Her Majesty's Superman

By N. Sumi

Hyperion of the Royal Division of Supermen has seemingly all the talents--speed, strength, flight, invulnerability--and he uses them to preserve peace and order in Victoria's empire. But then he meets Spring-Heeled Jack, a man with no superhuman talents whatsoever who nonetheless fights crime in the slums of East London. Hyperion's head wars with his heart: he knows he should arrest the vigilante, but he must admit that Jack brings relief to the suffering slums. And on top of that, there's a mysterious but undeniable attraction...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inkblot Press
• Release date: Oct 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536550818

Book preview

Her Majesty's Superman

N. Sumi

Published by Sumi, 2016.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

HER MAJESTY'S SUPERMAN

First edition. October 23, 2016.

Copyright © 2016 N. Sumi.

ISBN: 978-1536550818

Written by N. Sumi.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Her Majesty's Superman

Also By Sumi N.

Ah, we had not expected the Hyperion himself! Inspector Caldwell exclaimed, standing.  He shook Hyperion's hand quite firmly, seeming a little overawed.

Hyperion was not unaware of the effect he had, in his blue and red dress uniform of General of the Royal Division of Supermen, with gold epaulettes and the decorations of his feats, especially when coupled with his good looks.  Women in particular paid him a great deal of attention; it made him uncomfortable, for he was a modest man by nature.  But as symbol of the British Empire and commander of the Royal Division of Supermen, he must necessarily look and dress the part, especially when he was on an official visit to Scotland Yard.

Caldwell gestured to the seat on the other side of his desk.  Please, sit down.  All went well with the Jubilee celebrations, eh?

Yes, no sign of the dynamite outrages that the Fenians threatened, said Hyperion, seating himself and removing his gloves.  Everyone seems greatly pleased, including the Queen.

Would you like to smoke?  No?  Caldwell lit a cigar for himself and leaned back in his chair.  He was a dapper, dark-haired little man, with something of the dogged ferocity of the terrier about his features.  "But I did not ask you here—well, not you, mind, but if you are here then it is all to the better—to discuss politics.  I wondered if you might know anything of this man."  He slid a piece of paper across the desk.

It was a crude policeman's drawing of a man dressed in black evening wear, such as you might find on a gentleman just returned from the opera: frock coat, dark trousers, top hat, nothing out of the ordinary save that his eyes were concealed by a small mask.  Hyperion studied it carefully, turning it this way and that.  Seems to me someone that you might find at a masquerade.

Yes, but such talents you won't find at just any masquerade, said the Inspector.  He's the one the papers have been calling 'Spring-Heeled Jack.'  He vanishes, Mr. Hyperion.  Like a ghost, or so they say.  Caldwell tapped his great, blunt fingers against the surface of his desk.  And he appears just as suddenly.  He has singlehandedly defeated four armed ruffians while having no weapon of his own.  Supposedly he leaps higher than a man's head, and knives pass through him as if he were made of smoke.

Surely you are not implying that the Division has anything to do with this, objected Hyperion, not unaware that the Inspector had said talents, a word used only to refer to those powers that a superman was born with.

Are they not?  The Yard has no objection save the obvious if the Royal Division of Supermen wish to involve themselves in police affairs, but we would very much like to be informed, the Inspector replied, nettled.

We would not involve ourselves in police affairs without the consent of all parties involved, and it is insulting to hear such accusations, Hyperion retorted.  As it is, this man is none of ours, and it is inconceivable that there might exist a superman in London without our knowledge.  We have our methods, Inspector, as you have yours.  His fingers tightened upon the brim of his hat.

Inspector Caldwell's brows drew down low over his eyes, and his tone changed immediately to a conciliatory one.  It was not my intention to insult, Mr. Hyperion.  Surely you can understand that when a Police Inspector is faced with tales of a man that flaps about the night, leaping buildings and vanishing without a trace, his thoughts must naturally turn toward the superhuman.

You're quite certain this fellow exists, then?  He's not merely the product of some clever journalist's imagination?

I'd hardly believe it myself, if I did not have the evidence to show for it.  The Inspector reached forward to tap the drawing, over the masked face.  A dozen thieves and murderers in the dock who would not be otherwise, their stories all perfectly alike: he appears, and then their senses desert them.  When next they wake, it is at the foot of the police-station.

He fancies himself some sort of avenger, then, Hyperion murmured, studying the drawing once more.  It did not reveal any new information.  He has harmed no one?

Save these scoundrels, if you would call that harm.  But not a single one killed, or even grievously injured.  Only bruises, and one broken wrist.

Hum!  Hyperion rose and put on his hat.  Well, it bears some investigation.  We'll get to the bottom of it, I'm certain.  He shook hands and tugged on his gloves.  Give my regards to your wife, Inspector.  And do let us know if there's any fresh evidence.

***

The newspapers relished the exploits of the one they'd christened Spring-Heeled Jack.  This was not the Jack of their grandfathers, whose eyes glowed red and jaws spat flame, who was kin to the devil if not the devil himself, and flapped through the air on leathern wings.  This Jack embodied every Christian virtue while robbing from the rich to give to the poor, punishing the wicked and defending the innocent.  Angel In Disguise? cried the headlines. Spring-Heeled Jack Strikes Again! Hyperion snorted and threw the newspapers aside.

A fortnight after his conversation with Inspector Caldwell, Hyperion went to see the Oracle.

While the members of the Division lived for the most part in Kensington and Victoria, the Oracle resided in secret in a room in Whitehall, where she could be more carefully protected.  No weapons were permitted there, and Hyperion went in only his field uniform, without the sword.  He climbed a great many stairs to reach her chambers, and the doors were opened by a sombrely dressed maid with a solemn face.  Hyperion, to see the Oracle, he said.

The maid nodded and