In Hero Years... I'm Dead Delux Edition (7 page)

“What you’re saying is: in hero years, I’m dead.”

“In hero years you’re dead, buried and so far gone they couldn’t pull trace DNA from your bones.” He drank again. “So, what is it you really want?”

“A locker. Place to stash stuff. Use of the gym.”

“That comes with a membership. You can afford it.”

“Maybe I want someone who will notice if I go missing.”
Notice and care.

His eyes narrowed. “You planning on making a habit of disappearing?”

“Didn’t have a choice last time.”

“Payback is stupid. You know that.” Grant shook his head. “Let it go.”

I lifted my chin. “You know a reason why I should?”

The edge returned to his voice. “Angina not withstanding, I can still take you apart. My rehab has included every martial art known to man, and a few common among our alien brethren. Don’t imagine I feel threatened.”

“But you do, Grant, because I know who you are. And yet, you
do
trust me. You took a look inside. You saw. If I was going to give up your identity, I would have done it a long time ago.”

“Why didn’t you?”

I hesitated.

“They didn’t ask, did they?”

I stood and pulled out a wad of cash and handed him a grand. “For my membership and locker. “

His hand remained on the table. “Keep it. I’ll set you up.”

“Old time’s sake?”

“If you hang out, maybe I can stop you from doing something stupid.”

“I’m not sure you were ever
that
strong.” I patted him on the shoulder as I walked away. “But I have a feeling I’m going to hope you are now.”

Seeing Grant was like being in my first earthquake. Something that should have been rock solid and unchanging was acting in a way it never had before. The foundation of the world had shifted. All the assumptions and guarantees I’d operated with were gone. The mightiest hero in the world had retired, not because it was time to pass his cape on to the next generation, but because someone had finally laid him low.

The game had truly changed. Graviton gone. C4 dissolved. Street punks kicking Nighthaunt’s ass—things weren’t supposed to be that way. The years weren’t supposed to matter. I’d known I’d be older when I came back, but that just meant training harder. It meant new tools. After all, if I couldn’t turn the clock back, at least I could upgrade my gear.

Grant’s condition threatened to suck me down into a depressive spiral, so I stopped thinking on it. I had lots to do before I could decide if he was right or not. It might be whistling past a graveyard, but I couldn’t let my revenge fantasy die. It had kept me alive, so I owed it something.

On the way back to the Excelsior I purchased some casual clothes. I sent some workout gear, some jeans and t-shirts off to Grant’s gym. I resisted buying neo-retro Jetsonia–but did make a mental note to develop an identity that would overindulge there. Sometimes the best way to pass unnoticed in society is to make yourself appear so outrageous that people actively refuse to acknowledge you. Jetsonia could do that, especially with mismatched and vibrant colors.

I packed up most of my finer clothes and dropped them with the concierge. I gave him the pleasure of disposing of my original suit. It headed for the incinerator before he gave me a luggage claim check. He understood I might not be back for a while and assumed I’d be generous when I returned.

I CRAWLed back to Devil’s Dump with a backpack of casual clothes on my shoulder. I stopped at Singh’s grocery for supplies. Randy greeted me with a smile, took my knapsack and put it behind the counter. He silently pointed out a shelf groaning beneath the weight of silver polish.

I retreated to the back of the store and studied the variety of sodas. They came in every size imaginable, from shot-glass to bladder-buster. Some of the flavors
had
to be acquired tastes. One brand even offered a layered bottle, with their New and then Classic formulae on top and bottom, sandwiching three others in between. I stared at it, disbelieving because
prosciutto
never should have been a soda flavor. Stacking it on top of rum-raisin was this side of blasphemous.

I told myself that my dismay was the reason I didn’t notice the kids come in. It was that or having to believe my old street senses had long since died. That would have meant Grant was on the mark. I couldn’t accept that.

Four kids, dressed in leather. Their faces were made up in white and with oozing wounds. They crowded in at the counter. The word “Zomboyz™” had been scrawled on their jackets in a font formed of bones. One grabbed Randy and pulled him halfway across the counter. Another popped the register open and the last two started loading up on breath mints.

There I was, a has-been hero who didn’t even have his bag of tricks with him.
And not a utility closet in sight
.

But when you’re in a convenience store, who needs a utility closet?

I popped the collar on my shirt and brought my tie up so the knot covered the bridge of my nose. I tucked the tail in at the throat, effectively covering my chin. I pulled on a pair of cheap sunglasses, then liberated a toy from the rack near the charcoal briquettes.

The sound of my tearing the toy package open brought two of the Zomboyz around. “Who are you supposed to be, old dude?”

Snappy patter wasn’t coming, but adrenaline was. Ditto a Zomboy. He cornered past the cheese doodles and made straight for me.

I flicked my right hand out. The yo-yo, LEDs burning brightly, smashed him in the throat. The toy returned to my hand, then I snapped a kick to the Zomboy’s head. He went down.

Ah, the simplicity of physics.
My hand stabbed out again. This is what I’d always enjoyed in the old days. The yo-yo didn’t weigh much, but propelled with enough force, it could break bones.
 

Which it did. A Zomboy’s nose shattered, spraying blood over his chest. He went down moaning. The next one joined him as the whirling yo-yo clipped his temple.

The last Zomboy released Randy and dropped a hand to his belt. He grabbed a gun–a taser as it turned out–and started to draw. The yo-yo pulverized his hand and struck again, knocking the taser flying. He stared at me, wild-eyed, then the yo-yo caught him with a looping uppercut. He flew out the open door and sprawled into the street.

Randy stared at me as I pulled my tie back into place and adjusted my collar. The Zomboy with the broken nose started to get up, but I dropped him with a casual heel to the head. I tossed the sunglasses on the counter, then pointed to my backpack.

“If you don’t mind. Sorry for the mess.”

He handed me the knapsack, then surveyed the damage. Which, all things considered, wasn’t much. Four punks down, nothing broken and the yo-yo could easily be resold. A little blood would have to be scrubbed up, but that wasn’t bad.

Randy nodded as I walked out. “Have a nice day.”

“You, too.” I stepped over the Zomboy in the street and couldn’t help but grin. Heroing might be a young man’s game, but I clearly wasn’t as old as Grant supposed me to be.

That’s right, Capital City, I’m back.

Chapter Seven

It really did feel like old times. I kept running the fight over and over again through my mind. The adrenaline just kept my heart pumping. Aches from the day before had vanished. I could have taken on the world.

I hadn’t touched a yo-yo in years, but it’s like riding a bicycle. You never forget. Yo-yos had been weaponized in the Philippines. Martial use of a yo-yo had been just one of many disciplines I’d been encouraged to master. Every so often they’d been useful getting me out of trouble.

The yo-yo had had been very effective. I’d watched my enemies move. I found openings. Throat, eyes, nose, gonads. It had been almost too easy. Granted I likely had more combat experience than the four of them combined, but even that hadn’t guaranteed victory.

Back in my room, I decided a celebration was in order. I hid my suit in the closet’s secret compartment, then pulled on jeans, a t-shirt and a jeans-jacket. The shirt and jacket had an abstract of Redhawk’s logo. That matched every fourth person on the street. I laced up my new kicks–Adidas Gravé Defenders–and headed back out to find a cool place and wind down.

While I could have used a pair of sunglasses, I was glad I’d left them behind in Singh’s store. The shades were part of the costume that had kicked the Zomboyz about. If I retained them, I’d blow my ID before I had a chance to establish it.

Grant’s secret identity had been a stroke of brilliance. Graviton never wore a mask. Grant’s aviators were the mask, and he wore that in his secret identity. It might have seemed ridiculous that a flimsy pair of glasses was all that prevented folks from linking the two of them up but that wasn’t all there was to it.

You would think that eye-witnesses would have made the connection–especially people who knew the both of them–but that denies the power of context. When you’re facing an emergency and are feeling helpless, anyone who renders aid is going to seem bigger and more powerful than you do. Circumstances make you a child, and that means
you
make your rescuer into someone larger than life. Graviton was larger than life to begin with, and context just made him that much more so.

Grant was never a bad-looking guy, but no two photos of him ever quite agreed. He copped to the computer manipulation, and even said he wore disguises so restaurateurs wouldn’t recognize him. It was part of his job. Folks spent time trying to figure out what Grant looked like in disguise, and disguises usually de-emphasize the person. As such, Graviton wasn’t even close as a match, and no one mistook Grant for the hero.

His wife also provided him cover–though not with her magic. Dr. Angle truly had been a handsome woman. She moved with grace, style and confidence. They’d met when each was in Darfur. During a village raid each tried to save the other, discovered who they really were, and began a romance that thrilled countless people. Graviton and L’Angyle married in a ceremony broadcast live in every corner of the world–it was even bigger than Prince Harry marrying that Bush girl. Grant and Julia, on the other hand, got hitched quietly by a Justice of the Peace in a small town up-state.

The good doctor played to the glamor hounds well, and some unfortunate shadow always fell across Grant’s face. The fact that they were such public people often had me thinking there was no way he was Graviton. But no other viable candidate stepped forward, so he was it. Undone by sunscreen.

I didn’t travel far from the Bluebell to find a place to eat. Treasure of the Turcoman offered Northern Iraqi food. I had the lamb–not that I like lamb, but I’d just not had it in forever–and a beer, which I’d not had much of either. I sat in a corner, toward the back. Aside from a belly-dancer working for tips, I got left alone.

Coming down from the fight took a long time. I’d gotten lucky. Surprise had been my friend. In the past, surprise had been the result of having a great network of informants. None of them would be operational anymore, but getting leverage on the folks who had replaced them wouldn’t be that hard.

There was one of the differences with the old days. In the past I’d have dragged the guy with the broken nose out the back of the store and would have frightened him half to death. I’d promise to finish the job if he didn’t give me some useful information. Once I had that, I would continue to squeeze him. Let others know he’d ratted them out, and he’d be dead. He had to remain my buddy to stay alive. He’d feed me info, I’d surprise the bad guys, and things would go down smoothly.

That brought me back to something Vixen had said. She’d ‘bid’ on the interior of the bank job. Someone had been tipped to what the Twisters were going to do and sold her part of the plan. She didn’t mention Kid Coyote or the others out front. That, and her caution that she worked alone, suggested they must have bid on the exterior.

There was clearly something at work that I still didn’t understand. Someone was brokering plans. That
was
something I could play with. If some underworld weasel was willing to sell his pals out, I had money.

The euphoria wore off as the food filled my belly. That let me return to some vague semblance of logical thought. I had two orders of business. The first was to establish at least two more identities. I needed to segregate them. I’d used Nick Murphy at the Excelsior and he was tied back to Bennie. That wasn’t good. Murphy would have to go away and sooner rather than later. Tim Robinson would work from the gym. Passable apartment for him, somewhere on the west side. I needed to figure out where the Jetsonians hung out. That identity I’d keep clean in case I needed to go to ground.