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432 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published January 1, 1993
As a kid he’d loved comics. He’d grown up thrilling to the four-color adventures of Jetboy and the Great and Powerful Turtle–no Superman for him; he was only interested in actual aces, even though he understood that their exploits were mostly made up by Cosh Comics or whoever held the license. He had wanted, more than anything in the world, to be a Hero, like the ones he read about.
That was the spring which drove him in his long search for the Radical. It was the obsession that had shaped the expression of his personal ace. He had become not one Hero but five.
“For God’s sake, man, calmly, calmly. You look as if aliens had just abducted you aboard their starship.”
“No,” Mark said firmly, his eyes never leaving Sobel, “that happens to me all the time.”
“Certainly, Colonel,” Croyd said, and Mark had a horrible flash that he was doing as good a Peter Falk impression as his lipless lizard mouth would allow. “We’re with you all the way.”
He shook his head. “What’s going on, man? What’s going on?”
Croyd took his cigar from his mouth and surveyed the scene with fine amphetamine detachment. “Looks like Armageddon to me,” he said.
“It all started coming back to me then. What we’d done–what the war had done–to this country, these people. And what the nats had done to us, before and after. And I looked around, man, I saw this Leo Barnett smilin’ away on the tube, and I saw my man Gregg Hartmann going down in Atlanta with Dr. Fuckin’ Tachyon’s knife sticking out of his back, and then all this shit hit with the jumpers and the Rox and everything, and suddenly it looked like it was going to be open season on wild cards any old time. And then here was the Colonel, ‘way down yonder in Vietnam, sayin’ come to me, I’ll let you be free. Let you feel like men again.”
“Look, what happened back at Rick’s…we didn’t know you, man. Didn’t know who you were. We know now. We remember what Cap’n Trips did for Doughboy when the nats were ready to toast him, man. We don’t forget our friends.”
“Okay, man. You’re an ace. What do you want with me?”
“I want to help you.”
“Do what?”
“Just what you’re doing.”
“What am I doing?” Unfortunately it was not a rhetorical question. Mark had no clue what he was up to. He regretted spilling the fact right out there on the mat.
“Preparing to bring down the Socialist Republic of Vietnam,” Belew said.
“The Rox lives, man.”
An image burst like a bomb in his mind: himself, poised to give pain. And then, looming over him, a dozen times greater, a hundred, was Moonchild in her black and silver. And at her side stood Cap’n Trips, resplendent in his purple suit, and J.J. Flash, and Cosmic Traveler, and Aquarius–and, yes, the blond one, the dead one, and a legion of others the Monster did not know.
He raised his fists to defy them. It was a dream, a lie! The others weren’t bigger than he. They were weak, they were small. He was big. He was greater than anything.
“All you need,” the voice said, “is love.”
He roared his contempt. And the giant faces gazed down upon him, and love flowed out.