Getting out of bed was the hardest part of the day. He felt pretty good during the day, but at night all the pain of his beating gathered in his bones and waited to ambush him at the start a new day.

Randall sat on the edge of his bed and tried to summon the courage to stand up. He couldn’t blame anyone else for his pain. The villains who beat him did what villains do. It was twelve-year-old Randall who lead him to this. A sketch on lined notebook paper of a futuristic knight with a glowing sword. A dream that his success in business allowed him to make real.

A dream that lasted just a few months. He gave it up when he found his son, but couldn’t really give it up until a warehouse full of villains beat him to a pulp. He was very lucky to be alive.

Randall stood. The metal pin in his hip ached, but that was better than the sharp pain that used to come with each morning. He reached for his cane. His programming staff pitched in for a dark wooden cane with Snarky Squirrel, star of many Mossoft games, as the silver head. He was touched and gave them all bigger than usual Christmas bonuses.

The accountants weren’t happy about that. Recession, they said. Operating on cash reserves, very little income in these uncertain times, they said. They were as annoying as the pains in his bones.

On this Christmas morning, he wouldn’t think about business. He wanted to see Jerard’s smile when he opened the big present under the tree. That’s all that mattered.

A crashing sound came from the living room. Randall grabbed his robe and limped as fast as he could towards the sound. When he arrived in the biggest room in the condo, he saw Jerard standing near the Christmas tree, wearing pajamas and trying to look innocent.

A card table that they set up the night before to play a board game was upside down. A bicycle was on its side next to the table. The pieces of the board game were everywhere.

“Are you all right, Jerard?” Randall asked.

“It fell, I didn’t do it,” Jerard said.

The bicycle that had caused the crash, apparently with no help from Jerard, was supposed to still be under the tree, covered in wrapping paper and with a big bow on it.

The paper and the bow were on the floor, hastily torn off. “You didn’t touch it.”

“No, daddy.”

“Well, we can’t keep a bike that causes accidents all by itself. I guess we’ll have to throw it away.”

Jerard’s eyes grew large. “Yes,” Randall said, trying to keep himself from smiling, “a bike like that, you can’t trust it. Now if someone opened the present and tried to ride and crashed into the table, then the bike is innocent and we can keep it. But you say you didn’t…”

“Don’t throw it away!” Jerard said, almost crying.

“Did you ride it?” Randall asked. Jerard nodded.

“Then Merry Christmas, son. I hope you like your bike.” He leaned over and opened his arms. Jerard ran to him and give him a big hug.

“We have to clean up the mess before Sharra gets here,” Randall said. “You know she hates messes.”

Randall straightened up. His hip still hurt. He would have to take his pills soon. His daily drug dosage awaited him in several little yellow bottles.

Randall righted the card table. Jerard gathered up the game pieces in handfuls and dumped them on the table. Pretty soon they were all back in place in the game box.

Jerard kept looking at the bike. “No riding inside,” Randall said. “I’ll take you for a walk outside later. And don’t open any more presents. Now get dressed for breakfast.” He put the bike next to the tree.

Randall was not a great cook, but the pancakes he produced disappeared quickly enough. Jerard couldn’t talk about anything but going out and riding.

After putting the dishes in the sink he agreed to lead an expedition outdoors.

The doorman was surprised to see him. He usually went out only with a bodyguard, usually Marcus, by his side. Marcus was with his mother today, and he had not booked any others thinking he wouldn’t need them. He didn’t expect trouble on Christmas morning, if he stayed close to the building. The paparazzi seemed to have lost interest.

The day was cloudy and the temperature was only in the fifties. When he stepped outside he realized there was a mist of rain in the air. That didn’t stop Jerard, who was quickly rolling down the driveway on his new bike.

“Stay close!” Randall shouted. Jerard paid no attention.

Randall started to think about things that had been bothering him. About his best friend taking on the risks that came with the Knighthawk suit. About the erratic behavior of young Mike, who had great power but not great responsibility. About Sharra, and when he was going to trigger Operation Proposal. His current target date was New Year’s Eve.

Tires screeched behind Randall. He turned to see a large black SUV in the driveway. The driver’s door flew open and an enraged woman jumped out.

“What are you doing out here?” Sharra shouted. “Where’s your bodyguard?”

Randall couldn’t get a word out, so he let Sharra’s tirade sputter to a stop. “Jerard wanted to ride his new bike,” he said when she was done.

“Jerard’s out here? Where?” She spun around. “Jerard!” she shouted. “Come here right now!”

“He’s there.” Randall pointed at the boy riding on the sidewalk.

“He doesn’t have a helmet?” Sharra said. “You know child services checks up on adoptive parents. Do you want to lose him?”

“All right, let’s go upstairs.”

“I swear sometimes you still think you live in South Central.” Sharra tossed her car keys to a parking attendant. Her SUV was almost the biggest model on the market and she never carried anything in it bigger than her briefcase.

Jerard wasn’t happy about going inside, until Randall said he could open the rest of his presents. On the elevator Sharra talked about her boss, one of the partners of her law firm. She thought he should retire and leave room for younger people to move up.

She gave her usual dismissive sniff when she saw the living room of the condo. She hated the furniture and wanted to redo the room. When Randall ordered the furniture from a website he rarely stayed at the condo. He was training to be Knighthawk and sleeping on a cot at the warehouse.

During Operation Proposal he planned to give Sharra license to decorate however she wanted. As long as she stayed away from pink walls and frilly curtains.

Jerard had all the Mossoft games and two game consoles, so Randall gave him some toy cars and some books. The boy was not the reader than Randall was at that age, but Randall hoped to make him into one.

He gave Sharra a diamond necklace. She gave him a nice laptop. He used computers all day long but didn’t carry one around with him. He would have to start now.

The ovens in the condo stayed cold. Dinner was catered, by a company that Sharra’s firm worked with. Ham and some fancy French stuff that Jerard didn’t like.

“I should check in,” Randall said as they sat on the couch after dinner. Jerard watched a cartoon movie about a boy who could turn into different kinds of aliens.

“Now?” Sharra asked. “It’s Christmas.”

He liked to check company matters every day, see if there were any emails. He was sure some of the programmers were working today, Christmas or not. The programming department never closed, they could come in any time they wanted.

“Just an hour or so. Enjoy the movie.” He kissed Sharra on the forehead and got up.

Randall’s office in the condo contained a work station that looked like it was ground control for a space launch. He had four monitors, and both PC and Mac computers.

He fired up the PC and the largest screen came to life. In his email was a phone message from Marcus and his Momma. She was still in the little house in the hood. Marcus couldn’t get her out of there. Mrs. Slater told Randall to come by for some of her cookies.

A slight pain in his hip reminded Randall that he never took his pills today. He didn’t like taking all those pills, he had gone most of his life without ever seeing a doctor. Now he was tied to those little yellow bottles.

One of his goals as Knighthawk was to fight the drugs that ruined the lives of so many in his old neighborhood. It was really impossible, though. The police and superheroes made some headway once in a while, but the drugs always came back. If one gang was taken down, another stepped in quickly.

It was almost as there was something bigger, something huge, behind the gangs and even the drug cartels. Something that made sure the trade continued no matter what.

He remembered the old stories in his neighborhood that the CIA started the crack trade. It seemed impossible, but most people who lived down there believed it. The head of the CIA at the time later became President, and his son also did. The son was still in office, though he would finally slink out of there in January.

The internet awaited. From his chair Randall could research almost anything. He started to type in the Google box, then stopped.

The idea of governments and drugs tripped a memory. In high school history he learned something about that. The British Empire and China. He entered those into Google.

After reading a while, he came up with it. The British East India Company, founded under Queen Elizabeth I, was the basis of the empire’s economic power all over the world. The spice trade from Asia to Europe made vast fortunes and caused a number of wars. People fought and died for the cause of tastier food.

China was an empire that was larger and much older than the British one. They were willing to sell tea to the foreign barbarians, but all they wanted in exchange was money. There was nothing else the British had that China wanted.

In the 1770’s, The British East India Company came up with a solution. They controlled large parts of the Indian subcontinent. A plant grew in their territory, a poppy. The poppy produced opium.

Randall kept searching. This was official history, in all the books about the time. Opium was illegal in China. The company had to smuggle it in. The British East India Company, for all intents and purposes a branch of the British government, was a drug cartel.

It worked. Opium was traded for tea and other products. The drug became so popular that it destabilized the ancient Chinese empire. Opium wars broke out.

The British Empire turned addiction into a weapon.

Randall paused. If drug smuggling was a tool of a powerful government back then, a center of profit and power, why would they ever give it up? Why would a new government, even though it officially broke away from the first, not take up that trade?

Who else was in a perfect position to move drugs all over the world? Who could make sure that anti-drug law enforcement never really worked? Who could make war to ensure the supply?

Why are we fighting in Afghanistan, the exact place the British East India Company first found its source of opium poppies?

This is too much for a Christmas day, Randall thought. He stretched in his chair. He glanced at the time on his monitor. He had promised to work in his office for no more than an hour. The hour was nearly gone.

There was one more thing he wanted to check. He was still trying to find what happened on the day that a large number of villains decided to trash the fanciest stores in Beverly Hills. There was some theft, but not enough to justify the all-out assault on the area. Marcus thought it was a diversion.

Randall had searched the news. The Battle of Beverly Hills was covered world wide. It was discussed endlessly. It was on the cover of Time Magazine.

There was almost no news about anything else that happened that Sunday afternoon. Which might be the point. He searched by the date and categories like death, murder and fight. If those didn’t work he would switch to financial categories. Since Wall Street had turned out to be little more than a series of massive con jobs, that was a likely source of the story.

Under murder, though, he stopped to look at a story from New Mexico. There was a familiar name in it. The story was new, but it was about the murder of a couple in Casa Linda, NM. The culprit was still being sought in the brutal murders of Linda and Rafael Santis.

There was a knock on the door. “Don’t hide in there too long,” Sharra called out.

“One more minute,” Randall said.

When he started to worry about Mike, Sun Man, he did a background check on the kid. An unremarkable high school student in Casa Linda, New Mexico. Father worked as a tire salesman. Rafael. Mother, Linda, worked part time in a restaurant.

This had to be it. Does Mike know? Marcus hadn’t said anything.

Did someone stage the Battle of Beverly Hills to hide the murder of Mike’s parents? If so, why?

With a lot of questions running through his head and a chill in his soul, Randall rejoined his son and girlfriend in the living room.