Many of the others hang around trying to get a word in my ear or otherwise mine me for gossip, or in Legion’s case, I think he’s just trying to rub against me. But I push them all aside and lead Portal into Twilight’s once famously-trashed billiards room. It’s hard to imagine this place any more like a whorehouse in the last days of the Raj.
“Portal, what the fuck’s going on?”
“Is it really you?”
“Yes, OK, big fucking shock. I’m Zephyr.”
“No, I mean . . . You didn’t come back from the dead?”
I stare at him a moment. He adjusts his goggles and makes this weird facial expression more like a hand flexing than anything someone’s face would normally do.
“What happened?” I ask him.
I’d like to tell you this is all gentle and nursey-like, but if I am perfectly honest with you, I’m blaming the hormones. My interrogatory tone crumples the guy in an instant.
“When?” Portal barks and sobs.
“With the fucking guys who attacked us while I was portaling out of there. Remember?”
“We lost Lionheart,” Portal says unsolicited. “I don’t know what happened to him. It was chaos. There was one that was just . . . just like a blur. She ripped into us.”
“She?”
“I was the only one who could do anything,” Portal says bleakly and looks up at me from his slump. “I used the portals on them.”
He starts to twitch, then at once his shoulders drop and he starts sobbing.
“I left them in there,” he says and mucus runs like a living thing from his nose.
“In the . . . green space?”
I shrug, not knowing what the hell else to call the interdimensional realm through which we presumably gate to get from one place to another using Portal’s power. The teleporter’s shuddering nods confirm my question.
“I think that’s where they come from,” he says.
“How can you . . . know that?”
“I just know.”
“I don’t think you do. . . .” I say and drift off because I can’t remember if I even know his real-life name.
“Dude,” I say to him as tenderly as I can, “I don’t think you’re thinking that straight.”
“Don’t question me,” he snaps, skittish, though his eyes won’t meet mine. “Hey Portal, this is pretty important,” I say to him.
I stand at my full height, which is pretty close to his.
“Do you have it together, soldier? I’ve always been able to rely on you, no matter how much shit was hitting the fan.”
“Yeah, and I always knew you were Zephyr and had the speed and strength to deal with almost any shit,” he says quite astutely in a deadpan sort of cat-licking voice. “Who is Cusp? God, you do actually have powers, right? It’s not just flight?”
“I’m not Sky Blue,” I snap. “You seem to me like you’re the one in the danger zone. Are you squishy? Gonna flake on me, Portal?”
At least he starts looking a little angry, and with that comes inevitable focus.
“What do you want me to do?” he snorts.
“I’ve got Shade in England mustering a whole posse of British masks,” I say and cross my fingers behind my back, though honestly it is for luck and not because I’m necessarily lying. “We need to go get them, then maybe think about portaling into this ship.”
“Ship?”
“Actually, it’s a sub.”
“A . . . sub?”
“A submarine. Yes? You’ve heard of one of these.”
“I just . . . always think of submarine sandwich.”
“OK, stay with me, Grover. Can you do this?” I ask him.
“To go get your people? Yes. What’s the location?”
I raise my finger and can’t quite fake the smile.
“I’ve got to make a call,” I tell him. “Stand by.”
And thus spoke Zarathustra.
Zephyr 22.11 “Dead Zone”
THE ISLAND HAS its own generator, and the goons show me into their coffee room which might as well be a control center for a CIA hit squad. There’s enough electronics in the area otherwise furnished with ashtrays and self-consciously de rigueur and thus somewhat retro girly posters that I can see why these guys can pull off being armchair critics of the apocalypse – roles they slip into as we start to shoot the shit.
“So, what telecommunications have you got in here?” I ask the tribal elder of the clique, an old dough-faced wop called Benny.
“The boss maintains a hardline uplink preconfigured to withstand anything but cutting the trans-Atlantic cables. We’ve got European net access. US cyberspace pretty much went to shit last week.”
“What, including the . . . Government?”
“Government’s all on the west coast. Sacramento’s the new capital.”
“Why did they choose there?”
“Beats me.”
“So if we still have a Government, how come nobody’s mobilized the military to contain the action here in Atlantic City?” I ask.
“East coast is a dead zone,” says the flirty young guy from earlier.
“So?”
“Civil unrest’s the main reason,” middle-aged Flart tells me (I think it’s a nickname). “There’s meltdowns in almost every city.”
“Starting to look like triage time,” Benny says. “Amputation.”
“And Atlantic City’s the dead limb?” I ask with incredulity.
“Think about Manhattan,” the young flirt says and then blatantly eyes my boobs.
“Who’d a thunk they’d just leave Manhattan to the dogs?” old Benny says. “They fuckin’ did though, mind my language.”
“Yeah,” I say drily. “Mind your fucking mouth, Benny.”
These guys know the deal and gently laugh along as my eyes pick over their equipment and mill through my options and they discreetly eye my assets in return. I don’t think Twilight’s goons got the memo that I’m actually a he, or maybe they just don’t care. Beats banging each other, I imagine.
“The boss doesn’t leave a number for when he goes away?”
The guys chuckle.
“I don’t think they got phones, where he goes,” Benny says.
“Uh-huh,” I curtly reply. “What about close associates? You have a contact book for guys like. . . .”
“Like Zephyr?”
“Well, um, yeah, like him, and any other, you know, superheroes?”
For some reason this makes these guys laugh like clowns. Two more members of the goon squad squeeze in, faces alight wondering what’s so funny. I provide them those answers forthwith.
“Why do you laugh when I say that?” I ask them.
“Yeah mean guys like Zephyr?” Flart asks. “You call them superheroes?”
“Well they have powers and costumes and –”
“That Zephyr’s a fuckin’ a-hole, if you mind my language miss,” Benny interjects with forceful conviction.
“Yeah, he’s an a-grade douchebag, that motherfucker,” Flart agrees.
“Jeez, what’s the beef with Zephyr?” I ask in surprise.
“He your boyfriend or something?” Benny asks, and I know it’s a genuine check.
I fend him off and make a face like I’m being a little bit sick. They laugh along as I sprinkle salt and pepper on my doom.
“He’s always ‘round here whinin’ to the boss,” the young guy says. “One time here he was like, ‘Oh boss, I don’t think I want to live with powers any more’.”
The guys are laughing again, but I throw my scowl to scatter them.
“I doubt Zephyr called him ‘boss’.”
The Mafiosos stop and stare at the young guy like he’s just called the teacher “mom” in class. Then they resume laughing and I silently chalk up another awkward social moment diverted. Never underestimate the common man’s ability to get distracted by ridiculing each other. Cf. Facebook.
I release a pent-up breath and think better about cadging a cigarette as I sit my we
ll-upholstered derriere on one of the swivel seats and swing over to a monitor and keyboard.
“OK, enough with the jabbering,” I snap. “I need to get a phone connection out of here. Can we do that?”
“Sure,” the young flirt says. “But it’s no use talkin’ to the TV. Let me help you out.”
*
SHADE’S TONE IS hesitant, but I’m the one who has to come clean. I make a motion to scare off my entourage and swivel in the chair to progress my privacy.
“Hey, there’s something I have to tell you and I don’t think you’re going to like it,” I say.
“Bloody wonderful. Make it quick.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose, but I didn’t tell you I’m actually Zephyr.”
There’s silence. A pin drops. I forge ahead, hunched with the phone to my ear and glad for once we are on opposite sides of the Atlantic for now.
“When all this madness kicked off, I got hijacked by . . . someone I once thought was a friend. She’d done the same thing to Cusp before me in Afghanistan and I didn’t know. I only just survived with my consciousness intact.”
“And we all know what a loss that would be.”
“I’m sorry.” I pause a moment. “Are you cranky?”
“Jesus, Joe,” Shade answers in full Cockney swing. “I can’t work out if I’m furious or that’s the hottest fuck I never even knew I had.”
“We could try again with full knowledge,” I say and wince, hoping I can pull off my usual cheeky rescue. “You know, after all this is over.”
Shade’s tone suggests she’s ignoring me.
“So when you . . . when Cusp told me you liked me, that was you speaking?”
I hesitate. “I’m not sure exactly what I said, but Jesus . . . Of course I like you. I don’t go putting my willy into just anyone, you know.”
“I thought that’s exactly what you did.”
“Not at all, girlfriend. Sheeeeeet.”
“Don’t mock me, Zephyr. Zephyra.”
“I really don’t want that name to catch on.”
“Don’t tell me this is our little secret, Joe,” Shade drawls with a wise and knowing laugh. “My guess tells me you’re only fessing up ‘cos I was about to find out anyway. Someone gave you up to your teammates, eh?”
“I don’t have teammates.”
“Well I fuckin’ hope you do, mate,” she replies all blustery and unflappable. “You don’t think I’ve got a fuckin’ United Nations of idiots in tights waiting to ride to your rescue?”
“Just tell me you got someone a little better than Gorilla Man.”
“Na, he’s here too,” she laughs.
I can picture her bemused smirk. I soften.
“I didn’t want to deceive you, but then we started drinking, and. . . .”
“And you thought you had a Penthouse Letter in the wings.”
“I think I fucking did,” I laugh.
“Joe, I like you a lot –”
“I like you too –”
“– but you’re a fuckin’ asshole, you know that right?”
There’s more pause.
“What did you say just then?” she asks me.
“Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”
“Who even was that poor girl you’re . . . you’ve become? Bloody hell, Joe. Think about when this story comes out?”
“I’m getting my body back,” I tell her vehemently. “I’m not staying like this. I’ve had bigger knocks to my image than this. I don’t . . . frankly I don’t give a shit anyway.”
At least while I’m saying it, it rings true. Five minutes or a nap later and it all might change. A woman’s allowed to change her mind, right? Jesus. I am so tired.
“If we can rescue civilization from this mess, maybe we can then do something about the tabloids eh?” I say to Shade.
“Yeah. Maybe if people would stop fucking buying them.”
We sign off with a distinct lack of sweet nothings and I exile myself to one of the mansion’s master bedrooms and bunker down under what I think are actual furs and lay there watching rain splatter against the late afternoon window panes. Despite a shower and zombie-eating my way through three meatball heroes, I think for a long while I will be unable to sleep even with a trans-Atlantic flight under my belt.
And then of course I do.
Perhaps it’s just in my dream, but the bad weather builds to a fever pitch and becomes a squally thunderstorm and I am Zephyr again, flying with my aerodynamically-designed carnage-proof chassis like a sleek fighter jet through the night, all the world’s power at my disposal, fists leaking nascent energy, the storm coruscating around me only adding to my powers as the sky flashes and I see the brief silhouettes of church steeples and high rises and disused factories and archaic bridges and burning buildings and multi-storey carparks and abandoned shopping malls and suburban strip malls and the dead hanging from open gallows and public squares dotted with refuse and isolated playgrounds in which dejected corpses lie curled and forgotten, all burnt into my retina as I pass.
I awake with a start somewhere pre-dawn with the chilling knowledge I am lost in time and space and some mad lunatic is at large in the body I was born in and damn me to Hell if I can think of a single thing to do about it.
Right now, it’s just me and the mission.
I get up and rally the troops.
*
THE SUPERHEROES ARISE at what seems like an ungodly hour to most, uncomfortable as pop stars coming home from heroin overdoses in the tepid morning light. Myself, I am briefly lost in the brilliant surrender of the night to early morning as the sunrise breaks like a crystalline rose across the desolate Atlantic, the heat emboldening the day and what limited flora and fauna abound on Twilight’s island not clad in lycra, body armor or Armani.
Nothing is going to ease my concerns about Portal, but he paces warily at the edge of our group which contains myself and Seeker, Sentinel, the Enigma, Mistress Snow and newcomers Syzygy, Golden, and Mr Magnificent. Legion doesn’t make an appearance, informing Seeker hours earlier that he “wouldn’t be accompanying” the mission to Earthsong’s submarine via our London rendezvous with Shade.
My eyes fall on the still shellshocked-looking youngsters Golden and her slightly older boyfriend. The girl in particular has big eyes, self-consciously clutching one arm with her other hand, the intervening forearm seat-belting an impressive bosom. As per her namesake, a metallic sheen glints fetchingly on her skin and inflects or infects even her gossamer hair and caramel eyes. She is as gorgeous as one might expect, and I am momentarily jealous of the young guy beside her until I note what an understated specimen he is, the cat burglar get-up doing nothing to flatter the roided-out Olympic gymnast physique the shaky-looking young twentysomething wears like casual clothes as he folds himself in behind his girlfriend and looks nervously to me.
“What do you do?” I ask him.
“Powers?” He screws up his face when I nod. “It’s not exactly like that.”
“How strong?”
“I can get up to a ton.”
“Is that all? What about resistance? Invulnerability?”
“Uh, the registration guys said I was class two resistance.”
“Sheesh,” I say a little unkindly (can’t maintain this empathy shit for long) and contemplate the low rating. Zephyr is about class six and Cusp would figure at about three or four.
“I’m a superhuman,” Mr Magnificent says sulkily. “I’m a super-human. Literally.”
“I’m not sure that’s literally,” Seeker says, wading in from one side.
“I think it is literally literally,” I answer in frustration. “He is actually just a super-version of an ordinary fucking person.”
Seeker and I lock eyes a moment and she click-clacks away.
I look back to see the aforementioned Mr Magnificent blanching under the mask at my unkind and fairly unladylike analysis, lathered in honesty so brutal it’s enough to make your asshole soapy just thinking about it.
>
“Hey,” the young guy says. “Up until this whole thing, you know, I was a neighborhood crime-fighter in what we still call Baltimore. That’s it, you understand? I’m sorry I’m not impressive enough for you.”
“I’m sorry kid,” I say wearily. “These days, just being superhuman isn’t enough.”
Looking definitely not-so-magnificent, the youngster hangs his head. His girlfriend closes ranks, plucky despite the confused gaze.
“We’re not going to let you down, Zephyr,” Golden says.
There’s a steeliness amid her determination I will soon learn is almost entirely feigned. Instead, I nod, as accepting as any other idiot as I lead everyone into another chance to get killed.
Zephyr 22.12 (Coda)
OF COURSE IT is mid-afternoon in London. We file out upon the apportioned rooftop, Portal to one side, rapidly muttering to himself under breath as my brethren emerge into the weak London daylight.
Shade awaits with a depressingly small cadre of UK masks. There’s surprise to see Lionheart among Shade’s recruits, and he and Mistress Snow and Enigma get re-acquainted with apparent genuine camaraderie I realize doesn’t include me. Also strutting out to meet us is a likely-looking bloke in 1940s-style superhero attire, a silver screen haircut to compliment his blonde flying ace good looks.
He points irreverently to the huddle around Mistress Snow.
“Is she that broad that used to bang all those chaps from the Rat Pack?”
“No,” I say. “She’s that broad who used to bang all those chaps from the Rat Pack.”
“Hey, screw you,” Mistress Snow snaps and then whirls to glare at the Englishman incensed. “How old do you think I am?”
“Don’t answer that question,” I hastily interject.
“Screw you, ‘Cusp’,” Mistress Snow snaps. “I used to be one of the Supremes.”
“Yeah,” the guy smirks. “The white one.”
“Those black bitches weren’t excluding me just because of my race. Fuck them,” the older woman says.
Most of the decent human beings among us shake their heads at this remark and I eye the newcomer myself and ask, “Who the flip are you, anyway?”
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