Don't Be a Hero: A Superhero Novel (2 page)

“You’re probably too young,” he said to John. “You don’t remember. You don’t understand. You’re not alone. Most people have forgotten. But it’s time they remembered.”

He took a breath and adjusted his white suit one last time. Clothes didn’t make the man, they just magnified him. His father taught him that.

“Arm the cannons,” he said.

A high-pitched whine, just on the threshold of perception, went through the airship. He thought he heard John whisper a prayer to himself. He didn’t understand yet, but that didn’t matter. It only mattered that he saw what happened here. “Come, John,” Morgan said.

There was a pause, then the rattle of metal as John got to his feet and shuffled over. Morgan had chained John’s ankles together as a precaution, but he’d left the man’s hands unbound. He would need them to record what he saw.

John stood next to him at the window and stared down at the prison, clutching his notebook in thick hands. His cheeks quivered. Morgan could smell sweat on him. He put a hand on the small of the man’s back to keep him from backing away.

Last chance to back out,
Morgan told himself. No. It was too late for that. Some things just had to be done. “Give them a volley,” he said.

Yellow light bright enough to make Morgan squint cut through the air, accompanied by a screech like a boiling kettle. An instant later, the first anti-aircraft gun exploded into a cloud of molten metal. The laser’s ray swept along in an arc from the airship, making the concrete crack and crumble wherever it touched. John pressed his hands to his ears and his eyes narrowed into slits, but Morgan could tell he was still watching.
Good
. Steam rose from the compound as ice and snow sublimed, turning to vapour instantly.

A pair of figures on the ground tried to run from the laser. They sprinted from the wall to the central building, throwing their rifles to the ground in a desperate bid to gain more speed. It didn’t help. Morgan forced himself to watch as the beam swept across them, burning the flesh from their bones. Their blackened skeletons toppled onto the snow.

God forgive him.

A low moan escaped John’s throat. He’d turned pale, as pale as the patches that covered Morgan’s skin.

“Remember this,” Morgan said. “Remember what I did here. And write your story.” He swept away from the window, leaving John to stare at the carnage. “Obsidian,” he shouted as the stone woman reappeared in the command deck doorway. “Prepare to disembark.”

He could swear he saw a smile on her expressionless face. “Yes, my lord.” Her voice was smooth, like water over polished stones.

The screech of the ray gun became a pulse as it started picking off targets. The weapon he and Navigatron had designed would punch them a hole, but the real prize was deep inside. To get to it, he’d have to do the butcher’s work, up close and personal.

He followed Obsidian’s jerky, clockwork movements through the spartan corridors and down a narrow spiral staircase, stooping to avoid the low ceiling. A low throbbing started in the base of his skull. It always happened these days whenever the adrenaline started flowing. The ache was comforting, somehow. Familiar. As he walked, he pulled his medicine bottle from his pocket and swallowed a couple of white pills.

The two of them emerged into a wide loading bay with bare metal grating for a floor. Amongst the equipment crates lashed to the floor and walls, a dozen metahumans milled. They were dressed eclectically; Sand Fury was in full-body desert camouflage while Tinderbox wore nothing but the flame that licked across his bare skin.

They grew silent and still the instant Morgan stepped through the door. This was no military group. No one came to attention or saluted when he came on deck. He’d already briefed them on the building’s layout and what they’d find. But they all straightened and turned towards him, waiting for him to speak.

He drew up before them and cleared his throat. “It’s time. Ground defences are down, but expect heavy resistance. Each of you is here of your own free will. You have no obligation to fight today. If you have no wish to face death, I suggest you return to your quarters.”

No one moved.

Morgan nodded, heart swelling. Of all of them, Obsidian and Morgan were the only ones who had the ability to sustain serious small arms fire. Even then, an anti-tank round or a rocket-propelled grenade would do them serious damage. But still they stood here.

Courage. Loyalty. These things still existed. “Open the bay doors.”

Obsidian punched a button on the control panel, and the floor at the rear of the cargo bay began to slide away. Cold air rushed in, and goose bumps spread across his skin. The pulses of the ray gun became deafening. The ship vibrated with each shot.

He led the way to the open bay doors and took hold of one of the ropes hanging on a winch from the ceiling. He tossed the other end of the coiled rope out and watched as it dropped to the ground.

“With me,” he shouted over the noise, taking hold of a pair of handles on the electric motor connected to the rope. And then he stepped out over the abyss. With his thumb he pressed the red button, and the motor kicked into gear, wheels spinning.

His stomach lurched with sudden weightlessness as he plunged out of the airship. He wrapped his feet around the rope as the motorized wheels drove him down along the line. Icy wind cut through his clothes, freezing him to the core. The speckled plains spread around him in all directions, not a city or town in sight. It was almost peaceful, aside from the hiss of stone cracking and the screams of the ray gun.

Ropes dropped down beside him, cutting through his view. He could just make out the sound of a dozen more little motors whizzing to life. The ray gun finally fell silent. The risk of hitting his own people was too great. But the exterior of the prison was already shattered and stripped of life. The walls were cracked, the anti-aircraft guns were disabled, the guards were dead.

As the ground rushed to meet him, Morgan released the speed control and applied the brakes. Another lurch of his stomach as he slowed, and then his white leather loafers crunched on the rocky courtyard made slippery with melted snow. He was inside the compound.

He was already moving by the time the other metahumans touched down behind him. The single windowless building stood like a huge black monument in the centre of the compound, gleaming in the sun. A well-placed ray gun blast had cracked open the sole door. Figures moved in the shadows. As he sprinted across the courtyard towards the soldiers, he drank in the harsh Siberian sunlight. He seemed to recall a song about a flower clinging to life in the snow, but the words escaped him.

Morgan shifted his energy inside himself, just like he did every day during his personal training. Flashes went off in his head, like a horde of over-eager cameramen, and he brought his hands together in front of him. Light bloomed around him, oozing out of every pore as though it were liquid. To other men, it would be almost blinding. But to him, it was like opening the curtain onto a beautiful summer's day.

Russian shouts reached him, and nine or ten men poured out of the building’s doorway. The soldiers dropped into crouches and aimed their Kalashnikov rifles at him. Some glanced up nervously as his airship,
Hyperion
, passed over them, its rocket engines idling. It had cost him a fortune, but money was easy to come by. And no one could say it didn’t have a touch of class.

Then the soldiers returned their attention to him. Muzzles flashed and the clatter of automatic fire burst through the air. Morgan didn’t stop. The light around him hardened in response to his thought, and an instant later he was peppered with a dozen rounds. Sparks flew around him. Bullets ricocheted off the solidified light he’d drawn up. Each round set his teeth chattering, sending little ripples of force through him.

But his shield of light held. His own heavy breathing echoed inside his head, loud enough to drown out even the gunfire. His footfalls crunched across the courtyard, and bullets kicked up fragments of snow and packed soil all around him. The shouts became desperate. He was close enough to see how young these soldiers were.

And then he was amongst them. He leapt, slamming his shield of light into one and kicking the rifle out of another’s hands. With another switch of energy, the light changed shape again. A sword bloomed into life in his hand. A sword with an edge the size of an electron.

He swung in a wide arc, and blood flew. He’d learned fencing at university, but there was no art to what he did now. He slashed out again and again, relying on speed and the protection of his shield. He wasn’t cold anymore.

The stink of death was everywhere. The three surviving soldiers pulled back into the doorway. They abandoned their rifles for their handguns in the tight quarters. He swept in after them, stepping over the bodies of their comrades and using his shield to keep the blood from staining the white fabric of his trousers.

Tinderbox was the first of Morgan’s people to arrive. He skated in on feet of flame and projected a narrow jet of fire at a soldier. The flesh of the man’s face bubbled where it hit him. He fell, screaming. Morgan forced himself to listen. No blocking out the screams. He would live with them. He had to.

Morgan and Tinderbox had secured the doorway by the time the others caught up. Obsidian observed the carnage with the only face she was capable of making, and said nothing, like the rest.

“Sand Fury will cover our exit. Screecher, take B team to the upper floors and crush anyone you find. The rest of you, with me.”

They were two floors underground, fighting one minor skirmish after another in the cramped concrete corridors, when the Russians launched a full counterattack. Morgan got his light shield up just in time to deflect a hail of bullets from a machine gun mounted behind a thick concrete wall. Rounds hammered him, sending ricochets sparking into the walls.

“Scramble!” he ordered, and the rest of the metas scattered behind him. Obsidian kicked open a door and led the rest of his metahumans into an intersecting corridor.

Morgan planted his feet and gritted his teeth against the oncoming barrage. The machine gun was perhaps sixty feet away, with a clear line of sight down his corridor. Behind it he could make out groups of soldiers massing, and behind them, the static purple glow of Unity Corporation shielding systems. The prison cells.

He ducked back into the doorway Obsidian and the others had retreated into. The colourful array of metahumans crouched or stood, poised like jungle cats.

“This is it,” he yelled, struggling to make himself heard over the gunfire echoing through the corridor. “Obsidian, a little help would be very much appreciated.”

“As my lord says.” She jerked a nod and turned her diamond eyes on Haze. “Cover.”

The thick-set Haze unzipped the mouth area of his full-face mask and showed his teeth. “About fuckin’ time.” Smoke trickled from his lips as he spoke.

Morgan moved aside and made room for Haze to step up to the doorway. Tracer rounds from the machine gun flew past, tearing the corridor to shreds. Haze took a few deep breaths in and out, waiting.

The gunfire suddenly stopped, leaving Morgan’s ears ringing. The machine gunner swore in Russian. He needed to reload.

Haze’s eyes rolled back in his head. The meta took one last breath in, held it for a moment. Morgan could hear boots stomping on concrete and a few bursts of suppressive fire as the soldiers moved to support the machine gunner.

And then Haze exhaled. Smoke and wind blew through the corridor. In an instant, Morgan was blinded by a wall of grey smog.

The ground shuddered as Obsidian dashed out into the clouded corridor. He could imagine her raising her fists into the air, poised above her head.

“Brace yourselves,” her smooth voice said.

Morgan pressed himself against the wall as she brought her fists down on the ground. The earth screamed and shook like a meteor had hit. He heard the concrete groaning as the wave of energy flowed through the ground ahead of her.

Haze braced himself against the doorway and sucked the smoke screen back towards his mouth. The rumbling of the earth slowly died away, leaving nothing but shouts and the tinkling of crumbling masonry.

Morgan was first out of the corridor, racing across the cracked ground before the last shakes had vanished. Obsidian came close behind him, breathing heavily, and the others followed, whooping and shouting.

Morgan drew up a blade of light and slashed at the machine gunner’s neck while he struggled to get back to his weapon. Without slowing, Morgan leapt over the chest-high wall. Thirty or forty Russian soldiers lay scattered across the main prison chamber, trying to regain their feet. His metahumans fanned out beside him, kicking and slashing and biting and burning the soldiers who tried to get to their guns. One soldier fell with swarms of insects crawling down his throat, choking him. Obsidian hurled another at the wall, and Morgan could hear the man’s neck crack. The throbbing in his skull grew as the soldiers died, but he pushed it aside. He couldn’t worry about that now. He wasn’t done yet.

Behind the dying soldiers, twenty prison cells sat nestled in the walls. Twenty prisoners for this prison in the middle of nowhere. Each cell was closed over not with bars, but with purple, half-transparent shields. Behind the shields, twenty sets of eyes watched their guards being butchered.