The speedster type presents a different problem. Speedsters appear to be breakthroughs with the ability to accelerate their own personal time in relation to the time experienced by the rest of the universe. This ability is subject to an apparent speed-limit of ten experiential seconds per second of “Real Time.” Beyond this, some speedsters can step into a world of frozen time, in which the only “time” is what they have brought with them. Speedsters in Hypertime can move through this time-frozen world, but not affect it. They can run (or ride) across town but not open doors; they can dodge bullets, but not take the gun from the shooter’s hand (or strike the shooter with any effect). And so Hypertime has been described as a parallel reality lacking the dimension of time.
But this cannot be so. The sense of sight depends on photons striking the photo-receptor cells of the eyes—but light photons cannot move where there is no time for them to move in. Nor is there any reason for a speedster to be able to affect the air-molecules around him (as he does whenever he moves) any more than he can affect a door. The apparent explanation, that the speedster brings an envelope of time with him, and that this time-field extends beyond his body to interact with the environment around him, fails on observation; speedsters in Hypertime can stand in one place while breathing indefinitely, which they could not do if their field of Real Time affected only the air molecules near them, and they can continue to see without needing to continually move so that their field finds fresh light photons to give motion to.
In other words, Hypertime only appears to be time-frozen; the reality is far more complex, and we can find no explanation for why large-scale objects (doors) are frozen where small-scale objects (oxygen atoms and light photons) are not. To add to our frustration, laser beams, electrical discharges, and other forms of energy projection attacks—which are more organized patterns of small-scale objects—do, in fact, freeze in Hypertime. The rules make no sense.
The only thing which saves us from madness is consistency. There are observed rules, even when the foundations of those rules are lacking, and these rules are consistent if only on a case-by-case or category-by-category basis. These categories appear to be no less real for being self-described, so a breakthrough who is “psychically sensitive” can detect the operation of powers defined as psychic/psionic, and sorcerers can detect and counter the spells of other users of magic, even when they believe in and use wildly different magic traditions. Likewise, possessors of diabolical gifts can be checked by the powers of those who believe their abilities to be of divine origin. Breakthrough-scientists who believe that magic is a material phenomenon (powered by mana-particles or some other real source) have even been able to invent spell-detectors and ghost-traps—which, like anti-gravity plates and perpetual-motion generators, work only when they build them.
And here we can build towards certainty; by understanding the perceived realities of breakthroughs—the rules that they believe apply—we can begin to list and quantify rules to describe general cases. Will this certainty ever be more than conditional? Perhaps not; when we cannot even explain the Event, or why since the Event a comparative handful of people respond to physical and emotional trauma by generating miracles, even certainty of categorization remains too much to hope for. But this should not deter the scientist; first we observe, then we describe, and then, only if we’re lucky, do we get to explain.
Life, Fiction, and Capes
by Marion G. Harmon
Although I read comic books as a teenager, I was more into fantasy and science-fiction (JRR Tolkien and Robert A. Heinlein got their hooks into me early). But I remember the day when a comic first grabbed me; I’d stopped by a local 7-11 to blow a quarter on a Slurpee and browse the comic rack, and found an X-Men comic—the #137 Phoenix Must Die! issue, to be exact.
I’d never read an X-Men comic before, but the cover caught my eye so I stood there and read it. Then I bought it. It was epic. Heroic and tragic and deeply deeply human, the X-Men fought to save their comrade, but Jean Grey died willingly to save them. Scott Summer’s heartbreaking grief made a thirsty thirteen year-old cry. Or at least tear up right there in the store. And this was a comic-book, the medium where the heroes always won. Well, not always; later I learned about Spider Man and Gwen Stacy, for example. But X-Men #137 was my gateway to the X-Men series, in many ways the most serious and socially “realistic” ongoing superhero saga at the time, and it should not surprise my readers that my first meaningful experience with comic books was the death of a hero.
Since then I have read many, many superhero comics and while they’re mainly about the cool costumes and fight-scenes, the best stories transform the medium. They have given us so many colorful tropes and themes while borrowing shamelessly from every other genre around. This is one reason why, until recently, Hollywood superhero movies were invariably flops; the technology couldn’t deliver the glory of the action we saw on the comic-book page. Admit it—even Superman:The Movie was cheesy.
The best superhero comics have always been about the epic and tragic heroes, not just the spectacle. Other X-Men storylines delivered great tragedy, in the original Greek meaning of the word; Magneto, Eric Magnus, one of the Marvel Universe’s greatest villains, was always motivated by memories of the Holocaust. In the DC universe, Supergirl died saving everything. Green Lantern lost his mind and nearly destroyed everything. And other superheroes have fought alcoholism and drug addiction, faced family tragedies, divorce and even the death of children. One of my favorite Teen Titan comics was an issue where Dick Grayson (Robin) used his detective skills to help Donna Troy (Wonder Girl) find her long-lost family. All these stories are human stories, tales of misguided fanaticism, self-sacrifice, human failings and sorrows and triumphs.
So what, exactly, are superheroes?
Superheroes are our modern myths, but it’s hard for many people to understand the attraction. On its face, the idea of the superhero—someone born with or given superhuman powers who adopts a codename and costume to become a freelance crime-fighter and do-gooder—seems dated in our secular and often cynical world. Yet there are those who risk their lives for us every day: firefighters, policemen, coast-guard sailors, our men and women in uniform. Why do any of them do it, when there are safer, easier ways to make a living?
More problematic is the public and police response to freelance crime-fighters. After all, there’s a word for such people: vigilantes. In the movie Death Wish, Charles Bronson played Paul Kersey, a New York architect and social liberal whose wife is murdered and daughter is raped in a horrific home-invasion. The police are unable to do anything, but Kersey becomes a vigilante; armed with a revolver, he walks the city’s dark streets and rides the subways, shooting down unlucky thugs who try and rob him and others. Most New Yorkers, citizens of a city where crime is spiraling out of control, love the “vigilante slayings” and street crime actually drops. But murder is murder, and the police have to stop him. In the end the police detective on the case figures out Paul’s identity; instead of arresting him, he orders him to leave town.
One reason we love superheroes is they are effective. Like Paul Kersey, they protect the innocent and bring the guilty to justice (or deliver justice to the guilty) in situations where the police—tied by laws and regulations—are often unable to. But in the comics, although superheroes don’t kill, and are usually dedicated to protecting citizens rather than meting out justice themselves, they are rarely part of the law-enforcement system and often break the law and violate civil rights in the course of their activities. At the very least, Superman’s x-ray vision and super-hearing amounts to an ongoing invasion of privacy. And Wonder Woman’s magic lasso, that compels those she binds with it to tell the truth? Who polices the superheroes? When a caped crusader uses excessive force in stopping the bad guys, who holds him accountable?
I could go on, but my point here isn’t to pick the superhero archetype apart; after all, Superman is as real as Gandalf, less real than Merlin. My point is that superheroes raise a lot
of real-world questions. Assume the reality of superheroes: what then? And this can be fun; over the past couple of decades, a loose and ill-defined genre of fantasy literature, ideal for playing with these kinds of questions, has become more and more popular: alternate-reality stories.
I’m not referring to stories set in other worlds, such as The Lord of the Rings or Terry Pratchett’s excellent Diskworld novels. Alternate-reality stories take place here, whether in the past, present, or future. But here is different. In the Lord Darcy series, history is divergent (England and France are united under an Anglo-French empire) and magic works. In the Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter series, vampires, werewolves, witches, elves, dragons, etc., are an open part of an otherwise normal grim and gritty modern world. Bookstore shelves are filling with urban fantasy novels, many of them asking the fun questions or assuming the answers. How would a city police department deal with supernatural crimes? How would the public react to the sudden revelation of the existence of vampires? How would a sorcerer really make a living?
So far superheroes have largely lacked this real-world treatment. One notable and very successful exception is the Wildcards anthology series, coauthored by George R.R. Martin. The Wild Cards setting features a history that diverges from our own just after World War II, when an alien race unleashes the Wild Card Virus, a genetic virus that rewrites its victims’ genetic codes. Most of its victims die horribly, others survive but are mutated, often grotesquely, and a small handful gain superhuman powers. Through its stories, the series has worked out society’s reaction to the reality of superhumans. Given the comic-book stereotypes to fall back on, many of these superhumans have taken on codenames and some even put on tights and a mask. Others don’t. The Wild Cards series, under many contributing writers, has recently released its 21st book.
More real-world treatments of superheroes have come in the comics. In recent years writers have re-imagined such iconic heroes as Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman, with greater attention to motivation and character as well as to the social and political environment in which they operate. Marvel Comic’s Ultimate titles (Ultimate X-Men, Ultimate Spiderman, The Ultimates, etc) lean towards greater social realism. Other comic series have taken non-traditional and often more socially realistic approaches to superhero worlds; Powers is a series about cops in a world of very human superheroes, Wildguard was a miniseries spotlighting a superhero reality-show team, and Noble Causes chronicled the adventures and family lives of a family of superhero celebrities.
And now there are the Wearing the Cape books. Like Wild Cards they take place in a real-world setting, a world where, in the decade since the Event, many superhumans have consciously adopted superhero personae. And while most superheroes are hardworking street-heroes who pay their union dues, the more powerful and flamboyant ones are true supercelebrities, with agents, publicity teams, even their own franchises or marketing empires.
Given this environment, anyone in the world of Wearing the Cape who experiences a breakthrough (an event that triggers their superpowers) is under strong social pressure to take up the cape and mask and become a career superhero. But superheroes are still human, the existence of superhuman powers has not made the world a safer place, and for normal people who must depend on superhumans for protection, fear and envy are natural human responses. And a cape and mask doesn’t put a superhero above the law—if anything it draws the law’s attention.
Is this what the world would look like, superhumans added? I would like to think it could be, but I’m an optimist. Meanwhile it’s fun to dream, to imagine, even to take a little inspiration from the story. And that, after all, is what our modern myths are for.
Enjoy!
Astra’s story is finished for now, but the story of Artemis’ trip to New Orleans will be told in Bite Me: Big Easy Nights, available in 2012!
Want to know more about the author? Go to marionharmon.wordpress.com.
Wearing the Cape: Villains Inc. Page 28
