is still alive because you pulled her from the ground. I am not in the least bit angry at you.”

  “Fiancee?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Congratulations,” I said, and he looked so smugly pleased that I almost laughed aloud.

  “So,” he coughed, now embarrassed. “Why did you want to talk?”

  “I recently bumped into Cloner,” I replied. “He mentioned that you might have a story for me.”

  “Ah.” He looked away, “I wasn’t certain that I should tell you. It is a sad tale.”

  “It may be important. Cloner told me that you’d been to more than one world, after the Legion officer’s attack?”

  “Yes. I hadn’t known my mists could do that, to disperse myself so thin that I slipped between dimensions. That first world…I didn’t know where I was. It was beautiful and green and lush. I thought that perhaps I was dead and that I’d somehow found my way to Regrowth’s heaven where I could wait for her. Growing things are her domain. I quickly realized that wasn’t the case; I was alive, but not on earth. The stars and the moon were all wrong.”

  While many of my inventions utilize artificially-created sub-dimensions, I’d never constructed a device to travel between naturally-formed dimensions. I was familiar with the math, however, and there were certain quantum variables that made accurate transmission difficult. The rifts were far too unstable for my comfort; whatever force granted the Red Ghost his powers, it must also have protected him from the possibility of being caught between.

  “Still,” he continued, “I expected rescue so I set up camp and waited. As the days turned to weeks, however, I knew that all must have believed me dead. I waited until my powers were recovered—it took several months—and then I turned to mist and pushed, attempting to repeat the experiment that had thrown me to the wrong world.”

  This newly discovered aspect of the
Red Ghost’s power simplified the maths for interdimensional transportation. In my head, I was beginning to design a mechanism that would have assisted in getting him home. Perhaps I could miniaturize it sufficiently that he could carry it on his person, just in case. Those months when we’d all thought him dead had been unpleasant.

  “When I regained consciousness, I was somewhere else. Another uninhabited world. So I waited, survived, then tried again. Eventually, I thought that I’d found my way home. It was a world similar to this, but the heroes were different. And I found myself—another Miguel Espinoza—still working at H&H Global in New York.”

  There was a note of longing in his voice. Could he miss the tedium of a nine-to-five job so terribly? No, he was respected here, comfortably wealthy (in no small part due to his secret dealings with a supervillain, admittedly), and now engaged to an extraordinary woman. Perhaps that other Miguel had settled down and had a family. The life of a superhero was less stable than that of a forensic accountant, and I supposed that stability had a certain appeal all its own.

  “I found that world’s incarnation of Professor Paradigm and he offered to help me get home. Apparently, the device would only work for me because of a quirk of my powers—”

  Hah!

  “—but he was able to get something working. Just before I left, though, I’d made a joking comment that only Doctor Fid could have constructed it faster, and one of Paradigm’s assistants startled. He mentioned that he used to call his brother by that title because his brother was a P-H-D Doctor…”

  “…and ‘P-H’ is pronounced ffffff,” I completed, feeling lightheaded. “What happened to his brother?”

  “Sadly, his brother was killed in a supervillain attack decades ago, protecting him. I think…I thought that was that world’s version of you. That you were dead there. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” He was talking about Bobby. An adult Bobby, alive! I always suspected that, somehow, Bobby’s death had been my fault. That I’d failed him. Now I knew that somewhere in the multiverse, there had been a Terry Markham who’d been a better brother than I. Who’d moved faster, been luckier. That incarnation of Terry had somehow managed to save his little brother, and I was intensely jealous. “There is nothing to be sorry about.”