Halfheroes

by Ian W. Sainsbury

"Thank you."

  Robertson's face appeared on the screen. He looked rested and unruffled. He must have slept on the flight. It takes a certain kind of person to fall asleep while surrounded by twelve of the most dangerous people on the planet.

  "Any problems?"

  He already knew the answer. He considered his vision for the future far too important to risk being derailed by unexpected obstacles. He had delayed beginning the project until every potential problem was anticipated, examined, and eliminated.

  The existence of halfheroes had been the single greatest unknown, the one bug in the software that had the potential to undo all his work.

  The risk they posed were too great to ignore. Action had proved necessary. Today, the final obstacle would be removed.

  "No problems at all, sir. Everything went smoothly."

  "Good. And are you okay? After-effects?"

  Robertson smiled.

  "I'm fine, sir. Felt a little groggy for a couple of hours. The medical staff gave me some pills. I slept for a while. Fit and healthy."

  "I'm sorry you had to go through that."

  "It was necessary, sir. I understood that. And I'm in good shape. No damage done."

  "Thank you, Robertson. I won't forget what you did."

  Robertson looked abashed at the compliment.

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Can you show me?"

  "Yes, sir. All of the new arrivals?"

  "No. Show me Daniel Harbin."

  According to his information, Harbin was the oldest. The first halfhero to live through adolescence. But there were gaps in Harbin's personal history that even his resources couldn't uncover. A bit of a mystery, Mr Harbin. Now working for the UN's secret sideline, IGLU.

  The video feed showed a huge man sleeping on a simple bed in a plain room. There were no windows. There was a desk with a tablet and a stylus on one side of the bed. On the other, there was a toilet, wash basin, and monsoon-style shower.

  As prison cells went, it was well-equipped. Not a bad place to spend a night or two.

  The man in the plane turned off the screen and sipped his water. He regretted the necessity of the action he had taken. Depriving someone of their liberty when they had committed no crime was unethical. But it was, by far, the lesser of two evils. His vision must be allowed to take shape without the threat the halfheroes might pose to it.

  He could live with the guilt. He would have to.

  The jet banked, and he pressed another button to darken the windows against the sun.

  Every known halfhero alive was sleeping in individual cells inside the Facility, the most secure prison ever constructed. The new intake, which included the four thugs Robertson had collected earlier that day, would join the fourteen already captured. They were all as comfortable as he could make them without compromising security. He hoped they would adapt quickly to their new situation. They would be his guests there for—by his most conservative estimate—at least three years.

  He turned and looked at the six figures sitting at the back of the plane, headphones on, eyes closed. The scientist he had met all those years ago moved between his charges, checking them as they slept.

  Finally, the day had come. Ten years ago, it had been a dream.

  In a few hours the world would know what he had spent the best part of a decade planning. And the world would change. For everyone. Forever.

  Abos slept for three hours, then went downstairs to make a pot of tea and a bowl of porridge.

  She called Daniel, but it went through to voicemail.

  She texted him their agreed password if they needed an urgent response: Lofthouse.

  Daniel was meant to reply with Kuku. He didn't.

  Abos sat at the table and drank her tea. Daniel was probably fine, but he had always checked in before, let her know when he would be back.

  His laptop was in his room. She brought it down to the kitchen table and opened the email program. She used the passwords Daniel had given her and opened the encrypted folder. There were two new messages. The first was from Palindrome.

  From: ten.palindrome@emordnilap.net

  Subject: update - it's getting interesting

  Abos ignored it and clicked on the next, from Saffi.

  From: saffiiglu@globmail.com

  Subject: RED

  Daniel, where are you? What happened? I can't reach anyone in the team. Gravesend has been compromised. Please respond as soon as you receive this.

  Abos checked the time. It had been sent fourteen hours ago.

  Decision made, she went upstairs, changed into her leathers, grabbed her helmet and ran back to the yard. She would start looking in Newcastle. The cloud cover was almost non-existent, but if she flew, she could be there in twenty-five minutes.

  She was just pushing the helmet onto her head when she heard the crash from the lab.

  16

  Sausages. Roast chicken and potatoes with parsnips, carrots, and gravy. Pizza, the big ones, family size. Two of them. Fish and chips twice, no three times, with extra chips and five litres of curry sauce. King prawn madras with a chilli naan. Motor paneer, sag aloo, pilau rice.

  Hungry.

  Daniel half-opened his eyes. The light was wrong. Should be coming from the window to his right. He closed his eyes again.

  Freshly baked bread. Sourdough. Cut into slabs and buttered thick enough to see your teeth marks. Homemade marmalade. Sticky toffee pudding.

  Groaning, he turned his head to one side and tried opening his eyes again, expecting to see the Cornish light bathing the fields outside. Instead, he saw a washbasin, mounted onto a stone wall.

  Really hungry.

  He closed his eyes a second time, giving his memory a chance to fill in the gaps. He had experienced the same disorientation before in hotel rooms. Sometimes, waking in the middle of the night in complete darkness, he had tried to picture the room in which he was sleeping. The position of the door, the window, the desk and chair, the bathroom. Only when he was sure he knew where everything was would he flick on the light. Half the time, his mental picture was totally wrong, and he would experience a moment's utter confusion while his brain tried to process the reality his memory had failed to provide.

  Really, really hungry.

  This was not quite the same. There was something he couldn't remember, a fuzzy, blurred sensation where his memory of where he was ought to be. It would come. He had to relax and... shit; he was so hungry. That wasn't helping. He wouldn't be able to think straight until he satisfied his craving for food. Daniel needed at least five thousand calories a day to keep his body and mind sharp and active. He needed food, now. He wasn't sure if it was time for breakfast, lunch, or dinner, and didn't care as long as he could eat immediately.

  Daniel opened his eyes again and sat up, taking in his surroundings. Oh. This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all.

  The room was about the size of his bedroom in Cornwall. That was all they had in common though. The lack of a window made him uncomfortable. Light came from above. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all stone, as if the room had been carved from solid rock. The bed was iron, the mattress thin but comfortable. A light duvet covered his body. The ambient temperature was on the warm side.

  Daniel threw off the duvet. He was wearing white cotton trousers with a drawstring and a white T-shirt. Neither of which were clothes he owned. His body ached as if he had been in a fight. He had been in a fight, hadn't he? Yesterday? The lack of bruises on his hands suggested it had been longer ago than that.

  He looked at the desk. There was an A4 pad of lined yellow paper and a pencil. There was also a twelve-inch tablet. He recognised the distinctive design and the mottled white plastic casing. It was a state-of-the-art Globlet, the best-selling tablet in the world. Its boast that a minimum of forty percent of its components, and all of its casing, were constructed from recycled materials made it a desirable item among the ecologically concerned tech-savvy. Everyone else just bought it because anything with Glob branding wa
s always the best in class.

  A message was pulsing on the screen in retro green-on-black capitals: WELCOME. Daniel looked at the only door, opposite the foot of his bed. It was flush with the wall. At the bottom was a gap of about three inches. The door looked was metal; solid and heavy. There was no handle. Not on the inside, at least.

  Pushing aside the urgent requests for casserole, fish pie, or steak his brain was receiving from his stomach—with only partial success—Daniel got up to investigate the door.

  He stumbled and fell to his right, managing to get a hand on the toilet lid to stop him hitting the floor. After the dizziness passed, he heaved himself to his feet.

  He checked around the edges of the door, running his fingers along the point where stone wall met cold metal. There was no discernible gap. Daniel pushed, but the door didn't move an inch.

  Poached eggs. A dozen of them, on top of a mound of spinach, with loads of salt and black pepper.

  Easing himself to the floor, he lay down on his side and looked out through the gap at the bottom of the door. The stone floor continued outside until it was interrupted by a stone wall about eight feet away. He couldn't see the ceiling, but he thought it would probably continue the all-stone theme. By moving his head as far to the right as possible, Daniel could see another door, further along the corridor, with the same three-inch gap at the bottom. He moved to the far left. Another door was visible.

  Mashed potato. Piles of mashed potato with butter. And cheese. Not grated, just broken into chunks the size of a baby's fist.

  He heard a click and a hiss. It came from somewhere further up the corridor to his right. The sound of footsteps and trundling rubber wheels on the stone floor. A trolley appeared, stopping at the first door.

  "Hey," called Daniel. "What the hell's going on?"

  No response. Daniel moved his face against the gap. He could see up to the knees of the figure standing by the trolley. Black trousers, black boots. But none of that mattered because the trolley was loaded with covered plates, and plates meant food, and food meant trifle and waffles and pancakes and gammon and churros and spaghetti Bolognese and ribs and pan-fried sea bass.

  The figure took a plate and crouched about three feet away from the door. Daniel could see it was a man. Black T-shirt and a black baseball cap. Black seemed to be a theme. He'd already guessed he was a bad guy. It seemed like overkill to broadcast the information through his choice of clothing.

  The man took the cover off the plate and picked up a broom from the side of the trolley, looking for all the world as if he was about to sweep up the plate on the floor. He moved, and Daniel saw it wasn't a broom. It was more like a snow shovel. The man—the guard, more accurately, because it was clear this wasn't a five-star resort and spa—used the shovel to push the plate through the gap in the door, a small flick of the wrist sending it on its way like a curling stone.

  The guard pushed the trolley until it came to rest opposite Daniel's door. He repeated the procedure, uncovering the plate and getting the shovel. Then he stopped because Daniel's face was blocking the way.

  Daniel said something he thought was only ever said in books, or on TV.

  "Where am I?"

  No reply. From this angle, all Daniel could see of the man were his boots. But he could see, and smell, the food. Pasta, with a tomato sauce. A sealed transparent plastic container with what looked like orange juice inside.

  Daniel tried again.

  "Who are you? How did I get here? What do you want? Answer me!"

  The only response he got was a motion with the shovel indicating he should move out of the way. When he didn't, the man placed the cover back on the food, put it onto the trolley and walked away.

  Daniel screamed after him, but he might as well have been shouting at a rock.

  "I'm moving, I'm moving, okay!? Look, I'm not in the way. Bring it back. Bring me the food, please! Come on! What the hell's wrong with you? You utter nob. When I get hold of you, I'll push that shovel so far...oh, he's gone. Perfect."

  During Daniel's rant, the man had delivered a plate to the next room before pushing the trolley away.

  Daniel took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. It didn't work. He could feel his anger building, becoming rage. He let it happen, furious at being locked up like this. He gathered his strength, pushing aside the dizziness, ignoring the hunger. Three steps back, then he turned his shoulder to the door and charged.

  Daniel hit hard, bounced backwards and fell. The dizziness was worse. He had to wait a few seconds before checking to see if he had broken through the door or just dented it. When his vision was clear again, he checked the damage. Or, rather, the lack of it.

  The door was unmarked. He had hit it with everything he had, but he had made no impression on it. It was built to withstand more damage than he could inflict in his weakened state. He would have to get a significant amount of calories into his body if he wanted to break out.

  How often was shovel boy going to come round with food? Daniel put his hands on his stomach and groaned. He moved his fingers under the T-shirt and felt his ribs. He had lost weight. When had he last eaten? He remembered breakfast at the hotel with Gabe and Sara. The waitress had asked him if he'd like his eggs poached, boiled, fried, or scrambled and he'd said yes. Yes, please, to all the above, and yes, he would be delighted to pay a supplement. Three eggs cooked in each way, please. Yes, twelve in total. The waitress had blinked a few times, then gone to the kitchen with a story to tell. Meanwhile, Daniel had eaten five croissants and loaded two plates with sausages, beans, black pudding, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes, and hash browns.

  His stomach groaned like an old man with toothache.

  There was no mirror. Daniel put his fingers on his face, pushing at places where, he remembered being repeatedly punched. There was a tiny amount of tenderness. Given his rapid recovery rate, that meant at least two days, maybe three had passed. He'd been unconscious for that long?

  The pain in his stomach was affecting Daniel's ability to think logically. He put all his energy into building a coherent picture of the events that had brought him here. He, Gabe, and Sara had fought rogue halfheroes in Newcastle. TripleDee and the others had been expecting the IGLU team. Tipped off, somehow. Daniel's last memory was of lying on the floor with three or four of them holding him down. After that, nothing.

  I need food. I have to eat, I have to eat now.

  Daniel sat on the bed and put his face in his hands. He was so weak he could barely think. He fell into a kind of trance, the pain of hunger synced with his pulse, sending waves of agonising need up to his brain.

  Finally, he lifted his head. Something was flashing to his left. It was distracting. Good. Distraction was good.

  He moved to the desk, pulled out the chair and sat down. He picked up the Globlet.

  WELCOME

  He stared at the flashing word for a few more seconds, then touched it with his forefinger. The word faded, and the screen went dark.

  The video had been filmed in an office. An office that was a masterpiece of minimalism. A huge brushed-steel desk dominated the room, empty of everything but a sleek computer and a pad of yellow paper like the one next to Daniel's elbow. The walls were light green, but it was a green you rarely saw outside magazines read by interior designers. They wouldn't have called it green. It was sure to be Printemps de pistachioed pot-pourri or some such wank. There was a painting on the wall to the left of the desk. It looked as if the artist had bought a massive canvas and lined up all her tubes of paint, only to be interrupted by the doorbell. While she was away, a small child had wandered in, squirted a blob of every tube onto the blank space, smeared it about, rolled in it, thrown up in one corner, taken a shit in the middle, then left. Probably worth a million at least.

  There was no carpet. The floor was polished concrete. It looked expensive. Daniel didn't know how he knew it was expensive concrete, but he was sure he was right. Anyone who owned an office that size wouldn't go for cheap floorin
g. The architect had probably claimed it was concrêt, a revolutionary new kind of surface.

  Behind the desk, the floor to ceiling window opened on to a breathtaking view. It looked like a desert, but the sand was pure white, rising and falling in dunes. It was unlike anywhere Daniel had ever been. An other-worldly sight.

  Then the man whose personal-trainer-toned buttocks had moulded the contours of the ten-thousand-dollar chair behind the desk stepped into shot. Daniel couldn't believe what he was seeing at first, until the man spoke, admitting he was Daniel's jailer and apologising for the rough treatment.

  Daniel shook his head, wondering if starvation could produce hallucinations. He paused the video and looked at the face on the screen.

  There was no mistake. He had seen that face hundreds of times, heard that voice. Daniel stared at the screen.

  What the hell?

  17

  Abos spoke quietly, trying to communicate the lack of threat to the terrified man crouching in the corner of the lab.

  Shuck had woken up alone, opened his golden eyes to find he was lying in a strange, slippery container with little idea of where he was, who he was, or even what he was. He had scrabbled his way out onto the cold, hard floor. From there he had crawled into the furthest corner, which was where Abos found him.

  "Shuck," she said. "Your name is Shuck. I am Abos. Can you understand me?"

  The man nodded, his eyes never leaving hers.

  "You must be confused. And hungry. Will you come with me? I can get you some food and drink."

  She stood in the doorway, waiting. Shuck moved away from the safety of the corner. He used his hands and feet to cross the room.

  "You're not a dog, now, Shuck," said Abos as he reached her. "Here, take my hand."

  Shuck reached up, his fingers finding those of Abos and gripping tightly. Slowly, shakily, he allowed himself to be helped to his feet. When he stood up fully, he was almost a foot taller than Abos. He had shoulder-length brown hair, which he brought one hand up to touch. He looked at the way Abos was standing and copied it. Then he looked at himself and back at her again, puzzled.