A Once Crowded Sky (26 page)

He couldn’t go back; he knew that now. He couldn’t risk being used against his own countrymen again. There was a relief in it he admitted. Finally, he could say he’d achieved enough. No one could question his patriotism; no one would dare question his ability. Soldier was tired and ready to head home. That there was no home to which he could head didn’t seem to bother him. He’d find a place, a casual oasis somewhere, and maybe a good woman, and that’d be it. It’d be over.

Star-Knight and Ultimate approached him the day after he emerged from the ice. We’re forming a new group, The Liberty Legion. It’ll be the best of the best. You don’t understand, this is a new world now, a world not threatened by armies, but one still vulnerable to the frightening will of villains. This is the new war, and it is fought here, on these shores. Yes, you’ve done well, but there’s more to be done, battles to be won. You are still needed.

Soldier thumbed the scar on his cheek now buried under layers and layers of subsequently hardened skin. It was tough to recognize himself anymore hidden somewhere behind the pulp and repair. He looked at the two men, one made of shining metal, the other clothed in a blue flame.

“When will this war be over?” Soldier asked.

Neither man answered.

“Right. All right.”

A father; a president; a slave; a whore; a drunk; a killer; a servant; a rapist; a stranger; a peasant; a killer. There were presidents and scientists and trainers and privates and generals and heroes and enemies, and there were hopes and expectations and promises and deaths and wars, there were so many wars. And there was a soldier too.

Soldier’s ready. His pistol’s waiting, and behind him and around him is the enemy, an enemy, any enemy. In him, whispering and roaring, are the hard-earned contradictions, the stoic evils, the playful goods. Now he has a mark on both cheeks separated by years and years of this, nothing but this. His finger flicks the back of the trigger, and his eyes turn to the target.

His grandpa made a start of it, and his grandma was finished off. His father had a destiny; his mother had a gun. Soldier wasn’t born with a thing, and he probably wouldn’t die any differently. When they asked, he volunteered. And they never stopped asking.

The question’s still there, isn’t it? Soldier’s eyes go to Prophetier. The world’s spat on him and his blood about as much as it could. Aim true, hit the head or maybe the chest. His debts, if he ever had any, had been settled. Aim true. When they asked him, when they asked him all those times, why didn’t he say no? Soldier begins, starts to draw. What saves the day? What makes the man?

Truth is, he doesn’t really know. He wanted to quit. Every time. Every damn time. He wanted to give up and go home. A father, a slave, a rapist, a killer: that’s his legacy, his fate. There ain’t no more to it than that, no more to him. As he looks back, he sees the trails of blood in the barren earth; and ahead: more land to cross, more ground to stain. Born in death, a few good years with a good man, the bullet, the war, The Blue, the weapon in his hand.

Nothing’s changed, and nothing ever will. That’s as close to an explanation as he can come. The bad things of the world, the wretched violence, the newborn pain, they’re always there. Maybe sometimes they seem to retreat as the world clutches to some stupid fantasy. But they come back. They all come back. It’s impossible to deny it, to ever hope to prevent it.

So he does. He pushes against it until his muscles tear and his bones grind to dust. It can’t be done. No one can ever end it. There’ll always be another day, another victim, another father, another slave, another rapist, another killer. It’s true. But there’ll always be another soldier too.

Someone’ll shout against it, someone’ll at least try to show that in that effort, as ignorant as it is, there’s at least dignity. Even if there’s no hope, there is defiance, there’s his defiance. He’ll see to that. If nothing else, he’ll make damn sure of that.

Soldier’s tired. He’s always tired these days. It makes it hard to see
what’s good and what’s right. Above him a kid and a man face off, each with a gun pulled and aimed. As quick as he can, he turns and points California at the threat. This time Soldier’s aim’ll be straight. This time he’ll make the kill.

But he doesn’t pull the trigger.

Ultimate, The Man With The Metal Face #577

Pen opens the door, and there’s Ultimate standing tall, his red cape falling to the crook of his knees, his silver jaw, as always, shining steady.

“What?” Pen asks.

“I know,” Sicko says, stepping out from behind Ultimate. “Can you believe this? I was outside, coming to see you, and I saw him land on the freaking roof! Like back in the day! Can you believe this?”

“Everything okay?” Anna shouts from the bedroom.

“Everything’s all right, A!” Sicko responds. “Everything’s mad all right!”

“Ultimate?” Pen asks.

“He came back!” Sicko shouts. “Everyone comes back!” Sicko slaps Pen on the shoulder and smiles.

Ultimate hasn’t moved; he remains a spandex-clad statue framed in the doorway of Pen’s apartment. As always, Pen’s senses balloon out, confirm that every muscle, every refulgent curve leading from muscle to muscle matches the hero he remembers. Pen reaches out his arm, then takes it back before he touches anything.

“What’s going on out there?” Anna asks.

“It’s okay,” Pen says, speaking too softly for her to hear.

“I knew we would come back!” Sicko shouts. “Hell, yeah!”

“How?” Pen’s eyes stay on Ultimate.

“Who gives a flying chicken lick about how?” Sicko says. “He’s back! Let’s get this game going, go after the threat, smack the serious ass. It’s finally time! It’s time to be awesome again! We’re going to be awesome again!”

Anna comes through the back hallway into the living room. “What the hell is this?” she asks, running her hand through her hair. As she enters the room, Ultimate moves for the first time, tilting his head to look at Anna.

Sicko puts his hand on Ultimate’s shoulder. “We’re going to be awesome again!” he shouts, and Ultimate moves again, grabs Sicko’s hand off his shoulder, holds Sicko’s hand inside his metal fist. “Dude?” Sicko asks as Ultimate closes his grip and crushes flesh into metal.

Sicko drops, and Anna screams.

Pen sprints forward, grabs Sicko, wrenching him free of Ultimate’s grip. Ultimate cocks his arm, and Pen lets go of Sicko as he twists his torso back to avoid the coming blow. Pen moves faster than any man can move, and he doesn’t move fast enough, and Ultimate strikes him across the chest, sending Pen crashing back through the stand-up piano Pen got Anna for their second anniversary.

Pen tries to stand, but a quick, high pain grabs his spine, pulls him down. Pen groans, but Ultimate doesn’t even bother to look at him. The metal man’s attention remains fixed on Anna as he steps forward, his metal boots pounding through their wood floor, raising a cloud of dust. The newly formed debris collects around the pristine edges of Ultimate’s cape, browning it slightly.

“No,” Pen says.

Anna continues to scream as Sicko rises from the floor, cradling his broken hand. Sicko looks at Pen, nods, and rushes to Anna, tackles her, and carries her over his shoulder into the back hall, toward the bedroom. Without hesitation, Ultimate follows, walking slowly as if this were another training exercise and he had all the time he needed to get it done.

On top of the wreckage of the piano, Pen puts away the pain; he crouches and leaps, landing on Ultimate’s back. Arching his knee into the man’s metallic spine for leverage, Pen wraps his arm around Ultimate’s neck and tightens his grip, a move he learned when he was thirteen, when Ultimate and Pen were fighting a giant wood-alien and it was the only way Pen could think to save Ultimate from the surprisingly persistent villain. What a neat adventure that was. Afterward, after Pen had knocked the creature unconscious, they got the key to the city.

Ultimate stops, and Pen thinks he’s won, and Ultimate bucks his shoulders back, hacking them into Pen’s head. Sound blasts heavy through Pen’s skull, but he shakes it off, holds his grip, and Ultimate bucks again, thrusts a steel elbow into Pen’s thigh, breaking through bone and muscle. Pen’s grip falters, and he slides down his mentor’s back, only
able to watch as Ultimate steps again across their floor, toward their hallway, toward their bedroom, toward Sicko, toward Anna.

Pen stands, and though his leg tries to repair itself, glows orange with the effort, it still fails, and he tips forward, comes back down, gnashing his head into the ripped wood; and Pen stands again, leaning hard on his healthy leg, dragging the other one along until the metal in him can do what metal is supposed to do: serve its user, perfect the flesh.

The wires inside Pen begin to hum, form into a voice capable of cutting through the howl of pain, and the voice encourages him, scolds him, demands Pen get past the problem and get the job done.
You’ve been here before. Someone’s taken control of Ultimate, just like when he killed your parents. It’s an old adventure. You were nothing then. But I trained you. I made you better.

Limping forward, Pen grabs a picture of Anna off a nearby bookshelf and throws it at Ultimate’s back. “Turn around,” he says, and he grabs another picture, him and Anna standing in this room, laughing, and he throws it, watches it break across Ultimate’s cape. “Turn around,” he says as he reaches for another frame. “Turn around.”

Ultimate continues forward, and Pen grabs the entire wooden shelf, pushes through the vicious bite in his chest, and throws the whole damn thing at Ultimate’s back. “Turn around,” Pen says.

The shelf bursts into splinters around Ultimate’s cape, and The Man With The Metal Face turns. Pen charges, willing his bad leg to take three last steps. He lowers his shoulder into Ultimate’s chest and he transfers every whirl of power left into the blow.

It works; it has to be working, and Ultimate lifts back an inch, and the wires cheer for Pen even as Ultimate gets his hands bent in front of him, folds his metal fingers into Pen’s giving, cracking ribs; and Ultimate flips the boy over and forward, slamming him against one wall of the hallway and then the other, and then the other, and then the other, plaster and wood raining into the apartment, and then the other, and then the other, and then the other, back and forth like that, and for a while, until he finally flings Pen into the back bedroom as if Pen were some stupid action figure some stupid kid kept in some stupid box in his room.

Pen piles into a wall and falls into the floor. His body bends and breaks, and he falls into the floor. Something in his shoulder slips loose,
cuts across his throat, burns into his lungs, and he falls into the floor, resting his pulsing ear against his and Anna’s floor.

And he hears her, hears her voice vibrating through the wooden slats, hears her pleading with Ultimate, questioning Ultimate as The Man With The Metal Face marches closer. Ultimate doesn’t respond, and Pen looks up, looks at his wife; she’s tucked behind Sicko, fighting to get around him, screaming at Ultimate, demanding some explanation for what the hell is happening in her home.

Ultimate steps forward, and Sicko pushes Anna back, pushes her away from the fight. Ultimate steps forward, and Sicko throws a punch, cracks his working hand into Ultimate’s metal face, shouts that Ultimate will not take another step, not while there’s still a hero here, not while Sicko is still fighting, and Ultimate steps forward, grabs Sicko’s head and twists, and Sicko falls. Ultimate steps forward, two feet from Anna now.

Pen needs to get to her. Though the pain has him, though his muscles and bones refuse to respond, though it’s all useless, he needs to get to her. He needs to get between them, make the sacrifice, like Sicko did, like all the heroes would do. He needs to, but he’s weak, he can’t move, he’s so weak.

Ultimate reaches Anna, and she screams.

Pen tries. Everything in him is broken, every nerve set aflame. And he tries to move. To get to her, to save her. He tries, and nothing moves, and she screams, and he fails. And he tries again, and he fails again, and he can’t move. Always and again. PenUltimate fails.

The hum of wires. Ultimate’s voice.
A hero puts the greater good above himself, above his own limitations. You don’t give up. You don’t quit. You’re the hero. Save the day.

No. It hurts too much. I’m too weak. I’m not the hero. I’m the one who walked away, who didn’t show up. I’m too weak. I was always too weak.

Anna’s screams quiet, and it all hurts, and he can’t move. He’s so weak.

No. You’re the hero. Save the day.

Pen bows his head. He weeps for those who’d counted on him, who had faith that one day the metal would spread and the boy could become a man—the man could become a hero. Not him. Not Pen. He only wanted to go home and be with her, forever with her.

A hero would never have quit. A hero would have faced The Blue. A hero would have risen. And after all this time, still Pen can’t move. A hero would rise, and his wife is there, and Pen is hurt, and he can’t move, and a hero would move, would rise.

Anna’s voice. It’s still there. Underneath the clank of metal fists. A few whimpers. A cry. It’s not much anymore.

And the wires churn, screaming, urging Pen on, begging for Pen to move.
You’re the hero. Save the day.
Power begins to surge inside Pen, charge brightly into his muscles and bones, coupling with the pain from his fresh wounds. As it all comes together, Pen arches his back, twists his neck. Pain. Everywhere. It’s too much. He’s not the hero. He’s not anyone’s hero. He just wants to go home. He’s too weak. He can’t move. It hurts too much. And Pen’s body glows red as he shuts his eyes, tries to escape into unconsciousness.