Halfheroes

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  "Anything?"

  TripleDee shook his head.

  "I don't recognise it," said Sara. "Daniel?"

  "One more time?" He squeezed Saffi's hand. She turned to him and hummed the four notes again.

  It was his turn to close his eyes, as he hummed the four notes back, trying to empty his crowded mind of every expectation and pressure on this moment.

  "Nothing. I don't know what it means."

  There seemed little to say after that. They talked through the vision as far as they could. Daniel named the building as the Shard in London as the most likely candidate. But he couldn't see the relevance. Abos was in America. What did a London landmark have to do with anything?

  Saffi's grief was so raw, that TripleDee stopped himself saying aloud what all of them were thinking: "Well, that's us fucked, then."

  Daniel stayed in the shower a long time, letting painfully hot water cascade over his skin. His body was still covered in bruises, but they were yellow now, or light green, and fading fast.

  He stepped out of the shower and rubbed the mirror with his towel. His face emerged out of the steam, one eye looking back at him. The socket where its twin should have been was empty, pink and scarred. He glanced down at his left foot, the missing toes a permanent reminder of his encounter with the hybrids in Station half a lifetime ago.

  "Lose any more body parts and you won't even qualify as a halfhero," he said to his reflection.

  The knock at the door was so quiet he thought he'd imagined it. He opened the bathroom door, his skin breaking into goosebumps as the air-conditioning touched it.

  The knock came again. He wrapped the towel around his waist and crossed the room to open the door. It was Saffi.

  He stood aside and let her in.

  Daniel felt his mouth dry as he tried to say something that didn't sound trite, stupid, or both.

  Saffi didn't give him the opportunity. She reached up, placed a hand on the back of his neck, and pulled his head towards her. They kissed for a long time. Whenever the kiss was about to end, one of them would hungrily resume, as if they never wanted to stop.

  Daniel had never been kissed this way, had never kissed anyone this way. Nothing in the world was so awful that it couldn't be subsumed by the power of this white-hot passion, no evil was powerful enough to withstand the wonder of moments like these. Two souls, in two bodies, abandoning everything to the other, giving and giving, never taking because taking had been transformed into more giving.

  Daniel's mind quieted in acknowledgement of the pure moment of infinite desire that had flared into existence between them.

  Well, either that or he couldn't think straight because of a massive erection.

  Saffi reached down and pulled the towel away before pushing him back onto the bed as she undid her blouse.

  The two-and-a-half minutes that followed were the best of Daniel's life. The ninety-seven minutes after that were even better.

  Daniel woke suddenly, with no memory of dreaming, no trace of the usual drowsiness that accompanied the transition from sleep to wakefulness. He sat up and stared into the darkness of his hotel room, his heart racing.

  He hummed four notes, three descending, one ascending. He added three repeated notes to the end of the phrase, then hummed the whole thing three times. The fourth time he varied it, then began a new phrase.

  Saffi sat up beside him.

  "Daniel?"

  He turned towards her. His eye was adjusting to the darkness now, and he could make out the shape of her face.

  "I've got it," he said. "I know what the tune is. I know why she saw a picture. I know what we have to do. I know how we can try to save Abos."

  She was quiet in the darkness, but he knew she was smiling.

  "Should we tell the others now?" he said. "Or in the morning?" As she spoke, Saffi took Daniel's hand and placed it on the underside of her left breast. Daniel swallowed.

  "The morning's fine. No point disturbing them. Let's tell them in the morning."

  42

  Four weeks later

  It was the day after Thanksgiving. Black Friday. Traditionally, the stores in Manhattan would be crammed with bargain hunters, determined to spend hundreds, thousands, even tens of thousands of dollars, then brag about how much money they had saved in the sales

  Not today, though. Not this Black Friday. The administration had tried to rename it Deterrent Day. When that was ignored, they pushed hard for Freedom Friday. No one outside Washington paid any attention. Black Friday it had always been, and Black Friday it would remain.

  There was one major difference though. The stores were, for the main part, closed. Food and drink establishments were open - they were expecting their best day of the year. Souvenir stores and street stalls were hawking disposable tat. There were titan T-shirts and caps, Deterrent tea towels, boxer shorts, and thongs. Toy titans, battery-operated, which marched up and down, fists pumping. Optician's window displays were full of gold contact lenses.

  With the traditional Macy's parade cancelled to make way for this one-off celebration, New York City was determined to show the world it knew how to party.

  At five am, secret service agents followed street sweepers along the parade route. A few early arrivals had already claimed their spots, determined to get a good view. The President had elected not to attend, stating, "Freedom Friday is about the superheroes who are protecting our nation. It's not about me, your President. I will be there to greet our new heroes at the end of the parade." The media commentators weren't buying it, gleefully pointing out that, in a parade full of beautiful super beings who could fly, no one would look at the President.

  The route had been chosen to enable the maximum number of people a view of the titans. It stuck closely to that of the Macy parade, starting on Central Park West, but, after turning onto 34th Street, it headed north again on 8th Avenue, finishing in Times Square.

  Neighbouring streets had been checked in the days leading up to the event, but no one expected any trouble. Not against titans.

  Other streets were making the most of being off-route, knowing they were guaranteed a quieter day. The stretch of 7th Avenue between 34th and 42nd Street was already busy with billboard erectors, pasting new advertisement hoardings. At street level, they were putting together a huge PA system for a party that night. Construction work continued on most city sites, contractors working overtime to get ahead of schedule, while those along the route had suspended work for the day.

  By eight-forty-five, every float was in place, the cheerleaders were warming up, the giant inflatable titan figures, filled with gas in Central Park the previous night, tied to the trucks pulling them. They were accompanied by a giant inflatable turkey. Marching bands, majorettes, dance troupes, acrobats, jugglers, street magicians, and fire-breathers prepared themselves for the start of the parade.

  On a flatbed truck decorated—against his better judgement—as a Hollywood version of a scientist's laboratory, Roger Sullivan turned to Mike Ainsleigh and asked the same question for the fourth time in twenty minutes.

  "Is my tie straight, Mike?"

  Mike looked again.

  "Yes, Roger. It's straight." He looked around him. "Th- there will be a lot of people. I don't know. M- maybe I should leave."

  Roger patted him on the arm.

  "Mike, it's your day as much as mine. Without your help, we would never have saved the titans from Titus Gorman. You're a hero too. In your own way."

  Mike was unappeased.

  "But, but, Roger, how have we saved them?"

  Roger waved his arm, indicating the parade.

  "A few months ago, they were public enemy number one. Now they are the toast of New York, American heroes. The protectors of freedom. You helped make that happen."

  Mike shook his head.

  "But, but, but..."

  "But, but what, Mike? Lighten up a little. Neither of us are spring chickens. Did you ever think you'd live to see a day like this?"

  "But
, but they are still being drugged, Roger. You're using the same—"

  He broke off as Roger grabbed his arm and stared at him, his face reddening with anger.

  "Now listen here, Ainsleigh. I've explained this to you. It's about the greater good. And you cannot, I repeat cannot talk about this. It's a matter of national security. You mention anything, to anyone, ever, about any of the methods we use and you'll spend the rest of your miserable existence in a cell. Do you understand? Do you?"

  "Well, yes, Roger, yes, I do, but, but, well, it isn't right, is it?"

  Roger leaned in close.

  "Now you listen, you stupid motherfucker. One more word about any of this, and I'll have you taken away and shot. I can make it happen anytime I like. So shut. The. Fuck. Up. Got it?"

  Mike nodded, and Roger released his sleeve. If he hadn't been so reliant on him, he might have gone through with his threat. Mike was making discoveries in the lab, examining tissue harvested from the titans, his brilliant mind engaged with the joy of pure research. He was exploring worlds Roger couldn't even begin to understand. But, like a kid pulling at Santa's beard because he thought he looked suspiciously familiar, Mike kept coming back to the question of ethics. It annoyed the fuck out of Roger.

  Ainsleigh was trembling. Mike hated any kind of physical contact, and confrontations could upset him for hours.

  "Look, Mike, I'm sorry. I'm nervous, is all. It's a big day. Try to enjoy yourself."

  Mike nodded automatically and walked over to the table where dry ice was rising from a large beaker. He tried picking it up, but it was glued in place.

  "It's Hollywood, Mike. Like a movie set. You and I are mad scientists."

  Looking at Mike's decades-out-of-fashion glasses and long, lank, grey hair, Roger considered the role wouldn't be much of a stretch for him.

  Then someone screamed something, there was a huge roar from tens of thousands of voices, and he looked north in time to see a V-formation descending from hundreds of feet above.

  The Deterrent led the others, his iconic outfit from the eighties updated but still recognisable. His helmet was painted with the American flag, as were those of the titans who swept down behind him, taking up position above the massive inflatable versions of themselves.

  Roger reached into his pocket for his walkie-talkie. He had tried an earpiece but found it too uncomfortable. All the titans were wearing one, naturally.

  "Deterrent?"

  "Yes, Professor Sullivan."

  He wasn't a professor, but an honorary doctorate had arrived after his medal of distinction and, since he considered his services to science dwarfed anyone since Einstein, he was happy to use the title.

  "Radio check, please."

  He listened to every other titan check-in.

  "Sir?"

  A secret service agent was leaning over the side of the flatbed.

  "It's nine. We're ready to start the parade. Whenever you give the word, sir."

  Roger smiled. For a second, he had a flash of memory from his time at Station; McKean, that uptight prick, punching him on the nose. What he wouldn't give to have that self-righteous Scot see him now. It was almost a shame he was dead. He straightened his tie one last time.

  "You may proceed, son."

  The parade was, as expected, a huge success, attracting the biggest live television audience in history. The titans made a show of it, swooping down to street level and walking for half a block, shaking hands and giving high fives, before rising into the air again, performing loop the loops and barrel rolls for the cheering crowds.

  The Deterrent was the star of the show. The other titans were popular, but social media had been buzzing for weeks with criticism of the president's decision to have the titans look like giant, incredibly fit versions of himself. No information had been forthcoming from the White House regarding why, or how, this had happened, but speculation was rife about genetic engineering, secret labs, and alien technology.

  The Deterrent was a different story, and the media had fastened their teeth onto it like a rabid dog with lockjaw. A thirty-seven-year absence during which only the most extreme conspiracy theorists had believed he was alive, followed by a dramatic reappearance, a change of political allegiance and no explanation. It was the biggest mystery, the biggest news story, in the world.

  Everyone there wanted to see The Deterrent for themselves; a piece of folklore made flesh, a superpowered and apparently ageless being who wore the flag of their country. Tens of thousands of selfie-sticks were held aloft by fans determined to get their face in the same image as The Deterrent. This led to tangled sticks, some arguments, a handful of impromptu fencing matches, and one trip to hospital by a young man whose selfie stick was subsequently removed from his rectum.

  The crowds cheered, the camera flashes provided a constant light show, children dressed as miniature titans waved at the real thing. Men and women leaned bare-breasted out of upper windows. Every media network covered every square inch of the route.

  Ten minutes in, Roger Sullivan sat in a leather armchair on his laboratory-themed float, while Mike Ainsleigh squatted with his back against the cab up front and played a text-based adventure game on his phone. Roger popped a few pills into his mouth. No one was looking at his float. No one cared who he was. He regretted agreeing to take part. His place in history was already assured. There was no need for him to be part of this side-show. Oh well, lesson learned.

  As the parade turned west onto 34th Street, The Deterrent at its head, Sara watched from a fifth-floor window on the intersection with 7th Avenue. She sent a text: count to a hundred, then do it.

  On top of a building on 34th Street, forty yards on from the intersection where Sara waited, TripleDee received her text, slid a ceiling tile aside and lowered himself into the empty restroom below. Once in, he replaced the tile and checked his appearance in the mirror. Black suit, white shirt, black tie. Dark glasses and an earpiece. He couldn't have looked more like a Secret Service agent if he had been wearing a badge reading Secret Service Agent. He stretched and rolled his neck, eliciting a brief cannonade of clicks, cracks, and pops.

  TripleDee scowled at himself.

  "Scary bastard," he told his reflection, before blowing a raspberry and raising his middle finger in a mock salute. "Reporting for duty."

  On the roof of the 34th Street building, a crowd of revellers had gathered around a crane. It towered above the office workers, who were cheering as they caught sight of the front of the parade.

  TripleDee burst out of the door to the roof bellowing so loudly that half a dozen people dropped their drinks.

  "MAKE YOUR WAY TO THE GROUND FLOOR IN AN ORDERLY FASHION IMMEDIATELY. THIS IS NOT A DRILL."

  Triple had no idea if anyone had ever had a drill involving a shouty bloke from the north of England ordering people around, but he was relying on the outfit, his size, and crowd psychology when confronted by an extremely loud authority figure to see him through.

  Everyone froze and looked at him. TripleDee did some more shouting.

  "I SAID MAKE YOUR WAY TO THE GROUND FLOOR IMMEDIATELY. IMMEDIATELY. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. MOVE. NOW."

  People headed towards the door, but too slowly. Perhaps he had overdone the 'orderly fashion' bit. He decided to, as the Americans would no doubt put it, incentivize them. He pointed and shouted even louder.

  "THAT CRANE IS PACKED WITH EXPLOSIVES. THE TIMER COULD TRIGGER ANY SECOND. WHEN IT DOES, THE TOP THREE FLOORS OF THIS BUILDING AND THE ONE NEXT TO IT WILL BE VAPORISED, ALONG WITH ALL OF US. SO IF YOU COULD JUST HURRY ALONG..."

  Triple stood aside as sixty people tried to get through a single doorway. They managed it remarkably quickly.

  Once the roof was clear, he shrugged off his jacket and ran to the crane. He'd already put in some groundwork the previous night, loosening the huge bolts which secured the construction equipment to the roof. Now he worked fast, finishing the job and tossing each huge bolt aside.

  Once he was done, he remembered he hadn't co
unted to a hundred.

  "Er... eighty-one, eighty-two, eighty-three."

  Sara, meanwhile, was watching the parade get closer and closer. She had finished her own count twenty seconds earlier.

  "Come one, come on, come on," she muttered, her breath coming in short, nervous gasps, her throat tight. She trusted TripleDee now, but this was the first time she'd had to rely on the newly reformed drug dealer who'd spent the rest of his adult life building a criminal empire.

  "Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit, what if he's buggered off?"

  She paced the small room. The name-plate on the door had said Vice President, but Sara had seen bigger toilets.

  "Come on, come on, come on..."

  In a rare moment of perfect synchronicity, TripleDee was saying the same words at precisely the same moment, before launching into a deluge of swearing as every muscle in his body screamed. He had his back against the side of the crane, his legs bent beneath him, and he was pushing with every bit of strength he possessed.

  "Come on, come on, come on, come on you shitty piece of shit, you shitty piece of crane, you craney piece of shit, you shit crane, come on, fucking move move move, you absolute bastard twat crane. COME ON, YOU ARSE-LICKING COCK SHITTING PISSFLAP OF A TWATTING FART GOBBLER."

  Whether he had found one last reserve of strength, or whether the words pissflap of a twatting fart gobbler were, in fact, imbued with mystical properties able to alter the molecular structure of metal, Triple neither knew nor cared. The result was the same. As the veins on his neck stood out so far they looked like they'd had enough of being trapped under his skin and wanted to see what it was like on the outside for a change, the crane shifted an inch. Triple felt it move and whooped, digging his heels hard into the roof. Another inch, then three or four, then a couple of feet.

  Triple fell backwards as the crane reached the point of no return and toppled away from the building. There were screams from below as the crowd looked up and saw what was happening. The people on the roof opposite had spotted the danger and were running away from the piece of construction equipment tipping towards them.