Don't Be a Hero: A Superhero Novel

1: No One Can Stop Me Now

“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.