Jim Baen's Universe

Science Fiction Stories

Double-Secret Weapon

Written by Tony Frazier

Illustrated by Luis Peres

So I'm sitting in the food court, stomach growling as the smells of corn dogs and gyros swirl around me. There's a cardboard standee to my left and a Playco rep to my right. Her name is Fleming, and she's young and pretty, fresh out of college with a marketing degree and a dazzling smile. It's her job to take money, hand out glossies and keep me in line. I don't think she likes me.

The next kid in line hangs back a little. He's only five or six, and he looks intimidated at seeing his cartoon superhero idol come to life. His dad nudges him, and the kid shuffles up and slides the picture in front of me without a word. It's not really a photo of me, just a photo of a drawing of me, the same drawing they used for the cardboard stand-up.

"That's not the real Digger," some kid says from back in the line.

"What's your name?" I ask the kid in front of me.

"Make it out to Kenny," his dad says. The kid just stares, wide-eyed.

"Oh my God, they killed Kenny! Those . . ." It suddenly occurs to me that it might be inappropriate to yell out the word bastards in a mall full of kids. You'd think I would have already learned this, but I've been known to have trouble keeping my mouth shut, which is why I've never really tried to do the secret identity thing. Well, that and the rather obvious disfigurement deal.

"Sorry," I say to Fleming. It's entirely possible that I'll go the whole day having only spoken three different words to her: hi, okay, and sorry. A lot of sorry's.

I write, "Kenny, Be a Hero, Digger," on the picture using the swooping, company-approved penmanship that Playco made me practice for the last week. It's tricky to write with these big plastic shells on my arms. I'm supposed to write my name with a big flourish, but I can't pull it off. It looks lame, so I try for the jaunty underline instead. A little better than last time. "Be careful with that. The marker's still wet," I say as I hand the picture back. The kid practically dances away with his father in tow.

"I'm serious, Mom, look. His costume's all wrinkled, and his hair's all wrong, and the DBG's look totally fake," the kid's voice continues, drawing closer as the line moves.

Of course, the Driller Beam Generators look fake, because they are fake. The animation studio's artists took some liberties with the design, so my costume has been redesigned to match. The colors of my shirt and pants are brighter, I now sport a big "D" logo on each sleeve, and my forearms are encased in shiny plastic shells like blimps. I don't mind so much; I never thought the real Drillers looked all that good. At one point, I got so bored with them that I tried to weld on little Cadillac-style fins, give them some panache, but after two or three battles, they were beat all to hell. Looked really pitiful.

Another picture slides in front of me, a little blond kid, about the same age as the last one, staring at me with big, round eyes. His mother nudges him. "Tell him your name, honey," she says.

"Darren. I really like your show," the kid says, "And my favorite character is Dig-Dog."

Jesus wept. Of all the things I hate about The Digger Family Amazing Power Hour, and there are several, the one I hate most is the extended family they've saddled me with: Kid Digger and Daisy Digger and Uncle Digger and the Three Lieutenant Diggers: Ditch, Posthole and Grave. But the worst, the absolute worst, is the Mighty Dig-Dog, mainly because he's the real hero of the show. They play me as a big buffoon, always getting in over my head until Dig-Dog comes in to save the day. Bastard.

But I try to keep a smile on my face as I write on the picture. I hand it back and say, "He's my favorite, too." Smiling makes my face hurt.

The next kid is older, eleven or twelve maybe, and he's got an attitude. "You're not the real Digger, are you?" This is the snot-nose I've been hearing for a while now.

"Yes, I am," I say. "The real deal."

"You can't be," he says. "Those DBG's look plastic. Plus you're like, way too old."

"Okay, number one, the real Digger calls them Drillers, not DBG's like on the show. Number two, just because they look fake doesn't mean they are fake. Although, they are, but there are real ones underneath, trust me. And number three, I'm not old. Now who do I make this out to?"

Snot-Nose shakes his head. "Just write your name. I'll probably throw it away, anyway."

"You're not throwing it away," his mom says. She's blonde, well-dressed, working a little too hard to look like she's not getting any older. "I paid good money for that. If you don't want it, you can sell it."

"Who'd pay money for a picture autographed by some fake?" Snot-Nose asks.

"Listen, kid," I say. "When you get trapped in an alternate dimension by a resurrected god, and have to watch all your friends die while you barely escape, and then spend two freaking years trying to fight your way back to Earth, only to find out that they've turned your life into a cartoon while you've been gone, then I might listen to what you have to say about my authenticity or lack of same. Until then, watch the damn show, buy the damn toys, and shut up!"

My voice echoes from the rafters of the food court. I notice this because all other noise in the mall seems to have stopped. Did you ever see "National Lampoon's Animal House," where the Deltas go into the all-black bar and shout, "Heeeeey Otis!" and everybody stops and stares at them? Just like that. Snot-Nose and his mom, Fleming the Playco rep, passing lady with a stroller, corn dog girls in their goofy hats: all staring. Somewhere back in the line, a kid starts to cry.

"I'm sorry," I say to Fleming, and then turn back to the kid. "I'm sorry. It's just . . . It's been a long day, and I'm hungry. Maybe if your mom gives me her phone number, I could apologize more fully over drinks or something."

Mom stares daggers at me. "I don't believe you," she says.

"I am pretty unbelievable," I say. Did I mention my mouth control problems?

Mom leans in close, her perfume mingling with the aroma of chow mein swirling around my head. She smells really good. I try not to sneak a glance at her cleavage, and fail, as she says, "I'm reporting you to mall management."

"No, come back," I say as she storms off, dragging Snot-Nose with her. "At least let me sign the picture."

She keeps walking away as the next person in line, a tall man in a suit, steps up. I look around him at the retreating mom. "You know, this is probably for the best. I'm kinda seeing someone." If you can call sitting at the bar and paying her money to serve me beer seeing.

"This is not good," Fleming says.

I sigh and say, "I know. I'm sorry." I look down at the picture in front of me. "What's your child's name, sir?"

"Oh, it's for me," says a deep voice speaking in cultured, almost theatrical tones. "Make it out to Pierce. Professor Pierce."

"You know, I once fought a guy named . . ." I look up into a smiling, familiar face: tall, thin, with a regal crest of white hair sweeping back from his forehead.

"Hello, Digger," he says. "You've changed your costume, I see."

Oh, God.

Of all the things I've dreaded about doing one of these appearances—the goofy costume and the bratty kids and the cramps in my hand from signing my name a million times—this is the worst one, the one I tried hardest to convince myself wouldn't happen: one of my enemies showing up and starting a scrap in a crowded mall full of kids.

"Don't worry," he says. "I'm not here to start an altercation."

Which is good. As I recall, Professor Pierce was a nasty one. He threw needles. He threw them really hard.

I hate needles.

"Then why are you here?" I ask.

"Isn't it obvious? I'm a big fan of your show." He casts a nervous glance at Fleming, then leans in close. He's trying hard to seem self-assured, but there's something almost desperate in his eyes. "In fact, I . . . I was sort of hoping you could get me on it."

No. Freaking. Way.

"Uh, what?"

"Think about it," he says, looking back and forth between Fleming and me. "Digger versus his greatest real-life archenemy. It would give the show a real boost, I think."

"You weren't my archenemy, dude," I say. "We only fought, like, once."

"Twice," he says. He turns to plead his case to Fleming. "And they were epic struggles."

"So epic I don't remember the second one?"

"The L.A. tunnels?" he says. "Balloons full of poison gas surrounding you so you didn't dare deflect my needles?"

"That was you?"

"Yes, it was me," he says, gritting his teeth. He tries to force a smile back onto his face. God, did I look that insincere when that kid was talking about Dig-Dog?

"But what about my idea?" he continues. "You pay me a small licensing fee for the use of my likeness. I would even do the voice for scale. Think about it: the authentic villain with the real-life voice."

"I so don't remember that being you," I say. "I thought it was that laser guy . . ."

"Digger doesn't have any input into the creative content of the show," Fleming says.

"That can't be true," Pierce says.

"Fraid so," I say.

"But you could pull some strings," Pierce says. "I mean, they need your permission to make the show, obviously. You could threaten to withdraw it, or . . ."

"Seriously, dude, even if I wanted to, I can't," I say.

Pierce shoves his face close to mine, and this time there's no mistaking the desperation in his eyes. "Do you want me to beg? Is this fun for you? Fine. I'm begging. Please, I need this."

"Sir, you'll need to move along," Fleming says.

"No!" Pierce says, and I can see his eyes welling up. "Digger, I'm desperate. I can barely feed myself. They let me out on parole, but the terms . . . I'm not allowed near anything sharp. I got a temp job in an office, but I had to quit. They freaked out whenever I used a paper clip, and God help me if I sharpened a pencil. I can't work in a restaurant, I can't work in a garage, I can't even work in a bloody Wal-Mart because they carry sewing supplies! It's like they want to force me back into a life of crime. Please, you're the only one who can understand. You and I, we're special. We have a bond."

All I can do is shrug and say, "Sorry." It's "Sorry Day," apparently.

"Why won't you help me?" Pierce demands.

"The terms of Digger's contract are confidential," Fleming says.

"Screw that," I say. "You want to know why? Here's why: because when I was missing, Playco trademarked my costume, my name and my powers, figuring I wouldn't need them anymore. I came back from my two-year vacation in the nether realms to find out I'm now a big TV star. And then when I tried to help some folks out, I got slapped with a 'cease-and'desist' order from Playco's lawyers.

"I tried to fight it in court, but I found out that since Digger wasn't my real name, and I'd never taken steps to protect my use of it, Playco had every right to do what they did. I would probably have lost the case, but Playco offered me a settlement. They pay me a stipend and allow me to wear my costume and use my name, but only with their approval, to promote their show and their toy line. You think I can pull strings to get you on the show? I can't even pull any strings to get me off of it!"

My voice is echoing from the rafters again, and all traffic in the area has come to a complete standstill for the second time. At some point, I've risen from my seat, because I didn't like the way Pierce was looming over me. Didn't help, though. Pierce is way taller than me, so still looming. He looks like he wants to say something,

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Tony Frazier worked as a waiter, a newspaper movie critic, and a military intelligence noncom before settling down to his current job of watching television for money.Tony Frazier's author page.)

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