In Hero Years... I'm Dead Delux Edition (8 page)

I needed documentation. While the refugees who opened the restaurant probably could connect me with someone to help in that regard, they were too close to the Bluebell for comfort. I paid my bill and headed back uptown, CRAWLing to the village. It had been my first stop after landing and was a perfect place to start building a new me.

The Church of Black Moses had been built at the turn of the century–back before the Great War. After the Second World War it began to cater to veterans–some of whom had been heroes fighting the Axis. Monsignor Connors focused outreach on the heroes as he had a liking for them. He’d donned a mask a few times himself to run off black marketeers during the war. It helped that the Church had the right patron saint for costumed heroes. By the time I came up, word was that the Vatican had sanctioned things.

I entered a confessional, hit a switch, and opened the back panel, and slipped into a tiny booth. The panel slid shut behind me, entombing me. I waited. While the cramped darkness skeeved me out, at least there wasn’t a Murdoch keeping me company.

Another smaller panel slid open, screened by dark cloth. “Forgive me, Father, my sins are cloaked in mystery, masked from all but God.”

“How may I help you, my son?”

“I need to entrust you with something.” I kept my voice low. “Nagursky would be the name.”

I’d not chosen the name, and I had no idea how it had been assigned to me. I was just happy it was unforgettable.

A drawer pushed against my belly. I consigned the other safety-deposit box key to it. I pushed the drawer back.

“What else, my son?”

“I need twenty-thousand.” I’d only get eighteen of the money I’d left years ago. The rest would go to “good works.”

“I also need a birth certificate and baptismal certificate. Male, mid-forties.”

“Confirmation certificate or marriage license?”

“Lapsed and divorced.”

“You know we have a single’s coffee hour after noon liturgy every Sunday.”

“Thank you, Father, but I can find temptation on my own.”

“Is there something you wish to be reconciled with God about?”

“No, I’m good for now.”

“Five minutes. You can use the time to contemplate your role in God’s plan for the world.” The panel slid shut.

I contemplated the efficiency of the Catholic underground. Every fifth person was Catholic. Even those who had fallen away had old habits ingrained deep. The fear of going to Hell prompted folks to obey priests and nuns. A quick call to the Bureau of Vital Statistics and a promise to pray for a clerk could produce a birth certificate. A cleric in the church office would produce the other documents, load them into an ID card and I could swipe all that info into my uTiliPod.

In five minutes I’d be born again. I’d heard the Vatican had agreed to such things because Jesus had given Peter his own secret identity, thus establishing precedent. Heck, the Popes changed their names, too. It made us all clubby.

I don’t know who services the villains. Sinisterion had tried to take over the Church of Scientology. Didn’t succeed. Then again, who’d know if he had?

The priest returned with the documents, money and an ID card in the name of Harrison Bing. He said a quick prayer for me. I crossed myself, despite having long since decided that if God
did
exist, my life wasn’t significant enough for Him to care. I headed back out, pausing only to snap a picture of myself with the uTiliPod, then use it to pump the shot into the ID card’s digital memory.

I returned to the FCCSL branch. A throng packed the lobby, though very few of them seemed to be in line. Most were just sightseeing. A few were on hands-and-knees looking for bits of window glass or other souvenirs. Gawkers at the crime scene. I’d seen it before, but usually only when things had been awash in blood.

I found Penny at her desk behind a phalanx of flowers. She barely recognized me, but let her boss know I’d returned. Mr. Baker was overjoyed to see me. I deposited the cash with him and we loaded three grand onto a cashflash chip. With his guarantee of a solid financial reference, Harrison Bing could begin shopping for a place to live.

I’d never really found building an identity that tough. The trick was to avoid looking like you were hiding. When I found a place I’d introduce myself to the neighbors, ask about local restaurants and generally present myself as someone who would impose a little bit on their lives, but not much beyond borrowing a cup of sugar or inviting them over to see movies of my day at the beach. Most folks shy from aggressive friendliness. Those who don’t are generally people who desperately need a friend. That can be a problem, but usually they just wait by the phone and that keeps them out of trouble.

And they usually can be counted on for a great alibi.

Scandal also helps. Most folks love learning intimate details of their neighbors’ lives. Bring different women home two nights in one week, or two in one night, make the right amount of noise, and folks will watch for you. Share a confidence, let them assume you’re two-timing someone, and some will alibi you, others will condemn you. If you’re being investigated, making investigators track down those ersatz leads buys you time to disappear.

I downloaded a couple apartment guides from a street kiosk and retreated to the Bluebell. Bennie wasn’t at the desk. The drone taking his place never even looked up. In retrospect that should have sent a flag up.

Likewise the empty lobby.

I missed both clues. Secure in my room, I studied the guides and bookmarked a number of promising leads. Tomorrow I’d clean out room, burn Rick Murphy, and get down to some serious work.

The only thing I’d miss was my peanut butter connection.

I finally dropped off to sleep just before midnight. They were watching somehow. They were smart enough to wait for me to be deep into a REM cycle before they hit. I’ve got no memory of it–a concussion will do that to you. I reconstructed it, however, and dreams filled in all the details.

Technically those would be nightmares.

Four Zomboyz burst through the door. That woke me up. I tossed back the sheets, which tangled one of them up, but that was purely by accident. A boot to my gut doubled me over. A knee to the face missed breaking my nose, but swelled an eye shut.

I stumbled back, caught my heels on the shrouded Zomboy. I went down. They piled on, beating the hell out of me. They might not have had much combat experience, but they were happy to practice.

Somehow I threw them off and got to my feet.

That’s when their patron walked through the door. Tall, with a flaming jack o’lantern for a head, wearing vintage duds that would have made him a dandy back when the Dutch owned the town, Baron Samizdat gestured with a white-gloved hand. Glowing, red-gold fire blasted me through the window. My heel caught on the fire escape. I flipped over and hit the far tenement wall face first.

At least that put the fire out.

I was probably unconscious by then. If I’d been awake, I’d have seen the dozen other Zomboyz waiting in the alley below. I’m not sure–being as how I was naked and falling four stories–that I could have done much about that situation, but I’m quite sure it would have stuck in my mind.

Grant had been right.

Heroing was a young man’s game.

And I was far too old to be doing my own stunts.

Chapter Eight

The only good thing about having your eyes swollen shut is that you never get to see the bruises until the purple has faded. I don’t know how long that took. Long enough, anyway, for the stitches on my back and scalp to itch like mad.

I’d have scratched, but that would have required moving. Not happening. Two reasons. First, stiff limbs, lots of pain. Not broken-bone pain, but close enough.

Second, I’d long ago learned that after a beat down, movement often invites more of the same.

It’s a horrible thing to come to awareness trapped in a shell that hurts. All the pain makes your body anxious to get away from whatever was causing it, but that wasn’t possible. Panic builds and you scream, even if it’s only inside your skull.

I made a bid for sanity by cataloguing sensations other than pain.

The tug on one arm suggested an IV. Then there was the catheter. I really didn’t want to be seeing what collected at the other end of
that
tube. Whoever had me apparently wanted to keep me alive for a little bit longer. Of course, they could have been anybody, but when you’re clutching at straws, you might as well be hopeful.

I was in and out a lot. Concussion will do that. Likewise drugs. Degrees of pain came and went. Sedation–a good thing short term, but having my wits dulled wasn’t going to get me out of trouble.

At some point my nose started working again. My prison didn’t smell bad. Swelling went down in my hands enough that I could clutch the sheets. Once upon a time Graviton could have told the thread-count by touch alone. I just knew it was high. This again inclined me toward optimism. Most captors, if they worry about sheets at all, don’t concern themselves with thread count.

I decided I probably needed to open my eyes. I waited until I heard someone enter the room, then cracked one. Low light, easy to adjust to, good; though it made seeing her tougher. No mistaking her, though.

“Three days?” I thought I’d spoken clearly, but it came out as a croaked whisper.

She managed to parse the words regardless. “Five. You’re old. You heal more slowly.”

“You didn’t want to be my friend.”

“You need more than a puppy to change your dressings.” Selene sat on the edge of the bed. She took my hand in hers and I tried to squeeze. Zero strength. I couldn’t have squished the yolk on a soft-boiled egg.

“No need to show off. You’re still tough.” She caressed my hand. “You’d have died otherwise.”

“Why didn’t I?”

“You’re incredibly lucky.” Her voice lost its wistful tone and I closed my eye. “You pissed off the Zomboyz by busting up the robbery. Baron Samizdat couldn’t afford to lose points to ‘Old Dude with yo-yo,’ so he had to set things right. Someone connected the dots and sold you out.”

“Bennie.”

“Whoever. Could have been a dozen of them. Here’s where your luck came in. The grocery guy got wind of what was going down–it was private, not public, so no bids. He reached out to Kid Coyote. He intervened and kept them off you, then Gravé showed to scatter them. You were hurt badly, so he teleported you to Grant’s place. That exhausted the kid. Grant called me. I had him bring you here, then I called in some favors and got you some private treatment.”

My head sank further back into the pillow. “I’m sure that made sense.”

“But not to you?” She sighed. “The world’s changed a lot. You know about Grant.”

“I saw.”

“Word got out that Graviton was hurt badly. To fight it, Graviton recorded a message–you can see it in the Hall of Fame or find it on YouTube–saying he and L’Angyle had been called to her home dimension to preserve her kingdom. Real white knight stuff. It sold a lot of commemorative plates. Funds her work.”

“They’ve never returned?”

“Gravé and Andromeda sometimes relay messages–time moves slower there, the battle continues, another plate comes out. They’ve never come back. Never will. And it’s a good thing.”

“How is it good that the world lost its greatest heroes?”

“I could explain it, but you’d never believe.” She grabbed me beneath the armpits and shifted me into a sitting position. I marveled at her strength. It hurt like sin but I didn’t so much as groan. “Open your eyes.”

I complied, cautiously. Hell, even that hurt.

She’d left the bed and reached a hand behind the flat panel on the wall. Something beeped. A Murdoch began to glow. She tossed a remote control beside me.

“Watch. Any channel, doesn’t matter. I recommend BCN and Superbio. Couple others are good. FHC will amuse. Anything else, you’ll have news on the quarters, specials when things are visual, and ticker at the bottom.”

“Beer and chips, too?”

Selene folded her arms and glared. “I wasn’t joking when I said you almost died. I’ve got pictures. Over a hundred fifty stitches from glass, serious abrasions from hitting the wall and I lost count of individual bruises from boots, fists and the odd stick. You pissed blood for three days. Doctors thought that was a miracle, since they figured you had about a pint left in you. Grant didn’t see any broken bones. You could have spent an hour in a cement mixer full of bowling balls and come out with less soft-tissue damage. It was touch and go. And for a while,
go
was the smart bet.”

I started to speak, but she held up a hand. “No, no posturing. None of this, ‘they haven’t made the bullet yet,’ or ‘I’m too mean to die.’ That macho crap might make Zomboyz wet themselves, but it’s never stopped a bullet or closed a wound.”

“Selene, old habits die hard.”

“Old habits will kill you if you
don’t
let them die. But you’re not going to be one to let them die, are you?” She pointed at the Murdoch. “Watch. Watch and learn. The world you abandoned has changed. Learn it for yourself. This is no place for your old habits.”