The Powers That Be: A Superhero Collection

by Swardstrom, Will

  It was going to land on a yard. A surprisingly green, verdant yard, probably owned by some rich guy. Didn’t matter. They deserved to live too. I faced the falling shell, puffed out my chest, and let it hit me.

  This was worse. Much worse. The round slammed into my gut as it exploded, sending shrapnel everywhere. Below me, a huge shrapnel-angel blossomed, outlining the colossal shadow of a body in the streets, in the city.

  Nobody was hit. Just buildings, and at that range, it wouldn’t go through walls. It kicked up a cloud of dust.

  Pain. I lost focus and fell, falling into the dust cloud, swallowed whole. I lay on the sun-scorched soil, coughing and gasping, trying to stand.

  There was a kid. Some boy, no more than six or seven, sitting under the mud-brick porch of his house. All around him were shrapnel wounds in the buildings, but the overhang had protected him. If the round had fallen it would have blown straight through.

  He looked at me. I looked at him. He jabbered to me in Arabic, frantically pointing.

  I stood up, woozy, my hair burned away. He threw himself down on his face, bowing. More Arabic came in a panicked stream, but I recognized a few of the words. One in particular, over and over.

  “Aisha! Aisha! Aisha!”

  It couldn’t be more ludicrous, but I knew there was one more round left. I focused, drawing my mind away from the pain and back towards my duty, and I jumped into the air, my power carrying me back toward the sky, and I searched for the last remaining arty round.

  I saw it. The glint of the sun reflecting off metal, high above. I clenched my fists, pushing myself forward once more, leaping towards the last little mis-aimed package of death that my team had inadvertently fired towards a civilian settlement. I got closer and closer, ready to blow this one up too.

  People below me looked up. They squinted, holding their hands up as though trying to make me out. Was I a bird? A drone?

  No. Just some pudgy naked black chick, the tattered streams of a US Army uniform hanging off her, trying to save them. Trying to get to the round. Down and down it plunged. I pushed myself to my limits, determined to reach it before it landed.

  I failed.

  The flower of flame bloomed in the city, a concussive wave knocking over housing, trees, people. A densely populated area. Lots of casualties.

  “Splash,” said Sanders. “One impact.”

  Where once was a city street bustling full of people, there was now only flame, debris, and blood.

  *****

  “I wasn’t fast enough.”

  The skepticism on Sarah’s face was clear. “You got from Fire Base Echo to the grid location faster than the shells your guns fired. How much faster could you be?”

  She didn’t understand. “Speed’s not my problem. I’m fast, faster than you and all the rest of us combined, but I can’t… I couldn’t maneuver properly. The rounds were coming too fast. From too many guns. The detonations hurt. They blew off my clothes, and it hurt like nothing I’d ever felt before. And all that cost me time. It was a matter of seconds. I could have done better, just ignored the pain, but I just couldn’t—”

  “You saved countless civilians, Mel. Nobody knows how many. I read it in the paper… the locals say Aisha, wife of Mohammad, flew down from heaven and saved them. They think you’re a hero.”

  The idea made me gag. “In a field hospital, I saw some of the victims. Burnt. Torn to bits. Some woman in a burka is going home minus a pair of legs. Thirty others are in boxes.” I squeezed her a bit harder than I should have. “My guys gave the order to shoot. They confirmed the fire mission. We killed them. That’s not what heroes do. That’s the other guys.”

  She slowly, gently wiggled her way out of my crushing death-grip. “You’re not a killer, Mel. You’re not and, well, that’s it. The past is the past. We can’t do anything about it, just learn from it.”

  I rolled over and faced the wall. “What lesson can I possibly get out of this?”

  Her hands touched my side. She snuggled up to my back. “Don’t be so afraid to suffer. We have gifts. You have to not be so… human.”

  “I’m human, Sarah. We’re both human.”

  “Not exactly. Maybe on a biological level, but not like everyone else is. We’re not the same. Everyone else… sure. They can settle for an average life, a college degree, maybe one or two big achievements in their lives. More is expected of us in a month than from most humans in a lifetime. We have to live up to that responsibility, or else we…” Her voice trailed off.

  I didn’t even want to think about it. “I know, I know. Ever since that one guy went psycho, we can’t let anyone know what we can do. We have to blend in.”

  “Maybe the military wasn’t the best idea. You could have been something else, you know.”

  I had no idea. “Like what?”

  “Pack shelves?”

  I’d joined up because I figured the military was the best way for me to covertly use my skills. It had to be something. My parents needed the money. I knew I could have done what so many people like me had done—retreated away, taken empty jobs just to survive.

  Not me. I couldn’t. I was the fastest. I had to use that power for something other than slowly getting old, watching the years fade away and eventually dying.

  Or so I’d thought.

  “I guess,” I said. I didn’t really believe it.

  “So you’re not going to re-enlist? Go back out there?”

  I couldn’t answer that. “I don’t know. Let’s talk about it in the morning, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  We tried to sleep. The hours ticked away. I tossed and turned. Sarah did her best, and so did I, but eventually we both realized we were both awake.

  “You okay?”

  I was pretty far from okay. “Remind me again how many people I have to kill to keep everyone safe?”

  “That’s not how it works. You know that.”

  “People think I did something great back there. Really, they should hate me.”

  “They won’t.”

  Not the answer I was expecting. I opened my eyes.

  “It’s rational,” she said. “We judge ourselves by our intentions and others by their behaviors. They can’t read your mind. Even if you think you’re a villain, you did the right thing and for the right reasons. Even if you screwed it up… you still tried.”

  “Trying doesn’t count for much.”

  She smiled that knowing smile. “I know. That’s a problem we’re going to have, going forward into the future. Supergirl can save Metropolis, but who can save Supergirl?”

  I didn’t know. I don’t think I’d ever know. Instead, I just turned back over and tried to go to go back to sleep.

  My dreams were full of bursting artillery shells, the smell of cordite and blasted sand, and the screaming.

  Next time I would be faster.

  Note from the Author

  This is a short story that’s been kicking around in my head for a while. Lots of superhero stories exist in worlds without superheroes: there is no Superman in Marvel’s Avengers movies. The Flash doesn’t read X-Men comics. Wolverine doesn’t cosplay as Batman.

  What if there WAS a superhero who existed in the real world? Who had all the powers of Supergirl but, you know, actually knew who that character was?

  The original concept for this story was a superhero going to ComicCon and cosplaying as themselves (and, of course, coming 3rd in the Best Supergirl Cosplay…), but I decided something a bit more serious and a bit more action-y was better. I still want to write that original story, one day, maybe as a sequel to this…

  Anyway. I hope you enjoyed it!

  Yankari

  A Talking Earth Tale

  By Ann Christy

  One

  Olisa remained perfectly still behind a concealing screen of brush, watching. Gentle undulations in the land and the abundant scrub helped to blur her outline, but what helped her most wasn’t a physical thing at all. What kept her hidden was the igno
rance of those in the camp she watched. They were busy settling in, exclaiming at the countryside around them or simply unable to imagine they might be being watched.

  It was that lack of imagination—more than their western clothing, complicated gear, or loud braying speech—that gave them away as not belonging here in Yankari. Here, everything watched everything else. Every species had its role. Sometimes that role was to eat and for many, eventually to be eaten. Blithe lack of awareness was not an attitude conducive to longevity here in the real world of the African wilds.

  Olisa counted heads and gave a nod. Typical. Nothing out of the ordinary. Three porters per hunter, a couple of guides and a game tracker. Most of the workers went about their business, their moves practiced and unexciting, as if this were just another day of earning pay. To be fair, it would seem to be just that for them. Only one porter seemed aware that something wasn’t quite right.

  Even now, his eyes darted about at every rustle of leaves or sway of tree branches in the light breeze. The whites of his eyes displayed his nervousness as much as his too-rapid stirring of the pot he tended over a camp stove. Olisa smiled as the guide’s uncoordinated movements splattered hot stew onto his hand and he jerked it away in pain.

  The smile slid from her face when the guide suddenly stood, his head swiveling on his long neck as he looked around, seeking the source of his discomfort. Could he feel that? Olisa looked at the ground and saw no ripples, no spreading circle of scintillating air just above the ground. No, he’s just nervous. But he knows I’m somewhere close.

  After another moment of nervous searching, the stirring man sat back down on his little stool, but he did it hesitantly, as if ready to spring back up and run if the need arose. Olisa counted ten long, good breaths before he returned his attention to his pots. His eyes never ceased their roaming, but after a few more minutes, they lingered for longer on his task than on his surroundings. Some of the tension bled out of the air. Olisa remained still and watched, but averted her eyes from the stirring man in case he felt her gaze on him again.

  The air was dry and she sniffed as it itched across her skin and sent dust to tickle her nose. Each breath of wind left another layer of fine, dry soil on her heated skin, soaking up the sweat that just kept seeping out of her. She grew thirsty just thinking about how much water she was losing.

  The rainy season was over but the land was still lush, not yet ready to settle down and rest, not yet ready to conserve what it had for the dry months ahead. The plants were a riot of green in every shade. Flowers thrust greedy faces upward from within the bushes and trees, perhaps sensing their window of opportunity rapidly closing. Olisa could feel water that had fallen weeks ago under the ground, far beneath her feet. She could sense the water drawing up into the bush in front of her by touching her fingertip to its rough stem.

  Touching the plant felt the same way as it did when she touched an arm—just inside the elbow where the skin is thinnest—and felt the blood rushing through a healthy body. Only this was cool and refreshing instead of warm and animal. She quieted her thoughts and touched a finger to the ground—but carefully, holding back all but the barest bit of herself—and sent out the question.

  Where are you?

  The ripples were tiny ones, just bouncing the loosest grains of dry earth along the topmost layer of soil. The ripples diminished, their heights ever-decreasing as the circle expanded around her, spreading until they were invisible even to her. But still they traveled, so she waited. Soon enough, the answers started coming back.

  From the herd of elephants near one of the shallow post-rainy-season lakes came, We are here.

  From the pride of lions lounging at the top of a rise, under the shade of a tree with spreading, thin-leaved branches, came, We are here.

  From a hundred groups and individuals—though not all of them—within a dozen miles came answers. One of those groups or individuals would be in danger soon. She needed to keep their whereabouts fresh in her mind.

  Olisa had no knowledge of sonar or radar, but if she had been able to take knowledge out of human minds in the same way she gleaned it from animals, she would have recognized their functions immediately. What she did wasn’t much different, though it required nothing more than a thought instead of complex electronic gear.

  At a minimum, Olisa could receive a range and bearing from any animal she sensed, but usually much more came back. Mood, motion, intent and simple feelings all came through for larger and more complex animals. And sometimes even more.

  From one of the lions in the group she’d just contacted had come a hint of maternal satisfaction. Under that lay a thin thread of irritation at the rough play of the cubs and an ache in her teats from their growing teeth.

  From the cubs, she felt surprise at her contact and a desire to play with whatever it was tickling at their minds. It felt exactly the same way a wide smile on the face of a loved one looked.

  Olisa often tried to describe in words what these bits of information felt like, but became tongue-tied and unable to translate the all-consuming—yet instinctively understood—sensations into clumsy verbal constructs. From where she sat now, the catalog of responses that returned to her was generally peaceful. They were what she might expect on any beautiful day in the Yankari National Park and Wildlife Preserve—her home.

  A can sailed over the back of a camp chair. It clattered along the rocky, unpaved road that led to this part of the preserve. It slid to a stop, left to be picked up—or not—by one of the guides serving this group during their “adventure.” The noise broke Olisa’s concentration just as the last few answers trickled in.

  Those final answers included one from a nearby colony of fire ants so large it was almost another whole manner of beast. Their dispersed nest ran like a river under the ground through this whole area. She peered into the scrubby trees and brush, but saw no mound that might mark their exit point. Her feet twitched of their own accord, not being particularly fond of red-ant bites.

  Olisa surveyed her surroundings further, her head moving slowly so as to draw no attention. No one was around aside from this guided group, not out here. This part of the park wasn’t often visited, being far from the comforts of the preserve compound. That was where most of the rich stayed between their boisterous trips through the land. The warm pools that drew the animals so that they could be photographed were what lured visitors and those weren’t anywhere near this remote corner. This was a place for a private camp, out of the way and shielded from prying eyes.

  The ones who came here were those with a special permit, the kind not paid for at any government office, but rather traded for with handfuls of fresh, foreign money. Her eyes were drawn to the cases stacked in the supply tent, its side flaps tied back while the guides and porters moved in and out, packing or unpacking or doing whatever else needed to be done. Some of those cases held guns and ammunition, protected and sealed for now. She couldn’t see what types they were, but wished she could.

  Guns weren’t something she had any real dealings with, but she had learned enough to tell what some of them were for during her training. She might even be able to tell which of her friends was in danger if she could just get a look at them. There was no way she could get into the tent in the daylight and no animal small enough to sneak in for her would be big enough to open the cases.

  Her toes clenched against the dry ground in frustration and a ripple of movement spread out from around her. The inadvertent release of the pulse—the name given to her gift—startled her and made her shuffle backward in a rustle of leaves. Her reaction just made the ripples bigger, so she stilled herself and breathed out a long slow breath, pulling the frustration back into her.

  The ripples died out, but the soft sound of the dirt falling was there underneath all the noise the people in the camp were making. Olisa chewed at her lip and hoped all her noise had gone unnoticed.

  The stirring man jerked again, splattering himself anew and earning a reprimand from the lead guide, w
ho had come to check on the meal. He felt that. He’s attuned to it now. She was going to have to be more careful or she would be caught and run off. Or worse. And then she wouldn’t be able to protect the animals from the hunters. She wouldn’t be able to prove herself to her Dibia.

  The stirring man accepted his admonishment from the lead guide—an old, wiry man known for his ability to track animals—and settled back down onto his stool again. He was nervous and unhappy. Olisa could see that from where she was. Maybe he would sneak off during the night, unwilling to go against whatever magic he might imagine was nearby. If so, all the better, since he seemed to be the only one who could feel it.

  He had been the one driving the big truck when this group showed up earlier. He was also the only one that noticed the bump that shook the vehicle and looked back to see a small animal lumber on its way, unhurt by the tires that should have crushed it flat. He must have known then that she was there and that was why he was feeling her now. He expected her, or someone like her.

  Olisa had known of their coming days before they actually came. She had felt the shiver in the ground as they packed their gear and enjoyed the sights while waiting for their real holiday to begin.

  Olisa’s Dibia had eyed her protégé, some pride evident in her seamed face, when Olisa lifted up an arm and showed her the goose prickles there. Her small nod at Olisa over the rim of her cup was all that was needed between them. It was the first time Olisa had sensed bad hunters by herself, with no cueing or hints. The Dibia might have sensed them before her this time, but hadn’t prodded her in the slightest. Olisa was making progress in her training.

  She had packed her satchel with enough food for a day or two—if she ate and drank lightly—and left the village. There was no need to tell anyone or ask for permission. The Dibia would say she was doing some task at her command and that would be that. Eight years old or not, a girl in the service of a Dibia must do as she’s instructed.