Davie drops his own cards to grab her hands. It reminds her of how they were as children, walking hand in hand, pretending not to notice the people staring. Back when their parents were still playing at being some power couple—their perfectly imperfect family standing still for the photographer’s flash. Pen remembers smiling until her cheeks hurt.
She wonders what her parents would do if they found out their two children were part of the team of superheroes that keeps their city safe. Would they be proud? At least for the cameras? It wouldn’t stop them from fighting. That would take more than superpowers. That would take a miracle.
“I am not trying to derail you, Pen. I’m just saying you’ve been there for me when I’ve needed you, too.” He smiles. He’s never had to force a smile for any camera. Smiling is his natural state. “And it’s actually you who changed the subject first. I had a nice speech about how I was so concerned, but then you learned to be a big girl and ask for help from your friends, and how we’re just so truly blessed that you learned to use your words, after all these years—”
“Shut up,” she says, and shoves him back into their card game, barely missing the candles. They’re both laughing, louder than Pen has laughed in a long time, and it goes on longer than Davie’s tumble warrants, like it was just waiting for an excuse to escape.
“Cheese aside, I mean what I said.” And he’s beaming at her, like she’s gone and done something incredible.
“I know. And I do, too. The whole thanks thing. I don’t . . . I don’t have the words to explain exactly what I’m thanking you for, but I am.”
“Don’t worry. I’m awesome. There will be plenty of things for you to thank me for in the future.”
That earns him a punch in the arm.
From the dining room comes the unmistakable sound of a very large file slamming against their dinner table.
“When do you think is a good time to tell them they should get a divorce?” Pen muses.
“I’m hoping they buy us a car, first.”
She snorts, “You would be a terror behind the wheel.”
Terror is a word she couldn’t think of for over three weeks. She remembers searching for the word that would describe what she felt when she would turn her head and the world would tilt. What it felt like to forget the address of the house she had lived in all her life. Now it comes to her with only a slight moment of hesitation. She’s not as good as new. Not back to normal. But she’s relearning what her world can look like.
Pen was never normal, even before the concussion. She just didn’t have the words to deal with that before. Those words are all new.
Ziggy Schutz is a young queer writer living on the west coast of Canada. She’s been a fan of superheroes almost as long as she’s been writing, so she’s very excited this is the form her first published work took.
When not writing, she can often be found stage managing local musicals and mouthing the words to all the songs. Ziggy can be found at @ziggytschutz, where she’s probably ranting about representation in fiction.
Salt City Blue
Chris Large
“Skyball did what?” I said, unable to believe my ears.
My logistics manager took a deep breath. “He seriously damaged our lunar transit depot. It was an accident, Ms. Marshal. I believe he was trying to defend it. But you know how he loves to grandstand.”
“And what have you done about it, Martin?”
I was going easy on Martin. He was the closest thing I had to a friend.
“What could I have done?” Fine beads of sweat had begun to form on his furrowed brow. “He’s Skyball!”
Genevieve, my personal assistant, and Laura, a pale young graduate she’d recently hired, stood by the conference room’s floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing out on a typically gray Salt City afternoon.
“You’re my second in command, Martin,” I said. “I expect you to manage situations like this.”
“Ms. Marshal,” said Martin. “With respect, no one could have managed this . . . including you.”
Martin realized his mistake the moment the words were out of his mouth, but it was a moment too late. I rarely tolerated excuses, and even rarer were the times I admitted to being personally incapable of doing my job.
“For Chrissakes, Martin!” I cried. “What the hell am I paying you for?”
Martin sighed. “I really don’t know, Ms. Marshal. You seem perfectly capable of running the company without advice from me . . . or anyone, for that matter.” He glanced toward Genevieve and Laura, who continued to studiously ignore him. Beyond the windows, neon-colored mist crawled sluggishly between the city’s edifices of glass and steel.
“This isn’t about them!” I cried. “I’m talking to you. You’re gutless, Martin. You’re a plodder. You wouldn’t recognize a hot prospect if it sat on your fat, fucking face! Now get out of my sight. I never want to see you again. You’re fired!”
Martin’s eyes snapped wide. He’d expected a tongue-lashing, but he clearly hadn’t expected to lose his job. Neither had I intended to fire him. That’s just the way it goes sometimes.
Martin’s face drained of color. “You mean . . .”
“I mean get out!” I screamed, thumping the table with a clenched fist.
I waited for the sound of his departing footsteps to die a slow death then swiveled toward Genevieve and Laura.
“Now Laura, can you please remind me what the hell it is you do here? And why I shouldn’t just fire your ass right now as—”
But something caught my attention beyond the bulletproof window-glass. A small, man-shaped speck shot soundlessly through the dark mist in the distance, lit intermittently by spotlights from the towers above.
“Jesus,” I said, jumping from my chair. “It’s the man of the hour. Look at the sonofabitch go.”
I pushed past the two women and stood with my face so close to the glass it began to fog over, anger radiating from my skin in waves. “I wonder who he’s going to bankrupt this time?” I muttered. “Thank God we don’t have any material assets downtown.”
As he cut through the rain and clouds, a vapor trail billowed out from a point behind his feet, a ghostly after-echo in the evening air. We’d all seen Skyball survive lightning strikes, rocket strikes, and meteor strikes on news vids. He had no known weakness, except perhaps Crimson Reign, Salt City’s perennial enemy and Skyball’s arch nemesis.
News media had linked the pair romantically. Some went as far as to suggest Skyball and Crimson Reign were the last of their kind, survivors from a dying planet who’d escaped and found their way to Earth, destined to be together, doomed to be apart.
“One of Crimson Reign’s giant robots is causing havoc at the Mendelsohn Center,” said Genevieve, touching her earpiece. “Twenty stories high with death-ray vision.”
I sighed. No matter what Salt City’s inhabitants thought of them, Skyball and Crimson Reign were the real players in town. The rest of us were just supporting cast.
“Um . . .” Laura’s eyes were huge behind wire-framed glasses.
“What is it, Laura?”
“Ms. Marshal, your skin. It’s . . . glowing.”
• • •
“I’ve taken a blood sample,” said Doctor Singer. “I’ll run it overnight and have the results tomorrow.” She dropped the vial into her bag and snapped it tight. “If you have any further symptoms, call me.”
“But glowing skin? Have you ever heard of that before?”
Singer was well into her sixties and not given to fancy. She’d rushed to my offices because I was a woman with significant demands on my time and because I paid her a substantial retainer.
“Ms. Marshal, I can’t diagnose what I can’t see. Genevieve said you were standing by a window?”
“Yes,” I replied. “In the conference room, watching Skyball fly downtown.”
“Skyball doesn’t interest me, Ms. Marshal. For how long did your skin ‘glow’?”
“Twenty or thirty seconds. I didn’
t even know it was happening. Laura noticed.”
“Laura? Who’s Laura?”
I sighed deeply and put my head in my hands. “Christ, Doc. I don’t know. I think I’m losing it.”
“Hey, look at me.” Doctor Singer fixed me with her gray, watery eyes. “Is it possible someone shone some type of ultraviolet light through your office windows?”
Sure, it was possible. That must have been what happened. Who ever heard of glowing skin?
• • •
Fuse was the most exclusive nightclub in town. From the bar, I caught a glimpse of a blond-haired kid with thick-rimmed glasses. I’d picked him up a few weeks back. God, I’d been drunk that night. All I could remember of the encounter was that he had a scar running the length of his abdominals down to his groin, and that we’d broken the headboard of my bed that night. The kid quickly disappeared into the crowd with a young brunette on his arm.
I didn’t care. I came to Fuse to get laid, not find a life partner. I was a thirty-eight-year-old career businesswoman. If I’d ever wanted kids—and maybe once I had—the opportunity was rapidly slipping away, but in my current role as a ball-busting bitch, my life-expectations no longer extended to a loving husband and two point three kids.
A guy sat beside me and bought me a drink. He was tall, balding, and had a small paunch marking the beginnings of middle-age spread. I’m sure he told me what he did for a living, but between the music and the booze, I didn’t much care. He earned enough to buy me three shots of scotch in the most expensive club in town. That was enough. Some nights you won the prize, some nights you were the prize. So long as everyone understood who the prize was, things generally worked out okay. That night, I was definitely the prize and Kevin knew it. I’ll call him Kevin. He looked like a Kevin.
Kevin was all over me in the back seat of the limo as we sped across town to my apartment, taking a detour at Deakin and 41st to avoid the inner-city carnage caused by Crimson Reign’s Robot of Death. The robot hadn’t been messing about. If Crimson Reign and Skyball had been a couple in the past, he’d clearly done something to piss her off.
I was eager to see footage of the fight. Skyball’s costume was often blasted, blown, or burned away, his skin being far stronger than any material known to man. He might have been a prize douchebag, but that was no reason to pass up an opportunity to catch a glimpse of an amazing body. Those abs—my God!
The driver’s eyes strayed regularly, but we were close to my apartment, and I honestly didn’t care. Kevin was getting playful. He’d unbuttoned my top and was kissing and biting my neck and ear. I liked it. Perhaps there was something to be said for a homely man after all.
At my apartment, Kevin had my shirt off before the DNA-locks had cycled open. As we tumbled into bed, Kevin panting like a hyperactive puppy, it was all I could do not to laugh. I wasn’t expecting much in the way of foreplay but Kevin surprised me again, his long, slender fingers stroking me slowly, until I was well and truly ready.
“What the . . . ?” said Kevin.
I opened my eyes. Kevin’s horrified features were bathed in a soft, aquamarine glow.
“Holy shit!” he cried, jumping out of the bed. “What the hell are you?”
I cast about for the source of the light.
Kevin bolted from the apartment, clothing bundled in his arms, muttering, “Oh my God,” and “Let me out of here,” over and over, becoming increasingly hysterical.
I lay unmoving on the bed, staring down at my naked body, my skin crawling with softly pulsating light.
“You are freaking kidding me,” I muttered.
• • •
“There wasn’t any light on in the bedroom, Doc, just me and my shiny blue butt.” The telephone felt strangely insubstantial in my hand.
I’d had a rough morning, having woken up to a cross between a hangover and the worst case of the munchies in human history. For breakfast I’d inhaled a plate of eggs and leftover Madras curry “lite,” before going back for beans and bacon. The bowl of banana yogurt had tasted a little tart before I’d washed it down with an entire pot of coffee. Not bad for someone whose average breakfast consisted of a slice of gluten-free toast and a skinny latte.
“I have some news for you, Helen,” the doctor said eventually. Her voice sounded even drier over the phone, if that was possible
“Helen?” I replied. “You never call me Helen.”
“Just shut up and listen for a moment,” said the doctor in a stern voice. Doc Singer was probably the only person on Earth who could speak to me like that without getting an earful in return. I took a deep breath and braced myself for the worst.
“Are you calm?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m calm”
“Helen, you’re pregnant.”
“The hell I am!”
“All the symptoms are there,” the doctor said. “Increased appetite, cravings, mood swings. Helen, you’re glowing for crying out loud.”
“Are you out of your mind?” I was on my feet in the middle of my bedroom, holding the phone in front of my face and shouting into the microphone. “Pregnant women have a healthy glow, Doc. They don’t light up like a fucking radioactive smurf!”
“The human body is bioluminescent, Helen—usually at levels well below the ability for the human eye to detect. Your luminescence may have temporarily increased due to your condition. The blood test I conducted on you yesterday confirms pregnancy,” the doctor said firmly. “I’d guess three weeks based on what I have in front of me right now.”
It was possible. Three weeks back I’d picked up the blond kid with the thick-rimmed glasses and stomach scar—the one I’d seen the night before in Fuse. Even so, I wanted to argue. What I was going through was bizarre and frustrating and freakish, but it wasn’t pregnancy.
Oddly though, I also wanted her to be right. If I was honest with myself—a rare enough occurrence, but not unheard of—this was the news I’d been secretly hoping to hear. Perhaps, looking back, it was the culmination of a plan I’d been subconsciously attempting to execute for years. I’d gone off birth control long ago, citing pill-induced hormone rage.
A tinkling sound caught my attention. Clenched in my white-knuckled fist were the shattered remains of my phone.
No matter, I had three more.
I dropped the mess of glass, aluminum and circuitry into the trash on my way to the recently-raided fridge. After a quick scan of its dismal contents, I pulled out a bottle of tomato juice and drank the lot. Footage of Skyball’s battle with Crimson Reign’s Robot of Death was playing on a news panel over the breakfast bar. His suit had been shot to tatters by bolts of energy blasting from the robot’s single, ruby-red eye, and as usual, his rock-hard abs were on display for womankind to ogle the world over. But the news presenter’s hysterical, yet unremarkable commentary barely registered. My head was spinning.
I was glowing, I was starving, and I appeared to have developed enough strength to crush small electronic objects with my bare hands. I was pregnant. The knowledge was like a little bead of happiness deep in my chest. Something no one else could see or touch or detect in any way. This baby was going to be mine to raise the way I wanted—to be the person I wanted it to be—without interference from some deadbeat dad who would likely just run off when things got too . . .
When things got too . . .
I snapped up the remote and hit the pause button.
It couldn’t be. I stared at the news panel for a good couple of minutes, tomato juice dribbling down my chin.
In a daze, I rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a thick, black marker. The frozen, high-definition image was of Skyball grimacing determinedly at the robot. I swished my finger across the screen to center him and expanded the image.
I raised the marker and drew a pair of glasses onto Skyball’s glaring eyes.
“Oh no,” I muttered. “No, no, no.”
My fingers tracked down the screen toward a faint scar running the length of his abdominal muscles, down
into his fuzzed-out groin.
I tasted bile and ran for the toilet, into which I proceeded to vomit the contents of my stomach.
Welcome to pregnancy Helen Marshal. Tears ran freely from my eyes and I had more spit in my mouth than any woman should have to cope with, but I wasn’t done. Once I’d finished throwing up breakfast, I moved on to dinner from the night before, along with a few of the more colorful cocktails Kevin had bought me.
When I was done with dinner there was wasn’t much left in the tank, but my body appeared to be enjoying the sensation of vomiting so much that I continued dry retching for another few minutes, at which point I discovered the first disadvantage of a solo pregnancy.
There’s no one to hold your hair.
• • •
“You look pale, Ms. Marshal,” Genevieve said as I brushed by her toward my office.
“I feel pale,” I answered without pause.
“You’ve had urgent calls from Tony Marsden.”
Marsden wanted me off the board of directors. I didn’t have time for small-minded pricks like him. “I’m busy today, Genevieve. I don’t want to be disturbed. Martin can deal with Tony Marsden.” I hung my coat on the rack and collapsed into my chair.
“Ms. Marshal, you fired Martin last night,” my assistant reminded me, having followed me into my office from reception. “Don’t you remember?”
I should never have fired Martin. I liked him, and I needed him at his desk. “Of course I remember, Genevieve. Please don’t stand over me like some kind of anorexic praying mantis. Call Martin and get him back in here.”
The look on Genevieve’s face was one of open-mouthed disbelief. “B-But . . .” she stammered, wide eyes blinking behind her large glasses. “You were so adamant.”
I switched on my desktop terminal and tapped in my passcode. “And I’m just as adamant now, if not more so.”
“I’ll call him right away,” Genevieve replied, finally getting the message.
“Good girl,” I said. “Oh, and while you’re at it, I want you to get in touch with Skyball and arrange a meeting.”
Behind the Mask Page 19