Trainee Superhero (Book One)

by C. H. Aalberry

  I wake up on a mattress that smells of old socks and failure.

  I open one eye and find myself in a long hall with a high ceiling. Ropes hang from the ceiling, and I can see treadmills and racks of weights in near, grim rows. A climbing wall dominates the wall near me, promising hours of tricky handholds and painful falls.

  I’ve died and hell is a high school gym class. It’s just like I always feared.

  “Up,” says a stern voice, but I ignore it.

  I know I’m no saint, but no one deserves this. What did I do that was so bad? I can remember trying to save Stace, and being chased by The General, but I can’t quite remember what happened next. Did he really say that Stace was his daughter? Did she survive? Did Tenchi? Cold fear descends on my heart and I desperately try to piece together what happened.

  “Up!” insists the voice again.

  My body doesn’t hurt. It should; I heard bones crack as I passed out. Maybe they gave me a new body when I arrived in hell, but I don’t see why they would bother. Maybe I’m not in-

  “UP!” yells the voice, and my neck erupts in pain.

  I put my hands to my throat and find a thin collar wound tight around the skin. It burns my neck and burns my fingers when I try to tear it off. I scream, and the pain stops suddenly.

  “Get up.”

  I get up clumsily. I’m wearing grey tracksuit pants and a pale orange shirt that has Red Five written on the chest. I haven’t seen the pants or shirt before, which means that somebody dressed me while I was still asleep. Creepy. There are six other people in orange standing in a ragged line beside me. Three are men, two are women and one is androgynous. They all look older than me, decades older in some cases, and they look as confused as I feel. We are all wearing tight metal collars around our necks.

  Facing us are a bald older man and a young woman with short blond hair. They are both in black shirts trimmed with gold, and the way they stand suggests they are in command and take a no-nonsense approach to punishing their new batch of sinners. The man stands upright and in a military manner with his arms behind his back but the woman seems far more interested in the data feed projecting from a pin on her shirt. Both the man and the woman are wearing similar collars as us the seven of us who have just stood up.

  “My name is Past Prime,” says the man, “and this is Never Lies. We are now in charge of your training. Do as we say, or we will initiate your collars.”

  Past Prime looks familiar. Really, really familiar.

  “I’m not meant to be here!” protests the man beside me, and a couple of the others nod in agreement.

  I don’t even know where here is, although my mind is so slow that I’m not too sure who I am just yet either. I’m still trying to work out of this is hell, purgatory or a nightmare. At least I’m wearing pants, so I guess it’s not a nightmare.

  Never Lies sighs theatrically and shakes her head.

  “You are not here by mistake,” Past Prime says, “all of you are here because you have potential, but you failed in some way. Some of you have been kicked off superhero teams, some of you are criminals. What you did, who you were or who you know is no longer important. You will serve in the Cerberus Brawlers, or you will spend the rest of your lives in jail for treason.”

  The Cerberus Brawlers? I’ve never heard of that team, and I thought I knew them all. I’m not the only confused one, and many of my team are unhappy at finding themselves treated so badly.

  “I don’t belong here,” a man shouts, “and when-”

  My collar explodes in red-hot pain and all seven of us hit the mattresses.

  “Up,” says Past Prime patiently.

  I get up, and I’m the first to my feet. I’m still not sure where I am or what is happening, but I’m learning to respect that voice. The others are slower, but Past Prime waits without hurting us further.

  “Service or prison, you decide. The technicians are going to set you up now.”

  Men and women in blue shirts flock to us. One straps a set of sensors onto my arms and the side of my head while another checks the movement of my arms and legs. They take blood samples, test my blood pressure and shine lights into my eyes. They treat me like I’m nothing more than a science experiment, poking and prodding with an enthusiasm that worries me. My mind feels sluggish, so I just sit back and let them do their work. Never Lies wanders over to where I am and gives me a look like she does not like what she sees. She shakes her head and turns away.

  “I’m not a criminal or a failure,” I say loudly to her, “so I think-”

  “No one cares what you think, trainee,” she interrupts curtly and walks away without even looking at me.

  “I-”

  “-set,” interrupts a technician, “now for the suit.”

  The men and women in blue are replaced by a team in green with big boxes. The boxes hold parts of a bulky suit of padded armor, and the technicians start dressing me. Everything fits snugly together, but the suit is bulky and surprisingly hard to move in.

  “Just like the real thing,” says a technician in green, “so get used to it.”

  It feels like I’m wearing three wetsuits all at once. It’s uncomfortable to say the least, but I don’t have time to protest before the technicians walk me to a treadmill and start me running. I fall over a few times until I find my rhythm; it’s like running underwater, only not as fun.

  The running helps clear my head; I’m pretty sure that this isn’t hell. I’ve read Dante’s Inferno, and it made no mention of technicians or blood tests. Plus, the suit I’m wearing looks a lot like the power suits that superheroes wear on their missions. I remember being accepted into the Superhero Corps, so am I in some strange training program? I let the treadmill dump me on the ground and walk over to Never Lies. She doesn’t look surprised to see me.

  “The last thing I remember was my town being attacked,” I say, “I need to know if my father and friends survived.”

  I expect her to shock me or order me back to work, but Never Lies checks the data feed hanging in the air in front of her face. She scans the list quickly.

  “You father is fine. There were thirty-nine deaths from the attack. Check the list.”

  She spins her feed around so that I can read the list. My Dad isn’t on the list, and neither is Tenchi or his family. That’s a relief, but I recognize most of the names of those who died. I don’t know how to feel: I’m sad for the people who were killed, yet happy that my friends and family are okay. Mostly I feel angry; none of those people should have died.

  “Those numbers are two weeks old, and are final,” she says.

  Two weeks? What have I been doing all that time? I have a hundred questions running through my head, but Never Lies looks impatient and there is really only more one answer I need.

  “Will I get to fight saucers?”

  She shrugs.

  “The Cerberus Brawlers kill more saucers than any other unit. Pass your training and we’ll make you part of the team.”

  “Okay,” I say and turn back to the treadmill.

  “Is that all?” she calls after me. “Don’t you want to know where you are, or why you are here? You must have more questions.”

  “My family is safe, and I’ll get to kill saucers. What more is there?”

  I hear her laugh as I get back on the treadmill and start running. I run until my legs hurt, and then I stop and crash onto the ground, bouncing on the soft mats. A women in white brings me a bottle of water and an apple. It’s crisp and juicy, much better than the ones Dad buys from the grocery store. Other men and women in white shirts are handing out water and fruit to the other trainees, almost like the airplane stewards in old movies.

  “Next station!” orders Past Prime.

  The armor is heavy, and it takes two technicians to help me to my feet. The next station tests how fast I can respond to flashing colored lights. I jump for blue, duck for red, turn left or right for green and pink, and freeze for yellow. I’m not great at it, but I do my best. T
he technicians record my every movement with cameras mounted in floating drones.

  After a while the lights stop, and the green-shirts lead me to a rope hanging from a platform about sixteen feet off the ground. If this was a movie, it would be time for a training montage but I really, really hate gym. I don’t even make it halfway up the rope before I slip back down and land heavily on a mattress.

  “Saucer!” I shout in frustration.

  Superheroes don’t need to climb ropes, they can fly. Why am I doing this? Past Prime walks over to me and looks down. He shakes his head.

  “Up,” he says.

  I don’t get up; I’m exhausted. My collar fires up and pain arcs over my body. I roll around until the pain stops.

  “Up,” Prime says quietly.

  I sit up.

  “This is killing me,” I mutter to myself.

  Past Prime grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. He points at his arm and it changes color to a metallic red. He’s a cyborg from the shoulder down. He lifts a trouser leg and his foot is metal, too. I wonder how much of him is still original.

  “This training might kill you,” he says seriously, “but the saucers will definitely kill you if you aren’t ready for them. Our job is to make you ready. We use a carrot and stick approach, and the collar is the stick.”

  “What's the carrot?”

  “Not getting the stick. Now, up that rope.”

  He starts climbing the rope beside mine. He’s really fast, even with his fake arm and leg. I feel pretty bad being beaten by a man who is fifty years older than me and who only has one real arm, so I start climbing. I get all the way to the top and climb onto the platform where Past Prime is waiting for me.

  “Good,” he says, “now if you need to rope climb to escape a saucer you can. I had to, once.”

  I recognize him now.

  “Master Bansuri,” I say, “that’s who you are. I have your poster in my room.”

  He looks right at me, his face carefully blank. My dad taught me how to tell when people are bluffing, so I know that he’s concealing something from me.

  “My name is Past Prime, and that is what you will call me,” he says.

  I notice that the ground around me is covered in thick and well-used mattresses.

  “Ready?” Past Prime asks me.

  “For what?”

  A large ball flies out of nowhere and hits me in the gut.

  “Ouch!”

  I stagger right off the platform and hit the mattresses hard.

  “Up!”

  I climb back up the rope and back onto the platform. A ball shoots from my right and hits me in the leg, but I don’t fall. The next ball hits me in the back of the head, and I fall to my knees as dozens more balls bounce off me. None of them hit Past Prime. I fall off the platform, and climb again. My arms are burning; I don’t think I can make that climb again, and I don’t see why I should have to.

  “And what’s the point of this training?” I mutter, “Since superheroes can both fly and have shields.”

  “They can and do,” he answers in measured tones, “but being physically strong means faster reflexes and greater resilience. On your feet.”

  The balls start flying again, and one knocks me off the platform. I hit the ground hard enough to make the world go black for a second. Past Prime leaps off the platform and lands in an elegant roll right beside me.

  “You will have shields, but they will only absorb ninety-nine percent of whatever hits you. That last percent hurts. A lot. You need to be in peak condition to survive.”

  I didn’t know that the shields let part of an attack through. No wonder all the superheroes I’ve seen are in great shape.

  “I’m no athlete,” I say.

  “I know, I read your file. We have a few tricks to help people like you, but you still need to work as hard as you can. We won’t push you any more here. Next station.”

  The technicians lead me onwards. Never Lies is waiting for me, tapping her foot as if she has better places to be. Beside her stands a huge tattooed man in a red shirt who looks like he enjoys hurting people. The name on his shirt says Violent Behavior. He doesn’t look like a superhero; he looks like the hired muscle working for the bad guy in a spy film.

  “Helmets,” Never Lies says, and Violent Behavior passes me a helmet. He smiles; his front teeth are missing.

  I put the helmet on. It’s heavy, uncomfortable and dark.

  “I can’t see anything,” I say.

  “Program initiating,” a robotic voice whispers in my ear.

  A picture appears in my visor: it’s a floating ball topped with a laser cannon. The picture is computer drawn but accurate as far as I can tell from what I’ve seen on the internet.

  “Floating scout” says the voice in my helmet, “known weaknesses are shown.”

  Most of the scout glows red. The picture fades and is replaced by another scout, this one red.

  “Scout bomb,” murmurs the voice in my ear, “may self-destruct explosively. Attack from range.”

  I nod; that’s good advice. The scout bomb fades away and is replaced with a tricops like the ones that attacked my town.

  “Simple triclops, capable of range attack,” my helmet says, “known weaknesses are shown.”

  The triclops only has a few weaknesses, but I do my best to remember them. The program progresses to flappers, which are weak fliers armed with rockets, then on to an eight-armed beast called an octo-ape that can fly. Each of the octo-ape’s arms ends in some terrible bladed weapon. It only has one weakness, in its head. The back of its head.

  “The octo-ape is a close combat expert. Do not engage,” advises the program.

  “Okay,” I say, although I probably would if I saw one.

  We move onto all the familiar soldiers found in saucers, from the large cube-tanks to the tiny spider-pods that clump together to form larger shapes. There were neutron-squids, eccentrically shaped oddpods, and floating mushrooms armed with plasma missiles. There were also seven additional variants of triclops, each scarier than the last. My helmet suggests that I avoid almost all of them, even the little ones. It’s pretty disheartening that even the training programs think I’m incapable.

  I realize that every type of saucer creature could fly, if only for short distances. I don’t know why I never thought about that before.

  “Phase two of the training program begins. Highlight the known weaknesses with your eyes.”

  A circle appears on the visor screen. I move my eyes and the circle moves as well. A second scout appears. I point out its weaknesses, highlighting what I can remember. The scout is replaced by an octo-ape. I highlight its chest with my laser before realizing I’ve made a mistake.

  “Mistake,” agrees the helmet.

  I get another unpleasant shock on my collar, but I remain standing. The octo-ape appears again, and I highlight its weakness correctly. The helmet continues through a list of aliens that I am mostly familiar with. The threat of pain focusses my mind like never before, but soon I’m too exhausted to continue. I start making mistakes, and after my third shock in a row the pictures fade.

  “Training complete,” the helmet whispers.

  I take the helmet off and fall to the ground. A steward passes me a bottle of water and a sandwich. The food is delicious, better than anything I have eaten before. A technician in light blue checks my pulse and takes more blood as I eat. I wonder what they are learning about me. My arm begins to itch, so I pull my sleeve armor off and see my tat-a-gotchi hatching. The egg cracks, and a thin silver worm crawls out of the egg. It sprouts thin, pale wings which it flaps a few times as though it has no idea what they are for, then rolls up and falls asleep. Lame. I pull my armored sleeve back down.

  “Next station,” says one of the technicians, ushering me to what looks like a bullet the size of a car mounted on a thick robotic arm.

  The bullet is lowered to the ground and the top flips open to reveal a small, cramped space inside. There is a seat in there, a
nd a harness, but it looks incredibly uncomfortable and claustrophobic. A bald technician stands beside a computer screen, tapping it impatiently.

  “Climb in,” he orders, “and get used to it. This is how you are going to get to battle from now on.”

  I squeeze in and do my best to strap myself down.

  “I thought supers just flew into battle,” I say doubtfully.

  “Nah. Flying long distances drains too much power. Most teams parachute out of planes, but we use these babies. They’ll get you anywhere in the world in under twenty minutes.”

  Most teams parachute out of planes? How could I not know that? I thought I knew everything about the superheroes, but I’m learning that the Superhero Corps has been keeping all kinds of secrets from the public, including the existence of this team.

  “Twenty minutes?” I say, impressed.

  “Twenty awful minutes,” the bald technician adds thoughtfully, “so best hold on.”

  The capsule closes and leaves me in the dark. There is a row of LEDs in the roof. Most are green, but one is flickering orange.

  “Simulating re-entry,” says the technician’s voice over a speaker, “ejection in five minutes.”

  The capsule starts rolling and spinning uncontrollably. More LEDs flash orange and the capsule lurches like a roller coaster falling off its rails. I’m pressed hard against the straps and spun upside down and side to side. It’s a terrible ride, and it feels like an eternity before the capsule spits me out into the air and I land face first in a pile of soft foam. I try stand up, but the world is still spinning and I fall backwards. A couple of techs pull me to my feet and check my balance and reflexes. One of them is holding a bucket, but I don’t need to use it.

  “Ugh,” I say.

  It looks like they were betting on my performance, because money changes hands and the bald technician looks cranky.

  “Best get used to it,” says the winning technician, “the real thing is going to be worse. Now, let’s do that again.”

  I’d really rather not, but they help me to my feet, drag me back to the capsule and strap me back in.

  “Ah, saucer!” I swear as the capsule clicks shut.

  The second ride is even worse than the first, and by the time I emerge from the foam I’m convinced that my first impressions were right, and that I am in hell. There are no technicians to help me out of the foam pit, so I drag myself out and lie on the ground.

  “I… argh,” I say.

  A steward in white walks up and crouches beside me. She has long blond hair with a streak of red in it. She looks amused at my condition. Gen77 is written on her shirt in the same place I have Red Five.

  “Firestorm Commando wants to see you in the armory,” she says, then takes a closer look at me, “what are you, like twelve? Where are your minders, anyway?”

  I try to explain that everyone has left me, but she grabs my arm and leads me away from the training area. We head up a flight of narrow stairs and down a long corridor. This base is huge. The steward knows her way around, and walks so quickly that I have to jog to keep up.

  “I’ve never met you before,” she says, “when did you get in?”

  “Today,” I manage, but she only laughs.

  “Good one! As if Firestorm Commando would want anything with a newbie, he thinks they are dirt.”

  “What does he want?” I manage.

  “I don’t know. Have you met him before?”

  I shake my head. I have read a few stories of Firestorm Commando that don’t make me think too highly of him. The Superhero Corps keeps a tight lid on their members, but word leaks out onto the Internet if you know where to look. I heard he set fire to a primary school he was meant to be saving, and destroyed a hospital. That was about three months ago, and I haven’t heard anything about him since then.

  My world is still spinning, and I have to concentrate on not throwing up. I succeed, which is a win.

  We arrive at the armory, which is a long hall of power suits, weapons, and strange glowing computers. A man in red power armor is waiting for me. I don’t recognize him, but that’s not surprising.

  “Red Five?” he says.

  “I guess,” I say.

  “Excellent. I have orders to take you on the next mission.”

  “Ah… I don’t think-”

  “Shut up, get out of that silly practice suit and get dressed for combat.”

  Gen77 shakes her head and ducks out of the armory. Technicians in green shirts pull my practice armor off and push me towards a battered power suit. It’s dull silver, with burn marks down one side and huge metal patches on the chest. One of the arms looks brand new, but that that just makes me wonder what happened to the person inside when the old arm was lost. The techs start to take the suit apart and pull it over my shoulders.

  “I haven’t seen you before,” says a technician with concern.

  “I just arrived today,” I mutter.

  I must have been more convincing the second time, because the technicians stop their work and look at me. One of them starts to put the suit back on its rack but Firestorm Commando storms up, slaps one of the technicians hard and yells abuse at the others. The technician he slaps hits the ground and doesn’t get up.

  “Do as I say!” he screams at them.

  The technicians swallow their doubts and start getting me ready again. A senior technician called Bad Memories checks their work and then shows me a reflection of myself in a mirror. I am not impressed.

  “Now, I know what you are thinking-,” he says.

  That the suit I’m wearing looks like it was made by a bunch of drunks trying to build a spacesuit out of things they found in a junkyard? That they set their creation alight and then threw it down some stairs? That I’m wearing an uncomfortable metal coffin?

  “-and you are right. This, son, is a cutting edge hybrid of human and alien technology. Few will ever get to wear one; it’s a real privilege. Try and bring it back.”

  “Let’s pick up the speed!” yells Firestorm Commando from across the room.

  Bad Memories shakes his head and pulls the last few straps tight against my chest. He places a helmet over my head and I hear it click into place over my neck. For a moment everything goes black, and then the visor opens. The technician leans in close.

  “We have called someone to help you. I’m trying to slow this down to buy some time,” he whispers.

  “What’s going on there?” demands Firestorm Commando.

  “Technical problems with his power,” says Bad Memories, “maybe you should leave him-”

  “He’s coming,” says Firestorm Commando flatly.

  “Fine,” says Bad Memories, “but not unarmed.”

  He walks me through an armory containing weapons of every sort stacked against the walls. Some are familiar, like the power axes and swords, but many resemble steam-powered cannons and others look disturbingly organic. I see laser pistols and kinetic rifles, spears, maces and hammers of every shape and size. Most of them look worn, now that I see them up close. These aren’t the shiny props I’ve seen in the movies, but are chipped and dented workman’s tools.

  “Can I have one of those?” I ask the technician, pointing at the axes.

  “No, but put this one on.”

  He hands me a bulky glove with a short barrel under the palm.

  “Powerglove. Reliable and idiot proof.”

  I put it on. It’s not the kind of weapon I have been dreaming about; it looks like an oven mitt. There’s no time for me to be disappointed, because the technicians lead me to a pod sitting on a conveyor belt that leads out of the room. I jump in and they strap me in while Firestorm Commando stands behind us. There is a computer screen hanging over the pod. It shows a pair of maps, one of Australia on the globe and one just of the western coast of Australia. There is a red circle around the city of Perth, but that can’t be right. Perth was one of the first cities attacked, in the days before supers. The city was evacuated while the saucer was still hovering
over it, and then the world powers tried to bring the saucer down with cruise missiles. When that didn’t work, they tried a nuke.

  “Perth!” I splutter, “Won’t the radiation kill me?”

  The technician gives me a look of pity and shakes his head sadly.

  “I’m sorry, son, but radiation is going to be the least of your worries.”

  The pod’s cover slams down and leaves me in darkness. The pod rumbles and bounces along the conveyor belt and then falls still. The only sound is my fast, shallow breathing in the darkness.

  “What happens now?” I ask.

  The pod rumbles, and an invisible giant punches me in the chest and I fall unconscious.

  Lesson Three: Don’t Get Distracted

  “This guide dedicates the next seventeen chapters to battlefield tactics. An understanding of these tactics, many of which are complex, is a requirement of success. We shall begin with the best method of arriving on the battlefield.”

  -The Superhero Trainee Guide (Third Edition), Chapter Six.

  “Keep moving, keep thinking, hit hard and stay alive. That’s all.”

  -Extract from Dark Fire’s three-page training manual read at his trial.