Trainee Superhero (Book One) (4 page)

“Helmets,”
Never Lies
says, and
Violent Behavior
passes me a helmet. He smiles; his front
teeth are missing.

I put the helmet on. It’s heavy,
uncomfortable and dark.

“I can’t see anything,” I say.

“Program initiating,” a robotic voice
whispers in my ear.

A picture appears in my visor: it’s a
floating ball topped with a laser cannon. The picture is computer
drawn but accurate as far as I can tell from what I’ve seen on the
internet.

“Floating scout” says the voice in my helmet,
“known weaknesses are shown.”

Most of the scout glows red. The picture
fades and is replaced by another scout, this one red.

“Scout bomb,” murmurs the voice in my ear,
“may self-destruct explosively. Attack from range.”

I nod; that’s good advice. The scout bomb
fades away and is replaced with a tricops like the ones that
attacked my town.

“Simple triclops, capable of range attack,”
my helmet says, “known weaknesses are shown.”

The triclops only has a few weaknesses, but I
do my best to remember them. The program progresses to flappers,
which are weak fliers armed with rockets, then on to an eight-armed
beast called an octo-ape that can fly. Each of the octo-ape’s arms
ends in some terrible bladed weapon. It only has one weakness, in
its head. The back of its head.

“The octo-ape is a close combat expert. Do
not engage,” advises the program.

“Okay,” I say, although I probably would if I
saw one.

We move onto all the familiar soldiers found
in saucers, from the large cube-tanks to the tiny spider-pods that
clump together to form larger shapes. There were neutron-squids,
eccentrically shaped oddpods, and floating mushrooms armed with
plasma missiles. There were also seven additional variants of
triclops, each scarier than the last. My helmet suggests that I
avoid almost all of them, even the little ones. It’s pretty
disheartening that even the training programs think I’m
incapable.

I realize that every type of saucer creature
could fly, if only for short distances. I don’t know why I never
thought about that before.

“Phase two of the training program begins.
Highlight the known weaknesses with your eyes.”

A circle appears on the visor screen. I move
my eyes and the circle moves as well. A second scout appears. I
point out its weaknesses, highlighting what I can remember. The
scout is replaced by an octo-ape. I highlight its chest with my
laser before realizing I’ve made a mistake.

“Mistake,” agrees the helmet.

I get another unpleasant shock on my collar,
but I remain standing. The octo-ape appears again, and I highlight
its weakness correctly. The helmet continues through a list of
aliens that I am mostly familiar with. The threat of pain focusses
my mind like never before, but soon I’m too exhausted to continue.
I start making mistakes, and after my third shock in a row the
pictures fade.

“Training complete,” the helmet whispers.

I take the helmet off and fall to the ground.
A steward passes me a bottle of water and a sandwich. The food is
delicious, better than anything I have eaten before. A technician
in light blue checks my pulse and takes more blood as I eat. I
wonder what they are learning about me. My arm begins to itch, so I
pull my sleeve armor off and see my tat-a-gotchi hatching. The egg
cracks, and a thin silver worm crawls out of the egg. It sprouts
thin, pale wings which it flaps a few times as though it has no
idea what they are for, then rolls up and falls asleep. Lame. I
pull my armored sleeve back down.

“Next station,” says one of the technicians,
ushering me to what looks like a bullet the size of a car mounted
on a thick robotic arm.

The bullet is lowered to the ground and the
top flips open to reveal a small, cramped space inside. There is a
seat in there, and a harness, but it looks incredibly uncomfortable
and claustrophobic. A bald technician stands beside a computer
screen, tapping it impatiently.

“Climb in,” he orders, “and get used to it.
This is how you are going to get to battle from now on.”

I squeeze in and do my best to strap myself
down.

“I thought supers just flew into battle,” I
say doubtfully.

“Nah. Flying long distances drains too much
power. Most teams parachute out of planes, but we use these babies.
They’ll get you anywhere in the world in under twenty minutes.”

Most teams parachute out of planes? How could
I not know that? I thought I knew everything about the superheroes,
but I’m learning that the Superhero Corps has been keeping all
kinds of secrets from the public, including the existence of this
team.

“Twenty minutes?” I say, impressed.

“Twenty awful minutes,” the bald technician
adds thoughtfully, “so best hold on.”

The capsule closes and leaves me in the dark.
There is a row of LEDs in the roof. Most are green, but one is
flickering orange.

“Simulating re-entry,” says the technician’s
voice over a speaker, “ejection in five minutes.”

The capsule starts rolling and spinning
uncontrollably. More LEDs flash orange and the capsule lurches like
a roller coaster falling off its rails. I’m pressed hard against
the straps and spun upside down and side to side. It’s a terrible
ride, and it feels like an eternity before the capsule spits me out
into the air and I land face first in a pile of soft foam. I try
stand up, but the world is still spinning and I fall backwards. A
couple of techs pull me to my feet and check my balance and
reflexes. One of them is holding a bucket, but I don’t need to use
it.

“Ugh,” I say.

It looks like they were betting on my
performance, because money changes hands and the bald technician
looks cranky.

“Best get used to it,” says the winning
technician, “the real thing is going to be worse. Now, let’s do
that again.”

I’d really rather not, but they help me to my
feet, drag me back to the capsule and strap me back in.

“Ah, saucer!” I swear as the capsule clicks
shut.

The second ride is even worse than the first,
and by the time I emerge from the foam I’m convinced that my first
impressions were right, and that I am in hell. There are no
technicians to help me out of the foam pit, so I drag myself out
and lie on the ground.

“I… argh,” I say.

A steward in white walks up and crouches
beside me. She has long blond hair with a streak of red in it. She
looks amused at my condition.
Gen77
is written on her shirt
in the same place I have
Red Five
.

“
Firestorm Commando
wants to see you
in the armory,” she says, then takes a closer look at me, “what are
you, like twelve? Where are your minders, anyway?”

I try to explain that everyone has left me,
but she grabs my arm and leads me away from the training area. We
head up a flight of narrow stairs and down a long corridor. This
base is huge. The steward knows her way around, and walks so
quickly that I have to jog to keep up.

“I’ve never met you before,” she says, “when
did you get in?”

“Today,” I manage, but she only laughs.

“Good one! As if
Firestorm Commando
would want anything with a newbie, he thinks they are dirt.”

“What does he want?” I manage.

“I don’t know. Have you met him before?”

I shake my head. I have read a few stories of
Firestorm Commando
that don’t make me think too highly of
him. The Superhero Corps keeps a tight lid on their members, but
word leaks out onto the Internet if you know where to look. I heard
he set fire to a primary school he was meant to be saving, and
destroyed a hospital. That was about three months ago, and I
haven’t heard anything about him since then.

My world is still spinning, and I have to
concentrate on not throwing up. I succeed, which is a win.

We arrive at the armory, which is a long hall
of power suits, weapons, and strange glowing computers. A man in
red power armor is waiting for me. I don’t recognize him, but
that’s not surprising.

“
Red Five
?” he says.

“I guess,” I say.

“Excellent. I have orders to take you on the
next mission.”

“Ah… I don’t think-”

“Shut up, get out of that silly practice suit
and get dressed for combat.”

Gen77
shakes her head and ducks out of
the armory. Technicians in green shirts pull my practice armor off
and push me towards a battered power suit. It’s dull silver, with
burn marks down one side and huge metal patches on the chest. One
of the arms looks brand new, but that that just makes me wonder
what happened to the person inside when the old arm was lost. The
techs start to take the suit apart and pull it over my
shoulders.

“I haven’t seen you before,” says a
technician with concern.

“I just arrived today,” I mutter.

I must have been more convincing the second
time, because the technicians stop their work and look at me. One
of them starts to put the suit back on its rack but
Firestorm
Commando
storms up, slaps one of the technicians hard and yells
abuse at the others. The technician he slaps hits the ground and
doesn’t get up.

“Do as I say!” he screams at them.

The technicians swallow their doubts and
start getting me ready again. A senior technician called
Bad
Memories
checks their work and then shows me a reflection of
myself in a mirror. I am not impressed.

“Now, I know what you are thinking-,” he
says.

That the suit I’m wearing looks like it was
made by a bunch of drunks trying to build a spacesuit out of things
they found in a junkyard? That they set their creation alight and
then threw it down some stairs? That I’m wearing an uncomfortable
metal coffin?

“-and you are right. This, son, is a cutting
edge hybrid of human and alien technology. Few will ever get to
wear one; it’s a real privilege. Try and bring it back.”

“Let’s pick up the speed!” yells
Firestorm
Commando
from across the room.

Bad Memories
shakes his head and pulls
the last few straps tight against my chest. He places a helmet over
my head and I hear it click into place over my neck. For a moment
everything goes black, and then the visor opens. The technician
leans in close.

“We have called someone to help you. I’m
trying to slow this down to buy some time,” he whispers.

“What’s going on there?” demands
Firestorm
Commando
.

“Technical problems with his power,” says
Bad Memories
, “maybe you should leave him-”

“He’s coming,” says
Firestorm Commando
flatly.

“Fine,” says
Bad Memories
, “but not
unarmed.”

He walks me through an armory containing
weapons of every sort stacked against the walls. Some are familiar,
like the power axes and swords, but many resemble steam-powered
cannons and others look disturbingly organic. I see laser pistols
and kinetic rifles, spears, maces and hammers of every shape and
size. Most of them look worn, now that I see them up close. These
aren’t the shiny props I’ve seen in the movies, but are chipped and
dented workman’s tools.

“Can I have one of those?” I ask the
technician, pointing at the axes.

“No, but put this one on.”

He hands me a bulky glove with a short barrel
under the palm.

“Powerglove. Reliable and idiot proof.”

I put it on. It’s not the kind of weapon I
have been dreaming about; it looks like an oven mitt. There’s no
time for me to be disappointed, because the technicians lead me to
a pod sitting on a conveyor belt that leads out of the room. I jump
in and they strap me in while
Firestorm Commando
stands
behind us. There is a computer screen hanging over the pod. It
shows a pair of maps, one of Australia on the globe and one just of
the western coast of Australia. There is a red circle around the
city of Perth, but that can’t be right. Perth was one of the first
cities attacked, in the days before supers. The city was evacuated
while the saucer was still hovering over it, and then the world
powers tried to bring the saucer down with cruise missiles. When
that didn’t work, they tried a nuke.

“Perth!” I splutter, “Won’t the radiation
kill me?”

The technician gives me a look of pity and
shakes his head sadly.

“I’m sorry, son, but radiation is going to be
the least of your worries.”

The pod’s cover slams down and leaves me in
darkness. The pod rumbles and bounces along the conveyor belt and
then falls still. The only sound is my fast, shallow breathing in
the darkness.

“What happens now?” I ask.

The pod rumbles, and an invisible giant
punches me in the chest and I fall unconscious.

“This guide dedicates the next seventeen
chapters to battlefield tactics. An understanding of these tactics,
many of which are complex, is a requirement of success. We shall
begin with the best method of arriving on the battlefield.”

-The Superhero Trainee Guide (Third Edition),
Chapter Six.

“Keep moving, keep thinking, hit hard and
stay alive. That’s all.”

-Extract from
Dark Fire
’s three-page
training manual read at his trial.

I wake up in the cramped delivery pod just as
it hits turbulence.

The whole pod is shaking so violently that I
wonder if something has broken. There are no screens in the pod,
just little rows of lights above my head. Most are green, but a few
are orange and one is red.

“Is that bad?” I shout, but there is no
answer.

I don’t know if the red light is a problem. I
don’t know very much at all, really, except that I wish I wasn’t
here and that all this shaking makes me feel terrible. There is
nothing for me to do but hold onto the handles as tightly as I can,
shut my eyes and hope for the best. I wonder what will happen if I
throw up in my helmet.