Superhero Universe: Tesseracts Nineteen

by Claude Lalumiere

“What happened?” she rasped at him, although she already knew; the stone and perfume had given her superpowers.

  Mike looked shaken, pale, and weepy. He wouldn’t make eye contact as he carefully cut through the rope around her wrist.

  “You were saying things, Nikki. It was not your voice. I don’t know exactly… what…” He started crying. Nikki stared at him in amazement, forgetting her pain long enough to sit up and put an arm around him. She looked around the room, dismayed to see that it looked as if someone had taken a laser cutter to the walls— just like at Hawthorne Mansion. Father Mike shuddered in her arms.

  “Hey…” she said to him softly.

  “You were doing things … I don’t know … what…”

  She looked down at herself again. “I did this?”

  Father Mike nodded, trying to get his sobs under control.

  “Ugh, I’m so sorry, Mike. I took some really bad drugs. It was stupid of me. I just— I need to not make such bad choices.”

  Father Mike peered at her through his tear-stained goggles, clearly struggling to accept a rational explanation, as it now seemed to Nikki that he’d been trying to exorcise her. He was teetering, wanting to believe it was just a really bad trip.

  “I got some money, you know? I wanted to celebrate. I just shouldn’t have. Here, look. These are for you.” She dug the cards out of her pockets and pressed one into his hand. He stared at it like it was some disgusting dead thing and held it out to her, shaking his head.

  “It’s okay, Mike, I won’t do it again. I promise. I only had one dose, and it’s gone now, really, it’s okay. Thank you so much for taking care of me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  She hugged him close, and he let her, finally relaxing with a heavy sigh.

  “Please, never do that again.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  After a while he pulled away from her seeming embarrassed at having been less than fatherly.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re all right. I guess I’ll be going. I’m a bit tired.” He fiddled with the card of chits she’d given him. “I don’t want to take these…”

  “But you need them,” Nikki said gently. “It’s okay to take them. If it’s okay for you to keep giving to everyone else, why isn’t it okay for someone to give something to you?”

  “Right. Thank you.” He smiled weakly. “You rest, then. I’ll let myself out.”

  Nikki lay back with the yellow stone clutched in her fist, staring at the ceiling as she listened to Father Mike’s footsteps fade. She unbuttoned her shirt and looked at the hole in her chest. It looked like a gunshot wound but only oozed feebly. The stone must have still been healing her, even on its way out.

  She dozed fitfully for days, only getting up to feed chits into the autoslot, or take a few bites of supplibars. The yellow stone and perfume bottle sat on her dresser. Throwing them away would probably not be safe. She put the bottle in the shower, thinking if she diluted it enough, maybe it couldn’t hurt anyone— or she might end up poisoning the entire colony.

  A slow knocking sounded at her door, sending chills up Nikki’s spine. Opening the door a crack, she saw Rodeo Rick leering at her, but now he wore all dark blue, and seemed much more in control of himself. He stood calmly with his hands behind his back, and none of his idiotic laughter. He had combed his hair and slicked it back, corporate-style. She pulled the door open a bit farther and leaned against it.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “I see the stone’s come out on its own. I’m sorry about your face. If the stone had stayed where it was supposed to, it would have protected you.”

  “It’s all right,” she replied, not wanting to mention Father Mike.

  “Here’s the rest of what I promised you.” He held out to her six more cards of chits.

  “Thank you.” She took the cards and started to close the door, but he put out a hand to stop her. He was a lot stronger than Nikki expected. He looked completely different— still crazy but much more dangerous.

  “I’ll have my stone and perfume back,” he said and pushed his way inside. Nikki backed up, trying to think if she had anything she could use as a weapon hidden in her apartment. Only the metal pipe, hidden under the bed. She mourned her long-lost superpowers.

  “Hey, what was that stuff, anyway?” she asked.

  “Exactly what you needed to get the job done. And it was nicely done, I must say.” Rodeo Rick picked up the stone from her dresser, contemplating it as he rubbed it with his fingers. He pursed his lips with a hint of a smile and turned toward her. “Father Mike? Is he your friend who removed this from you?”

  “What are you talking about? It came out of my chest and was sitting there when I woke up.”

  “Oh, I very much doubt that. You see, this stone is subject to control. My control. I’m the only one who gets to decide where this goes, and where it stays. Or doesn’t stay. You understand? And I control the person who swallows it.” He tapped the air with the stone as he spoke. “I paid you,” he reminded her. “But Father Mike removed my control over you, and that interfered with my business. So it seems I now have a problem with your friend Father Mike.”

  Nikki shook her head. “He didn’t do anything!”

  “Sure he did. He made you get hurt. All of that would have healed,” he gestured toward Nikki’s body with the hand that held the stone, “if he’d left this where it was supposed to be.”

  She tried to shut down her fear and turn on the charm. Whether as a superhero or as a hooker, she’d faced men who’d terrified her a hundred times before. This wasn’t any different, she told herself.

  “Hey, that doesn’t matter,” she said, trying to smile. “We don’t need to worry about that.”

  In a flash he was across the room and next to her, catching her by the neck with a hand that seemed too large, with fingernails that were too sharp. “You should worry. Now tell me, girl, where is the perfume?”

  “Alice stole it.”

  “And you think you can lie to me. I don’t need to ask you verbally.”

  Nikki struggled against the pressure he was applying to her throat. As her vision dimmed, she could feel his thoughts forcing their way into her mind. She tried not to think about Father Mike, but of course that’s what she did, picturing his home, his face, his funny offworlder clothes. Rodeo Rick immediately rifled through her thoughts, trying to see if she had given Mike the perfume bottle. Nikki was blacking out and couldn’t think straight. No, she hadn’t given Mike any perfume. She had given him something…

  Trying to remember, she pictured Mike the last time she’d seen him, but mostly remembered his voice. Anima Christi, sanctifica me. Corpus Christi, salve me. Sanguis Christi, inebria me. Aqua lateris Christi, lava me. Passio Christi, conforta me. O bone Iesu, exaudi me.

  Rodeo Rick faltered. A kernel of Father Mike’s influence lingered inside Nuclear Nikki. The path he’d created to force out the perfume-induced demon had left an open portal to the power he’d used. She concentrated on the words, hope flaring inside her as she became a channel for Father Mike’s universe-altering superpowers. Anima Christi, sanctifica me. Corpus Christi, salve me. Sanguis Christi, inebria me. Aqua lateris Christi, lava me. Passio Christi, conforta me. O bone Iesu, exaudi me.

  “No!” He recoiled from the words, letting go of Nikki’s neck and shoving her away. She fell next to the bed.

  Move, Nikki! She grabbed the pipe from under her bed and ran at Rodeo Rick, swinging wildly. She felt it connect with enough force to jar her elbow, making her drop the pipe and stumble away. She blinked several times before she was able to make out his slumped form on the floor, his face smashed up and blood pooling under his head.

  She laughed, although none of this was funny. Father Mike’s words still ran through her head like some background soundtrack. She spoke the incantation out loud, amazed that she could remember the words when they had no meaning for her, then said it again, and again, holding on to the remaining traces of Father Mike
’s powers.

  On the floor, Rodeo Rick twitched and shuddered. His body flipped over; something worked its way out of his chest. Nikki said the incantation again, until a black stone, pulsing with energy as the yellow one had, forced its way out, tearing through his skin and the cloth of his shirt. She edged over to cautiously pick it up. Rodeo Rick came to, blearily turning his head from side to side as he tried to make out where he was. His eyes focused on the stone held by Nikki’s fingers; rage instantly crossed his face. He made a grab for the stone, then for Nikki’s ankles when she scrambled away. She tripped and fell, her chin painfully scraping the plasticast floor.

  “Give it back!” he yelled, clawing his way up her clothing.

  By reflex, she popped the stone in her mouth. As she did so, she thought about what had happened when she’d swallowed the yellow stone.

  This one was much more powerful. Rodeo Rick gave a strange little moan as his strength left him, funnelling into Nikki. “I will have that stone back,” he gurgled through his broken face. He reared up on his knees, momentarily frozen, and then collapsed.

  Yesterday, Nikki would have been afraid. She would have huddled in a corner, stuffing pantyhose into her mouth so that she wouldn’t scream.

  Today, Nuclear Nikki breathed in deeply, tasting the power that ran giddily through her veins, laughing like an idiot at how easy it would be to do whatever she wanted, to whomever she wanted, and whenever she wanted. It was a rush.

  “Oh, my, my, my.” Nikki took her time, dressing in her favorite bits of clothing, wiping on heaps of lip gloss, salaciously pulling on red, thigh-high boots. “Whatever shall I do with you?” She elegantly stepped over Rodeo Rick as he feebly clutched at her, twisted her ankle from his grasp and picked up the yellow stone and bottle of perfume from where she’d hidden it in the shower.

  She went for a walk. She smiled graciously at any potential clients, but for some reason, after seeing the bleeding guy shambling along behind her, they all backed away, scurrying into the shadows. She tossed him a glance over her shoulder. He was going to try to get the stone back from her, and probably knew how. Something would have to be done about that.

  Nuclear Nikki strutted her stuff across the Dead End Causeway and into Magic Eddie’s 8-Ball Bistro and Magnetic Disco Pub. There sat Savage Bill, all smiles, and too full of himself to realize that she had changed. She was all powered up. He still had his stupid white tux and stupid little card of fake chits dangling between his fingers, thinking he was tempting some stupid whore who was desperate to get them. Thinking he could get Nikki to fall for that twice.

  “Hey baby, I got ‘em and you need ‘em,” he actually said.

  Nikki smiled and sauntered over to where he sat.

  “Sure, baby. I’ve got something for you, too.”

  “What’s that?” he said, his tone clearly saying anything she could possibly have would be completely uninteresting.

  “Just a little bit of candy. Try it. Tastes like honey-lemon-liquid-love.”

  Nikki took the magic yellow stone from her purse and pushed it into his mouth. He pawed at his throat as it slid down to his heart, then took a deep breath and looked up at her as she sprayed him in the face with the perfume. She gave him a strong dose of it so that the transformation would occur quickly. He tried to speak, but his voice devolved into growls. Nikki knew he wanted to ask what was going to happen, so she answered him.

  “You’re gonna do whatever I want, Sugarpie. And you can start by ridding me of him.” She stepped aside so that Savage Bill could see Rodeo Rick coming up behind her with his broken face and Nikki’s metal pipe in his hand. Rodeo Rick saw Bill and suddenly didn’t look so sure about getting his stone back.

  A few of the punters looked up, leaving their cards at the tables and shrinking into the dull inertia of the room. Super Savage Bill was ultra-charged with violence and smiling his evil grin wider than usual as he stood to greet his new prey.

  Nikki smiled at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Ubervillain indeed. Moving into Hawthorne Manor would suit her nicely.

  * * *

  Calgary writer Jennifer Rahn is the author of two novels published by Dragon Moon Press.

  Spirit in the Clay

  Bevan Thomas

  As the guns rat-a-tat-tat-ed and the bombs fell, I was over the hill with the rest of my unit, racing toward the enemy. My sergeant yelled something and close-by someone else screamed, but I kept on going, firing my submachine gun again and again. I don’t know if I hit anyone, I didn’t know who was alive or who was dead. I just kept firing as the ground exploded around me, as the whole world seemed to break in half.

  With my last breath, I tried to recite the Shema: “Shema Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Ech—” And then silence. Darkness.

  A light! It was bright like the sun yet I could stare at it without hurting my eyes. The more I stared at the light, the more relaxed I felt. It was getting bigger and bigger— no, I was getting closer. I was going into the light. I was going… home.

  Suddenly there was a crash like a giant window shattering, and the light blinked out. I was falling! Falling through the darkness as if I were inside some inescapable tornado! Swirling and swirling in the darkness! Swirling and swirling and swirling and—

  “Do I have the honour of addressing Corporal Daniel Druker of the Royal Hamilton Light Infantry?” The voice penetrated the silence, clear as a bell, and the darkness dissolved.

  I seemed to be floating in the middle of a room, above a large round table. The room was dark, though I could make out five human silhouettes seated around the table, linking hands so that their arms formed a sort of five-pointed star. A single candle was in the middle of the table; I hovered above its flame.

  “Do I have the honour of addressing Corporal Daniel Druker of the Royal Hamilton Light Infantry?” It was one of the five at the table who repeated these words. Unlike the others, he was now glowing, which enabled me to see him.

  He was a balding old man with grey hair and a black suit. The sort of man one sees every day. He could have been a lawyer or a banker approaching retirement, except for his glowing aura and the energy I could sense crackling behind his eyes. And except that I recognized that face, that voice— from the radio, the newspapers, the newsreels.

  “I am William Lyon Mackenzie King, Prime Minister of Canada,” the figure said. “And I will ask again, oh wandering spirit: do I have the honour of addressing Corporal Daniel Druker of the Royal Hamilton Light Infantry?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Excellent!” The Prime Minister beamed. “Doubtless you are wondering what has happened.”

  “I remember the sound of guns and bombs. I was— I think I was in France.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “And then I was in darkness, heading toward a light.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “Was I— did I die?” I asked.

  “Yes, you did,” the Prime Minister replied. “I apologize sincerely for drawing you back to the material plane, away from your eternal rest. But your country still needs you.”

  “What?”

  “You are confused. I will try to explain. I am a spiritualist; that is not something I share with most people. I can commune with the spirits of the departed, ‘ghosts’ if you will, and with other spirits besides. This has proven of pivotal importance in our current crisis— this world war is being fought on far more fronts than most people realize. The artificial monstrosities grown by Josef Mengele’s mad scientists, the diabolic sorcery invoked by Heinrich Himmler’s warlocks in the Thule SS, and even darker villains… We keep the existence of these abominations hidden from the Allied public; can you imagine the mass panic if people knew the Nazis can reanimate the dead and conjure demons from Hell? We fight a secret war underneath, above, and around the public one; the Nazis have their weapons, and we have ours.” The Prime Minister sighed and rubbed his eyes before continuing. “We recently acquired something, something that could give us
a chance of winning this wretched conflict.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I think it would be better if I showed you.”

  King rose to his feet and walked out the door, followed by the four hazy silhouettes of his companions. We walked down a dark hall filled with various indistinct shapes, large rectangles that might have been shelves, squares that might have been windows, the occasionally vague blob that might have been a person, though they were even less distinct than the figures that King had worked with to summon me. Perhaps it wasn’t that the hall itself was dark but simply that what I had become could not view things as I once could.

  As the Prime Minister walked, occasionally beings of shining light hovered around him, and then disappeared. These I could see clearly: sometimes they were heroic men, sometimes beautiful women, sometimes barking spectral Irish Terriers that scampered at King’s heels.

  “Yes, I walk with many spirits,” the Prime Minister said. “They give me guidance, strength, and hope.” He unlocked a door and opened it. “Follow me.”

  The room was empty except for a large chair in the middle: on the chair was seated a large man. This man was not an indistinct silhouette; I could see him perfectly, sitting naked with his eyes closed. He was a tall figure, muscular — even brutish — with grey skin and no hair at all, not even eyebrows. A sense of power radiated from him, a strength far greater than even his brawny body would suggest.

  “This is the Golem of Prague.” Prime Minister King gestured at the figure. “We don’t have the time to elucidate all the risks we took, all the sacrifices we made to acquire this mighty artifact. It was formed from clay and given life hundreds of years ago by the famous Rabbi Loew to protect the Jews of Prague from persecution and mob violence. The creature has slumbered ever since, waiting for its vast strength to be needed again.” King sighed. “The strength which is needed now.”

  “Then why haven’t you awakened it?” I asked.

  “We tried. We had someone with knowledge of Kabbalistic lore: Rabbi Shmuel Agron of Utena, one of the last true ‘Masters of the Name,’ but he was torn apart by a pack of baying hellhounds.”