Don't Be a Hero: A Superhero Novel (23 page)

“You have thirty-six hours,” Quanta said. Then the picture turned to static, and he was gone.

Niobe tried to speak, but her throat wasn’t working. Solomon spared her the need to talk first. “Iron Justice,” he said hoarsely. He looked like he was driving on automatic. “An entire German armoured division couldn’t kill him during the war.”

She tried to clear her head, but it was all fuzzy.
He’s got Sam.

“He was supposed to be invincible,” Solomon said. “How’d this psycho get his hands on him?”

“The same way he got the kid, I guess.”

“Iron Justice,” he said again. He didn’t appear to have heard her. “He was one of the Manhattan Eight. He was friends with Dr Atomic, for Pete’s sake.”

Something clicked in her brain.
The Manhattan Eight. No. It couldn’t be.
She rummaged through her pockets and pulled out the photo she’d found in Sam’s drawer on the boat. Two young men stood in front of a log cabin, one slightly taller and slimmer than the other. She recognised them now. But it was impossible.

“Frank Julius,” she whispered. “I know who he is.”

“What? Who?”

She studied the picture. “He’s Frank Oppenheimer. Bloody hell, Frank Julius is Omegaman.”

She fished out the ring she’d found on Frank’s boat. A signalling device. The signalling device used by the Manhattan Eight.

Solomon didn’t say anything for a moment, but she could see his mind working. If Frank Julius was Omegaman, then his brother, Sam’s father….

“Sam’s father…” the Carpenter said, “…his father is J. Robert Oppenheimer.”

She nodded. “Dr Atomic.”
The first hero. The greatest hero that ever lived.
“Sam is the son of Dr Atomic.”

“He shouldn’t exist.”

“He does,” she said. “He could be the most powerful metahuman on the planet.”
And Quanta’s got him
.

The Carpenter nodded. “Told you you didn’t wanna miss this.”

Silence filled the car. As they drove, the wail of Met Div’s sirens grew louder. She switched on the police radio. Chatter came through in an unending stream. She picked one voice out of the noise. “I repeat, we are taking fire. Suspects are making for their vehicles. Three white Bedford vans and one larger van, make unknown. Requesting air support.” The voice dropped back into the noise of overlapping chatter.

Niobe didn’t like the look of the shaky smile on Solomon’s face.

“How do you feel about car chases?” he asked.

She sighed and nodded. “Fine. But I’m driving.”

14: May I Have This Dance?

Yeah, I seen him. Hell, I was probably the first to see him, after he changed. I was new at Los Alamos, baby-faced and bored as hell. Who wants to be stuck in the middle of New Mexico when all your friends are off fighting the Japs? But then them Nazi bastards blew up the research lab, and things weren’t so boring anymore. I never knew what those scientists was making there, but I tell you, when Dr Atomic came floating outta that rubble, naked as the day he was born and without a scratch on him, I thought I was seeing an angel. I just couldn’t figure out if it was the Angel of Mercy or the Angel of Death.

—Pvt. Danny Caton, US Army

Morgan sprinted to the vans against a background of flashing lights and a cacophony of sirens. Obsidian and Tinderbox were holding off the first police to respond, giving him and the others time to cross the distance from the shattered TV station entrance. Morgan panted as he ran. His little spectacle with Hayne’s execution had sapped his strength, both physically and emotionally. Perhaps he should have just lopped the man’s head off with his light blade and been done with it.
No, they needed to see. I needed to make them believe.
And he needed to get what he came for. He could still feel Hayne’s innards between his fingers as Morgan had fished through the blood and shit and guts to find an intact hunk of grey, meaty tissue.

His shoes squelched with every step, sweat pooling around his feet. He never relished killing, and that had been a particularly brutal way to kill a man. Even now, over the shouts and coursing fire, Hayne’s screams haunted him. It was the sacrifice he had to make. He touched the vial in his pocket, where the grey tissue now sat.
The sacrifice both of us had to make.

The earth lurched suddenly, and the tortured sound of tearing concrete echoed through the street. He just managed to keep his balance. He made a mental note to ask Obsidian to warn him before she did that. In a glance, he saw that she’d effectively destroyed the street to his right, where most of the police had converged on them. Metahuman Division vehicles toppled over huge cracks in the pavement, and blue-uniformed officers struggled to get to their feet. Tinderbox followed up with a sweeping wave of fire that sent an armed response team scattering. One was too slow, and caught the blast full in the chest. His uniform burst into flame, and he began to scream as his skin turned black.

In response, Morgan’s head pounded in agony, but he forced it away, locking the pain deep inside himself. The black splotch that clouded his vision prevented him from seeing more of the carnage, for which he was thankful. He tore his gaze away from the fight and saw that he had reached the vans. With a leap, he pulled himself into the passenger side of the main van and slammed the door behind him. The driver had already started the engine, and as the other metas piled into the back, he shifted into first and peeled away, tyres screeching.

Morgan pressed his gloved palm to his forehead to try to massage the pain away. It had gone well. No casualties so far. He didn’t anticipate serious issues from the police. The city only owned two helicopters and a handful of dirigibles, and they were so out of practice dealing with a major attack the response would be slow. The scrambling device Navigatron had developed would keep the kill-switches from being activated in those of his people who had them. And the surprise he’d left at the television studio would buy him more time.

He wound down the window and let the wind whip his hair. An adjustment of the side mirror showed the other vans racing behind him.

He checked his watch. Armed response teams should be storming the TV studio any second to secure it and confirm the safety of the hostages. He didn’t anticipate police air support for another three or four minutes. Perhaps he’d encounter a roadblock or two, and some police would try to pursue him, but they were no concern on their own.

Right on cue, a blast of pale blue light lit up the night sky in his mirror, exploding out of the windows of the TV studio. Perfect. The detonator hidden in the base of Hayne’s cage contained an odourless gas that caused rapid onset abdominal cramps, nausea, and vomiting. In addition, he’d developed a device that would release a field of virtual particles that would trigger the police’s radiation detectors. In a few minutes, everyone in the building would be heaving the contents of their stomachs onto those nice tile floors. It wouldn’t be long before the entire place was locked down for fear of acute radiation poisoning. A good twenty per cent of the Metahuman Division’s elite troops would soon be out of commission for the next few days. And while everyone was imagining a horrible impending death, Morgan could make his escape.

Despite the pounding in his skull and Hayne’s screams weighing on his conscience, a warm glow suffused him.
This is right,
he thought.
One day, they’ll understand.
The world knew him now. True, all they heard was some hogwash about freeing supercriminals, but he had to keep up appearances. Frank Oppenheimer was the true target. Morgan would get the supercriminals one way or another, but Frank was going to be more difficult to flush out. Perhaps the challenge he’d issued really would inspire the great Omegaman to throw off his civilian trappings and come face him. Now that would be interesting.

His earpiece crackled. “Screecher reports two helicopters inbound, my lord,” came Obsidian’s voice through the static.

“Thank you,” he said. “Proceed as planned.”

The radio hissed twice in an affirmative response, and then the static vanished. A few seconds later, he caught the thrub-thrub of helicopter rotors in the distance, and a pair of spotlights flashed in his mirror, lighting up the street around him. He could hear police cars drawing closer.

He watched in the mirror as the middle van in his convoy threw open its back doors. He could picture Haze drawing in a deep breath. Thick black smoke suddenly poured from the van, weaving into the sky. Within twenty seconds, the twin helicopters were blocked from his view, and the flickering glow of their spotlights reflecting off the smog was the only thing that remained. Haze would probably need to sleep for a week after this, but he’d seemed eager to do it.

The thumping of the helicopter rotors grew louder. Smoke began to swirl and part as the choppers moved in closer to keep a visual on Morgan’s vans.

He watched them approach, and smiled.
Too close.

Barely shadows against the thick smog, Devil Wing and Black Moth shot out of their respective vans and soared upwards. Behind each of them, Morgan could just make out a thick braided cable glinting in the spotlights. One of the helicopters saw Black Moth approaching and tried to evade, but it was too slow. Devil Wing swooped up and grabbed the landing skid of the left helicopter, while Black Moth took the right. Morgan caught a glimpse of each of them clamping the wire to the helicopters before they dropped back down and glided through the smog to their vans.

One of the helicopters tried to swerve away, and the wire connecting it to the van went taut. The van jerked, but held its course. Struggling would do the police helicopters no good.

A blast of sand flew from the van and collided with the windscreen of the helicopter on the left. Blinded, it tilted wildly. At the same time, a cone of fire shot just to the right of the other helicopter. The panicked pilot swung away from the flame, struggling against the wire.

As far as Morgan could tell, they never even noticed each other until the two helicopters collided. The night was filled with the screeching of agonised metal and the sputtering of rotor engines still struggling to work.

Morgan didn’t have to prompt his people to release the cables. The two helicopters crashed to the ground, spouting flame. One smashed through some suburbanite’s house. A trio of police cars screeched to a halt behind the wreckage, one of them clipping a tail rotor and taking out a postbox. Morgan’s convoy raced on.

Sighing, he sat back and pulled out a couple of pill bottles.
Perfect
, he thought. Their road should be clear the rest of the way. He swallowed down four pills: two for the seizures and two for the headaches.
It’s going to work. I’m going to do this.
A flutter of relieved laughter built in his lungs.

He picked up the radio handpiece that connected him to the other vehicles and depressed the button. “Outstanding work, everyone. You can all be proud. When we get—”

Something dark hurtled towards the van. Morgan’s breath caught.

“Shit!” the driver yelled, and he tugged hard on the steering wheel.

Time slowed. The van lurched to the side, pressing Morgan against his seat. The huge brown object flew past, scraping the bonnet of the van and missing the windscreen by inches. The van’s tyres squealed and the driver kept up a stream of nonsensical screams as he tried to maintain control of the vehicle.

“Was that a tree?” the driver yelled. “Was that a
flying tree
?”

Morgan’s headache flared. He grabbed the side mirror and angled it in time to see the tree turn in mid-air and collide with the side of the van directly behind him. The body of the van crumpled, and the whole vehicle went into a squealing spin. The road filled with the smoke of burning rubber.

The next van in line managed to swerve around the wreck and continue on, but then the tree started to shake itself loose. Like a guided missile, it took off and cut through the air root-first, clipping another of his vans.
What in God’s name is going on?

His driver fought the van until it was back under control, but he was pale and sweating. “Fuck! What was that? Fuck!”

“Silence,” Morgan said. He swivelled in the seat, trying to locate the source of the tree.

He didn’t have to wait long. An old-fashioned two-door Ford sedan tore out of a side street and came skidding into line between his van and the one behind. A purple flame lit up the road behind it. A rocket engine. That was no police car.

A figure leaned out the passenger side, arms outstretched, cloak flapping. A snapping sound came over the whistling of the wind, and a tree branch hurtled at Morgan’s van. His driver shouted and attempted to swerve, but the branch hit, smashing one of the headlights.

Metas already. Oh yes, this was getting very interesting. It was a telekinetic. Something squealed behind him, and he caught a glimpse of the tree battering another of his vans in the mirror. Not just a telekinetic. A telekinetic with a preference for wood.
The Carpenter.