Turbulence

by Samit Basu

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Ten minutes to noon. The Millennium Bridge spans the Thames like an alien artefact, the frozen jet-stream of a spaceship freshly escaped from the Tate Modern. The clouds have cleared, the Thames is blue and sparkling. The South Bank is free of its usual hordes of sun-worshippers, culture-seekers and tourists; the few stragglers that remain are being herded away by policemen.

  The airwaves have been flooded with warnings for the last hour, instructing people sternly to stay away from the Thames, not all these messages are Aman’s doing. The area is swarming with men and women in uniform. All of London’s police and counter-terrorism departments have sent their finest.

  Met Police Officers in bright-orange jackets chase away journalists, summoning up all the gravitas they can muster as they point out the dual risk of a rogue supervillain and an alleged mind-controller able to affect anyone within an area equal to at least the size of a Mumbai cricket stadium.

  The Ministry of Defence Police have taken over the bridge. They chatter into radios as they brandish their Heckler & Koches. Two MDP Eurocopters circle the sky above the bridge, taking turns to swoop down low over the Thames, churning up the water, filling the air with the sound of whirring rotors. Two MDP launches lurk under Southwark Bridge to the east, two more under Blackfriars Bridge to the west.

  Tactical Support Group detectives and Special Ops officers from Counter-Terrorism Command, SO15, have brought in the heavy artillery. Carefully positioned Armed Response Vehicles bulging with grim-eyed marksmen patrol slowly on both banks of the Thames, and striped police BMWs whizz up and down the streets behind the riverside buildings, their sirens a mournful chorus rising up amidst brooding structures. SO13 anti-terrorist squads conduct sweeps of the giant office blocks and other buildings lining the Thames. London is armed and ready.

  To the north of the Millennium Bridge, straight up ahead, Vir hovers above the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral, just behind the golden ball on top of the dome, hoping the policemen in the helicopter don’t spot him.

  His satellite phone beeps, it’s Tia, she speaks quickly.

  “Aman just called. He’s on his way. Namrata is the mob mastermind. She’s got Uzma. Uzma’s power is that people obey whatever she says. They all just found out. Aman thinks Namrata’s going to try to get Uzma to ask Jai to kill himself. End of recap.”

  Vir blinks and swallows.

  “What?”

  “That’s all he said. He was out of breath. Said he was running and couldn’t stop. So, the new plan is, we have to save Uzma,” Tia says, her voice shaking a little.

  “All right. We’ll move on Namrata first, get Uzma safe, and then attack Jai. Let the others know,” Vir says.

  “Can’t do that. If you go near Namrata, she’s going to get you. Her plan was to get everyone to take Jai out for her. Stay where you are, Vir. At least we don’t have to worry about protecting Namrata. The little bitch. I’m going to tear her head off.”

  “All right. Let the others know.”

  “What should we do? What’s the new plan?”

  Vir feels like punching the golden ball in front of him, but wisely doesn’t, he has enough to deal with.

  “Let’s not bother with a plan,” he says. “We’ll figure it out as we go along.”

  Five minutes to noon. Jai arrives, strolling calmly along the street from the Globe Theatre. Several armour-vested officers line up in front of him. He stops, looks at them, and grins.

  “Hi,” he says. “Look, let’s make this simple. Shoot me, all of you.”

  They surround him, guns pointing at his head, but no one shoots.

  “Come on,” Jai says. “I have an appointment.”

  A chief constable steps forward and begins to inform Jai why he’s being arrested. Jai listens for a few seconds, and then grabs the man’s rifle.

  “Observe closely,” he says. He points the rifle at himself, the barrel a few millimetres from his open right eye, and pulls the trigger. The gun chatters, flashes light, everyone flinches, but Jai is unharmed. He tosses the gun away, rubs his eye once and looks around at the baffled policemen, smiling again.

  He leaps over the heads of the ring of policemen, lands on an armoured vehicle, crunching it like a drinks can. And he’s off again, touching down lightly in front of the steps leading up to the south end of the Millennium Bridge, vaulting, somersaulting, landing lightly on the bridge.

  He points at the wall of the Tate Modern, at the Parisian graffiti master JR’s painting of a young black man holding a video camera as if it were a gun. The greyscaled man’s expression is hostile, his weapon seems to be pointing straight at Jai.

  “You’re about as much of a danger to me as he is,” Jai tells the assembled officers, and watches their faces fall. “Now listen closely.”

  More heavily armed policemen gather around Jai as he speaks. Their feet drag, their shoulders stoop; they listen half-heartedly, as if they are not really awake. Jai stands like a statue of a world-conquering emperor, his powerful voice rings out down the South Bank.

  “Please understand that there is absolutely nothing you can do to stop me,” Jai says. “You have all done your best to get your citizens away from the bridge. You have saved lives. Well done. Now it’s time you went away as well. Because by staying here, you place yourselves in danger. A sinister force exists that will steal your mind and make your bodies attack me. And I will not hesitate for an instant if you do: I will tear your limbs off and feed them to you. Your deaths will be in vain. What is about to happen is too big for you. Super human. Beyond your understanding. You have been warned. Go home. Be with your families.”

  Jai turns away and walks along Millennium Bridge, it trembles and the sound of his footsteps rings across the river. The assembled MDP officers look at him in awe. Some drop their weapons. Others bark into their radios, but find no words of wisdom there. One by one, they turn and run, their spirits broken.

  When Jai reaches the middle of the bridge, he is the only person on it. The helicopters hover above him. He looks up at them, and they veer away and upwards. Jai glances at his watch. He taps an impatient foot. He waits.

  Under the bridge, there’s a low, rumbling growl. Sher appears, in tiger-man form, swinging over the railings. He lands in front of Jai, head to one side, tail swinging. Zothanpuii vaults up from the other side. Anima flies up behind her, her eyes manga-wide. Jai looks hard at them, brow furrowed, but when Anima squeals “I missed you, Jai Uncle!” and flies into his arms, he laughs out loud. Sher strides up to him and thumps him on the shoulder.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Jai asks.

  “We’ve switched sides. We decided to be heroes and defeat you,” Sher says.

  Jai stares at him for a few seconds. Then they both laugh, and Sher reaches out and embraces Jai.

  “Thought you could use a little backup,” he growls.

  “How on earth did you manage this?” Jai asks.

  “We got a lift,” Zothanpuii says. “Vir is here. He’s grown stronger. We wanted to stand with you.”

  “If any of you take out Vir before I do, I will give you a continent,” Jai says. “Take up positions at either end of the bridge. When our mob friend turns up, I don’t want all of you captured.”

  “But we couldn’t hurt you even if we attacked you, Jai Uncle,” Anima trills. “We want to be on TV like you when you win.”

  “All right,” Jai says. “It’s good to see you, by the way.”

  Sher and Zothanpuii stand behind Jai, facing St Paul’s. Anima hovers above them, swords of light shining in her hands.

  Above the cathedral, behind the dome, Vir dials Tia’s number frantically, but she doesn’t pick up. To the west, Big Ben rings out.

  Noon.

  A Ministry of Defence Police BMW wails as it speeds around the Queen Victoria Street crossing and burns rubber up the pedestrian walkway leading to the north end of the bridge. It swerves wildly and screeches to a halt. Its doors fly open and Uzma and Namrata s
tep out. More cars and ARVs appear behind them, sirens building a solid wall of sound. Soon there’s a mass of police vehicles creating a bumper-to-bumper column that trails off into a zig-zag arrowhead pointing from Millennium Bridge to St Paul’s Cathedral. Policemen step out of their cars, draw their guns and stand to attention.

  Namrata surveys her makeshift army, takes a deep breath and turns to Uzma.

  “You understand me clearly, right? Answer without speaking.”

  Uzma’s face is strained, her hair dishevelled, her cheeks tear-stained. She nods. She steps up on the bridge and sees Jai, and her face is clouded with hate. Above Jai, Anima squeals in delight at the sight of Uzma, but Sher growls at her to be quiet.

  “Just tell him to kill himself. Tell them all to kill themselves. And it’ll be over, Uzma. You’ll be free,” Namrata says. Uzma nods again, her fists clenched. She walks towards Jai, short shuffling steps, Namrata behind her.

  “Namrata is to come alone!” Jai yells. They can barely hear him above the car sirens and the drone of the helicopters above them, but his outstretched arm, palm facing them, gets the message across.

  “Keep going,” Namrata says. Uzma fights it, clenching her teeth, but she cannot help it; her feet carry her forward.

  “Stay back, Uzma! I don’t want to hurt you!” Jai yells. He strides towards them, his warriors behind him. “This is your final warning!”

  “Say it!” Namrata yells. She crouches and covers her ears.

  Jai walks faster, and the bridge begins to shake.

  “Kill yourself!” Uzma says.

  Jai cups a hand to his ear.

  “What?” he roars.

  “Louder!” Namrata shouts.

  Jai is within six feet of them.

  “What did you say?” he asks.

  “KILL YOURSELF!” Uzma screams.

  Jai stops and stares at her.

  “All right,” he says. He stands for a few seconds, head bowed. He looks up. “How?”

  “KILL YOURSELF!” Uzma screams.

  “I don’t know how,” Jai says. “I don’t think I can be killed.”

  Behind Uzma, Namrata stands up. She looks around wildly. Behind her, her police mob surges forward. Behind Jai, Sher and Zothanpuii charge up the bridge, Anima keeping pace with them effortlessly. Behind them, Tia leaps up on the south end of the bridge, a gun in each hand. She yells, and more Tias pour out of her.

  To Jai’s right, a police launch speeds towards the bridge.

  Above St Paul’s cathedral, Vir crushes his phone, tosses it away and takes off.

  “Nice try,” Jai says. He reaches out, grabs Uzma and tosses her off the bridge.

  “I knew you’d come,” he tells Namrata, who stares at him blankly, eyes wide in terror.

  To Jai’s right, a black and silver figure leaps off the police launch, catches Uzma in mid-air and disappears into the waters of the Thames.

  “Jai, I only came to interview you, I didn’t know what she was planning,” Namrata babbles.

  “Save it,” he says. “I saw you at my parents’ house. I know it was you. I wondered if you’d have the guts to turn up — but you couldn’t resist, could you?”

  “Think of the bigger picture,” she says. “If the two of us unite, we would be unstoppable.”

  “Yes, we would,” Jai says. He lunges at her, his hand snaking towards her neck, but then Sher grabs him from behind, Zothanpuii leaps on his shoulder and prises his mouth open, and Anima, shrieking, stuffs a long glowing spear into it, sparks flying off Jai’s teeth.

  Namrata turns and runs for her life.

  Jai tears Zothanpuii off him and tosses her into the Thames. He grips Sher’s hands in his, ignoring a shower of darts from Anima, and slowly unlocks the tiger-man’s hold. Sher roars in pain, his arms shake uncontrollably, and Jai breaks free. He grabs Sher and throws him at Anima. They collide in mid-air and fall, Sher’s body alight with green flame, the smell of burning fur filling the air, Anima’s ear-splitting shriek cut off with a gurgle as they splash into the river.

  Jai looks up to see Vir flying at him, bullet-speed, fist out. Jai leaps aside, landing lightly on the bridge’s railing, and Vir shoots uselessly past, scattering the horde of running Tias.

  Namrata’s off the bridge now, and she sends her troops in. Gunfire chatters at either end of the bridge as crazed policemen run towards Jai, their boots clattering on steel. The bridge bobs up and down like a stormy sea, several men are hurled off.

  Vir flies up and away, and all the Tias collapse in clouds of dust, riddled through with bullets.

  At both ends of the bridge, the men at the front of the charging mobs fall in a hail of gunfire, the men behind them stumble on their bodies, and a tangled heap of thrashing limbs crawls slowly towards the middle of the bridge.

  Vir turns and swoops back in, but Jai is on the move now. He runs along the curved metal railings at blinding speed, not noticing the hailstorm of bullets. In seconds, he’s off the bridge, crushing police cars beneath him as he leaps towards St Paul’s, focused only on his quarry.

  Namrata casts her desperate eyes skywards, and the helicopters move to intercept Jai, hurtling down towards the streets, their slack-jawed, enraged pilots not realising they’re seconds away from becoming giant fireballs. But before they reach Jai, he soars over Namrata’s head, cracking the pavement as he lands.

  Ignoring her sobs and pleas, he grabs Namrata by the neck, tosses her up in the air, picks up a police car one-handed, and, as she lands heavily on the street, he swings the car down and squashes her like a bug.

  “Give up.”

  Jai looks up and sees Vir standing in mid-air in front of him, above the steps of St Paul’s.

  “Why?” Jai asks.

  “You have to answer for your crimes,” Vir says.

  “What crimes?” Jai asks. “Nothing we do is a crime. We are gods among mortals, Vir. Try and wrap your thick head around that.”

  He rolls his head from shoulder to shoulder, stretches and shakes his arms, sizing Vir up. The flying man’s arms are folded across his chest. His face is stern, his eyes grave.

  “Let’s say you’re right,” Vir says. “Let’s say we no longer have to consider human laws. You’re still a criminal. You’ve killed hundreds of your fellow superbeings. And for that, if nothing else, I will bring you to justice.”

  “Have fun,” Jai says. He leaps at Vir, but Vir darts aside, flies higher and further away. They circle each other for a while, one man on the street, one in the air, both looking for an opening.

  “Don’t be shy,” Jai says. “Come on down. Let’s do this.”

  To his left, the air vibrates. A sphere of white light strikes Jai’s shoulder, sending him flying. He smashes into the steps of the cathedral, shattering them. For a heartbeat, he’s sprawled across stone slabs, face down, bottom up. And then he springs to his feet, snarling, turning to face his new assailant.

  “Yes,” Aman says, lowering his arm, the pulse cannon on his wrist whirring madly as it slides back into his armour. “Let’s.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Who the hell are you?” Jai asks.

  “Yes, who are you?” Vir asks.

  Aman’s mask flips open and shut.

  Vir and Jai stare in disbelief.

  “Aman? Aman?” Jai’s face scrunches up; he wheezes with laughter. “What is that, an Iron Man costume? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Kicking your ass,” Aman wants to say, but he knows he can’t pull it off. Instead, he flips his pulse cannon out and fires. But Jai twists smoothly to one side and what’s left of the cathedral steps takes the blow. A second later, it’s raining chunks of stone. Jai stares at the large hole the pulse-blast has made in the steps. He looks annoyed.

  “Stop breaking my cathedral,” Jai says. He steps out on the street, and Aman walks backwards warily. Vir hovers a few feet away, his eyes not leaving Jai.

  “You know, I’m really glad you boys showed up,” Jai says. “I said I’d
destroy the city, but I don’t want to. I like London. I’m going to keep it. And widespread property damage is so overdone — especially broken monuments. Everyone’s seen it in the movies. Tear down the London Eye, break Big Ben’s hands, blow up Buckingham Palace — old. Tearing the two of you to pieces live on camera for the world to see, though… That’s something. So easy on the architecture. Okay?”

  “You should be worrying less about buildings and more about yourself,” Vir says.

  Jai grins conspiratorially.

  “I know — it’s terribly middle-class, isn’t it? Human or superhuman, we can’t escape that. This is what happens when your superheroes all fly British Airways. Economy class, too. You, Aman?”

  “Of course. Not any more, though,” Aman says. “You know, one good way to keep your city intact would be to surrender now.”

  “Exactly,” Jai says. “Surrender, then.”

  “This is your last warning, Jai,” Vir says.

  “Ooh,” Jai says, miming fear. He leaps at Vir.

  Vir shoots up in the air, out of reach.

  “Chicken,” Jai says, and strikes at Aman, fast as a cobra. But Aman’s armour is faster.

  Aman spins and bends, deflecting Jai’s punch with one arm, tossing him over his hip. Jai lands heavily on his side, clawing at the street. Aman’s hands move into a kung fu pose, he has no idea what Shaw Brothers movie it’s from, but it looks very cool. He has no time to think about this, however, as Jai charges at him and his armour launches into a series of flowing katas, a dazzling array of multi-hit combos that would have won him everlasting fame at a video game parlour.

  Jai doesn’t know what’s hit him. Aman doesn’t either, as his fists blur in a series of punches, jabs and blocks, Bruce Lee on fast forward, laying the super-smackdown on his completely baffled adversary. An uppercut lifts Jai off his feet. He has no time to land, as Aman kicks him repeatedly, keeping him horizontal, bouncing in the air, limbs flailing. He finishes off his moment of glory with a soaring, sizzling, guillotine-like chop to the stomach that folds Jai up and sends him smashing into the tarmac.