The Midlife Crisis of Commander Invincible: A Novel

Chapter One

1 ONE Masks like Me. Noble Intentions. What the People Wanted to Believe. A Missing Star. The Thing about a Falling Baby. The Nothing That Can’t Wait. Code 26. z I’m flying high over this city that was supposed to be mine. Once, the mere sight of my black and bronze cape fluttering above would’ve stopped traffic , spun the heads of all the stunned citizens. Nowadays, even if I streak through Center Circle at rush hour, I’m lucky if a half-dozen tourists snap cellphone photos. So I spare myself the indifference and stay above the neon glow, up here among the low-floating clouds and the blinking tips of skyscraper antennae. On a moonless evening like tonight, I doubt any civilians can even see me in the darkened sky, and that suits me fine. Tonight, I’m just not feeling like much of a superhero. Two miles ahead, straight across the west river, a cone of light shines from a hovering police helicopter. I cruise in the general direction, over a Cuban American Pride street fair and past a church spire. As I near the water, I can tell the trouble’s in Washington Park, and I try to tune in my ultrahearing to learn more. Above the whirling blades, I can’t figure out the nature of the emergency, and I’m legally obliged to keep my distance. There was a time when I would’ve automatically assisted, when helping peace officers was a matter of honor and duty, a knee-jerk instinct. But 2 with the agreement the unions signed back in ’98, masks like me aren’t supposed to interfere in police affairs unless officially requested. They have a form that requires two signatures. So I hang suspended over the rippling river and glance down at my Danger Ring, hoping for it to glow with the promise of certain purpose. It remains dull. In the center of my chest, the dying thing grows a bit more. The only real action I’ve had tonight, the only distraction I’ve been able to find since flying away from the HALO, involved a fire on the East Side. I crashed feet first through the window of a burning two-story on South Holland and plucked free a family of four. Safe on the street outside , behind the fire engines, the woman planted a kiss on the dusty cheek of my bronze mask. The man gave me a dirty look and pulled his wife back into his arms. Their two kids, a girl and a boy with blankets tossed over their shoulders, stared at me wide-eyed. I hacked a few times from all the smoke I’d sucked in, and one of the firefighters offered me some oxygen. I waved the plastic mask away and said, “Give it to them.” “We’re OK,” the wife said. The pure oxygen was good, and when I sat on the curb I no longer felt dizzy. “What’s wrong with Mr. Magnificent?” the boy asked. “That’s not him,” his sister said. “He’s one of the other ones.” “Oh,” the boy said. Sheila always used to tell me I should try to be more upbeat, that it’s all about positive attitude. I leave the helicopter behind and follow the river south. Since my surgery , flying puts a hell of a strain on my lower back, but the brace Dr. Hippocrates gave me looks like a girdle. I refuse to wear it out of principle. I just take my time, slow floating under the Continental Bridge, over the docks of Irishtown, finally easing myself onto the top of a tenement on 36th. I can’t explain why, but spots like these are where I feel right lately. Out-of-the-way places where I’m alone and no one expects anything of me and I can keep an eye out for some small good to do. I stand on the northwest corner and look down on all the normal people, ten stories 3 below. They hustle along the sidewalk, wait for a break in traffic to cross. I focus on a couple walking arm in arm and imagine them smiling. Once, my ultravision could’ve confirmed this, but now it comes and goes. I wonder where the couple is heading and hope it is home to bed. I hope they make love that wakes...