“I believe it’s your turn, Muse,” Stratagem called down.
As a desperate ploy, Muse shouted into his comlink. “Stratagem’s in position, launch the missiles!” As his foe readied to meet the imagined assault, Muse made a break for it. Hearing no sounds of pursuit, he glanced back.
Stratagem had risen higher, scanning the fields. But how long before he saw through the ruse?
Muse stumbled, a sense of déjà vu nearly crippling him. This was what he had seen when he’d first interviewed Flash Forward—himself, crashing through vegetation, alone and fleeing a foe he had no hope to defeat.
He thought of his friend, the man he had hoped would one day notice his love. I’m sorry, Edward. It looks like I’ll be missing your birthday. Muse’s arms stung as he batted away the jungle of cornstalks. A shadow fell over him as Stratagem swooped down and blocked his escape.
“Cute tactic. All this time, I’d believed Schadenfreude was the mastermind and you the henchman.”
Muse wanted to slap the smugness off Stratagem’s face, but it was pointless. ‘Suicide is permanent,’ Bunny Boy had said. “I surrender. But don’t be surprised when Dr. Schadenfreude breaks me out of jail.”
Stratagem’s laughter rippled through the cornfield. “Will he? If you were held hostage, what ransom would he pay? He’s as selfish as any villain I’ve fought, and I’ve fought thousands.”
Muse flushed. “Apparently you don’t know him as well as I.”
“Really? If you lost your power tomorrow, would he keep you around?”
“Shut… up.”
Stratagem laughed again, then stopped, his attention swiveling to the right. Muse heard it now, too—rustling through the stalks, something being dragged, and heavy panting.
Stratagem clapped his hands once, the tremendous shockwave enough to flatten the cornstalks around the source of the noise.
El Fantasma stood there, back towards them and sweating jam.
“You should have run,” Stratagem said.
“I shall, but not alone,” he responded, then spun aside. In that same movement, he ripped open a trench coat to reveal the naked, unconscious form of Flash Forward.
Muse had the quicker presence of mind not to look, but either bewilderment or overconfidence made Captain Stratagem stare one millisecond too long. His mind snagged once more onto the psychedelic lightshow.
Muse could only imagine what visions assailed him. Strain and sweat marred the hero’s face, a look of apt concentration, and Muse feared the hero might soon build enough willpower to turn away.
El Fantasma called out frantically. “We must run. Now!”
Muse nodded, but when he saw Stratagem standing there, too engaged to defend himself, Muse paused, wishing for even a fraction of Robigus’s strength. But I can’t do a damn thing.
Or could he? He couldn’t harm Stratagem physically, but perhaps…
“What are you waiting for, Señor?” El Fantasma cried, nearly pulling his hair out.
Muse activated his power on Stratagem.
Those who had been on the receiving end of Muse’s ability had described it in a variety of ways. Puzzle pieces of light shaping to form the big picture. A tornado of fireworks that illuminated the mind’s darkest recesses. Sparks birthing bonfires birthing suns.
How would that affect a psyche already besieged by mind-staggering visions? Muse had never before tried to use his power for offense, but he did so now, stimulating Stratagem’s mind with a deluge of insights, inventions, and new modes of thought. Just how much data can that computer brain of yours juggle before it crashes?
Muse could actually feel Stratagem resisting, raising psychic walls as formidable as a mountain range. But the attacks of Robot Man, Bunny Boy, and Robigus had taken their toll. Muse fought on, eroding Stratagem’s psychic mindscape, stirring dust, disturbing pebbles, then stones and boulders, till the mountainsides sloughed down in violent landslides.
A soft groan escaped Stratagem’s lips, his face grew slack, and he toppled at last to the ground.
Muse dropped to his knees. Was it over? He felt drained, so much so that when he heard a sharp beeping, he was shocked he had enough energy to flinch.
Out of the cornstalks crawled the head and torso of Robot Man. “Bravo! If you can find my lower body, I should be able to fix myself enough to fly us out of here.”
“You… I-I thought you were dead.”
“Only cut in half. What do you take me for… some fragile human?”
Muse laughed with relief, and even a measure of pride. A hand rested on his shoulder, and he was shocked to find it was El Fantasma.
“The others do not appear seriously hurt, except for Señor Robigus, but he is healing rapidly.”
“Good. And thank you. If you would be so kind as to help me to my feet, we can search for Robot Man’s better half.”
“An important thing to search for,” El Fantasma agreed.
In the darkness of the lab, Muse could hear the breathing of his teammates. A balloon popped, making him jump. “Sorry, my bad,” Robot Man said.
“I don’t really like the dark,” said Bunny Boy in a small voice.
Robigus asked, “Will this be much longer?” and Muse wondered how an immortal could be so impatient.
Then they heard Dr. Schadenfreude’s footsteps. The door opened and the lights went on.
“Surprise!” they yelled, Muse’s voice loudest of all.
Dr. Schadenfreude’s hand was a blur as he drew his laser pistol and began blasting away.
“It’s me!” cried Muse, and the gunfire stopped. Several balloons were vaporized and a stray shot had grazed one of Bunny Boy’s ears, but Muse was relieved to see no one disintegrated.
Dr. Schadenfreude froze at the showpiece laid out on the central laboratory table—Captain Stratagem, trussed, gold cape fashioned into a bow, corncob in his mouth. Flash Forward had suggested a different orifice but Muse insisted this be a classy affair.
“How?” Dr. Schadenfreude screeched. “And who are these people?”
“They helped me get your birthday present. And don’t worry, he’s heavily sedated.”
Dr. Schadenfreude looked from face to face, his expression growing more disgusted. “I’m supposed to believe these misfits accomplished what’s eluded me my whole career?”
“Awkwarrrrrd,” El Fantasma whispered, the r’s rolling like a red carpet.
Muse blinked. “Guys, please wait outside?”
They shuffled out reluctantly, though not before Bunny Boy stuck his tongue out at Schadenfreude.
The heavy lab doors hadn’t even shut before Muse spoke. “I did this for you.”
Schadenfreude stood there in his black cape and purple lab coat, eyes fixed on Stratagem. His expression was that of a young child who’d unwrapped his Christmas gift… only to find the toy broken. Muse was moved by the depth of disappointment. He wanted to reach out… to offer comfort.
Schadenfreude’s face hardened. “Was this to upstage me? Revenge because I’ve never returned your little crush?”
Muse felt his face turn hot. “You knew… all this time? You never said anything.”
“I had no interest raising topics you yourself kept buried in silence.”
Muse searched Schadenfreude’s face for any sign of warmth, regret. It was a handsome face, confident and passionate, but it could not mask years of anger and pain. Muse had dreamt of bringing a smile to those lips with a kiss, of softening those harsh lines with a caress. But familiarity and fascination had blinded him. Bravado wasn’t confidence. Mania wasn’t passion. Pain suffered was no excuse for pain unleashed.
And there was only ever one reason why Muse was allowed to touch him.
“I’m sorry,” said Muse.
“Your apologies mean nothing–�
��
“You don’t understand. I’m sorry for making you, for feeding your madness.”
Dr. Schadenfreude’s eyes widened, and his body tensed like a coiled viper. “You? Made me?”
“You were in remedial Algebra for goodness sakes. You flunked Physics. Your Spanish was even worse than mine–”
“Worse than yours? Impossible.”
“Yes, worse! How could someone with your GPA create the Slaughter Cannon or the Extinction Overdrive Calibrator? It was me, using my powers to turn every delusion of grandeur into reality. Pouring every iota of inspiration I could give because I wanted you to… to like me.” Even now, Muse hoped Schadenfreude would show some hint of reciprocation, some sign that he’d kept love hidden for fear.
“You clingy little bug! How dare you take credit–”
“Stratagem was right. You only cared about my power, not me.”
Dr. Schadenfreude leveled his laser pistol at Muse. “I thought you wise enough to consider the cost of insubordination. It appears I was gravely mistaken.”
“We both were.” Muse couldn’t move, wouldn’t fight back. If losing his life was the final cost he’d pay for loving a maniac, then so be it.
A ghostly figure rose from the floor, interposing himself between them. “I hope you don’t mind, Señor Muse. The Bunny could hear things were amiss. And as for you, Dr. Schadenfreude, I would caution against any rashness.”
“You dare? A piss-ant nobody–”
“I am El Fantasma que Sangra.”
Dr. Schadenfreude cocked his head. “The duck who thirsts?”
“See!” said Muse. “Worse than mine.”
The lab door burst open and the rest of the team ran in. “Freeze!” shouted Robot Man, his flamethrower shooting a small gout of flame in the air. Bunny Boy hopped protectively before Muse.
Dr. Schadenfreude had not lowered his gun. “The day I cower from a motley crew of fetishists and freaks–”
“We took down Stratagem,” Muse said.
Schadenfreude hesitated. His eyes locked with Muse’s, and for a moment, they were the only two people in the room. A single twitch on Schadenfreude’s face marked the end of the staring match.
He lowered his pistol. “If I ever see you again–”
“Happy Birthday,” Muse said, then led his team away.
Not a week had passed before the news stations reported Captain Stratagem’s escape. Apparently, he had absorbed the energies from the torture device he’d been strapped in, enough to recharge his prodigious strength and turn the tables on a shocked Schadenfreude. A newscaster spoke over footage of the Doctor being carted to an omega-level detention facility. Muse had never seen him look so defeated.
Muse took a last swig from his beer bottle. He changed the channel, but the broadcast of Schadenfreude’s capture was everywhere.
Muse closed his eyes. Last night, he had broken into the nursing home again, had cried upon the old lady’s shoulder. She had comforted him despite having no idea what he was talking about. “Did your friend not like the birthday gift?” she had asked. In the end, he could not help but laugh.
His cell phone rang, and he nearly jumped. It was El Fantasma.
“Buenas noches, Señor.”
“Is everything okay?” A long pause ensued, and Muse began to worry. “Hello? Are you still there?”
“I… Señor, I was wondering if… you would be interested in going… in doing me the honor… of having dinner with me.”
The next pause was Muse’s. “…but… you’d have to be tangible to eat, right? And to sit on a chair…” Muse realized he was babbling.
“I already do all those things. But it might be nice not to do them alone. Unless you are busy–”
“No!” Muse glanced at the empty beer bottles on his table. “No, I could use some company, too.”
They agreed upon a place, a quiet little Peruvian restaurant the next town over. Muse expressed concern they might not recognize each other unmasked, but El Fantasma stated he’d wear a corncob tie tack. After the call, Muse found himself lost in a tumble of emotions. He shut off the television and hurriedly undressed to shower.
As hot water washed over him, he questioned the wisdom of dating a team member. Was he just rebounding from unrequited love? Schadenfreude had been his world for so long. How meek El Fantasama seemed in comparison. Meek and kind… and sane.
Muse vigorously shampooed his hair and basked in the jets of steaming water. He became joyfully aware of his own smile, and the unexpected prospect of a delightful evening.
An evening that might just end with the taste of strawberry jam.
Snow and Stone
Stellan Thorne
Stellan Thorne lives in Manchester with his partner, several cats and a chaotic stack of comic books. He always wanted to be a super villain, but suspects he’s either too nice or too lazy.
They stepped down from the plane onto sun-warmed tarmac; it was midsummer, late in the day, and the sky was blue and bare, save for the subtle aurora-shimmer of the force field, domed high above.
Edward surreptitiously loosened his tie. His hands were sweaty, slick on the handle of his briefcase. He wasn’t the last off the plane, but near to it—he’d been crowded to the rear with the other second-stringers. Out in front were the broadcast people: he saw Cal Ingram from The World Today, grinning in his trademark tweed, and there was Patricia Lean from Lean and Mean, a carrion bird in powder-blue.
A man he did not recognize leaned over to him. “Where are you from?”
“I’m Edward Stone,” he said. “From the Victoryville Herald.”
“Oh yeah?” He grinned, holding out a hand. “Good to meet you. I’m Tim Carvell.”
He knew the name: Carvell had written a book about the coup. Edward had a dog-eared copy in his briefcase. “Nice to meet you,” he said weakly.
Carvell cleared his throat. “Do you think we’re–”
The sentence hung unfinished—loudspeakers whined suddenly, slicing into their conversation. Then a song started to play, tinny and bombastic: the national anthem of Prometheus Isle.
Soldiers in immaculate uniforms herded the crowd along the runway; there was a podium at its end, a great marble slab, black speakers high as a man on either side.
Carvell leaned close again. “The welcoming committee.”
“Do you think—is General Snow going to be here?”
“Probably.” Carvell smiled, thin and chilly. “He likes making an appearance.”
The sound cut out suddenly with an echoing screech. Edward jumped a little, along with half the crowd. They waited in the buzzing silence.
Then: one moment, the podium was empty, with the soldiers milling round, automatic rifles loose in their gloved hands. The next, General Snow stood there, leaning down like a vulture. His uniform was black, gleaming with medals; the mask that hid half his face was white and severe, like the statue of an ancient emperor.
The murmur of voices died out. General Snow watched them with pale eyes, and when he spoke it bypassed sound: it burrowed into the brain like a half-remembered song.
Welcome to Prometheus Isle. You are all my guests. No—
(This came sharp as winter wind, cutting off Cal Ingram’s indrawn breath.)
—questions. Yet.
His eyes swept the small crowd. They rested for a moment on Edward, who held his breath. There was the suggestion of a smile, behind his mask.
First, you are all invited to dinner.
The news came late on a Friday afternoon, with the office still stinking of long, boozy lunches. He’d stayed in to type up his interview with Blue Simoom, a low-watt metahuman who did some hero work on the riverside. They met in a dim wine bar, where she got giggly after a few spritzers and made a small whirlwind appear in the p
eanut bowl.
It wasn’t earth-shattering reading—but he’d liked her, with her home-stitched costume and earnest eyes. He hoped Louise would run it. Better someone like Blue than another sponsored meta, with strings of corporate logos silkscreened on their cape, or a posturing vigilante with a hard-on for Guns and Ammo.
Speak of the devil: Louise had emerged from her office. Edward looked up at her and smiled, but she didn’t see him; she was buzzing with purpose. She held up her hands and loudly cleared her throat. “Pencils down, all of you. Come here—I need a word.”
Edward flicked his monitor off and stood up, near the centre of the half-circle forming around her. After a moment, she nodded, more to herself than any of the others.
“Well, now that we’re all here–”
There was a conspicuous creak: the office door opened, and Gerry Gates came in. He smiled at them, not quite sheepish. “Sorry.”
Louise raised one corner of her mouth. “Thank you for joining us, Gerald.”
“I was just finishing–”
She cut him off with one of her smoker’s coughs, then fixed them all with bloodshot eyes. “Right. Yesterday, the government of Prometheus Isle announced they will be allowing a select group of journalists access into the country, and… an audience with its President-for-life.”
“No,” Gerry breathed. His eyes gleamed.
Louise continued. “The Promethean embassy has issued invitations to fifteen news organizations: one spot on a plane each.” She coughed a laugh. “An all-expenses paid trip to Prometheus Isle. God only knows why we’ve been invited, Victoryville isn’t exactly Washington. Still, we’re not going to turn a gift like this down. One of you will be going to interview General Snow.”
The office was very quiet for a moment. Edward watched them, from the corner of his eye: who was shuffling backward, who was leaning forward?
After a moment, Gerry stepped forward, ran both hands through his hair and grinned. “Well. Shall I pack my bags?”
Louise’s brows raised, just a little—the only expression that showed on her botox-smooth face. “I can’t fault your confidence,” she said, “but you won’t get a Promethean visa, Gerald. They’re not issued to anyone with a criminal record.”
The Lavender Menace Page 17