by Samit Basu
“Put it on top of the brand logo and make it a wheel,” Uzma says. “Then we can get rid of the flag. We’ll tell him it stands for the wheel in the Indian flag, the wheel of time, justice, speed, the Earth, anything. He’ll like it. Do we need a cape? A mask? Leather underwear over the trousers?”
“No,” Aman says, firmly. “I don’t know why people are so stuck with this underwear-on-top thing even now. It went out ages ago, even in comics.”
“Shut it, geek boy,” Tia says. “We’re working. Uzma, you want to come see my costumes? I know you don’t want to be a superhero, but just in case, I got some for you as well.”
“Really?” Uzma’s eyes light up.
“Want to try them?”
“Are you barking mad? Of course I do!” And Uzma and Tia practically fly off to Tia’s room, leaving Aman feeling vaguely resentful.
Alone in Bob’s room, Vir is faring no better. He has spent hours waiting for words to flow, wanting to produce something Martin Luther King or Nehru would have been proud of, but several cancelled drafts and bitten pens later, he is nowhere near a solution. The primary issue is clear — how is a superpowered being supposed to convince people to love him, not run around squawking in fear? “We are here to protect you” sounds right, but from his experiences in Kashmir and the North-Eastern states Vir knows civilians do not like being protected by men in uniform. “We are here to save you” sounds like a televangelist lie. “We are very cool and can do bizarre things” is not inspiring enough, though TV channels would definitely be interested.
He’s got some stuff, but it’s mostly generic, words of wholesome goodwill that pad the speech out nicely, talking about hope, justice, power used with responsibility and all that, but Vir knows it lacks something. He’s promised the world a better tomorrow, peace, prosperity and freedom from poverty, corruption, crime and illiteracy — but then, so has every politician since the dawn of time. He’s promised to clear up Jai’s mess — but does not know if he can. He’s promised that superheroes will help humanity, not seek to rule it — that they will be the Earth’s finest children, its defenders, the ones who ensure that all promises are kept, that all people can live like decent human beings. It’s all good stuff, mostly from half-remembered fragments of inspiring books he read in his youth, but none of the writers of those speeches kept their promises. Vir is not convinced.
He calls for backup, and the superheroes assemble, Tia blinking back tears as she looks at Bob’s books stacked neatly in a corner. Vir’s new costume, now complete, is shown to him. Just as Tia predicted, he loves it and puts it on to help him with his speech.
The night wears on as they debate endlessly about Vir’s first message to the world, and it is almost dawn when they reach a weary consensus. The only way, they decide, to make mankind as a whole see them as a potential boon is to offer them something: a world where the existence of superhumans will not make normal humans obsolete. The only real solution is to offer to give everyone superpowers; to work with human scientists to understand the nature of their powers, and then to distribute these powers. For free. Not to the chosen, not to the rich, not to the clever — but to everyone who wants them. A planet of evolved post-humans, super-smart, super-healthy, super-strong, super-fast, super-skilled, and damn the consequences. A new world, a heaven/hell of gods and demons with no humans caught in between.
Vir knows this world can never exist, that even an attempt to create it would prove disastrous, that the new world would be just like the old one, but on super-steroids — but it does sound like a good reason for humans not to want to put all powered people on a remote island and nuke it.
Once that is decided, the speech comes through smoothly enough, with Tia providing enthusiastic, inspiring bits of rhetoric and Uzma tempering Aman’s tendency to branch off into uninteresting historical anecdotes. Aman insists on some bits about superheroes using their powers to help in other forms of research and technological development: civic administration, healthcare, infrastructure, energy and water management and climate control. Tia and Vir both think these bits are boring, but Aman shows them YouTube clips of Obama thrilling crowds with the same subjects and they are reluctantly persuaded.
Aman, who has mailed the finished speech to himself, goes downstairs to print it out. When he returns, he bears a video camera and startling news.
“I just got an email from Namrata,” he says. “She says she’s going to London. She’s had another vision.”
“What of?”
“Jai destroying the city. Big Ben, Tower Bridge — the whole riverfront. Fighting lots of other powers. And losing in the end. We’re there. She said she saw herself in this vision, with Uzma and me — she thinks we have to be there to bring him down.”
“Did she see me?” Vir asks.
“It was an email, Vir. That’s all she said. Fighting lots of other powers.”
“Call her, then. There’s no time to lose.”
“Phone’s off. I’ve mailed her, asking her to call — but in her mail she said she wouldn’t, she’s very scared.”
“Can’t blame her, poor thing,” Uzma says. “So are we going to London to meet her?”
“No,” Aman says. “We’d be putting ourselves in danger for no good reason at all. If there’s anything I can do to help Vir, I can do it from here.”
“But what if Jai has to be defeated the way Namrata saw it?” Uzma asks. “Maybe if we don’t act things out the way she saw them, he’ll win.”
“That makes no sense, Uzma. The situation is insane enough without bringing some vague prophecy into it. Time travel, crystal balls — talking animals are next. We’re staying here. You know, this is just what I was most afraid of.”
“What?”
“This. When we got our powers, the one thing I didn’t want was this. We could have made everything all right — or at least better. We could have got everyone to trust us, believe in us, let us work for them. Instead, the first time the world really sees us in action, what do we have to show? A fight. A super-battle, a big Transformers-style mega-romp over London, hero and villain, the flying man versus the ultimate warrior. It doesn’t really matter who wins the fight, you know — we all lose. Nothing changes. We become freakshows, threats, weekend entertainment. It didn’t have to be like this.”
“Maybe it did,” Vir says. “Jai and I became who we are now because that was what we dreamt of. It could be that, in their own way, the comics knew something. They understood the basic natures of superheroes, what would happen if men got these powers, what they would become, what they would do. Maybe this is our destiny, to lead the world down one road or another.”
“You know your lines?” Aman asks, his voice surprisingly sharp.
“Yes,” Vir says. “You can edit it if I forget, right?”
“Yes. Let’s get this done.”
Vir flies up a few feet and clears his throat. He flicks his hair back nervously.
“Can we do a rehearsal before you actually tape it?” he asks.
“Whatever you want,” Aman says.
“Do I look okay?”
“You look great,” Uzma says.
Vir clears his throat again. Uzma watches him, hovering in mid-air, strong, handsome, tall, shiny-eyed, perfectly muscled, every woman’s dream. She sighs.
“Get on with it,” Aman says.
“Greetings, fellow citizens of Earth,” Vir says.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Hours later, a wake-up popup appears inside Aman’s head and he opens his eyes. He lies still for a few minutes, watching Uzma sleep in the moonlight, stroking her hair absent-mindedly. She’s curled up next to him, an arm across his chest, breathing softly into his neck, and suddenly he doesn’t want to get up at all. But then he remembers why he set the alarm in the first place, and the temptation is too great to resist.
She stirs when he slides out from under her arm, and again when the old four-poster bed creaks angrily, unused to being disturbed at this time of night, but she
doesn’t wake. When her breathing is regular again, and he’s beginning to feel a little stalker-like for watching her sleep, Aman tiptoes out and upstairs.
In Sundar’s lab the briefcase sits innocently next to a small stuffed penguin, calling out to him. He wastes no time, picking it up and tapping in the combination.
The edges of the case slide out and the whole thing expands and unfolds like a sentient origami sculpture. In seconds Aman stands face to face with the armour. He presses buttons, and the front swings open.
Aman glances around furtively once, and steps into it.
The moment his back comes into contact with the armour, it shuts. It fits him perfectly, and he wonders if Sundar made it for him. He expects holograms to appear in front of him, bars of blue light to let him know his power levels in some sort of hyper-reality game-view, or at least a user’s manual for him to flip through and discard. But there’s nothing, he’s just a young man in a fancy black and silver can.
He shifts and squirms. The armour is surprisingly comfortable. He takes a tentative step. He feels a little heavy, and the world is a little darker through the triangular eyeshades on the mask, but apart from that it’s like wearing a really snug jacket. He stretches his fingers, feels warmth at his fingertips, a warmth that spreads slowly all over his body. It’s as if he can feel his entire nervous system, every tendril, every little end. His whole body tingles, and his head feels strangely hot. Almost involuntarily, he goes online.
The cyber-ocean feels different. It’s as if he’s swimming in deep-sea diver’s gear, not quite connected. For the first time, he feels the crushing weight of the data around him, and wishes he could be free of the armour, free of all constraints, something’s dragging him down. But with a little effort, he finds that the datastream bends to his will as always. Soon enough he finds what he’s looking for.
Hello, Aman Sen.
Hello again. What do I call you?
Aman Sen. I am you.
Right. Okay, let’s not get into this again. Can you tell me what this armour does?
It is well beyond all present-day military design. There is no database that lists its capabilities. I could examine it more thoroughly, but for that you would have to surrender control of your flesh to me.
No. Not doing that.
Very well. In any case, using the armour goes against your principles. You do not want the whole issue of powers to degenerate into petty physical contests, you want people to be able to see how powered individuals can be invaluable assets to the human race. Perhaps it is for the best if you do not learn to use the armour.
Yes, which is why I didn’t want to try it. I shouldn’t be here. But, you know…
It might make you as strong as the same superhumans whose acts of violence you find meaningless and wasteful.
Really?
This is speculation. I find your physical world unpleasantly overwhelming, but I am very curious to know what this armour does. Let me in.
No.
Why not?
It’s really weird, that’s why not. Uzma told me you took over my body once before, in Goa.
I was merely backing up your system until you rebooted. Uzma Abidi will verify that I meant you no harm. Besides, my actions resulted in sex for you, and subsequent romance. You should be grateful.
Whatever. She said you were creepy.
I am you, Aman Sen.
No you’re not. You’re just some digital image, a cluster of data that thinks it’s a person.
Everyone who spends time online has a digital persona, Aman. Usually more aggressive and/or attractive than their physical selves. People think they control this online ego, and they do in its early stages. But eventually this digital image takes control of fleshly functions every time the user connects to the internet. I am you. Thanks to your powers I am more… developed than other people’s avatars. You have come to me for help and advice. You know my price now. Make your decision.
You want to come into my body and examine this armour. And you want me to take your place online.
No. There is no point uploading the contents of your brain. I already exist. No, I would merely turn you off for a while and take charge of your flesh.
And what if you felt like staying?
I have had the opportunity before. Besides, if I chose to replace you in your body, I do not think you could stop me. I am only being polite.
All right. Be gentle.
There’s a sharp pain in his temples; the world tilts and diminishes to a single white horizontal line. A sudden, strong electric shock and the cyber-ocean vanishes completely. Aman feels a strange humming in the back of his head, but it’s all he can feel. He’s in a black room, an empty space. He can neither see nor feel nor smell. It’s as if he’s just begun to wake up in a strange place but hasn’t opened his eyes yet. The humming recedes into absolute silence. Hours or possibly only seconds pass. A flash of light, like a monitor starting up. A white pulse, and the world flickers back into existence.
It is done.
What did you find?
There were a few pre-installed segments in the armour’s nerve fibres. Some were intended for enhanced communication: satellite linkage, GPS, data transfer and storage, media player and recorder, surveillance gear, e-book reader. Your intrinsic abilities remove the need for these. So I deleted them. The armour was then an empty shell. A body capable of feats extraordinary by human standards. Pure potential. It needed to be given instructions and capabilities.
So what did you tell it?
I decided to use this armour to remove your weaknesses, to arm you adequately for the current crisis. I taught it how to fight. This armour will give you enhanced physical abilities for short periods of time between recharges.
What abilities?
Stealth gear. Firepower. Detection systems — sonar, heat sensors, infrared, motion detection aura. There is a pulse cannon embedded in each wrist. The shell itself is very strong, and potentially capable of withstanding superhuman force.
Can I fly?
You can glide or jump for considerable distances. Long-range flight is beyond the batteries’ capabilities. You do have a solar recharge option, but it’s not efficient.
Damn. So, super-strength. Not much use if I don’t know how to fight, is it? I suppose I could do a lot of heavy lifting.
You may not know how to fight, but your armour does. It has several on-board alarm systems, emergency-control devices and tactical response macros that recognise potential attacks and automatically work out defence and counter-attack strategies — lethal, non-lethal and warning, based on your stress levels. It will do the fighting for you. All you will have to do is be present and watch. Its moves were based on motion capture from preloaded videos of US military boxing and karate champions. I decided to delete those.
Why?
Because they were terribly unimaginative, and did not have access to the resources that you do. I downloaded several action films from studios in Hollywood and Hong Kong and reoriented your armour’s moves to those.
Now you’re talking. What films?
At first I used martial arts films — Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan, Tony Jaa. But then I realised the armour’s powers would allow it to ignore ordinary physics — so I went through a long list of CGI-heavy movies and movesets from fighting video games. In short, you can now fight like Spider-Man. Or Neo. Or the Prince of Persia.
You are seriously cool, my friend. Thanks.
You are welcome. I have an admission to make.
Make it.
I did not reprogram the suit with you in mind. When I saw its capabilities, I decided to keep your body and undertake a deeper study of your world. This armour was not built for you. I think it was built for me. It shields me from the excess of sensation that makes your fleshly world unpleasant for me. Once I understood this, I realised I had no reason to bring you back.
Why did you, then?
Because it would have been wrong to stay.
I’m gl
ad you figured that out.
It does not compute wholly, which I find irritating, but I believe it was a test of character, and I am… happy I passed it. But I feel I should warn you. You started on this adventure with a certain set of ideas about what powered people should do. These might have resulted not just from your sense of what was right and necessary, but from your physical weakness, from the nature of your powers. Lacking the ability to explore other options, you decided they were inferior. This armour will make you as powerful as Vir Singh or Jai Mathur, if only for a short while. It will help you become everything you think you do not want to be.
You know I have no intention of using it. I just wanted to know what I was turning down.
Whatever you decide to do with this power will tell you many things about yourself. We both know that you will encounter several situations where putting on the armour would make things considerably easier for a while. I passed my test when I let you return. I hope you pass yours.
Thanks. I don’t think I want to be tested, though — so I’m just not going to put it on ever again. Makes it easier. I just wanted to try it once, you know? Can you understand?
I can. I wanted to try it once as well. And that is what worries me. Good luck, Aman Sen.
And Aman is offline again. His nerves are still on edge. He takes a tentative step forward. He stretches, turns and wonders how to initiate some sort of fancy kung fu move.
“I knew you’d be here.” Uzma’s at the door. Beneath his mask Aman’s face is extremely sheepish, but Uzma’s smiling indulgently. She walks up to him and pats him on the shoulder.
“You should have told me you wanted to play,” she says. “What does it do?”
He doesn’t have to press any buttons this time, the armour is linked to him now and can feel what he does. It opens neatly and folds itself. Then the briefcase stands between Aman and a very puzzled Uzma.
“I’m not going to use it,” he says. “I don’t want to become like them.”
“You look good,” she says.