“And why would I do that?”
She chewed her lip. Her arm was growing tired, but she kept it outstretched, the gun aimed at the spot between Quanta’s eyes. How had he attracted so many followers with this madness? Were there that many metas out there who just wanted to bring pain? No, that wasn’t it. Avin, Screecher, they weren’t psychopaths. Heroes for Freedom had been radical, but they were no terrorists.
Heroes for Freedom. That was it. She met Quanta’s eyes, and his grin widened. Had there really once been an innocent boy behind that mask?
“You want to create a threat that the normals can’t handle on their own,” she said slowly. She didn’t want to believe it, but as she said the words, she knew they were true. “That’s why you hit the TV station, and why you publicly executed Iron Justice. You needed everyone to see, both normals and metas. By making Sam what he is, you wanted to create a threat that only metas could defeat.” Her palms were slick with sweat. “You mean to bring back the superhero.”
He beamed at her. Bloody hell, she felt sick. All this, all these people dead, was a ploy designed to convince the world that they needed superheroes to protect them. Christ, the blood’s on my hands now as well. It’s on every meta’s hands. This bastard has painted it there.
“People like us protected the world for two decades, Spook.” His voice was calm and maddeningly cheery. Wallace’s eyes widened as the blade drifted back towards his throat. “But those heroes were too good. They locked up almost every supercriminal. They pushed the world back from nuclear war. They worked their way right out of a job. And when the doomsday threats came fewer and farther between, the normals started to forget. They got concerned that we were going to steal their jobs, or turn rogue. Their love for us turned to fear. And the hero forgot who he was. So be it. I’ll use that fear.”
“The reporter was right,” she said. “You really do fancy yourself a god.”
“If gods exist, we’re not them,” Quanta said. “Metas aren’t superior to the normals. I don’t mean to rule anything. But I will not stand by while everything we stand for is forgotten.”
“How noble,” she said, letting her words drip with sarcasm. “But this plan’s a bit crude, isn’t it? You really think you’re saving metas by doing this?”
“This is real life, Spook. Sometimes crude works better than elaborate schemes.” His face twitched. She noticed for the first time the lines running down his face, the strain in his neck.
She shook her head. He’s mad. “You’ve just made things a million times worse. Every life you take is another reason for them to hate us. You’ve doomed us all, Morgan.”
“No. I’ll take all the hate on me. Me and Sam, we’ll be the pariahs. The world will see how much they need their heroes. Why do you think I chose to do this here in Neo-Auckland?”
“Because Wallace is here. You wanted to show him what you could do.”
Quanta shook his head. “He was the reason I had the original idea, but there’s more to it than that. Since the bomb hit, New Zealand has always had one of the highest metahuman densities in the world. Only Japan and Poland are greater. Combine that with your country’s pitiful excuse for a military, and….” He shrugged. “It’s a perfect site to wreak havoc. The normals stand no chance here without heroes to defend them.”
He stood slowly and met her eyes.
“There’s just one thing I need you to do for me,” he said.
“You really think I’ll help you?”
He laughed again. “Spook, Spook.” He shook his head, chuckling to himself. “Tell me, what do you believe?”
“What?”
“Do you believe in goodness? Kindness? Do you believe that some things are self-evidently right? Do you believe that there are bad people who will hurt others? Kill them? Torture them? Do you believe those people need to be stopped, no matter the risk to yourself?”
Solomon’s voice came to her, so clear he could be standing right next to her. There’s still good, mate, and there’s still things we have to stand up for.
“Yes,” she said.
Quanta smiled. “Then I’ll see you on the battlefield, hero. Let’s put on a good show.”
Light flashed from his body, so bright it overwhelmed her goggles. Blind, she threw herself behind the cover of the couch, her ears tuned to threats. Something smashed. Glass. Then Wallace’s grunts were the only noise in the room.
When she could open her eyes, the bright light was gone. She came up gun drawn, blinking away the afterimage. Quanta had disappeared. The window behind Wallace was broken. She rushed past the cape copper, her boots crunching on broken glass, but when she stuck her head outside, there was no sign of Quanta.
“Shit,” she said, kicking the skirting board. She had the son of a bitch in her sights. She was too knackered for these goddamn goose chases. With a sigh, she shoved her gun back in its holster.
The bastard was slipperier than a trout. She’d known he was dangerous when she saw him on TV, but this was something else. Even if Sam didn’t end up destroying everything, the world’s governments were going to come down harder on metas than they ever had before. It was going to be a bloodbath one way or another. And with Frank dead, there’s no payday. And no way off this planet.
She forcefully unclenched her fist, moved in front of Wallace, and crossed her arms. “Are you going to try anything dumb if I untie you?”
By the way he glared at her, she knew he was considering it.
“Bugger it.” She undid his gag.
Wallace spat the wet fabric out of his mouth. “You should’ve shot him,” he growled.
“That’d be vigilantism, wouldn’t it?” She stomped behind him to untie his hands. “Bloody hell, hold still, will you?”
The cape copper stopped wriggling long enough for her to get the ropes off. He worked his shoulders back and forth for a few seconds while he rubbed his wrists, then he went on to untie his legs. He kept his eyes on her the whole time.
She paced around the room while she thought. There were no books in the lounge, but the copper had a collection of Coltrane records on a shelf in the corner. She didn’t take him for a jazz fan.
“Do your colleagues know that you knew who Quanta was the whole time?” she asked.
He got to his feet and shrugged back into his blue tunic. “I didn’t know right away.”
“Yeah?”
“He was wearing a mask.”
She snorted. “That little thing barely covered his eyes. You knew damn well who he was.”
Wallace grunted and said nothing.
She wanted a cigarette, but she wasn’t going to reveal even a small amount of her face to this guy. Instead, she continued her pacing. “He’s going to move, and soon. Are your people ready?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know if you can handle Sam. The boy, he’s strong.”
Wallace shrugged. He hadn’t moved from his spot near the chair. At least he wasn’t going for a gun. “We’ve put down strong freaks before,” he said.
She ignored the jab. “Not like this.” She inspected a framed photo of a brunette woman and a young girl tucked away in the corner. The colours were all turning red. The girl looked a little like the Carpenter’s daughter.
“Maybe…maybe you should call for aid,” she said.
“Aid?”
She untied the pendant hanging from her wrist. “A long time ago, there used to be a special transmitter in the basement of the police headquarters. In case of emergency.”
His eyes hardened. “I won’t play his games.”
“You’re already playing, and you’re losing wickets.” She held out the pendant to him. “This has all the frequencies that were in use in New Zealand. There might still be a few receivers out there. Someone might come.”
“No,” he growled.
“This is no time for your bloody prejudice—”
“This is about the law! This is about order.”
Her hands formed fists inside her
pockets. “Law? Is this the law that lets you break up families and kill babies? Fine. Go defend it. I’ll be defending everything else.” She tossed the pendant on the floor at his feet and made for the door.
“Hey,” he yelled. “We’re not done here.” She could hear him stomping after her as she went back through the kitchen.
“I am.”
“The McClellan baby,” he said.
She paused with her hand on the doorknob.
“The baby’s alive,” he said. “Got a kill-switch, but alive. With a foster family in Favona. Good folks.”
Alive. Alive with a goddamn kill-switch. Like that meant something.
“Get your people together, Senior Sergeant, and start getting the civilians to safety. Lie to them. Tell them you’ll keep them safe. They like that.” She slammed the door behind her.
The Border Collie had gone quiet. Niobe’s rope sat coiled on the ground, but the fanged woman had disappeared. Sighing, Niobe shoved the rope back in her utility belt. She pulled up the bottom of her mask, tapped out a Pall Mall, and put it between her lips. The street was so still she could’ve believed that she was the only person left on Earth.
She missed the Carpenter. He’d know where to go from here. Even in defeat, he was always the one pulling them through. He helped push back the Nagasaki Horrors. He fought at her back in a hundred different battles. She tapped the auto-lighter against her head to get it working, then brought it to her cigarette. You’re all alone now, Spook. Deep down, isn’t that what you always wanted?
Then she looked up and saw the white airship floating above Neo-Auckland, and her muscles froze. Even in this light, she could make out the cannons on each corner of the gondola. A pair of rocket engines flamed orange, bringing the airship in a slow, banking turn towards the centre of the city. The barrels of the cannons began to glow with a blinding yellow light. A second later, a whining sound reverberated through the air.
The cigarette dropped from her lips as she sprinted for the car.
28: Can Anybody Hear Me?
Rigel VII
Real name:
Victor Lorenzen
Powers:
Able to “surf” on streams of light (especially starlight) and use light as an energy source.
Notes:
Although an American by birth, he rarely spent time in the US after he became a metahuman. Lorenzen became known as the “Wandering Star” as he travelled the world, aiding other supergroups when they required help or using his powers to do civilian work. His lifestyle was funded by the licensing fees he was paid for the comic books based on his adventures. Retired following the Seoul Accord. Died in 1965 of testicular cancer.
—Notes on selected metahumans [Entry #0051]
Not for the first time, Morgan wished he could fly. Not if it came with hideous wings, of course, like Avin, but a psychic-based flight would be convenient. It was one of the few things he envied Sam.
He popped the clutch on the rocket bike and zipped past a truck and trailer, the tyres screaming against the road. Driving the contraption with his limited vision was one of the riskier things he’d done today. A bubble of perspex kept the wind and the bugs off his face, but it had a nasty habit of distorting the light from the street lamps as they strobed above him, pulsing in time to his headache. Serpentessa was taking the van back on her own. There was only room for one on the rocket bike. Besides, the woman had been careless to let Spook interrupt him. He would have enjoyed leaving Wallace trussed up in front of the television, watching his city die.
Overhead, Morgan’s airship Hyperion continued its slow circuit of the city, ray cannons charging. Navigatron and the skeleton crew could handle the aircraft without any trouble. It looked beautiful against the backdrop of stars.
Morgan glanced down at the flashing dot on the rocket bike display. It pointed to the centre of the city, where the Peace Tower’s needle pierced the sky. Yes, this would definitely be easier if I could fly. High-powered rocket-packs were dangerous if you weren’t in an armoured suit, and he found the suits inconvenient and impractical. The needle on the speedometer climbed slowly higher.
The radio piece in his ear crackled. “We await your pleasure, my lord.” Navigatron’s modulated croaking sounded more like one of the Circuit’s robots than a human.
So this was it. The end. Morgan could feel the weight pressing down on him. It shouldn’t have had to be like this. He paused for a moment, then thumbed a button on the handlebars. “Three minutes. Acquire your targets to maximise panic.”
“Understood.” Another crackle, then there was only the sound of the bike’s rocket engine.
The highway swept beneath him. He checked the display again. The dot hadn’t moved. Doll Face had done well, implanting the rendezvous location deep in the boy’s subconscious. He just had to meet with the boy one more time before the end. And up there would be a good spot for the boy to contemplate.
The speedometer beeped twice. Critical speed attained. His head pounded as he hit the thruster. He only hoped the bike didn’t burn up on launch like the prototype had.
Something whirred behind him. A new wave of heat pressed against his legs. His white shirt stuck to the sweat on his back. The bike coughed twice, and Morgan held his breath. Then the bike jerked suddenly forwards and upwards, pinning him against the seat. His gloves slipped on the handlebars. For a moment, he lost his balance, and the bike lurched like a drunken sailor. But the tips of his fingers caught the grip. He twisted the throttle, and the hum of the tyres on the road was replaced by the incessant roar of flame.
He wiped his forehead against his shoulder without taking his hands from the controls. As he did so, he glanced out the side of the bubble. The road fell away beneath him, obscured by the heat waves from the rocket engines. The wheels retracted to gain protection from the heat.
That was not pleasant, he thought as he brought the bike fully under control. Perhaps wings wouldn’t be so bad after all. He gunned the throttle, and relaxed as the rockets carried him upwards through the night. The streetlights had turned to pin pricks now, mirroring the stars above. The air whistled against the side of the bike as he raced towards the Peace Tower.
The tower was narrow at the bottom and swept out into a wide observation deck in the middle. Higher still, the tower tapered back in until it formed a needle that continued a further three hundred feet into the air. A red light blinked atop the tower, but tonight there was something else there as well. A tiny shadow balanced on the needle’s tip, looking down over the city. Morgan slowed his approach, and the shadow turned to regard him.
Sam showed no sign that he noticed the cold wind that buffeted his hair. His arms hung loosely at his sides, and as Morgan approached, he saw the boy wasn’t actually standing on the needle. He hovered a foot or so above the tip, his toes pointed towards the earth. The night shrouded his eyes. Red scratches marred Sam’s bare chest. Some were narrow—knife wounds, perhaps—while others were thick. They all looked more healed than they should, though. Perhaps one of the prisoners Morgan had butchered had an accelerated healing power.
Are you proud of yourself, supervillain? he asked himself as he eyed the boy’s wounds and saw the madness in his eyes.
Morgan brought the bike into a holding pattern ten feet from the boy. If Sam decided to attack him, the bike would offer him no protection. The boy was powerful now, and soon he’d be stronger than the most optimistic of his models had predicted. The combination tracker/sensor he’d had implanted in the boy when O’Connor first brought him in had reached the maximum detectable power level twelve hours ago, and Morgan had no doubt the boy had grown stronger since then. Morgan could practically feel the air bend around Sam.
With the flip of a switch, the bubble around him began to retract. His heart thudded as the flimsy perspex barrier moved aside, leaving nothing but the roaring wind between him and Sam.
The boy slowly raised his head. His eyes were pure white.
—I remember you. Are you her
e to kill me?
Sam’s lips never moved, but Morgan heard the words anyway, as clearly as if Sam was inside his head. Maybe he was.
“No.” Morgan had to shout over the wind. “You are unkillable.”
Sam appeared to consider that. His head drooped to one side, as if the muscles in his neck were incapable of supporting the weight of his brain. Dried dirt gathered on the slack flesh of his face.
—Are you here to save me?
Morgan gave a strained smile. “No, Sam. I’m here to tell you how to save yourself.”
Sam turned his head to the side, and Morgan followed the boy’s gaze. Hyperion hung above the city, ray cannons glowing. Almost invisible against the night, dozens of ropes dangled from the loading bay. Every now and then, a tiny dot of a human zipped down to the rooftops of the city below. His people were moving into position. Sirens rang through the night. Soon, battle would be joined.
“I have something for you.” Morgan reached into his front pocket and tossed a small vial towards Sam. It stopped in mid-air and hovered close to the boy’s face.
—What is it?
“It belonged to your uncle.”
The vial shattered and the glass plummeted to the street, but the grey fibres inside floated. Sam slowly raised his hand and touched the brain tissue. It dissolved as it touched his skin.
Sam sighed deeply and floated in place for a few seconds. Then his head turned slowly towards Morgan.
—I can hear everything, the voice said. EVERYTHING. I hear sirens. I hear screams. I hear pain to come. So much pain. The voice cracked, and Sam’s body shivered.
Morgan nudged the bike closer. Gently, gently. Sam’s skinny body twitched, his fingers rolling like an ocean swell.
“You’ve always been alone, Sam. Your uncle kept you away from the world, didn’t he?”
His eyes flickered.
—I don’t remember. Maybe. Maybe he did. I don’t remember.
“He did it to protect you. Do you know what happened to your father? Look into your uncle’s memories.”
Don't Be a Hero: A Superhero Novel Page 31
