Don't Be a Hero: A Superhero Novel (20 page)

By the time night had fallen, he’d adapted his fighting style to cope with the vision impairment. As long as he kept his eyes moving and kept up his guard to the right, he didn’t anticipate any serious issues. Even so, he’d transferred control of the prisoner over to Haze and Screecher.

It was strange. He still had the same fluttering in his stomach every time he had to fight.

“Let it begin,” he said, and the metas moved into action. The ones who had been involved in Siberia were calmer this time around. Many of them had been in supercombat in the past, so they were familiar with matters of violence. Now they were getting back into the groove. He just prayed that confidence didn’t become cockiness.

Tinderbox clapped his hands, and the street around the vans burst into flames. The heat scorched Morgan’s face, but he didn’t flinch. Civilians screamed. The street was filled with movement as people fled, shielding their faces. The flame chased them, licking at their heels, until it reached the opposite side of the street and exploded through a jewellery store window. Somewhere, a fire alarm screeched.

Obsidian and her team were already fanning around the building ahead of them. A pair of fliers took to the skies as watchmen. When the Police Metahuman Division responded, the fliers would know.

The TVNZ studio was almost quaint. It had the same tacky design as the rest of the Neo-Auckland towers, but it was diminutive compared to the commercial office buildings that surrounded it. The size was unimportant. By morning, the world would know his name.

They would remember what they had forgotten. And they would tremble.

“Bring the prisoner!” he boomed over the roar of Tinderbox’s fire. Haze gave a half-hearted salute and disappeared into the centre van along with Screecher. Navigatron had outfitted all the vans with simple armour and engine modifications in case a swift exit was needed. The centre van also had a folding ramp that extended on a hydraulic mechanism. A moment later, Haze and Screecher emerged, dragging a wide cage on wheels. The bars crackled with the purple sheen of a Unity Corporation shielding system. William Hayne, the great Iron Justice, sat folded up inside, howling.

Morgan’s earpiece hissed to life. “Secure, my lord,” a voice said.

“Thank you, Obsidian,” he said. He turned to the others and raised his voice. “With me!”

His team whooped and broke into a run. He kept pace with them, eyes fixed on the building’s double glass doors.

Sand Fury fired a high-powered blast of sand from the glowing centre of his chest. The doors crumpled inwards against the onslaught. For a moment, the shattered glass sparkled under the light of the entranceway, and then a cloud of dust obscured everything.

Morgan was second through the broken doorway. The building’s layout was imprinted on his memory, so he had no need to slow. He brought up his shield and blade. He didn’t expect resistance, but he was nothing if not cautious. Besides, if someone was watching, he wanted them to understand what he could do.

A single security guard was in the lobby, struggling to extricate himself from a pile of sand. The eyes of a pretty blond receptionist peeked over the sleek metallic desk. The dilated pupils fixed on him, then she ducked down out of sight and offered a pitiful moan.

Morgan swept his blade of light down in an arc that stopped an inch from the security guard’s throat. The man swallowed and immediately stopped moving. Sand enveloped his legs and lower torso.

“Are you armed?” Morgan asked him.

He shook his head rapidly.

“I believe you,” Morgan said. He swung a light-covered fist. It connected with the side of the man’s head, and a cry left his mouth before he slumped, unconscious.

Without being asked, Sand Fury closed his eyes and arched his back. The centre in his chest glowed again, and he sucked the sand back towards himself. The grains bounced against Morgan’s light shield in a miniature sandstorm, and then as quickly as it had been filled, the lobby was free of sand.

Haze and Screecher pushed in the cage with the shouting Hayne, followed by the two other metas in his team. Hayne’s words were unintelligible. Every few seconds, the huge man would pound his fists against the glowing sides of the cage, to no avail. He’d long since given up trying to form the metal skin that gave him his superhero alias. Every time he did, the shields on the cage would deliver a strong electric shock to him. Crude, but effective. Morgan had modified the Unity Corporation technology himself. Everyone needed a hobby.

He could hear shouts and stamping feet from the floors above. The building was filled with a restless energy. No doubt they’d already discovered that the fire exits were barred by Obsidian and her crew. Did any of them understand what was happening?

He jabbed the lift call button, and the doors slid open with the ring of a bell. They loaded Hayne’s cage in first and crammed in around it. Morgan pressed the button for the eighth floor.

“You goddamn son of a bitch!” Hayne shouted. “I’ll make this place your grave, you hear me?

Morgan ignored him.

“You made a tactical error, coming here,” Hayne continued. “This building’s a death trap.”

Morgan straightened his white suit and watched the numbers on the elevator dial count up. “We know our exits.”

“Ha! Exits! We stomped little fucks like you into the ground three times a week back in my day. They’re gonna come for you, and I’m gonna make sure you don’t get no cushy prison cell.”

Morgan spun and slammed his fist against the bars. Blood pounded in his head, and his lips peeled back in a snarl. “No one’s going to come. No one. You and your precious heroes let the world walk all over you. Now there’s no one. No one but me.”

Hayne must have seen something in his eyes, because he backed away in his cage. Turning away, Morgan forced himself to breathe.
What was that?
The rage had come from nowhere. The red mist still lingered at the corners of his consciousness. Since the day of the protest at Cambridge, he always held himself in check. Cold logic kept him alive.
I can’t get emotional. Not now.

A bell dinged, and the elevator doors slid open. The studio lights were on, aimed at the news desk on the far side of the room. Crew members screamed and hammered on the fire exit doors. It did them no good. One of the newsreaders—a middle-aged woman in a red jacket—was the only person that hadn’t fled her post. She spoke rapidly into the unmanned cameras.

“They have reached the studio. There appears to be four, no, five of them. Ladies and gentlemen, if you’re just joining us, our building has been attacked by what appears to be a team of supercriminals. We can only pray that this broadcast is still transmitting, and that the police are on their way. God save us all.”

Morgan let his blade and shield fade, and drew light around himself to make his body glow. He strode from the elevator, taking his time, and looked into the eyes of everyone with the courage to meet his gaze.

Perception is all that matters.

“My name is Quanta,” he said. Silence fell in the room, and all eyes turned to him. He let an easy smile cross his face. “I have a message for the people of Earth.”

13: Gently, Gently

Iron Justice

Real name:

William Hayne

Powers:

Super strength, able to transform skin into metal armour. Metal skin renders him impervious to small arms and low-grade explosions.

Notes:

Reported to have survived several direct hits from the Astral Bomber. Faced numerous accusations of physical and sexual assault, but was never formally charged. Left the Manhattan Eight under a cloud of controversy.

—Notes on selected metahumans [Entry #0003]

Night fell on Neo-Auckland. Niobe stubbed out her cigarette in the car ashtray, readjusted her mask, and switched her goggles to high contrast.

“Play it clean, mate,” the Carpenter said. He pulled his own mask into place and put on his wide-brimmed hat. He couldn’t come with her; there was no way to get him inside without bringing all of Met Div down on them. He’d be on the outside, guarding her escape.

“Always do,” she said. She wouldn’t be stupid this time. No one would get another look at her face.

The side road they’d parked in was nearly empty, so she pushed open the door and got out. The Carpenter leaned over and stuck his head out the window. “Did I ever tell you you look like Rick Blaine in that coat?”

“Rick who?”

“From
Casablanca.
”

She shrugged.

“You haven’t seen
Casablanca
?” He affected an American accent. “‘Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’ That doesn’t ring a bell?”

She turned away, shoved her hands in her pockets, and slipped silently across the road. She didn’t have time for Solomon’s nonsense.

His voice called out after her. “‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.’”

With a shake of her head, she disappeared into the shadows and made her way down the alley to the rear of Met Div headquarters.

Time was ticking away, and they were no closer to finding Sam. If this was a simple kidnapping, she wouldn’t be so worried. Kidnappers who wanted ransom generally didn’t let harm come to their captives. But something weird was going on here, and every day that passed decreased the chances they’d ever find him alive. If they found him at all.

Bloody hell, she needed another cigarette.

The fenced-off car park at the back of the headquarters was deserted. Behind the chain-link fence, cars and vans were lined up in neat rows. She stayed in the shadows and watched for a moment, then something caught her eye. A little white box perched on the brick wall above the rear door. No, not a box. A video camera. That was new.

She touched the side of her goggles and increased the contrast to its maximum, then tried to gauge the camera’s line of sight. It looked out over the car park, probably to stop the division’s vehicles being pinched. But there was a blind spot directly beneath it. Too easy.

She breathed in a lungful of air, held it, and pulled darkness around her. The world flattened out as her body slid into a puddle on the concrete. The rough surface of the alley pressed against her, and her thoughts became flat.

She slipped through the gaps in the fence and sped silently along the dark ground. There weren’t many lights around, but it was still more comfortable to move under the cars, using their shade. As she moved, she became aware of the shadows of cape coppers moving in the building’s windows. Met Div headquarters were never completely deserted, so she’d have to be cautious. Always cautious.

Her shadow form slid up the three stairs at the rear exit and stopped in the darkness beneath the camera. Releasing her breath, she reformed her body and looked around, letting herself readjust to three dimensions. With a glance at the camera to make sure it couldn’t see her, she pressed her ear to the door. Silence. The door was heavy and well-sealed at the edges to protect against gas attacks—no one had forgotten Colonel Mustard’s assault on the New South Wales Met Div back in ’61. Unfortunately for Niobe, it also left no room for a shadow to slip under. She pulled her pick set from her jacket pocket and worked the torsion wrench and pick into the lock. Eyes closed, she let the tips of her fingers fade into shadow and dance along the length of the tools. A hazy picture of the surface of the lock’s pins formed in her mind, adding to the tactile sensations as she jiggled the pick.

She worked the pins as swiftly as she dared. Her heart maintained a steady rhythm, keeping her alert. She’d broken in here before, but it sure as hell wasn’t a cakewalk. Even at night, the hallways were lit and coffee-fuelled coppers huddled over paperwork. Luckily, the higher-ups pulled rank, leaving many of the offices dark and empty after nightfall. If she had to hide, they were her best shot.

The pins gave in to her touch, and she smiled into the darkness. With a twist of the torsion wrench, the lock clicked and the door opened a crack. She returned the tools to her pocket, checked through the crack for any coppers roaming the hallways, and slipped inside.

Her shoes made no sound on the tile floor. The clatter of typewriter keys drifted from somewhere ahead, along with the mutter of quiet conversation. Nothing to concern her. So why was she so nervous?
Play it clean
.

She’d memorized the building’s layout years ago. Briefly, she considered checking the prisoner manifests to confirm what Marvin told them, but decided against it. Prisoner records were kept in the south wing, near the cells. Security was tight there; never less than three armed cape coppers on duty at a time, according to standard protocol. Breaking in wasn’t impossible, but she needed to keep attention away from her investigations. If Met Div really was responsible for the kid’s abduction, she’d rather they didn’t know she was coming.