Black Power- The Superhero Anthology

by Balogun Ojetade

  Looking again at Glascock, he spoke levelly. “I suppose you expect me to talk.”

  “No, Mr. Bhamu,” Glascock countered, with a smile. “I expect you to scream. I expect you to beg for mercy. And – in the most exquisite possible gratification, at least for my dear partner and myself – I expect you to die in the most prolonged and terrific agony.”

  Bhamu gave the approaching blade another glance, then addressed Glascock in Běifānghuà Mandarin. “You’re making a grave mistake.”

  The revelation of Bhamu’s familiarity with Mandarin caused no alteration in the expressions of Glascock or his companions.

  Glascock’s rejoinder was in the same language. “I never make a mistake when it comes to self-gratification.”

  “If you kill me—” Bhamu took another glance at the blade, which advanced as relentlessly as a jigsaw “—you’ll never know what I know.”

  “I know what you know,” Glascock said, cheerfully. “I was, after all, the one who turned Ms. Tsasi to diamond.”

  “I know about Operation Slam Dunk,” Bhamu said.

  Glascock turned to one of his henchmen and switched to KiSwahili. “Security missed a listening device, it seems. Institute a scan and destroy it, along with whoever is responsible for the slip-up.” He turned back to Bhamu, his smile undimmed, and spoke in Mandarin. “You’ve overheard a few words, and conveyed nothing to your associates. My estate – which is not a small property, Mr. Bhamu – is surrounded with jammers that prevent local, interplanetary, and interstellar communication.”

  Bhamu shrugged. “Take the risk, then.”

  Glascock watched the diamond blade sawing through the remaining centimeters toward the Bhamu family jewels.

  Finally, Glascock spoke. “Oddlot.”

  Oddlot depressed the button.

  The blade froze, millimeters from Bhamu’s skin-tight pants.

  Bhamu exhaled. A trickle of sweat ran down his left temple.

  Movement caught his attention. He turned his head. He saw Glascock gesturing at the New Murrian.

  Oddlot smiled, raised the boomerang, and threw.

  That was the last thing Jangano Bhamu remembered.

  ***

  Bhamu’s eyelids twitched, then parted slightly.

  He was lying on the plump silk pillows of a white and lavender couch. It occupied a tiny but luxuriously appointed stateroom. He felt, more than heard, the rumble of a starship engine, speeding the craft far enough from the planet to safely engage the warp drive.

  Bhamu’s bruises throbbed. His headache had grown more severe. He still wore his black garments, and his boots were back on his feet. His body was free, his limbs unconfined.

  He didn’t move, because the stunning Hausa Sáabóo woman in the lead pilot’s uniform stood facing him. An Aurigan micro-crystal glittered just below her lower lip. She no longer had her pilot’s cap. Her right hand no longer rested on the butt of her flechette pistol.

  Instead, it aimed the business end at Bhamu’s heart.

  “We warp in twenty minutes,” she said.

  “What service!” Bhamu said. “Even on private starships, I’ve never seen a pilot leave the cockpit to deliver the warp-jump warning in person before.”

  Her gaze swept his body in its skin-tight garments from head to toe, then returned, with equal slowness, to his eyes.

  He said, “Like what you see?”

  “Glascock might,” she said. “But he refuses to hire women who do.”

  Bhamu smiled. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure you need to meet the rest of the flight crew.” The pilot raised her voice, though doing so was unnecessary when communicating by Aurigan micro-crystal transmitter. “Amaka, Paloma, if you could step into the guest cabin for a moment?”

  Within moments, the lock on the cabin door made a heavy sound. The door opened, admitting the two lovely women Bhamu had last seen exiting Glascock’s starship with the lead pilot. The new arrivals smiled at the pilot, unperturbed by her drawn pistol. Then they looked curiously at Bhamu.

  “Paloma Castaña and Amaka Farai,” the pilot told Bhamu, “are the copilot and engineer.” She glanced at the women. “Ladies, this gentleman is Jangano Bhamu. Please tell him the nature of our relationship outside of work.”

  The women burst into laughter, and spoke simultaneously. “She’s our wife.”

  Still laughing, the copilot and engineer departed. The door closed itself behind them. The lock clunked.

  The pilot smiled at Bhamu with the sweetness of poisoned sugar.

  “Now, where was I?” she said, in the tone of someone who has forgotten nothing. “Ah, yes. I hadn’t concluded Mr. Glascock’s message. He wishes you to know we’re warping to Novaya Russika, where he owns another estate. There, Mr. Bhamu, he will make you talk.”

  “I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve heard that,” Bhamu said. “This time, I might talk. If, that is, the attempt is made by you.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” the pilot said. “I’m not the sadist at Glascock Diamonds, Limited.”

  “And how would you happen to possess such an intimate piece of information about Mr. Glascock, if you have no interest in men?”

  “It doesn’t remain a secret when you drag a dozen henchmen in to watch every time you torture a corporate spy.”

  “You believe I’m a corporate spy?”

  The pilot raised one shoulder in a negligent shrug. “You were spying on the most successful diamond merchant in Human Space.”

  “You’ve made a reasonable deduction,” Bhamu said. “It’s also dangerously incorrect.”

  “Mr. Bhamu,” said the pilot, “I don’t care what you are. You trespassed on Glascock’s estate. Prepare to die.”

  Bhamu shifted on the luxurious couch until he lay on his side, head propped on one hand. The other arm, also bent at the elbow, rested on his upper side. The hand dangled, its fingertips grazing his stomach as if to draw attention to his abdominal muscles. His skin-tight garments revealed the muscles of torso and limb with such fidelity, the pilot seemed unable to believe her eyes. At least, she seemed unable to remove her regard from the landscape revealed by his change of position.

  “You’ve been gracious enough to introduce me to your wives,” Bhamu said. “Might I know your name, as well?”

  With apparent effort, the pilot moved her gaze up his torso. She studied his face, considering. She studied his body again. She looked him in the eye.

  She answered. “Kitty Splendour.”

  “Splendid,” said Bhamu. “Would you like to purr?”

  “Did I mention my pistol fires tranquilizer darts?” she asked. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

  She demonstrated.

  ***

  When next Bhamu awoke, he lay in a stone cell with an iron door. The cell was unfurnished. The tranquilizer dart had been removed from Bhamu’s chest, but he was still clothed and unbound. He rose from the chilly floor.

  Pacing, Bhamu silently counted his steps. The cell was almost twice as long as he was tall; in width, it was five steps narrower. The door had a small, barred window, set a little lower than the level of his eyes. The door also had a detention lock, with a keyhole and no key.

  Bhamu looked through the window.

  He found a brightly illuminated corridor. It was lined with a series of iron doors identical to his. His door was the only one with guards.

  The two men noticed him promptly, and targeted his face with 905 nm laser-rifles.

  One grunted. “Step away from the door.”

  Returning to the center of the cell, Bhamu lay down on his side, facing the door. He narrowed his eyes until they were not quite shut. Then, pressing his hand to his skull, he began groaning like a man in pain.

  The guardsmen looked through the window.

  Silently, they studied the prisoner. They assessed his condition. They assessed the features revealed by his skin-tight garments.

  Finally, the guardsman who’d spoken earlier said, “Shut your
pie-hole, prisoner.”

  The groaning continued.

  The guardsmen continued to watch the prisoner’s behavior and examine his body. The prisoner made no move to rise. He rubbed his head and gave an occasional groan. His eyes did not open; nor did they ever quite close.

  Eventually, the talkative guard said, “Oddlot’s boomerang hit the prisoner pretty hard. Maybe he’s badly hurt.”

  “He’s faking,” said the other guard. “Glascock’s physician examined him and gave him nanomeds for the blow.”

  “We’d better make sure. We’re under orders not to kill the prisoner, on pain of death.”

  “We’re not killing him.”

  “If he dies,” said the first guard, “will Glascock agree with you?”

  A new voice rose, smooth and dark as Novo Brasilian honey. “If you enter the cell and the prisoner escapes, Glascock will kill you. Very, very slowly.”

  Bhamu recognized the voice.

  “Open his cell and remain on alert,” the voice continued. “I’m transferring the prisoner.”

  The lock thunked. The door opened. Bhamu remained motionless.

  The new voice said, “Stop play-acting and step out of the cell, Mr. Bhamu. Don’t make any sudden moves, unless you’re eager to take another nap.”

  “I’ve rested enough for one day,” Bhamu said, and exited the cell slowly.

  He found three muzzles aimed at his chest. He smiled at the newcomer.

  “Kitty Splendour,” he said. “A pleasure to see you again.”

  The pilot made a come-along gesture with her flechette pistol. “We’re returning to the ship, Mr. Bhamu.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier for Glascock to torture me in a cell?” Bhamu asked.

  “There’s been a change of plans,” Kitty Splendour said. “Your masochistic pleasures must wait. Get moving. And keep your distance.”

  He did as she ordered.

  “Don’t try anything funny,” she added, falling in behind Bhamu. “You’re in a building full of bodyguards and other employees of Glascock Diamond, Limited.”

  Bhamu assessed the sound of her footsteps. She was close enough to shoot him, but not close enough to let him overcome her before she fired. He would have to wait for a better opportunity before attempting escape.

  He said, “Why are we leaving so soon?”

  “I have no orders to give you information.”

  “You don’t need to, Ms. Splendour.” He looked over his shoulder. “You’re going to overfly the planetary capitol of Novaya Rossika and drop a package from the ship’s hold.”

  His words appeared to astonish the pilot.

  But her pistol didn’t waver, and her face swiftly regained its stony expression. “As always, Mr. Bhamu, you fail to amuse.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know what your boss is planning to drop on Novaya Moskva?”

  “You grow tedious,” Splendour said. “A diamond merchant would deliver diamonds.”

  Bhamu looked over his shoulder again. “You know he’s never previously made a delivery via drone.”

  Her slim brows pinched in thought.

  Then her face hardened. “It’s none of my business how Mr. Glascock chooses to conduct his business. Now, silence yourself, Mr. Bhamu, or I’ll do it for you.”

  ***

  Kitty Splendour escorted Bhamu to a starship stateroom. It appeared identical to the one he’d occupied on his largely unconscious trip to Novaya Rossika. And, as before, he and the pilot were the only ones in the room.

  “Get on the couch, and stay there,” the lead pilot said, with a twitch of her weapon. “We take off shortly.”

  He moved toward the couch. “I have urgent information, Ms. Splendour,” he said. “You would do well to listen.”

  She said, “Silence.”

  So he maintained silence as he laid his hand on one of the white and lavender cushions and swung. The plump pillow knocked her pistol aside. Dropping his makeshift weapon, Bhamu sprang like a panther.

  As they crashed to the floor, the breath was knocked out of the pilot. As she lay stunned, Bhamu’s left hand pressed her gun-hand to the floor, with the muzzle pointed away from them. Keeping her body pinned with his weight, Bhamu pulverized her micro-crystal transmitter between his free thumb and forefinger, then reached for her left arm.

  As he acted, his lips brushed her ear. “I was trying to warn you,” he said, his voice barely audible. “In the right hands, anything is a weapon.”

  He spoke his next words even more softly, as he pressed his body even more firmly against hers.

  The pilot whipped her left arm away from Bhamu’s reaching hand. Then, with the speed of a KwaZulu Entsha cobra, she swung. Her fist struck his temple.

  “You’re beyond tedious, Mr. Bhamu,” Kitty Splendour observed as she pushed Bhamu’s limp body aside. Arising, she holstered her weapon and straightened her blazer. “When the flight is over,” she added, “I shall ask Mr. Glascock’s leave to torture you personally.”

  ***

  Bhamu stirred. Glancing around, he found himself alone. He sprang to the door and tried the handle.

  Inaudibly, he mouthed, “Unlocked.”

  Smiling almost imperceptibly, he cracked the door and peered into the starship corridor.

  It was empty except for a uniformed Glascock Diamonds guard. He stood just outside Bhamu’s stateroom door. The guard wore a sidearm and dataspex. By the sounds spilling from his earpiece, the guard was watching porn.

  Lunging through the door, Bhamu knocked the preoccupied man unconscious. Dragging the limp figure into his stateroom, he assumed its uniform and firearm. The latter was, unsurprisingly, a flechette pistol; no one wanted a firearm that shot anything more forceful than a dart or 905 nanometer laser-beam on a spacecraft. A bullet or higher-frequency laser could breach the hull. The pistol was a model which fired tranquilizer darts exclusively. Perhaps Glascock still wished to preserve Bhamu for a vigorous round of torture.

  Bhamu stepped into the corridor.

  The starship was a small, swift, elegant Sunstar cruiser, of the Mark 007 class favored by the ultra-wealthy. Remarkably dependable, it was also used by SIS. Familiar with its layout, Bhamu proceeded vigilantly in the direction of the hold.

  Its entrance was an airlock. It was unguarded, and both massive doors were open. Peering warily through the open chamber, Bhamu saw Richard Glascock and his boomerang-toting factotum. They faced aft. They stood at the control panel of the enormous cargo airlock, which was set in the floor.

  On the floor between the men rested a small cargo drone. Some of its operational lights were red. Most were green.

  A small bomb was attached to the drone. The bomb showed three glowing red numerals. The numerals were counting steadily down, signaling less than five minutes to detonation.

  The countdown held Bhamu’s attention a moment too long.

  Swift as a New Murrian needletail, the boomerang knocked the flechette pistol from Bhamu’s hand.

  Smiling with sadistic pleasure, Oddlot let his returning boomerang fly past his head as he flung himself toward Bhamu. Bhamu tried to leap aside, but he was slightly off-balance from the blow, and the other man was quicker than his powerful build suggested. He closed sinewy hands on Bhamu’s throat.

  Smiling even more sadistically than his factotum, Richard Glascock said, “Only render Bhamu unconscious, Oddlot.”

  A new voice said, “Sounds like a plan.”

  Shock suffused Glascock’s features as his lead pilot stepped into the hold and fired her pistol.

  Involuntarily, Oddlot watched his boss collapse.

  Bhamu’s palm drove into Oddlot’s face. The New Murrian’s head snapped back and his eyes glazed. However, his hands continued to tighten on Bhamu’s throat.

  As Kitty Splendour aimed at Oddlot, a man’s voice came into the hold. “Why is this airlock open?”

  The henchman followed his question and his flechette pistol through the airlock and immediately dropped, shot by Kitty Sple
ndour.

  She wheeled to fire at Oddlot, and found that Bhamu had struck again, driving the edge of his palm into the side of Oddlot’s head.

  Oddlot’s eyes rolled up and he released Bhamu.

  As Oddlot sagged, Splendour shot him.

  “Making sure he stays unconscious,” she told Bhamu as she hurried to his side.

  He crouched beside the drone and its little blinking bomb.

  “They activated the explosive,” he told Splendour. “Unfortunately, I don’t know how to stop it from exploding.”

  “Neither do I.” She drew a shaky breath. “And the explosion will release the metal-dissolving formula. It’ll devour our ship and enter the atmosphere.”

  Bhamu had filled her in quickly, when he’d pinned her to the floor. Then he’d made a request. She’d followed it, pretending to knock him unconscious.

  “Clearly, the government of Xin Zhongguo met Glascock’s price,” Bhamu said now. “There must be enough formula in the bomb to destroy every settlement on Novaya Rossika, Xin Zhongguo’s archenemy.”

  “Paloma!” Splendour called, addressing her co-wife through the replacement micro-crystal transmitter by her lip. “Depart Novaya Rossika at top speed, but don’t warp.”

  As she spoke, Bhamu carefully opened a small compartment on the bomb, just below the digital clock speeding through the remaining seconds.

  “I see three wires in there,” Splendour said. “Wouldn’t yanking one loose disarm the explosive?”

  “That,” Bhamu said, “or cause it to detonate.”

  “Kitty says you’re a secret agent, Mr. Bhamu,” said Amaka Farai, striding into the hold. “Why are you so clueless about a bomb?”

  Before Bhamu or Splendour could object, Farai slipped her fingers between the bomb and the mini-drone.

  The bomb clicked.

  Bhamu and Splendour tensed.

  “It has an off switch,” Amaka Farai said. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. I’m an engineer.”

  Jangano Bhamu exhaled.

  Kitty Splendour exclaimed, “I love you, Amaka.”

  ***

  As the starship cruised toward the warp point, Bhamu reclined on the stateroom couch. Clad once more in his skin-tight black garb, he was as gracefully relaxed as a Kirinyaga Mpya caracal. He had made a deal with the pilot, the engineer, and the copilot. They had agreed to take him, the now-confined Glascock and Oddlot, the bomb, and the formula to New Zanzibar, in exchange for amnesty and new employment.