A Once Crowded Sky (14 page)

Star-Knight watches it all as he waits for his son to arrive. It’s not too late, he reminds himself. The threat can come. And he can still save the boy. He can still save them all.

At this moment his colleagues are languishing in their living rooms, nibbling on their shirt collars, wishing they could do something, anything, to help ameliorate the suffering twinkling across their TV screens. Castrated morons, they whine on about the unjust travesty that’s barred them from once again embracing greatness. They’ve already begun contacting him, begging him to do something to help them help others. Even Strength, the ever-proud Woman Without Weakness, had called him three times today.

Meanwhile, his people—the best people he, or anyone, can afford—spin at the axis of action, evaluating, assessing, and determining what’s to be done. His people, they have no powers, but they have power, the power that comes with the support of Star-Knight’s empire, a conglomerate of energy and steel built upon legitimate earnings instead of all that vaudevillian voodoo.

He’d always known: as with all gifts without price, the powers would not be everlasting. While others acted the grasshopper—prancing
about all summer long in their top hat and tails, defeating one villain after another with neither worry nor care—Star-Knight built something, invested in something, sold something, bargained for something, until he was the fourth-richest man on the globe, the richest black man in history; he became someone, and no one cared if that someone wore the Belt of the Flame or the latest fashion flown in from the walkways of Milan.

“Sir,” his secretary says over the intercom, “Starry is here.”

“All right,” Star-Knight says, “send him in.”

A beep, the swish of a door, and his son, Starry, comes into the room. The boy looks more like his grandfather each day, too serious, his face weighted in judgment.

“Dad?”

“Was he there?” Star-Knight asks. “At the hospital. Did you confirm it?”

“Dad, I have to talk to you.”

“You have an assignment, Starry. Was he there?”

Starry hesitates too long before speaking. “He was there. Him and Sicko and Soldier all came up after.”

Star-Knight interrupts, “He was at the scene? Pen? You’re sure?”

“Multiple reports. Last sighting, Pen’d left and Sicko and Soldier stayed. Soldier’s taken the lead among emergency personnel; looks like he’s doing a good job of it.”

“Pen, all right.” Star-Knight walks to the window. In the far distance he can see the smoke rising, and despite it all, he prays for Ultimate to fly out of it, to curve into the horizon and head back to save the day.

Star-Knight used to wear a magical belt. What a goofy thing that was. But with it, he could endow The Living Flame, a blue fire that crackled and calcified at his will, one of the sacred weapons of the universe, forged to aid its wielder in an endless Quest for Justice. Invited, he did exactly that: battling through both galaxies and malls, trouncing those that would defy the perfection of the light.

His son too had worn a wondrous belt, a gift from his father. The two had fought side by side, teaming up with Ultimate and PenUltimate in fun, family adventures. Eventually though, as he had to, the boy left, changed his name to the revolting Distant Sun, and went off to find himself—or whatever bullshit it is the young do when they do the
predictably idiotic things they always do. And then The Blue came, and Star-Knight called his boy back to make the sacrifice.

Star-Knight lost his belt that day, hooked it to Ultimate after using it to suction off the powers of all those heroes gathered to save the world. The boy kept his though, still wears it. Even now, he doesn’t understand how worthless the thing really is.

“You did well,” Star-Knight says, walking back to his boy. “We had to know.”

“Dad, I’ve been watching this, reading the reports from our people.”

“It’s nothing we haven’t prepared for.”

“Sir,” Starry says, “shouldn’t we—”

“You know your role. You’re on Pen.”

“We need to help.”

“If Pen’s involved, I want to know where and when. I need my best man, and you’re him. You’re friends. Get inside with him, report back.”

Starry looks down at the ground; he’s still picking at that belt. “Sir, Dad, I’ll be on it. But there’s more to do.”

“Focus on Pen. That’s your role.”

Starry looks back up. “We have to fight it. It’s not about Pen. People died. Hundreds. We have to come back and fight it.”

“What?”

“Dad, you heard—I know you know. We should tell people. We can’t keep it from them. We have to tell them. I could organize people. We have to fight it. If there’s a way. We have to.”

“Again with this?” Star-Knight shouts, his voice echoing off the screens at his feet. “Don’t bring this up with me, boy. Not again.”

“Come on, Dad, listen to me here.”

“Goddamnit, Starry, what did I just tell you?” Star-Knight gestures around the room. “What is all of this for? We’re here, we’re helping. With or without them. That’s done. Understand?”

“Yes . . . yes, sir.”

“Goddamnit! Do you understand or not? Goddamnit, Starry!”

His son, even as that tough little jaw twitches, his son looks exactly like his grandfather, his face weighted in judgment during all those trips Star-Knight and his father made cleaning houses for the rich white folk who could afford the help, collecting money as if it were worth something in such small amounts, holding down the anger that came with
having to accept a certain fate that seemed smaller than the man it’d been given to.

“I was thinking,” Starry says, and the voice cracks into tears. His hands won’t stop itching on that old, faraway belt, clutching at a metal buckle that does nothing but take up space and remind him of all the things he doesn’t need to be reminded of.

Star-Knight reaches out to his kid, clutches him close. “We’re helping, Son,” he whispers. “There’s no more need for that talk. Get your job done. Look after Pen. We’re helping, we’re winning.”

Like all the heroes now, Starry snivels his face into Star-Knight’s chest. He sniffs and gasps and cries because he can’t dress fancy and shoot off lasers at docile villains. Star-Knight pats the kid, lets him know it’s all good now. The heroes are gone. We are gone. But it’s all good. The world will still be saved.

The threat had to come. Star-Knight’d known that for some time. But that did not mean it could not still be controlled. And so he fortified his empire, content in the knowledge that when danger once again came, there would be somebody to greet it, to challenge it, to scream in its maddening face that only the powers were lost, we are still here: I am still here.

Star-Knight holds his child, rubs the back of the boy’s head into his own shoulder. Star-Knight doesn’t care what has been written, what images have been sketched, traced over, and colored in, what words have been hand-lettered into the air above him; he has no care for any of that. The world will be saved. Pen will be saved. I am still here.

On the screens beneath them, buildings are leveled and reformed, only to be leveled once more; people who are dead resurrect and then burn again. In dozens of languages, commentators are simultaneously superimposed over screens of utter incomprehension, until all at once they are gone, and the chaos pulses back into the foreground. Everywhere, repeatedly, people are sobbing and hurting, and Star-Knight holds his son tight.

I have not left. I have not come back. I am still here.

The Soldier of Freedom #522

“Goddamnit!” Sicko shouts at the dead woman sagging from his grip down his shoulder.
“Goddamnit!”

Though his legs’re cramped from a long day’s work, Soldier hurries up behind the young man and tries to steady the body before it drops to the ground like a few others Sicko’s handled today.

“Watch it there,” Soldier says. “Take it easy. No rush, remember.” Once he gets the woman balanced, Soldier pats the kid on his lower back. “No rush.”

“Dude, when I get my palms on the bastards that ripped this shit, I am going to seriously fuck shit up. Seriously.” Sicko repeats a sentiment he seems fond of repeating.

“Son, I’m not going to tell you again: you watch your words around these folks, show some respect. You’re doing good, not a doubt of that. But walk careful now.”

“Yeah, whatever, man.” Spitting out a scoff, Sicko quickens his pace far faster than Soldier can keep up. If he hadn’t dealt with a thousand privates just like the boy, Soldier might take offense. As it is, he’s grateful for the help, and maybe Sicko’ll grow some from this as men do. Or maybe not. Anyway, boy didn’t have to be here, and here he is.

Soldier stops again to survey the field, allowing his body to sink low for half a second, trying again to take a calm pride in what’s there—crews everywhere showing honest bravery in getting done what needs doing in the best manner they can. He’s directed many a battlefield over the years, and the scene ain’t foreign to him; and neither’s the anxiety that drums on him with this type of work.

Most people follow the orders he gave, and that’s not all bad. A man can forget the value in how these situations make folks come together. He licks his lips. This ain’t so bad. This ain’t so bad. With his left hand, he teases the bumpy grip of California. Pull the trigger. Tired but not beat, Soldier walks on.

Through a fissure running the length of one of his lenses, he spies a man coming toward him. The slice in his vision has the odd effect of splitting the approaching figure in half, so that the lower part of his body seems to be coming up at a slightly off angle from the upper.

“Sir, can I help you?” Soldier asks. There’s no response as the carved man keeps toddling nearer. God, Soldier doesn’t really have the time. “Sir, can I help you?” Still no answer. “Sir, if you ain’t here to help, you probably should be outside the perimeter.”

And of course, right after yelling out after him, Soldier recognizes
the man, though he hasn’t seen him since the Villains’ Graveyard. “Prophetier,” Soldier says, “how are you? Doing better?”

“I’m glad you came,” Prophetier says.

“Yeah, well, ain’t much of a choice, is it?”

“I told you it was coming back.”

Soldier grunts and tips his head. “Sure. We all come back. I remember.”

“Where’s Pen?” Prophetier pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lights one up.

“Pen?”

“PenUltimate, the last of us.”

“Yeah, I know Pen.” Soldier coughs. “He was here, helping out. Don’t know where he got off to though. Believe someone said he was going to get some drink and get back to me. That was, I don’t know, maybe two hours back. Why? He all right?”

It takes Prophetier some time to answer as he goes through a few rounds with his cigarette. He’s one of those men who does his smoking without his hands, balancing the thing between top and bottom lip, letting his lungs carry the work. “You can’t save them,” he finally says.

“Excuse me?”

“You should find Pen.”

“I haven’t got the foggiest—”

“Pen’s not here,” Prophetier interrupts. “He went home, to the Metal Room.”

“Didn’t you just ask me where he was?”

“He can help us.” Prophetier nods to the sky. “Help us defeat it.”

“I’m sure he can.” Soldier swallows a quick breath, tries not to lose his temper. “Look, son, I better get back to getting these folks moved. We can talk all that later, all right?”

Soldier takes a step forward, but Prophetier blocks him. “I told you we all come back.” Prophetier leans in tight, the black-yellow tip of the cigarette warming a spot on Soldier’s cheek.

“Look, son, I hear you, but in all honesty I don’t know if this here had anything to do with what you were saying before. Don’t take much to predict a fight and take credit when it comes. But if you got more info on this, I’d be happy to listen. If not, there’s things I need to do.”

Prophetier comes in closer, the two men’s chests now about
touching. “You can’t fight this. You’re too weak. And it’s too strong. It’ll kill us all.”

“I’m done with this,” Soldier says, but as he starts to push by, Prophetier puts his palm on Soldier’s chest, stopping him short. Soldier eyes the other man’s hand and hopes it ain’t too obvious how worn Soldier is, how hard his heart has to go to get him through even this.

“It’ll keep coming,” Prophetier says, “and it’ll kill us all.”

“I think you ought to remove that hand.”

Prophetier smiles, his fingers tightening into Soldier’s chest.

“Son—”

“And you’re too weak to stop it.”

Soldier throws the punch as a solution, a way to avoid pulling the gun. It skims off Prophetier’s face, doing no damage. Even the unbalanced cigarette hangs steady.

Prophetier grins and draws his eyes up and down Soldier. After a few seconds, Prophetier straightens his neck and shrugs. “It’s coming. The next adventure. And what’re you going to do? Are you going to punch them all out?” Prophetier sucks in a flake of black off the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know. You don’t hit so hard anymore.”

Soldier looks down and spits.