by Ben Langdon
It was like their world, but different.
“The bastard,” Halo murmured. “A world without ubers.”
The second time Halo visited the Mad Russian was also the last time. The night before he had broken dreams of his childhood: of giant, crashing waves and monsters hurling boulders. The invasion of his homeland was the stuff of legend, the one time when the full potential of uberhuman armies became a reality. India marched into Pakistan and Sri Lanka, their demi-gods laying waste to any defenses and proclaiming a new India in their wake.
The world did nothing.
He felt his mother’s dying thoughts again.
Love you, love you.
And he woke slowly, half-child, half-adult. The room he rented in the dusty township was small and damp but in the darkness of early morning he could smell the explosions, the plaster dust and the terror. He closed his eyes and imagined the shifting forms of Rakshasa and the twins, Saraswati and Fusion. He heard the roar of Bagha and his father yelling at him to get into the car.
He lay in his bed for an hour, replaying his own memories, pushing his consciousness back to the last days he had with his mother back in Bahawalpur. He remembered walking with her through the markets, grudgingly carrying her basket. He remembered the swish of her dress, but he couldn’t remember her face.
Back at the facility, Halo checked in to the staff room and talked briefly with his co-workers, but in his mind he was counting down the minutes until he would walk out and never return. He checked the time, but he was early. The passcodes wouldn’t allow him access until he was officially on duty. The others noticed his nervousness. They laughed at him. He laughed as well.
When the time did arrive he faked a stretch and moved with the others into the elevator. He balled his fingers into fists inside the pockets of his overalls.
When the doors opened, Halo let the others leave first, satisfied with the way they moved into formation, slipping out of conversations and into work-mode. He missed Melbourne. Beyond the elevator Halo saw the strangers and paused. Their presence complicated matters and he couldn’t hide the sudden flush of anger which spread across his face. The other workers gave the Celestial Knights semi-interested glances as they approached, but kept moving. It wasn’t that unusual to see the heroes at the Rainmaker; the organizations were connected, feeding each other information, providing resources and back-up when required.
Parhelion stood with three doctors and listened to a report. The current leader of the Knights wore a white lab coat over his light blue power suit, but his face was unmasked and he seemed like any other visiting official. He was a medical doctor himself, among other things, and Botswana’s most famous uberhuman. The other man was Castus, a more brutal and abrupt man. Where Parhelion conversed with the facility’s staff, Castus stood apart. Heat pushed outward from his massive body and butted against the underground facility’s air conditioning.
Halo kept his eyes down as he passed, although he couldn’t mask the smirk that slid across his face. The anger had dropped away. Castus bore paper-thin white scars across his face. They made him look inhuman and fierce. That was us, Halo thought. Dan had blasted the hero with the power of Melbourne all those years ago, and it still left its mark. That meant something.
“We will move him to Sanctuary One,” Parhelion said. “No need to endanger the people here.”
Halo knew they were talking about the Mad Russian and he walked away a little quicker, his headphones clasped over his ears although no music was playing. He tapped his card against the access panel and pushed into the room. The old man looked even smaller than he had the day before.
“This is our goodbye, teacher,” Halo said, coming to sit next to the man. He reached out and pulled off the tape covering the left eye. “This might hurt.”
Normally Halo took his time with the deep mining of memories. He enjoyed the feeling of stepping through people’s most secret and hidden thoughts. However, as he slid back into the man’s mind he felt a rush of hatred. It rose up in him, overwhelmed him suddenly. For years, the Russian had promised Halo so much and then on the ultimate day of fulfilling those promises, he had vanished. He had abandoned everyone.
Halo stabbed at the man’s mind.
He scraped the memories raw, rip-harvesting them as he pushed through the lingering decrepit, crumbling walls of defense. He smashed the memories of Dan, of happiness and the quiet, introspective moments. There would be no peace in the old man’s mind.
Taking a breath, he paused from the destruction and turned his attention to the memories of the other world.
No uberhumans.
He glimpsed children in that other place, and they seemed familiar. Important. Faces streamed past like a collection or an exhibition. Halo shoved them aside and devoured everything the old man had. Thousands of hours, minutes and seconds, rushed through the connection and into Halo’s mental boxes.
No uberhumans.
No war.
He blinked himself back into his own body and rubbed his eyes which were only half back in the real world. He could tell one of his ears was dripping blood and suddenly felt the need to vomit. Cluttering to the floor he found the bucket and retched.
The door opened and the group of doctors entered, equally surprised and appalled seeing Halo on the floor. He felt Castus in the room, too. There was a clear increase in the room’s temperature. He felt trapped but weak. There was no way he could walk out of the room.
“Are you alright, son?” a doctor asked.
Halo vomited again.
And then Parhelion was kneeling beside him, a reassuring hand on Halo’s back.
“Just breathe,” the man said. “Everything will be alright, once your stomach settles.”
Halo nodded and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. He turned to look at the superhero and was taken in by the man’s impressive white smile.
“Thanks,” he mumbled and coughed a little. “I think I …”
“No need for talking right now,” Parhelion said. He turned back to the others and spoke, but Halo tuned out, his head still spinning.
A nurse and an orderly helped him to his feet, their hands lifting him from under his arms. They moved him outside and as he stumbled away from the Celestial Knights and from the comatose Mad Russian, he regained a little of his strength. He saw the elevator doors ahead of him, the exit, and he could imagine the staff room above and the car park beyond that.
The nurse made a joke. Halo smiled and managed to pull away from their support. They let him stagger by himself, but stayed close. He knew them and felt comforted by the concern in their faces. These were real people. Small, unpowered, unimportant, real people. He had seen that concern, that love, before. It reminded him of the dream, of his mother.
And he wanted that back.
More than anything.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you for reading the novel. Choosing to pick up this book, to jump in to the story of uberhumans and popstars, is the greatest outcome for me.
However, The Miranda Contract would never have seen the light of day without the support, feedback and friendship of my writing group. Originally brought together by the grandfather of Australian science fiction, Paul Collins, our little group has gone on to become a beautiful monster of imagination in its own right. Thanks to Linda Bibby, Hayley Barry-Smith, Mark Glazebrook, Fleur Guenther, Michael Greene, Kathryn Hall, Leanda and LynC. I hope you enjoy the story and take pride in knowing you helped shape it into what you now hold in your hands.
There were eight beta readers for this novel, and their feedback and enthusiasm for the ‘whole story’ was invaluable and kept me going when it would have been easier to give up. Matt Langdon and Megan Langdon provided streams of positive advice, bringing in their experience of heroes and bookshops. Megan, especially, brought objective eyes to the novel having never read the genre before. Thanks for reading out of your comfort zone. Brian Healy brought his vast knowledge of novels and comics (not to mention his
professional knowledge of music), and Leah Sung brought a set of librarian’s eyes to the book. Sallie Muirden, a noted author and writing teacher in her own right, continued to provide support and encouragement, and Jodie Webster from Allen & Unwin also provided a professional perspective on the novel’s strengths and weaknesses. Hayley Barry-Smith and Kathryn Hall spent the most time with Dan and Miranda, coaxing them into existence over the course of years. I like to think of them as Dan’s ‘stand-in’ mums.
The idea of writing a superhero novel comes from my (many) years of reading X-Men comics as a teenager, but also from the Uberworld community of writers and gamers. While there have been dozens of Uberworlders, I’d like to send special thanks to Chris De Young, Mark Floyd, Christopher Lockheardt, Neil Ma, Andy Matthews, China Pittenger, Rob Rogers, Noah Thorp, Ben Trafford, KL Wilson and Darren Woods. Of those talented writers, I need to especially thank Noah Thorp for his character, Suleyman the Great. I hope I did him, and his backstory, justice as Sully.
As a high school teacher I come across avid readers every day and I would like to thank my colleagues and students: past, present and future. I draw inspiration from you even when you don’t realize it. Joe Logan needs a special thanks for the unlikely key word, ‘up-cycled’, which formed the basis for Dan’s rehabilitation program. It’s amazing what comes up on long road trips.
And finally, thanks to my family, because all writers test the patience of loved ones. Jack, Eliza and Luca. You don’t realize how amazing you are.
February 2014
Ben Langdon was born in Geelong, Victoria, and is a graduate of Deakin University and the University of Ballarat. He is the editor of This Mutant Life, a Neo-Pulp anthology.
This is his first novel.
benlangdon.net
[email protected]
Twitter @LangdonBen
Published by Kalamity Press, Portland Australia
kalamitypress.com
Copyright © 2014 Ben Langdon
All rights reserved.
No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
ISBN: 978-0-9875-3084-4
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Milan Jovanovic of Chameleon Studio.
Interior design by Benjamin Carrancho of Damonza.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Dan
Chapter 2
Miranda
Chapter 3
Dan
Chapter 4
The Mad Russian
Chapter 5
Dan
Chapter 6
The Small Gods
Chapter 7
Dan
Chapter 8
Miranda
Chapter 9
Dan
Chapter 10
The Mad Russian
Chapter 11
Miranda
Chapter 12
Dan
Chapter 13
Miranda
Chapter 14
Dan
Chapter 15
The Mad Russian
Chapter 16
Dan
Chapter 17
Miranda
Chapter 18
Dan
Chapter 19
Halo
Chapter 20
Dan
Chapter 21
Halo
Chapter 22
Dan
Chapter 23
The Mad Russian
Chapter 24
Dan
Chapter 25
The Small Gods
Chapter 26
Miranda
Chapter 27
Dan
Chapter 28
Bree
Chapter 29
Miranda
Chapter 30
Dan
Chapter 31
The Mad Russian
Chapter 32
Dan
Chapter 33
Miranda
Epilogue
Dan
Epilogue
Halo
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
