Don't Be a Hero: A Superhero Novel (43 page)

Those eyes.
It fell into place. “You actually want to be hated, don’t you? That’s what this is all about. That’s why you did those things to Sam. You want him to be a threat to the world.”

“And why would I do that?”

She chewed her lip. Her arm was growing tired, but she kept it outstretched, the gun aimed at the spot between Quanta’s eyes. How had he attracted so many followers with this madness? Were there that many metas out there who just wanted to bring pain? No, that wasn’t it. Avin, Screecher, they weren’t psychopaths. Heroes for Freedom had been radical, but they were no terrorists.

Heroes for Freedom. That was it. She met Quanta’s eyes, and his grin widened. Had there really once been an innocent boy behind that mask?

“You want to create a threat that the normals can’t handle on their own,” she said slowly. She didn’t want to believe it, but as she said the words, she knew they were true. “That’s why you hit the TV station, and why you publicly executed Iron Justice. You needed everyone to see, both normals and metas. By making Sam what he is, you wanted to create a threat that only metas could defeat.” Her palms were slick with sweat. “You mean to bring back the superhero.”

He beamed at her. Bloody hell, she felt sick. All this, all these people dead, was a ploy designed to convince the world that they needed superheroes to protect them.
Christ, the blood’s on my hands now as well. It’s on every meta’s hands. This bastard has painted it there.

“People like us protected the world for two decades, Spook.” His voice was calm and maddeningly cheery. Wallace’s eyes widened as the blade drifted back towards his throat. “But those heroes were too good. They locked up almost every supercriminal. They pushed the world back from nuclear war. They worked their way right out of a job. And when the doomsday threats came fewer and farther between, the normals started to forget. They got concerned that we were going to steal their jobs, or turn rogue. Their love for us turned to fear. And the hero forgot who he was. So be it. I’ll use that fear.”

“The reporter was right,” she said. “You really do fancy yourself a god.”

“If gods exist, we’re not them,” Quanta said. “Metas aren’t superior to the normals. I don’t mean to rule anything. But I will not stand by while everything we stand for is forgotten.”

“How noble,” she said, letting her words drip with sarcasm. “But this plan’s a bit crude, isn’t it? You really think you’re saving metas by doing this?”

“This is real life, Spook. Sometimes crude works better than elaborate schemes.” His face twitched. She noticed for the first time the lines running down his face, the strain in his neck.

She shook her head.
He’s mad
. “You’ve just made things a million times worse. Every life you take is another reason for them to hate us. You’ve doomed us all, Morgan.”

“No. I’ll take all the hate on me. Me and Sam, we’ll be the pariahs. The world will see how much they need their heroes. Why do you think I chose to do this here in Neo-Auckland?”

“Because Wallace is here. You wanted to show him what you could do.”

Quanta shook his head. “He was the reason I had the original idea, but there’s more to it than that. Since the bomb hit, New Zealand has always had one of the highest metahuman densities in the world. Only Japan and Poland are greater. Combine that with your country’s pitiful excuse for a military, and….” He shrugged. “It’s a perfect site to wreak havoc. The normals stand no chance here without heroes to defend them.”

He stood slowly and met her eyes.

“There’s just one thing I need you to do for me,” he said.

“You really think I’ll help you?”

He laughed again. “Spook, Spook.” He shook his head, chuckling to himself. “Tell me, what do you believe?”

“What?”

“Do you believe in goodness? Kindness? Do you believe that some things are self-evidently right? Do you believe that there are bad people who will hurt others? Kill them? Torture them? Do you believe those people need to be stopped, no matter the risk to yourself?”

Solomon’s voice came to her, so clear he could be standing right next to her.
There’s still good, mate, and there’s still things we have to stand up for.

“Yes,” she said.

Quanta smiled. “Then I’ll see you on the battlefield, hero. Let’s put on a good show.”

Light flashed from his body, so bright it overwhelmed her goggles. Blind, she threw herself behind the cover of the couch, her ears tuned to threats. Something smashed. Glass. Then Wallace’s grunts were the only noise in the room.

When she could open her eyes, the bright light was gone. She came up gun drawn, blinking away the afterimage. Quanta had disappeared. The window behind Wallace was broken. She rushed past the cape copper, her boots crunching on broken glass, but when she stuck her head outside, there was no sign of Quanta.

“Shit,” she said, kicking the skirting board. She had the son of a bitch in her sights. She was too knackered for these goddamn goose chases. With a sigh, she shoved her gun back in its holster.

The bastard was slipperier than a trout. She’d known he was dangerous when she saw him on TV, but this was something else. Even if Sam didn’t end up destroying everything, the world’s governments were going to come down harder on metas than they ever had before. It was going to be a bloodbath one way or another.
And with Frank dead, there’s no payday. And no way off this planet
.

She forcefully unclenched her fist, moved in front of Wallace, and crossed her arms. “Are you going to try anything dumb if I untie you?”

By the way he glared at her, she knew he was considering it.

“Bugger it.” She undid his gag.

Wallace spat the wet fabric out of his mouth. “You should’ve shot him,” he growled.

“That’d be vigilantism, wouldn’t it?” She stomped behind him to untie his hands. “Bloody hell, hold still, will you?”

The cape copper stopped wriggling long enough for her to get the ropes off. He worked his shoulders back and forth for a few seconds while he rubbed his wrists, then he went on to untie his legs. He kept his eyes on her the whole time.

She paced around the room while she thought. There were no books in the lounge, but the copper had a collection of Coltrane records on a shelf in the corner. She didn’t take him for a jazz fan.

“Do your colleagues know that you knew who Quanta was the whole time?” she asked.

He got to his feet and shrugged back into his blue tunic. “I didn’t know right away.”

“Yeah?”

“He was wearing a mask.”

She snorted. “That little thing barely covered his eyes. You knew damn well who he was.”

Wallace grunted and said nothing.

She wanted a cigarette, but she wasn’t going to reveal even a small amount of her face to this guy. Instead, she continued her pacing. “He’s going to move, and soon. Are your people ready?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know if you can handle Sam. The boy, he’s strong.”

Wallace shrugged. He hadn’t moved from his spot near the chair. At least he wasn’t going for a gun. “We’ve put down strong freaks before,” he said.

She ignored the jab. “Not like this.” She inspected a framed photo of a brunette woman and a young girl tucked away in the corner. The colours were all turning red. The girl looked a little like the Carpenter’s daughter.

“Maybe…maybe you should call for aid,” she said.

“Aid?”

She untied the pendant hanging from her wrist. “A long time ago, there used to be a special transmitter in the basement of the police headquarters. In case of emergency.”

His eyes hardened. “I won’t play his games.”

“You’re already playing, and you’re losing wickets.” She held out the pendant to him. “This has all the frequencies that were in use in New Zealand. There might still be a few receivers out there. Someone might come.”

“No,” he growled.

“This is no time for your bloody prejudice—”

“This is about the law! This is about order.”

Her hands formed fists inside her pockets. “Law? Is this the law that lets you break up families and kill babies? Fine. Go defend it. I’ll be defending everything else.” She tossed the pendant on the floor at his feet and made for the door.

“Hey,” he yelled. “We’re not done here.” She could hear him stomping after her as she went back through the kitchen.

“I am.”

“The McClellan baby,” he said.

She paused with her hand on the doorknob.

“The baby’s alive,” he said. “Got a kill-switch, but alive. With a foster family in Favona. Good folks.”

Alive. Alive with a goddamn kill-switch. Like that meant something.

“Get your people together, Senior Sergeant, and start getting the civilians to safety. Lie to them. Tell them you’ll keep them safe. They like that.” She slammed the door behind her.

The Border Collie had gone quiet. Niobe’s rope sat coiled on the ground, but the fanged woman had disappeared. Sighing, Niobe shoved the rope back in her utility belt. She pulled up the bottom of her mask, tapped out a Pall Mall, and put it between her lips. The street was so still she could’ve believed that she was the only person left on Earth.

She missed the Carpenter. He’d know where to go from here. Even in defeat, he was always the one pulling them through. He helped push back the Nagasaki Horrors. He fought at her back in a hundred different battles. She tapped the auto-lighter against her head to get it working, then brought it to her cigarette.
You’re all alone now, Spook. Deep down, isn’t that what you always wanted?

Then she looked up and saw the white airship floating above Neo-Auckland, and her muscles froze. Even in this light, she could make out the cannons on each corner of the gondola. A pair of rocket engines flamed orange, bringing the airship in a slow, banking turn towards the centre of the city. The barrels of the cannons began to glow with a blinding yellow light. A second later, a whining sound reverberated through the air.

The cigarette dropped from her lips as she sprinted for the car.

28: Can Anybody Hear Me?

Rigel VII

Real name:

Victor Lorenzen

Powers:

Able to “surf” on streams of light (especially starlight) and use light as an energy source.

Notes:

Although an American by birth, he rarely spent time in the US after he became a metahuman. Lorenzen became known as the “Wandering Star” as he travelled the world, aiding other supergroups when they required help or using his powers to do civilian work. His lifestyle was funded by the licensing fees he was paid for the comic books based on his adventures. Retired following the Seoul Accord. Died in 1965 of testicular cancer.

—Notes on selected metahumans [Entry #0051]

Not for the first time, Morgan wished he could fly. Not if it came with hideous wings, of course, like Avin, but a psychic-based flight would be convenient. It was one of the few things he envied Sam.

He popped the clutch on the rocket bike and zipped past a truck and trailer, the tyres screaming against the road. Driving the contraption with his limited vision was one of the riskier things he’d done today. A bubble of perspex kept the wind and the bugs off his face, but it had a nasty habit of distorting the light from the street lamps as they strobed above him, pulsing in time to his headache. Serpentessa was taking the van back on her own. There was only room for one on the rocket bike. Besides, the woman had been careless to let Spook interrupt him. He would have enjoyed leaving Wallace trussed up in front of the television, watching his city die.

Overhead, Morgan’s airship
Hyperion
continued its slow circuit of the city, ray cannons charging. Navigatron and the skeleton crew could handle the aircraft without any trouble. It looked beautiful against the backdrop of stars.

Morgan glanced down at the flashing dot on the rocket bike display. It pointed to the centre of the city, where the Peace Tower’s needle pierced the sky.
Yes, this would definitely be easier if I could fly
. High-powered rocket-packs were dangerous if you weren’t in an armoured suit, and he found the suits inconvenient and impractical. The needle on the speedometer climbed slowly higher.

The radio piece in his ear crackled. “We await your pleasure, my lord.” Navigatron’s modulated croaking sounded more like one of the Circuit’s robots than a human.

So this was it. The end. Morgan could feel the weight pressing down on him. It shouldn’t have had to be like this. He paused for a moment, then thumbed a button on the handlebars. “Three minutes. Acquire your targets to maximise panic.”

“Understood.” Another crackle, then there was only the sound of the bike’s rocket engine.

The highway swept beneath him. He checked the display again. The dot hadn’t moved. Doll Face had done well, implanting the rendezvous location deep in the boy’s subconscious. He just had to meet with the boy one more time before the end. And up there would be a good spot for the boy to contemplate.