Trainee Superhero (Book Two)

By C.H. Aalberry

Copyright 2015 C.H. Aalberry

Distributed by Smashwords.

Edited by Eve (
www.eveproofreads.com
)

Cover Art by Malice Bathory (
www.maliceartwork.blogspot.com.au
)

“They are given the best of everything, and
some people are jealous of that. The counter argument, of course,
is that our survival depends on them.”

-The
Watch Tower
, a popular superhero
blog.

“Most superheroes die young. We may never
reach the numbers we need to properly protect the Earth.”

-Confidential report to the U.N.

Life as a superhero is getting
interesting.

I wake up covered in bruises from my
assessment the day before, but there is no time to rest.

“Team training!” says
Never Lies
, “so
get yourself to the armory.”

The other trainees are waiting for me. We get
suited up, and each of us is armed with a powerglove. We pile into
the back of a pair of Comets and take off quickly. A few of the
other trainees talk quietly to each other, but none of them even
look at me. The Comet drops us off on a rocky island in the middle
of the ocean. It looks similar to the one
Small Talk
tested
me on, but much larger and covered in tall standing stones. A bunch
of superheroes are waiting for us there, and I recognize
Bad
Day
,
One Trick
and
Blue Twelve
.

My first partner is called
Zoo Prank
.
I really want to ask him where his name comes from, but he doesn’t
give me a chance.

“Powerglove? Okay. You get the small, fast
things and I’ll nail the large things with plasma bolts.”

We start flying. A drone darts out at us and
Zoo Prank
hits it with a ball of plasma that shoots out from
his palms.

“Too slow, trainee,” he says.

So much for teamwork.

More drones come our way, and I get some of
them. After that we face mixed waves of walkers and drones;
Zoo
Prank
takes the walkers on while I give him covering fire. We
make a decent team until the drones start arriving faster than I
can take them down. One comes flying out of the sky and right
towards us.
Zoo Prank
pushes me right into the drone’s path
and it smashes into me. We both hit the ground, and
Zoo
tags
the drone with his plasma bolts.

“What the saucer?” I demand.

“Your shields seem pretty tough, but mine
aren’t,” he says, “I thought that if anyone should take a hit it
should be you. That’s teamwork, pal.”

My next partner is
One Trick
.

“I’m glad you survived our little incident,”
she says, “I heard that
Firestorm Commando
is in a lot of
trouble over that.”

“Good,” I say.

One Trick
and I get on well together,
but our powers are too similar for us to make a good team.
One
Trick
can shoot red rays out of her head in rapid succession,
so we have no problems with the drones, but neither of us has
enough power to take down the walkers.

“We’ll need to focus our powers on the legs,”
One Trick
says.

We do what we can, but it becomes obvious
that we aren’t heavy hitters.
One Trick
calls off the attack
and we land to discuss our tactics.

“You and I are better suited to lots of small
aliens, kid. I’m getting a plasma cannon soon, though, and maybe
then I can change my name.”

We chat about using quick-firing weapons and
the importance of staying near a heavy hitter if possible.

“Focus on staying alive, that’s the most
important thing.”

My next line up is with
Bad Day
. He’s
a medium hitter with his plasma pistols, but his mode of fighting
makes him incredibly effective.

“I call it blur fighting,” he explains, “I
‘port in and out too fast for the aliens to get a lock on me, then
I get close enough to use my pistols. If I’m working with other
operators I do my best to keep them out of trouble.”

That sounded smart to me.

“Okay, let’s do this,” he says.

We teleport in and out of trouble in a blur,
and I do my best to shoot whatever I get close to.
Day
is
great to work with, but by the end of the session I’m feeling sick
and dizzy.

“You did good, kid,”
Day
says.

I have to sit down for a few minutes before I
can fly straight again. I take off into the air, but no one joins
me.

“Ah… who’s my new partner?” I ask over the
radio.

Blue Twelve
fades out of the sky
beside me; he must have an excellent cloaking device. He has his
sniper rifle slung over his shoulder and two knives at his side.
His name now reads
Free Man
, so I guess he’s been
promoted.

“Why that name?” I ask.

I feel like I can because we were trainees
together, if only for one mission.

Free Man
grunts and curses.

“I told the Superhero Corps recruiters that I
didn’t want to serve… so they sent me to the
Cerberus
Brawlers
. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

What kind of a person
doesn’t
want to
be a superhero? And isn’t it a choice?

“I thought the Corps was volunteers only,” I
say.

“It’s not,” he says curtly. “Can we just get
on with this? You be bait, I’ll cover you from the air. Just stay
alive and let me do the shooting, set?”

I have no choice, so I land on the ground and
the drones and walkers head right for me. I get a few, but
Free
Man
gets most of them from somewhere in the air.

“My shields are terrible,” he explains, “one
shot and I’m out. I need to stay mobile and invisible, but I’m
still good at a range. You make a good lure.”

I guess I’m getting the hang of this teamwork
thing.

We head back to
Never Lies
, but she
shakes her head when she sees me.

“You’re barely sweating,” she says, “start
again.”

Being a trainee superhero is harder work than
I thought it would be.

Past Prime
is waiting for me as soon
as I get off the Comet. He makes me wait until the other trainees
have left, and then he and
Never Lies
turn to me.

“Have you thought about my offer?” he
asks.

“Can you read minds,
Past Prime
?” I
ask.

“No… I don’t think any superhero has been
shown to have that power. Why?”

“Good,” I say.

Never Lies
snorts and laughs.

“Kid wants to fight,” she says, “he’s stupid
like that. There’s no point in us trying to stop him.”

Past Prime
shakes his head.

“Fine. The offer stands if you change your
mind.”

The stewards take me back to my room, but I’m
not there for long before a visitor arrives. He’s tall, and is
wearing an ironed red shirt with
Born Lucky
written on it.
He has a face that most movie stars would envy and a relaxed air of
competence that suggests he’s never been worried in his life. He is
wearing a shock collar like me, but he makes his looks good. He
shakes my hand with a firm grip.

“I’m
Born Lucky
.
Past Prime
asked me to show you around.”

I follow
Born Lucky
along a corridor
and up a flight of steps. We pass a canteen of neat, empty tables.
Something smells incredible, and my stomach rumbles noisily.

Born Lucky
laughs.

“The wonderful smell is Chef at work. His
lasagna is the best in the world… I’m going to check if he’s making
any for tonight.”

Born Lucky
sticks his head through the
kitchen doors at the back of the canteen and rolls off a question
in fluent French. The chef answers in a stream of loud and
passionate swearing in French.

“No lasagna! I am French, not Italian! No
lasagna!” screams a male voice in a heavy French accent.

Born Lucky
pulls his head back as a
pan flies through the door and lands on a canteen table. He slams
the kitchen door shut and I hear the thud-thud of more pans hitting
the door.

“He said not today,”
Born Lucky
says
unnecessarily.

“Whatever he was cooking smells good,
though.”

“Of course! He used to be one of the top
chefs in the world until his passion got the better of him...
which, if you know anything about how top chefs are, must have been
spectacular to see.”

I don’t know anything about top chefs: Dad
and I used to eat at the Chinese restaurant down the road once or
twice a week, but nothing fancier. I’ve never even met the chef
there, but sometimes the lady who runs the place gave us free
spring rolls.

“Lunch?”
Born Lucky
asks, and my
stomach rumbles again.

We walk out into bright sun, and for a moment
I’m dazed. My vision clears, and I find myself on the deck of what
was once an aircraft carrier. There are no aircraft, but three long
barrels travel down the runway and project upwards into the sky.
The barrels are so large that they take up half the deck.

“So those are…”

“What we get shot out of, yes. We call her
the
Cerberus
. The barrels rattle and an alarm rings out.
Born Lucky
places his fingers in his ears and I do the same.
The barrels boom six times in quick succession as a team is sent
out. The capsules disappear from sight in seconds, leaving my ears
aching and my heart racing.

“Wow,” I say.

“Yes. It’s always impressive, no matter how
many times I see it.”

I had thought we were in an underground base,
but I had been way off. The
Cerberus
is alone in the ocean,
and I can’t see land on the horizon.

Born Lucky
leads me to a row of kiosks
set out on the deck. Each one is staffed by a steward in a white
shirt standing behind piles of food. Some are frying burger patties
and sausages, others are cutting up fruit or buttering pastries.
There are two different types of roast, an assortment of pies and
even a kiosk that serves waffles. Everything anyone could want for
lunch is here, even if what they really wanted was breakfast. I
have never been so hungry in my life, but there is a problem.

“I… don’t have any money,” I say at last.

“Eat what you will,” says
Born Lucky
,
“we pay in other ways. Welcome to the golden cage of service.”

He waves me forward, so I grab a plate and
pile it high with fruit, bacon and waffles. Somebody hands me a
tall glass of orange juice and I look for a place to sit. There are
seats beside the kiosk, but no one is sitting there.

“This way,” says
Born Lucky
.

His plate is piled with what look like fish
and smells like old socks. He’s holding a pot of tea in his hand
and has an apple balanced on top of it. I suppose it takes all
sorts.

We walk past the kiosks and through a narrow
passage between bulky blocks of equipment connected to the cannons.
A handwritten sign stuck to a bulky sheet of metal says “Operators
Only”. Beyond the sign is a deck overlooking the water. Dozens of
cheap plastic chairs and tables are set out in circles along the
edge of the deck. It’s set up like someone’s backyard, with a shed
of fridges, a barbeque, dartboards and table tennis tables. There
is even a small blow-up pool full of water set out in the sun.

A couple of operators together, plates of
food balanced on their laps.
One Trick
is lying on a sun
chair reading a thick book. She has a bowl of grapes beside her,
and a plate of cake.

“Make yourself at home,” says
Born
Lucky
.

The rest of this ship is professional and
unfriendly, but this little section feels like home. I drag a chair
over to the edge of the deck so that I can see the waves below.
There is no fence between the deck and the ocean, and an unwary
step would end up in the water far, far below.

We eat in relaxed silence until a beep sounds
from
Born Lucky
’s uniform. He listens to a voice I can’t
hear, then stands up.

“I’ve been called to the armory. Dinner is at
six in the canteen, I’ll see you there.”

“Okay. Thanks,” I say, but he’s already
gone.

It’s not long before I’m in trouble
again.

“You don’t belong here, trainee,” says a
voice beside me, “this is for operators, not rookies.”

The newcomer’s shirt says
Pet Shark
,
and his features suit his name. He fixes his pale eyes on me and
grins in a very unfriendly way. I notice that he is wearing two
shock collars rather than one. I don’t bother answering him,
because for all I know I really am not supposed to be here. I focus
on my food, keeping my eyes on the horizon.