chest and sobs.
“Don’t worry Herr Doctor. We will rebuild. We will make it better,” Edwin says. And this time, Edwin thinks, I will charge you more.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Somewhere Over Kansas
As Excelsior flies East he is enveloped in high cumulonimbus clouds making their way across the prairie. Below him there might be rain showers or hail or tornados, but this altitude is fraught with staggering amounts of beauty. He checks his speed so he can enjoy his progress between the towering columns of water and the magnificent pillars of light that seem to hold up the sky. If this was a movie, music would be playing.
The lack of a film score does not trouble Excelsior. The song of victory thunders in his heart and the wind applauds in his ears. He feels at home. He is on an equal footing with the elements, and need not disguise his power. He isn’t going to accidently tear a layer off the atmosphere. Even if he flies through a cloud, the hole will repair itself. Here in the sky, everything is right with Excelsior.
Then, the whispers start. At first, they’re so soft, he can’t understand them. The rolling tympani and soaring strings in his heart are not overpowered, but they are tainted. Tainted by words. Somewhere over Kansas, he begins to question his victory. The whispers of doubt grow louder and louder.
“Puppet.”
“Moral Agent.”
“Hero.”
“Control.”
Excelsior stops. He realizes that the words’ haunting him are in Edwin’s voice. He pieces them into the conversation he has just had. He doesn’t like the things that Edwin said. Edwin made him feel stupid. Excelsior knows he’s not the brightest guy. That’s okay. But he doesn’t like feeling stupid. And he doesn’t like feeling that Edwin is right.
And Edwin is right.
Excelsior can’t remember the last time he took matters into his own hands. The last time he’d made a decision that really mattered. And he certainly can’t remember making a decision against Gus’ wishes. He loves the old man. On some level, he feels guilty that Gus has gotten older while he has remained young. He tries not to think about the day when Gus is going to die, but when he hears that cough rattling through the old man’s chest like a pile of dead leaves blowing across concrete…
Excelsior looks at the clouds for a long time. He tries to come up with a name for what he’s feeling. Eventually, he gives up and keeps flying. He decides he will ask Gus about it. He is sure to be in a good mood. Not only has Excelsior delivered the message to Edwin, but he has managed to take out a dangerous space-based laser weapon at the same time. Pretty good day’s work, thinks Excelsior.
He arcs high over the city and searches for the staging area. There it is, a parking lot filled with vans and trailers. They are ready to handle anything he might bring back. But this time, all he’s bringing back is success.
Gus struggles down the steps of a modular trailer. “Jesus H. Tapdancing Christ! How come every time there is a shitstorm, you’re smack in the middle of it?”
“What?”
“I gave you one job. One job shit-for-brains, and you screwed it up.”
“What?!? I told him. I told him just like you told me!” Excelsior says. He’s not sure what’s going on.
“I am too old for this shit you understand? Too OLD. Why did you destroy that satellite?”
“You mean the giant laser in space?”
“Laser? What laser? There was no space laser. I’ve got ThromCast on my ass because you tore something called GeoSynchronous relay #7 out of the sky. Do you have any idea how much that satellite cost?”
“No.”
“Of course you don’t. But it’s a lot. Tell me you just set it down somewhere. Gave it to somebody as a lawn ornament?”
“Uh, I crushed it into a small ball.”
“You did WHAT? Why?”
“They blew up a house with it. The little man with the shaved head and the —”
“Just shut up. You just shut up.”
“But Gus—'
“Shut up. You don’t do anything. You don’t say anything. I’ll take care of it. You understand?”
“Look it was—”
“That’s talking. I don’t want you to do that.”
“But—”
Gus looks at him hard. Excelsior thinks about telling him off once and for all. Flying away and never coming back. Gus’ hard guy act is interrupted by a coughing fit. He hacks and hacks and hacks. The color drains out of his face. His lips turn blue. Gus staggers. Excelsior catches him before he reaches the ground. “Help!” cries the most powerful man in the world.
EMTs rush over with equipment. After a few minutes with the oxygen mask, color returned to Gus’ face.
“Gus, I’m sorry,” says Excelsior.
Through the mask Gus says, “Just don’t do anything. Just don’t do anything until I tell you. Or until they figure out if I’m dead or not.” An EMT reaches for the pack of cigarettes in Gus’ breast pocket. “GODDAMN IT! Get your hands off of those. Who the hell do you think you are?”
“You shouldn’t smoke,” says the EMT.
“Yeah, but I do. So deal with it.”
Excelsior watches them wheel Gus away. None of it makes sense. Why is Gus angry? Why can’t he explain it to him? He was there. He saw the laser. He had seen the house explode. He had gone straight up and there was the satellite. Could he have gotten the wrong one? Maybe he should go back and check? No, that would just upset Gus more. Why does Gus get to do what he wants even though it’s killing him?
Excelsior feels like he can’t do anything right. Worst of all, can’t do anything without permission. He doesn’t understand any of it. But right then and there, he decides that it is Edwin Windsor’s fault. Excelsior isn’t going to do anything to upset his sick friend. He's not going to break the rules. But he decides, when he gets a chance, he’s going to get Edwin Windsor. The tall man has to pay. Excelsior just knows Edwin is behind it all.
Chapter Forty
Mr. The Magnificent
Edwin has been doing well for himself. It shows in his office. The room has retained its essential clarity, but Edwin has adorned it with trophies of civilization. On one wall is a large bas relief sculpture of a man fighting a centaur. It is one of a handful of pieces looted from the Acropolis by Thomas Bruce, the 7th Earl of Elgin. Unlike the others, this particular frieze didn’t quite make it into the British Museum. If it were recognized for what it was, art historians and museum curators would be quick to pronounce it priceless. But Edwin and his exceptionally discreet art dealer know otherwise. Everything has its price. Like the lesser piece by Rodin that occupies a pedestal by the west window. Or the medieval tapestry that depicts the Mongol sack of Baghdad in 1258.
In many ways, the tapestry is Edwin’s favorite piece. It is both cautionary and inspiring. The Mongols had torn across the surface of the earth like a pitiless force of nature. Ruthless and efficient, they used a practical code
