Don't Be a Hero: A Superhero Novel

by Chris Strange

  But it was the superheroes that were still dominating the TV and papers. Everyone had their opinion, and they were all too ready to tell everyone about it. Superheroes were a menace. They’d caused all this. No, they were saviours. Without them, Neo-Auckland, the rest of the country—hell, maybe the world—would be buggered. Some called for the Seoul Accord to be strengthened, further limiting metas’ powers. Others called for it to be scrapped, and new legislation drafted. Legislation that would bring cooperation between metas and normals, to form new groups that would stand alongside conventional forces to defend the world against those who would harm it. All further kill-switching was on hold until the dust cleared and the world figured out a new way forward. There were even talks about resurrecting the old superhero comics, bringing those bright colours to a new generation.

  As for the metas themselves, most were remaining quiet for now. A breeze blew in through the bedroom window. Outside, Niobe could hear the Graysons packing their belongings into their beat-up old ute. Already, metas were beginning to leave the Old City to seek a real life elsewhere.

  Niobe leaned over and drew Gabby’s nipple into her mouth. Gabby sleepily opened her eyes and smiled down at her.

  —Having fun? Her fingers drooped the instant she finished signing.

  Niobe released the nipple and rested her cheek on Gabby’s breast. “I was thinking about the future,” she said, signing as best she could.

  Gabby raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”

  Niobe nodded. “We’ve got enough money now. If you still want to….”

  Met Div had found the cheque amongst Frank Oppenheimer’s things, with a note attached. Fifty thousand, just as he’d promised. She’d given Carpenter’s half to his widow. As for her own share, Niobe still didn’t know how she felt about it. Sure, she’d found Sam, but she hadn’t brought him home safe. She hadn’t completed her job. But Frank’s note told her to take it, no matter the outcome. Once he’d got the measure of Quanta, he’d known the chances of getting Sam home unharmed. He knew how hard she’d tried, all it had cost her. So she’d pocketed the cheque, her conscience still nagging her.

  —The Moon? Gabby signed.

  “Yeah. It’s still waiting for us.”

  Gabby pursed her lips, cocked her head to the side, and ran her fingers through Niobe’s hair. Sighing slightly, Niobe stroked Gabby’s belly and listened to the sound of her heartbeat. A few moments later, the fingers left her hair. Niobe opened her eyes.

  —Let’s stay here a bit longer, Gabby signed. And see what happens.

  Niobe pressed her lips against the spot where Gabby’s ribs met her tummy, then reflected Gabby’s smile. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  Her kisses drifted lower again. Gabby gasped.

  The sun was setting by the time they were finished again. They cuddled for a while then took showers. Gabby was wrapped in a dressing gown and reading a novel in bed when Niobe came out, towelling her hair with her good hand. She sat down naked on the bed and touched Gabby’s leg to get her attention.

  “I have to go out. I’ve got one more thing to do. Wanna come?”

  Gabby laid the book down, saving her place, and smiled.

  —I think I’ll stay here and have a nap.

  “You sure?” Niobe said.

  Gabby nodded.

  —Don’t be long. I’m not done with you yet.

  Niobe grinned. She nearly got back into bed, but she really did have one more thing to do. She kissed Gabby, got dressed, kissed her again, and closed the bedroom door behind her.

  When she got to Met Div headquarters, Wallace was waiting for her. One wall of the building had been smashed in during the battle, but most of Met Div was still intact. Wallace looked her up and down, eyes narrowing a little at the mask, and grunted.

  “You’re late,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  She followed him inside.

  When Morgan woke, he was in darkness again. After a few minutes of feeling his way around, he determined the cell was not the same one he was placed in before. It was cooler here, and when he tapped the walls with the knuckle of his middle finger, he could detect no sense of hollowness. He couldn’t even find a door. A row of tiny vents let in fresh air. They were too small to even get his fingers in. After half an hour, he settled back down on the thin mattress and exhaled.

  The silence was good. No more headaches. He checked himself for injuries. A bandage covered his chest where the Silver Scarab’s charged bolt had hit him, shattering his shield. He could still feel the emptiness as the light had drained from him, until he’d felt like a set of walking bones. If he wasn’t mistaken, it was a modified version of the same tech he’d used to keep Iron Justice under control.

  Morgan lay down and rested his head against the pillow. It was done, for now at least. He’d always known he would lose eventually. That was the whole point. He allowed himself a smile. He didn’t know how much longer he would last, with the time bomb in his brain, but that didn’t matter. As long as the reporter did his job, everything would work out. He’d done all he could. It was up to them now.

  For three days he sat there. The tap gave good water. Food came in packages through some sort of pneumatic tube in the corner. No tomatoes, potatoes, or citrus fruits this time. Not that it mattered. They must have found the second false tooth and the miniature radio transmitter hidden under the fingernail of the fourth finger of his left hand, because both were gone. They sent pills along with the food, keeping him alive, keeping the seizures at bay. And that was it. So he munched the carrot sticks they sent him, drank the water, and pissed in the toilet, using the sound to help him aim. And he waited. They could have at least played him some music.

  He thought the sound was a dream when he woke one morning. Well, it could have been any time of day, but he decided it might as well be morning. A hissing sound came from above his head. He sat up in bed and cocked his head to one side, listening.

  “Hello?” he ventured.

  “Hello, Morgan,” the voice crackled after a short pause.

  He smiled. “Niobe. I didn’t think you could stay away. You like me too much. Though I suppose you’re not really here, are you. Radio?”

  Another delay, like the words hadn’t reached her. “Don’t stretch that criminal genius too much.”

  “Criminal genius, hmm?” He put his hands behind his head. “Nice of you to say.”

  For a while there was nothing but the hiss of the radio. Morgan closed his eyes and pictured the sun.

  “If you’re waiting for me to express remorse,” he said, “you might want to get a cuppa and a book to pass the time.”

  “You’re evil, Morgan. A kidnapper and a torturer and a mass murderer. A lot of people died because of you. Great men died because of you.”

  “Tell me,” he said. “Did it work? Did the heroes return?”

  There was a click. A lighter, perhaps. “It’s too early to tell.” But the hesitation before she spoke was all he needed to hear. Relief flooded him. He grinned in the direction of the speaker. The world had heroes again. That was worth any cost. Whether or not it lasted, that was up to them. All they had to do was be brave and do what was right.

  “So the superhero saved the world,” he said, and smiled. “But I saved the superhero.”

  “Your vanity is showing,” she said. “Do you truly think they’ll remember you? You think this will last?”

  Morgan laughed. “I didn’t bring a reporter on board for no reason. I can’t lose. If John paints me as a monster, the world still has a threat to fear, a reason to need superheroes. If he makes them understand why I did it, they’ll know that it can happen again. And even better, some will sympathise with me. It doesn’t matter if you’re God or the Devil, as long as people fear you.”

  “There’s another option,” she said.

  “Oh yes? Do tell.”

  “Your reporter told us about the tumour,” she said. “He told us you’re dying.”

  His head thro
bbed once in response, but he pushed it aside. “I’m sure the thought is cutting you up inside.”

  She exhaled. He could imagine the cigarette smoke leaving her mouth. “It’s a sad story. Very sad.”

  Something about the way she spoke made his chest tighten, but he said nothing.

  “I’ve read John’s piece on you. He’s a brilliant writer. He really made me feel for you. The tragic tale of a pathetic, confused man.”

  “What?”

  “That’s right,” she said. “It seems your tumour’s been causing all sorts of paranoid delusions and hallucinations. Your illness drove you to all sorts of evil acts, but you can’t be blamed. You were dying. You were sick. You shouldn’t be feared. You should be pitied.”

  No. The word bounced around the hollow in his chest. Pity. They couldn’t do that. They needed to remember him. One way or another, they needed to know it was him.

  “You still there, Morgan?”

  He composed himself. It wasn’t over yet. “That story won’t fly when they find out it was me at Cambridge.”

  “I don’t think there’s any need to drag up the past like that. Besides, Interpol has decided that those cases are classified. You’re not Morgan Shepherd to the public. You’re Quanta. That’s what you wanted, right?”

  He slammed his fist against the wall of his cell. “They will learn not to pity me.”

  Her laugh cut through him like a thousand tiny daggers. “And there it is. You think you had such a noble goal, don’t you? But it wasn’t enough for your plan to have worked. No, you wanted the world to know it was you. In the end, you’re no different from any other supervillain. And you’ll spend the last of your days the same way they did.”

  “Laugh, hero. My tumour hasn’t killed me yet. I’ve escaped one prison. I’ll escape this one.”

  “Where do you think you are? Some sort of standard high security meta prison?”

  He said nothing.

  “You hear that delay each time we speak?” Niobe said. “You’re a long way from home. Me, I’m sitting in Met Div headquarters in the heart of sunny Neo-Auckland, and you must be…what would you say, Wallace? Seven thousand miles away?”

  A gruff voiced grunted his assent. Raymond Wallace. At least Morgan could still smile about that. They could hide the truth from the public, but Wallace had seen with his own eyes what he’d created by chasing Morgan back in Europe. Wallace hadn’t been holding the blade Morgan plunged into Lisa’s chest, but he might as well have been. He wanted a monster, and when Lisa’s hot blood spilled across the carpet, he got one.

  “Amongst Frank Oppenheimer’s things,” Niobe continued, “we found some documents related to his brother. I suppose you know about Dr Atomic’s madness. You’re nothing if not well-informed.”

  “How kind of you to notice.”

  “One of those documents had a set of coordinates centred in the state of New Mexico. As soon as we realised what it was, we bundled you up and sent you on the first rocket-plane to America. Can you guess where you are now?”

  He licked his lips. He knew, but he wasn’t going to say it.

  “You’re in the prison that the remnants of the Manhattan Eight built. You’re in the prison that held Dr Atomic until his death.” The radio crackled. “Still think you can escape?”

  “Ways and means, Niobe. Ways and means.”

  “Your voice is shaking,” she said.

  She thought she could goad him, but she was wrong. He’d face the long dark willingly if he had to. Others had already paid the cost. Now it was his turn. But he didn’t think it would come to that.

  “Tell me,” he said. “What of the boy? What happened to poor Sam Oppenheimer? Did you manage to save him after all?”

  The delay was so long Morgan wondered if the connection had cut out. But finally she spoke. “Sam’s alive.”

  “But he’s not the same, is he?”

  “He will be. The best psychics and psychiatrists in the world are going to treat him. We’ll undo the damage that you did.”

  He smiled. “Where is he now?” Then he realised. “He’s in this facility with me, isn’t he? Where else would you restrain the son of Dr Atomic?”

  “Where else,” she agreed.

  “I saw him once, you know. Dr Atomic. I must have been about ten at the time. I spent all my pocket money on Dr Atomic comics—”

  “Fuck you, Morgan,” she said. “This isn’t a comic. Enjoy your darkness. It’s all you’ll be getting for the rest of your life. Don’t expect a bloody Christmas card.” The transmission went dead.

  Morgan settled back down in bed. The darkness was absolute, but it didn’t feel as oppressive anymore. He’d done what he set out to do. And the world would know it was him, one way or another. A plan was never really finished.

  Perhaps the woman was right. Perhaps he was no different from all the other supervillains. But was that such a bad thing? He shook his head and smiled. Somehow, a peace had settled over him.

  “Thank you, Spook,” he whispered into the darkness. “Thank you for helping me understand myself.”

  This prison may have held Dr Atomic, but he’d been a madman at the end. No prison was impenetrable. Somewhere on the other side of these walls was a young boy with more power than the world had ever known. If the world forgot that, they could be reminded.

  And Morgan Shepherd wasn’t dead yet.

  It was a week before they held Solomon’s funeral. There were a lot of bodies to deal with, and not enough people to deal with them.

  The news reported Solomon’s death, of course, but it was just one name in a long list of normals and metas who’d died. Some called for a state funeral, but his wife—widow, Niobe supposed she was now—insisted that it would be small. He would be buried as Solomon, not the Carpenter. A father and husband, not a superhero. It made it easier for Kate that way. Niobe didn’t think he’d mind. But really, he was all those things. He was the best man she’d ever known. He’d always been a hero. He always would be.

  Niobe stood apart from the small crowd of people gathered on the windy hilltop outside Neo-Auckland, watching as they lowered the casket into the ground. It wasn’t a proper cemetery, but he wouldn’t have wanted that. It smelled good here, like grass and flowers and a hint of salt coming off the sea in the distance. It was perfect for him. Well, almost.

  The other guests threw glances at her dressed in her mask and hat, but she wasn’t the only one in costume. Brightlance and Ballista stood amongst the group, heads bowed as the minister spoke in monotone. Somehow, it didn’t look strange.

  When the tears came, she let them come. Her goggles grew misty. Her missing hand tingled in her pocket. That was the hand she’d massaged his heart with, trying to bring him back. She still wanted to. But she couldn’t, and that was okay. Eventually, the tears dried.

  She left before they’d finished piling the dirt on top of him. She walked down the hill and sat in the car. It was only five in the afternoon, so she had some time to kill before nightfall. She opened the glove box and pulled out the latest psych report Wallace had got for her. Sam had good days and bad days. Mostly bad days. And the nights were worse. The microphones in his cell picked up the screams and mutterings of his nightmares. She’d tried to listen to one recording. She’d shut it off after thirty seconds. Some instinctive part of her wanted to sit on the edge of Sam’s bed and stroke his hair, tell him it was okay, everything was all right. That was madness, of course. He was thousands of miles away, and he’d still snap her in half as soon as he saw her. But the feeling remained.

  It wasn’t hopeless, though. His lucid periods were becoming longer and more frequent, and his violent outbursts were lessening. In those times he seemed to enjoy talking to the psychiatrists, even if it was only through an intercom. There was even word from the metahumans on the lunar colony that several of their psychics would return to Earth to aid in the boy’s treatment, including Niobe’s old flame, Madame Z. Niobe couldn’t figure out if she was happy about that or
not.

  The Blind Man had examined Sam before they’d sent him to America. Niobe had stood beside him, still weak from the fight, and watched for six hours as the Maori man sat with his palm against the boy’s forehead. And then the Blind Man opened his eyes and said there was hope. “He has great mana,” the old man had said. “He may yet wash away what he has done.” Maybe he’d even be a hero one day. Even greater than his father. There was hope.

  When the sky turned pink, she got out of the car and walked back up the hill to the Carpenter’s grave. He was alone up there now, everyone else mourning somewhere else over pastries and stories. The wind had died down a little, and now the grass barely whispered. She knelt down near the upturned soil and removed her mask.

  “You were right,” she said. “Damn you, you were right.”

  She didn’t have a spade or a trowel, so she used her remaining hand to dig a small hole over his grave.

  “You’ll never guess what I spent the morning doing,” she said. “Running goddamn try-outs. A new superteam. The money I got from Frank Oppenheimer is more than enough to get us started. There’s a lot of us oldies out there remembering what it’s like to be a hero. And I’ll be buggered if some of these new kids aren’t even better than we were. This one girl, Dancer, she’s pretty much a shoe-in for the team.”

  She fished in her pocket for a few seconds until she found what she was looking for. The totara seed looked like a tiny red berry with a green stalk attached. She dropped it into the small hole and shuffled the upturned dirt back over it.

  “We’re still deciding what to name the new team. The current favourite is ‘The New Wardens’. Original, eh?” She patted down the earth, sat down, and faced the sea. “Of course, we don’t even know if it’s going to get off the ground yet. Lots of variables to factor in. But I’m hopeful.” She almost laughed. “You hear that? Hopeful. Me.”

  The evening was warm. She sat silent for a while, watching the fading sky. It made her smile. She liked the night. It always comforted her. It made her think things might be all right. She glanced at the signaller dangling from her wrist. The Carpenter wouldn’t mind if she held on to it.