Herman was suddenly immobile. A force beyond his understanding was acting on him. It felt as if his muscles were being dissolved while being simultaneously reconstituted by his own healing ability. It wouldn’t kill him, but he couldn’t move away as long as his body was focused on healing itself. Stalemate.
“Don’t worry, Herman. Besting you is not easy, but I think you’ll find I have been very thorough in my research. I have studied each of your known powers ad nauseam. What you’ve never told me is if you feel pain. Could you clear that up for me before I say goodbye, old friend?”
Herman eyed Alan closely as he answered through gritted teeth. “Not for you, I don’t.”
“So be it, then.” Alan reached back under his desk, and before the next click reached Herman’s ears, he disappeared.
Unknown Variable
Herman took only one secret with him when Alan activated the second switch. It was ten years earlier that a terrorist group had fired a nuclear missile over land rights. Herman was able to intercept it. He took it into space and rounded the moon so if it blew, the sight would not blind anyone who was watching.
On the far side of the moon, Herman sat next to the missile and waited. He wanted it to blow up. He wanted it to tear him apart atom by atom. He wanted it to kill him. End his life.
The missile did not blow up—being an idiotic plan formed by an insane organization and poorly implemented.
So Herman grabbed the metal husk and tore into the bomb. He pulled out the explosive guts and squeezed until he stopped existing. An aura of moon dust and rock permanently changed the view of the sky. A sign to Earth they had been saved by Gamma Man’s intervention.
Herman died.
Herman knew he had died.
Herman realized he could not know he died if he was dead.
He opened his eyes and saw clouds. He was naked. Falling. He slowed his descent and looked at himself. No suit. Fingernails clean. If he had lived through the blast, he would have signs of it on himself.
There were no signs.
It was as if he had disintegrated and the universe put him back together again. He was not allowed to die, ever. It was the final nail in his empty coffin. It was the genesis of the glass theory. His DNA was superior because, by definition, it had to be for him to exist as the person the universe had decided he would be.
He never told anyone about the episode because he did not want to admit he had tried to kill himself, or that the damage to the moon was entirely his fault.
When Alan had immobilized him in the laboratory, Herman had started pulling in ambient radiation as he had so many times before, only this time he held it just beyond himself. When Alan reached for the second switch, Herman pushed all the potential energy he was storing onto himself, making himself deconstruct.
Alan, then, was unprepared when a naked Herman walked back into the lab and grabbed him by the throat.
“Herman, I can explain.” Alan gasped his words and grabbed at Herman’s arms, but they were like steel to the small scientist.
“That shouldn’t have killed you, just shut down your mind. I don’t know what went wrong.”
“You went wrong, Alan. The insanity of your existence ends here.” Herman felt a freeing smile creep across his face. He would no longer have to kill the crops if the farmer was behind bars. Maybe he could retire after all.
“Put me down. With what I know, I’ll bargain my way out of prison in a day,” Alan pleaded.
Alan Jupiter was right. Herman’s thoughts of retirement came crashing down around him. The villains would keep coming, and he would keep fighting, for the amusement of Alan and the world, without end.
There was one answer, though. One act could make it all go away. No more villains with powers coming after him, no more throngs of people rushing to meet him. He only needed to move his fingers a few inches closer together and he would be free from all of it.
Herman’s heart fell only a little.
Crack.
Insane World
“Why the fire, Herman?”
Apparently, when you kill a government scientist working in a top-secret laboratory, you get interrogated by the president, Jerry Linden, in the Oval Office.
The world was truly insane.
“Jerry, I killed a man whose life work was to exploit me, probably at the command of his superiors. It wasn’t just him who needed to be destroyed, it was his work, too. And for the record, I cleared the building of personnel before I torched it.”
The president looked at him suspiciously. “You didn’t torch it, you incinerated it. There was nothing left but a fiery pit that took days to put out. The responders said it was so hot the water would evaporate before it even hit the flames.”
“I’m a perfectionist,” Herman said, sarcastically. He had met many presidents over the years and it did not matter if he ticked one off—a new one would be around a few years later.
“You were a perfectionist. The military tells me you can’t be trusted. The UN is formally concerned we cannot control you anymore. You are a liability, Herman. One I don’t know what to do with.” The president spoke with a polished concern Herman could not be sure was sincere, but he appreciated the effort.
“In that case, I resign,” Herman said. “There is an old abandoned lake in Virginia I must’ve flown over a hundred times. Farmhouse, wooden dock, beautiful scenery. I’ll just quietly retire there.”
“That’s not going to happen, Herman. Your therapist said you’d ask, but leaving you a free agent is also not good for us. You might fall on hard times and become a mercenary. I need something more than just a promise you’ll behave. I need to know you are out of commission. So, what else can you offer me?”
Herman smiled. He had used Sara’s own trick on President Linden. He did have an idea for his retirement, but he had needed the President to decide something drastic was needed first.
“Mr. President, I have a confession. I didn’t destroy all of Doctor Jupiter’s work. In fact, I saved the one thing that could make the threat of my existence disappear for you,” Herman offered.
The president leaned over his desk. “I’m listening.”
“Alan had developed a device that could keep my brain in flux, essentially keeping my mind shut down, constantly trying to repair itself. In a coma, if you will. It would solve your problem, and mine. I get to step away from my life in the peaceful, complete silence of semi-death, and you can show the world they are safe from me.”
That was his pitch. Herman was not accustomed to being anxious about anything, but his stomach was in knots as the president considered his request.
Finally, an answer came.
“We’ll have to fake your death to pull it off. There will be a big ceremony and large burial plot for people to visit in D.C.”
“I can live—die with that, Mr. President,” Herman said.
“One more thing, Herman. The gravestone will have to say Gamma Man.”
“Agreed.”
The End
Herman lay in his open coffin with trepidation. He had given himself two weeks to get his life in order before his final rest. He donated many of his personal items to the Smithsonian, cleared out his townhouse, hired a guide to help him tour Boston Harbor, and spent a full day sitting on the edge of his favorite forgotten dock.
He was ready in every sense, knowing an end to consciousness was imminent. The device to keep his brain offline, the size of a quarter, was placed just inside the coffin’s cushioning to the left of his head. He was glad his mind would be checked out during the ceremonies his body would be involved in over the next several days. After that, he would be buried under twenty feet of cement, to discourage poachers. The hidden device would stay powered by absorbing a focused Wi-Fi signal kept alive by the government.
Sara was standing over him, and Benny had come out of retirement, too, for the occasion.
“Are you ready?” the woman asked.
“Do it,” Herman said.
“May your rest be peaceful,” Benny said to him.
Herman’s superhuman hearing picked up a countdown happening in the next room.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
“Herman, are you there? We need your help!”
Panic.
The words sounded like they were coming from a tin can. The world was suddenly dark and the air was beyond stale.
“What? Who’s talking? Where’s Sara?” Herman managed to get out. His mind was clouded, not working as quickly as he was used to.
“What? No. Listen, I’m talking to you though a receiver left in your coffin. The world needs you. Get up here.”
It sounded like someone used to commanding people. Someone with power. President Linden, perhaps?
Herman’s mind was working better now. He connected the pieces. His mind had been shut off as planned. He’d been out of commission, but for how long he did not know. It felt like no time at all, like waking from a deep but dreamless sleep.
Someone was trying to rouse him, though. Apparently this was a planned event if there was a hidden communication device in the coffin. He had not been told it would be there, but it did not surprise him. He had thought something like this would happen when he heard his device would be powered remotely.
Herman calmed his mind and expanded his awareness of the world.
Cars.
Buses.
Trains.
Footfalls.
He could feel the background noise of life in Washington, D.C., no need to search further into the world. Things could not be so bad they needed him.
“Can you hear me?” Herman said as he slid his hand into his suit pocket.
“It worked! You’re alive! You can’t know how glad I am you’re still with us. Listen…”
“No, you listen,” Herman interrupted. “I don’t want to be woken up. I don’t want to help.”
Herman slid a box the size of a deck of cards out of his jacket and pushed it to the side of his head. He continued talking to the mystery voice.
“If you guys mucked something up, you fix it this time. I want the best for the world, but it has nothing to do with me anymore.”
Herman’s fingers found a small plastic tab on the box, which kept the batteries from his own copy of the coma-inducing device from activating.
He held the device with one hand, ready to pull the tab with the other to allow himself to return to his semi-death until the batteries ran out. That would hopefully be long enough for the world to realize they did not need him and to reestablish the signal powering the device behind his ear.
Herman tugged at the tab. Before it had completely slipped out to activate the device, the man on the speaker began pleading with him again.
“You don’t understand, Doctor Jupiter is back…”
Herman crushed the device just after the plastic tab had been fully removed. He could not afford to lie unconscious if Alan had somehow returned.
“Alan?” Herman said, but there was no answer. His head had decided to cloud over again.
“What do you mean Jupiter is back?” He tried to rouse the man who had been desperate just heartbeats earlier.
Still, no answer.
Herman, again, calmed his mind and shifted his awareness further and further into the world.
Silence.
Note from the Author
Repose is one of my favorite short stories in my catalog. For me, it is the story of a man so close to his own deeds, he does not appreciate how much he is needed until it is too late. This story is actually the backstory for the main character of a novel I outlined some time ago. The novel may never be written, but the character stands as one whom I find deeply interesting.
I took my son to the Emergency Room at the local children’s hospital this past Saturday night. As I carried him through the hallways, and passed the doctor and nurse stations, he kept pointing at the hospital staff and calling them “superheroes.” I’m not sure why he decided they were superheroes, but he is right that these medical professionals do their best to care for our most precious possessions: our children. I am happy to know money from the sale of this collection is going to a children’s hospital full of true heroes.
I’m always happy to hear from readers. You can contact me at [email protected]. In addition, you can follow my work, and sign up for my newsletter, at my website:www.thomasrobins.com.
Who Will Save Supergirl?
By David Adams
I flew over the desert sands of northern Iraq at Mach one. Must have been five thousand feet or higher. I’d never gone this fast this high before.
Desperate times, I suppose.
Flying was as natural as walking to me. I wasn’t like other people. I was strong—stronger than I should have been. Faster than any human alive. Tougher, too. My comic book hero growing up was Supergirl. The Kryptonian hero who wore a cheerleader’s miniskirt and saved the world. When I discovered I could fly—when I realized there was a reason I didn’t get hurt when I fell off the swings—I wanted to be just like her.
Tough. Brave. Heroic.
It turns out that reality isn’t like the comic books, especially when you’re a poor black girl from Detroit who had to leave school and join the military because her family needed another income. I struggled with keeping my secret. I struggled with my weight; not too bad, but enough to matter. I struggled to reconcile the mental image of who I was with who I wanted to be.
And right now, I was struggling to push past the sound barrier, to catch the artillery rounds my gun had fired.
We’d made a mistake. Fire mission, danger close means shoot the bad guys but don’t hit the friendlies who are right nearby. It’s hard. You can’t make any mistakes. If you do, you blow your own people to bits.
We’d made a very bad mistake.
I tried to kept my hands in front of me like Supergirl. It was impossible. The air was like a brick wall; it tore my arms away, and they flapped behind me like limp noodles as I pushed past the sound barrier, a conical white shockwave forming in front of me.
I kept pushing. My camo slapped against my skin, heating up from the friction. The cone narrowed.
From above northern Iraq looked like it did on the satellite maps. Surprisingly green, mountainous, and rocky. I knew where I was going.
“Splash in fifteen,” said a voice in my ear. I’d left the radio around my ears, although it threatened to tear away from me at any second. I’d been off duty when the guns were fired. I was able to sneak away, get airborne.
Up ahead I saw one of our shells, floating weirdly in the sky, slowly spinning. It seemed so peaceful. I edged up next to the thing and, fighting the tornado of air all around me, reached out and slapped the tip.
It was enough. The round wobbled, and at those speeds, the change of flight dynamics was enough to tear it to pieces; it exploded in a shower of shrapnel that bit all along my left side like a dozen red-hot needles being forced into my skin.
They had bounced off, of course, but I felt them all the same.
Invulnerability wasn’t immunity to pain.
“Miss?” My gun commander, Lieutenant Sanders, sounded incredulous. If I was in his position, I would have used a lot stronger wording. “In-flight detonation.”
We might as well have tossed a coin and had it land on its side. On top of another coin also on its side. Underwater. There wasn’t even a technical term for it.
I slowed down, looking for more targets. Black dots like falling birds dropped down towards me; three at once, in rapid succession. I flew straight into one, ungainly turning at the last minute, driving my forehead into the detonator.
All around me was fire and darkness; smoke and flame blocked out the light.
Pain. Searing heat. Tiny bees biting my face, arms, shoulders. My uniform—now just ruined scraps clinging to my body—fell away as I started to fly again. Naked, scalded, gritting my teeth against the pain, I leapt across the sk
y towards the other incoming rounds.
*****
“You were totally naked?” Sarah snuggled up to me, interrupting my story. Back in Detroit. With my girlfriend. She smiled and rubbed her nose against mine. “Hot.”
I swatted her forehead. She was one of the few people who knew my secret. Strangely, it wasn’t a big deal to her. “Yeah. Hot. Hot from the three kilos of explosive detonated an inch from my face.”
She kissed my neck. She knew it was my weakness. I squealed and flailed uselessly at her.
“Hah. You can eat a 105mm to the face when you’re doing Mach one-five, and yet your neck is ticklish. How does that even work?”
“It’s sensitive,” I said. “I can feel everything, just like everyone can. It just doesn’t damage me. And my powers only work when I concentrate.”
“I know.” Sarah flipped back her fringe. “Thank God for that. If you only reacted from pain when you were seriously hurt, people would have found you out ages ago.”
I hadn’t even considered this point. “True enough.”
She touched my nose. “Boop.”
“What?”
“Keep telling the story.”
*****
I face-punched another Howitzer round, creating a blossom in the sky, and another wave of agony all over my body. I wished there was some other way, but the rounds were falling now, so I had no choice. I couldn’t control myself; I was a supersonic bullet, hitting another bullet at impossible speeds high above the desert floor. Below me I could see the city of Raqqa.
Our shells were way off course. We were supposed to shell the ISIL militants on the city outskirts. Instead, we were hitting the city itself. A lot of good people were going to die.
Dazed, in pain, my vision blurry, I picked out another one. Another steel ball of explosives and death falling towards the densely-packed urban center.
I couldn’t reach it in time. I dove, losing altitude, getting closer and closer to the ground. Three thousand feet. Two. I misjudged; I went too far, then doubled back. I was too low now; five hundred feet. I couldn’t just deflect it—the shrapnel would be lethal to those below. It could take out a building. Small street, maybe.
The Powers That Be: A Superhero Collection Page 7
