by Pen
“Fuck it,” I grunt, watching the end loom like the darkness beyond the closet door when I was barely more than a toddler and my mom forgot to close it at night. “At least I won’t die bored.”
“Just make sure you don’t go out with a pants-load of fear shit, man. It ain’t dignified.”
“I’ll do my damnedest.”
We exchange goodbye winks like a couple of doomed soldiers in a corny-ass war flick.
“Quit eye-fucking each other and get this situation under control!”
It sounds like we’re being reprimanded by an angry baby, and I look up to see an eight-inch action figure-sized version of the boss hanging from one of the broken tubes and swatting away the tendrils as they try to snag her.
“Battery! The old man! All you got! Now!”
Battery gives her a raised-eyebrow what the fuck? look and glances back at the prone form of the shaman in the center of the room. He follows that with a what the hell? shrug and raises a finger even as the goo does its best to hold him down. Grunting with the effort, he summons what’s got to be the last of his charge and sends a sliver of energy arcing toward the ancient Mayan. Nothing happens for a second. And another. Then the old guy sits bolt upright and shivers head to toe, his eyes shoot open and he croaks out one unexpected word.
“Fanta . . .”
“Close the door!” Size Zero shouts.
“Fanta . . .” the old man repeats.
“You’ll get your orange soda when you close that fucking door!” the boss shrieks, large and in charge at barely over half a foot tall. “It’s that or become a goddamn blood sacrifice!”
The soles of my boots inch past the threshold and start to sizzle, which is strange because they also start to freeze. I realize for the first time that I couldn’t tell you if the strands of slime criss-crossing my body are cold, hot or neither. I also realize that if this shaman fella’s a stickler about his sugary beverages, I’m the next worst thing to dead.
Finally, he blinks twice, nods, closes his eyes, crosses his legs and starts to rise. Almost immediately, the stuff slackens its grip and starts to slither off, though there’s something reluctant in its retreat. And I think maybe it’s hissing. I’ve done drugs that I’d classify as everything from sensuous to sinister, but before now I’ve never had a mind-altering substance seem like it might actually be pissed at me.
* * *
“So now we blow that thing shut for good, right, and burn this place to the ground?” Battery asks pointedly as the last of the Tendrils from the Far Side of Time slide away from him and back to where they’re meant to be.
“For supuesto que no!” the boss snaps in a slightly deepening voice, now snacking on an energy bar she’s snagged off Battery to get herself back up to size. “For one thing, we don’t even know if we can. For another, have you seen what that stuff can do?”
“Um . . . yeah . . .” Battery replies, eyes wide with disbelief. “Turns men into were-dogs and speed demons. Pardon mi Espanol but fuck that noise.”
“But that’s the beauty of it, don’t you see?”
Speaking of beauty, I’m doing my best to avert my eyes from Libertad’s oddly proportional nakedness as the influx of carbs and proteins has her up to about toddler height.
“Can you imagine what we could do con esta mierda?” she asks around a mouthful of energy bar. “Give me a hundred soldiers dosed on this, the Abaroa Cartel will rule all of Mexico . . . and more.” Her eyes go all dreamy-wistful at the thought.
“Or, y’know, destroy it.”
I wonder if I’ll ever get to a point where I can push back against the boss as hard as Battery does. Seems like he’s trying his luck, but she doesn’t let on.
“If that idiot Escalante could handle it this long, I don’t see where it will be much of a problem for us.”
“You do realize that whatever that shit is, it’s alive, right?”
Finally, the boss starts to seem a little annoyed with all the questioning. For a nude woman currently no taller than a fourth grader, she doesn’t exactly exude vulnerability as she stalks up to Battery. “Que es el punto?”
“Well, on top of being world-threateningly dangerous, harvesting living organisms from another dimension for their narcotic properties is kinda like . . . I dunno . . . slavery.”
“Are we really three members of Mexico’s most powerful drug cartel arguing about the ethics of a business decision?” Libertad sneers, almost laughing.
“I’m not arguing anything,” I point out, which only gets me a dismissive look from Libertad and an annoyed one from Battery. If dumb comments are gonna affect my performance review, I hope he at least remembers I saved his ass earlier.
“It’s your call, boss,” Battery says, not even bothering to muffle the bone-weary sigh that comes with it.
“And it’s already made.”
* * *
I’m digging in my pack for a tool or even some duct tape that might help us fix up some of the damaged tubing when we hear the unwelcome sounds of boots crunching on the stone floor from down the corridor. Battery and I cross the entrance for a look and sure enough, men are dropping into the chamber at the other end through the big hole I made, and while they’re just workaday soldiers and a handful of citizen vigilantes, they are currently better armed than we are.
“This is gonna take some explaining,” Battery says to the boss, but by the time we turn around, there’s a puddle of vomit beneath where the shaman floats and she’s nowhere to be seen. “Fuckin’ figures.”
The raiders are taking up positions in the corridor while behind them I catch sight of something that makes my balls recoil just a little. Another figure drops through the hole and his knees don’t even bend with the effort of landing on the hard floor. He’s bigger than I thought he’d be, his powder blue evening suit bulging at the seams, clearly made of some special material that keeps it from bursting apart at the merest shrug of his massive shoulders. I mean, I’m a big guy and all, but this motherfucker is fit. And the colorful lucha mask, which really should make him laughable, instead renders him that much more demonically terrifying.
Fantasmo Guerrero. Heroe del pueblo. Mexico’s answer to General Public.
“Punch me,” I tell Battery.
“Do what now?”
“No time!” I bark. “On three! One, two . . .”
We both haul off and punch each other hard enough to send us sprawling to opposite ends of the chamber, Battery bloodying my lip while I black his eye.
“No se mueven! Quédate abajo!” a comandante type shouts as the men move in, pointing their rifles and pistols at our semi-prone forms.
Guerrero strides in and takes a long look at the hovering Mayan, even giving him a gentle poke, before turning his attention to us.
“Quien eres?” the luchador hero demands, pointing a finger in my face like he’s challenging me to face him in the squared circle.
“Guardias de la prision,” I say, in my best half-assed shameful approximation of Spanish.
“Donde esta Escalante?”
“He went . . . that way . . .” I tell him, nodding toward the steaming technicolor yawn that lies beyond the portal. “Some kinda . . . escape tunnel. Goes . . . under the wall . . . we think. He and his boys, they ambushed us . . . and ran . . . might even have a hostage . . .”
Guerrero looks from me to Battery, who nods in confirmation. “A pretty lady hostage,” he adds helpfully. Guerrero’s kryptonite, if the rumors are to be believed.
“Por supuesto!” Guerrero thunders. “The coward thinks he can run from me! No jungle can hide him from the wrath of the Ghost Warrior! Sigueme, soldados!”
On their hero’s order, they all plunge into the tunnel right behind him so fierce and so fast, the ones at the rear don’t even seem to hear or notice the startled screams of the ones in front until it’s too late. Only the last man hesitates, pulling up short as the pulsing globula devours the last of his brothers. He whirls around, fire in his eyes, and brings
his rifle to bear.
“Chinga . . .” he starts to say, finger tight on his trigger. But before he can squeeze, something unseen causes him to lose his balance, poor chump’s eyes wide with terror as he tips over the threshold and is swallowed up along with the rest.
There’s a long awkward is it over yet? beat before Battery starts laughing, a big happy sound that fills the chamber and even seems to excite whatever’s inside the portal, the light beyond the doorway morphing from seafoam green to hot pink.
“You quick-thinking son-of-a-bitch!” he roars. “You full time, alright! What you think, Zero? He a paid player now or what?”
“Definitely,” purrs that tiny voice, right in my ear. I look over to see her tiny bod perched on my shoulder, legs crossed at the knee, sitting pretty as you please.
While Battery’s celebrating my genius, I’m trying not to think about how much higher my personal body count just got, nevermind the fact that I maybe just indirectly offed a dyed-in-the-wool superhero. And Zero’s examining her nails.
“Now let’s get topside and find me some real food,” she says. “I’m starving.”
“Fanta,” the shaman reminds us.
“And yes, a Fanta for our new best friend.”
As I follow Zero and Battery down the corridor and back through the lab, I slow my roll past one of the tables, where I spot a small metal container like a cigarette case full of little ampules of the Drug from Dimension X. As I palm the case and slip it into my pack unnoticed, I think about the guy I fought upstairs and how no matter what I did to him, he never seemed to feel the pain.
So why the hell should I?
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SUN-KISSED
Ian Thomas Healy
Akamai was the Sun-God of Hawaii.
Not really a god, of course. But he was a superhero, and the only one in the islands, and that made him a celebrity. His name wasn’t really Akamai either, it was Martin, but whoever heard of a superhero named Martin? That was a lame name, a name for a haole, a white person. Akamai was kanaka, a native Islander, and he was proud of that fact.
He was also proud of his power, which made him a human searchlight. He called himself the World’s First Solar-Powered Superhero, even though he probably wasn’t. He could absorb sunlight all day surfing or chilling on the beach, and he’d become suffused with a gentle, golden glow that could be seen even in broad daylight. If he concentrated, he could brighten and focus that power into a sunbeam that could illuminate, heat, or even ignite things.
At night, though, that’s when he looked really spectacular. He was a walking lightshow, a beacon, a tourist draw. He’d help the Coast Guard go after lost boats, help find idiot nighttime swimmers, and drive off sharks by heating their tails until they left. It was a good life, one that didn’t require him to hold down a job. He didn’t live in luxury, just a trailer, but it was right on the beach. And the government paid for it because he was registered with the PRA. He was the only resource they had on the Islands.
Plus he was a damn fine looker, and there was no shortage of tourist wahine willing to give it up for a taste of his golden glow. Between his surfer’s body, easy smile, smooth brown skin, and floppy hair, he was never short of offers.
He rode the last wave in and picked up his board. The sun was sitting low, which meant the lu’aus would begin soon and tourists were starting to think about dinner. That meant it was time for Akamai to start hunting up his night’s entertainment. Sometimes that meant a cougar celebrating her recent divorce. Other times it meant a college girl on a trip with her friends or family. Once in awhile it event meant a local girl, although most of the kama’aina were immune to his charms.
“Hey, Mister,” said a voice, and Akamai turned to see a chubby red-headed kid with curly hair and a lobster-red sunburn.
Akamai looked him over. Typical tourist kid. Mid to late teens. Overdid it the first day. “Howzit, opu? You looking for an autograph?”
“What? No, I’m—”
Akamai spotted a couple of ladies he hadn’t yet met beyond the ginger kid. “E kala mai, brah. Catch you next time.” He pushed past the sunburnt redhead. “Aloha, ladies. Federal bikini inspector. I’m afraid I’m going to have to see some identification . . .”
* * *
The first rays of sun peeked through the blinds in the bedroom of Akamai’s trailer. His golden glow had diminished to a faint luminescence. It was enough to highlight the curvy behind of the blonde who’d come home with him. She’d been a tiger in the sack, to the point he suspected he had scratch marks on his back.
He’d spent a long time perfecting his morning-after technique. “Hey. Wake up, wahine.”
She stirred and muttered something unintelligible.
“Girl, you been a real pleasure, but it’s morning and I’ve got to get back to work.”
She rolled over and sat up, unashamed of her nakedness. “Work?”
He grinned. “Yeah. I’m a superhero, you know. I have to, you know, patrol and stuff. Do you want to use my shower? It’s not as good as the one in your hotel.”
“Oh. No, that’s okay.”
“Breakfast, then? I don’t have a lot. I usually eat at one of the carts. They got better food. So does your hotel.”
She found her bikini at the side of the bed and pulled it on. “How do you know what hotel I’m in?”
“I don’t, but I know all the hotels around here.” One of the bartenders at his favorite beach booze hut had asked him why he only ever went after tourist girls, why he didn’t have the slightest interest in forming any long-term relationships. At the time, he’d said it was because he didn’t need the emotional baggage that came along with a deeper relationship. He could enjoy himself for a few hours and then it was over without any aftermath. Everyone knew what they were getting into with him, and if they weren’t okay with that, they didn’t come back to his trailer.
“Oh. No, I guess I’ll leave. This was fun.”
Akamai grinned. It was like she had a copy of his script. He loved it when the morning after was easy. The truth of it was he liked his solitude. He didn’t have to answer to a lover, roommate, or partner. If he wanted to eat nothing but Captain Crunch for a solid week (and he had), nobody was going to judge him for it. “Yeah it was. When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow.”
“’K den.”
She slid her shorts up her long legs and then tied her hair into a quick knot at the back of her head. “See you around later, maybe.”
“Roger dat. Aloha!” He smiled and watched her leave, enjoying the swing of her hips.
“Oh, hello,” she said, and left the trailer.
Akamai blinked. Who had she greeted? He peeked his head out of his bedroom door.
The chubby ginger kid with the sunburn was sitting at his small kitchen table, spooning cornflakes into his mouth like he was being paid for it. He noticed Akamai and nodded a greeting. “You’re out of milk.”
“What you doing in my place, brah?” Akamai tried to draw more power into his glow, but he was pretty well tapped out.
“Waiting for you,” said the boy between mouthfuls. “I didn’t think you’d ever get up.”
Akamai concentrated his power into his hands. The glow was plainly visible in the dim kitchen. “You better talk, haole. Or we gonna scrap. I am a duly authorized representative of . . . Hey, you ain’t gonna cry, are you?”
The boy pushed his bowl aside with his head bowed. For a moment, Akamai really was afraid the boy was going to start bawling right there in his trailer, and he wasn’t prepared for that.
“Sorry I snuck in here. I was hungry and tired and I wanted to talk to you.” He raised his head and looked at Akamai. “My name’s Warren. Warren Eccles. I’m from . . . Well, I guess it doesn’t matter. I don’t have any family anymore.”
“Anymore? What happened?” Akamai was curious in spite of himself.
“My folks, they died. Car crash. Two months ago. I been in foster care since.
It sucks.”
“Sorry, brah. How old are you, anyway?”
“Fifteen.”
“Not too far off from hanabata days.”
“Hana-whata?”
“Hanabata. It means small kid time.”
“Oh. I guess I need to learn more Hawaiian if I’m going to start living here.”
Akamai blinked. “Living here? With me? Are you lolo?” He opened his blinds, letting the morning sunlight into the kitchen. “Look, kid, you got to make tracks outta here. I got a job.”
“I can work with you. I can help. I have powers too.”
“Kid . . . Uh, Warren. Where are you from? Across the island? One of the other islands? You need to get back home. People gonna be worried sick about you.”
“I’m not from here, I’m from Milwaukee. They’re not going to miss me. That family was going to send me back into the system.”
“Why?”
“Because they don’t like parahumans. They said it’s my fault my folks d-died.” Warren sniffled and Akamai felt on the verge of panic. He knew what to do when a girl cried around him, but this was something new.
“Hey, uh, don’t do that, brah. What hotel they staying at?”
Warren wiped his eyes. “They’re not at a hotel.”
“Oh. Uh, time-share? Maybe they’re in on of those rental houseboats?”
“No, they’re not here. Not in Hawaii. I teleported here.”
* * *
“Maybe you best start at the beginning, brah.” Akamai and Warren sat at the bar in a beachside hut, Warren having a virgin coconut daiquiri and Akamai manning it up with two fingers of Kentucky bourbon on top of two more fingers of the same. The bartender hadn’t even asked if it wasn’t a little too early; she’d seen enough tourists to know.
