Little Gods (21 page)

“No, it wasn't us,” Brady said. “Demonstrations work better than explanations. Come on.” He went back into the Captain's room.

Feeling like an extra in a Chaplin film, or a Keystone Kop running in circles, I followed him.

The Captain still sat, his top spinning. He looked up, smiling. “Hey there! You must be a doctor!"

I gasped. The scene was too strange, too eerily similar to the first time we'd come in. Like someone had hit a great “Reset” button and started the whole encounter over.

The Captain looked at me. “Is Spaceboy all right? The Baron really got the drop on us, huh?” He ran a huge hand through his hair.

“Have you ever seen us before?” Doolittle asked.

The Captain laughed, a scattered sound. “Oh, I meet lots of people, you know, I've never been good with faces."

“Have you seen anyone else in the last few minutes?"

The Captain shook his head. “No, sir. I've been sitting right here since I woke up."

“Just take it easy, Captain. We'll bring you some food and fill you in on things."

“But Spaceboy, is he all right?"

“Oh, yes. He's fine."

I stared at Doolittle. Was he being cruel, or kind? And what had happened to Captain Fantasy?

Doolittle motioned me back into the black hallway. “Karsakov's syndrome,” he said. “A rare neurological disorder. It's a nasty form of amnesia. Basically destroys the brain's ability to hold short-term memories. Long-term memory is unaffected, so he knows who he is and remembers his life, but he can't hold onto new memories for more than a few minutes. He lives in a perpetual present. He's met me dozens of times, but he can't remember. He doesn't even know anything's wrong, or if he does suspect that something's amiss, he doesn't know
what
."

I nodded, trying to process the information. It was like being a child and learning my parents were mortal, that they could make mistakes—a blow to my whole worldview. I'd always thought of Captain Fantasy as, well,
invincible
. “Why doesn't he remember anything after that last battle?"

Doolittle shrugged. “Sometimes Karsakov's is retrograde, and destroys a portion of the long-term memory, too. The Captain's memories stop in 1945."

“What causes it?"

“I'm no doctor ... bad brains, I guess. I understand that if you're predisposed anyway, heavy drinking can lead to the onset of Karsakov's. You probably didn't know, they kept it out of the media, but the Captain went downhill after the war, and drinking was only part of it. He wanted to come out of retirement and help with the China problem back in ‘55, but then all that mess with Bludgeon Man and the Atwater Coup happened ... then, in ‘75, we got word that Captain Fantasy had shown up at a pub in New York, dressed in full costume, demanding to know where Spaceboy was. The Facility picked him up, and he's been here ever since."

I sat on the golf cart. “This is a lot to absorb. He even looks the same."

“He doesn't think he's any older, so he isn't. We think that's why he's invincible, too. Most kids think they're invulnerable, they take stupid risks and get hurt. But the Captain
never
got hurt, because while he believed himself invincible, he was. He grew up that way, and never had a reason to believe differently. I guess he just never worried about his mental health ... or, hell, maybe his power has a negative effect on his brain chemistry. Who knows?"

“This is sad,” I said at last. “But what does it have to do with Kelli, and the rest of it? The Captain could help us with Mengele, I guess, if he were healthy..."

“This is the part you'll really like,” Brady said. “You're going to impersonate Spaceboy, and, with the Captain's help, apprehend Kelli and Mengele."

I put my head in my hands. “You'd better explain how that's going to work."

“All in good time. First, let's get you to wardrobe."

Silver tights. Silver boots, even the laces. A silver shirt with long sleeves, accordioned at the elbows. Silver gloves, fortunately, to cover my damaged forefinger. A silver domino mask. Spaceboy's famous skintight costume, tailored perfectly to fit me.

I looked in the mirror and watched my facial muscles bunch, move, and tighten. Occidental eyes. A rounder chin. Snub nose. That rosebud, almost girlish mouth. I leached the pigment from my face, changing the Greek cast I'd affected for my part as Orestes. I compared my face in the mirror to a small photograph and nodded, satisfied. “I've got the face right, and the hair's okay, but I'm three or four inches too tall. There's nothing I can do about that."

“Close enough for jazz,” Doolittle said. “The Captain is desperate to see something familiar, to find his bearings. We could wrap you in aluminum foil and he'd believe you were Spaceboy."

I plucked at the seat of the silver costume. “Foil wouldn't be so tight."

“If the Captain had a girl sidekick, she couldn't have gotten away with wearing something like that,” Doolittle agreed. “Your costume's better than Spaceboy's original. Bulletproof, shock absorbent, and made of smartcloth, with its own musculature.” Brady grinned. He looked like a wolf at a lamb-shearing. “To help you do the somersaults and shit."

I groaned. I'd kept in shape, but Spaceboy's famed speed and acrobatics were beyond me. Spaceboy had trained as a teenage gymnast, and during his three years with Captain Fantasy, he'd pushed his flexibility to the limit. “So we tell the captain that Mengele's hiding out, and we have to bring him to justice. Then we ride out in the Fantasy-copter and apprehend the villainous et cetera."

“You should write briefings,” Brady said. “You're so good at abstracting the essentials from a plan.” He led me out of wardrobe to the elevator.

“But he forgets everything after five minutes,” I protested. “How is he supposed to remember the mission?"

Brady turned a key in the elevator and punched the buttons that would take us to the Black Wing. “In some cases of Karsakov's, surrounding the victim with familiar things provides a sense of continuity. In one case, a patient was driven to his old neighborhood. He perked right up, wanted to know how they'd put up a supermarket overnight, but otherwise he thought things were fine. They took him to his old house, and he sat in his favorite chair, tapped his barometer, read a book. He wondered why his wife had changed the drapes, but he didn't notice that his wife had aged five years.” Brady looked at me pointedly.

“Close enough for jazz,” I murmured. “So seeing me, and riding in a replica of the Fantasy-copter, you think that'll keep him in the present?"

“He'll still believe it's 1945, but that's okay. He's willing to fool himself a lot."

The elevator stopped. As we stepped into the hallway, I asked “What happened to that guy you were telling me about when he had to leave his house?"

“They took him back to the hospital. He cried and screamed, asked his wife why she'd brought him to such a place, why she was leaving him."

“God,” I said, chilled by the image.

“Pretty awful. But ten minutes later he'd forgotten all about it.” We entered the Black Wing and returned to the golf cart.

“Where do we begin?” I asked, sitting down.

Doolittle handled me an envelope. I wasn't surprised to find it addressed to me. The Facility had intercepted my mail. I opened it and removed the little card inside, decorated with balloons and party hats. “Come to My Party!” it read, in festive blue and red letters. Inside, it read “Join the Secret Masters in celebration of Kelli's birthday!” Under “Time” it read “As Convenient.” Under “Place” it gave a set of coordinates.

“In the Atlantic Ocean,” Brady said.

“Is she on a boat?"

“Not that our satellites can see. But we figure it's not a wild goose chase."

“Kelli likes to play games, but not that kind,” I said. “What's this ‘Secret Masters’ stuff?"

“Well ... It's just speculation, but a lot of high-powered fugitives and crazies have been inactive, dropping out of sight lately. Thunderhead, Brainchild, The Teacher, Broadside, Svengali Briggs ... no activity for months. We think Kelli's gathering the bad guys together. The old Legion of Supervillians gag, you know?"

I nodded. “Seems like her style. Into the viper pit, huh?"

“At least you'll have the greatest hero in history at your side."

“I'd rather have a crack Facility squad."

“They'll be nearby. If things get out of hand, they'll try to contain the situation."

“Why take the Captain at all? I mean, if he had full possession of his faculties—"

Brady handed me another envelope. “Because she invited him, too. And Kelli's promised to do some nasty things if he doesn't show up. As a demonstration, she bombed Easter Island. Wiped it out, and we didn't even see how she deployed the weapon, though fortunately it seems to be a clean bomb. Some toy Dr. Nefarious made for her, probably, during the rainy day affair. She said Christmas island would go next, then a little town called Thanksgiving, Pennsylvania.” He tapped the Captain's invitation. “In keeping with her holiday theme."

“That's crazy,” I said. “What does she want with Captain Fantasy?"

“What does she want with Mengele? He's almost totally senile. Why does she do anything? Crazy's right."

When the Captain saw me in costume, disguised as Spaceboy, he rushed across the room and embraced me, lifting me off my feet. I expected to be crushed into bone jelly, but the Captain squeezed gently. “I thought you were done for,” he whispered, reddish stubble rubbing my cheek.

I am
, I thought, feeling lower than dogshit.
Blown to meat and splinters and scraps of cloth, 45 years ago.

The Captain let go. “Not me, Captain,” I said, pitching my voice higher than normal. My facility with vocal impressions has always been an asset on my assignments. I surprised myself by saying “Leaping lizards, Captain, they couldn't get
me
."

Leaping lizards. A classic Spaceboy exclamation, and it had simply popped out. Had I assumed the role so completely? Or did Captain Fantasy's ability to warp reality extend beyond his personal space, was he in some fashion transforming me into Spaceboy?

The idea bothered me, and I began to sweat. I shut off my glands so the Captain wouldn't notice. “Captain,” I said gravely, wanting to get it over with. “We have a problem."

“Mengele!” Captain Fantasy said, walking quickly up the stairs, red cape flapping, black boots thudding on the risers. “I've been waiting for a chance at him. Is the helicopter prepared, Spaceboy?"

“Right on the roof, Captain,” I said, hurrying after him. “And I've got the coordinates."

“God bless American military intelligence,” the Captain said reverently, and then burst through the door, onto the roof.

A pale blue sky stretched above us, touching the low, scrub-covered mountains. The air smelled of desert sage. The Fantasy-copter, a low-slung two-seater in red and cobalt blue, crouched like a lethal dragonfly a dozen yards away. Captain Fantasy strode across the roof and opened the cockpit. I hurried around the other side to join him, ducking as the long rotors began to turn, lazily at first, then with invisible speed.

I belted in, light-headed. Captain Fantasy gave me a thumbs-up and took the controls. I grinned, feeling strangely exuberant.
I shouldn't be so excited
, I thought—
this is serious
. But I was in a helicopter with Captain Fantasy, about to fight the forces of villainy at his side ... it was a childhood dream come true.

The helicopter lifted off, and we zoomed toward the ocean.

“It's nearby,” I said, shouting to be heard over the helicopter's machinery. We skimmed close to the water, not moving very quickly. I looked at the placid expanse of blue-green water, seeking something out of the ordinary, some indication of Kelli's presence. “I don't—"

Something boiled up from the ocean, but before I could make it out, we'd flown past. Then the helicopter jerked, throwing me hard against my straps. I squawked and choked, unable to take a breath, and water rushed up at the cockpit's windshield.

We smashed into the ocean. I dangled in my seat, facing the water-occluded windshield, amazed that the impact hadn't hurt me more. The smartcloth in my costume had spread the impact evenly across my body.

Behind us, metal sheared as the rear of the helicopter parted from the front. I smelled smoke.

The Captain unhooked his harness and dropped to the windshield, which had taken the place of the floor. I followed suit. With the back half of the ‘copter ripped off, the sky showed clear and blue above us, and the cockpit was transformed into a shallow cup floating on the ocean. The Captain reached under his seat and slung scuba gear toward me. I scrambled into the tank and mouthpiece. I'd just pulled on my flippers when something ripped the cockpit apart.

I saw tentacles the size of firehoses, and then the sea rushed in, bowling me over and dunking me. I forced myself to remain calm despite my heart's thundering and the shock of cold water. My silver suit began heating immediately. Captain Fantasy was treading water several feet away and I swam toward him, kicking hard against the undertow created by the sinking ‘copter. I didn't see tentacles, but that didn't reassure me. If some monster inhabited the water with us, I wanted to be close to the Captain.

I looked up, expecting Facility agents to sweep in for the rescue. The sky remained clear. Were they so confident that we could handle this, or had Brady lied about our backup?

The Captain wrapped one gauntleted arm around my waist and held me up easily, my rear pressed against his pelvis. I blushed when I realized what I felt pressing against me through the Captain's wet tights. Evidently, danger excited him.

I forgot about the Captain's arousal when tentacles broke the surface again, a dozen waving in the air as if attempting some strange semaphore. Several of the tentacles were torn, gushing blood, probably ripped off when they grabbed the Fantasy-copter and brought us down.

The tentacles were bad, but then I saw the rest.

A blunt shark's head broke the surface, four feet across, with ten-inch-long teeth marching back row-by-row in its gaping mouth. Crude black stitching crossed its head. One saucer-sized eye stared at us, black, and a cobwebby cataract gummed the other. A small metal lens glinted between its natural eyes.