Superluminary

by Olivia Rising

  The location of his former civilian home was kept under wraps by the UNEOA, and Athena had installed a security system which would have made the Federal Security Service proud so Radiant expected to find everything as he left it. He beamed himself through one of the rear windows into what he remembered was the living room. When his physical body manifested in his old study, though, he realized that he had come in through the wrong window.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he was in this particular room, where he spent countless hours as a young newlywed architect vying for a job. A thin layer of dust covered the golden brown hardwood floor, and more dust danced in the sunlight which flowed through the window above the antique mahogany desk. On top of the desk were miniature models of Luvkov family homes that had never been built. One for him and Natalya, and another for his parents with a guest cottage for Stepan and his wife.

  The models infused him with a pang of melancholy, draining him of his determination to check on the news. Instead he sat on the padded brown office chair behind the desk. It still squealed beneath his weight, bringing a weak smile to his lips. The chair was a gift from his wife to support him during the many long nights he spent on sketches and application letters. The room was now filled with remnants of a previous life and of the identity he left behind when Andrey Luvkov evolved into Radiant and moved to New York. Everything about it brought back the pain of losing Natalya. It took him a moment to escape the pit of those memories, to stop staring at the dusty artifacts and get back to his feet.

  Radiant yanked the door to the living room open and stepped through. He couldn’t remember keeping up with the bills lately, but he was glad to find the lights still working. He toyed with the option of calling Kathy to work it out on the systems management end, but dismissed the idea. If the order to cut him off had come from the top, there was nothing Kathy could do about it.

  Even though he wanted to turn on the TV, he stared through the windows at the Moscow skyline. It was unlike Alexandra to deprive him of any and all support without warning, especially now that a former teammate had been shot and perhaps killed.

  Unless there is something else going on behind the scenes.

  A new thought washed over him. What if his teammates weren’t the ones responsible for cutting off his communication? What if someone else had wanted to lure him away from New York? He had a sinking feeling that something was wrong, something more far reaching and serious than Iris’s sudden shutdown. A sense of dread grew inside of him as a coldness tightened his stomach into a small knot, making it hard to breathe through the helmet.

  Andrey yanked the helmet off, placing it on the breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the living room while averting his eyes from the bed in the corner. Their bed. It was too large for one person and reminded him of his wife, who passed away under heart-wrenching circumstances. She was someone he couldn’t afford to think about right now.

  He walked over to the answering machine that Athena had specifically designed for him. After pressing the play button, he was surprised to hear the distinctive beep of a recorded message. A glimmer of hope came to him. Had Alexandra decided to contact him after all?

  The recorded voice wasn’t hers, though. It belonged to his young nephew, unusually thin and quavering over the line. “Uncle Andrey? It’s Denis. There are four men here, and they told me to call you. I think one of them wants to talk to you. He says he’ll wait for you here at our house. I told him you’re really busy, but he said he’s sure you’ll come.”

  Andrey’s hands clenched into fists. This was his worst nightmare come true: he failed to protect his family and broke the promise he made to his brother.

  Because the recording ended there, he pressed the button to play the next message. He hoped his nephew was playing a prank on him. His sister-in-law spoke next, her recorded Russian words quivering with panic. “Andrey! I hope you check your messages. You must come. Right now. A man came to the door, and he looked like Stepan so I let him in, but … but it wasn’t Stepan. Your brother is at work, but I…”—her voice broke—“these men won’t let me call him or the police. Only you.”

  Gentleman, Andrey thought.

  “They want to talk to you,” Alena went on. “There’s four of them, I think, but two of them have become invisible or something. They … they have guns, Andrey. I don’t know who they are, they didn’t say, but please come. They’re frightening Denis.”

  The machine beeped, marking the end of the recording as a heavy silence sent a shiver along Andrey’s spine. So this was why he was removed from the action in New York: Gentleman wanted him in Moscow. He still didn’t understand why Data, the Conglomerate’s Technician, had chosen this day and time to interfere with Athena’s AI and communication lines for the first time, but chances were Andrey was about to find out. He didn’t stop to think about how the villain knew that he would head straight to his apartment to check his messages. It wasn’t much of a stretch. With Iris out of order, he didn’t have any other options.

  He spun around to grab his helmet off the breakfast bar, furious with himself. He had seen this coming. He knew what his decision to go rogue meant for his family: no more protection by the UNEOA. For this reason, he spent the last few days by making arrangements with Calavera to evacuate Stepan, Alena, and Denis to Mexico. His plan was to take them away from the city the day before, but his stubborn brother had insisted that he needed more time to wrap things up at work.

  I should have knocked you unconscious and dragged you onto the plane myself.

  Andrey swallowed his regret before striding to the balcony. In an instant his luminescent wings spread, and he beamed himself across the city in short bursts. He maneuvered around tall buildings and power lines until he was hovering above his brother’s condo, a modest, green-roofed building on the outskirts of Moscow. From his aerial vantage point he saw Denis’s blue bicycle leaning against the metal lattice fence next to a small communal garden.

  He dropped to ground level, approaching the front door with his helmet pinned under one arm. The door was unlocked as usual so he pushed it open and listened. The sounds of a TV drifted from one of the apartments on the second floor, but the entrance to Stepan and Alena’s ground-level flat was shrouded in ominous silence.

  Gentleman has no reason to hurt Alena or the boy, Andrey reminded himself as he walked to the door with slow, controlled steps. This was about getting to him, not hurting them.

  He had no previous experience in dealing with the actor-turned-villain, but he read the files the UNEOA kept on him. The man was perpetually shrouded in illusions, changing his own appearance as well as his minions’ appearances at will. He had gone off-grid over a year ago, and Queenie was never able to locate either Gentleman or his partner in crime, Data—the infamous ghost of the Internet. The only thing Gentleman loved more than a good show was being the center of one.

  His show, his rules. But I’ll get Alena and the boy out of there if it’s the last thing I do.

  He pressed the doorbell, its hollow chime echoing throughout the stairwell, and the sound of heavy footsteps was heard from the other side of the door seconds later.

  It swung open to reveal a man who was massive, more than six feet of muscle and sinew. He wore a set of Russian Spetsnaz armor which covered everything except his bald head and his heavily tattooed arms. Though the armored costume was for show, Andrey did not doubt that the KBP submachine gun strapped across the goon’s chest was loaded.

  “Where are they?” Andrey fixed the henchman with a level stare. He couldn’t tell whether he was seeing the man’s real appearance or one of Gentleman’s illusions, but the footsteps he heard hinted at an actual person in front of him. Not Gentleman, though. Villain masterminds didn’t bother to open doors when they had henchmen around.

  “Come,” the man grunted in English. He turned to march down the hallway.

  Andrey spotted Gentleman the moment he stepped into the living room. He recognized the villain from the silver Vict
orian half mask and the long-sleeved, frilly white-lace shirt he wore. Not quite as flamboyant as the UNEOA files described him, but still unmistakable.

  Denis sat rigid on the villain’s lap, his narrow shoulders drawn in while his head hung low. He looked up when he heard the sound of Andrey’s footsteps, but didn’t show any other reaction to his uncle’s arrival. The sight of his small, expressionless face added an element of horror to the reality of the scene. Andrey barely kept himself from rushing over to scoop his nephew in his arms.

  This isn’t the real Denis, he told himself. It’s an illusion to test me.

  “Ah, my tardy friend arrives at long last!” Gentleman announced, cheerful. He checked his wristwatch with a flourish, brushing against the boy’s face with his frills. “Sixteen minutes and forty-seven seconds since the call. A little disappointing, I must say. You are getting old.”

  Andrey chose to ignore the comment and scanned the room instead. He spotted Alena in the open plan kitchen, her arms wrapped around her slender body as she cowered against the fridge. She looked thinner than he remembered, small-boned and delicate. She gave a curt nod in his direction, but the petrified look on her face didn’t ease.

  “It’s going to be all right,” Andrey told her in Russian, using the most reassuring tone he could manage. “I’m here now. Don’t worry.” He would have spoken the words with more confidence if he knew whether he was looking at his actual sister-in-law and not one of Gentleman’s illusions.

  Gentleman gestured at one of Stepan’s armchairs. “Put that cumbersome helmet down and have a seat,” he said.

  Andrey shook his head, refusing to give in to the villain’s buddy-buddy act. He had no intention of parting with his helmet. If the microphone was still functional, it might allow Athena to listen and send help if things got out of control. To save his family if he could not.

  “I’m going to assume this is between you and me, Gentleman,” he said in English. “Let the boy join his mother and then we’ll talk.”

  The villain cocked his head, his masked eyes squinting at Denis. “Ah, but we were having such an interesting conversation. Were we not, my dear boy?”

  Say something. Let me know you’re real, Andrey willed.

  As far as he knew, Gentleman wasn’t able to project voices. Imitate them, yes, but not contrive them across any distance. Come to think of it, it may have been Gentleman who left the desperate voicemail on Andrey’s machine.

  He rubbed his forehead, ridding himself of the thought. He wanted to believe that the boy and his mother were here in their apartment. Frightened, but unharmed. “Is that true, Denis?” he asked.

  The boy’s response was a barely perceptible nod.

  The villain rewarded the kid with a pat on the head. “You see? We were having a grand old time. In fact, little Denis here was telling me how his father used to watch over you when the two of you were little.” Gentleman gave a mocking grin. “Who would have thought the mighty Radiant used to hide from the bullies in a bookstore and wait for his younger brother to rescue him?”

  “Leave my family out of this,” Andrey snapped. “You wanted to talk, fine. Here I am.”

  “Here you are, indeed. And as a sign of my goodwill….” The villain unwrapped his arm from Denis and pointed at the kitchen. “Go on, boy. Run to your mother.”

  Denis slipped off the villain’s lap and scurried to the kitchen. Andrey’s heart sank as he realized the boy’s footfalls didn’t make any sounds. And though Alena enveloped her son in an embrace, not a single word of comfort left her lips.

  Illusions.

  He looked around for Gentleman’s henchmen, but there wasn’t any sign of them. They had to be in a back room, or perhaps they were stationed by the door.

  “You could have called me directly,” he said, taking a step to his brother’s armchair. If Gentleman was pretending to play nice, he could go along with it. “You work with Data. He could easily find a way for you to get in touch with me.”

  “Perhaps,” Gentleman agreed. “But you have been such a busy boy these days, fluttering here and there. So hard to catch.” He waved his hand to illustrate his point. “This way, I was sure to have your full attention.”

  Andrey’s patience was wearing thin. “Get to the point,” he growled.

  “Where is the fun in that? No, let’s chat first.” The villain raised his voice to call to the kitchen, “Alena, dear? Would you bring coffee for us?”

  Alena—or the illusion of her—didn’t respond. She kept cowering beside the fridge with her arms wrapped tight around her son.

  Gentleman expelled a dramatic sigh. “I expected more hospitality from a Russian woman.”

  I should just kill him.

  Andrey toyed with the idea before discarding it. Without knowing the exact position of Gentleman’s henchmen, he couldn’t be sure Alena and Denis would escape unharmed.

  I’m not even sure if they’re still in the apartment at all.

  He lowered himself onto the armchair, and set his helmet in his lap. His eyes never veered away from Gentleman. “If I find out you hurt any of my kin, you’re going to regret it.”

  “Ooh, threats!” Gentleman enthused, clapping his hands jovially. “Please, do give me the hero speech. I rarely get to enjoy one of those.”

  Andrey refused to rise to the bait. “Were you behind the attack on Queenie this morning?” he demanded, sitting on the edge of his seat in an attempt to pinpoint the source of the voice. He knew the villain was close at hand, but perhaps he was projecting an illusion of himself in a slightly different position so Andrey couldn’t harm him. At least not before he directed his goons to retaliate on Alena and Denis.

  “What do you think?” Gentleman replied. His voice definitely came from near the couch, but Andrey couldn’t be sure of the exact location.”

  “I’d be hard pressed to think of someone else to suspect.”

  Gentleman casually threw an arm over the back of the couch. “Why bother asking when you’ve already answered your own question?”

  You fucking bastard. An image of Sarah’s sweet, girly smile flashed through Andrey’s mind. You’re not going to get away with this.

  “I had no choice. Your friend, the young queen, played a pivotal role in a regime of oppression which has lasted for far too long,” Gentleman declared with a dismissive shrug. “If you follow the news, you can hear the masses cry out in protest of the Covenant’s law. You, my conflicted friend, should know this better than most.”

  “They don’t want villains. No one does.”

  Gentleman lifted a finger, cooing. “Listen to yourself! Villains, heroes … those labels have no meaning anymore. The world is not so black and white, my ignorant friend.” He tilted his masked face to the side as he watched for a reaction.

  Get to the point already.

  Andrey stayed quiet, hoping for Gentleman to continue chatting. It might cause him to become careless and drop a hint, something Andrey could use.

  “Perhaps you’re wondering why I’ve come this far to talk to you,” Gentleman said.

  I’m actually wondering why you’re holding my family hostage. Andrey risked a glance into the kitchen where the lifeless projections of Alena and Denis were still hunched by the fridge.

  His fingers curled into fists, flexing and relaxing. Whether or not his real sister-in-law and nephew had been kidnapped and taken from the house was now at the forefront of his mind, and he realized the fact that Gentleman wanted something from him was their only life insurance. The villain wouldn’t hurt them for as long as he chatted with Radiant. Once he reached that conclusion, he commanded his fingers to unfurl as he assembled all of his willpower.

  Gentleman followed his glance with a wan smile. “Do not worry, my anxious friend. At this point I see no need to harm your brother’s lovely wife and son. I want you and me to get along, you see.”

  “You shouldn’t have involved them,” Andrey hissed, the words full of hatred.

  Gentleman looked unf
azed by the arguments thrown at him. He reclined on Stepan’s leather sofa, pondering his thumbnail as though none of this was of any relevance to him. “I sent Raven to parley with you. But, alas, you had no interest.”

  Andrey clenched his jaw so hard he thought his molars might crack. “You mean before the Shadowspawner’s transition in Prague?” He snorted. “Wrong time, wrong place. But now that I’m here in front of you, tell me what you want from me, exactly? It better not be an invitation to join your band of scum.”

  “Ah, no, that would be foolish of me. Besides, I doubt you would get along with my minions any better than you did with Raven. My request is simple.”

  Gentleman paused dramatically, but Andrey denied him the gratification of a response. Instead he waited, meeting the villain’s gaze with a cold stare.

  Finally, the villain expelled a sigh. “Such a bore. All I ask is for you not to interfere with my projects. There are greater troublemakers out there than me and mine.”

  “You mean Legion?”

  “Legion would be one of them, yes. In fact, I may even assist you in tracking him.”

  Andrey stifled a bitter laugh. “You think you’re any better than him? Think again. You’re a murderer. Fourteen confirmed cases that the UNEOA knows about, and half a hundred more are suspected. You would be on death row if you didn’t have your illusions to keep you out of the Covenant’s sight.”

  “They were all scum,” the masked man explained. “Low-lives, criminals, rapists. The world is better off without them.”

  “You’re calling the FBI agents who tracked you in Dallas scum?” Andrey challenged. “I don’t think so, Gentleman. You have a history of killing anyone who gets in your way. That’s my definition of a murderer.”