Don't Be a Hero: A Superhero Novel

by Chris Strange

  It had never been a problem before. She loved spending the afternoons reading on the couch while Gabby rested her head in Niobe’s lap, puzzling over some new gadget. Niobe could run her fingers through the tight curls of Gabby’s hair, and she’d be content. They loved each other, and that was enough. But now….

  “Do you love your wife, Carpenter?” she asked.

  He shot her a quick look. “Yeah. ’Course I do.”

  “How much?”

  “More than anything.”

  “How do you know?” she asked.

  “Because if I had to choose between letting her die and setting the world on fire, I’d be reaching for the matches. What’s gotten into you?”

  She didn’t say anything for a while. Damn it. Why did all this have to be so difficult?

  “You sure we have to go to my place?” she said.

  “You got a better idea?”

  She didn’t. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Solomon. It was just that the fewer details people knew about her, the safer they all were. And she had to keep Gabby safe. She had to.

  “You can’t keep pushing your friends away forever, mate,” the Carpenter said.

  Oh, bugger it.

  “Fine.” Her chest grew tight as she said the word. “Just don’t touch my stuff.”

  All quiet on the home front. If Met Div were conducting investigations in the Old City like the radio claimed, they were in another neighbourhood. Niobe parked the car in the apartment building’s basement.

  Solomon whistled as he stared around at the basement. “So this is where the Silver Scarab does her thing.”

  Gabby had converted the basement into a workshop that resembled a mad scientist’s laboratory. Strange, misshapen tools lay in neatly ordered racks around the room. In one corner, a blue light shone through a porthole in a box-shaped machine that hummed to itself. A clipboard covered in figures and scatter plots hung next to it. Everything was squared away so neatly it almost hurt Niobe’s brain to come down here.

  “This is it,” she said, tucking the files from Met Div under one arm. “Though I wouldn’t go calling her that.”

  “Huh?” He was peering at something that resembled a harpoon gun with a loop of cable running from the spear to a metal coil the size of her thigh. “Oh, right. Not the Silver Scarab anymore. Gotcha.”

  They took the stairs up. Gabby must’ve fixed the door to the apartment. Niobe put the key in the lock, then paused and held out the files to Solomon.

  “Maybe you should hang back for a couple of minutes. I’ll make sure it’s okay with Gabby first.” Gabby and Solomon had never met, and Niobe wasn’t sure how she’d react to having a stranger in the apartment.

  “Sure.” He slung the bag containing his costume over his shoulder, took the folders, then strolled back and leaned against the wall near the stairwell. He fished a dried plum from some hidden pocket, popped it in his mouth, and grinned at her. Shaking her head, she opened the door.

  There was a flash of frizzy blond hair. Before Niobe could react, her cheek blazed with fire. Her head snapped around, and a brief flash of animal anger went through her.

  She caught Gabby’s wrist before the second slap landed.

  Gabby’s face was wild. She wrenched her hand free, and Niobe involuntarily took a step back.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Niobe asked. She put a hand to her cheek to soothe the heat. She should’ve left the mask on.

  —No, Gabby signed, what are you doing? You said you’d be home last night.

  “I was working,” she said, signing as she spoke.

  She tried to slip past Gabby. A hand grabbed her by arm and spun her back.

  —Don’t, Gabby signed, releasing her arm. Don’t brush me off like that. I saw the TV. You were out there in the middle of all that, weren’t you?

  “Gabby—”

  —Weren’t you? Her finger pointed jerkily, and Niobe realised her hand was trembling.

  She hesitated. She was caught. “Yes,” she said finally.

  Gabby slammed the door and stormed away from her. Niobe wanted to talk to her, call her back, but it was useless. Gabby always dominated their arguments like this. You couldn’t argue with the back of a deaf person’s head.

  Damn it, what did Gabby want from her? She got upset when Niobe went out on jobs, so Niobe tried to keep work separate from their home life. But that just seemed to upset Gabby even more.

  Niobe stayed rooted to the floor and watched as Gabby stalked across the room, her shoulders rising and falling with barely suppressed anger. Or maybe she was just fighting back tears. From her spot near the door, Niobe could see Quanta’s picture plastered across the early edition newspaper sitting on the table. The picture did nothing to convey the fire she’d seen in his eyes when he’d leapt onto their car.

  She was still frantically trying to prepare her counter-arguments when Gabby turned and flew back towards her.

  —You said it was safe. You said it was an easy job.

  Niobe had to make her understand.

  —I did it for us, she tried.

  —I felt the car getting damaged. Gabby touched her forehead. I felt the gun being used. You were fighting.

  Bloody hell, she hadn’t thought of that. Gabby was a gadgeteer. She retained a form of psychic link with her creations. Of course she’d know what Niobe had been getting up to.

  —Look, I’m sorry, Niobe signed desperately. The car’s not in bad shape, you can—

  —I don’t give a damn about the fucking car! Gabby’s arms moved furiously. That maniac had dozens of metas with him. I watched the news all night, waiting for them to find your body.

  —I’m fine. She tried to smile reassuringly.

  Gabby pointed to Niobe’s cheek, where Avin’s claws had raked her.

  —Then what’s that?

  Niobe opened her mouth to defend herself, but the door creaked open and Solomon’s face appeared. “Uh…you guys okay?”

  Gabby followed Niobe’s gaze and started.

  “Ah, damn,” Niobe said. “Solomon, this is Gabrielle.” She caught Gabby’s eye and signed to her while she spoke. “Gabby, Solomon.”

  Solomon grinned and nodded to her as he slipped inside. Gabby waved back. I thought she’d be more nervous, Niobe thought. But she looked more embarrassed that anything. Embarrassed that he’d seen them arguing.

  —You don’t mind him being here for a while? Niobe signed.

  Creases formed between Gabby’s eyebrows.

  —Why would I mind? You’re the paranoid one.

  —But I thought…. She let her hands drop. She couldn’t work Gabby out.

  The sharp corners were going out of Gabby’s face, but the pain was still there. Niobe’s heart sat heavy in her chest. She bit her lip.

  “Maybe you should go get started on those files,” she said to Solomon. “We’ll just be a second.”

  He nodded and took the hint, retreating to the kitchen table. Trying to ignore the look on Gabby’s face, she led her to the bedroom and closed the door.

  —You’re still working, Gabby signed. Her movements were small, resigned.

  —There’s a kid out there somewhere, she signed. This Quanta bastard’s got his hands on him, and he’s got something dark planned, I know it. We’re trying to get him back before that happens.

  Gabby studied her face, her grey eyes locked on Niobe’s.

  —What’s his name?

  —Sam. He’s only thirteen.

  —What did he do? Gabby signed. Why does Quanta want him?

  —It’s a ‘sins of the father’ situation.

  Gabby didn’t drop her gaze. Niobe tried not to squirm. How was it this woman always made her feel like a bloody schoolgirl being reprimanded?

  —There’s more, isn’t there? Gabby signed.

  Niobe sighed. No point holding anything back now.

  —Cash. Lots of it up for grabs. No, don’t look at me like that. It’s enough to get us out of here. It’s enough to get us a
ticket on a lunar rocket.

  A pause. Gabby’s face went through emotions like someone flicking television channels. Niobe held her breath and waited to see which one Gabby would land on.

  She was ready for the slap this time, but it still stung like all buggery.

  —You knew, Gabby signed. You knew right from the start how dangerous this would be. That much money. And you know the worst thing? You didn’t even discuss it with me. You promised you’d talk about this, but you didn’t. You were too busy playing private fucking detective.

  She started to storm away, and Niobe threw out her arms and tried to pull her into a desperate hug. It didn’t work. Gabby pulled away and made for the door. There were tears on her eyes.

  Niobe made one more grab for her, pulling her around to face her. “Where are you going?”

  —To fix your car. I’ll leave the dynamic duo to do their bloody work in peace.

  Gabby slammed the bedroom door as she left.

  18: Ladies and Gentlemen, May I Have Your Attention?

  Protos

  Real name:

  Neil Finlay

  Powers:

  Manipulation of gravity.

  Notes:

  Amongst the most technologically gifted of the Manhattan Eight. The explosion at Los Alamos damaged his larynx, forcing him to rely on an electronic voice modulator to speak. Piloted the Eight’s rocket-plane and submarine. Died of undisclosed causes in 1951.

  —Notes on selected metahumans [Entry #0005]

  Morgan lashed out, sending the neat stack of typewritten pages billowing across the table. “What is this?”

  John lurched backwards and bumped into the used mattress they’d set up for him in the corner of the tiny office. “I…I don’t….”

  Morgan snatched a handful of papers up and thrust the crumpled wad under the reporter’s nose. The portly man’s eyes darted to the door, but Obsidian stood there with her arms across her black stone chest, blocking the way.

  “I told you to read what I gave you and write your story,” Morgan said. His head throbbed in time with his pulse.

  The reporter bobbed his head. “I…I did. My lord,” he added quickly.

  “And you understood nothing! Look at this rubbish. ‘Neurotic’. ‘Sadistic’. ‘Vain’.” He looked up from the paper, and John withered beneath his stare. “Vain? This sounds like a psychiatrist’s report. Are you a head-shrinker, John?”

  “No…you didn’t say…I’m a reporter, you just told me to write the truth.”

  Morgan balled his hands into fists. Again and again pain flashed through his head. It took all his willpower to keep himself from forming a blade and separating the reporter’s idiotic head from the rest of his worthless body. How could the man be so blind?

  “You were supposed to understand,” he said through gritted teeth. “You were supposed to make them understand.” His finger stabbed north, towards the city. “You were supposed to help pick up the pieces when this is all done. If you cannot, I have no use for you.”

  He turned away and tossed the papers to the floor, along with the rest of the rubbish. Everything was too close for it to fall apart now. He massaged his pounding forehead and glanced at Obsidian.

  Damn this fool. “Obsidian, take care of John.” He paused. “Do it clean.”

  A low, desperate moan left the reporter’s throat. Obsidian nodded and stepped aside as Morgan made to leave.

  “No, wait,” John said. “I can still do this.” Morgan heard Obsidian hauling the man to his feet by his collar. “My lord!”

  Morgan was beginning to hate that title. He stepped into the hallway.

  “Come on,” Obsidian said to the reporter.

  “Quanta!” John yelled. Morgan shut his eyes, and then the door.

  “You still need me! Morgan!”

  His hand froze on the door handle. A memory exploded into life inside his head, a vision of tears and blood and a woman screaming his name. He forced it down. The fires in his head blazed all the stronger.

  A muffled scream came from inside the room. The damn fool.

  He threw open the door again. “Release him.”

  Obsidian’s rock face almost managed to look confused, but she dutifully released John from the headlock she held him in and stepped back.

  “You have one chance to save yourself. Or I let her start again.”

  The reporter clutched his throat, coughing. Morgan waited. Finally, the man pushed himself to his knees and looked up at Morgan, gasping. “Was that how the girl died?” he said between breaths.

  “What girl?”

  “Your girl. Lisa.”

  The blade was in Morgan’s hand and at John’s throat before he could think. He wanted to plunge it into the reporter’s mouth and take out his tongue for saying that name. Lisa. A flick of the wrist, and it would be done. His hand trembled. His head screamed.

  He was close enough to notice the way John’s pupils dilated to almost completely obliterate his irises. Sweat rolled down the man’s cheeks with every panting breath.

  “No,” John said, voice cracking. “You did it yourself, didn’t you? Like this.”

  The blade shimmered like honey.

  “You don’t know anything,” Morgan said. “She wasn’t in the file.”

  “You’ve been talking in your sleep.”

  Morgan glanced at Obsidian. She said nothing. The man was lying. Wasn’t he? John’s room shared a wall with the one he’d used to get a few hours sleep. And he had dreamed of Lisa again. He’d dreamed of cutting her down while she cried, while he cried, while each begged the other to forgive them. Morgan’s chest felt tight.

  “You know nothing,” Morgan said.

  “If you kill me, no one will know anything.”

  John kept one hand at his throat, half-poised to ward off the sword. But he moved from his knees to a crouch, and slowly raised himself up. Morgan kept the blade aimed at the man’s carotid artery. The light rippled as a drop of John’s sweat splashed onto the blade.

  “You wanted me to write your story,” John said. “This Lisa, I think she’s part of that story. A large part.”

  “She’s irrelevant.”

  “No,” John said. He shot a glance at Obsidian, standing motionless a few feet away, then turned his eyes back to Morgan. “I think she’s the catalyst. She helped make you who you are. You didn’t mention her in the file, but her presence is everywhere. It drives you.”

  Morgan tried to smile, but it felt like a grimace. “You think you understand me now, John?”

  The reporter nodded quickly.

  Morgan brought the blade to the man’s chin. “Explain it to me.”

  John licked his lips, and his eyes drifted towards the ceiling. “After the massacre at Cambridge, you fled the country. Made your way through Europe for a few years.” He screwed up his eyes, thinking. “Maybe you met Lisa somewhere there.”

  “Rome,” Morgan said. “We met in Rome.”

  “You fell in love. She was a normal. She…she didn’t know what you were, probably. Not at first. You began to forget, as well.” Morgan could almost hear the man piecing the fragments together. “But eventually she found out.”

  He could still remember the look on her face, the way her lips twisted in disgust. They were in Madrid. It was warm that evening, so she wore a golden summer dress as they made their way back to their hotel. He was so busy drinking in the sight and smell of her that he didn’t notice the thugs until they were on them.

  They were metas, but too weak and stupid to be real supercriminals. Morgan offered them his wallet, but that wasn’t what they came for. One of them clubbed him down with a blackjack, and then they started in on Lisa, eyes leering and filthy hands going for the straps on her dress.

  Morgan left them alive for Lisa’s sake. Well, he assumed they lived. The ringleader, a black-haired Spaniard with a basic electricity manipulation power, was losing a lot of blood from the stumps at the end of his arms.

  John interrupted the
memory. “Uh…there was a transcript in the files. The letterhead said it was from the Metahuman Control branch of Interpol. The witness’s name was blacked out, but it was someone who knew you intimately.”

  Morgan closed his eyes and nodded. “She was just scared.” He’d spent nearly a decade trying to convince himself of that. “The propaganda machine had done its work, and I became a monster in her eyes.”

  “Interpol turned her. They worked out who you were. She led them to you. And you—”

  “That’s enough,” Morgan said. The blade’s glow turned orange, like fire.

  Her blood was hot when it left her. For a moment, her cheeks had been the same brilliant pink as when they made love. Then they turned grey, like the rest of her.

  Morgan felt Obsidian’s footsteps as she approached. “My lord?”

  Electricity ran through his forehead. His head felt so tight he expected the arteries in his temples to burst. No. He wouldn’t have another seizure. Not in front of the reporter.

  He breathed deeply, trying to calm his mind. Slowly, ever so slowly, the pain and flashes of light subsided, retreating back to the part of his brain that kept his demons caged. His blade of light had disappeared. He couldn’t remember letting it dissipate.

  “My lord?”

  He blinked away the fog, until the permanent black splotch was the only thing that clouded his vision. John was staring at him, his forehead damp and his round face pale.

  Morgan forced himself to stand up straight and return his hands to his side. Perception. It’s all that matters. God, this had been going on for so long.

  His muscles seemed to creak when he put a smile on his face. “You’re on the right track, John. You have one more chance at this story. Don’t disappoint me.”

  He turned and left without waiting for a response. He thought he heard the reporter choke out a gasp of hysterical laughter, but by then Morgan was too far away to hear if it turned into sobbing. With his handkerchief, he wiped the sweat from his brow.

  Obsidian caught up to him in the hallway. “My lord.” She paused, as if struggling for words. “That…emotion. It is unlike you.”