Hero Engine (5 page)

I exit the bathroom, jacket hung over my shoulder. Ann looks me up and down and smiles. “Yeah, you look good in Vince’s clothes.”

I drape my jacket over one of the leather recliners and take a seat across from her. “Thanks. I guess I’m lucky we’re about the same size. Probably the only time in my life I’ll ever wear,” I check the inside of the jacket, “Armani.”

Ann gives a soft laugh and we fall quiet. I drum my fingers on the desk, trying to think of something to fill the silence. On my normal day, most of my conversations begin with a reading of rights.

“So, um, the SHI Hive is underwater?”

Ann nods.

“So what were the windows in there? I saw a city outside.”

“All the windows are actually high-definition monitors, yeah. It’s to keep the Hive workers from getting cabin fever or claustrophobia. The images are real enough to fool the eye into thinking there is actual scenery right outside SHI. The scenes change day and night and seasons and weather. Even ambient sounds get played around the building and change every few weeks.”

“That’s…” I try to wrap my head around the research and technology necessary to create something like that. The shit does not compute. My tiny monkey brain barely manages my smartphone, let alone a building-wide TV system that changes at random. “That’s something. So, back on subject, where are we right now?”

Ann touches a spot on the oak desk in front of us. A small monitor rises up. The screen blinks to life and shows a map. A little red dot representing the plane shows us in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

“How long till NYC?”

“About ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes? That’s a two-hour flight.”

“Not in this plane, Love. The Initiative is the most technologically advanced unit in the world.”

“Cool. Well that doesn’t give us much time for you to tell me why we are taking a plane and not having Miles, what was the term,
traverse
us?”

Ann turns her gaze down to her hands. “I-I don’t want to talk about it, all right?”

“I get not wanting to talk about it, but Vince said you could help with the heroes. If you don’t have powers, how can you be any help?”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it, aul’right?” The English in her accent comes out heavier than usual.

I hold my hands up. “Okay, okay. If something goes down with one of these heroes, you’ve got my back, right?”

She fidgets in her seat, but nods.

“You know how I got this limp?” Talking about my limp always seems to break the ice. I’m not Mr. Scary Policeman, I’m Normal Dude That Terrible Shit Happens To On Occasion.

Ann shakes her head.

I tell her all about what happened. About The Patriot, about my hip, everything. Just as I finish, the pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom. “We are just outside of the city. Anywhere in particular I should take us?”

“The roof of the
New York Times
Building,” Ann says. To me, “That’s where The Patriot likes to hang out.”

“Roger” the pilot says, and the plane banks to the right.

“How fast does this thing go?” I straighten my clothes, preparing to come face-to-face with the oldest hero in existence.

Ann smiles. “Bloody fast.” She stands from her seat and straightens my collar.

“Thank you,” I say, as I give my shirt a final adjustment.

“Nervous?”

“Not really. Okay, yeah, completely.”

“It’ll be great.”

“I’m about to ask a superhero, with super powers and everything, about his possibly homicidal girlfriend. I can only think of about
three hundred thousand
ways this could go wrong.”

“I’ll be there with you. It will be fine, yeah?”

I raise an eyebrow at her. “Are you going to stop The Patriot from throwing me off of this building if he doesn’t like my questions?”

Ann starts to turn away, but stops herself with an obvious effort. “I think you will handle yourself just fine out there. They don’t call you ‘Cool’ Jim Quig for nothing, right?”

“Well, actually, they call me that because—”

“We are directly over the Tower now.” The pilot’s voice pops through the cabin speaker again. “Looks like The Patriot is waiting to greet you down there.”

I step over to a window and peer out. Two hundred and thirty pounds of American muscle stares at the plane. Maybe my original estimate of how many ways this could go wrong came in a little short.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

“Okay, take us down.”

THE PILOT DOES
a vertical landing and drops the plane right in the center of the roof. The hatch opens from the bottom and the stairs roll out. I take one last gulp of oxygen and march down to my doom.

At the bottom of the stairs, The Patriot waits. To the best of my knowledge, he’s the only hero that dresses like a comic-book character. His tights are a mixture of white, red, and stars; and a brilliant blue cape billows out behind him. His glacial blue eyes are like sapphires below his black pompadour. They call him The Patriot for a reason. He’s more American than if Evel Knievel had a kid with apple pie and named James Dean the godfather.

“Hello, welcome.” The Patriot’s voice booms with down-home Americana. I can close my eyes and dream of 1950. The feeling makes me want to have a whiskey, smoke a cigarette and slap my secretary on the ass. “I saw the SHI aircraft and thought I’d see what brings you to my wonderful city.”

All heroes live at SHI Headquarters and get sent out on missions, but The Patriot is different. He’s been around since before the show was run like that. And he’s considered an American symbol. So he gets to hang out in the Big City every day. I wonder if the other heroes hate him for that.

“Hello, Mr. Patriot,” I stick my hand out for a shake. “Mr. Larson has sent my partner Ann and I out to talk to you about Gravitess. I’ve been informed that you two are in a relationship.”

“Oh, I see. Are you part of the
official
investigation?” These words don’t come out with the same accent. He sounds less Mr. Cleaver and more Russian Cosmonaut.

Seriously, was this guy on the Sputnik before he became a hero?

He must notice my surprise because he says, “My real name’s Petr. Yes, the good ol’ American icon is Russian. I liked this city when I first became superhero, so I work here a lot. The people like it and so I become, The Patriot.”

“Ah, I see.” Fucking weird.

“So you are the
official
board of inquiry.”

“Somewhat official, yes.”

“This is not on the books, eh?”

“Not exactly.”

“So I no need answer you?”

I scratch the back of my head. “You don’t have to, but it sure would be nice if you did. I’d hate to have to dangle you off the edge of the building to scare some information out of you.”

Crickets. Less than crickets.

After a long hard stare, the kind that punk kids give me right before they go tight-lipped, The Patriot says, “Go ahead. I like your question, I give you answer.”

I glance at Ann. She encourages me with a nod.

“Are you in a relationship with Gravitess?”

“Yes. Tess and I, we see each other for few months now.”

My first urge is to ask him where people with super powers go on dates, but I quash that on the double. “Are you aware of her actions earlier today?”

The Patriot doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to answer.

A cold, biting gust slices through my shirt, chilling me to the bone. Over The Patriot’s shoulder the sun is on its final descent. A light orange haze covers the city below. Honks and shouts, and other city noises float up to us. Sirens blare.

“Yes, I see some footage from Seattle.”

“Do you know why she went AWOL?”

His face is stone. Not a flick of the eyes, or swallow, or tic of any kind. He stares me straight in the eyes. “No.”

“Has she talked about anything like this before?”

“No.”

“Has she made any attempt to contact you since the incident?”

“No.”

“Can I get more than one word for an answer?”

“Yes.” The sneaky fucking Russian smiles at his own dickishness.

“Do you know where I might be able to find her?”

“If I knew where she was, I would go myself. She needs me or someone she cares about, not Flatfoot Sherlock and Silent Assistant.”

I swallow an urge to take a swing at him. Punching a hero might not come off as professional and could also result in my immediate death. “I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on with Tess. Something must have broken somewhere to send her off the hinges like that, and I’d like to know what it was.”

The Patriot’s face curls up into a vicious snarl. “I’m going to let you in on little secret. If something broke, it’s because Tess felt used. All heroes feel used. You humans need us to protect you and catch bad guys and pose for trading cards, but you no care about us. You want your symbols of truth and justice and that’s it. Humans take and take until we break. Did you know that most hero deaths don’t occur on the job?”

He spits off the edge of the building. “They occur when hero can’t take it anymore and has to be put down. The psychology of hero kills faster than the job itself. If Tess go off her rocker, it’s hero business and heroes take care of her. Not you,
Human
.” The Patriot points off the building like he would like me to take a walk.

“Listen,
Hero,
I’ve been asked to do a job. If you don’t want to help, that’s fine, but I will figure out what’s going on.” By the time I’m done yelling, I’m standing nose to nose with The Patriot. He outweighs me, but we are about the same height. Super powers or not, I ain’t taking shit from this prick.

The Patriot’s face burns red enough to match his goofy-ass outfit. “You watch how you speak to me, insolent fool.” His breath reeks of hatred and vodka.

“I may be a fool, but at least I don’t have a pompadour. You fucking
govnosos
.” It’s amazing how the first and only words you can remember from any given language are the cuss words. I used to work in a restaurant with a Russian guy. For the life of me, I can’t remember how to say ‘hello’, but ‘shitsucker’ has stuck with me through all these years.

A vein bulges in The Patriot’s crimson forehead. His biceps bunch as his fists clench. I start to wonder if pissing off a guy with superhuman speed and strength and shoots lasers from his mouth is really the best idea. His chest forces a breath out and spittle flies from his lip, barely missing my face.

He pulls his fist to about three feet behind his head and launches it at me. I block the side of my head, close my eyes, and wait for my skull to cave in. A half-second later, the most ineffectual punch ever thrown lands against my arm. I step back, stunned. From the gape-jawed shock on The Patriot’s face, he’s also in the dark as to what just happened.

He lowers his head and takes a step toward me. I’m pretty sure I can hear his teeth screaming for mercy his jaw is clenched so tight. He draws his fist back again. This time I duck under the punch. As I come up, I bury my fist in his sternum. I expect to break my hand on his abs of steel, but instead find my knuckles buried three inches deep into his chest cavity.

The Patriot ‘oofs’ out a burst of air and stumbles back, gasping for breath. He’s got both arms wrapped around his midsection as he struggles for air. My fists stay clenched as I run through possible scenarios. None of them make a single goddamned bit of sense.

The hero in front of me stands with his shoulders slumped and body wrapped in a standing version of the fetal position. His face is contorted in a mixture of agony and rage, while I’m stuck wondering how this guy is supposed to be such a badass.

Maybe he’s not actually a superhero. Just an actor or something.

Maybe he’s not the real Patriot.

Maybe designer suits are his weakness.

Quite possibly, I have no idea what in the fuck I’m talking about.

That last one is probably most accurate.

The Patriot sucks in one more breath to steady himself and marches toward me. “I don’t know what you do to me, but you going to pay.”

I take a fighter’s stance again.

The Patriot throws a right jab. Although this is a safer punch than the haymakers he was throwing, it’s still thrown with all of the snap of a rotted log. I sidestep the punch and hook my left fist into his stomach. I feel my hand slide under ribs and contact his liver. When punched, the liver releases toxins that ends someone’s desire to fight – real fucking quick.

As (somewhat) expected, The Patriot drops, screaming obscenities in two languages, mixed in with plain old screaming. Getting hit in the liver is not something I recommend. I stand back and wait for the hero to regain his composure. I want to make sure this fight is over before I get back in the plane. The Patriot can (supposedly) fly, and I would hate for him to seek revenge mid-flight.

After a couple minutes of writhing and yelling, The Patriot pushes himself up to his feet. “What you want?” he says with a sneer.

I put my hands up in defense. “Are we done here?”

He glares at me in a way that makes me think he wants to rip me apart like I’m a T-shirt to his Hulk Hogan. “Yes. We done.” The dejected hero takes three steps and jumps off the edge of the building.

Instead of flying off into the sunset, he drops like a lead weight and screams. He falls at exactly the speed someone who can’t fly falls after jumping off a roof. The freefall lasts a few feet before he flies up and away from the building at rocket speed.

I guess he really can fly…ish.

“You all right?” Ann is standing next to me, a hand on my elbow.

The fight gave me tunnel vision. Ann stayed so quiet, I forgot she was up here. “Yeah, I’m fine, but that was…weird.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“Ann, I think you and I need to have a little talk.”

Another gust of half-frozen wind rips through my skin
. A fistfight with a superhero and the worst I get out of it is wind burn? Go fucking figure.

“We should probably do it back on the plane.”

Ann nods.