Superhero Universe: Tesseracts Nineteen

by Claude Lalumiere

  Pursing my lips, I picked up a plate of my own. Pickles, cheese, coleslaw, a bit of Mom’s pasta salad. Some cold cuts and pork and beans I hoped hadn’t been sitting out too long. A bun with specks of rosemary and some real salted butter— not the margarine I always ended up with in Joliette. A can of Labatt Blue, my first beer in three years.

  Not a soul showed any interest in me when I looked up from the cooler, so I found a vacant patch of lawn by the back fence and watched everybody as I picked at my meal. I spotted Mo’s wife Sylvie by the pool, keeping an eye on their two little boys as they splashed about. She had a bit of a belly that might’ve been middle-aged weight or a third kid on the way, it was hard to tell.

  Mom had come out and was speaking with Mo. Now that I wasn’t arguing with her at close range, I noted that she’d lost weight. The bulge of her elbows and knees contrasted with the narrowness of her forearms and lower legs. It didn’t look healthy.

  My cousin Jacques and a good-looking black boy were drinking beers and throwing plastic horseshoes at one of two bright pink posts along the west side of the fence. I didn’t know the other guy, but when he looked over and caught my eye he smiled.

  I pushed away from the fence and joined them as Jacques took aim and skipped a horseshoe just past his target. “Merde,” he muttered.

  “You should’ve made that,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I was wondering if you were going to show up. Martine, this is Alain. Alain, this is my cousin Martine.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said as we shook hands.

  “Likewise,” Alain said as he prepared to throw his first horseshoe. He had a Caribbean accent of some sort, probably Haitian.

  “So are you in construction too?” I asked Alain as his first horseshoe fell neatly beside the post.

  “Yes, we met on site,” he said. “How about you?”

  Jacques said, “She’s a hydrogeologist.”

  “Hardly,” I snorted. “I’m a supervillain. The obvious names were already taken, so they call me Mojili.”

  “Are you serious?” Alain asked.

  “Yes,” Jacques and I replied, and Jacques added, “Yes, she’s a supervillain. Lead story on the radio earlier, remember?”

  Alain peered at me. “That was you?”

  A little stream of amber shot out of his can and splashed his chin. He looked down at the can and then at me.

  “Sorry for the waste,” I said.

  “The news said a lot of people had been hurt,” Alain noted.

  “That’s true,” I said. “Couldn’t be avoided.”

  “Holy shit.” He turned to Jacques. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  He chugged some beer, belched, and finally answered, “Why would I want to broadcast that she’s my cousin?”

  “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation,” Alain said. He had a look on his face that said he was thinking about excusing himself to go make a call.

  “Look, Alain, I get it,” I said hastily. “I’ve done a lot of terrible things. I ought to be in prison for them. I will be going back to prison for them. But today matters to me. Our grandmother’s got Alzheimer’s. Late-stage. I have no idea how long she has, no idea where she’s living these days. But the single member of this fucking family who still voluntarily communicates with me told me about this party, and I knew that it was my single best chance to see Nana again before she dies. Are you going to deny me that?”

  “You’ve killed people,” Alain said. “Stolen millions. Caused immense destruction. Why should I do anything for you?”

  I said, “The cops will find me soon enough. You calling them won’t change that. It’ll just accelerate things and piss me off.”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” Alain said.

  “Sweety, everybody else at this party is scared of her,” Jacques interjected. “As a kid, she came close to killing a few of us for various reasons. Almost drowned me with a bottle of soda.”

  Alain stared at him.

  Jacques said, “Here comes your brother.”

  I turned to see Mo approaching. “Auntie’s waking Nana,” he said. “She doesn’t want to bring her outside in this heat, so I’ll show you to her room. Then you can have your time and leave, okay?”

  “Okay,” I agreed.

  I followed him back into the house, closing the patio door behind me. We returned to the front hall and stopped in front of a closed door.

  “She’s in Serge’s office?” I muttered. “Jeez, Mom and I were arguing, like, right there, and she didn’t tell me.”

  Mo frowned. “Easier to get a bed down here than to get her upstairs.” He tapped softly on the door.

  It cracked open and Aunt Hélène slipped out. Looking to Mo and then me, she whispered, “She’s awake, but she wears out quickly. Try to be brief for her sake.”

  I pursed my lips. “Does she… is she going to know who I am?”

  “Probably not,” Hélène said. “She doesn’t speak much and she can’t do much. If she indicates she needs something, call for me.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  She stepped out and waited. I took a breath and entered the office.

  One of them closed the door as I froze in place at the foot of the bed.

  Nana was covered up to her chest with a floral cotton sheet. Soft, warm arms that had once hugged me tight lay limp and gaunt on top of the sheet. The smooth cheeks I’d once kissed were wrinkled and hollow. Her once-sharp eyes now narrow and faded in color.

  “Hi,” I managed to say.

  She blinked.

  “It’s Martine,” I said, finally bringing myself to move again.

  “Martine,” she wheezed.

  “Yes, Nana, that’s right. Do you remember me?”

  She blinked but didn’t answer.

  “Okay,” I lied, “That’s okay.” I slipped into the single chair sitting beside the bed. “I know you’re not doing well. That’s why I’m here. I’m sorry it’s been so long.”

  “Martine,” she murmured.

  I leaned forward, placing a hand on her arm. She didn’t react.

  I stared at her, barely aware of the distant sounds of the party beyond the walls.

  “I never wanted this to happen, Nana,” I said. “It’s been eight years since your diagnosis. That was the last time Mom voluntarily spoke to me. She said you took it in stride. That you figured your heart would go long before you ever got really bad.”

  Nana blinked.

  “It killed me to hear it, though,” I continued. “You had so much patience with me. Tried so hard to help me turn out right. I know I should feel more guilt that I didn’t, but I guess that’s part of my problem.”

  “Water,” she said.

  I smiled. “That’s the rest of it, yes. The water.”

  The tip of her tongue appeared between her lips.

  “Oh,” I said. “Sorry.” There was a white plastic pitcher on Serge’s desk, but no cup or glass. I sighed.

  I took control of the water and lifted it out of the pitcher. It drifted slowly over the bed, a shimmering sphere hovering over Nana’s chest. A string of clear drops floated down toward her lips, and she opened her mouth to receive the first. She swallowed slowly and opened her mouth again.

  “Take them at your own pace,” I said, lowering the second drop to her lips. “I know you hoped this would go away and I’d be normal again,” I said. “It didn’t happen. I didn’t go to school, didn’t get married, didn’t give you more great-grandkids.”

  She took a third drop. I sent a fourth down and twisted the arrangement of the remainder so they now descended in a slow spiral.

  A hint of a smile tugged at her lips.

  “I got into a fair bit of trouble with this,” I confessed. “There’s a lot of ways to hurt people when you control the main ingredient of their body. Get creative enough and you can cause landslides, floods, and bad weather. I took advantage of it. Took a lot of money that wasn’t mine. I lived like royalty and I loved it.”


  Nana’s lips puckered up as she kissed the next droplet.

  My sight began to blur. “Figures that I can’t control my own waterworks, eh?” I sniffled. “I want you to know something, Nana. Something I can’t tell anybody else— even the rest of the family, because, if I did that, somebody would tell the cops.”

  She stuck her tongue out, and I brought the next droplet down on its pink tip.

  “It took a while for me to figure it out,” I said, “But I realized I had enough money on my hands that I could maybe try to help somebody find a cure for this. Couldn’t use it all, of course. Wouldn’t have. I was enjoying my life too much for that and I had to keep up appearances. Also had to be sure that, if the cops took me down, they’d assume I’d spent the difference between what I’d stolen and what I had left. I knew a person who was able to set up a trust fund without obvious links back to me.

  “Then I started making inquiries, looking for the right kind of researcher— somebody dedicated enough to their work to ask no questions about their funding, yet competent enough to make effective use of it. Took a while, but the money started flowing in that direction about four years ago.”

  Her right hand twitched, as if reaching for the spiral of water droplets, and so I brought them down to surround her wrist like a wide pearl bracelet.

  “Sitting here now, I wonder if I wasted that money or if I should’ve spent more,” I added.

  Her eyes were fixed on her hand; she didn’t comment.

  I’d have to answer that myself.

  She blinked again and set her hand down, crushing some of the droplets into the sheet. I wicked the moisture back into the air.

  “Done?” I asked.

  She blinked again, closed her eyes.

  I directed the water back into the pitcher.

  * * *

  Mo was waiting for me as I closed the door to Nana’s improvised room. We stood in silence for a few moments, and then he asked, “You okay?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Fair enough.”

  “Is she staying here until…?”

  “Auntie and Uncle are going to try,” he confirmed. “They’re getting pretty tired, though. If she holds out for more than a few weeks, I’m not sure what we’re going to do.”

  I nodded.

  “I can hear sirens,” he said.

  “Let me get one last look at my nephews, and I’ll be out of here.”

  He exhaled loudly. “All right… come on.”

  We walked back to the patio door and looked out at the pool. The kids were still playing murderball or volleyball or something, laughing and splashing. “Philippe’s doing well in grade 2,” Mo said.

  “Good,” I said.

  “Luc starts kindergarten in September,” he added.

  “That’s him?” I asked, pointing to an excited youngster with orange water-wings.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  I observed the boy reach up for one ball, then slip out of the way of another. The water surface around him moved up and down with him, and the waves generated by the other kids dampened as they approached him. While the rest of the kids were immersed to their shoulders, Luc floated higher in the water, his arms essentially resting on the surface.

  “Mar?” Mo prodded. “They’re here.”

  “I’m going,” I said. “You can take away the water wings, Mo. Luc’s in his element.”

  I turned away and started for the front door. A Sûreté cruiser, lights flashing and driver’s side door open, was framed by the living room window. Other flashing lights were visible through the frosted glass pane to the left of the door.

  “Hang on,” Mo said. “You’re saying…”

  I paused with a hand on the doorknob. “You’ll need help with him, Mo… but I can’t provide it from Joliette.”

  “You said you’d surrender without making a scene,” Mo said.

  “Yeah, well, give my apologies to Mom,” I said, opening the door. Cops ducked behind cars, a shrill voice yelling through a megaphone, and I reached out to the thousands of ton of water suspended in the hot July air.

  * * *

  Jason Sharp is a writer based in Ontario.

  Midnight Man versus Doctor Death

  Chadwick Ginther

  Doctor Death was back in town.

  Fossils were missing from the local museum. Those fossils were followed by three summer students. Their paleontologist teacher was hot on their heels. No bodies had been found but given the blood at the scene foul play was suspected. The cops were baffled, but I recognized the signs of my nemesis.

  Every city is haunted by villains. And eventually every city raises its own champion. It’s almost a competition. Bragging rights. I fought a smile. Bragging rites. Mort Cheval was no different. What was once two large Prairie towns, was now a small city. New developments consumed farmers’ fields like a cancer. Things got disturbed. Things woke up. But when a city actually has death built right into its name, things get a little special, and it takes a special sort of hero to stem the tide. That’s me. It’s my job to put the bad guys back to sleep. I’m the Midnight Man.

  Not a lot of people with my skill set are on the side of the angels. For many the Fight is a religious calling. I was wary of anything smacking of religion, but I did have a calling. It was a mad thing, dressing up in a costume to fight evil. But there are villains who raise the dead and murder the living, all without receiving justice.

  I took the tools of my first defeated foe, and used them against the next. And again. Mister Murder, Sister Slaughter, Mademoiselle Mortuary, Uncle Anesthesia. They hated the handles I gave them, but they never had to put up with them for long, because I put ’em all in the ground for good. Only one of the blackguards I couldn’t keep there: Doctor Death.

  Since Doc was into fossils now, he’d need cheap labour to help with the digging.

  * * *

  I waited at the bottom of an open grave. Some would say I’m absorbing death. Stretching my thanatomancy— my death magic. Truth is, I like to make an entrance.

  This graveyard was supposed to be a place for the dead to rest, but because of Doc three were walking tonight. I fastened my black leather Hades cap emblazoned with a skull and crossbones, and slid on my grave-sight goggles. I popped up to take a look, and Doc’s walkers flared red in my goggles against the grey penumbric haze. Thin lines, like veins and arteries, spiderwebbed over their bodies, gathering in thicker power clusters that glowed like fireflies where Doc had injected them full up with evil. They were easy to spot. Easier to see I was outnumbered.

  I grinned. A slow pop of the holster flaps, and I was ready to draw my two Colt Model 1911s. Each pistol was loaded with lucky sevens of tombstone bullets. I was often outnumbered, but never outgunned.

  As I jumped into the fray, I turned on my emblem. The white double Ms on my jacket flared briefly, blinding Doc’s goons and spotlighting my targets. I drew my pistols midair, firing before my feet touched grass. The Colts’ muzzle flashes were lightning bright, their reports thunder loud.

  The first walker I hit turned grey, reclaiming the waxy pallor of death as its embalmed body fell. Its spirit oozed out before the body hit the ground.

  I ran toward the walkers as if the Devil were chasing me. Another shot. Another flunky trying to get back to Doc so he could reload it in some other dead meat. I holstered my right hand Colt and tossed a ball-and-chain bomb. The eggshell thin casing shattered against a tombstone behind the walker. A puff of silver dust glittered in the moonlight, enveloping the body and the trailing end of the spirit.

  It was sucked back into its body and locked in. Dead meat. Dead spirit. Another bomb sorted the first goon.

  The last one wouldn’t fall. He kept coming until I was out of ammo. Whatever spirit Doc had stuffed inside, it wasn’t coming out till Doomsday. I still had one ball-and-chain bomb, but if tombstone bullets couldn’t drop the meat it would be useless.

  His arms stretched toward me. The tips of his
fingers had been gnawed to the bone, leaving him with grisly talons, and his forearms were armored with some sort of reptile skull. He walked hunched over, arms grasping for me. I slid on my knuckledusters. Hand-to-hand it was.

  My big silver rings glowed softly. Story was, these rings had been blessed by the Pope, the one time he’d visited Mort Cheval. Why and how I don’t know. But they worked.

  The big guy came at me with no form or technique, his mouth gaping open in a mute scream. I ducked under one of his clumsy slashes, landing a double body blow with my dusters. For all the damage I did, I might as well have been punching stone.

  Something whipped out, too fast to see, and caught me in the ribs with a sharp lancing pain. I rolled with the blow, but he’d still tagged me good. I switched on my emblem, hoping to blind him, but he nailed me again and knocked me flat. That whip of his, whatever it was, coiled around me like a snake. It felt like stone and looked like bone. The fossils! Some kind of wire ran through the entire length of the weapon, like a tail or a spine. But it moved as if it were still alive. It gave me a squeeze, and I screamed.

  The pressure eased, and I gulped a breath. I raised my dusters to strike. Too late. Stone ricocheted off the back of my head and I saw double. I felt myself fly through the air and I landed, hard. He’d knocked me back into the open grave. If I didn’t clear my head, it would be mine in truth, regardless of whose name ended up on the stone. Here lies the Midnight Man, it wouldn’t say. He fought the good fight in a bad war.

  My whole body ached. My head swam. But I wasn’t done fighting yet. The goon loomed over my grave, and at last I realized that he wasn’t wielding a whip, the whip was part of him. A skeletal tail that writhed, waiting to strike.

  All at once there was a burst of sun-bright light from the edge of the grave, followed by a reptilian shriek. The sounds of the fight were brief. There was only one person that glow could belong to: Daystar. My on-again, off-again ally and adversary.

  “I didn’t think you’d show,” I called up.