Don't Be a Hero: A Superhero Novel
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Authors: Chris Strange
Tags: #Superheroes, #superhero, #superhero stories, #Kindle Edition, #superhero novels, #superhero books, #superhero ebooks, #superhero books for adults, #superhero kindle books, #superhero prose
It’s a bad time to be a superhero.
When the world turned its back on metahumans, the golden age of superheroes came crashing down. But now a mysterious supercriminal is making one final bid for power, and with no one else left to protect the world, ex-hero Spook must risk everything to take him down. There will be no reprieve, no negotiation. War is coming.
Put on the mask. There’s work to be done.
Chris Strange, author of
The Man Who Crossed Worlds,
presents a stunning, no-holds-barred superhero adventure that will lure you in and knock you out. This is the novel superhero fans have been waiting for.
DON’T BE A HERO
Chris Strange
Contents
12: And Now, A Message From Our Host
15: The Puppet and the Puppet Master
18: Ladies and Gentlemen, May I Have Your Attention?
21: Always in the Last Place You Look
30: How Do You Stop the Unstoppable Man?
Part One
Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.
—J. Robert Oppenheimer, also known as Dr Atomic
1: No One Can Stop Me Now
Dr Atomic
Real name:
J. Robert Oppenheimer
Powers:
Super strength, flight, energy beams, impervious to most conventional weapons. All abilities derived from his immense psychic powers.
Notes:
The first superhero. Originally the lead physicist for the US atomic bomb development program, dubbed “The Manhattan Project”. Gained his powers in an explosion at Los Alamos and became the leader of scientist-superhero group the Manhattan Eight. Disappeared from the public eye in 1951. Died of oesophageal cancer in 1954.
—Notes on selected metahumans [Entry #0001]
Somewhere over Northern Russia, October 1969
Morgan Shepherd leaned against the airship’s expansive windows, drinking in the light from the sun. Below, the powdered Siberian tundra rolled past. Pine trees and brown grasses dotted the landscape, clinging to patches of exposed earth. The airship’s heating system kept out the cold, but when he pressed his forehead against the glass, he could almost smell the dry air outside.
“I saw him once, you know,” Morgan said without taking his eyes from the landscape. “Dr Atomic. The Americans brought him to London to show him off to Parliament. I must’ve been about ten at the time. They had a parade through the streets, all confetti and flags. Mum brought me and my brothers to see. We lived in a little town outside Birmingham. Did I tell you this?”
“Yes, sir.” John’s voice quavered a little. He seemed a nervous man.
Morgan smiled out the window at the past. “I spent all my pocket money on Dr Atomic comics. I liked the ones about his real adventures the most, the ones where he and the rest of the Manhattan Eight were fighting for freedom, fighting the Nazis, pushing them through Belgium and all the way back to the Fatherland. I knew every story by heart, every little bit of trivia. But there was nothing like seeing him in real life.”
He rubbed a white-gloved hand across the tan and pale patches on his cheek. He’d shaved an hour ago. It was important to make good impressions. He wore a white suit and tie as pure as the snow. A series of gold buckles ran up the jacket, and a pair of cuff-links engraved with starbursts clung to his cuffs. The black domino mask he wore over his eyes wouldn’t do a thing to hide his identity, but that didn’t matter. He wanted them to see his face. If he had his way, he wouldn’t wear a mask at all. But traditions had their place.
“At the parade I snuck away from Mum and my brothers to get to the front. I was tall for my age, but skinny, so I easily slipped through the crowds. I got to the front just as Dr Atomic came past.” He closed his eyes to picture it better. “He was magnificent. That yellow suit was a hundred times brighter than in the comics. And his royal blue cape, blowing behind him in the London wind….” He tried to find the right word. “Remarkable. The Americans were never afraid to use colour. Not like we English. We were always obsessed with browns and greys, treating metahumans like soldiers to be camouflaged. But soldiers are just boys who point rifles at other boys because their government tells them to. No, the Americans understood. Those men weren’t soldiers. They were heroes.”
The airship hummed and started a slow bank to starboard. Morgan glanced behind him, where Navigatron’s skeletal, half-naked body sat hunched over in the pilot’s chair. His eyes glowed with green light and his mouth hung half-open, tongue twitching within. If Morgan concentrated, he’d be able to sense the packets of information travelling from the airship’s control panel into Navigatron’s palms. That particular metahuman had been a good find. Morgan had picked him up just eighteen months ago in New Delhi. He couldn’t walk or talk without assistance, but the improvements he’d made to the airship’s rocket engines alone were enough to speed up Morgan’s plan by months. Morgan’s father had worked developing electronic appliances during the Depression. It would boggle his mind to see what Navigatron could do when he made friends with a machine.
“You’re awfully quiet, John,” Morgan said, returning his gaze to the wastelands below. “Can I get you something to drink? Eat?”
“No,” John said quickly. “Thank you.”
“Did you eat before you came aboard?” He turned without waiting for an answer. “Obsidian,” he called.
Obsidian glanced up from the map she was studying. Or at least it seemed she did. With her eyes, it was sometimes difficult to tell where she was looking. Her black body shone and glinted as she drew herself upright, sunlight reflecting off the crags of her shoulders. She wore no clothes, and he had no reason to think someone made of rock even had any genitalia to cover. Her chest certainly had no hint of bosom. It reminded him more of a cliff face.
“Yes, my lord?”
“John is hungry. Do we have any more of that mashed potato?”
“I believe so, my lord.”
“Excellent,” Morgan said. “Do you like mashed potato, John? We’ve got some in tubes, like toothpaste. I’m told it’s what the cosmonauts eat.”
John Bishop sat huddled in the corner of the command deck, a notebook open on the wooden table in front of him and a stub of a pencil in his hand. He was a portly fellow, in his mid-twenties if Morgan remembered correctly. The man was supposed to be a rising star in investigative journalism, and he was pegged to get one of the lead jobs at the BBC in the next couple of years if he played his cards right. Morgan hadn’t expected to find a fellow Englishman in Moscow, but it had been a serendipitous meeting.
“Please,” John said, “I’m fine.”
“Nonsense.” Morgan straightened his jacket and waved to Obsidian. “Fetch Longtooth and tell him to bring John something to eat after we disembark. And a glass of wine.” The man needed his nerves calmed.
Obsidian bent her neck and stomped out the rear hatch. The airship shook a little with every step.
Morgan shot John a toothy smile. “There, no problem. Are you getting everything you need?”
John looked puzzled, so Morgan pointed at his notebook.
“Oh, yes, sir,” he said. “Very good, sir.”
“Excellent.” Morgan turned his attention back to the window as a rectangular black blotch on the landscape appeared from behind a snow-covered hill. “Ah, here we are. Good work, Navigatron.”
The husk of a man didn’t give any indication that he’d heard. Morgan knew his ears worked fine, but his mind would be occupied with the running of the ship. Still, Morgan believed in giving credit where it was due.
“Yes, those were the days,” he said, watching the compound slide slowly closer. “The days when a hero knew who he was, what he stood for. Where men and women all across the world could go about their business without fear. Because they knew that no matter how dark the world got, no matter who was threatening nuclear annihilation or genocide, there were heroes to stand against the darkness. The Manhattan Eight. The Light Brigade. Liberty Corps. Mr October. Kingfisher. Future Girl. Battle Jack. Dr Atomic.” He touched his mask. “People who knew what the costume stood for.”
As the airship floated closer, he could make out the twenty-foot high walls surrounding the compound, with guard towers set in every corner. A windowless concrete building dominated the centre. The compound had started its life as one of Stalin’s gulags, before he was toppled. Now it served a different purpose.
“Navigatron, disable the cloak. They’ll be able to hear us by now anyway. We may as well give them a fighting chance.”
The cripple said nothing, but a throbbing noise faded away, leaving only the sound of the rocket engines. A few moments later, a low wail echoed across the tundra from the prison. He squinted and made out dozens of tiny figures scrambling across the snow-covered yards. On the walls, a pair of huge black anti-aircraft guns began to swivel into position.