Turbulence

by Samit Basu

  “It’s very worrying,” Tia says. “These people could be anywhere, doing anything — not just these military types hunting powered people down, but also random passengers with dangerous powers hiding from them. And India’s such a big country, there are so many people, so many languages, that even if something really bad happens it could be a while before anything gets into the press.”

  Uzma gapes. “And so there are superheroes and supervillains having fights around the world? Like in the movies? People are going to blow up the Earth and all that?”

  “Well, I hope not,” Aman says.

  “But there are people who could? Someone has that kind of power?”

  “Unlikely. See, the thing is, no one got asked what powers they wanted. They got given the powers that whoever — or whatever — gave us these powers thought they wanted. If we’d had to fill in a form, we’d all have been all-powerful, all-knowing, magic-using immortals. We’d have taken the cool superpowers, not the kind of B-level hero powers we have. So unless there was some lunatic on board who dreamt of being a god or destroying the universe… who knows? How many people like that fly British Airways?”

  Tia grins. “I’m sure there were lots of people who got off that plane and found, a few days later, that they had perfect abs, or a new handbag, or that the person they wanted was suddenly crazy about them. More money, a baby, a house, a better job, less traffic. We were lucky.”

  “I just wish there were people who’d wanted, you know, new things,” Aman says.

  “Meaning?” Uzma asks.

  “Meaning, our powers would have been a lot more interesting if we’d been super-genius types. We aren’t visionary thinkers or anything like that. The powers we have — just look online and you’ll find at least two superheroes who have the same powers. That’s what the comics writers came up with — and they come up with this stuff ten times a week. I don’t know about you, but I feel terrible that we have such — predictable powers. Apart from Bob and Sundar, who really don’t think like the rest of us, we’ve got very functional, very sidekick-y, very mass-media powers. Product-of-the-system powers. Do you know how many internet-using superheroes there are? And I thought I was so different…”

  “Aman. Aman, darling? You’re rambling again,” Tia says gently. “Tell Uzma things she needs to know, not things you could blog about. Uzma?”

  “Do you have any idea how we got these powers?” Uzma asks.

  “None whatsoever. Aliens, wizards, gods, transhumanists, evolutionary accident, virus, secret societies, Republicans, Apple designers — you take your pick. We don’t know how, where, what or why — or whether this has happened before. I have theories, but they’re all very geeky theories. You want to hear them?”

  “No,” Tia says firmly. “Not tonight, at least. Aman, like I keep telling you, it doesn’t matter how we got our powers; whether we’re the next stage in human evolution or not. When the first fish crawled out of the sea, they didn’t start writing PhDs about it. They figured out how to survive, instead.”

  “Amphibians.”

  “Enough.”

  Uzma leans back in her chair.

  “It’s a lot to take in, I know,” Tia says.

  Another Tia enters the room.

  “I took care of the Bob situation, if anyone wants to know,” she announces. “It’s actually quite cold outside now.” She notices Uzma. “What happened to you?”

  “Aman told her everything,” other-Tia says.

  “And she didn’t faint? We fainted.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Uzma says. “I came here with so many ambitions. I’m going to be an actress — how do I do that if there are people trying to kill me?”

  “Well, they don’t know what you look like, if that helps,” Aman says. “And thanks to the magic of me, they’re not even sure what your name is — I gave them a lot of alternatives. But, yeah, we’ve got to get a plan together — find out exactly what we can do with this. With our, ahem, superpowers.”

  “A plan. You have a plan?” Uzma asks.

  “More like a mission statement. Essentially, we keep ourselves safe, find other people with powers, and then we make the world a better place. People will try to stop us, we find out who they are, find good people on their side, and find ways to beat them. This whole secret-base-in-Kashmir thing is all very well, we need to stay on top of that or we will probably get killed, but that’s not what interests me.”

  “That’s good to know. What does interest you?”

  “Powers. Using them. Fixing the world. If we have to run around avoiding superpowered murderers, we will. But that’s not what we’re here for.”

  “Right. Well, my answer is no. I’m not going to be a superhero,” Uzma says. “So if you’re planning some sort of team costumed avengers thing, just count me out.”

  “No costumes.”

  “I don’t care. Count me out.”

  “But-”

  “No, Aman. I don’t know you at all. I don’t know if you’re telling the truth — I think you are, but this is all so weird! I came here — see, I have a plan too. A plan for my life. Powers or no powers, that’s who I am. I don’t want to be Everybody-Likes-Me-Girl, part of your World-Changing-Super-Squad. I don’t want to change the world. I think it’s fine the way it is. These powers suddenly arrive — and what if they suddenly leave? I can’t turn my life upside down for this.”

  “I don’t think you have a choice,” Aman says. “Yes, these powers change everything. Yes, they might go away tomorrow. It’s all the more crucial, then, that we do the most we can with what we’ve been given in the time we have. These powers came as answers to our dreams. Tomorrow, they’ll just be technology. Like Jules Verne thinking about going to the moon —”

  “Aman, focus,” Tia says.

  “Sorry. Uzma, all we have is a head start, and we have to find out how to use it best. There are thousands of Bollywood actresses. There’s only one you.”

  Uzma stands as if she is about to walk out that very minute.

  “This is ridiculous! How do I make this clear to you? I’m not going to be a superhero!”

  “We’re not asking you to do anything,” Tia says. “But you needed to know this, didn’t you? If you still think you should leave, of course you’re free to leave — though we all hope you’ll stay, because we like you very much. Obviously.”

  “I just wish — I wish someone had asked me before giving me superpowers, you know? I didn’t want this!”

  “It’s all going to be all right,” Tia says as Uzma fights back tears with great ferocity. “Don’t be afraid. We’ll help. We’re all just trying to figure out what to do. Aman’s trying to sort things out his way, but you can just ignore him. This is really the kind of thing we should spend a few years thinking about — but we might not have any time.”

  Uzma looks around the room, at Aman staring intently at her, at the Tias’ melting eyes, at Sundar, completely oblivious to all the drama, wielding a screwdriver like an orchestra conductor’s baton. She nods quickly, sharply, not wanting to think.

  “I’d like to stick around for a while, if you don’t mind,” she says. “But I don’t think I can help you.”

  “Aman, it’s been a terribly long night, Uzma’s just had her world turned around, and we’ve talked for far too long. Now everybody get up, go straight to bed and sleep through tomorrow, and that’s an order,” Tia says.

  “Sure. Uzma, just — think about what I said, okay? And, Tia? You need to be up by lunchtime,” Aman says.

  “Why?”

  “Because Superman flew into town this evening. And we’re meeting him for lunch tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  If Vir had asked a passing bird above the AQ Khan nuclear facility for directions to Coffee Day, Carter Road, Pali Hill (assuming that this bird spoke English and knew its way around the hip coffee joints in Mumbai), he would have been told: “Fly straight to the Arabian Sea — pick up some mutton kebabs and beef samosas in Ka
rachi, they’re super — and then keep going until you see Mumbai, take a left, and ask someone. Everyone knows the place.”

  Lacking this helpful advice, and seeking to avoid unwanted flying-man spotters, Vir has taken a very roundabout route, involving Tajikistan, China, Nepal, Uttar Pradesh and a long journey on the Rajdhani Express from Delhi in a six-person compartment with a garrulous and unfortunately flatulent family. Like most fighter pilots, Vir loves trains — the constant irritation of sitting in a plane controlled by bungling civilians is usually too much to take — but ever since his powers arrived, anything but the open sky has felt cramped and claustrophobic. He had to exercise all his self-restraint not to simply tear the train apart and take to the sky. It’s good for him to be here now, right next to the open sea.

  Summer has Mumbai firmly in its squelchy grasp, but this cafe is always full in the evenings, teeming hordes of fashionably dressed young people having their last coherent conversations of the day, all constantly scanning the cafe to see who else is in there that they know. Outside, muscular young men roar up and down Carter Road on their motorbikes in silencer-less mating displays, occasionally pausing by the cafe to have hey-dude conversations with other customised-motorcycle enthusiasts.

  On summer days like today, though, the sun-drenched open area of the cafe is usually fairly empty. Only people with actual work or those waiting for be-there-in-five lunch companions are present, sweating stolidly under red umbrellas, wishing the breeze from the large standing fans actually reached them.

  Vir arrives, looking for his mysterious phone friend. Only three tables are occupied, featuring a giggling gang of four girls having a Sex and the City conversation, a young couple — a somnolent young man and an attractive woman typing on a laptop — and a pot-bellied businessman-type sweating profusely as he leers at the girls. There’s a pause in all the conversations as Vir walks in, stumbling a little as he tries not to break the gate. Vir radiates so much charisma that even the waiters, famous for their ability to ignore anything short of a fully-fledged assault, turn and stare. He looks around. The businessman, he decides, is the likeliest candidate. He’s about to approach him when his phone rings.

  “Hey,” a familiar voice says. “Superman. Nice of you to drop by.”

  Vir is puzzled: none of the people at any of the tables are on the phone. He looks inside, beyond the glass doors to the inner section of the cafe. All of the people with phones to their ears are female.

  “Don’t call me Superman,” he says. “Where are you?”

  “You were supposed to come alone.”

  “I am alone. And you were supposed to bring at least yourself. Where are you, in the restaurant? I thought we were going to meet here.”

  “The restaurant is probably full of your spies. Lunch is off. In fact, unless you get rid of your boy across the road, the meeting’s off. Don’t play games with me, Vir.”

  “What boy?”

  “You forget I know what everyone on that flight looks like. You shouldn’t have brought one of them to be your lookout.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “No? Turn around. Look, on the wall between the road and the seafront. Ugly guy, pink shirt, shiny trousers. Not the best outfit for shadowing people, no?”

  Vir looks across the street and spots a dark, hatchet-faced man sitting on the wall, licking an orange ice-lolly, watching the sea and the sunproof lovers on the rocks in front of him. Vir frowns.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know him,” the voice on the phone says.

  “No, I know him. His name’s —”

  “Mukesh. He’s supposed to be missing. One of yours.”

  “I don’t know why he’s here.”

  “To help you capture us, obviously. In case one super-strong flying man isn’t enough. It’s flattering that you think I’m more dangerous than a Pakistani nuclear plant, of course, but really, this wasn’t smart.”

  “I haven’t even talked to my people since our conversation. His presence here has nothing to do with me.”

  “I’m supposed to just believe you? I don’t think this is going to work. Shame.”

  “Listen. Maybe we should meet somewhere else. I don’t want him to see me either.”

  “Too late for that. Don’t hang up. I want to hear what you say.”

  The hatchet-faced man has spotted Vir. He gasps and drops his ice-lolly. Growling in exasperation, Vir strides out of the cafe, and the girl gang sighs in disappointment. Mukesh slides off the wall and stands, hand on hip, until Vir reaches him.

  “What are you doing here?” Vir asks.

  “I should ask you that, man. Where the hell have you been? We thought you were dead!” Mukesh replies.

  “I’ll report to base tomorrow. Until then, no one knows I’m here, okay? I’m following up something on my own.”

  Mukesh’s mouth twists into an approximation of a smile. He sticks his tongue out: long, forked and snake-like, rendered somewhat less fearsome by an ice-lolly orange coating.

  “I don’t think that works, man,” he says. “You failed your mission, no? Jai’s not going to be happy. I think you should talk to him now.”

  “You don’t get to tell me what to do, soldier,” Vir snaps. “Now get out of here. I have work.”

  “I’m not your soldier any more, man. Things have changed a little bit. You talk to Jai. Or maybe I should.”

  Vir steps forward, puts a friendly hand on Mukesh’s shoulder and presses slightly. Mukesh flinches in pain, and his muscles convulse. Green scales appear along his cheekbones and neck. His eyes turn yellow.

  “I think you’ve forgotten who I am and what I can do,” Vir says. He steps back, releasing Mukesh, and Mukesh’s features slide back towards normal. “Get out of here for the next two hours. I don’t owe you any explanations.”

  Mukesh steps back, smiling, and his canines lengthen into long fangs.

  “I’ve often wondered exactly how thick your skin is, Vir,” he says in a strangely deep voice. “Maybe I’ll get to find out soon.”

  “Maybe you will. And keep your face under control, you idiot. People are watching.”

  “They’re going to be watching a lot more soon. Wait and watch, man.”

  “And if Jai finds out you saw me before I tell him, I’ll come looking for you. Got it?”

  “I’m going, I’m going,” Mukesh grumbles, and shambles off.

  Vir stands and watches while he gets into a car and drives off towards Juhu. Then he puts the phone back to his ear.

  “Where are you?” he snaps.

  “Just come back to the cafe and sit down.” The caller disconnects.

  Two minutes later, a short, shapely woman in a tiny dress swings the cafe’s gate open and sashays in, her heels tapping loudly in time to all male hearts in the vicinity. She draws up a chair and sits across from a stunned Vir.

  “Sorry I’m late, darling,” she trills, “but my hairdresser took a very long time. What do you think?”

  She pulls her huge sunglasses up on her head and runs a hand through her inch-long hair.

  “Very nice,” Vir says politely. “Who are you?”

  “I’ve been trying to think of a good answer to that for a while. I was going to say Multiple Woman, but apparently there’s already a Multiple Man. So I’m going with Ms Quantum for now. But it’s a bit of a silly name, no? Do you have a superhero name, or is it just Vir? It does mean brave, so you’ve got a head start there. Still, you should have a secret identity, no?”

  “It’s just Vir.”

  “Nice. You know what else I wanted? A costume. Like a proper superhero costume, except you can’t wear a bodysuit in Mumbai in this weather, you’d stink and melt. And I don’t really have the figure for it anyway. Apparently there are lots of superhero chicks who wear next to nothing, but that wouldn’t be very practical either, no? Like, I’d look okay, but I couldn’t fight with anyone. Of course I can’t fight anyway, so that doesn’t matter.”

  “Y
es. Let’s get to business, please. Where is he?”

  “Oh, he’s around. But see, here’s the thing. He just got access codes to all of China’s nuclear weapons, and if he doesn’t fill in a password once every fifteen minutes, they’re going to launch. And they’re going to land in Kashmir, on your little secret underground jail at Udhampur. And the password keeps changing every time, so even if you, say, forced it out of him, it wouldn’t help, darling. Your super-science project, whatever it is, would be destroyed, and a war would start with China. So you’re going to be nice to him, right?”

  “I don’t like being threatened,” Vir says. “And I can see you’re bluffing.”

  “Well, we don’t want to find out, do we?”

  “Nuclear protocols don’t work like that. There are lots of stages, and not all of them are online.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “This is a waste of my time,” Vir says, standing up.

  “All right, all right,” a young man says from the next table. “Sit down, Vir. I’m Aman, and this is Tia. Hello.”

  Vir sits and looks at the woman with the laptop at Aman’s table. His eyes widen as he realises it’s Tia again, only with longer hair and a less spectacular outfit.

  Aman moves across to Vir’s table and sticks out a hand. Vir shakes it briefly, his eyes not leaving Tia.

  “Are they —” he begins.

  “No, we’re the same person,” says the Tia-at-Vir’s-table. The other Tia rises, waves sweetly at Vir, and leaves with the computer. Vir’s eyes follow her as she crosses the road and gets into a small red car.

  “I’m over here,” Tia says. “So, Aman, Vir wanted to get straight to business.”