Superhero Universe: Tesseracts Nineteen (26 page)

I leaned forward, placing a hand on her arm. She didn’t react.

I stared at her, barely aware of the distant sounds of the party beyond the walls.

“I never wanted this to happen, Nana,” I said. “It’s been eight years since your diagnosis. That was the last time Mom voluntarily spoke to me. She said you took it in stride. That you figured your heart would go long before you ever got really bad.”

Nana blinked.

“It killed me to hear it, though,” I continued. “You had so much patience with me. Tried so hard to help me turn out right. I know I should feel more guilt that I didn’t, but I guess that’s part of my problem.”

“Water,” she said.

I smiled. “That’s the rest of it, yes. The water.”

The tip of her tongue appeared between her lips.

“Oh,” I said. “Sorry.” There was a white plastic pitcher on Serge’s desk, but no cup or glass. I sighed.

I took control of the water and lifted it out of the pitcher. It drifted slowly over the bed, a shimmering sphere hovering over Nana’s chest. A string of clear drops floated down toward her lips, and she opened her mouth to receive the first. She swallowed slowly and opened her mouth again.

“Take them at your own pace,” I said, lowering the second drop to her lips. “I know you hoped this would go away and I’d be normal again,” I said. “It didn’t happen. I didn’t go to school, didn’t get married, didn’t give you more great-grandkids.”

She took a third drop. I sent a fourth down and twisted the arrangement of the remainder so they now descended in a slow spiral.

A hint of a smile tugged at her lips.

“I got into a fair bit of trouble with this,” I confessed. “There’s a lot of ways to hurt people when you control the main ingredient of their body. Get creative enough and you can cause landslides, floods, and bad weather. I took advantage of it. Took a lot of money that wasn’t mine. I lived like royalty and I loved it.”

Nana’s lips puckered up as she kissed the next droplet.

My sight began to blur. “Figures that I can’t control my own waterworks, eh?” I sniffled. “I want you to know something, Nana. Something I can’t tell anybody else— even the rest of the family, because, if I did that, somebody would tell the cops.”

She stuck her tongue out, and I brought the next droplet down on its pink tip.

“It took a while for me to figure it out,” I said, “But I realized I had enough money on my hands that I could maybe try to help somebody find a cure for this. Couldn’t use it all, of course. Wouldn’t have. I was enjoying my life too much for that and I had to keep up appearances. Also had to be sure that, if the cops took me down, they’d assume I’d spent the difference between what I’d stolen and what I had left. I knew a person who was able to set up a trust fund without obvious links back to me.

“Then I started making inquiries, looking for the right kind of researcher— somebody dedicated enough to their work to ask no questions about their funding, yet competent enough to make effective use of it. Took a while, but the money started flowing in that direction about four years ago.”

Her right hand twitched, as if reaching for the spiral of water droplets, and so I brought them down to surround her wrist like a wide pearl bracelet.

“Sitting here now, I wonder if I wasted that money or if I should’ve spent more,” I added.

Her eyes were fixed on her hand; she didn’t comment.

I’d have to answer that myself.

She blinked again and set her hand down, crushing some of the droplets into the sheet. I wicked the moisture back into the air.

“Done?” I asked.

She blinked again, closed her eyes.

I directed the water back into the pitcher.

* * *

Mo was waiting for me as I closed the door to Nana’s improvised room. We stood in silence for a few moments, and then he asked, “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Fair enough.”

“Is she staying here until…?”

“Auntie and Uncle are going to try,” he confirmed. “They’re getting pretty tired, though. If she holds out for more than a few weeks, I’m not sure what we’re going to do.”

I nodded.

“I can hear sirens,” he said.

“Let me get one last look at my nephews, and I’ll be out of here.”

He exhaled loudly. “All right… come on.”

We walked back to the patio door and looked out at the pool. The kids were still playing murderball or volleyball or something, laughing and splashing. “Philippe’s doing well in grade 2,” Mo said.

“Good,” I said.

“Luc starts kindergarten in September,” he added.

“That’s him?” I asked, pointing to an excited youngster with orange water-wings.

“Yeah,” he said.

I observed the boy reach up for one ball, then slip out of the way of another. The water surface around him moved up and down with him, and the waves generated by the other kids dampened as they approached him. While the rest of the kids were immersed to their shoulders, Luc floated higher in the water, his arms essentially resting on the surface.

“Mar?” Mo prodded. “They’re here.”

“I’m going,” I said. “You can take away the water wings, Mo. Luc’s in his element.”

I turned away and started for the front door. A Sûreté cruiser, lights flashing and driver’s side door open, was framed by the living room window. Other flashing lights were visible through the frosted glass pane to the left of the door.

“Hang on,” Mo said. “You’re saying…”

I paused with a hand on the doorknob. “You’ll need help with him, Mo… but I can’t provide it from Joliette.”

“You said you’d surrender without making a scene,” Mo said.

“Yeah, well, give my apologies to Mom,” I said, opening the door. Cops ducked behind cars, a shrill voice yelling through a megaphone, and I reached out to the thousands of ton of water suspended in the hot July air.

* * *

Jason Sharp is a writer based in Ontario.

Midnight Man versus Doctor Death

Chadwick Ginther

Doctor Death was back in town.

Fossils were missing from the local museum. Those fossils were followed by three summer students. Their paleontologist teacher was hot on their heels. No bodies had been found but given the blood at the scene foul play was suspected. The cops were baffled, but I recognized the signs of my nemesis.

Every city is haunted by villains. And eventually every city raises its own champion. It’s almost a competition. Bragging rights. I fought a smile. Bragging
rites
. Mort Cheval was no different. What was once two large Prairie towns, was now a small city. New developments consumed farmers’ fields like a cancer. Things got disturbed. Things woke up. But when a city actually has death built right into its name, things get a little special, and it takes a special sort of hero to stem the tide. That’s me. It’s my job to put the bad guys back to sleep. I’m the Midnight Man.

Not a lot of people with my skill set are on the side of the angels. For many the Fight is a religious calling. I was wary of anything smacking of religion, but I did have a calling. It was a mad thing, dressing up in a costume to fight evil. But there are villains who raise the dead and murder the living, all without receiving justice.

I took the tools of my first defeated foe, and used them against the next. And again. Mister Murder, Sister Slaughter, Mademoiselle Mortuary, Uncle Anesthesia. They hated the handles I gave them, but they never had to put up with them for long, because I put ’em all in the ground for good. Only one of the blackguards I couldn’t keep there: Doctor Death.

Since Doc was into fossils now, he’d need cheap labour to help with the digging.

* * *

I waited at the bottom of an open grave. Some would say I’m absorbing death. Stretching my thanatomancy— my death magic. Truth is, I like to make an entrance.

This graveyard was supposed to be a place for the dead to rest, but because of Doc three were walking tonight. I fastened my black leather Hades cap emblazoned with a skull and crossbones, and slid on my grave-sight goggles. I popped up to take a look, and Doc’s walkers flared red in my goggles against the grey penumbric haze. Thin lines, like veins and arteries, spiderwebbed over their bodies, gathering in thicker power clusters that glowed like fireflies where Doc had injected them full up with evil. They were easy to spot. Easier to see I was outnumbered.

I grinned. A slow pop of the holster flaps, and I was ready to draw my two Colt Model 1911s. Each pistol was loaded with lucky sevens of tombstone bullets. I was often outnumbered, but never outgunned.

As I jumped into the fray, I turned on my emblem. The white double Ms on my jacket flared briefly, blinding Doc’s goons and spotlighting my targets. I drew my pistols midair, firing before my feet touched grass. The Colts’ muzzle flashes were lightning bright, their reports thunder loud.

The first walker I hit turned grey, reclaiming the waxy pallor of death as its embalmed body fell. Its spirit oozed out before the body hit the ground.

I ran toward the walkers as if the Devil were chasing me. Another shot. Another flunky trying to get back to Doc so he could reload it in some other dead meat. I holstered my right hand Colt and tossed a ball-and-chain bomb. The eggshell thin casing shattered against a tombstone behind the walker. A puff of silver dust glittered in the moonlight, enveloping the body and the trailing end of the spirit.

It was sucked back into its body and locked in. Dead meat. Dead spirit. Another bomb sorted the first goon.

The last one wouldn’t fall. He kept coming until I was out of ammo. Whatever spirit Doc had stuffed inside, it wasn’t coming out till Doomsday. I still had one ball-and-chain bomb, but if tombstone bullets couldn’t drop the meat it would be useless.

His arms stretched toward me. The tips of his fingers had been gnawed to the bone, leaving him with grisly talons, and his forearms were armored with some sort of reptile skull. He walked hunched over, arms grasping for me. I slid on my knuckledusters. Hand-to-hand it was.

My big silver rings glowed softly. Story was, these rings had been blessed by the Pope, the one time he’d visited Mort Cheval. Why and how I don’t know. But they worked.

The big guy came at me with no form or technique, his mouth gaping open in a mute scream. I ducked under one of his clumsy slashes, landing a double body blow with my dusters. For all the damage I did, I might as well have been punching stone.

Something whipped out, too fast to see, and caught me in the ribs with a sharp lancing pain. I rolled with the blow, but he’d still tagged me good. I switched on my emblem, hoping to blind him, but he nailed me again and knocked me flat. That whip of his, whatever it was, coiled around me like a snake. It felt like stone and looked like bone. The fossils! Some kind of wire ran through the entire length of the weapon, like a tail or a spine. But it moved as if it were still alive. It gave me a squeeze, and I screamed.

The pressure eased, and I gulped a breath. I raised my dusters to strike. Too late. Stone ricocheted off the back of my head and I saw double. I felt myself fly through the air and I landed, hard. He’d knocked me back into the open grave. If I didn’t clear my head, it would be mine in truth, regardless of whose name ended up on the stone.
Here lies the Midnight Man,
it wouldn’t say.
He fought the good fight in a bad war.

My whole body ached. My head swam. But I wasn’t done fighting yet. The goon loomed over my grave, and at last I realized that he wasn’t wielding a whip, the whip was part of him. A skeletal tail that writhed, waiting to strike.

All at once there was a burst of sun-bright light from the edge of the grave, followed by a reptilian shriek. The sounds of the fight were brief. There was only one person that glow could belong to: Daystar. My on-again, off-again ally and adversary.

“I didn’t think you’d show,” I called up.

Daystar knelt over me, beaming. Her red hair was wild and sweat-damp. Her brown leathers shone like burnished bronze. “Normally I’m chasing you, not saving you.”

Daystar is a paragon. A shining knight. In times gone by, she’d have been a saint, or a prophet. She was a golden goddess, virtue incarnate, and she’d vowed to bring me in the last time we’d crossed paths. I might let her, if I could convince her to help me tonight. I knew how to
use
power, but Daystar
was
power.

She tilted her head as I rubbed some blood from my lip with a gloved knuckle.

“You really have no shame or decency. No—”

“Respect for the dead?”

She didn’t answer. We’d danced this dance before.

“I respect the dead fine. I just prefer them to stay that way.”

Daystar extended her hand to me, and I took it. She might think she could trap me, but where there was shadow I could make myself unfound. Benefits of a Hades cap. We’d never touched, other than to trade punches and kicks, and it felt as if I were shaking the hand of God. She blazed as bright as her namesake, but even with all that light there were still shadows at the bottom of the grave.

There was no sign of Doc’s goons. She must’ve caught me looking, because she said, “Ashes to ashes.” The fossils had been stacked in a pile. “I’ll return them when I’m certain they’re safe.”

The look she gave me said that they’d be “safe”
after
she’d taken me in.

“I can help you bring down Doctor Death.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Daystar—”

She sighed. “My name is Susan.”

“We need to team up.”

“You still insist on this lunacy? Your delusions are going to get people killed.”

“What’s going to get people killed is you refusing my help. Maybe you can take down Doc on your own, but can you keep his hostages alive too?”

Her eyes narrowed. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“You know I hate them,” I said. “For all the times we’ve fought, I never once sided with the darkness over you.”

I could see her considering. Time to sweeten the pot. I held out my hands, wrists touching as if I were going to let her handcuff me.