Turbulence (7 page)

“I’m still not convinced that’s because I have superpowers. It’s not a very nice thing to think,” Uzma says. She turns to Aman again. “Well, now that you’ve told me this, what do you want? What’s the plan?”

“We want to form a real-world Justice League — of India,” Aman says.

“I’m British. My parents are Pakistani,” Uzma replies.

“I know. I was kidding.”

“Well, stop. Why did you bring me here? How did you find me?”

“Finding you was easy enough. Powers.”

“I don’t get it.”

“My powers are more than a free internet connection. The whole cyber-security thing — it doesn’t really apply to me. I can go backstage on any site. Nobody asks me for passwords. If your computer or phone is on, and connected, I can see everything on it. I just have to ask nicely.”

“You have really creepy powers, don’t you?”

“I haven’t been reading your email, if that’s what you’re worrying about. But, yes, when I found out what was going on I went to the British Airways system and took out the list of people who were on that flight. Wiped information from credit card records, visa agencies, everything I could think of. And then I poked around in a lot of other places. And I wasn’t the only one. The police didn’t just come after us. They were sent after everyone on that flight. Someone found out what happened. I’m just — faster at getting numbers, jumping from system to system. I’ve been learning.”

“You messed with my records?”

“Don’t get mad at him,” Tia says. “The truth is, we’re all in danger. A lot of the people on that flight are dead or missing. He’s been trying to get in touch with everyone. I know we seem like a bunch of clowns, but people like us are disappearing. Or dying, like the Iyers we just saw on TV. It makes sense to get together, then, doesn’t it?”

Aman and Tia wait as Uzma digests this.

“Plainclothes policemen went to my parents’ house,” she says finally, her hands shaking slightly. “Are they in danger?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so,” Aman says. “They know you didn’t leave India, and they don’t know where you are, so I don’t think there’s any immediate threat. The people who visited your parents weren’t policemen, anyway — probably
private detectives hired to find out if you’d left the country. Whoever’s looking for us can’t afford to go public — they don’t want the British authorities looking for them. The Brits don’t know about this yet. No one on that flight was allowed to leave the country after the investigations kicked in, which was two days after we reached Delhi. Twenty-four people were on transfer flights or left India within a day. Someone hunted them down. Killed each and every one of them. All over the world, from Hong Kong to Toronto.”

“What should I do? Should I warn my parents? Should they talk to the police?” Uzma asks.

“I really think it’s best we lie low as much as possible for now,” Aman says. “We really don’t want them — whoever they are — to know where you live. If this news explodes all over the world — and I could make that happen — it hurts them, but it doesn’t help us. I’ve pretty much changed all the data they had on anyone on that plane. I did this as soon as I found out people were dying. Right now, a lot of the information on the passengers on the flight has been changed to Britney Spears lyrics. There are multiple lists floating around, mostly with fake addresses, dead people, criminals. But someone must have printed hard copies of the original list at some point. Now they’re not keeping anything online, or on computers at all. They’ve also switched phones.”

“Hang on. ‘They’?”

“Whoever ‘they’ are, they’re not the government,” Aman explains. “This operation’s being run by a few people, probably Indian, high up enough in the military or the government to arm-twist other people into organising a large police operation, but it’s all very hush-hush. The police thought they
were looking for terrorists who were carrying some sort of biological weapon. Lots of people are lying to lots of other people. And there are limits to how much I can find out — sometimes, I just don’t know where to look.

“There were a few politicians, a few government officials and a couple of Air Force officers on the flight. Of the 403 people on the plane, at least a hundred were cleared by the tests — they couldn’t find anything abnormal about them. I’ve been attacking their records fairly consistently wherever I can find them, so it’s safe to assume they’ve simply lost track of a lot of these people. A few of the others are fairly rich, some are famous — they might have bought their way out of trouble, or they haven’t been attacked because they’re well-protected, or because it would bring more attention than they’re ready for now. But the rest of us won’t get off that easy.”

“What about the people who weren’t cleared by the tests? What was wrong with them?”

“Maybe their powers were visible. I don’t know. Also, the ones who got cleared were all Indian — except you and a few other people of South Asian descent, all of whom were visiting family here. All the other British people, all the passengers from other countries — all gone. They’ve been taken away. There’s not been any outcry in the press abroad, so there must have been some kind of cover story. High-level officials, nothing put down on email, I don’t know. There are no records of where they all are now, but I think they’re being held in Kashmir, somewhere near the Air Force base in Udhampur. The Air Force officers are both involved. But one of them, Vir Singh, was sent off on a suicide mission by whoever’s running the show. He’s the key to finding out more.”

“It’s very worrying,” Tia says. “These people could be anywhere, doing anything — not just these military types hunting powered people down, but also random passengers with dangerous powers hiding from them. And India’s such a big country, there are so many people, so many languages, that even if something really bad happens it could be a while before anything gets into the press.”

Uzma gapes. “And so there are superheroes and supervillains having fights around the world? Like in the movies? People are going to blow up the Earth and all that?”

“Well, I hope not,” Aman says.

“But there are people who could? Someone has that kind of power?”

“Unlikely. See, the thing is, no one got asked what powers they wanted. They got given the powers that whoever — or whatever — gave us these powers thought they wanted. If we’d had to fill in a form, we’d all have been all-powerful, all-knowing, magic-using immortals. We’d have taken the cool superpowers, not the kind of B-level hero powers we have. So unless there was some lunatic on board who dreamt of being a god or destroying the universe… who knows? How many people like that fly British Airways?”

Tia grins. “I’m sure there were lots of people who got off that plane and found, a few days later, that they had perfect abs, or a new handbag, or that the person they wanted was suddenly crazy about them. More money, a baby, a house, a better job, less traffic. We were lucky.”

“I just wish there were people who’d wanted, you know, new things,” Aman says.

“Meaning?” Uzma asks.

“Meaning, our powers would have been a lot more interesting if we’d been super-genius types. We aren’t visionary thinkers or anything like that. The powers we have — just look online and you’ll find at least two superheroes who have the same powers. That’s what the comics writers came up with — and they come up with this stuff ten times a week. I don’t know about you, but I feel terrible that we have such — predictable powers. Apart from Bob and Sundar, who really don’t think like the rest of us, we’ve got very functional, very sidekick-y, very mass-media powers. Product-of-the-system powers. Do you know how many internet-using superheroes there are? And I thought I was so different…”

“Aman. Aman, darling? You’re rambling again,” Tia says gently. “Tell Uzma things she needs to know, not things you could blog about. Uzma?”

“Do you have any idea how we got these powers?” Uzma asks.

“None whatsoever. Aliens, wizards, gods, transhumanists, evolutionary accident, virus, secret societies, Republicans, Apple designers — you take your pick. We don’t know how, where, what or why — or whether this has happened before. I have theories, but they’re all very geeky theories. You want to hear them?”

“No,” Tia says firmly. “Not tonight, at least. Aman, like I keep telling you, it doesn’t matter
how
we got our powers; whether we’re the next stage in human evolution or not. When the first fish crawled out of the sea, they didn’t start writing PhDs about it. They figured out how to survive, instead.”

“Amphibians.”

“Enough.”

Uzma leans back in her chair.

“It’s a lot to take in, I know,” Tia says.

Another Tia enters the room.

“I took care of the Bob situation, if anyone wants to know,” she announces. “It’s actually quite cold outside now.” She notices Uzma. “What happened to you?”

“Aman told her everything,” other-Tia says.

“And she didn’t faint? We fainted.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Uzma says. “I came here with so many ambitions. I’m going to be an actress — how do I do that if there are people trying to kill me?”

“Well, they don’t know what you look like, if that helps,” Aman says. “And thanks to the magic of me, they’re not even sure what your name is — I gave them a lot of alternatives. But, yeah, we’ve got to get a plan together — find out exactly what we can do with this. With our, ahem, superpowers.”

“A plan. You have a plan?” Uzma asks.

“More like a mission statement. Essentially, we keep ourselves safe, find other people with powers, and then we make the world a better place. People will try to stop us, we find out who they are, find good people on their side, and find ways to beat them. This whole secret-base-in-Kashmir thing is all very well, we need to stay on top of that or we will probably get killed, but that’s not what interests me.”

“That’s good to know. What does interest you?”

“Powers. Using them. Fixing the world. If we have to run around avoiding superpowered murderers, we will. But that’s not what we’re here for.”

“Right. Well, my answer is no. I’m not going to be a superhero,” Uzma says. “So if you’re planning some sort of
team costumed avengers thing, just count me out.”

“No costumes.”

“I don’t care. Count me out.”

“But-”

“No, Aman. I don’t know you at all. I don’t know if you’re telling the truth — I think you are, but this is all so weird! I came here — see, I have a plan too. A plan for my life. Powers or no powers, that’s who I am. I don’t want to be Everybody-Likes-Me-Girl, part of your World-Changing-Super-Squad. I don’t want to change the world. I think it’s fine the way it is. These powers suddenly arrive — and what if they suddenly leave? I can’t turn my life upside down for this.”

“I don’t think you have a choice,” Aman says. “Yes, these powers change everything. Yes, they might go away tomorrow. It’s all the more crucial, then, that we do the most we can with what we’ve been given in the time we have. These powers came as answers to our dreams. Tomorrow, they’ll just be technology. Like Jules Verne thinking about going to the moon —”

“Aman, focus,” Tia says.

“Sorry. Uzma, all we have is a head start, and we have to find out how to use it best. There are thousands of Bollywood actresses. There’s only one you.”

Uzma stands as if she is about to walk out that very minute.

“This is ridiculous! How do I make this clear to you? I’m not going to be a superhero!”

“We’re not asking you to do anything,” Tia says. “But you needed to know this, didn’t you? If you still think you should leave, of course you’re free to leave — though we all hope you’ll stay, because we like you very much. Obviously.”

“I just wish — I wish someone had asked me before giving me
superpowers, you know? I didn’t want this!”

“It’s all going to be all right,” Tia says as Uzma fights back tears with great ferocity. “Don’t be afraid. We’ll help. We’re all just trying to figure out what to do. Aman’s trying to sort things out his way, but you can just ignore him. This is really the kind of thing we should spend a few years thinking about — but we might not have any time.”

Uzma looks around the room, at Aman staring intently at her, at the Tias’ melting eyes, at Sundar, completely oblivious to all the drama, wielding a screwdriver like an orchestra conductor’s baton. She nods quickly, sharply, not wanting to think.

“I’d like to stick around for a while, if you don’t mind,” she says. “But I don’t think I can help you.”

“Aman, it’s been a terribly long night, Uzma’s just had her world turned around, and we’ve talked for far too long. Now everybody get up, go straight to bed and sleep through tomorrow, and that’s an order,” Tia says.

“Sure. Uzma, just — think about what I said, okay? And, Tia? You need to be up by lunchtime,” Aman says.

“Why?”

“Because Superman flew into town this evening. And we’re meeting him for lunch tomorrow.”

If Vir had asked a passing bird above the AQ Khan nuclear facility for directions to Coffee Day, Carter Road, Pali Hill (assuming that this bird spoke English and knew its way around the hip coffee joints in Mumbai), he would have been told: “Fly straight to the Arabian Sea — pick up some mutton kebabs and beef samosas in Karachi, they’re super — and then keep going until you see Mumbai, take a left, and ask someone. Everyone knows the place.”

Lacking this helpful advice, and seeking to avoid unwanted flying-man spotters, Vir has taken a very roundabout route, involving Tajikistan, China, Nepal, Uttar Pradesh and a long journey on the Rajdhani Express from Delhi in a six-person compartment with a garrulous and unfortunately flatulent family. Like most fighter pilots, Vir loves trains — the constant irritation of sitting in a plane controlled by bungling civilians is usually too much to take — but ever since his powers arrived,
anything but the open sky has felt cramped and claustrophobic. He had to exercise all his self-restraint not to simply tear the train apart and take to the sky. It’s good for him to be here now, right next to the open sea.

Summer has Mumbai firmly in its squelchy grasp, but this cafe is always full in the evenings, teeming hordes of fashionably dressed young people having their last coherent conversations of the day, all constantly scanning the cafe to see who else is in there that they know. Outside, muscular young men roar up and down Carter Road on their motorbikes in silencer-less mating displays, occasionally pausing by the cafe to have hey-dude conversations with other customised-motorcycle enthusiasts.