In Hero Years... I'm Dead Delux Edition (46 page)

“Mopping up. It’s all good.”

“And the Murdochs?”

“It’s the kid. He takes this command and control thing seriously.”

A guy in a flannel shirt and a Metropolitans hoodie came walking over. “Yo, Redhawk, man, thanks for the help. Got ‘em on the run, right?”

Redhawk smiled. “Yeah, everyone’s pitching in, thanks.”

“Cool, cool.” The citizen jerked a thumb back at a knot of young men and women. “Me and my crew, we want to do our part, you know. We was going to City Hall.”

“So are we.”

“Mind if we tag…? He didn’t wait for an answer. He and his people got out in front of us and started clearing the way. “Hey, heroes, coming through. Show some respect.”

Crowds parted and a parade formed behind us. Kids marched along side. Well, they marched along side
me
because they were trailing Redhawk and the Fox. People started cheering those two as if they were the mayor and first lady. Someone finally did ask my name. I replied.

It spread through the crowd as “and Redhawk’s sidekick, Revenant….”

Police had restored order at City Hall. Criminals all sat peacefully on the lawn by the fountain, with the police forming a cordon around them. Citizens gathered and stacked bricks–and not a single one flew toward the criminals, not even Mephistopheles. Over on the far side folks lined up to have their pictures taken standing on the giant robot’s crushed skull, all nice and orderly, with no one even thinking of charging for the honor.

Redhawk mounted the City Hall steps. A big cheer went up. Despite his ankle, he made the long hike without complaint and shook hands with Golden Guardian and Coyote there at the top. Red Angel, Blue Ninja, Puma, Vixen and the others appeared to accept accolades. Gravilass, Gravé and Karate King took a bow as a unit.

Our self-appointed phalanx leader called out for a speech, but Redhawk waved that away. “Speeches are for politicians. This is a time for heroes. Heroes save their breath for hard work.” And with that he limped back down the stairs and started cleaning up.

And the citizens, following his example, saved their own city.

Over the next couple of days we were able to put together a few of the things that marked the point when Nicholas Haste finally snapped. Ethelred had probably discovered he was Mr. Big and tried to stop him. Mr. Big killed Ethelred, transforming Nick into the murderous image of his father. His prohibition against murder thus destroyed, he had no compunction against ordering Selene’s death. She had, after all, rejected him when he’d offered to marry her and become Vicki’s father.

The Tony Ramoso connection also straightened itself out. Nick had singled him out for attention because Ramoso had rejected the chance to play Nick Haste in a biopic. Ramoso had reportedly said he couldn’t understand why they wanted to do the pic, since the man clearly couldn’t sustain a normal relationship with women, and had lived his life in the company of his childhood nanny.

Nick set Ramoso up for the compromising photos, but that hadn’t been enough. He pointed Panda-moanium at the actor and when Ramoso survived that ordeal, Nick decided to use him. He’d later expose him, tarnishing the actor and Puma both.

And Puma’s death, while unplanned, had been a bonus. Only Puma and my father had known the truth about Nicholas Haste’s father. For possession of that knowledge alone they deserved to die.

Doctor Julia Angle was good to her word. She worked tirelessly to save victims of the mayhem. Neither Redhawk nor I hit the level of injury that required her services, so we never saw her when we reported to the hospital. Later, however, L’Angyle did repair Greg’s ankle. He, after all, had to appear as the Mayor, and Redhawk hadn’t been the one who’d talked her husband into heading into battle again. That’s why, a week hence, as we gathered again at City Hall for a Reconciliation Ceremony, the stitches in my hand itched fiercely and she smiled smugly whenever I scratched.

All of us were arrayed there, heroes new and old. Colonel Constitution III was still in a wheelchair, which his grandfather–also in costume–pushed. On that dais, which had been built in the middle of the stairs and festooned with the patriotic bunting usually reserved for the Fourth of July, the other older heroes joined the mayor and his wife. Jimmy Nimura, using a set of his sister’s rings, appeared as Redhawk. Nighthaunt stood next to him–being Tony Ramoso giving his best portrayal of a hero ever, and utterly unaware of the irony surrounding that role. Golden Guardian rounded out the old guard.

The youngsters, including Coyote, Puma, Vixen, Gravilass, Gravé, Blue Ninja and the survivors of C4 II flanked the dais on the right side, while the police and their bag-pipers held the other wing. The Russians, with Red Angel in the middle, stood below the dais.

Selene, Grant, Julia and I had front row seats behind a police cordon. Grant and I had actually camped out the night before to get them. The ladies brought breakfast and joined us. The four of us could have been up there, too, but where? We weren’t really the old guard and weren’t youngsters.

The bag-pipers finished a mournful dirge and Mayor Greylan stepped to the podium. The press had fully bought the story that Greylan had secured himself in a bunker in City Hall and had been directing the defense from there. The mayor had even called upon heroes like Golden Guardian and Nighthaunt to come out of retirement to help, and had given permission to Blue Ninja to hijack the Murdoch system and put out his message.

The citizenry cheered. Greg basked for a moment, then turned and opened his arms to encompass the heroes. The cheers redoubled. Greg completed the turn, taking in the people packing the square, then gestured, tamping the volume down.

“Citizens of Capital City, we have come through a great ordeal. A madman came to our city and studied it carefully. More deadly than Belle Geste, more intelligent than Doctor Sinisterion, Mr. Big watched us and found our weakness. We had allowed ourselves, through our profound respect for the heroes arrayed on these steps, to embrace crime as part of our lives. We had established rules that made it acceptable. This permitted us to ignore an epidemic which, like a flu, was one tiny mutation away from becoming virulent. And deadly. We gave it a safe harbor. We gave it time. That mutation developed.

“And it would have destroyed us save for the valiant efforts of those who live among us, hidden from view. I don’t just mean our Superfriends, but all of you. I’m talking about eight-year old Marianne Henderson who went door to door in her apartment house, waking people and getting them out after she smelled smoke. I’m talking about Frankie and Tim Mazolla, who stopped looters from breaking into the Sung bakery over on 41
st
. And I’m talking about Mrs. Gladys Lovette, ninety-one years old, who pulled a wounded policeman off the street and bound up his wounds with skills she learned as a nurse in the Viet Nam War. Each one of these people is a hero.”

Greg looked down at his notes, then just closed the folder and spoke from the heart. “We all wonder if we have it inside to be a hero. Yes, I’m surrounded by very special people. By dint of birth or invention or hard work and training, they’ve each forged an identity that we recognize as heroic. But all that training, all that native skill, would mean nothing, if they didn’t have the conviction in their hearts that they could make a difference. And they have that conviction. They act on it.

“And the simple truth of the matter is that we
all
do. Being a hero is just making a difference. A positive difference. You help somebody out. You make a run to the grocery, you help them hang a picture, you get a cat out of tree. That might be nothing to you, but, to them, it’s the world. It may be easy not to make the effort, but making it isn’t that hard. Being committed to making it can be, but making a difference is so big a reward that it’s more than worth it.”

He looked out and just for a moment, our gazes touched. “Our city is at a crossroads. This is a clash of civilizations. One civilization believes in remaining quiet, looking out for themselves, avoiding any effort save one for which they are rewarded. These people are small and bitter. They will die friendless, unloved and unlamented. Ultimately they will be forgotten.

“The competing civilization is one that cares for others. It offers help where needed and, more importantly, looks for that need. It volunteers without expecting recompense. It knows that when the world is made better for one person, it becomes better for all people. It lives by the golden rule, treating others as they want to be treated themselves.”

He opened his hands again. “We are at a point where we get to choose. We can be a dark and cold city of bitter people, or a shining golden city which leads by example for the rest of the world. The choice will be yours and, by the actions you have all taken recently, I would say the choice has already been made.”

The crowd cheered loudly and inarticulately until a chant of “four more years,” began to fill the square. Greg blushed, then cued the leader of the bag-pipers who started playing
Amazing Grace
and quieted the crowd.

Once the music finished, medals were handed out and pictures taken. The four of us watched, being proud parents and all. I counted Coyote and Puma as mine, too, until I saw Kim’s parents pose for a picture with him, and Diana’s grandmother embrace her. I mean, I still considered them family and, one more time, was reminded of what I’d missed.

Eventually the crowd thinned. Julia and Selene got ahead of us. I glanced at Grant, picking up the thread of a conversation we’d had during the night. “So, is your coming trip to Africa to resume travel writing, or are you and Julia…?”

He sighed. “She pointed out that my willingness to train heroes–and my martial arts dominance over them–were simply ways of me telling myself I could still be a hero without ever having to put myself on the line again.”

I patted him on the back. “It’s a bitch being married to a smart woman, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, and a doctor at that. It was my fear of getting hurt again that she couldn’t stand to be around. It turned me into someone I wasn’t. I wasn’t the man with whom she’d fallen in love. While she wasn’t happy about my going off as Karate King, she’s seen that it closed the last wound.”

“So you two will try again?”

“She says she never stopped loving me.”

“And you?”

“I love her now more than ever.”

Terry Veck came out of a doorway and joined us as we strolled. “You like the speech?”

I nodded. “Hit the right notes. Hopeful. Upbeat. Empowering and inclusive. Could be the start of a revolution.”

Grant nodded. “I think some people took the message to heart.”

Terry smiled. “And some didn’t.”

“Positive thinking, Terry.”

“I
am
thinking positively, Grant.” He produced a cigar and lit it. “And what I’m thinking is this. One night a week, we get together. A few of us old guys. For old time sake.”

Grant half-smiled. “Boy’s night out?”

I nodded toward the women in front of us. “They’ll never believe we’re playing poker.”

Terry blew a smoke ring. “You gonna believe they’re getting together for quilting-bees and Tupperware parties?”

I laughed. “Good point.”

“You called it. This
could
be the start of a revolution.” Terry nodded solemnly. “Every revolution needs some good revolutionaries.”

Karate King frowned. “My wife will kill me.”

Golden Guardian laughed. “Technically she’ll just refuse to put you back together again.”

“Okay, if I’m in town. Maybe.”

“How about you?” Terry jabbed that cigar toward me. “Hasn’t retirement driven you nuts yet?”

“Can we call it a P-crud therapy session?”

“Yeah, oh yeah.” His smile broadened. “It’ll definitely fix what ails you.”

I smiled.

About the Author

Michael A. Stackpole is a
New York Times
bestselling author of over forty novels. He is best known for his work in the
Star Wars ™
universe, including such novels as
Rogue Squadron
and
I, Jedi. In Hero Years… I’m Dead
is his first Digital-Original novel. You can find out more about Mike and his work at his website:
Stormwolf.com
.

Behind The Scenes

(The Making Of
In Hero Years… I’m Dead
)

If there is one question authors get asked the most—aside from, “Are you really the author?”—it’s “Where do you get your ideas?” This generally comes coupled with a declaration that the questioner just can’t imagine ever putting a book together. When it doesn’t, the question comes from folks who want to write. They ask because they want to reassure themselves that they’re doing things the right way.

Books and stories tend to be an accretion of ideas. That’s certainly true with
In Hero Years...
I’m Dead
.
What follows is an attempt to map out what I pulled together where. It’s specifically
not
a declaration of “the right way” to do things, it’s just a chronicle of
one
way to do them. The process was remarkable and fun, since I did things I’d not done before. I’m pretty sure that duplicating how this novel came together would be impossible for anyone, including me, but there are bits and pieces of the experience that have been folded back into my subsequent writing.