My Brother is a Superhero (15 page)
Read My Brother is a Superhero Online
Authors: David Solomons
“I mean, obviously you don’t have the sort of superpowers that let you fly or fight crime,” said Dad.
Oh.
“What your dad’s trying to say,” said Mum, “is that
we all have powers.”
Dad stroked my forehead. “And it’s such a damn shame you won’t get a chance to grow into yours.”
Once I’d confirmed that they weren’t saying we were a family of superheroes, and that the powers in question were things like “creativity” and “humour” and “passion”, and not “flying” and “teleportation” and “adamantium claws”, we said goodnight.
Mum kissed and hugged me until I thought my head was going to pop off like a cork from a bottle, then Dad leaned down and kissed me too and whispered really quietly, “May the Force be with you. Always.”
The door clicked softly behind them. I waited until I could hear them downstairs talking with the others, then I leaped out of bed and hastily pulled on my clothes. My luckiest underpants were in the wash, which was bad planning, so I settled on my second-luckiest pair. Two minutes later I crept downstairs and slipped out of the back door. I collected the equipment I needed for the mission, concealing it in my Deadpool backpack, and set off to join the others who were waiting at the end of the road. I felt bad sneaking out on my parents, so I don’t want you to think I was completely thoughtless. I left a note, telling them where I’d gone, just in case I didn’t make it back. And I put in some mushy stuff
about how much I loved them and how they were the best parents in the galaxy, even if Dad had questionable taste in film heroes.
The night was filled with the wail of sirens, the squeal of stolen car tyres and the beat of wild music. The streets heaved with hundreds of people carrying on crazily by the light of hastily set bonfires. Across the city dozens of fires like a string of beacons lit up the sky, but instead of celebrating New Year these beacons signalled the end of time. The smoky stench of burning buildings carried on the air. It was the last night on Earth and the population of Bromley had decided to go out with a bang.
As we stood across the road from the comic store, a procession of cars pulled up out front and deposited their passengers. From the first car stepped Lex Luthor and
Magneto. They were followed closely by Doctor Doom and Brainiac. The next car after that held Mystique and Doc Octopus. They joined a long queue that snaked to a small door in the base of the volcano.
Everyone at the launch of the new Crystal Comics was a supervillain.
Not that this came as any great surprise. I fished out my invitation. Next to where it said RSVP was the instruction: Dress Evil. As we joined the queue we passed General Zod, another Lex Luthor and six Catwomen climbing out of a minibus.
“That’s not fair,” complained Lara, watching the posse slink past. She too had dressed as Catwoman, despite my repeated warnings.
“But may I say,” said Serge, “that you are
la
most enchanting Catwoman I have seen tonight.”
He was smooth. Serge didn’t have an invitation of his own, but each of ours included a “plus one”, which meant we could bring someone. I think Christopher Talbot had put it there so we could bring along a responsible adult. But by that point I don’t think there was a single responsible adult left on the plant. Instead I had brought Serge, who was dressed as Loki, the Norse God of Mischief.
“Thanks, Serge,” said Lara. “Catwoman has a whip,
but I have this skipping rope, which is a really good substitute, don’t you think?”
She held up the tattered old rope for his inspection. He made encouraging noises and nodded enthusiastically, but I knew what he was thinking: her costume was terrible. However, even I wasn’t daft enough to say that to her face. She was wearing a black leotard, black jeans and wellington boots. On her face she’d drawn a pair of whiskers using her big sister’s eyeliner pencil. The only cool part of her costume was the mask, which I’d loaned her.
“You look good too,” she said, admiring Serge’s outfit. “You make a great Lucky.”
“Loki,” he corrected her, adjusting his preposterously horned helmet and tightening the belt on his customised dressing gown, and gripping his broom-handle Chitauri sceptre.
“OK, everyone has their mission assignment,” I said. “You know what to do once we’re inside?” They nodded. I drew out Zack’s mobile phone. Lara had “borrowed” her sister’s, which on any other night would have been the most terrifyingly dangerous thing she could do. Tonight it wasn’t even in the top ten. “Let’s synchronise phones,” I said, opening the settings menu.
Serge raised a hand. “Ah, I do not have the phone.”
I sighed. “You were supposed to borrow one.”
“Here,” said Lara, pulling a pink sparkly handset from her pocket and offering it to him. Serge inspected it with deep suspicion.
“It is a My Little Pony mobile,” he said.
“Actually, it’s called a My Little Phoney,” she said.
“It is a
fake
My Little Pony phone?”
“No. Not phoney, phone-y. Like – y’know what? Doesn’t matter.”
We’d reached the head of the queue. A guard on the door wearing a silver jumpsuit and a futuristic helmet with a red plastic faceplate checked invitations against a guest list. He found our names. Lara and Serge strolled past, but when I walked up he stuck out a hand. “You can’t come in without an evil costume,” he said, his faceplate fogging up with each word he spoke. “So who are you meant to be?”
I was wearing a green-and-black striped T-shirt, a pair of cargo pants and a backpack. “Sandman,” I growled.
He raised an eyebrow. “Well,
Sandman
, I have to inspect your backpack.”
Grumbling, I slipped it off and handed it over. Loosening the straps he lifted the top cover and inspected the contents. “Sand?” A series of puzzled puffs appeared on the inside of his plastic as he considered
whether or not to let me in. A bag of sand, while unusual, did not feature on his list of banned items. With a mumble he waved me past.
I hurried after the others.
“Good thing he didn’t look
under
the sand,” I whispered, slinging the backpack over my shoulders.
I looked around. We were in. The first part of “Operation Star Lad” had gone off without a hitch. Now came the hard bit.
We gazed wide-eyed at the impressive sight before us. The centre of the volcano was hollow, with a ramp that ran round the edge, corkscrewing up into the distant crater. The walls were painted a colour not so much burnt orange as orange that had been dunked screaming into a vat of boiling oil. The volcano-that-was-also-a-comic-book-store was divided into seven levels, with doors leading off the ramp to each floor where customers could buy comics and merchandise. The ground floor had been converted into a dance floor for the launch party. Jutting from the back wall was a stage on which a DJ dressed as Doctor Doom mixed tunes, his hooded head bobbing,
green cape rippling. Music dinned from gigantic circular speakers with glass-clear stands that made them appear to hover in the air like throbbing black holes. DJ Doom worked a digital controller to play tricked-up dance versions of superhero movie and TV themes.
A Tal-bot carrying a plate of snacks glided up. “Vol-au-vent?” it enquired. Serge helped himself to a handful. I took one filled with grey ooze that smelled of damp trainers but tasted surprisingly pleasant. The Tal-bot swung round and was about to zip away when I stopped it, asking, “Can I have the plate, please?”
“Greedy-human-boy,” it muttered, but handed over the plate as I’d requested. I tipped the remaining vol-au-vents into the nearest bin and slipped the plate into my backpack. We made our way around the room collecting more serving plates and a stack of saucers.
“Come on, let’s blend.” Lara pulled me on to the dance floor and Serge tripped after us. Giant skull lamps dangled like cannibal trophies and the place heaved with partying villains. I searched the grooving crowd for Christopher Talbot, but with so many masks, scars, hoods and helmets, it was impossible to tell who he was, or even if he was here.
“I do not see him,” said Serge.
“He must have more evil things to do,” I said, but
exactly what those might be was a puzzle worthy of the Riddler himself. Why
had
Christopher Talbot kidnapped Star Lad? Under normal everyday circumstances a supervillain would kidnap his superhero foe to prevent him from foiling his evil plan, which could be poisoning the city’s water supply, stealing all the gold in the world – that kind of thing. But whatever despicable plan Christopher Talbot had in mind, he had left it a bit late. Cosmic events had overtaken mere supervillainy. The end of the world was tomorrow so whatever he had up his shiny silver sleeve, did it really matter now? What’s the point of taking over the world if the world isn’t going to be there once you take it? Even if it was a really cool bit of evil-doing, and even if he’d been planning it for years, couldn’t he put it off until Star Lad had prevented Nemesis from turning Earth into the biggest pancake in the universe?
“Do you hear that?” asked Lara.
“I don’t hear anything,” I said, straining to listen.
“Exactly. The music, it’s stopped.”
There was a sudden chirping of mobile phones. All of the guests had received a text message. I read mine with a sense of rising dread. “Oh no.”
“What’s wrong?”
Before I could say, there was a blast of trumpets as if
Superman was about to go up, up and away. The walls shimmered and a picture formed on them. In place of volcanic rock appeared Christopher Talbot – or I should say Talbots, plural. He surrounded us on seven floors, his bolt-blue eyes like blocks of purest Arctic ice. All the Christopher Talbots began talking at once. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he purred. His smile was a thread. “I apologise for my absence at the party, but as most of you will already know there has been a development.”
“What’s he talking about?” asked Lara.
“It’s Operation Spitting Umbrella,” I said, showing her the text message.
“News just in from Earth’s most brilliant rocket scientists,” said Christopher Talbot, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Nemesis will shortly be in range of our nuclear missiles. In two hours some ten thousand warheads will launch from silos across the planet on an intercept course with our friendly neighbourhood asteroid.”
From those who hadn’t already heard the news via their phones there came anxious muttering mixed in with a smattering of cheers from the few who still believed the all-out atomic barrage would save us. If – or rather when – it failed, nothing stood in Nemesis’ path. Two hours?
Life on Earth had less time to run than a Transformers movie.
“There is no cause for alarm.” Christopher Talbot angled his head thoughtfully. “Well, obviously, apart from the pop-gun defence shield meant to deflect the humungous asteroid bearing down on us at twenty-seven thousand miles an hour.
That’s
pretty alarming.” He laughed, but no one else did. “Oh come on, really? If you can’t laugh in the face of extinction… Where are you going? Come back.”
Several supervillain guests were making for the exit. Christopher Talbot called after them. “What if I told you that this isn’t the end?” The departing guests paused. Alarm turned to intrigue.
“Looking around my volcano I see the villains of my childhood: the evil geniuses, the mind controllers, the assassins.” His giant heads swung to take in the other side of the room. “The self-replicators, the body manipulators.” He smiled as if he was flicking through a family photo album, then placed a hand over his heart. “I am touched by your presence. So much villainy under one roof – who better to witness the greatest act of
superheroism
the world has ever…” He stumbled. “Um … witnessed.”
All of the Christopher Talbots looked up towards the
crater. “Fasten your capes, straighten your hoods, hitch up your underpants … and I promise you before this night is out you will be
wowed
.”
“What’s he talking about?” whispered Lara.
“I don’t know,” I said, “but I have a very bad feeling.”
The screens flickered and his image faded, to be replaced by a digital countdown clock. It displayed one hour and fifty-nine minutes – the exact time left until Nemesis came in range of Earth’s nuclear missiles. When we had made our plans we hadn’t figured on Operation Spitting Umbrella complicating the mission. If a fraction of those missiles exploded in the atmosphere – which they undoubtedly would – then all our efforts would be in vain. Harmful radiation would be released, bathing the planet in deadly rays. Even more radiation than created the Hulk, Daredevil, the Fantastic Four, Dr Manhattan, Phoenix, Captain Atom and Spider-Man combined. I reset the timer on Zack’s borrowed phone and slipped it back into my pocket.
The countdown had begun.
