Behind the Mask

by Link, Kelly; Rambo, Cat; Vaughn, Carrie

  As a child, Sara had thought that one had to smile with no teeth visible in order to be elegant. She’d practiced it herself for many hours in front of the mirror, until she’d come across the newspaper clipping that detailed her mother’s radiation poisoning—complete with graphic illustrations of tooth loss.

  The photo was dated June 3, 2025, exactly five years after the start of the war—four and a half years after Sara was born. Her mother’s stance had a juvenile awkwardness, like a polio victim who had never stood before—likely to collapse at any time. It wasn’t just the radiation. The wings were heavier than they looked. They affected her mother’s balance when she was on solid ground. In the picture, the wings weren’t visible: They were folded back, like hair tightly brushed. Sara had sometimes wondered if her mother had been ashamed of her “blessing.”

  Lily, her mother, was the first to get the poisoning. Soon others turned up at the medical center in Ridgecrest, their backs and shoulders bubbling like hot soup, yet none felt any pain. If anything, they each claimed to have felt healthier than they’d ever felt. Finally, one of the specialists sliced open her mother’s back to see inside. He and the other surgeons recoiled in horror as the two blood-wet wings unfurled before them. Not long after, her mother and the others were hailed as the salvation of the free world. In truth, they were the sacrificed.

  In other parts of the world, it wasn’t wings. In some countries, it was dragon horns and a tail; in others, the legs and torso of a horse; in still others, multiple heads or arms. The scientists had said it was an “inverted psychosomatic manifestation of culturally inherited representations of the archetypical good or powerful.”

  Each to their own crazy, Sara had once heard someone quip.

  But growing up, Sara, like so many others, saw them as heroes. Real life heroes come alive from the comic books of old. Fearless, invulnerable superhuman creatures born from deep within the human psyche. Our childhood fantasies made flesh.

  Some said the bombs were a blessing. There were even new comics made—graphic novels her father always corrected her—of the Birds, the Minotaurs, the Dragons, the Kali.

  She had collected all of the Bird novels. They were heroes. Superheroes. Unbeatable. Impenetrable. Invulnerable.

  But it turned out they weren’t any of these things.

  • • •

  Her mother and the others had saved many lives during the land attacks, but the price of every death denied, was the birth of a new cancerous cell. The others stopped when they realized the price they were paying and so gained an extra few decades of life. But her mother didn’t stop.

  When Sara first realized that her mother could have lived longer, she’d hated her. Hated her for leaving her and her dad. Hated her for her selfishness. Hated her for putting strangers before her own flesh and blood. Her mother was no superhero. She was a fool. A selfish fool.

  And now Sara had the poison, a gift from her mother. Only this time, there was a cure. The surgeons weren’t allowed to release the wings anymore. Too many crazies getting riled up. Now anyone with the altered gene pool had to undergo treatment, have the poison removed. Better for everyone, they said. It would all be over soon, they said.

  Her hand clenched around the photograph. It began to crease, collapsing inwards. But when her mother’s face became distorted, she stopped, flattened out the photo, and returned it to the book.

  • • •

  Sara’s father was sitting in the middle of the sofa, watching TV, and for a moment she thought she might be able to slip by him unnoticed. “Hi,” she said softly, hoping he wouldn’t hear.

  He turned his head. “Made some popcorn.” He lifted up a plastic bowl, as if proof were required.

  Sara smiled. It’d been a while since they’d sat together. She flopped into the armchair near the sofa, taking the proffered bowl. It was still hot. She ate, hungrier than she’d realized. The news was on. Almost always news, now. A clip of a former president giving a speech. The text at the bottom gave the date as 2021, a year after the first Darwin bombs had hit.

  The clip changed to a funeral procession in the present. The members of the Committee of Six were aligned along a raised platform; some saluted the passing coffin, some did not. Sara guessed the former president must have died. The volume was low. She was glad of that.

  “He reckoned it would all be over by Christmas,” her father said. He gave a mocking grunt. “Problem is, he didn’t say which Christmas.” He winked at Sara.

  She grinned back. This was good, she thought. This was . . .

  “You been up to Joe’s?”

  She held her popcorn in midair for a moment, then popped it into her mouth. “Uh-huh,” she murmured.

  “He still think I hate him?”

  Sara rested the plastic bowl in her lap, cradling it like it was a baby. “Don’t you?”

  Her father glanced at her, then back at the TV. “Too much hate goin’ round these days. You see him again, tell him I’m sorry.”

  Sara ran her hand through the popcorn, swirled it around a bit. She noticed a feather stuck to her arm. It was the one she’d picked off the ground at Joe’s. She released it from its prison and slipped it into her jeans pocket. “You think it’s true, Pop? That there’s another bomb coming? I mean, didn’t they say they could blow them up before they landed?”

  Her father shrugged. “All I know is this madness ain’t stopping anytime soon.”

  Sara turned to look back at the TV. Another clip of the former president addressing a crowd of supporters after his election. Many in the crowd were dressed in long, multicolored robes. They punched the air every so often in response to the president’s speech. The screen flashed to the present again—everyone wearing black. Sara put the bowl of popcorn on the ground, pulled her knees up to her chest, and locked her hands together. After a while, her father spoke again. “It wasn’t for them, Sara. You know that.”

  Sara’s body tightened. Her father hadn’t referred to their mother’s sacrifice in years. He turned to face her. “It wasn’t for them. Yes, we marched with them. We believed with them. But it was never for them. The bombs don’t choose sides. Neither did she.”

  Sara felt her lips tremble, her body start to shake. Her father leaned forward, stretched out his hands, and placed them on hers. She stopped shaking. He spoke softly. “I think of her every day. Just like you do. And every day, I love her more and more. I don’t want to lose you Sara, and I know you don’t want to lose me.” He gave her hands a gentle squeeze. “But this ain’t about us.”

  He smiled briefly, then went back to watching the TV. Sara failed to stop the tears that now coursed down her cheeks.

  After a while, her father spoke into the distance. “They were called angels at first, you know. Before they started dying.”

  • • •

  The tunnel was known as Burro’s Tunnel, named after William “Burro” Schmidt, the madman who’d spent thirty-three years of his life carving it out of Copper Mountain with nothing but a pickax. Burro was the name for a Jackass. “Jackass Schmidt” became “Burro,” when folks knew more of his story.

  He had traveled from Rhode Island in the late 1800s, after burying six of his tuberculosis-riddled siblings under the wet northern soil. He came to the sun to dry out his lungs, make sure the dampness never crept back in.

  Sara had heard the old-timers in Randsburg say that Schmidt had found strong veins of gold, silver, and copper along the tunnel, but that he’d passed them by like they were shale. They said he had sought greater riches.

  Burro’s Tunnel was big enough to walk upright in most places and taking her bike was no real difficulty. When she was halfway through, she opened her satchel and the gold-lined volcanic glass gleamed in the half-light. It hadn’t taken her long to pry it free from Copper Mountain with her new chisel. She closed the satchel again.

  It took another hour to get to the end of the tunnel. She didn’t want to damage the bike—puncture a tire or scrape the fuel tank—so she
took her time. The tunnel led out onto a narrow ledge: a four-thousand-foot-high balcony overlooking a majestic Mojave kingdom.

  The shimmering Saltdale Plains stretched for miles below. In the distance, she could make out the ragged town of Randsburg, and a little farther on, the perfectly aligned box that was Johannesburg.

  She took a deep breath, relaxed her mind and closed her eyes.

  Can’t never deny the gifts we’re given, little one.

  An image of Joe loomed before her, then her father’s face. She took off her jacket and T-shirt as her back bubbled.

  Reaching into her satchel, she took out the volcanic glass. It sparkled a golden hue. She used the leather strip to grip one end of the glass, and then she knelt down, arched her back forward, and bowed her head.

  She stretched the hand that held the shimmering glass up and over her back. With an instinctive movement, she lightly danced the blade of glass across her back.

  She crouched further forward, breath held tight, then moments later two wings unfurled, stretching forth from her back. It didn’t take long for their shadow to spread across the valley below.

  Sara rose from her kneeling position and gradually steadied herself. She opened the fuel cap of her bike to make certain the tank had not leaked and that she had enough gas. There was enough gas. She glanced at the tires and the foot throttle for any dirt or snags. All clear.

  There was no need to check the brakes.

  The rev of the engine hummed across the plains, and the desert rocks hummed the same tune back. The desert was ready.

  And so was she.

  Stuart Suffel’s body of “work,” includes stories published by Jurassic London, Evil Girlfriend Media, Enchanted Conversation: A Fairy Tale Magazine, Kraxon Magazine, and Aurora Wolf among others. He exists in Ireland, lives in the Twilight Zone, and will work for chocolate sambuca ice cream. Twitter: @suffelstuart

  The Smoke Means It’s Working

  Sarah Pinsker

  “The smoke means it’s working,” Ms. Frazier told Dora.

  Dora eyed the machine, which eyed her back. Not really. Lifeguard Inc.’s RescueBot 4 didn’t have eyes, only a sensor array designed to detect signs of life in debris and a dozen assorted limbs a Swiss army knife would be proud to possess. Dora had learned them all in training over the last two days: a scoop for sand or muck, a spike for large pieces of lumber, a pick, a claw, a grasper. Its backside was a padded forklift, and it had no legs. When it traveled, it hovered above the ground on an air cushion; it had a heavy-duty steel tripod to anchor it when it needed traction. It was about her height, resting dormant on its truck-tire base, but it gained a foot on her the second it powered up. It wasn’t really very anthropomorphic at all, but Dora still felt like it was judging her. Another day, another new job, and she was still no closer to her goal of becoming a superhero’s sidekick.

  “Why would anyone design a rescue robot to smoke on purpose?”

  “Don’t ask me,” Ms. Frazier said. “I just work here. But I haven’t met one yet that doesn’t smoke, so I have to assume it’s deliberate.”

  “But, um, what about if you’re trying to rescue people from a subway tunnel or a catacomb or something? Wouldn’t it asphyxiate the victim? Hell, we’re standing in a glorified supply closet with it right now.”

  Ms. Frazier waved the concern away. “It works fast. If we start to choke, it’ll dispense oxygen. Anyway, I find it reassuring. Even when it’s out of sight, I can still tell where it is by the plume.”

  “Hang on. Help is on the way,” the RB4 said to Dora. Its fan whirred like it was working overtime. Contrary to what Ms. Frazier said, she didn’t find the smoke reassuring.

  “Hang on. Help is on the way.” It advanced on her.

  “Back off,” she said. “I don’t need your help. I’m not injured or trapped.”

  Ms. Frazier sighed. “RB, recalibrate. That’s Dora. She’s your new handler.”

  The RB4 scanned Dora. “Emotional distress detected. Elevated heart rate detected.”

  “Yours would be too if you were trying to learn a new job and a robot came at you with a pickax.”

  “I will relay your concern to a fellow human. Help is on the way.”

  A moment later, a distress beacon lit up Dora’s tablet. First coordinates, then “Emotional distress detected. Elevated heart rate detected. Victim reports, ‘Yours would be too if you were trying to learn a new job and a robot came at you with a pickax.’”

  Ms. Frazier peered over her shoulder. “Hit ‘acknowledge,’ then ‘dismiss.’”

  “I know,” said Dora, swiping past various icons. “It’s just taking me a minute to remember where all the commands are. I’ll get faster once I’m used to the interface. It’s one thing in a classroom simulator and another when I’ve got the real thing in front of me.”

  She found the icons she’d been looking for, then pressed “continue scan.” The RB4 turned to assess the entire room, running its non-eyes over the dormant forms of a dozen other RescueBots and assorted computing supplies. It gave a smoky little belch.

  Ms. Frazier nodded her approval. “You’re doing fine. Speed picks up with experience. Ready for a trial?”

  “I am if it is. Where to? Is there a practice grounds?”

  Ms. Frazier waved her phone. “Who needs practice grounds? It’s nearly noon. Somebody’s got to be destroying a building somewhere nearby. Hero, villain, some combination thereof.”

  “Seriously? We’re going straight to a real emergency?”

  “People need help. Why waste time? It’s not like you can do any more damage than has already been done.” Ms. Frazier looked down at the screen, then grinned. “Winged Victory Avenue and 18th Street. What’s over there? The Opera House? Shouldn’t have been too many people in there at this time of day, but let’s go make sure, shall we?”

  Dora gave the RB4 another glance. “If you say so. Isn’t there an assignment list or something?”

  Ms. Frazier shrugged. “You’ll be getting assignments from Dispatch, but if you want to know the truth, they just make it up using the Roadz app and a police scanner, and the scanner isn’t even necessary half the time. You can impress Dispatch by being there before they even make the call. If it’s not rush hour and an intersection is glowing red, some villain is probably starting a fight or launching a cyborg army or hacking the traffic signals.”

  “Couldn’t it just be a fender bender?”

  “Have you seen an ordinary fender bender since the Air Bag moved to town? I haven’t. Now show me how you get the RB prepared to travel. I’ll grab the keys to the van.”

  • • •

  All Dora wanted on the drive was to watch the action out the window, but Ms. Frazier seemed intent on getting to know her. “What sparked your interest in RescueBot operation, Dora?”

  “I, uh, I like the idea of rescuing people. Whoa! Was that the Patron who just flew by? I didn’t know she was that fast! Uh, I’m not powered myself, and I haven’t found a special skill or calling, so this felt like the best way.” That was pretty close to the truth, without implying this was a stepping stone. Unless you were lucky enough to be an orphan adopted by a superhero and trained up to it, you needed experience to be a sidekick. But how do you get experience when no hero would hire you without experience? It wasn’t a lie to say the Rescuebot program felt like the best way to learn how to rescue people, even if the ultimate goal was a different gig.

  If she craned her neck, she could see police helicopters circling something in the distance. A line of squad cars shot past their van. More heroes joined the Patron in the sky, though Dora still couldn’t see what or who they were fighting.

  “Do you think they’re heading where we are?”

  Ms. Frazier shook her head. “The ’copters are too far north. And this one still hasn’t hit Dispatch. You’ll see.”

  They exited the highway. As Ms. Frazier had predicted, the intersection of Winged Victory and 18th was total chaos, with no sign of anybody offic
ial. Nobody to spare for this emergency, Dora guessed, given whatever was happening to the north.

  This emergency: something had flattened the opera house and all the cars in the lot opposite. Two pillars still stood upright near what used to be the entrance. The rest was fallen beams and upturned seats, and a dusty velvet sea that must have once been the stage curtains. Still, something about this rubble looked different from most rubble she’d seen around the city. Dora tried to put her finger on it.

  “City Building Code 17.3,” she said, remembering it from a class the previous semester. “What’s with all the glass shards and splintered beams? This looks really dangerous!”

  Ms. Frazier put her hands on her hips and surveyed the scene. “17.3 only applies to new construction. Any building built since it took effect fifteen years ago is required to use safety materials. Shatterproof glass, underground wires, beams that turn to powder instead of splinters. Older commercial buildings had to do a certain amount of retrofitting—mostly replacing old glass—but historic buildings are exempt. And of course, when they do inevitably get stomped or smashed or blown up, they have to rebuild using the new materials.”

  “But I could swear the Opera House has been hit before. Six or seven years ago?”

  “The Craw targeted it. She wanted to do a Phantom of the Opera revenge deal, but the Patron stopped the bomb with thirty seconds to spare. They had to redo the stage and the first ten rows after the fight, but the structure itself wasn’t damaged.”

  Dora remembered now. She had still been in high school then. Nobody would fault her for drawing a blank on stuff that happened while she was in high school, and in college that all fell into the gap between History of Silo City and Contemporary Issues in Superheroism.

  Ms. Frazier interrupted her thoughts. “So, before the police and EMTs get here and start thinking they’re in charge, do you want to get working? What’s the first step?”

  “Assess the safety risks. That’s what I’ve been doing.”