Burn Baby Burn: A Supervillain Novel

by James Maxey

  "You were younger and more resilient," Dr. Cheetah pointed out. "And please note that the effects we're talking about here take place on scales far smaller than can easily be imagined. It may simply have taken a long time for the damage to accumulate to critical levels. You've never had the power to channel more than a very tiny percentage of the sun's total energy through your wormholes."

  "What?" asked Pit Geek. "Like, one percent?"

  "Like one billionth of one percent," said Dr. Cheetah. "If she could channel one percent, she would reduce the earth to cinders."

  "As long as I keep my powers burning, I don't get hurt?" she asked. "In theory, I would never have any pain as long as I don't shut the wormholes down?"

  "In theory," said Dr. Cheetah. "Though I suspect such a course would have a deleterious effect upon the quality of your life."

  "Can you fix her, Doc?" asked Pit. "Could we just use the regeneration ray?"

  "That ray caused my problem," Sunday said.

  "The good news is, the body is capable of regenerating lost tissue," said Dr. Cheetah. "With some rest and good nutritional practices, your pain should abate and your strength should come back. For most of the time you have left, you won't always feel as bad as you do now."

  "Most of the . . ." Sunday's voice trailed off.

  "I'm sorry," said Dr. Cheetah, shaking his head. "But you've exposed your body to massive doses of radiation for nearly a decade. Your cells are growing back. Unfortunately, some are growing unchecked. We've tried to map the location of all the tumors in your bones. Some may be benign. Some are almost certainly malignant. I fear they are innumerable."

  "Cancer?" asked Pit.

  Cheetah nodded. "Once we're in Pangea, we can discuss treatment options. In the meantime, I would refrain from using your powers. L.A. is still cleaning up from the tidal wave you triggered. I worry if you use your powers in such spectacular a fashion again, you might not survive the aftermath."

  Sunday turned her face away from Pit. The last thing she wanted to hear at this moment was some stupid speech about running toward the Grim Reaper.

  "You can't let her die, Doc," said Pit, squeezing her hand. "I love her."

  And so he did. And though she couldn't imagine ever saying the words, she loved him. At the moment she learned she would die, she finally felt as if she had something to live for. She shut her eyes and managed not to break down.

  And then, for a little while, we were happy.

  Chapter Twelve

  * * *

  Monkeys and Robots Make Everything Better

  THEY ARRIVED IN PANGEA in the middle of the night. Sunday was feeling better after a blood transfusion and two days of rest. The sub had run deep, cut off from radio, and Pit had expected that when it finally surfaced they would be surrounded by battle ships and superhumans waiting to take them back to justice.

  Instead, they surfaced in an utterly changed world. Pit didn't have much interest in politics, but as Sunday read news on the internet, she tried to explain things so he'd understand. The US had faced worldwide condemnation for the embassy attack. China took the incident as evidence that the US was planning a full-scale invasion of Pangea. A decade ago, the place had been an embarrassing morass of soggy trash that no country wanted to deal with. Now, Pangea was turning into an island paradise in an enviable location. China had seen the pattern before. The US would claim that a country was harboring terrorists, then use this as an excuse to conquer the country. The US disavowed any attempt at turning itself into a colonizing power, yet countries around the world were falling like dominoes as the US invaded and installed friendly governments willing to give US corporations generous contracts.

  The Chinese had finally had enough. If the US used force against Pangea in the absence of clear and incontrovertible evidence, China vowed to retaliate. The threat was diplomatically vague. Perhaps it meant military action, though America had enough to fear if China implemented economic sanctions.

  "Does that mean the Covenant can't chase us?" Pit asked. "Does it mean we'll be left alone?"

  "I think it just might," she said.

  Once on shore, Dr. Cheetah drove them along a highway that followed the sea. It was a full moon and the water gleamed in the light. The car was a convertible, and the night air was rich with the fragrance of flowers. Later, Pit would learn that ninety percent of the automobiles on the island were convertibles, since chimps took delight in the sensation of wind rushing through their fur. But, on this evening, all he knew was that he was in the back seat of an open car with the woman he loved pressed against him and the sea and the sky stretching on forever.

  They were provided with a seaside villa that had been built as a vacation home for the notorious African dictator Zesty Manbuto. Alas, Zesty and every member of his immediate family, and a frightening number of uncles, aunts, cousins, second cousins, and complete strangers who'd borne a mild family resemblance had recently been executed in the aftermath of revolution. The Pangean villa had been built with money channeled through illegal bank accounts. There was no legal documentation proving it belonged to anyone. It had been built to accommodate humans, so the chimps didn't want it. (As Pit had discovered during his time on the sub, chimps built their sinks and counters at the level of his kneecaps, and their toilets barely stood higher than his ankles.) Dr. Cheetah assured them that, for a fraction of their stolen wealth, they could call the place home.

  It was nearly morning when they got to the mansion. Pit thought it looked like a museum with its marble floors and columns. The master bedroom had a bed that looked built to accommodate orgies.

  "Zesty had large appetites," said Dr. Cheetah. Then he'd opened the door to the balcony and they'd followed him out. A long lawn landscaped in palm trees and spiky bushes stretched down to a beach white as snow. Despite the tropical vegetation, the air was a bit nippy.

  The moon had vanished. The sun lit the water aflame as it rose to the east. Sunday squeezed Pit's hand.

  "We'll take it," she said.

  Pit had been unaware they were being given a choice, but he played along. "Sure," he said. "It's perfect."

  After Dr. Cheetah left, he and Sunday tried out the bed. He was cautious, worried about hurting her. They kissed gently for a long time, but he made no motion to take things further. He knew she still wasn't feeling as well as she should.

  Finally, in frustration, she grabbed his hand and clamped it onto her breast.

  "I'm just dying," she said. "I'm not dead."

  And then he'd given up on gentleness and caution, determined to test her physical limits. An hour later he was out of breath and too sore to crawl away as she pulled him to her once more.

  "I might need the regeneration ray," he'd said as she grabbed hold of parts of his anatomy that were ready to surrender.

  "Or you might just need some extra encouragement," she'd said, sliding beneath the sheets.

  They wound up sleeping until sunset. They awoke drenched with sweat. They got sweatier for a time. Then they went down to the climate-controlled swimming pool to cool off. They floated around on water lounges while tiny swimming robot butlers brought them piña coladas. Sunday finished her fifth drink and went completely limp in her lounge. Pit thought she might have gone to sleep.

  Then she whispered, "I think there's something wrong with me."

  "Naw," he said.

  "I'm so . . . happy," she whispered.

  "Oh." He scratched his chin. "I ain't sure I'd call that wrong."

  "Shouldn't I be scared?" she asked. "They tell me I'm dying and it's like a weight off my shoulders. War is over. I fought the world and the world won. And now I'm just so . . . so . . ."

  "Drunk?" he offered.

  "At peace," she said. "Maybe it's endorphins."

  "You ain't gonna die," said Pit. "Dr. Cheetah said he'd have ways to treat you."

  "We're all gonna die," she said. "No one gets out alive! It's like your motto, Mr. Positive."

  "Well, sure. But there's no ne
ed to be in a hurry."

  "I'm not in a hurry. It's just . . . I don't know."

  "Yeah?"

  "I've killed a lot of people. A lot."

  "You keep count?" he asked.

  "No," she said, then laughed. "It didn't matter to me." She shook her head. "Those rednecks in the bar. All those cops. Who knows how many people I took out back in L.A. when I went nova to stop my fall. I didn't see their faces. They didn't see mine. I had nothing against them. I was just some force of nature, mowing them down, without asking if they were ready, without asking if they'd had time to do everything they wanted to do, without caring if they were in love, or in pain. I pushed death upon them with utter indifference."

  She motioned for the bar-bot to make her another drink. She let her hand drop back into the water while she waited.

  "And now," she whispered. "Now it's my turn. Whether I'm ready or not has nothing at all to do with it."

  "I ain't ready," said Pit. "I ain't ready for you to go."

  With a soft whir of underwater jets, the pool-bot brought her next drink out to her.

  "Damn, these are good," she said, after sucking down half the glass. Then she rubbed her temple and squinched her eyes together. "Ow!"

  "What's wrong?" asked Pit, jumping up from his lounge and bobbing toward her in the chest deep water.

  "Brain freeze!" she said. "I drank too fast."

  "Oh," said Pit. "That's the worst."

  She sighed. "Not even by a long shot."

  Pit climbed back into his floating lounge. Sensors directed jets to stabilize the chair as he positioned himself. "This is pretty fancy stuff," he said. He leaned back and looked up at the stars. "Yeah, the good life."

  Sunday sighed as she, too, leaned back. "Monkeys and robots make everything better."

  * * *

  A few days later, they met with Dr. Cheetah. They'd spoken on the phone a few times, but he told Sunday he had news he needed to deliver face to face. He arrived with a second chimp. In L.A., the embassy chimps had worn clothes to make their human hosts more at ease. On Pangea, all the chimps went naked. This meant, unfortunately, that when the two chimps arrived, Pit couldn't tell the two of them apart. He hoped he'd pick up on some clue as to which was Dr. Cheetah so he wouldn't look like a jerk to the ape who'd saved their lives.

  "How are you feeling today?" one chimp asked as he approached Sunday.

  "Not bad," she said. "Borderline normal."

  "The pain has lessened?"

  "Some," she said. "I still have stiffness, and sometimes I get these little needles of pain digging around in my shins. But I had a hangover the other day that put things in perspective. I don't want to be a wimp about this. The pain is manageable."

  "Excellent," said Dr. Cheetah. Then, he turned to the second chimp. "Allow me to introduce my superior, Dr. Trog."

  "Trog?" asked Pit. "Ain't that some kind of monster?"

  "I think not," said Dr. Trog. "The scientific name for chimpanzees is pan troglodytes. I found the shortened form more aesthetically pleasing. I'm surprised you wouldn't recognize the origins of my name, given that humans have provided the labels for every living thing. I fear I must question the quality of your education."

  Pit furrowed his brow. Was he being insulted by a monkey? Then he grinned. Maybe the ape had him figured out. "I ain't sure I had no education."

  "Indeed," said Dr. Trog. He turned to Sunday. "And you are the meta-human whose own powers have damaged her?"

  "Guilty as charged," she said.

  Dr. Trog said, "I've reviewed your scans and blood work thoroughly. I've come to present you with options to deal with your bone cancer. I fear none are very good."

  "Hit me," said Sunday.

  "Ordinarily, bone cancer is treated with drugs and radiation. Unfortunately, your tumors don't possess the genetic markers that would respond to the most effective drugs. Radiation is normally used to target a few localized tumors. You have tumors throughout your body. My colleague may have used the unfortunate phrasing 'every bone in your body' during an earlier conversation. This is nowhere near the truth."

  "Oh?" Sunday asked.

  "The human body has 206 bones. You have tumors in 93 bones, fewer than half."

  "Oh," said Sunday.

  "Of course, this is still too many to make surgery an option. If the bones were confined to a limb, we could consider amputation. Since you have tumors in most vertebrae and in several ribs, this is hardly a practical solution."

  "Of course," said Sunday.

  "We could attempt to treat your tumors with a broad spectrum of chemotherapy not dependent on your genetic makeup. However, due to the widespread nature of your disease, the doses would be massive. It's a case where the treatment could shorten your life more than simply allowing the disease to run its course."

  Sunday nodded. "If it runs its course, how long do I have?"

  Dr. Trog shook his head. "I can't say. There are no previous cases that quite match your condition. I can't point to any given tumor in your body and say, 'Here. This is the one that will kill you.' With your meta-human physiology, I can't rule out the possibility of spontaneous remission. However, given the extent to which the disease has progressed in the relatively short time since you first used the regeneration ray, my informed opinion is that you likely have only weeks left to live."

  "Will I be in pain?"

  "Pain can be treated," said Dr. Trog.

  "I guess we'll just let the disease go where it goes," she said.

  "I can't take that," said Pit.

  "It's not your call," said Sunday.

  "We can just keep using the regeneration ray on you," said Pit. "Rebuild you every morning. You ain't gotta die!"

  Dr. Trog shook his head. "I fear she's lost mass with each exposure to the ray. You will only increase her agony with such a course of treatment."

  "I'm done with the ray," she said.

  "This isn't fair!" Pit shouted, throwing up his hands. "Why is the ray working on me and killing you?"

  "My understanding is that you possess enhanced recuperative powers," said Dr. Trog. "The ray may indeed harm you, but your natural biology mitigates the effect."

  "Then put my blood in her," said Pit.

  "Excuse me?" said the chimp.

  "Put my blood in her. Won't that heal her?"

  "You know nothing of medical science, my good man. Your blood types are incompatible."

  "How do you know that?" asked Sunday.

  Dr. Trog said, "It was among the biological information we recovered from the ray."

  "When did you recover information from the regeneration ray?" asked Sunday. "Have you even seen it?"

  "No," said Dr. Trog. "Of course I haven't recovered any information from the regeneration ray. What are you speaking of?"

  "You just said---"

  Dr. Trog held up his hairy hand. "My apologies. I misspoke. We were talking of the ray and the word was simply in my mind. I meant to say, of course, the biological data we gathered from your father's records."

  "Did those records show why I can heal?" asked Pit.

  "Not that I can recall," said the doctor.

  "Then find out. Put me in a machine. Study my blood. You monkeys are supposed to be geniuses! I'm a damn puzzle. Solve me!"

  There were several seconds of silence as the two chimps gazed at one another.

  "We have nothing to lose," said Dr. Cheetah.

  "It would be cruel to inflict false hope," said Dr. Trog.

  "Think of what we might learn!" said Dr. Cheetah. "Whether we cure Sunday is barely relevant. If we could market a drug that safely healed any wound suffered by humans, think of the fortunes to be made. Think of the prestige that would be due our country."

  Dr. Trog turned from his colleague, waving his hand. "I care nothing for prestige in human eyes. And to me, a drug that cured humans and had no effect on our own species would be a drug I would flush down the toilet. Humans number billions while we number in the mere thousands. Why s
hould we use our genius to save them?"

  "Until we understand his powers, we can't know that a treatment based on them would only affect humans. We could be saving the lives of chimps as well."

  "Do as you wish," said Dr. Trog. "I need fresh air. I shall wait for you in the car."

  Sunday furrowed her brow as Dr. Trog closed the door behind him. "Are you sure he's doing all he can for me?"

  Dr. Cheetah nodded. "He's a professional. I fear we've simply exposed a political rift among us Pangeans. Like humans, we chimps have our factions. I represent a political party who wishes to promote trade with humans. I would like to see humans view our island as a desirable location for tourism. The truth is, our nation needs to establish itself as an economic power if we're to thrive. On the other hand, Dr. Trog represents a faction of chimps who feel that Pangea should become completely independent from humanity."

  "Then he's probably not fond of seeing us here," said Sunday.

  "No," said Dr. Cheetah. "And Pit's use of the slur 'monkey' cannot possibly have endeared you to him. But, again, Trog's a professional. I can assure you his personal feelings do not in any way influence his ability to provide you with the best possible medical care."

  Sunday nodded.

  Pit stared out the window and watched Dr. Trog climb into the convertible. He'd be keeping an eye on this one. If Sunday wasn't taken care of, well . . . out of all the crazy stuff he'd put in his mouth, he'd never swallowed a monkey. There was a first for everything.

  * * *

  Ap was in the command center working with Nathan to update the firmware of his belt when Servant came in and walked up to Simpson, who was sitting at the controls of the space machine, reading comic books. When none of the Covenant was out on a mission, Simpson really didn't have that much to do.

  The command center was cavernous, half a football field long and several stories high, so from the other side of the room Ap couldn't hear what Servant said as he handed Simpson a sheet of paper.

  But he did hear when Simpson turned, started tapping in the provided coordinates, then said, loudly, "Wait a second. These aren't the coordinates for Seattle . . . this is Pangea!"