Super World Two

by Lawrence Ambrose

  At first, she didn't think anything about the two silvery dots approaching from the east. She'd encountered a couple of airliners and one private plane – both announcing themselves well in advance with the roar or rumble of their engines – but these two aircraft were different: she heard no sound at all. And they were approaching fast. More disturbing, when she moved to one side they moved with her.

  Hmmm... Tildie lacked Jamie's telescopic vision, but it didn't take long for the aircraft to assume the familiar fighter jet silhouettes. She dived down to a few thousand feet, scurrying south. The jets adjusted their course straight for her. Not good. Not good at all. They were obviously going to intercept her. Why? Was she somewhere she wasn't to supposed to be? Or had just flying itself triggered an alarm? Made sense. Jamie had told her she flew really high to avoid drones and radar. Maybe she should've gone back up above the clouds after she'd regained some semblance of control?

  But right now the best idea seemed to land. What could the fighter jets do then? She couldn't believe they'd just open fire on her – assuming they could even see her if she hid on the ground. Merely flying wasn't some capital crime, was it?

  Tildie dropped down into a patch of fir trees. She hit the ground a bit too hard, but her enhanced strength and prior experience kept her on her feet – stumbling along for a few meters but not face-planting.

  The fighter jet duo roared by overhead, a sonic boom cracking through the forest. Tildie hugged a tree – something that as a Portlandian came fairly naturally to her – and waited for their return. Sure enough, the jets performed a long, looping circle and headed back in the direction from which they'd come, perhaps at a more leisurely pace. Tildie waited another four or five minutes. The jets didn't reappear. Had they seen her? Had they written her off?

  She skimmed along the ground, half-running, half-flying for a few hundred meters. It some ways she found that harder than flat-out flying. She climbed cautiously over the trees, picking up speed. Maybe it would be better to stay low. Wouldn't that make her harder if not impossible to track on radar?

  But now she faced a new roadblock ("skyblock"?): sinister, insectile black helicopters chittering straight at her just above tree-height. Would hiding on the ground work again? Didn't they have some kind of tracking devices?

  Tildie skimmed the ground through the trees again, moving south, but the helicopters angled toward her, and she couldn't fly fast enough through the trees to prevent them from gaining on her. To make matters more interesting, a pack of four-wheelers bearing soldiers and machine gun tripods zipped up the side of the hill straight toward her. She veered away, but the four-wheelers – receiving directions from the helicopters? – veered with her. She was starting to feel like the poor little fox in an English foxhunt.

  Tildie was tempted to surrender. They'd take her into custody, question her, and then...? The "then" was the troubling part. She could spend days if not weeks in some detention center until they figured out what to do with her. If Jamie knew she was being imprisoned she'd make them release her – Tildie had no doubt about that – but there was no guarantee Jamie would know anything. And for all Tildie knew they might just make her "disappear." That kind of thing was rumored to happen with this government from time to time.

  No, she thought, the safest and simplest thing was to stop being a wuss and turn on the "after burners" or whatever they called them and put these people in her rearview mirror. She was pretty sure the helicopters couldn't catch her. That left the fighter jets. Well, if they showed up again, she could deal with them like before, and she might be one or two hundred miles away from the soldiers and helicopters by then.

  Tildie exploded out of the trees and reached for the clouds, flying faster than she ever had to this point. The helicopters faded into specks below. She sensed them reacting, but too slowly. It was hard to gauge her speed, but she guessed by the passing clouds and glimpses of the ground that it was at least matching a commercial airliner's – and maybe well past that. She squinted a bit against the growing roar of the wind, but apart from a minor discomfort her eyes seemed okay. If she could just hold this speed she'd be at Jamie's in an hour or two. No one would dare mess with her then.

  Ten or fifteen minutes passed. She could almost see – or imagined she was seeing – the western plains of North Dakota. Yes, Tildie thought. Yes!

  Then she happened to glance back over her shoulder: a pair of fighter jets were almost on her shoulders, poised in deadly silence. No! she thought. No!

  Only when the jets pulled alongside and slightly in front of her – sixty or so meters out on either side – did the roar of their engines and twin sonic booms concuss her from both sides. When her flight wavered, the jets squeezed in a bit and the constant booming stopped. One of the pilots jabbed a finger downward. Tildie wasn't sure if he meant for her to land directly below or they had a particular place in mind. She descended on a gradual angle, the jets pacing her. Breaking through the clouds, she spotted what looked like a military base and a landing strip twenty or thirty miles ahead. She pointed to it, and the pilot nodded.

  Which left her pretty much back at square one, she thought. Did she keep trying to escape or surrender and accept whatever they had in mind for her? Her best guess about how that would turn out hadn't changed. At a minimum, she'd spend a day or two in a holding cell being grilled by rugged soldier types. At a maximum, she could be there for days or longer. It was even conceivable they might kill her as a threat to national security or something. She didn't believe it would come to that, but she couldn't be certain of anything.

  What could the fighter jets do to her if she decided to disregard the pilot's order? They obviously couldn't shoot at her when they were so close together. They'd need to back off a ways, get some distance. If she stayed close to one of them, could they do anything to her? And if worse came to worse, she could surely knock them out of the sky with her lightning power. But sheesh, what kind of superhero killed Air Force pilots? She'd rather surrender than do that.

  Still, the thought of surrendering pissed her off, and as far as she could see, it wouldn't be easy for them to make her land. She might not be able to fly faster than them but she was a lot more maneuverable. Heck, she could fly right up and perch on one of their wings! She had to stop thinking like a librarian and more like a crafty superhero. A superhero might not blow up U.S. Air Force fighter jets, but she wouldn't meekly follow government orders, either.

  While Tildie explored her options, the fighter jet pilots downward gestures had grown more emphatic, even angry. Her only response was a kind of helpless shrugging motion. Ahead, the military base was looming larger – vehicles and soldiers swarming like worker ants on the runways. More jets were taxiing for takeoff. Apprehension coiled in Tildie's veins. It's about to get kind of crowded up here.

  It didn't require any complex calculation to see she had next to no chance of outrunning and/or evading all these aircraft and the people on the ground. At least while she was within their reach...

  That thought sent a shiver of possibility through her. Jamie had avoided detection by flying high. How high can I fly? Maybe it was time she found out.

  Tildie launched herself upward with all her power and more than a little trepidation. Her body was definitely much tougher and so far she hadn't experienced any trouble with the cold or breathing, but that didn't guarantee she wouldn't. In fact, she expected she would. The question was whether she'd conk out before the fighter jets did.

  Below, the two fighter jets peeled apart and angled up after her. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but they didn't appear to be gaining. She felt good – strangely stronger – as she rose, feeling less and less tethered by gravity and unbothered by the swiftly thinning air. Another downward glance confirmed that the jets were not gaining. If anything, they were falling off the pace.

  But the four fighter jet missiles weren't.

  Whatever small measure of relief Tildie was feeling evaporated. The missiles were coming on fast, zeroed
in on her. She shot sideways, and the missiles responded – but a beat or two late, showing they couldn't alter their course nearly as fast as she could. It would be like those nature specials where a wolf or bobcat chased a rabbit that changed direction just as the predator's jaws were closing in. She could only hope these missiles weren't as agile or determined as a wolf or bobcat.

  Tildie waited until the missiles were almost on her before shooting upward in a sharp burst of speed. She was feeling pretty good about herself as the missiles blew by beneath her feet – until the missiles detonated.

  The blast of light and concussive force struck her like a fist in the chest. Everything went gray and silent. She knew she was falling. She could feel the air blowing through the fingers of her limp hands. Tildie also knew that she'd been hit by something more than the force of the explosions. It was as if someone had struck her with a dozen small spears or peppered her with heavy buckshot.

  Tildie opened her eyes. The first thing she noticed was a metal rod sticking out of her side. The second thing that her already tattered outfit had sprouted many additional holes – a cratered surface of the moon abundance of holes – and most of them were lined or spattered with dark liquid. Blood.

  The next thing she noticed was the two fighter jets paralleling her as she fell. Tildie breathed out and focused her senses, seeking a damage report from her body. Oddly, she didn't feel that bad. And as that appraisal formed, the rod protruding from her side dropped off. She touched the spot with fearful fingers, expecting a gaping wound, but felt only a pockmark.

  As her mind cleared, her descent slowed and stopped. Her body was coming back on line – Tildie could feel herself charging up, and she wasn't sure that was a metaphor. Electricity tingled on the tips of fingers as if aching for release. Or was it a healing response to her injuries?

  The fighter jets circled away from her in wide turns, joining up perhaps a mile away on her left. She spotted something flashing under one of the fighters' wings.

  Tildie blew upward before any thought could form. A second or two later a stream of what looked like molten-hot fireflies hissed and popped under her feet. Bullets? They see I'm wounded and they're still trying to kill me?!

  Her next act was accompanied by one thought: Screw you!

  Lightning crackled from her extended fists, blazing out across the pale blue sky, terminating in an explosion beneath the fighter's wing where the gun had been firing. The stricken fighter jet twisted away from the other, wings dipping, wobbling through the air like a wounded bird. Tildie's anger fizzled into fearful apprehension. Was it going to blow up or crash? Damn, why did it have to attack me like that? Definitely not the outcome she'd been hoping for.

  But as the jet corkscrewed downward, the pilot ejected with a brief flare of rocket propulsion, and Tildie allowed herself a small breath of relief. She'd downed an Air Force plane – not something to win her any fans in the government – but the pilot was going to be okay –

  Except he was falling without any sign of chutes. Or consciousness.

  Tildie choked on her breath of relief. Shit. Now what? The other fighter jet blew by and started circling back in a wide radius. She took the opportunity to fly after the falling pilot, and seeing his frosty, grey-chalk face, it occurred to her that the altitude – and maybe the force of the ejection, which seemed to have torn off his helmet – was to blame. But had his parachute malfunctioned or was the freefall according to plan? He was still strapped to a seat. Was that that normal or a malfunction?

  While Tildie anguished over that, the pilots' parachutes blew out and caught the air overhead in a big, blooming canopy, jerking them free of their seats, which fell away. Normal, then, Tildie thought. Relief inched back up her throat. The pilot nearest her opened his eyes. He blinked at her a few times, fear flashing in his eyes before a stoic calm settled in.

  "Are you okay?" she asked.

  Her words were blown away. Tildie drifted in closer. He threw up his hands to ward her off, but she just used them to pull her head near his ear.

  "Are you injured?"

  "No...maybe. Can't feel much..." He reached around to her back. "No jet pack. How are you flying?"

  "I have superpowers."

  His partner's fighter jet roared by at a reduced speed, and without thinking Tildie zoomed after it. No telling when she might have another chance to get this close without facing missiles or machine guns. She landed on a wing near the window canopy. The pilot turned his helmeted face toward her. She could only imagine his expression. Tildie held up one hand and waved a reproving finger. He offered no response. She edged forward and gently tapped the canopy with one knuckle, pointing to the east.

  The jet accelerated hard, veering sharply to its right, then jerking back to its left. Tildie lost her footing and flopped down on her face, grabbing the front edge of the wing. If she hadn't been flying with the plane, she doubted she'd have any chance of holding on.

  Turn around, she willed the craft. Fly east toward Grand Forks.

  To her surprise, the jet performed a gradual turn back to the east. She noted the pilot working his controls with an air of urgency if not panic. When he turned his head and stared at her in angry and fearful accusation she knew her telekinetic coup d'état was real. She felt the resistance of the fighter jet in her mind like a mental bucking bronco. Could she maintain control?

  She rode on the wing of the fighter jet over the military base. Four other fighter jets had left the runway and were circling in on them, forming up on either side. She couldn't see them shooting down one of their own to get to her.

  They continued eastward. Yeah, Tildie thought, a smile loosening her tight lips. Jamie really was in for a surprise.

  Chapter 20

  JAKE CULLER CRAWLED OUT of bed and staggered across the floor to the bathroom. He wasn't so much in need of relieving himself as in need of water. Good, clean, cool carbon reverse-osmosis filtered water. He drank a tall glass and it flowed through his body like an elixir. His head cleared and he felt buoyed, strangely optimistic. He splashed water in his face and over his short, spiky hair. His "baby blues" squinted back at him from the mirror and he smiled his trademark cynical smile that had sometimes earned him comparisons to a young Paul Newman.

  Maybe I'm a superhuman Paul Newman now?

  He could feel his body, just hours ago feeling as if it was on death's door, buzzing with a new health and power. He was intensely curious to see what Jamie Shepherd's "nanovirus" might have in store for him, if anything, but it was like opening a birthday present: half the fun was anticipation. And of course it was best not to get over-excited. In his experience, that usually led to disappointment.

  Meanwhile, he was hungry – fresh-grilled T-bone steaks and baked potatoes slathered in sour cream filled his head. He was also restless. Insanely restless and buzzing with adventure, with the possibility of something new and mind-blowing. He knew in that moment that while duty called – literally, since Ted and Andy had called six or seven times, the last one with Ted whining: "I know you told us to stop bothering you, but this is really serious!" – he would not be returning to his shop today. Today, he was going to get in his car and drive. No destination known. Other than stopping somewhere first to eat.

  Minutes later, a box of Kentucky Fried chicken perched on the seat beside him and a large coffee in the cup holder, he was rumbling onto the freeway entrance not far from his house. His normal routine – except now instead of heading south on 80 to his shop in West Sac, he caught 50 going east. Still nothing concrete in mind, but vague images and longings were pushing him away from the city toward a place where he could clear his head.

  Road trip? He'd done that impulsively more than a few times as a carefree youth. Now, as an allegedly responsible adult, he had a dozen reasons for not taking an unplanned trip. For one, his employees would probably shit their pants. He might even lose some good business. Hell, in his absence he could see Curly and Moe burning down his place.

  Well, fuck i
t. He had maybe sixty dollars in cash and a couple of credit cards in his wallet – enough to take him wherever he wanted to go. Maybe he'd turn around in an hour, maybe he wouldn't. The world wouldn't come to an end either way.

  The Pontiac carried him up the hills, no break in its low-throated purr as it blew past the slower-moving traffic on the first steep grades. Soon they were approaching Tahoe, but neither Jake nor his ride showed any inclination to stop. The lake and green trees and the moist pine needle smell made him smile, but he was looking for more open spaces, somewhere away from the maddening crowd to test himself out. Jamie Shepherd had suggested that, along with mentioning there'd be a "learning curve." Maybe it was his imagination, but he felt a helluva lot stronger. He would see soon enough.

  So Jake kept driving, and the green mountains and moist air transformed into cactus, sand, and dry, withering high-desert air in seemingly the space of a few breaths. He gazed out on the desiccated landscape and smiled. Just what the doctor ordered. He could take a side-road and park somewhere far away from prying eyes. But he wasn't ready to stop yet.

  He nursed his speed up to eighty-five, about as far as he dared on this lonely but possibly cop-infested highway. An idea was forming slowly in his mind. He was headed almost straight toward where his old friend lived – or had last time he'd checked. Greg Horner. What was he up to these days? Jake assumed he was still working as a mercenary goon for Galleon, making the world safe for corporate America. What a fucking tool. They'd parted on distinctly unfriendly terms, both bearing black-eyed, busted-lip souvenirs from a drunken fight that had started with, coincidentally enough, Jake calling him a "fucking tool," and accusing him of trading his patriotism as a U.S. Marine – as someone who actually fought for something – for a job where you fought for the highest bidder. Not a word had passed between them since that night. Well, fuck him. Jake wasn't going to back down on that point – not then, not ever. American ideals counted for something. Some rich asshole paying you to defend his pipeline or poppy field made you into a goddamned money-grubbing whore. Worse than a whore, because they brought some good into the world.