Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa?

by Andrez Bergen

  There was a half-full paper cup next to him, a Jolly Roger-brand teabag label hanging out. He looked chipper for someone accused of multiple-murder, and who’d spent the past twenty-four hours in the pen.

  Even so, the man’s hair was more awry than ever before.

  “Jack!” he called out, while he ran eyes from his visitor’s head to toe. “I say, this is wonderful. Nice to see that you dispensed with Captain America’s little wings and bright-red apparel — although I notice you kept the stars, and they have multiplied.”

  The Equalizer settled into the chair on the other side of the square table. A perceptive look passed between the two men and they smiled.

  “You knew I was a Cape.”

  “I had my suspicions.”

  “Why?”

  “The unusually broad shoulders, the strong jaw line. You aren’t built like regular people, Jack, and I couldn’t picture you dabbling with steroids or being a fitness nut.”

  “Ah.”

  “Oh, and there was a slip you made, referring to Capes as heroes. Most people here wouldn’t think so.”

  Jack laughed. “Are you okay? The cops are looking after you?”

  “Although the tea they serve is rather —er — wishy-washy, the police have been most civil.”

  “Possibly because some of them sympathize with what you’ve done. Killing Capes.”

  “Is that what you believe?”

  “You shot Gypsie-Ann.”

  “Who?”

  “The reporter.”

  “Oh, yes. A necessity.”

  “What about the others?”

  “I have only Miss Stellar’s blood on my hands.”

  “She recovered.”

  “She did?” The Professor looked genuinely relieved. “Good show!”

  “Thought you said her death was a necessity?”

  “Given how things ended up, with my presence in this place, it doesn’t really matter. Tell me, how is Louise taking all of this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The last time I talked to her, she made it clear she doesn’t want to see me. I think we’re finished.”

  “Oh. She did not tell me.” The elderly man allowed his eyes to wander, before fixing them back on his visitor. “The Cape business.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Jack, you must — you must — ensure she is all right. Promise me.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “That sounds unpleasantly like a brush-off.”

  “It’s not a brush-off. A lot depends on her willingness to see me.”

  “And on how persuasive you are.”

  Nodding, Jack had other matters to discuss. “Professor, I need to ask you — why’d you shoot Gypsie-Ann? She’s a friend, a good guy.”

  “Are we being recorded?”

  The Equalizer shook his head. “Switched off.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “I kind of ripped out the circuits.”

  “Bravo.” The Professor leaned forward on his leather-cushioned elbows. “Well, then, allow me to make my point: there is no such thing as a good guy. I can trust nobody, not with this.”

  “With what?”

  “There’s the rub. If I tell you, I defeat my own philosophy — I trust in you. And yet, given the circumstances,” he sat back and raised his cuffed wrists, “I believe I shall have to do just that. Jack, I made a mess of things. I was not supposed to draw any attention, but when the lady reporter came snooping about the shop and sprouted the Erskine name, I panicked. Unforgivable. I was simply trying to protect our girl.”

  “Louise? — Why?”

  “Because,” the old man said in a soft voice, barely audible, while he leaned as far across the table as he could and Jack moved closer to meet him halfway, “she’s the Aerialist.”

  #157

  By the time she arrived home, Louise’s world had turned upside down, as well as inside out and frayed some.

  She’d met up with a recently divorced friend, former model Millie Collins and her artist sister Ruth, and crashed the night at the girls’ place, consuming cocktails while commiserating together about lost love and the stupidity of men. When she went to work in the morning — her last day at the bank — it was at the mercy of a hangover and an uneasy stomach.

  Straight after she finished up and packed a box of her things, Louise stepped onto the street and saw a newspaper headline on a placard at a nearby street kiosk:

  SUSPECT CAPE-KILLER IN CUSTODY!!

  While the girl normally shied away from the broadsheets, on this occasion she wasn’t able to resist. After she looked at the picture on the front page and blanched, she bought a copy, rapidly skimmed through the accompanying article — and then reread it more carefully, horror seizing her.

  Worse was to come.

  Over on page two was a smaller story, a recap about a bombing three days before at the League of Unmitigated Rotters, one in which one Rotter had died, several others were wounded, and an Equalizer — Southern Cross — seriously so.

  Louise didn’t know when, exactly, she realized she had her knuckles in her mouth and was snivelling. She’d wiped her cheeks with a handkerchief and took off at a run.

  Now, the paper was closed, folded and tucked under an arm as she fetched the house keys from her bag, unlocked the security door, slowly stepped upstairs, and went to the apartment.

  She couldn’t — wouldn’t — believe what the article said, with all the ‘alleged’, ‘claimed’ and ‘possible’ disclaimers holding together the text. That the Prof had been systematically murdering Bops over the past two months. That he was a cold-blooded killer, a vigilante, a complete stranger.

  And Jack — she had to know if the man was all right; prayed he was.

  Louise would’ve gone directly to City Hall, except for some bizarre impulse that told her to swing by home to make sure it wasn’t all some rude coincidence, to see if the Prof wasn’t there, fiddling with his contraptions and his Vita-Rays, and whether or not Jack had called.

  Instead, she found this darkened apartment, and the shop downstairs had yellow police tape across the entrance, along with an official poster warning people to stay away from these premises.

  Outside in the quiet evening, standing smoking a cigarette beneath a streetlamp near the front door to the brownstone, was a man in a brown coat and red hat.

  “Hey, miss,” he said as Louise stepped past. “There’s only two things in this world that a ‘real man’ needs: a cup of coffee and a good smoke. Got the ciggie, but not the Joe. Can you lend me a dime?”

  The girl stared at him, blinking, wasn’t sure she understood the question. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have somewhere I need to be.”

  “Sure you do. Well, aside from the Joe, my head honcho wants to have a chinwag.”

  “Is that so?” The mention of chins made Louise suddenly aware she was in the frame of mind to bust another jaw.

  “My boss says to tell you that the lives of the two blokes in your life — the old codger’s and that poor excuse for a Bop, Southern Cross — hang in the balance.” The man pushed the hat to the back of his head, revealing an unremarkable face. “Says to tell you he can help save both of them.”

  “Really?” the girl uttered, resolve broken in an instant.

  “I have a car over there, the yellow Plymouth. You coming?”

  “This man…your boss…he can really help?”

  “Sure as houses, miss. C’mon.”

  #158

  “Hang on — stop. This is insane. How can a Blando be a Cape?”

  “Allow me to explain,” the Professor said while Jack sought to grapple with the lowdown he’d been thrown in the old man’s previous sentence. “You’re closer to the truth than you realize. The Reset is equitable with a disease, and as with any disease there are those who are immune. In this case, not the body — cutting oneself shaving would always mend overnight compliments of the Reset — but the electroc
hemical signalling of the mind. In here.”

  The old man tapped the right side of his forehead.

  “I am one of those people. For some time, I self-indulgently believed I might be the single person in Heropa who could remember and think with complete continuity beyond a twenty-four-hour timeframe — save for the Capes, of course. I was a scientist in the employ of Metro College. While my peers would begin work each and every morning, puzzling over devices and formulas they’d started assembling the day before — scratching their heads, with absolutely no memory of these things — I was blessedly able not only to encode and store, but to retrieve this information and work on my projects for weeks on end.”

  The old man suddenly sneezed, and wiped his nose.

  “Excuse me.”

  “Go on,” Jack urged.

  “Well, it goes without saying that such behaviour was eventually noticed. The chancellor of the college, Mister Wright, got whiff of my progress—”

  “Donald Wright?”

  “Yes, that’s the man. Mister Wright summoned Major Patriot to the campus one afternoon. A Friday, I remember, and he deigned to meet me at the Kozy Kampus Koffee Shop.”

  Sitting up straight, Jack nodded. “Major Patriot? I’ve heard about him. Wasn’t he was the leader of some older Heropa super group? Can’t remember their name.”

  “The Crime Crusader Crew.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. So all this was — when?”

  “Four years ago, less than a year after Heropa went online. Back then my memory was so much more competent — I could also remember that big baptismal event. Oh, my. All the pretty lights, out of darkness.”

  The Professor looked wistful.

  “Anyhow, I believe I mentioned — didn’t I? — that Major Patriot stepped in for a chat. I did mention it, yes, and the man was extremely alarmed to learn of my immunity. The Reset was a form of control, you see, of maintaining the status quo and preventing Blandos from getting ideas above their station. We were created in the image of our designers. All the same flaws and failings, but also similar dreams and aspirations. The Major, as the original designer of Heropa, did not wish his creations to develop any further along these lines than the basic programming window allowed for with the Reset.”

  Jack recalled his discussion with Gypsie-Ann. The Equalizer was itching for this old man to get back on track, to address his daughter-in-law and what the hell had happened there — the Aerialist? — Louise? But he still had other questions that needed answering.

  “I thought Sir Omphalos was the co-creator of Heropa.”

  “No, no, he was a junior partner in development. Important, to be sure, but the real creative genius rested with the Major.”

  “So what was the outcome of this fireside conversation you two shared?”

  “Major Patriot realized, through my existence, that the Reset was not infallible. He therefore gifted me a task, a commission as it were, to discover an alternative means to complement the Reset, one that could be used to control other people we found to be resistant or immune. That was how I cobbled together a machine that gave out certain emissions. ‘Vita-Rays’, the Major called them — his sadistic joke, since these emissions do nothing to revitalize and empower the body or the soul. Rather, a direct opposite. They act as a sedative, a memory-loss agent, and I was coerced first of all to employ myself as a guinea pig, and then others like me.”

  “Coerced…how?”

  “The Major was a very persuasive man. I was under no delusion that he would not kill me if I refused to collaborate in his schemes.”

  “But he was a Cape.”

  “Precisely. Not all people see them as heroes, and most of them hardly act that way.”

  “So you collaborated.”

  “For several months, about a year, yes.”

  “And then?”

  “I could not continue. This was channelling God, without accounting for the consequences — and then having me play Satan’s little helper when the consequences jumped up and bit them on the derrière. I was appalled with myself, as much as with this evil man. Evil, Jack. Pure and simple. The Reset was a cheat, a programming blink that kept things from naturally developing the way they should. Vita-Rays added to this cheat. Not only against us, but also undercutting Capes — without a fear of demise, how can any person truly appreciate the value of another’s life? Finally, I’d had enough. I approached a third party, a different Cape. Sir Omphalos I believe you knew.”

  “Only by reputation.”

  “Well, that is a shame. This was an individual far more humane, understanding and appreciative of the situation. I told him about the Vita-Rays project, and the man was scandalized. He helped me to escape from the university, provided a new identity, and set me up in the shop. Lee was a good Cape, a bright spark in this madness.”

  Mention of the name floored Jack’s wayward thoughts. He focused again on the old man’s mush, eyes wide. “Lee —? Louise’s husband?”

  “Oh no, dear boy, that was a ruse, something I cooked up to appease the girl when her memories started to bubble back to the surface one time.”

  The Equalizer sat back. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’m getting ahead of myself, so let us do just that, since time is precious. Allow me to fast-forward. There was a day, around two months ago, when Sir Omphalos came to visit me. I had not seen the man for three years, and on this occasion he was not alone — over his shoulder Lee hefted another Cape, one dressed in a flight suit and a helmet that reminded me of the Rocketeer. Did you ever read The Rocketeer?”

  “No.”

  “You should. Marvellous stuff. Well, anyhow, this helmet reminded me of the comic. Once I removed the thing, I discovered a pretty redhead and she was unconscious. Lee told me that the turbulence of a long fall from high altitude had knocked her senseless — said he barely had time to reach the girl before she struck terra firma. That was when he showed me something truly shocking — the gentleman pushed back her hair and there, on the spine, between the shoulder-blades, was a black letter ‘p’.”

  “A Blando.”

  “Yes.”

  “But I still don’t understand — how?”

  “The lady was a unique case. No special powers, obviously, but a spark, a drive to make her mark in this world. Lee had recognized that passion, inducting her into the Crime Crusaders Crew as Bullet Gal. She was a brunette then, and people believed she was from Melbourne, just like all the other Capes.”

  Struggling to get his head around this revelation, Jack zeroed in on what he already knew. “The Big O busted up the Crime Crusaders to establish the Equalizers, at which stage Bullet Gal changed her costume, name, and obviously her hair colour — became the Aerialist. Why?”

  The Professor nodded while he rapped his fingers on the wooden surface of the table. “This is indeed where things get murky. When he came to my house, as I say two months back, Lee told me the woman had switched identities to elude somebody, but that the secret got out and this person, this pursuer, had discovered the truth.”

  “The attempt on her life — sabotaging the jetpack.”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “Did the Big O give you a name?”

  “No.”

  Jack thought hard, attempting to put everything together, but there were too many loose ends. “Prof, do you think this somebody, this pursuer, was Major Patriot?”

  “The man I remember was certainly capable. He was furious about the dissolution of the Crime Crusaders Crew three years ago, and very publicly stormed off — it was in all the papers, though the next day everyone forgot. The Reset did have its uses.”

  The Professor chuckled.

  “After that? I’m not sure. No one has since seen or heard from the Major. I doubt he stayed in Heropa, but Lee certainly feared somebody. It was trepidation I saw in his eyes, an unusual mental state in such a man.”

  Leaning on the table, face in his hands yet still watching the prisoner, Jack sighed. “So. W
hat did the three of you cook up? …About the Aerialist and her stalker problem, I mean.”

  “Lee asked me to take her in, to hide her,” the Professor responded. “I complied, of course, since there were things I’d done that did not make me proud. This was an opportunity for penance, if not redemption. Lee knew about my work with Vita-Rays and together we hatched a cunning plan. Though she was immune to the Reset, prolonged exposure to Vita-Rays had the desired effect — the Aerialist forgot all about her old life of heroics and derring-do. She became a far simpler individual, placed out in public where no one would dream she’d hide. Became the bank clerk you met. A tub of bleach and a pair of glasses from the shop made the world of difference — and little did Major Patriot realize we’d use his precious Vita-Rays in such subversive fashion, to hide and protect someone he’d despise.”

  “Louise.” Jack pulled away, horrified. Louise.

  “Mitzi was the real name. We changed that, obviously, too.”

  “And what about her?” The Equalizer glared over the table at the older man. “You said she was unconscious when she was brought to you — did she have any say in this improvised witness-protection scheme? Did you stop to ask her?”

  Lowering his gaze, the Professor shook his head. “No. Lee knew she’d refuse.”

  “So you decided for her.”

  “Yes, but as I say—”

  “Making you both no better than Major Patriot.”

  “Well, yes…and no. Lee said this felon on Mitzi’s tail had contacts. She couldn’t exactly leave Heropa, her life was in danger, and we had to act fast. As fast as possible, before something happened, do you understand?” The old man was dithering now, his fingers entwined and eyes losing focus. “It was this or probable death, I think.”

  “You think?”

  Jack kicked back the chair and got to his feet.

  “From what I see and hear, she was more than capable of looking after herself — even after you stole her memories, she broke a man’s jaw. I can’t believe you did this. I can’t believe I looked up to you. You had no right to put her through that, say what you will. We’re done here.”