Niobe nodded her thanks. “Did you get the…?”
She could already see the answer from the shape of his mouth.
“Too many coppers,” he said. “Most of the convoy went with the kid. I trailed them as far as the checkpoint, but there were no openings. If there were more of us, maybe, like the old days….” He shrugged.
She felt deflated, empty. It had been a long shot. The coppers were always going to take more care with a high tier meta baby than some woman whose powers weren’t worth a damn. Solomon was right. The Wardens, as a team, would’ve got that baby back no problem. But the Wardens didn’t exist anymore. It was just the two of them now, doing what they could to scrape a few bucks together.
Frank Julius wanted them to save his kid. He thought they were worth fifty grand. But they couldn’t even rescue a goddamn baby. What the hell use were they anymore?
The two of them got Mrs McClellan into the back seat of the car. She didn’t say a word. Niobe used the corner of her coat to wipe the blood from the woman’s mouth.
“You said most of the convoy went with the baby.” Niobe slipped a hand under her goggles to rub her eyes. “What about the rest?”
He shrugged. “I think the boss man left eight or ten coppers to take doors in the apartment building. I guess they figured other people in the building knew. Maybe some helped with the birth. So they went cracking heads.”
Niobe’s guts turned to ice. Gabby.
“Spook?” Solomon said. “What’d I say?”
“Can you get her somewhere safe?” she said, nodding at Mrs McClellan.
“You’re running off again, aren’t you?”
She pulled her goggles into place. “I’ll call you later.” She turned and sprinted back through the car park.
She should never have left the neighbourhood. She could’ve found someone to get Mrs McClellan away, or….
She didn’t know. She wasn’t a hero anymore. She had Gabby to protect. Panting, she raced through the empty streets, trying to suppress a rising panic.
The Met Div vehicles were gone by the time she reached her street. McClellan’s body had been carted away somewhere, but fragments of rubberised human flesh still littered the concrete.
She kicked open the door to her apartment building and ran up the stairs. People sobbed in the apartments she passed. Her legs burned. Her mask was humid and her clothes stuck to her as sweat coated her back. She reached her floor and slipped silently down the hallway.
The door to her apartment was splintered, the lock kicked in. Her vision blurred and her throat clammed up. She drew her revolver and entered. Her breathing echoed in her ears.
She found Gabby sitting on the bedroom floor in her robe, leaning against the bed. She held a wine glass with a few dregs of red wine sitting in the bottom. Her hands shook as she gripped it. Blood dripped freely from a cut across her forehead, matting her frizzy blond hair. She flinched when Niobe came into view, then started crying.
Niobe tore off her mask, dropped to her knees in front of Gabby, and wrapped her arms around her. Gabby shook against her shoulder. Niobe tried to swallow back the lump in her throat. Her fingers kept slipping into shadow as she tried to hold back the tide of emotion.
After a few minutes, the crying stopped, and Gabby told her what happened. The coppers must’ve banged on the door, but Gabby was in bed. She’d lost her hearing years ago, when she was still the Silver Scarab. When she didn’t answer the door, the coppers kicked it in and hauled her out of bed. The first thing she felt when she woke was the corner of the bed slamming into her forehead. The coppers turned the place over and shouted at her, but she was too dazed to lip-read. They hit her a few times before they finally worked out she was deaf and left her alone.
—How can they do this? Gabby signed, arms still trembling. Her arms moved in small, jerky motions. We’re not animals.
Niobe blinked back tears and nodded.
—I know. Come on, let’s get you up.
Gabby didn’t move.
—You went after that job.
—Yeah, Niobe signed.
Gabby’s face twitched. Niobe knew she was remembering their argument just as vividly as she was.
—Are you going to take it?
She thought about it, even though she’d made up her mind the instant she walked in the door and saw Gabby sitting there. They didn’t belong here. None of them did. The world didn’t want them, so they had to leave the world.
One night a couple of months ago, when Niobe was huddled in bed with Gabby listening to another raid from the police Metahuman Division, Gabby told her she wanted the two of them to pack up and go to the Moon. Niobe couldn’t blame her. This was no way to live.
Frank Julius’s money would be enough. Fifty thousand dollars. The two of them could get a plane to Adelaide. And from there, one short rocket ride to the Moon. To freedom. The Alpha League were the first metas—the first humans of any kind—to establish a lunar colony. The place was supposed to be a metahuman utopia. Niobe wanted to keep Gabby safe. She wanted it more than anything.
—Yeah, Niobe signed. But it’s an easy job. It’ll be over in a couple of days. Don’t worry.
Gabby chewed her lip, her grey eyes clouded. Then she nodded.
—I love you, she signed.
A smile flickered in her eyes and she buried her face back in Niobe’s shoulder. Niobe kissed her forehead and cradled her until she fell asleep.
5: And Your Enemies Closer
Green Tornado
Real name:
Miguel Valdés
Powers:
Superspeed, air manipulation.
Notes:
One of the few Argentinian metahumans to achieve international fame and recognition. He chose to work on civilian projects rather than fight crime, using his powers and background in architecture to build numerous bridges, monorail networks, and towers that were not practical for normal humans to construct. Valdés later aided the Alpha League in the construction of the lunar colony.
—Notes on selected metahumans [Entry #0239]
Bangkok, Thailand
Morgan Shepherd rolled up his sleeves and lounged in the bar’s booth. He’d picked a spot near the window, where a breeze did nothing to alleviate the pervasive humidity. The instant he'd left his airship, he was almost crushed by the steamy Bangkok night, and now the back of his shirt was damp and sticky. Even so, he wore a fitted, snow-white shirt and trousers, along with his white gloves. They helped cover the worst of the patchy, non-pigmented skin on the backs of his hands. And he didn’t want to leave fingerprints.
He smiled and raised his glass at a pair of Thai girls in miniskirts who had been shooting him glances since he came in. They giggled and blushed, turning away. They were pretty enough, he supposed, but that sort of thing no longer held any interest for him. It had been years since he was in love, and it had happened just the once. The world became brighter, so bright his heart nearly burst. For months they flitted through Europe, taking coffee in a little café in Marseilles, making love in a villa outside Tuscany. Those had been the happiest days of his life.
Killing her was the hardest thing he’d ever done. Lisa.
Morgan shook his head. He wasn’t in Bangkok for the ladies. He nursed his beer—a local lager that was too watery—and kept one eye on the door, watching the motorcycles and tuk-tuks buzzing past outside. The bar wasn’t big, but it was popular with both locals and foreigners. It had been slowly filling up in the hour since he arrived. A couple of blocks away, the Chao Phraya River would be humming with ferries and longtails even at this hour. He’d flown over the river further upstream—with the stealth cloak on, of course—while they searched for a suitable place to set him down. By river standards, it was nothing special. It was no Danube, or even a Mekong. But the constant movement and the industriousness of the people who worked on it touched him.
Morgan popped a couple of pills into his mouth and washed them down with another sip of beer. He silently to
asted himself once again on the successful recruitment drive in Siberia. Only two of the supercriminals he liberated had declined to join him, and they were killed without too much resistance. Another was too weak from malnourishment to be of much use, so he had to put that one down too. But the rest were turning out to be fine specimens. They were still adjusting to their life outside the prison walls, and their training would have to be shorter than he’d like, but that was unavoidable. Time was short, and he could brook no delays.
His star prize, of course, was Doll Face. The man—creature, almost—had seemed delighted with the task Morgan had in store for him. Granted, with the plastic mask stitched to his face it was difficult to judge Doll Face’s true emotions. The creature seemed to delight in painting on makeup each day. He always gave the mask some fresh red lipstick and a coating of mascara for the synthetic eyelashes. At Doll Face’s insistence, Morgan had picked up some new fishnet stockings from a market stall earlier in the evening. The man was undoubtedly insane, but that was of no consequence. In fact, crazy was just what he needed.
News of the boy’s capture in New Zealand had reached him a few days ago. Julius was the name they were travelling under now, apparently. The old man had slipped the net, but Morgan had contingencies in place for such an event. As soon as they were done here, they’d be making their way to New Zealand to deal with that situation. Doll Face was bursting with glee.
A large shadow filled the bar’s doorway for a moment, and Morgan brought his thoughts back to the matter at hand. He affected a bored disinterest while he took another sip of beer and surreptitiously studied the giant of a man who came through the door. Yes, it was him. William Hayne’s pug-nosed face was not one that could be easily mistaken. The broad-chested American wore a faded blue T-shirt and baggy shorts. The man once had hair, but now the top of his head more closely resembled a bowling ball. Morgan scrunched his nose a little at the state of Hayne’s attire. True, the weather here was unforgiving, but appearances were still important.
Hayne lumbered up to the bar and waved to the short Thai barkeep. He got a big smile in return, and the small Thai man rushed over with a beer. In a glass, no less. Morgan hadn’t received a glass with his beer.
Morgan relaxed and continued to nurse his beer while he let Hayne settle in. His information had said he was a regular here, and that appeared to be the case. Good. That would make everything go much smoother.
Hayne’s bulk flowed over the narrow barstool. The two Thai girls made their way to the bar a few minutes later. Morgan watched Hayne’s eyes tracking them. When they had their drinks, the bald man made no pretense about watching the girls’ wiggling backsides as they returned to their table. When they sat down again, he immediately leaned over and tried to strike up a conversation with the young woman sitting next to him. Yes, Hayne hadn’t changed a bit.
Hayne had polished off two beers and a glass of top shelf whiskey by the time Morgan took the last sip of his lager and weaved through the crowd towards the bar. Amongst the people, the air was so thick he could barely breathe. The Thai girls fluttered their lashes as he passed. He gave them a smile.
“Do you ladies speak English?”
They giggled. “A little, yes,” the slimmer one said. “You are new here. Will you sit?”
The other one was pulling her white singlet down to give him a better look at her cleavage. Something about it repulsed him. They were most likely whores.
“I’m honoured,” he said, smiling broadly. “I have to see a friend first. Maybe a little later.”
The slim one pouted, and he stilled a sudden urge to slap that silly look off her face. He noted what they were drinking—a screwdriver and a daiquiri—and he gave them a wink and a polite goodbye. “Laaeo phohp gan mai.”
The barstool next to Hayne was vacant now. He must’ve scared the poor woman away. He was probably twice the poor woman’s age, but in Bangkok, that wasn’t always a handicap for a white man. Unfortunately, Hayne’s charm didn’t seem to have improved since his retirement.
Morgan slipped into the seat alongside Hayne and pulled a worn Thai phrasebook from his pocket. Without glancing at Hayne, he tentatively raised his hand at the short barkeep. “Ah, excuse me. Ah….” He consulted his phrasebook. “Ahh…chan kaw…” he said in butchered Thai. His thumb flicked through the pages. “Beer…” he muttered to himself. “Beer….”
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hayne watching him struggle. Then the man slapped the bar with his meaty palm. “Kiet! This man needs a beer.” He turned to Morgan. “What are you having?”
“Oh, thank you,” Morgan said, smiling politely. “I had some Thai beer before.” He pointed at a bottle in another patron’s hand. “That one.”
“You don’t want that shit. Kiet! Give him one of the German imports.”
The smiling barkeep bobbed his head and obligingly poured a tall glass with just the right amount of head. He slid it over to Morgan on a cardboard coaster, bobbed his head again, and left.
“Thank you for the help,” Morgan said. He took a long sip. Hayne was right, it was much better than what he was having before. “I just flew in this afternoon and these people may as well be speaking Martian.”
A grin grew on Hayne’s face. “Where’s that accent from? You British or something?”
Morgan nodded. “An Englishman walks into a bar….”
“And can’t even order himself a drink. That’s grim.” Hayne winked. “But you seemed to do okay with those girls over there.” He jerked his beer towards the two Thai girls.
“Ah yes, lovely girls,” Morgan said. “They seem a little young to be in here, though.”
“This is Thailand, friend. Age don’t mean the same thing here that it does in the West.” He held up his glass, and Morgan clinked it with his own. “Not too many white folk come in here. Lots of other Orientals, but not many whites. What’re you here for, anyway?”
“Business,” Morgan said. “I have to meet a client about an investment tomorrow.”
Hayne screwed up his face as if the very idea of work bored him. He held out his hand. “The name’s Will.”
“Morgan.”
They fell silent for a while, sipping their beers amongst the rapid Thai conversations. Morgan studied Hayne over the lip of his glass. A foul man. Even in his prime he was the same. During his divorce in ’49, the press had spread rumours of extramarital affairs and domestic violence. They didn’t know the half of it. Hayne was the sort of man who’d let the world turn to ruin. He was the sort of man who’d turned the world against metas.
Morgan stretched and leaned back in his barstool. “I should thank you for your help. Would you like to help me buy those two girls a drink?”
The grin hadn’t changed either. It was the grin that had graced thousands of newspapers across the world. The grin of Iron Justice, comrade of Dr Atomic, and the hero who’d slaughtered more Nazis than anyone else in the Manhattan Eight.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Two hours later, they were drinking rice wine in a private room at a small tourist hotel. Of course, Morgan had arranged the room to be free several hours previously. Morgan, Hayne, and the two young Thai girls lounged on the tattered couches in the glow of several lamps, laughing uproariously. The room already stank of Hayne’s sweat.
“What I’m saying,” Morgan said as he topped up Hayne’s chipped glass, “is that there must be something that makes someone become a metahuman.”
Hayne tottered a little, red-faced, and waved his glass at Morgan. Even after all these years, his biceps looked like mountains. “‘Course there is, everyone knows that. Don’t they teach you about the nukes back in England? No wonder we had to save you in the war.”
Morgan put on a polite smile. “Obviously the nuclear radiation is a factor. Countries that have been exposed to nuclear radiation have the greatest number of metahumans per capita. Japan, Poland, New Zealand, anywhere the bombs hit. And of course the Manhattan Eight were a result
of the accident at Los Alamos. Dr Atomic would attest to that. He was a scientist first, just plain old Robert Oppenheimer.”
He stared at the drunken Hayne while he spoke, but the man gave no sign that he’d even heard, let alone realised that Morgan knew who he was.
Morgan poured some more wine for the girls as well, even though they were half-unconscious already. “I wonder sometimes,” he continued, “what Einstein and Bohr and Oppenheimer and all those other scientists thought when they realized the true power of nuclear energy. Not just to power light bulbs and disintegrate enemies, but to truly create. To make new forms of humanity, people that could be pillars of their community like never before. I wonder what it was like for Oppenheimer, one day being in charge of creating the very first atomic bomb, and the next, becoming the world’s first superhero.”
Hayne fondled the slimmer girl’s breast over her singlet. She moaned and writhed on the couch, eyes closed.
“But don’t you think it’s strange the number of metahumans that became heroes?” Morgan said.
“There were more than a few supercriminals too, as I recall,” Hayne said as he pulled the girl’s top down to expose her breast. She giggled and tried to bring the glass to her lips, but spilled most of it. Hayne pinched her nipple, and her giggle turned to a gasp. Her friend was dozing, head nodding.
“Yes, that’s my point,” Morgan said. He put the glass to his lips while he watched Hayne’s groping hands, but he didn’t take a drink. “The US government commissioned a census in the early fifties to find out what occupations metas held. Of the tier four and higher metas, over twenty per cent were professional superheroes or crime-fighters. They estimated another five to ten per cent were supercriminals. And so many of the rest were designing hyper-advanced technology or trying to build cities the likes of which had never been seen before. So the question is this: do metas gain these powers, and then decide to do great or terrible things with them? Or was there something in those people already, something that was just waiting for the chance to make a difference? Something that took the catalyst of nuclear radiation and gave metas the power to change the world.”
Don't Be a Hero: A Superhero Novel Page 6
