Near + Far (14 page)

T
he superheroes sit in a back booth at Barnaby's Ye Olde Tavern and Pizza. It's not the usual sort of superhero hangout and they'll probably never eat here again. They've had four autograph requests: two from customers, one from their waitress, and one from the manager, who also insisted on taking their picture with his cell phone.

It's a shame that they won't be coming back, Ms. Liberty thinks. The cheese pizza is hot and greasy, the sensation of consuming it agreeable. It's enjoyable, even, to sit around talking about the world, bullshitting and comparing stories and wishes and pet peeves.

"You know what I hate?" she says, pouring more beer. "The porn star superheroes. And nine times out of ten, they're female."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Dr. Zenith Arcane says. "Names like Pussy Whip and BangAGang."

"And Cocktail."

"Goddess, yes. Cocktail." They swap wry smiles.

X, the superhero without a shape, shaves away pizza triangles, slurps down high-octane root beer. Ms. Liberty and Kilroy are splitting a pitcher and well on their way to ordering a second. Alphane Moon Bass. Most places don't have it.

Dr. Arcane eyes X and Ms. Liberty. She says, "Must be nice to be able to eat like that." She's got a watery salad and a glass of apple juice in front of her. She doesn't usually complain. But lately she's been downright snippy.

"I need to remind you about your hair," Dr. Arcane continues. "It's so early eighties."

Ms. Liberty's hair falls in frosted blonde waves, a mane, unexpected against the strict lines of her red, white, and blue jumpsuit. She touches a tendril at her shoulder.

"Are you her parent now?" Kilroy says, pouring herself another foamy mug. "By the sands of Barsoom, back off, good doctor!"

The children two booths down gasp in horror and delight as X changes shape while still eating. Now she's a wall-eyed, dome-shaped creature, purple in hue.

"A ghost from Pac-Man," Dr. Arcane tells X. "Celebrating the cultural patriarchy. Embrace your chains!" She takes a sip of apple juice.

"Did something crawl up your supernaturally sensitive ass?" Ms. Liberty asks.

"Don't piss me off," Dr. Arcane says. "Nobody likes me when I'm pissed off."

Ms. Liberty takes another pizza slice, eats it in five quick bites. She knows why she likes eating. It's not about the fuel. Anything will do for that. (Literally.) It's her programming that makes her enjoy the sensation of something in her mouth. And elsewhere. She can achieve orgasm in 3.2 seconds by saying a trigger phrase.

She really hates her creators for it. It's distracting. It's dehumanizing. It's objectifying. She understands the intent behind it, to have her engage in enthusiastic, frequent sex, hopefully with them. She doesn't understand, though, why they chose to then give her free will, to force her to perpetually struggle between that pull and the business of being a patriotic superhero, a cybernetic woman: super strong, super fast, super durable.

Even now she feels the firmness of the bench under her ass, the smoothness of the table's wood against her forearms. She glares at Dr. Arcane.

"What. Is. Bugging. You?" she says, spitting out each word like a bullet.

"We don't have the right dynamic."

"What?"

"The four of us—you a cyborg, X a genetically constructed being, alien Kilroy from four galaxies away, and myself, a pan-dimensional sorceress—"

"Sorcerer."

"Magic-user. At any rate, we need some more human people. To add a few more facets to our toolbox."

"You mean interview some new members?"

"An open call for facets, yes."

Ms. Liberty eats another piece, exploring the hot rush of grease, the intensity of cheese and tomato and basil. New members. It's not a bad idea.

The interviews are held in the Kiwanis hall. Ms. Liberty, X, Dr. Arcane, and Kilroy go through their clipboards while two dozen candidates wait out in the hall.

"If you're going to be our leader, you need to look like you haven't time-travelled here from the 20th century," Dr. Arcane grumbles to Ms. Liberty. "You may have been built with the blueprints from the Stepford wives, but you don't have to keep looking like one."

"It's a little late to be thinking of that," Ms. Liberty says. Her internal chronometer says 14:59:05. At 15:00:00, she'll signal Kilroy to open the door.

Dr. Arcane says something under her breath, glances back down at the clipboard. "What sort of grrl-power frenzy name is Zanycat?" she asks.

Zanycat, as it turns out, is a super-scientist's kid sister, pockets full of gadgets, gizmos, gee-whizzeries. She demonstrates flips, moves through martial arts moves like a ballerina on crack, and does quadratic equations in her head. She's a keeper, all right, although she's very young. Her certificate pronounces her barely at the legal age to be a sidekick: fifteen.

Pink Pantomime, a former reality-show star turned hero, doesn't do much for anyone but X.

Kilroy and Zenith like Bulla the Strong Woman, but her powers are too close to Ms. Liberty's.

Rocketwoman is vague about her origin; perhaps she's a villain gone good? Her armor is like something from the cover of a 40s SF magazine, but bubble-gum pink, teal blue, like a child's toy. Her gun is similarly shaped: it shoots out concentric rings of brilliant yellow energy that contract around a target.

They have gone through twenty-two candidates, making notes, asking questions. The twenty-third arrives, dressed in black and steel.

Dr. Arcane dates women by preference but believes that everyone exists on a continuum of bisexuality. She has slept with demons, mermaids, aliens, shape-shifters, ghosts, the thoughts of gods (and goddesses), robots, and super-models. But she has never seen anything like the sexuality of the woman who steps forward next: the Sphinx. She smells of sweet amber and smoke, her accent is sibilant and smouldering.

Ms. Liberty does not date, has not slept with anyone since discovering how thoroughly her sexuality is hard-wired. The resultant level of frustration, constant as a cheese grater on her nerves, is preferable to knowing that she's giving in to their design. But she also has never seen anything like the Sphinx, her languid power, her lithe curves, her eyebrows like ebony intimations.

Kilroy couldn't care less. X just sings of carrots.

According to the Sphinx's resume, she's a computer hacker and ninja-type. Competent and low-key. She doesn't talk much, despite their best attempts to draw her out.

At one point she looks up, meets Ms. Liberty's eyes. They stare at each other as though hypnotized, but it is impossible to tell what the Sphinx is thinking.

Less so with Ms. Liberty, who goes beet red and looks away.

"Why an all-woman superhero group?" the Sphinx asks.

"Why not?" Dr. Arcane says even as Ms. Liberty replies, "That was somewhat accidental. X and I both wanted to leave our old group and we knew Kilroy was looking for work. X and Dr. Arcane were old friends."

"Is it a political statement?"

"It's like this," Ms. Liberty says. "One of the reasons we left the Superb Squadron, X and I, was because we were the only females on there and we were getting harassed. I'm sure there are good guys out there, who would make a swell addition to our team. Maybe we'll explore that somewhere down the line. But for now, it's more comfortable to be all women."

The Sphinx nods. She and Ms. Liberty exchange looks again. Ms. Liberty imagines the Sphinx as the heroine of a comic book, a solitary wanderer, aloof and sexy and unpartnered.

"Get a haircut," Dr. Arcane tells Ms. Liberty on the way out of the hall.

"Stop nagging me. Why should I be judged on my appearance?"

Dr. Arcane pauses, considers this. "Valid point," she admits. "But here it's not about the group's appearance. It's about getting you laid."

"Artificial beings don't need to get laid," Ms. Liberty says.

"The hell they don't," Zenith retorts.

In the end they take on three provisional members: Rocketwoman, the Sphinx, and Zanycat. Three months trial membership, no health coverage until that period is past, but they'll be on the accidental damage rider as of tomorrow. Rocketwoman tells them all to call her Charisse, but everyone keeps forgetting, and the Sphinx and Zanycat prefer their hero names.

"What's the name of the group going to be?" Zanycat asks.

"We haven't been able to agree on one yet," Dr. Arcane admits.

"What are the candidates?"

"A corporate logo, Freedom Flight, an unpronounceable symbol, and Gaia's Legion."

X projects the symbol in turquoise Lucida Sans on her flank, bats cow-lashed eyes enticingly at Zanycat.

"A friend told me fast food companies are looking to sponsor teams, and there's good money in it," Kilroy says.

Arcane shakes her head. "We don't need to worry about that. I'm independently wealthy."

"
You
don't need to worry about that, you mean," Kilroy says. "Some of us are trying to make a living, put aside a little for retirement. Or a ticket back home."

"We need some sort of name for press releases, at least," the Sphinx says. They all stare at her.

"Press releases?" Dr. Arcane says incredulously.

"We need name recognition," the Sphinx insists.

"We need a fluid interpersonal dynamic!" Dr. Arcane shoots back.

"Actually, what we need is training that allows us to respond efficiently and effectively to threats," Ms. Liberty says. She adds, "In my opinion."

"How about a working title?"

"Like what?"

"Female Force?"

"UGH. Just call us Labia Legion and shoot us in the collective forehead."

The Sphinx and Ms. Liberty are sharing breakfast, the two of them up earlier than the rest for a change.

"I have a question," the Sphinx says.

"Go ahead." Ms. Liberty butters her waffle.

"Are we even really an all-female group?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Zenith, Charisse, Zanycat, myself for sure. But Kilroy's an alien—do they even have genders like ours?"

"She lays eggs, I believe, but she's been pretty cagy about it."

"And X—well, X is a construct. Not even built to be female, she apparently just decided it—but based on what? Attitude? Self-identification? Class? Power relationship to her creator?"