Masked

by Lou Anders

  He was the first, but in short time new heroes and dire villains, each blessed with extraordinary powers, began to make themselves known in this suddenly alien and disordered world. A new age had begun.

  B is for Bad Moon

  Distant and Cold

  Peryon Hark, disgraced black prince of the Magnificent Krona Clan, the famous Battle Moons of Saturn, hung sulky and alone in space, pondering the many defeats in his notorious career and what he might do to revenge himself against his various tormentors. For thirty long years he’d drifted here, banished to far Earth orbit, healing from his last engagement against the assembled heroes of the ridiculous Fidelity League.

  His features were dour, saturnine. The globe of his face, or his body—the two being one and the same—was pockmarked with craters large and small. Countless meteors, ever capricious and suicidal, had touched him often over the vast ages of his life.

  Slowly, incrementally, cold passion yielded to colder calculation, and a new plan began to occur to him. Hark moved out of his sullen orbit, shedding velocity as he altered trajectory, just a small nudge here and a gentle tweak there, causing himself to fall inward once again, toward the great blue sphere of his desire.

  His destiny was to one day rule the Earth and everyone on it. Of that he was still certain.

  His mass had diminished to an embarrassing state during his exile. At the moment he was barely larger than a modest suburban family dwelling. There were no thralls out here to feed him with their accumulated joys and fears, dreams and worries. That would change, once he came within range of the Earth and its easily susceptible populations. He’d grow large and formidable again soon enough. But for now, he considered, his lack of size was an advantage. The bigger he was, the easier for one or more of the world’s too many costumed do-gooders to spot. He tightened his orbit and shed more speed.

  Few noticed the Bad Moon rising in the night sky over Liberty, Pennsylvania. Of those who did, none recalled their superhero history enough to recognize the odd phenomenon as a threat. This was a world of almost daily strange occurrences, after all.

  C is for Cryptera

  And the Esteemed Doctor Sable

  At most only a handful of people in the world knew that the celebrated Emil Sable, MD, PhD, Nobel Prize winner, among sundry and numerous other achievements and awards, was once also the infamous Professor Hell. Unfortunately for Emil and his comfortable new life, Bad Moon happened to be one of the few.

  Emil.

  “What the hell?”

  Exactly. Put down your book and come outside, good doctor. I want to speak to you more intimately, but despite my subtracted stature, I’m still too big to fit inside your apartment.

  “Who—?”

  You know who I am. It hasn’t been that long, all things considered. Now rush to obey me. My wrath hasn’t dissipated over the years. Nor has my patience improved. I’m in the alley behind your building.

  Emil did as he was commanded. Whatever courage he’d had in life was long spent in his adventurous youth. He crept into the alley behind his downtown Liberty apartment building, glancing this way and that for any sign that he might be observed by some unfortunate street tramp or overly curious bystander. He was famous now, outside of the old mask. Easily recognizable, at least by those that matter in the world. He had to be especially careful.

  Don’t worry, Professor Hell. I’ve spread a bit of my moondust all about. No one will come back here. No one will stumble across our clandestine assignation.

  Around the last corner, where the trash Dumpsters were clustered like a modern Stonehenge of rust and dented steel, there was Bad Moon in all of his past glory and fearsomeness. The bright sphere of his body floated a few feet off the pavement, filling the alley.

  “Good to see you again, Professor Hell.” Bad Moon spoke verbally this time. His teeth were yellow, chipped and jagged. They were canted at every angle, like bits of exposed rubble in the debris of a recently bombed temple.

  “Good evening, Pery,” Emil said.

  “When did I ever invite you to use my given name?” Bad Moon thundered back at him. “And then you have the audacity to shorten it, as if we’re old friends?”

  “Forgive me, Prince Hark,” Emil said. “I didn’t mean to— Look,” he began again, “I’m not sure what you want.”

  “I should think that would be obvious, Professor. I intend to gather the old Cryptera together again—those of us still alive at least. We’ve so many dark and fretful deeds to do. It’s long past time to be back about our business.”

  “I can’t!”

  “Oh?”

  “Please understand, dread prince. I’m no longer Professor Hell. Not for many years. I’ve served my time, entered the witness protection program. They gave me a new face. A new identity.”

  “Yes, I can see now that you’ve had some work done. It’s difficult to tell, what with how similar all of you humans look.”

  “I use my powers, my spellcraft, strictly in public service now. I’ve changed, even as I’ve helped to change the world for the better. Retired. Reformed.” Emil tried not to tremble openly, failing more completely than he realized. “I’m respected. Honored. I can’t go back to cloaks and masks, and skulking about in dank alleys.”

  “Isn’t that nice?” Bad Moon smiled a wicked smile and then, pursing his lips, blew a puff of moondust into Emil’s unprotected face. When the thick ochre cloud had dissipated, Emil remained, standing before the dishonored Battle Moon, stiff of form, but suddenly quite pliant of mind.

  “Here’s what you’re going to do, Emil. Forget the old cloak and mask, if that’s what you really want. But, openly or not, you’re going to visit each of our surviving old comrades in arms. You’re going to reform the Cryptera, inviting in new members, such as may seem useful to our designs. I’ll give you a supply of moondust, to aid you in recruiting whosoever you need to. Use it sparingly, though. Don’t overdo it and dull those inventive criminal minds we want to exploit.”

  “Of course, Prince Hark,” Emil said.

  “And here’s an important detail. From now on you’re the group’s public face. Its only master. No one will ever know that I’m back in the world and secretly behind the scenes, pulling your strings. This old devil moon can learn a few new tricks.”

  “A wise precaution.”

  “Now, here’s what we’re going to do.”

  They talked long into the deepening night, and no one observed or overhead them.

  D is for Dormouse

  A Champion Most Able

  Here’s a fun fact: The average adult male lion, in the prime of his vigor, can reach speeds of up to fifty miles per hour, whereas the average adult human female, in the prime of her vigor… cannot.

  I could feel the beast’s stinking, heavy breath, blowing hot like a blacksmith’s bellows on my all too vulnerable backside. He was close! Do something now, girl! Anything!

  I zigged, while he zagged (lucky for me), and he shot past me like a tawny furred rocket. That maneuver bought me maybe a second at most. He put the breaks on at a snap, plowing up massive divots in Strangeface’s manicured lawn. I kicked out with everything I had, aiming for his huge dangling ball sack. I missed, impacting the big cat’s upper rear leg haunch instead. Solid muscle and bone. That got his attention nicely enough, but didn’t seem to hurt him one wee bit.

  Oh well.

  I ran for it again, in the opposite direction this time, going the wrong way, but I didn’t have much choice. He finished scrambling in the turf, got all four of his feet under him, and followed, still as fast as—well, as fast as a charging lion. (Sorry, that’s all I had. No deft wordsmith, me.)

  Of course Mr. Angry Tabby can’t sustain such speeds for very long. Short bursts only. He gets tired quick, whereas I don’t get tired at all.

  Not ever.

  Well, at least not until I want to.

  That’s my one bona fide superpower. More about that later. I’m a bit busy just now!

  The wid
e grassy yard was surrounded by a tall stone wall—the one I’d just come over in my efforts to break into Strangeface’s current lair. I ran back for that wall now, frantically wondering if I’d make it in time, and then if I could climb it fast enough to escape the lion on my ass. (Pardon me. I only cuss when I’m scared.) I’d had lots of time to climb the outside of the wall, coming in. I wouldn’t have more than a second to go back the other way. I ran. He followed. I was still at my all-time top possible speed. He’d started to slow, just a smidgeon.

  Good news, bad news. I made it to the wall ahead of the lion, but not nearly far enough ahead of him to climb out of claws’ reach. So I changed plans on the fly and dropped, tucked and rolled instead, pushing off the wall at the last instant, so that I was suddenly going back the other way again, right under the cat. He stepped on me a bit as he stumbled over me, and that hurt quite well enough. He was a big one. But he didn’t have time to actually rake me with his giant claws, so that’s one for me. Oh, and also he didn’t stop fast enough to avoid hitting the wall with his big face.

  Hard.

  I didn’t waste a moment watching him do the crazy, drunken, “I just ran full speed into a wall” stagger, or note with satisfaction the stars and tweetie birds circling his head. I didn’t need to pause to catch my breath. Instead I dashed away from there just as fast as my feet could carry me.

  This time I was pointed back in the right direction again, straight toward Strangeface’s inner fortress. I made it with ease, found the nearest door, and immediately discovered the next problem. It was big, thick, reinforced, and locked. And here I was with no superstrength. No laser-beam eyes. Nada. As I mentioned before, my one power is not getting tired. But that doesn’t help a relatively wee girl kick in a solid door. Outside of bad genre TV, that just isn’t possible. So I pulled out my tools and started working the lock.

  In hindsight, maybe I should have tried going back over the wall, while the guardian kitty was still out of action. I’m a great climber. I aced our brickiating class back at Superhero School. Okay, the actual class name was Urban Brachiating, but everyone called it brick iating. Get it? Not funny? Fine. You go graduate top of your class from Mount Pelion and then feel free to critique me all you like. The point is, I’m much better at climbing, jumping, and bounding over rooftops than I ever was at lock picking. I was ever only so-so in Forced Entry class.

  I worked the lock.

  In the meantime papa lion had recovered enough to start toward me again. I spared a glance just long enough to see him loping this way with his noble face twisted in a look of profound ouch and regret. And maybe there was a touch of “Now it’s personal, little lady!” in there as well, or am I anthropomorphizing?

  Don’t look at the lion! Work the lock, girl!

  Of course, right at that moment two more lions came bounding around the building, headed my way. These were females. More to the point, they were clearly as rested as I still was, so no advantage for me this time.

  I worked the lock.

  Bam! The last tumbler fell, the door popped open, right in the nick, and I scooted inside, with just enough time to slam the door in three disappointed feline faces.

  I began to search the place, and here’s the odd thing: lots of technology in evidence—no supervillain’s lair would be complete without it—but no robots. Not a one. But Strangeface is all about the tin men. That’s his thing. Even the big cats in the courtyard were real, not robocats, or cyborgs, or whatever. Weird, huh?

  Eventually I found Strangeface in some sort of inner sanctum slash laboratory.

  “You’re trespassing,” he said, not bothering to look up from whatever it was he was working on.

  I’d intended to ask him about the dearth of robots first, but instead found myself blurting out, “Lions? Seriously? You actually attacked me with lions?”

  “I didn’t attack you with anything. You’re the one breaking and entering, remember?”

  “Yeah, okay, but—who in the hell uses lions in the courtyard? Did you suddenly wake up this morning and decide to become some old-time Saturday morning serial villain?” That’s when I realized I was already too late. He had his teleportation belt on, as usual. I expected that. But it takes time to power up. My plan was to jump him and thump him before it could activate. Except that I could see it was already ready to go. Green lights clear across the control surface. Did he know in advance I’d be coming? If so, how? My understanding is that the belt isn’t the kind of thing one keeps powered up at all times, just in case. Never mind the incredible cost, which is bad enough, but one wrong move—one accidental bump against the furniture—and zowie! You could disappear to anywhere. Deep inside the middle of the Earth. Fifty miles above it. Atoms randomly scattered. Anywhere at all.

  “I happen to like the animals,” he said. “I’ve always wanted some, so finally I decided to indulge myself. If not now, when?” He finally deigned to look up at me. I forced myself not to flinch away from the crazy quilt of his massively scarred face. A lab accident? Probably. But Razorheart swears the guy had a falling out once with Max the Knife, who went to work on the poor old guy with his favorite swiftblade.

  “Besides, my usual guardians are all busy elsewhere,” he added.

  Damn. I’d come prepared to fight robots. I’d even borrowed one of Saint George’s area-effect nullifiers. My plan for the day was to take a crowbar to millions of dollars worth of suddenly inanimate plastic and metal, and basically hit Strangeface where it really hurts—his wallet.

  “Good-bye, child,” he said. “I’d stay for the traditional battle, but I’m late for an important meeting.” Then he touched his belt and was gone. Not even a wink of light.

  Foiled again.

  I spent some time snooping around the place, looking for clues, a diary, a hastily scrawled note near the telephone, or a dropped matchbook. No luck. Then, just for spite, I spent a couple of hours smashing stuff. Some of the machinery did look expensive, after all. But my heart wasn’t in it. Then I called Animal Control about the lions and went home.

  I’d been up for days, tracking Strangeface to his latest in a long line of hideouts, and then doing the actual assault. I still wasn’t tired, but if I didn’t let myself get that way soon, I’d be working up a big debt. Better to take care of it now and not have to be out of commission for a month or more.

  I entered my apartment through the secret passage, stripped, and locked away my costume and equipment. I spent an hour typing after-action notes on the secure computer and sent them off to the usual folks: Achilles, Saint George, Doc Jerusalem, and anyone else in our business who might be better than I at figuring out what Strangeface was up to. Then I ate a bowl of Cheerios and went to bed. As soon as I lie down I opened the mental gates and let all of the deferred fatigue wash over me.

  I’d be asleep for a long time. Days at least. But eventually the snoozing Dormouse will wake up again to this mad tea party that is our life, our world. And then we’ll see what we see.

  E is for Eleanor

  She Loves the Knight

  Eleanor Eastman, three-time Pulitzer Prize–winning star reporter for the Liberty Crier, was lovely in the way that supermodels and Hollywood celebrities could only hope to be. She was blonde, unblemished, full of lips, curved but sleek, refined and graceful. Her smile could light a ballroom. Her erudition charmed the rich and powerful, from Washington to Beijing. Her writing, sparse, unadorned, and merciless, could bring down a mighty potentate. Every man wanted her, but all knew by now that her heart belonged to one man alone. It was the romance of the century. On second thought, better make that plural—the romance of this century as well as the one recently retired.

  Saint George, the gleaming Rocket Knight, came out of the sky, settling slowly onto the building’s rooftop helicopter pad. His boot jets cut out just in time so as not to scorch the pad’s concrete-over-steel surface. Eleanor was there waiting for him.

  “You called?” Saint George said—rather, the electronic speakers
on either side of his helmet said. He was covered head-to-toe by his powered armor, painted green and gold, shined bright. No part of the man within was exposed.

  “You look different,” she said. Clipped tone. Almost dismissive. She was in a mood again.

  “No, I look the same. The suit looks different. I’m always modifying it. Improving it. I added new point defense modules since the last time I saw you.”

  “And how would I know that?” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said, and I quote, ‘No, I look the same,’ but how would I know? I’ve never actually seen the man under the suit. I wonder what the world would say if they knew our famous love affair was a sham? Strictly platonic at best, an entire fabrication if we’re really going to be candid.”

  “Oh, so it’s this again,” he said.

  “My God! Don’t you dare take that tone with me!”

  “It’s not a tone, Eleanor. It’s just the speakers. I have to sacrifice some of the subtleties of voice quality in exchange for durability of the equipment. I get in a lot of battles, after all.”

  “Sometimes you’re so sweet and attentive, and—what’s the word I’m looking for? Flirtatious! You’re positively flirtatious, really pouring on the charm. And I begin to think you’re sincere and that you really do want this to go somewhere. But then the next time I see you, you’re so goddamn aloof I could scream. So which is it? Do you just get off on the mind games, toying with the one woman anyone else would be happy to be with, or do we actually have something?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Not anymore, because this time I want a simple answer. I think I’ve earned it, waiting so many years for you to shit or get off the pot. Are you scared to reveal yourself to me because I’m a journalist? Because of what happened to Sergeant Liberty? Remember, it wasn’t anyone at the Crier who burned him, it was those fuckers at the Post ! We’re not all alike. Some of us actually have standards.”