the bigger they are…

Steve Goble

Edge, primed for action, glided through the night and cursed at the damage below. Another costumed vigilante had beaten him to the bombers.

Airstrike had been here, no doubt. The armored marvel had smashed the terrorists and left one hell of a mess. And one hell of a problem for Edge.

The street was buckled like some hellish moon surface. A VW spun slowly on its top, rocking like a drunken upturned turtle. Rubble and dust surrounded a new cavern entrance for the Hotel Goff. Shards of glass everywhere reflected officers' flashlights. Edge smelled the lingering metallic scent of air seared by lasers.

Yep, he thought, someone needs to take down Airstrike. But who's going to do that? Me? The guy with lots of good moves but no powers? Good luck with that.

Edge envisioned the battle that had taken place: Airstrike wading in, his gleaming armor reflecting the frightened faces of his adversaries, his lasers popping out of concealment to burn through flesh and stone. Someone had probably tried to ram Airstrike with the VW; stupid mistake.

Edge would be much more careful.


Edge veered unseen toward a high rooftop, for his clothes and glider were of black darker than the night. He landed silently.

Below, paramedics filled ambulances, but without haste. Airstrike had left everyone beyond medical care.

The bomb squad guys casually sipped coffee from Styrofoam cups, and the damage indicated multiple beam and missile weapons, not a large bomb. So where was it? Airstrike had been here. . . what would Airstrike do? Edge gazed toward the harbor. He whipped out his infrared binoculars. Yes. Of course. Best place for it. Any second now.

The distant blast threw up a geyser of flame that silhouetted dinghies. Edge focused the binoculars above it. . . there. A streak of silver, rising like a lance through the blast-borne rain. Airstrike.

Edge sighed, and the mask that hid all but his eyes suddenly seemed suffocating. Can I take you down, Airstrike?

The whir warned him of the helicopter's approach, and he was deep in shadow before the spotlight swept the rooftop. Edge and the city's finest had the same enemies, but they were not allies. He'd succeeded too often where they had failed, using tactics denied to them.

He unfurled the glider and dove. The wings caught air, and he felt the old thrill. He hadn't felt that in a while. The knowledge that nothing really changed no matter what he did had erased most of the swashbuckler in him long ago. But he still could delight in soaring by moonlight.

He angled down Forman Way toward the water's edge at Inland Park. He dropped onto a broad swath of grass, freed himself from the glider and loaded the gun. He knew Airstrike would come back this way, to assess his handiwork.

A buzz like a million mutant bees drew his attention, and he aimed the pistol. Edge fired at the silver trail of his target. The flare, angry red, zipped by Airstrike's head. The metallic marvel dropped like a meteor, rockets burning dark patches in the grass and his monstrous feet sinking several inches into the sod. Edge felt the thump of that landing through the soles of his own combat boots. He tried to tell himself that was why his knees shook.

Airstrike's wings whirred and clicked into hiding, and he went from all blurry speed to ominous stillness in an eyeblink. Edge was tall, over six feet, yet his eyes were at the level of Airstrike's chest. The armored hulk towered before Edge, the robotic face showing no more emotion than a brick.

Edge took the initiative, despite his tingling nerves. "Hello, Bob."

"Edge," the digital voice answered. "It has been a long time."

"Yeah. Quite a mess you left back there, Bob." The first name was all Edge knew about Airstrike's true identity, and he suddenly wished he knew a great deal more. He'd much prefer to confront the man within that armor than the gleaming monstrosity he faced now.

He eyed all the little hatches that hid guns and lasers and flying saws, aware there was no adequate cover here. All his Kevlar might as well be tissue paper against Airstrike's arsenal.

"The terrorists put up quite a resistance," Airstrike said.

"Looks that way. Are you sure all the dead were bad guys, Bob?" Edge felt the wobble in his legs, and hoped Airstrike didn't see it.

"Yes, I'm sure." The voice, inhuman as the one that told you you'd reached a non-working number, revealed nothing. "They were all bad guys, very bad guys. These guys weren't choirboys. Trust me."

"I believe you, and I won't mourn them," Edge said. "But I did look at the damage and I can tell this much: It all happened very fast. Do you think the bomb would have done more damage than you did, Bob? And are you sure you didn't toss a wall or a car onto some innocent bystander?"

Edge hated the quavering in his voice.

"What the hell are you driving at, Edge?" The robotic form stepped forward, putting another large divot in the turf. "I know what I'm doing. I've been doing this a long time. Longer than you."

"Yeah, Bob, I did the math. A long time indeed. You've done a lot of good, things that needed done, things no one else could do. But you've been reckless lately, doing a lot of collateral damage. I can't help but wonder if maybe... you're too old to drive." I'd pay money to see your eyes right now, he thought. That damned helmet is the best poker face on the planet.

The man in the armor growled, and the voice synthesizer turned it into a harsh, bass harmonica wail. The right hand - the one with the wide-beam lasers - rose slowly, and Edge knew he could not outrun that death. But the flash never came.

"I know what I'm doing, ninja boy." The wings clicked outward, and the boot rockets flared. Airstrike rose, and turned his back on Edge before vanishing beyond the clouds.

Edge realized he hadn't been breathing. His sudden inhalation drew a sweaty taste from his mask. Bones vibrated inside him.

I can't do this alone, he thought. I need help. I have to track down Circe.

* * *

It took him a couple of days. When he found her, she was surrounded. A pimp and a pair of hired thugs, judging by the flamboyant dress and waving knives. Circe always went after pimps.

Edge figured she'd lured them into the alley. They were playing with her, making little feints with the knives and moving around her in a slow circle. The idiots grinned at their cornered mouse, having no idea how sharp her claws were.

Edge reached behind him, freed the collapsing bow from its secure clip, and fitted a jet-black shaft to the string. Below, prey suddenly became predator.

A nimbus of pale light emerged from Circe's long, writhing tresses, and her nails scratched streaks of light in the night air. Her foes stopped smiling, stopped everything. They ran like gazelles.


Edge put a shaft through a thug's thigh, and the man fell screaming as Edge dove from the rooftop. Edge swung from a fire escape and dropped in front of the other thug. He left the pimp, who'd fled the other way, to Circe. She'd appreciate that.

The runner came right at him, brandishing the knife. Edge dropped his bow, gripped the man's wrist and shattered the elbow with his free fist. He twisted, tripping the crook and letting the man's own momentum drive him into the asphalt. The man yelped, tried to rise. Edge stomped a boot on the man's head, driving his nose into the alley and his mind into sleepy-time.

Edge looked around. The guy with the shaft in his leg crawled through a broken window. The pimp knelt before Circe, pleading. Her halo reflected in the silver grill that hid his teeth.

Circe blew Edge a kiss. He met her dark eyes, then watched as she poured nightmare after nightmare into the pimp's mind. Edge wondered what sort of visions could make a man sweat and tremble and piss himself so quickly.

Edge threw a line and lifted himself to the roof while Circe turned the pimp into a quivering, gasping mass. Slow, throbbing pulses of light flew from her fingertips and into the pimp's skull. His hair stood up slowly; it made his head look as though it were swelling, like the ballooning foil on Jiffy Pop. For a moment, Edge thought she was going to kill him, but she left him sobbing for his momma and sucking his thumb. Circe levitated to the rooftop.

"Big E," Circe said, smiling. "Thanks for the assist." She wore the shortest skirt imaginable, emphasizing her long legs, and a tank top that hid almost nothing. Her face belonged to a goddess, her laughing eyes to a stripper. Edge used to fantasize about perfect women all the time. Circe had rendered all those dreams pale.

So why haven't I stayed in touch with her, he wondered. Oh, yeah, I don't trust people, especially really hot women with scary, incomprehensible powers. Even when those powers turn sex into. . .


He shook himself out of his reverie and asked: "What did the pimp do?"

"What they always do," she said tartly. "Anyway, he won't be doing it again. Let's talk about something more fun. Come back for a little more?" She winked. "Gonna take off the mask this time?"

Edge smiled, but realized she couldn't see it. Or could she? He had no idea what her powers entailed. Perhaps she could magically gaze through the fabric. He tried to magically gaze through the tank top, but it didn't work. "Do you really want me to take off the mask?"

She paused with a slender finger against her chin, and came closer. A cinnamon scent came with her. "No. I don't think I do." Then she smiled, the smile that could melt granite. Perhaps literally, he thought.

She sauntered up to him, and planted a kiss on the mask. He felt a tiny, electric spark as her lips brushed the fabric. "Let's go play," she whispered.

Edge took her by the shoulders, and stood her back. "Love to, really, but this is business. I came for help."

"Damn." Her eyes gave him a you-don't-know-what-you're missing stare, and he answered with an oh-yes-I-do shrug. "Last time, I practically had to tie you down," she said. "Do I need to get my magic lasso?"

"Circe." He put as much schoolmaster tone into it as he could.

She shrugged. "The original lone wolf, asking for help? A new miracle every day in the big city."

"It's about Airstrike."

It took her by surprise. "Airstrike?"

"Yeah." Edge squatted on his heels, gathered his thoughts. "Have you seen him lately?"

"Only on the news. We travel in different social circles these days."

"I think he's losing control or something."

"Losing control? No way. Airstrike's the biggest gun there is, E. He's always in control, trust me on that. Nobody does it better."

"Lately, he's been doing it sloppier. I've been watching. Anywhere he's been, it's like Baghdad. All the time. Someone's going to get hurt, someone who's not supposed to get hurt."

Circe stepped forward and touched his brow. "I see on the news all the time where A's dropped the hammer on this or that terrorist. The world needs Airstrike."

"Yeah, I know," Edge said. "But he was never like this before. Never this. . . I don't know."

"It's a bigger, badder world now, bigger, badder stakes," Circe said. "Maybe he just has to be a little bigger and badder himself. Are you sure you aren't just dredging up problems that don't really exist? I mean, you do tend to be paranoid."

"Who? Me?"

"Duh!"

"OK," he said, "trust is not my forte. But I mean it. Something's wrong with Airstrike. Maybe it's the suit, maybe it's him, I don't know. But he's like a gigantic wrecking ball now. A gigantic wrecking ball with lasers and killer gizmos out the wazoo. Godzilla on steroids. Someone is going to get hurt. Bad."

Circe winced. "And you just have to go and stop him, don't you? E, honey, you're cute, but you're nuts. A's a good guy, the best there is. Saved my butt, I don't know, four or five times. Saved yours more than once, remember? And the way he guards that technology of his, I mean, he won't let Uncle Sam near it because he wouldn't be able to control what happens. He wreaks of integrity and. . . nobility. . . and. . . all that do-the-right-thing stuff. I just can't see him endangering people needlessly. He wouldn't let that happen."

She smiled. "He's like everyone's dad."

Edge stood. "Sooner or later, someone's got to tell Dad not to get behind the wheel anymore."

She laughed. "Good luck with that!"

"You and he were close, once, Circe. Squad mates. He really likes you."

Circe scoffed. "Oh, no, honey. Uh-huh. I haven't seen him in ages, but I love the Big A. I am so not gonna be the one to tell him he's got to retire. Especially not when there's bad people out there trying to blow everything up and he's the go-to guy."

Edge stared at her, but she just crossed her arms and shook her head. "OK, Circe. You don't have to help me confront him. Just get me some gear."

"Gear? What kind of gear? I don't use gear, 'cause I don't need gear." She snapped her fingers, and the air around them sizzled with miniature lightning.

"The device the Squad used against Falchion. You can still get into the old HQ, can't you?"

"Yeah, it's all still there if we need it. I suppose I can get it. You really gonna use that against him?"

"I'm gonna try."

"Really think it would work?"

"It better."

"You're crazy."

"I dress all in black, wear a mask and hunt bad guys with deer-tip arrows. Yeah, I'm a tad unbalanced."

She sighed. "I owe you one, maybe two, so I'll get the damned thing for you. But I'm begging you, E, really think about this. He'll take it hard, whether you are right or wrong. Just the thought that someone would believe him too old. . . you know, the bigger they are, the harder they fall."

"Yeah." I just hope he doesn't fall on me.



* * *



Peter Taggart closed the shop early, and turned off the neon sign that read "Taggart's Army Surplus and Outdoor Outfitters." He triple-locked the heavy metal doors and turned on the alarms. Then he went downstairs, to check his Edge arsenal one more time.

Three knives, all black, varying sizes. Collapsing bow, ready. Quiver, stocked. Arrows, deer tips and explosive tips. Heckler & Koch VP70z, loaded with safety on. Spare ammo clips. Lines and grapples. Glass cutter. Miniature grenades. New reinforced Kevlar. Acids, gas mask, other fun stuff. All in good condition - and not a bit of it any damned good at all against Airstrike's armor and weapons.

"Wish I had your budget, Bob," he muttered. That awoke the old pain, because he'd always wished for more than Airstrike's seemingly inexhaustible supply of gear and weapons. Edge's whole crime-fighting career had been a feeble, cut-rate attempt to imitate the iconic hero of his youth.

He remembered his first sight of Airstrike, thundering down Poppel Avenue in pursuit of drug dealers. Machine guns popped from the Porsche's broken rear window. Bullets sparked and barked off Airstrike's silvery chest. The Porsche had to be doing ninety, and Airstrike had simply swooped out of the sky, picked it up and kept right on going. Edge pictured the aerial roller coaster ride, the puking crooks, the gawking SWAT team as Airstrike placed the Porsche gently on the green grass and the bad guys tumbled out, holding onto their stomachs.

From that moment, Peter Taggart had wanted nothing more than to be like Airstrike. And he'd done so, after a fashion. He'd turned his karate prowess against street thugs and drug dealers, and left the madmen and bigger fish to Airstrike. But their paths had crossed, and they'd even worked side-by-side a few times. Glory days.

These days were different. What would happen if Airstrike chased down that Porsche today? Would he drop the car from a mile up? Hurl it into the ocean? Or just shove a missile up its tailpipe?

Edge shivered. He was about to pit his meager arsenal against stuff the U.S. military could only dream about.

I'm no Airstrike, he thought. Never will be.

He pulled down the map and stared at it for the millionth time. Circe's package was in place, but he had to get Airstrike within range of it. And he had no idea how to contact Airstrike.

He did, however, know a few things. Airstrike did not patrol the city, looking for trouble. Airstrike appeared only when needed. Edge had studied police reports, newspaper accounts, witness tales. From those, he'd compared trouble spots with Airstrike's flight vectors and narrowed down the big guy's HQ to an area on the north side. It made sense, for all the high-tech industry and moneyed neighborhoods were there. Still, it left Edge a lot of ground to cover. He'd have to draw Airstrike out.

And hope like hell he could handle it once he did.

* * *

At the last razor-thin edge of sunset, he stared out over the vast halls of industry. Acres of buildings, short and tall, full of computers and nano-whatzits and who knows what else. Airstrike could be in any one of them.

Edge gauged the terrain, the available cover, the potential hiding spots, the high ground. Once he knew where to perch, and how best to cover the battlefield, he'd draw Airstrike out. Tonight was recon.

A safety beacon flashed on an antenna above, and its light reflected from a hand-sized wet pool at the edge of the roof. Everything else around him was bone dry, and he was certain the wet spot hadn't been there when he arrived.


Edge looked around, then walked toward it. A pocket flashlight showed it to be red and thick. Blood? From where?

Then the puddle danced, and divided, and Edge doused the light and jumped backward. He drew his knife as the dervish blobs formed letters in the air: "Do not confront Airstrike."

His mind spun ghost stories, his heart thundered and his palms grew damp inside the black gloves until he finally figured it out. "Christ," he muttered. Ooze. That's what the newspapers called this thing. Ooze.

Edge had heard of Ooze, but like most people he had not really believed. A man, turned into a living plasma by unimaginable forces, able to control his molecules to an almost limitless degree. Circe had told him all about it, and he'd listened the way nonbelievers listen to an acquaintance talking about God or ghosts.

Even now, with the reality taking shape in front of him, Edge wasn't sure he believed it. It was as though he had stepped into a Philip K. Dick story. I hate Philip K. Dick stories, he thought. Reality's warped enough.

The letters glowed crimson, grew bigger and rearranged. "Don't do it." Pulsing lights within the blobs gave them an oily sheen.

Edge caught his breath, and felt his heart beat under the Kevlar. "OK," he said. "You do it."

More letter shifting. "No. Airstrike knows what he's doing."

"Circe put you onto this?" Ooze, Circe and Airstrike had been the core of the Squad, back when there had been a Squad. "You could help me, Ooze. If what they say is true, you could seep inside that damned armor of his, short everything out, melt components in a little acid bath and - poof! - Airstrike is shut down."

Scarlet mist congealed into an almost human form, but featureless - a life-sized red water balloon in the shape of a man. This shape, perhaps because it mimicked humanity, was more freakish than the floating letter blobs. Edge wondered why Ooze bothered.

Edge fought to move past the unnerving queasiness. "Something is wrong with Airstrike," he said. "He's blowing the hell out of everything, killing when he doesn't need to, risking a lot of innocent lives."

Ooze spread his arms wide, impossibly wide, and globules of fluid detached from his fingers. Pink bubbles formed letters that floated between his hands. Edge wished like hell this alien thing could actually talk, and wondered how the hell it could hear. "I know his ways," the letters wrote. "He's a good man, the best of us."

"I know he's a good man. Shouldn't we help him?"

Bubbles wiggled, reformed. "He doesn't need help. Trust him."

Edge snarled. "I'm not real good at trust."

The letters formed a scrolling text in midair. "You don't know Airstrike as I do, the depth of him. After my accident, after I became. . . this. . . I wanted to die, stretch myself thin until nothing was left. I could have, and why not? I was a cloud, a nothingness. Airstrike stopped me. He told me I was human, still human, my soul was human, no matter my grotesque new form. I hadn't believed it, hadn't believed in a soul before. Airstrike made me believe it, because he believed it."

The almost-human hands spread in a pleading gesture. "He is not a man who would endanger innocents."

"Very touching story," Edge said icily, hoping a bit of bravado would mitigate the weirdness of this conversation. It didn't. "For the record, I like him, too. But he's not himself, at least not his old self. You're a physicist, right, a Stephen Hawking type? Calculate. How old is Airstrike? Seventy? At least. My dad had to be yanked off the road at sixty, and my dad's Buick wasn't capable of wiping out the whole freaking Israeli army. Maybe Airstrike needs to retire, but he's too damned stubborn to know it. He's human, right? Humanity is, by definition, kind of a flawed state."


"The flaw is yours. Let Airstrike be."

The floating alphabet seeped into Ooze's surface, became part of him again. Then Ooze stretched in all directions, until he was invisible.

"If everyone loves Airstrike so damned much," Edge asked the empty space, "why am I the one left with the hard part?"

* * *

The dream was a bad one. Dad, laughing demonically, behind the wheel despite Pete's pleas. The rust-bucket Buick tore through the living room, ran over Mom, then spouted wings and lifted skyward on silver jets that spat flame. Missiles fired at random, screams echoed in the urban canyons. Demon Dad strafed the city with laser fire, and there was nothing Pete could do to stop him.

Taggart awoke in a surly mood. He donned black and went out before dawn, straight to a meth lab. Once he'd broken a couple of noses and several ribs, the bastards had fled. A couple of explosive arrows, and no more meth lab.

It didn't solve his Airstrike problem, but he felt better.

* * *

A yachtsman with a video camera had caught it, and the TV had been playing it all day. Airstrike, swooping from the sky and lancing a tanker a few miles out from Boston Harbor. Airstrike had churned through the hull at the waterline, from port to starboard, and fired full guns under the decks. The vessel had blubbered and foundered long enough for news helicopters to catch its final moments.

Now some Congressman from one of the corn states was yacking about credible intelligence and submarines and the certainty that a thorough search would indicate Airstrike had just averted a devastating terrorist assault.


"That guy's amazing," the customer said as Taggart wrapped the new scope.

"Yeah," Taggart said, but he wondered if everyone on board had been in on the plot, because there had been no reports of survivors. Had that question even occurred to Airstrike?

The corn state rep spoke again as the customer left. "This event, along with other recent incidents, makes it more evident that Airstrike needs to share his technology with the U.S. military. I mean, thank God for Airstrike, but he is just one man. Imagine how much more effective, how much more efficient, our guard would be if the military had access to Airstrike's weapons? I fear his stubborn refusal. . . "

Edge snapped the TV off. "Screw you, corndog." The government could barely keep the lights on and the roads paved. He didn't want them playing with Bob's gear.

He fetched himself a beer. What's the world coming to? Airstrike had always refused to yield to demands to share his technology, for fear of what others might do with it. That attitude, Edge could respect. It was part of what made him admire the man.

And here I am planning to shut him down. He took a deep swig of Coor's. And if I succeed, who is going to take down terrorists with their big bombs? Me?

He finished the beer with a final long gulp. "Sad, sad world that has to depend on little old me," he whispered.

* * *

The spot was chosen with a sniper's care. The most likely flight routes were within sight, and his weapons could cover most of them. Edge knew where to move if he had to cover more ground.

Now all he needed was Airstrike. The bomb call Edge had made to the cops ought to produce him.

Soon, a shrill whistle cut the air. Airstrike rocketed toward the docks, well within range. Police sirens wailed in the distance.

Edge, perched on a rooftop cellular tower, had night goggles on and the bow in hand. He aimed, followed the swift target, led expertly and let fly.

The perfect shot caught Airstrike on the helmet. The arrow tip exploded with enough force to peel a freight car. It didn't faze Airstrike at all.

But it got his attention.

The silver streak curved toward Edge, and came faster than he anticipated. A nimbus of light on Airstrike's arms told Edge to move. He dove as the chartreuse beams cut the cell tower in half. Metal creaked and snapped, and chunks of flaming goo rained about him as Edge hurled his grapple across the alley. He couldn't see the target, but he knew just where it was. Debris sizzled on his Kevlar-covered forearm and smoke obscured his vision, but the grapple caught the chain-link fence that bordered the neighboring roof. Edge swung across the alley as another beam sliced through the black smoke. He heard pavement buckle from the force of Airstrike's ray.

A mini-missile shattered the wall above him, and Edge went into free-fall. He caught a fire escape, and almost pulled his arm from the socket doing so. Stone debris clanged on the metal landing as Edge flipped onto the escape and plunged through glass into darkness.

Damn! So fast, so unstoppable.

He had jumped inside out of reflex, but he couldn't stay there. The building, an office suite for some nano-tech concern, was closed for the night, but Edge couldn't take the chance of Airstrike's next shot decapitating a wandering night watchman. Bits of glass still raining from his clothes, he dove outside.

Airstrike was there, hovering like a god. Edge, dangling a line and grapple behind him, plunged from the fire escape. The grapple claws caught on the ladder and the line halted him a few feet from the ground, an eyeblink before Airstrike melted the fire escape. Edge rolled away from the tumbling volcanic mess; some of the slag spattered on his clothes. The burnt-rubber odor of molten Kevlar filled his nostrils, and he steeled himself for the pain to come when the metal burned through, but he did not pause to try to wipe it away.

He ran.

"Come here, Edge." The amplified voice rolled like a stampede through the alley. "Still think I can't handle myself? Too old?"

Keep talking, Bob. Give me time. It's all I've got.

Edge ignored what little cover there was. A trash bin was no match for any of Airstrike's weaponry. He had to get to the warehouse. He had to get Airstrike in there, too. He heard the whir and whistle of Airstrike's pursuit, and willed himself to run faster.

There it was, just ahead. Edge plucked a grenade free, and tossed it at the iron doors. Fire colors ripped the night, turned the barrier to shrapnel. The sensations overloaded the night goggles, and Edge blindly hurled himself through the flames. He gained his feet and ran, already knowing where to go. Spots on his body burned, his eyes ached and flying metal had gutted part of his cheek, but he ran and dove for cover.

Stone missiles flew as the building shook with earthquake force. Airstrike had ignored the opening Edge made, and tore open a new one.

"Let's talk, ninja boy." Airstrike landed in a cloud of smoke and fire, standing before the gap he'd made in the wall. Hatches opened in the armor, and lights pierced the darkness in a dozen directions. Edge knew that Airstrike employed infrared lenses and who-knows-how-many other sensory devices. Hiding was not an option.

But he'd already done what needed to be done -- so long as his plan worked.

Edge didn't understand the physics behind the stasis field gear Circe had provided, but he knew how to use a remote control. He reached into a pocket of his Kevlar vest and pressed the button, and the concealed devices in each corner of the cavernous warehouse roared into life. Humming, pulsing, throbbing pink light filled the spaces, writhing like a living thing into every nook and cranny. The stasis field had stopped Falchion's robots long ago, and those mechanical killers had been based on technology stolen from Airstrike.

The field had to stop Airstrike. Nothing else could.

Airstrike's spears of light vanished in the Pepto-Bismol haze of the stasis field. The whir of the turrets guiding those searchlights silenced. Edge fought to control his breath. Please let it work, please let it work. . .

Silence, save for the stasis hum, filled the warehouse.

Edge no longer needed the night vision goggles, so he propped them up onto his head. His gloves came back bloody.

Edge peered from his hiding place among the crates. Airstrike stood motionless, the multiple lights dimmed, their turrets frozen. Edge straightened his mask, in disarray with blood and sweat, and crawled out of concealment.

Airstrike stood like a silent iron tower.

Edge readied an arrow, just in case. But Airstrike made no move.

Cautiously, Edge drew closer. "OK, Bob. Let's talk."

He kept the bow in hand, but no longer aimed the explosive tip at Airstrike's head. "I want you to realize why I did this. I'm trying to help you, to help people, the way you taught me. Do what needs doing, you always said.

"Well, Bob. . . sir. . . you need to step back. Something's not right with you. I don't think you're in control of all that high-tech gear anymore. You're sloppy, reckless, a danger to anyone around you."

Edge took a deep breath. "I can't let that go on."

"Not in control?" The cold harmonica voice revealed nothing. Edge froze. It should not have been able to sound at all in the stasis field.

Edge fired his explosive arrow and ran. The blast behind him turned the pink haze into a flaming tangerine flash for a moment, and the whir of motors and hum of Airstrike's armor powering up clutched at his spine.


"I began upgrading my armor against the stasis field the day we shut Falchion down," Airstrike said. "You underestimate me, ninja boy."

Another orange glow and a deafening roar spurred Edge to tuck and roll, but the weight of the world drove him deep, deep into the floor amid a tumult of stone and dust and his own screams. He plunged through darkness into a cellar, and felt the vice of Airstrike's hand on his leg. Bones snapped, shattered, powdered. Pain consumed Edge, tortured him, erased all thought until only pain existed - and still Airstrike gripped him.

They crashed through another concrete floor, and another. Edge, still hanging onto consciousness, imagined himself as nothing but tattered skin and shattered bones held together by tangles of scratched and bruised sinew. And there, staring at him, tumbling with him, was the unfeeling robotic face of Airstrike.

And then, only darkness.

* * *

It was a hospital room, like any other. He could make out the details through a jungle of tubes and and limb harnesses. A rhythmic blip, blip, blip somewhere told him someone was having vital signs monitored.

Please let those blips be mine.

* * *

"Not good enough," the robotic voice mocked.

He couldn't see the source, couldn't see anything in the coal-mine darkness.

"You thought I was washed up," the voice said again. "I told you he was the best," unseen Circe added. Glowing pink bubbles drifted into view. "Told you to leave him alone." Dad's voice mocked: "You think you know everything."

And then, derisive laughter. Somehow, even the bubbles laughed.

* * *

Same hospital room, brighter lights. He couldn't move, but he remembered his name was Taggart -- Edge -- and that he had been hurt. Then he remembered the leering nightmare face and the searing pain.

How long have I been here?

He wriggled a finger. It hurt. He wiggled a toe. That hurt more.

He tried to sort out the cords and tubes, and realized his depth perception was gone. He crinkled his face, and felt the bandages against his skin. Half his head was wrapped.

"Mr. Taggart?"

He just stopped himself from answering, "Call me Edge." The depth of his troubles suddenly revealed itself. No one came into a hospital hurt this badly without raising a lot of questions. They'd know about the gear, the secret identity, everything.

It's all over.

A man, dressed to the nines in pinstriped gray and thin maroon tie, drew closer. The snowy mane was perfectly raked, the slender fingers adorned with a pair of small gold rings that gleamed against ebony skin. The wan smile seemed forced, the manner cautious, the voice smooth and without accent. His dark tone and gray eyes seemed at odds with one another.

He's about to tell me I'm going to die. Or go to prison. Or die in prison.

"My name is Bob."

Edge turned his one good eye back to the speaker. "Bob?"

"Bob. Bob Merringham."

"Holy. . . "

"You know me better as Airstrike."

Edge looked at the small, elderly man who sat by the bed. He looked like everyone's grandpa, assuming grandpa had just won the lottery.

"I hid your stuff, brought you here, diverted cops and inconvenient paperwork," Bob said. "Everything's paid for, no cops have been notified, no problematic questions asked. Your identity is safe, Mr. Taggart."

"How did you do all that? And why?"

"How? Well, this hospital. . . I own it." The smile seemed one of embarrassment.

The shining gray eyes averted. "As to why. I'm sorry, Mr. Taggart. Believe me, please. I didn't mean for this to happen, for you to end up here."

Edge drew a deep breath. It hurt.

Bob - Airstrike - filled the silence, but did not look up. "The suit, it does what I want, reads my mind. But sometimes, I think and it acts before I can decide. . . I guess. . . you were right. I was fooling myself, convinced that minor adjustments would compensate, help me regain fine control. I. . . I. . ."

He seemed about to cry. Edge couldn't remember ever feeling this sorry for anyone. "Just tell me what happened, Bob," he said softly, slowly.

"I got old," Bob said bitterly. "Brain changes, reflexes change. The suit feeds off my thoughts - and when I was young it worked perfectly. But that changed, my brain altered, neural pathways changed, synaptic action slowed… my mind couldn't keep up with the suit.

"The changes were small at first. I'd land, harder than I intended. Make wide turns in the air, and misjudge my course. Then it got worse. I'd lift a bus, and throw it across the street. Or aim a numbing blast -- like I tried to do at you - and launch a killing beam instead. Sometimes, I'd have a thought, just a damned thought, and before I could retract it or discount it, the damned suit would act on it. . . I. . . lost control."

"Bob."

The words rushed out of Bob now. "I thought I could fix it, make adjustments. And I did, over and over again. They all worked, fine, for a while. But the problems kept mounting. I couldn't keep up. And when I almost killed you, I realized. . . I'm done."

"Why didn't you just hang up the suit?"

The gray eyes popped up to stare at him. "Have you seen the world today? The kinds of evil growing and festering and boiling over? I had the power to fight it. The duty to fight it. No one else could. I thought I could. . . keep. . . fighting it."

A small tear streaked along Bob's furrowed cheek. Edge had no idea what to say.

"The world needs Airstrike," Bob said. Then he rose, steadily, and filled his lungs with a deep breath. "But Airstrike doesn't have to be me."

Edge looked at him. "You're not turning that stuff over to the military, are you?"

Bob actually grinned, and laughed. "I suppose you'd drag yourself out of that bed and choke me before I could do that, huh?" He wiped away the stray tear. "No, Mr. Taggart. I'm not turning it over to the military. I want to put it into hands I can trust."

Bob placed a hand on the cast that covered Edge's shoulder. "Such a person is difficult to find, Mr. Taggart. Most of my old allies have let me down. Circe could have made me listen to reason. She didn't. Ooze could have shut me down in an eyeblink. He didn't. They joined me in my own denial."

He smiled. "I need to hand it over to someone who will do what needs doing. No matter how hard it is."

Bob smiled. "What size armor carapace do you wear, Mr. Taggart?"