In Hero Years... I'm Dead Delux Edition (22 page)

While the prospect of medicinal kisses did have its allure, I really wasn’t looking forward to speaking with Victoria. Our last conversation had hardly been pleasant. I’d promised I’d not go away again. I figured, and I’m sure she did as well, that we’d work our way up from there. We’d do a couple of things together–low key, non-threatening things,or go through the motions, anyway.

She’d learn I wasn’t a monster.

I’d develop thick skin.

Win-win.

I had the feeling that telling her that her mother and I had slept together would be as welcome as a diagnosis of Ebola. Perhaps less so. It was one thing to promise I’d not go away, and yet another to be establishing a bigger presence in her life.

My natural inclination was born of my Y-chromosome. I wanted to wait and see if this all came up in normal conversation. Of course, Victoria and I weren’t going to be having
normal
conversations for a long time anyway. Any conversation centered on my sex life wasn’t going to be comfortable, moving it outside the normal range.

Waiting wasn’t going to help anything.

I called her. I admit being happy that I had to leave voice mail. I didn’t just lay everything out in the message, but just said we needed to talk, and soon, today if possible. I tried to keep it light, as if nothing was wrong, but she wasn’t going to buy that for a second.

Especially when she took note of the fact that her mother hadn’t made it home last night.

I waited for her call by studying hero ratings and how the whole system worked via the uTiliPod. I hated the ratings, but Castigan’s livelihood depended on mastering them. As a hero’s fortunes rose, so would the price of his memorabilia. Like all merchants, I wanted to buy low and sell high. Not only did I have to spot comers, I had to pick out heroes who were going to be dropping off.

There were a lot of factors that went into figuring a hero’s value. For example, I studied a graph of Blue Ninja’s ratings. He was fairly consistent for a featherweight. The only weird thing was that his ratings usually dipped in the first part of December and the middle of May, then spiked during January and remained higher during the summer–save for a four week period spanning July and August.

That suggested that Blue Ninja might be a teacher or college student who stopped patrolling while dealing with exams. He made up for it during breaks, but when he did a summer school stint, his ratings suffered again. The time to push his memorabilia would be post holidays, or at the start of the summer.

Another pattern looked promising. If a hero got injured, he’d be out of action for a time. Buying directly from him while he recuperated would help him monetarily, and I’d benefit as he worked hard to get his ratings back up. If the injury was chronic, however, he’d never rise to the top again, so his goods would be worthless.

But Puma had showed that this wasn’t always the case. Price followed demand, and the media manufactured demand. Graviton could have returned and stopped a planet-killing meteor from slamming into the Earth, yet without media coverage, who would know?

If there’s a war and the media ignores it, does anybody die?

Puma’s death had prompted a lot of Murdoching of old video, as well as reruns of the drama and the production of a new one. Puma memorabilia was rare. Prices had already spiked with his funeral. I expected they would peak again when the new series came on line.

So the system could be hacked.
New
content sold exclusively to a news outlet could spark interest. Properly managed, a flurry of publicity could drive up a hero’s worth. If people demanded video of that hero, the channels would provide it. The hero, then, would have more opportunities to fight better villains, increasing his rating simply because his bids would be worth more revenue.

Of course, there were those in the system who would resist, simply because they wanted to be in control. They were riding a tiger of their own manufacture. They had to have the latest and hottest stuff, and once they paid for it, they needed to push it to justify what they had spent. If they sensed manipulation on a grand scale, they’d revolt, since they wanted to believe they were kings, not knaves.

But if they saw you as a valuable partner, the sky would be the limit.

I made a couple other interesting discoveries. Old C4 stuff, and things from any of the members, did retain value. The four Musketeers: Graviton, Nighthaunt, Colonel Constitution and Golden Guardian did the best and still had some active licensing deals in place. Otherwise, the current heroes dominated the world. Everyone else might attract curiosity-money, but little else.

But then there as one exception to that rule: Redhawk. Prices for his stuff had spiked in the run up to the ceremony, then dipped again after. They still traded well above the five year average. Compared to any other sidekick, he was putting up Graviton-sized numbers.

His prices remained high because someone was bidding up anything offered. That had speculators getting into the game, but the buyer–hidden behind a buying firm–would not be beaten.

Nor would he bite on faked items.

Before I could dig around much more, Victoria phoned back. We kept the conversation short and agreed to meet at a café on 28
th
, just below Graviton. Her voice betrayed little more than irritation at having to reschedule her day, but I caught the rumble of distant thunderheads.

I hit the café early and resisted the temptation to spike my coffee. I sat out on the sidewalk, watching a line form around the next block at the Broken Spines bookstore. Most of the folks in line were normal, but a few wore Nighthaunt costumes. A couple of heated arguments broke out about authenticity, but Castigan resisted the temptation to go over and arbitrate.

Victoria announced her arrival by tossing her purse on the table. It landed with the clank of a plumber’s tool kit. My coffee sloshed. She came around and stared at me, then pulled the chair out and sat in a huff.

“There have been others, you know.”

Direct hit with ego-piercing ammo.

Twenty years, not knowing if I was alive or dead, and probably not caring for most of that, of course Selene had met and loved other men. Nighthaunt had offered to marry her. The remarkable thing would have been if there
hadn’t
been anyone else.

That was the rational argument, but the heart doesn’t really care about logic. Betrayal echoed through me, and fear. If there had been others, there could be others in the future. What did I have to offer her? She was setting me up in business. Why? What if I failed?

I shivered, then sipped my coffee. “Good afternoon, Victoria.”

“Didn’t you hear me?”

“Yes. Most of the folks in the bookstore line did as well.” I set my cup back down. “If you want to make a scene, have at it; but think about the impact it will have on your mother. I can’t be embarrassed. Given your conduct, I’m guessing you can’t, either. Your mother deserves better.”

Victoria’s eyes blazed, but she lowered her voice. “No, you don’t get to say that. I do. She
does
deserve better. Better than you! You can’t discipline me. You don’t have the right.”

“Good. Let’s keep this on us, you and me. What are you afraid of? What is it that I can do to you that has you so terrified?”

“I’m not afraid of you.” She sat back, forcing disgust into her words to distract from the wariness in her eyes. “You can’t hurt me.”

“I already have. I wasn’t there for you. I could leave again. The little girl inside you gets orphaned again.”

She laughed. “Nice stab at pop psychology,
dad
! It doesn’t wash. I can take care of myself. I’m a big girl.”

“You don’t want psychoanalysis, that’s fine. I won’t play mind games if you don’t.”

“I wasn’t.”

It was my turn to laugh. “No? What was your opening shot, then?”

“I…” She glared at me.

We called a cease-fire while our waitress refilled my coffee and brought her something that had no caffeine, no calories, lots of ice and was the color of a toad’s belly.
 

Our waitress withdrew and I arched an eyebrow at my daughter.

Her eyes narrowed. “Okay, it was meant to hurt you.”

“It did.” The line at the bookstore began to move forward. “Lots.”

“Look, I grew up thinking you were dead, okay?” She stirred the drink with a red straw. “When I was ten I tried to look you up among the lists of war casualties. That’s when the story changed. Mom told me you’d been a secret agent–you were missing so we had to tell people you had died in the war. So I hoped, some day, you’d come home.”

I nodded. “Come home to my daughter?”

“Sure, but mostly for my mom.” Victoria shrugged. “Things weren’t easy for her. I kept hoping and praying you’d come back. You never did. Hope turned into hatred. After all, you
had
to hate us. That’s the only reason you abandoned us.”

“It wasn’t voluntary.”

“So you’ve said.”

“And I’m not going anywhere.”

“So you’ve said.”

“I’m retired. It’s over for me. I just want peace.”

She didn’t believe me. I read it in her eyes. She’d push back on that point. We’d argue, not because the point meant anything, but because it meant we’d not be digging into her feelings.

I never got a chance to steer the conversation onto constructive topics. A tall young man vaulted the railing and drew a huge pistol. His leather longcoat looked like a costume from a Goth revival of
Joseph and the Technicolor Dream Coat.
His hair had been dyed to match, though his black nails, darkened eyes and white pancake makeup betrayed his one-time affiliation with the Zomboyz.

“I’m Spectral. This is a robbery!”

He certainly had a gift for the obvious, but little else. Victoria sat with her back to him, inching her hand toward her bag. I caught her eye and shook my head.

Spectral swung the gun around and pointed it directly at me. “You got a problem, pal?”

I ventured a slight smile. “Castigan has no problems. In fact, Castigan believes this is a wonderful day. You said you were Spectral, yes?”

“Uh huh.”

“Splendid, perfect.” I slid my chair back and stood slowly. “Castigan has been watching your progress. You were with the Zomboyz, no?

“Yeah. Stay back.”

“Castigan will not harm you. No. Castigan will help you.” I grabbed a plate from our table. “You will be taking our wallets and watches, yes? Of course you will, and this will net you some money, but there is something more valuable here.”

“Say what?” Spectral frowned. “There is?”

“Of course, my boy.
Notoriety.
” My smile broadened as I moved forward, using my body to hide Victoria. “Castigan will make you famous. We all will.”

Spectral shook his head. This wasn’t going the way it was supposed to. “Get back. I’m serious.”

“Castigan is serious, too, my boy.” I opened my jacket very slowly and pulled out a Sharpie marker. “You will rob this place. Your victims will be awed, but you can do much more. Castigan needs you to sign this plate. You will sign for everyone. Imagine the splash. Brazen robber signs autographs. Come on, people, bring him your plates so he can sign. Castigan will see to it that you get top price for your plates.”

The others stood and brandished plates and cups. I stepped up and handed him my plate. “Sign and date, please. You must date it. And someone get a tablecloth and begin to collect watches and wallets, please.”

The crash and clatter of place-settings crashing on the ground accompanied compliance with my request. People started tossing their valuables into the makeshift sack. Surprise melted into joy on Spectral’s face. He shifted his gun to his left hand then cradled the plate on it.

He’d just signed his name and looked up to ask me the date, when Vixen appeared behind him. She pressed her pistol to the base of his skull. I stepped forward, rescuing my plate as she stroked the trigger. His eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed.

I handed her the plate. “And now, you, Vixen, shall sign for Castigan. Date it please. She shall sign for all of you.”

The patrons mobbed her. I took my plate and crossed the street. The police came and carted Spectral off. Autograph-seekers kept Vixen busy for a half hour, then she escaped.

And fifteen minutes later my daughter handed me the marker. “I thought you said you were retired.”

“I am.”

“Like Hell.” She pointed across the street. “You executed a perfect sidekick distraction maneuver. At the end you used your body to jam his gun back against
him
. If it had gone off, it was one of the two of you that was going to get it.”

“No, I just wanted the plate.” I thought for a second.
I
had
just wanted the plate, hadn’t I?

She read my eyes, then shook her head. “You poor bastard. You can’t retire. You’re just like my mother. I know you so well. It’s in the blood.”

“Know me that well, do you?”

“I can read you like a book.”

“Really.” My eyes narrowed. “How are you with surprise endings?”