Superhero Universe: Tesseracts Nineteen

by Claude Lalumiere

  “You did.”

  “Will you come along quietly?”

  A shadow passed over the moon, shrouding me. In that moment I was gone. She’d never find me with my Hades cap on, not unless I wanted her to. Maybe another time. I laughed the entire way to my Lincoln. I have never gone quietly.

  Daystar glowed furiously bright in my rearview mirror as I roared toward the highway and into the rising sun.

  I also like to make an exit.

  * * *

  Winnipeg writer Chadwick Ginther’s novels Thunder Road and Tombstone Blues were nominated for the Prix Aurora Award.

  SÜPER

  Corey Redekop

  Good morning. Good morning. Calm down now. Please, remain in your seats. Thank you. Can everyone hear me?

  What a bright and eager group! At the risk of sounding giddy, this is always my favorite time of year. So full of promise. New recruits, new ideas, new breakthroughs.

  Before we commence training proper, allow me to fill in a few blanks. Each and every person in this room was approached by recruiters from an organization known as LNF Incorporated. You were informed that LNF specialized in experimental medical procedures. After a lengthy process of interviews and examinations and background checks, offers of employment were tendered, confidentiality agreements were accepted and signed (perhaps some of you even read them, ha ha), and you were informed that LNF would be in contact very soon regarding an employment start date.

  Consider today day one.

  A vigorous selection process pared the number of applicants to the thirty men and women currently sitting in this auditorium. Congratulations! Your presence here serves as ample proof that each of you ranks among Canada’s finest medical minds. I know you all have many questions; indeed, your innate and relentless curiosity is a main component in how you came to arrive in this hall under such… unorthodox circumstances. Rest assured, most of your questions will be answered this morning. Any unanswered questions will be dealt with at the appropriate time.

  Before I proceed any further, I must ask that you consider the gravity of this undertaking. I cannot stress this enough. Right now you are befuddled, perhaps even terrified, but I promise that those who stay will be presented with challenges that may change the course of human evolution. I do beg your indulgence for remaining so vague, but a sense of fairness compels me to offer one final chance to anyone who wishes to return to life as you knew it. If you back out, there will be absolutely no recriminations. Simply raise your hand and you will be escorted from this room, anaesthetized, and returned to your city of origin. Stay, and be assured a place among the greats of medical science. Stay, and join the likes of Salk, Bethune, Hippocrates, and Banting. Leave, and prepare for a monotonous existence devoid of meaning.

  So I leave it to you. Stay or go? Yea or nay?

  Lovely. I’m proud of you. That minor detail out of the way, welcome to the greatest challenge any of you will ever face. I am Doctor Haddon Nickle, and—

  I’m sorry, as I said, please hold your questions; we have a great deal of ground to cover today. Figurative and literal. But as you’re all so keen; yes, I am he. I, along with Professor Carlyle Lalumière, am co-discoverer of the Lalumière-Nickle Flux, the most important event in Homo sapiens history. I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but, if elementary school textbooks label it as such, who am I to argue? Ha ha.

  Did you know, the names Lalumière and Nickle, separately and together, were in the top ten choices for baby names for almost a decade after the discovery? Both boys and girls? Fascinating. And flattering.

  I digress. Each and every one of you has been recruited as ideal candidates for what you will discover is one of, if not the most compelling, unique, and challenging opportunities in medical science. There isn’t one person here, with the exception of Colonel Tidhar — he’s that rather intimidating fellow standing at attention at the back of the room — who hasn’t graduated at the top of their respective classes. You are all world-class doctors with genius-level intellects.

  You all are also, to a one, completely alone in this world. Not one of you has a single living relative. Few have friends. None are in relationships, or in any event, relationships that will be missed. Your profiles indicate a high degree of borderline personality disorders combined with near-crippling social phobias that would, in individuals not as innately driven as yourselves, result in lives of silent paranoid misery. You are each a perfect storm of intellectual and introvert.

  Simply put, despite your brilliance, not one of you will ever be missed. In the slightest. I can attest with absolute certainty that your social impacts on the world thus far have been, at best, negligible.

  Ooh, I see some frowny faces out there. You’re thinking this is not what you signed up for. I sympathize, truly. But you are, of course, wrong. This is exactly what you signed up for.

  You just didn’t know it at the time.

  Lest you forget, I did provide one last chance to leave. You’ve been allowed many opportunities to change your mind, but your insatiable inquisitiveness drove you on, past the onerous paperwork, past the byzantine confidentiality agreements, past the heavily armed guards who knocked you unconscious and transported you here in the dead of night.

  Where here is, exactly, will remain my little secret. For now.

  From this point on, no one shall be allowed to leave the base until training is complete. Anyone attempting to leave will be met with the harshest penalties permitted under the secret codicils to the Charter of Rights and Freedoms. That means you will find yourself terminated before you set foot off the base. And by terminated, I do not mean you’ll be on the unemployment line the next day. Nosirreebob.

  This is another reason why you are all, to be blunt, loners. Because should any of you leave, or whisper a word of what goes on within these walls, not only will you be executed, but every single person we even think you have a connection to will be eliminated as well.

  Settle down, please. Settle! Sit down, please! Oh dear, every time… Colonel Tidhar, if you would be so kind?

  Ah, now I have your attention. Now who was that exactly, let me just check the chart… yes, Dr. Dowhy of Fort McMurray. I always pad the numbers for exactly this eventuality, but I do keep hoping we’ll one day not have to make such provisions.

  Dr. Dowhy will be missed.

  Or, rather, he won’t. My point.

  Please remain calm; the Colonel will have the remains taken care of when we are done. For now, let the doctor’s smoky corpse serve as a friendly reminder.

  As I was saying, the time for misgivings ended five minutes ago. As we speak, teams are being dispatched to close up all loose ends. Tomorrow, media outlets across the country will be reporting on the death of A from a house fire, or the deadly hit-and-run of B, or the accidental corso-oscillated disintegration of C.

  From this point on, it’s either remain and learn, or cremation.

  Now, that nasty business out of the way…

  Welcome to the Canadian government’s Sanatorium for Überhuman Palliative, Emergency, and Restorative care, or SÜPER. And no, I was not on the committee that came up with that acronym. LNF is merely a front to keep the public from discovering our true role, although we do have a nifty side business in product testing.

  My discovery of the Flux in the late 1970s was a turning point in human development. I don’t mind admitting I accidentally stumbled upon its existence during my attempts to fully decode the human genetic structure. The previous year, Professor Lalumière had invented what we now call the Lalumière Orb, a portable device capable of generating a sphere of self-renewing, self-sustaining nuclear fusion. It is not an overstatement to say that this device transformed the world, solving the energy crisis in one blow. We have a tiny orb onsite, powering our facilities. They say it will continue to function well into the thirtieth century.

  I had theorized that selective exposure of DNA to Orb radiation could trigger controlled mutations. As you see, I am a prime example of my r
esearch. Perhaps it’s the humanitarian in me, but I would never expose any test subject to a procedure I would not willingly undergo myself.

  I’ve always believed that scientists may strive to better our world, but it’s only the mad scientists who get anything done.

  However, due to an undetected instability in the prototype Orb, spontaneous precipitation of genetic mutations occurred on a global scale, a process of forced evolution that will continue until that particular sphere runs itself dry. Which, by Lalumière’s estimation, does not appear likely in this millennium.

  Zero point zero zero one percent of the world’s population was immediately affected. Most, happily, suffer only the most trivial of abnormalities. I include myself among that number, although I’m sure most wouldn’t classify the extemporaneous growth of a third leg and an extra pair of arms to be trivial. Well, it has cost a fair amount of money to have all my clothes tailored appropriately. But my surgical skills have improved dramatically, and there doesn’t exist a three-legged race I can’t win. Ha!

  Oh, at first I was chagrined, but I’ve learned to take the entire incident as an instructive lesson in safety checks. I always say, forewarned is four-armed. Ha ha!

  Some, of course, were affected to a degree beyond mere extra appendages or kaleidoscopic hair. They are why we are here today. These quote unquote superheroes are now the civilized world’s first, best, and only defense against the evils that beset us, primarily those generated by so-called supervillains.

  Seems like every day there’s another one, doesn’t it? Today a Havoconda or Machismollusk, tomorrow a Doctor Destruction or Doctor Damage or Doc Dojo. (And do not get me started on supervillain abuse of the word “doctor”; only a bare handful have any medical or scientific training at all, and Doctor Damage has a doctorate in Medieval English— bah!)

  All this is why we need superheroes, or, as we here call them, supercapables, on our side. It is of critical importance that these beings be in tip-top shape at all times. Until now, you have been aware only of the public face of supercapables. The reality behind their heroism is where you come into play.

  I’m sensing confusion. I think, at this stage, it would be best to start our tour. If you’ll all please follow me to the elevator…

  Everyone in! Don’t worry, room enough for all. This is an industrial elevator, reinforced several times over. Considering the size of some of our patients, a load of thirty doctors will not strain it in the slightest. We’ll be descending some one hundred and fifty metres, and it’s quite a… Whoa! Apologies; I neglected to warn you of the sudden acceleration. Not to mention the deceleration. You’d do best to hold onto the handrails for the zero-gravity portion of our descent.

  Ah, Level One, Hero Triage. The outpatient level, where our, how shall I phrase it, less complicated warriors fly in for a tune-up. Your Fantasias, your ‘Lastic Lads, your Apexes. Run-of-the-mill supertypes, but they get the job done. Consider this an emergency ward for superhero boo-boos.

  You see, supercapables, for all their gifts, do require medical care from time to time, and there isn’t a hospital on Earth that can effectively handle their unique needs. And when you factor in a hero’s need for anonymity, well, you begin to understand why facilities like this are so vital. We cater exclusively to the curative, remedial, therapeutic, and restorative needs of the überbeing. We tend to their aches and pains, and they make themselves available to world governments when their services are required. Most of your more prosaic heroes will go their whole lives without receiving a single phone call requesting their aid, but they are still granted access to all the medical knowledge, technologies, and care at our command. In the long run, the cost of running this facility, and its equivalents in other countries, is negligible compared to the savings in global infrastructure expenditures.

  You’ll be spending a great deal of time here, the rotation schedule will be posted in the morning. I believe the best training to be hands-on, so you will all work in every department at one time or another. Specific assignments will come later; if you are drawn to a particular area of practice, do not hesitate to let your supervisor know. But Level One furnishes the greatest opportunity to practice on the widest variety of genetic anomalies. One day you’ll be ministering to The Burgundy Barnacle’s crustacean arthritis, the next you’ll be slopping irradiated salve on the self-inflicted wounds of DeathPriest. Oh yes, there’s quite the story there. Someday I’ll write a book.

  Kidding, Colonel Tidhar! Kidding! The Colonel knows I would never write such a book. The scandals would cripple the superhero sector. How do you think the world would react if The Obviator’s bipolar disorder was revealed? Or The Groundhog’s intestinal insertion fetish?

  Enough preamble! Behold, behind Curtain Number One we discover… I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are. Please forgive my theatricality, everyone, but I cannot resist making a little show of revealing your first authentic wounded superhero.

  So you are… Thundra, Mistress of Climate? Superhero nomenclature has become a veritable cottage industry, hasn’t it? Are you a newcomer to the game, Miss Thundra? Ah, that explains it. Doctors, before you is a textbook example of how the onset of puberty is decisively linked to the evolution of superabilities.

  My, that is quite the burn. How did it come about? Well, I am certainly glad you managed to save all those orphans, well done there, but superpowers do not always arrive conveniently bundled, do they? Just because you can harness lightning does not mean you’re necessarily fireproof. Let’s be a tad more careful next time, shall we? When you’ve been tended to, have the nurse direct you to the armory topside. They’ll set you up with a fire-retardant catsuit. Yes, a variety of colors are available, but I’d lose the cape. So last year.

  Curtain Two? Ah, now here is a gentleman whom I’m sure needs no introduction. Doctors, meet The Reckoning, one of your A-plus certified top-tier heroes. An honour, sir, it’s not often we see someone of your stature on Level One. I caught your work last month in Rome, congratulations on saving the Vatican from Gorgon Zola. What’s Pope Deus Ex Machina like? Oh, that’s a shame, I rather hoped he was more open-minded.

  Now, pray tell, what brings you to our doorstep today, Reckoning? Hmm? I do apologize. What’s troubling you, The Reckoning? Well, let’s just hunker down and take a looksee. If you could please remove your tights?

  My, my, that does look inflamed. I’d like to throw this to my group here, do you mind? Doctors, close your mouths and place your thinking helmets on. We have on our hands a Grade One Flux Mutation suffering what looks to be a rash of cold sores about his extremities, swollen testicles and… Oh, I’m sorry, yes, of course, they always look like that. Moving on, we have additional sores beneath the scrotal sac and a degree of deep bruising, along with what the patient describes as a painful electrical discharge and nuclear piles. Diagnosis?

  Interesting idea. Why don’t you ask him that yourself, Doctor Dayton? Go on.

  Ouch. Please let the doctor’s suffering serve as a teachable moment. A degree of tact is of vital importance when treating the supercapable. Doctor Dayton, I suggest you trot off to the Level Four burn ward. Yes, just follow the signs. Off you go now! Hurry, and they may be able to save that arm.

  Don’t concern yourselves, he’ll be fine. If we can patch up wounds inflicted by Dark Squid or Trajectory the Human Bullet, we can surely handle a simple third-degree scorching.

  Now I do hate to be indelicate, The Reckoning but I must ask if you’ve at all been in contact with any of the Contagion Quints. All of them? I see. Well, this shouldn’t be a problem; we are very familiar with the Quints’ unique viral signature. Doctors Fuller and Berki, I don’t see why you can’t start your rotation immediately. You are now in charge of The Reckoning’s wellbeing. Head to the dispensary at the end of the hall, they’ll whip up an ointment that will clear up this trifling infection. And please stop your sputtering, it’s demeaning to your profession. Hurry, before that erythema goes septic. If that happens we’ll have to q
uarantine the entire level. Move!

  The rest of you, onward to Level Two!

  Now that we’re alone again, I can confide that The Reckoning’s sexual appetite is the subject of water-cooler scuttlebutt, but that’s where such talk must remain. For all our sakes. But let me ask, is anyone here surprised that a dalliance with all five of the Contagion Quints has led to a rather volcanic STD eruption? We reap what we sow, doctors, no matter how many battleships we can vaporize with our atomic vision.

  Frankly, most of your name-brand heroes are, for lack of a better term, utter assholes, and The Reckoning is an A-Number-One poopchute. Few of you may have interest in proctology, but you had all better get used to having your heads lodged firmly up your patients’ asses, and yes that includes The Globule. When you are on duty, these beings are your gods incarnate. When you consider the vital international security work they do and, more importantly, how dangerous even the most mediocre supercapable is compared to humdrum normals like yourselves, well, it behooves you to suck up as much as possible.

  By way of example; do you all recall the death of Major Proton? In truth, he was not slain in mortal combat with Terminatrobot, that was only a cover story. Some years back, one of our residents removed one of PorcuPinenut’s quills from the Major’s thigh and called him a… what was it again, Colonel? Yes, “big baby,” when he cried. Major Proton transmuted the doctor into a sentient rod of fissionable uranium-235 and stormed out in a huff. That was quite the day.

  Anyhow, the Major is now known as Professor Nuke, the happy gent who destroyed most of Saskatchewan during last year’s Meltdown War. The doctor? Quadborg packaged her up and sent her hurtling toward a black hole in the Sagittarius Dwarf Galaxy. Uranium-235 has a half-life of 704 million years, so I imagine the doctor will have plenty of time to consider her lack of bedside manner.

  Ah, Level Two. We are now three kilometers down. This is where we delve into the nitty-gritty of supercapable physiology. I’ll ask you all to get used to checking the radiation detectors on your ID cards. Should that bar turn any color other than blue, do not proceed from this point. It’s only changed to red once in the history of this facility, when X-Raygun had a bout of indigestion. We lost a lot of good people that day.