Welcome to Utopia

By Alan M. Atkinson

Utopia City.

Rebuilt from the ashes of America's most horrific terror attack and transformed into a paragon of technological advancement, this city stands as a beacon of possibility where almost anything can happen.

Jericho Hansen certainly hopes so; as a gay superhero in the deep South, his ambition is to achieve lifelong recognition by joining Force Majeure, America's best-known superhero team. But to do that, he must first travel to Utopia and learn the hard way if he's got what it takes.

The events that transpire when he gets there will turn his entire world upside down. He will experience love and loss, triumph and tragedy. Mysteries will be solved and fresh inquiries opened.

Welcome to Utopia, where the most important lesson is that nothing is truly as it seems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan M. Atkinson
• Release date: Feb 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9780648729648

Alan M. Atkinson

Alan Michael Atkinson is from Australia. He grew up on a remote North Queensland cattle property and attended boarding school for his higher education. Now living in town, he has been by turns a Chinese food delivery driver, a taxi driver and a security guard. He likes to read, and plays tabletop roleplaying games when he can.He's met both Felicia Day (Buffy, Dollhouse, Dr Horrible's Sing-Along Blog) and Nathan Fillion (Firefly, Castle, Dr Horrible's Sing-Along Blog), and has the photos to prove it.Welcome to Utopia is his first novel.

Book preview

Dedication

Contents

To my brother Reay, 1968-1989.

I wish you could’ve seen this.

You probably would've laughed your head off once you found out what the book was about and rubbished it all the way through. But you would've bought a copy anyway and made a sincere effort to read it. And that's good enough for me.

Also, a big shout-out to Tessa and Jade (my niece and my almost-niece, respectively), each of whom got married while I was in the process of writing this book.

Preface

Contents

I could write a whole separate novel about how this book came to be. Inspired by the writings of others and the nagging feeling that I could maybe do this myself, it’s been fun and frustrating by turns. Far more has gone into it than I originally envisaged, but all of it has shaped the story into its current form.

This is not your usual ‘punch out the bad guy and throw him in jail’ type superhero story. Not everything is cut and dried; both the heroes and the villains sport shades of gray. The definition of ‘good guy’ vs ‘bad guy’ can change with circumstances.

Neither does it start with an origin story. The main character, Jericho Hansen, is an established hero by the time the book starts. But he has obstacles to overcome all the same, and he is very clearly just one person trying to make his way in a big world.

That said, there are a few things I want to make clear:

While I am neither gay nor a citizen of the United States, Jericho is both. As such, I have done as much research as I could in order to portray him (and those around him) as even-handedly as possible. Also, in order to remain true to the setting, I’ve done my best to make proper use of American idioms and spelling throughout.

Any lapses in the execution of this are all mine.

But why a gay main character? Some may be excused for wondering if I had an agenda for this particular choice. And in response, I say, Why, yes; I did have an agenda. I wanted this book to make sense.

You see, in order for certain scenes to work, I needed either a straight woman or a gay man to be in the top spot. And as the author of this book (and a guy), I made the executive decision that I’d be better at writing a gay male character than a straight female protagonist.

In short; the plot demanded it.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy the book.

Alan M. Atkinson

December 2019

Contents

Dedication

Preface

Prologues

Prologue One: Discovery

Prologue Two: Runaway Superhero

Prologue Three: Passport to Opportunity

Prologue Four: Appeal from the Heart

Part One: Maglev

1 – Jericho

2 – Stephen

3 – Luke

4 – Madness

5 – Platform

6 – Challenger

7 – Minotaur

8 – Origin

9 – Revelation

10 – Reaction

11 – Bobbi

12 – Politics

13 – Powers

14 – Utopia

Part Two: Future Shock

15 – New Arrivals

16 – Friendly Face

17 – Air Taxi

18 – Police Stop

19 – Checking In

20 – Home Comforts

21 – Personal Issues

22 – Rooftop Encounter

23 – Night Patrol

24 – Learning Experience

25 – Survival Mode

26 – Changing Plans

27 – South Side

28 – Post Mortem

29 – Worst Case

Part Three: Murder, Most Foul

30 – Presumption of Innocence

31 – Clearing the Air

32 – Coming to Grips

33 – The Ugly Truth

34 – From the Shadows

35 – Making the Calls

36 – Sharing a Cab

37 – Sense of Wonder

38 – Within the Spire

39 – Interviewing, Superhero Style

40 – Passing the Torch

41 – Best Laid Plans

42 – Leroy in Utopia

43 – Reclamation and Identification

44 – Test of Wills

45 – One Small Step

46 – An Unintended Consequence

Part Four: Justice for the Fallen

47 – To Remember the Departed

48 – Where the Heart Is

49 – Of Mice and Men

50 – This, Too, Shall Pass

51 – Holding Back the Tide

52 – Drama in the Park

53 – Gone, But Not Forgotten

54 – Enforcing Law and Order

55 – Running Away, Running Toward

56 – A Hard-Earned Perspective

57 – Exercising Shock and Awe

58 – Out of the Blue

59 – Putting the Pieces Together

60 – A Most Unexpected Development

61 – If You Love Something …

62 – Welcome to Force Majeure

Epilogues

Epilogue One: Homecoming

Epilogue Two: The Villains

Epilogue Three: Manhattan Justice Recruiting

Epilogue Four: A New Question Revealed

Glossary

Dramatis Personae

Timeline of Events

Enabled Teams and Others

Acknowledgments

Author’s Recommendations

About the Author

About Welcome to Utopia

Prologues

Prologue One

Discovery

Contents

Manhattan Reclamation Project, Kansas

Grid Reference FC/97A

Tuesday, November 2, 1999

8:32 AM Central Daylight Time

As the Jeep rattled and jolted over the roughly graded road, Graham Bakersfield wondered how he’d ever become accustomed to the idea that a nuclear bomb had gone off in the very heartland of America, just six weeks previously. Every time he really dwelt on the idea, he got cold shivers. Worse, his duties as a foreman overseeing the rebuilding efforts covered a patch less than five miles from ground zero. Normally, this would’ve been far too close in both distance and time for his personal comfort. And yet, somehow, he no longer really thought about it anymore. It just was.

On the other hand, he mused, it was all too easy to believe that some catastrophe had overcome the terrain through which he was driving. All was dirt and rock and dust. There were neither trees to sway in the breeze, nor birds to perch in them; no plants or animals of any sort, in fact. Apart from the Jeep, the only movement and sound came from the enormous remote-controlled and semi-autonomous vehicles that trundled over the blasted terrain all around, carrying out the basic landscaping that would be needed before the rebuilding could begin in earnest. In between them, here and there, were the personally controlled machines doing the detail work. The construction site was bigger than any he’d ever worked on before. In fact, as far as he knew, it was the most ambitious venture of its type that had ever been attempted, stretching at least twenty miles in every direction.

All of this was overshadowed by the fact that he’d been tapped to escort a VIP into the interior of the Reclamation Project. He’d never heard of her before this day, and he wasn’t quite sure who she was or what she did, but Samantha Colburn was apparently as Very Important as VIPs got; short of hosting the President himself or an actual member of Force Majeure. From what he could tell under the hairstyling and makeup, she wasn’t much over forty (as he himself was) but she wore it with considerably more aplomb. Even the hard-hat and high-visibility vest required by OSHA regulations looked more like fashion accessories on her than items of personal protection.

The Jeep topped a rise and headed down toward the construction trailer that he’d been assigned as his mobile base of operations. A substantial antenna array on the roof allowed him to relay orders from company headquarters out to the semi-autonomous vehicles under his control, and to communicate with operators in the field. There was also a satellite dish allowing him to maintain contact with the outside world, given that no cell signal would penetrate this deep into the disaster area.

Beside the trailer was parked the bus that had transported his men to the site, surrounded by the dozens of sets of wheel tracks and tread marks made by the construction vehicles. Around the back, a large overhead tank supplied water to both an ablution block and to the trailer itself. On any other site of this type, there would’ve also been a diesel bowser to keep the work vehicles running, but somehow the ones they’d been supplied didn’t need it. The water tank on the ablution block rarely needed refilling either, which meant there was a serious filtration system at work there. Force Majeure had supplied the equipment, so he figured it was a superhero thing.

With a screech of dusty brakes, he pulled the Jeep to a halt outside the trailer. Shutting off the motor, he worked his jaw a couple of times to dispel the illusion that he’d suddenly gone deaf. Okay, he said, his voice oddly muffled in his own ears after the roar of the Jeep’s engine. We’re here. Ninety-seven Alpha. What exactly did you need to see, again?

Your work orders for the last twelve hours. Her voice was crisp and no-nonsense. The locator beacons for several of your earthmovers place them at a significant distance from where they should be, and certain tasks have not been carried out. She pointed. There should be a hill just over there. I need to find out why it has not yet been constructed.

Hey, I entered those orders myself, he said defensively. If there’s problems, you need to talk to the person who drafted them.

She looked him in the eye. "I drafted them, via a directive from Relentless. He okayed them, and I sent them out. She climbed out of the Jeep. Which is why I need to see where the hiccup is."

Wait, did you want a filter mask? Graham reached into the back seat and retrieved one from the box he kept there. The radiation …

The Colburn woman gestured at the detector mounted in the center of the Jeep’s dashboard. Another one was attached to the side of the trailer. Each was linked to a siren that, coupled with a flashing light, would warn anyone within several hundred yards that there was a radiation hazard present. Every installation and piece of machinery on site had one of these attached. Those haven’t gone off for two weeks, correct? The Technologist assured me that there was nothing more to be concerned about. I believe him.

Yes, ma’am. But as Graham got out of the Jeep, he hung the mask around his own neck. If Ms. Colburn was on speaking terms with the man whose scientific innovations had underpinned the entire decontamination and rebuilding effort to date, it meant she was definitely highly connected. But he was still a careful man. It had saved his life on more than one occasion.

Ms. Colburn reached the trailer and took hold of the door handle. A corner of Graham’s mouth lifted in a grin as he reached into his pocket for the key. She’d get nowhere fast, doing that. But to Graham’s surprise, the door opened easily for her. She turned to face him; one immaculate eyebrow raised. You leave it unlocked?

I most certainly do not, he retorted, taking the key out. And this is the only key on site. Let me have a look at that.

With a silent gesture—all yours—she stepped back out of the way. He leaned in close to examine the door, which indeed seemed to be unlocked. Inserting the key in the lock, he turned it, locking the door. Turning it the other way unlocked it once more.

Someone’s got a spare key, he muttered, restraining his natural urge for profanity. Stay out here. I need to see what’s missing. It was clear to him now; whoever had unlocked the door was the one who’d messed with the work orders on the semi-autonomous earthmovers. There really were no other suspects. Where they’d gotten the key from, he had no idea. He could guarantee it hadn’t come from him, though.

Ms. Colburn did not dispute his right to go in first. Clearly, we’re going to have to upgrade the security on these trailers.

Yeah, no crap. He pulled the door open and peered in, ducking back quickly in case the intruder was still inside. Unlikely, given that his own men were already on site, but not impossible. However, as it turned out, the trailer was empty of people. There wasn’t even anyone hiding in the tiny bathroom, proven by the fact that the door into the cramped cubicle was wide open. He climbed up the two steps and entered, still wary.

The place hadn’t been trashed, which was a source of both relief and confusion. In his experience, people protesting a construction site had a tendency toward wrecking anything that could be damaged and spray-painting everything else. Destroying paperwork to slow down the work was also a favorite tactic. But everything was as he’d left it, and that included the electronic tablet he’d been issued when he first signed on as foreman of FC-97A. They hadn’t stolen it, or even smashed it. Almost smugly, it sat on his desk in pride of place. Staring at it, he pushed his hard-hat back and scratched his head. Okay, I don’t get it.

What is it that you do not get? Saboteurs are an uncomplicated bunch, Mr. Bakersfield. Ms. Colburn climbed into the trailer behind him. Destroying things and wrecking construction efforts are what they live for. As she came up alongside him, her eyes widened at the sight of his desk. My goodness, they certainly made a mess.

He grimaced, feeling insulted. They didn’t touch a thing. This is how I work.

Ah. She shot him a sideways glance. As if to cover her gaffe, she took up the tablet, handling it with easy familiarity. Hmm. It seems that the only work orders that were altered are the last ones you entered. They’re still on the screen. Just a few numbers were added. If this was sabotage, it’s the most ineffectual and ham-handed way it could’ve been done. We should be able to fix the damage in a matter of hours. As she spoke, she tapped away at the tablet.

Yeah, that’s what I don’t get. He shook his head. It’s gonna take longer to change the lock on the trailer than to deal with the actual problems they caused. What was the point of all this? As he spoke, he gestured at the trailer in general. "I mean, what were they doing? Leaving a message? ‘We can do a lot worse than this’?"

That was when he saw the folded note pinned to the corkboard. More importantly, he saw the name written on it in clumsy block letters: RELENTLESS.

Hey, what’s this?

What’s what? Ms. Colburn looked up as he reached for the note. "Stop! Do not touch that!"

Graham would forever after credit his innate caution for his immediate reaction. At her first word, he jerked his hand back as if the paper were electrified. Only after he’d completed his instinctive withdrawal did he turn his attention fully to her. What? Why? What do you see? Whatever she’d spotted, he was damned if he could see it, but there had to be something there to cause her violent response.

That note is addressed to Relentless, she explained patiently, as if to a child. "All of this? Designed to bring the note to his attention. Whatever’s on it is meant for his eyes, and his eyes only. It’s more than your job is worth to read it before he gets his hands on it. More than my job is worth, for that matter."

So, what do we do? he asked, gesturing at the offending scrap of paper. It’s not like we can lock up the trailer or shut down the sector for any length of time.

For an answer, she picked up the phone, an old push-button model that shared the desk with stacks of paper. An immaculately manicured nail stabbed out a phone number, too fast for him to keep track of the digits.

Hello, yes, she said briskly. Samantha Colburn here. Get me Relentless. A pause ensued. "Yes, it’s important. Give the phone to him right now." Graham got the strong impression she was trying to avoid rolling her eyes.

A moment later, she began speaking again. Yes, sir, it’s me. I’m doing that check at Ninety-Seven Alpha. It wasn’t operator error, as we initially thought. It was all a ploy to get our attention. There’s a note here, addressed to you. No, I haven’t looked at it. Yes, sir, we can wait.

She hung the phone up, then released a ladylike sigh. Well, that’s that. Relentless will be here in a few minutes, and then it’ll be out of our hands.

Graham stared at her incredulously. And you’re not in the least bit curious about who left the note and why, or what it says?

This time, she did roll her eyes. "Of course I’m curious, but unless you have a special insight as to who may have gotten into the trailer, our best clue is in that note. Which we are not going to read."

It was clear she wasn’t going to budge on the subject. With a shake of his head, he went outside and studied the ground. Unfortunately, the morning’s startup activity had thoroughly overlaid all evidence of anyone approaching the trailer. Before he and Samantha had turned up, of course.

When he turned around, she was standing in the doorway to the trailer, effectively blocking him from going back in. He looked down the road, shading his eyes and wondering what Relentless would be driving, to get him there in just a few minutes.

Don’t bother, she told him. He won’t be coming by road. He’s a few miles away, but all he has to do is get in contact with Tourbillon. After that, they’ll be here in seconds. Descending the steps, she closed the door behind her.

Graham still couldn’t get over the way she was casually namedropping the members of a superhero team. So, what’s it like? he asked. Being Force Majeure’s secretary, I mean.

Please, she said with genteel emphasis. I am employed by Relentless as his personal assistant.

What’s the difference?

A ‘secretary’ is someone who takes dictation and types up documents, she said. I organize his schedule for the most effective and efficient use of his time. And when he has too many things to do at once, he delegates some of those tasks to me. Such as this one. She seemed primly proud of that fact.

Graham nodded slowly. Gotcha. So, what’s it like, being a superhero’s personal assistant? ’Specially one like Relentless? A boss with a temper was bad enough; one who could also crush a house brick in his bare hand would bring matters to a whole new level.

To her credit, Ms. Colburn took a moment to think about her answer, rather than reciting a meaningless platitude. Fulfilling, she decided at last. I’ve worked for many people who made empty promises they never intended to honor. When Relentless says he’ll do something, I know it’ll get done. Nobody stands in his way.

He snorted. Because, you know, he’s Relentless.

She smiled slightly, though he suspected she’d probably heard variations on the same joke a thousand times already. Precisely.

As if summoned by her voice, a vertical circular swirl of darkness began to form, several yards away. It quickly grew until it was about eight feet across, then Relentless stepped out of it. Accompanying the leader of Force Majeure was a slim figure in a charcoal-hued hooded cloak; Graham recognized this one as the aforementioned Tourbillon. The black swirl vanished as quickly as it had appeared, almost seeming to soak into the teleporter’s garment.

Relentless was huge. Graham Bakersfield was not a small man, but the superhero had to be almost seven feet tall, with enough muscle mass to make him look almost stocky. He wore a helmet, which doubled as a mask, painted black with silver trim. His breastplate bore the same color scheme. Hanging from his hip was a heavy-looking sledgehammer with a specifically technological theme to it; Graham fancied he could hear it humming with power.

Ms. Colburn. The superhero’s voice possessed the same sort of deep, rumbling power as an earthmover downshifting to deal with a problematic obstacle. I understand you’ve found something interesting.

Samantha Colburn nodded. Sir. This is Graham Bakersfield. He found the note and called it to my attention.

Relentless nodded once, briefly. Good. Where is it?

She pointed at the door of the trailer. Still on the corkboard. We didn’t touch it.

Fully aware that she could have easily thrown him to the wolves by describing the sequence of events in even a slightly different way, Graham opted to stay quiet.

Excellent, rumbled Relentless. Stay here. Opening the trailer door, he climbed inside, bending forward slightly to fit under the frame. Graham could hear the structure creaking, and it actually sagged a little on its suspension. Christ, how much does the man weigh?

A moment later, Relentless exited the trailer with the note in his hand. It was unfolded, though Graham could not see whatever writing was on it. The big man glowered at Samantha and Graham for a few seconds, then glanced down at the note. Neither one of you has read this?

No, sir, said Samantha promptly. Mutely, Graham shook his head in agreement.

And you don’t know who could have put it there? This time, his eyes were fixed on Graham.

Uh, no, sir, Graham stammered. Whoever it is must have a duplicate key, but nobody’s supposed to have one of those. He held up his own key. This has never been out of my—

Not a duplicate key. The observation from Relentless was as sudden as it was definitive. He pointed at the door, which had swung shut behind him. The lock was picked. Then he turned and focused his attention on Graham. The official story will be that the system suffered a glitch. You tell nobody about the note. Is that understood?

A—absolutely. It was all Graham could think to say.

Good. Ms. Colburn, we’re done here.

Yes, sir. As she moved to Relentless’ side, Samantha Colburn met Graham’s eyes briefly. He read a message in the glance. You’ve got a second chance. Don’t screw it up.

Tourbillon raised a hand and the black swirl emerged from nowhere, spinning up to the right size. Relentless stepped through first, followed by Samantha. Last was the hooded figure, then the swirl vanished.

Standing alone next to the trailer, Graham decided that he really didn’t want to know what was in the note that badly after all. Hero or not, getting that guy pissed at me is the last thing I want.

- End of Prologue One -

Prologue Two

Runaway Superhero

Contents

22nd District Police Station

Chicago, Illinois

Saturday, December 17, 2011

9:28 PM Central Daylight Time

Vanessa Power shifted her legs uncomfortably. While there should’ve been room to spare inside the power armor—it had recently been upgraded to take her next growth spurt into account—she was wearing heavy winter clothing under it instead of the usual light bodysuit. This was cramping her movements, making it hard to bend her arms and legs with any sort of ease. Fortunately for her ability to control the armor, the neural-induction receptors placed throughout the suit needed little in the way of skin contact—her uncovered head and neck, within her helmet, were perfectly adequate for this—to function properly.

She tried to focus on that, so she didn’t have to think about anything else. About everything else. About the fact that her entire universe had just exploded around her, and nothing would ever be good or nice again.

A mental impulse activated the suit’s neuro-induction display for the dozenth time, projecting information on to her mind’s eye.

Primary Suit Systems: nominal.

Secondary Suit Systems: nominal.

Power Reserves: 97%

Operational Duration in Standby Mode: 103 hours.

She realized that the female police sergeant sitting with her (the woman’s nametag read FOSTER) had said something. With an effort, she assumed a polite expression for the woman’s sake. I’m sorry, I missed that.

Sergeant Foster had faded blonde hair and a careworn expression. She was clearly trying to be motherly, but her attempts were falling woefully short. It was quite apparent that even if she’d been taught how to handle distraught sixteen-year-old girls, the fact that Vanessa was wearing power armor potentially capable of leveling the building was a complication she hadn’t been trained to deal with. Still, Vanessa had to give her props for the effort.

I said, would you like a cup of tea? Foster spread her hands and gestured toward the kitchenette counter. We have cookies. Or I could fetch you another soda from the machine.

"What I want is to talk to someone in charge who can put me through to the Mayor’s office so I can tell him exactly why he should have my father arrested, Vanessa said forcefully. What’s taking so much time?"

I’m not entirely certain, but I’m sure they’re working on it, Sergeant Foster said soothingly. Now, these are very serious allegations you’ve made—

"They’re not allegations! snapped Vanessa. I was there! It happened!" She clenched her fists. A message popped up in her NID.

Haptic Trigger detected. Deploy Micro-Missiles? Y/N

Hastily, she declined. Fortunately, the system was weighted toward not deploying, so if she got a cramp at the wrong moment, she wouldn’t accidentally blow a hole in the wall. With elaborate care, she relaxed her hands.

"Miss Power, I’m afraid they are allegations until independent proof is gathered." Sergeant Foster was blissfully unaware of the weapons going back into standby mode, encased in the metal surrounding Vanessa’s forearms.

Vanessa had had enough. She activated another system via the NID.

Sensory Systems deployed.

Directional Audio Gathering System: Active.

Audio Filtering: Active.

Speech to Text or Live Audio? S/L

Display Pseudo-Sonar Imagery of Targets? Y/N

Green crosshairs overlaid themselves onto her vision and she settled down to see what she could find out.. As she turned her head, doing her best to appear to be looking idly around the room, humanoid shapes moved back and forth in her field of view. She placed the targeting sights onto one shape after another, bringing forth snatches of conversation.

—randa rights do not include the right to order a pizza—

—uck’s sake, did you just shit yoursel—

—orry honey, we’re balls to the wall here—

—tuation with Vanessa Power? I’ve just had—

She stopped and brought the crosshairs back to the person who had just been speaking.

—er mother, who pinned my ears back hard. She’s told me that until she has her kid back in her care, she’s holding everyone in the building personally responsible for her welfare.

There was a mumble from the phone the guy was holding. Vanessa couldn’t focus the audio gathering closely enough to decipher it.

Yeah, said the police officer. "She said she’s coming right over and she’ll clear this whole thing up. Team Power saved my life one time. Do I think the old man really molested his kid? Hell if I know. The sooner the Mayor’s office takes this mess ov—"

Vanessa had heard enough. She’d told them that she wanted to talk to the Mayor. But they’d contacted her parents instead. They’re coming here. To take me home again. The fear that clenched in her gut then boiled into anger. I’m never going back.

Abruptly, she stood up. A mental command flipped her visor down and locked it into place. Sergeant Foster rose as well, startled but clearly trying not to show it. Miss Power, what’s the matter?

"The matter, said Vanessa bitterly, is that someone called my parents. I trusted you guys not to go behind my back."

Even if they come in, you don’t have to go with them if you don’t want to. Sergeant Foster spoke soothingly. We can protect you.

Vanessa laughed harshly in her face. "They are Adam and Tesseract Power. You couldn’t stop them from doing shit if they weren’t inclined to let you. Accessing the neuro-induction display, she gave the order for the micro-missile launcher to briefly deploy. Metal folded away and the sleek little projectiles emerged from hiding. See that? That’s nothing to what my father has on his suit."

Letting the launcher stow itself again and ignoring the stunned look on Foster’s face, she swung her head toward the front of the building. The quasi-sonar image showed blurry movements, and she centered the crosshairs on two images that were moving in her general direction.

—ere is she? I want to see her. I want to make sure she’s okay.

Vanessa froze. That was her mother’s voice.

She’s here. In the building. If she wants to make me go back with her, there’s nothing I can do, even in this suit, to stop her. The fact that she was in the middle of a fully staffed police station didn’t even cross her mind as a factor, except as potential collateral damage.

Her course of action was now clear. There was a fire evacuation map on the wall, showing the quickest way out of the building. She headed for the door to the break room and pulled it open. Behind her, Foster said something, but Vanessa had long since ceased paying attention to her.

Vanessa?

Slowly, she turned. Her mother stood there, at the other end of the corridor. Tesseract Power, like Vanessa, was a redhead; she displayed the Team Power uniform, composed of vibrant blues and golds, with pride. Under the uniform, Vanessa knew, her mother wore an advanced PowerTech exoskeleton.

PowerTech Industries, her father’s company, sold a lightweight mobility frame on the civilian market. These incorporated an extremely basic version of the neural-induction system within her own suit, allowing many who would normally be dependent on wheelchairs or walkers to stand, walk, run and even play sport with the assistance of synthetic proprioception. The one her mother wore was as far beyond those as the newest generation space shuttle (in which her father had also had a hand) was ahead of a World War One biplane. Even without it, sparring with her was an exercise in ‘name that bruise’. With the speed and strength it gave her, any serious fight was over before it began.

Vanessa straightened her arm toward her mother, palm forward. Stay back, Mom, she warned. This activated a different haptic trigger, which she acknowledged; a rising whine filled the air between them as the under-mounted laser charged. The crosshairs flared bright in her NID; changing hue to an angry, pulsing red to warn her that she was going weapons-live. She had no illusions about her ability (or her resolve) to actually hit her mother, but the threat was there.

It’s going to be all right, Vanessa. Tesseract had stopped, at least. We can talk about what you believe happened—

I know what happened! shouted Vanessa. "He was on top of me! He tried to pull my clothes off! I don’t even want to think about it! But it happened!"

"I know you believe that something happened …" Tesseract took a step forward as she tried again.

Stay back! Jerking her arm downward, Vanessa fired the laser at low power. The carpet just in front of her mother’s foot blackened and smoked. Tesseract’s forward movement stopped.

It’s more than what I believe. Vanessa breathed deeply, trying to maintain control of both herself and the situation. "Look at the security footage. You’re good at investigating. Investigate. The day I see in the news you’ve had him arrested and charged is the day I come back. And one more thing."

I’m listening. Tesseract Power’s eyes were measuring the distance between them. Vanessa knew she was calculating the odds of closing the range fast enough to knock Vanessa’s arm aside before the laser could fire again. She could probably do it, too.

Don’t leave Buddy alone with him. Vanessa stared at her mother, willing the older woman to understand. "Don’t let that monster hurt my brother." There was no way Vanessa could get back to the house and spirit Buddy away without her parents intervening—even if she could convince him to come along—so this was the only other option she could see to keep her nine-year-old brother safe.

Tesseract’s eyes went flinty. Nobody is going to hurt your brother.

That, at least, Vanessa could believe. Her mother did ‘momma bear’ better than anyone she knew. The trouble was, she had a massive blind spot where it came to her husband; Vanessa’s father.

Vanessa had heard the story a thousand times. Before her parents had married, before the Challenger Act was even finalized, Tesseract had been faced with one of the worst threats a superhero could encounter; an adversary who knew her secret identity and was willing to expose it. But then Adam Power had stepped up and neutralized the threat in one bold, unprecedented move. The sacrifice of his secret identity had led to the establishment of Team Power and was the reason why Tesseract Power would never believe such a thing of her husband. And before this day, Vanessa would never have believed it either.

But she’d come out of the bathroom in her flannel pajamas after brushing her teeth, to see her father just turning away from the armor stored on its rack in the corner of her bedroom. Suspecting nothing, she had sat down on her bed and picked up her brush from the dresser to run through her shower-damp hair. She’d managed exactly one brush-stroke before he was on top of her, groping her through her pajamas and trying to kiss her.

She’d fought him off and he’d fled her room. It had happened. She didn’t care what her mother said. She wasn’t safe in the same house as him.

I’m never going back.

Accessing her NID, she pulled up yet another menu.

Flight Systems activated.

Warning: Obstacles in close quarters.

Activate Collision Avoidance Systems? Y/N

Her suit thrusters flared to life, and she launched herself down the corridor away from her mother. An office door was directly ahead; she clenched her fist in her right gauntlet once, twice, three times. That was the signal for I don’t have time to mess around with menu commands. The launcher deployed itself again and a micro-missile scorched off the rails before she had time to second-guess herself.

She’d put the crosshairs on the door handle; one-tenth of a second later, the missile blew it clean out of the door. Her suit hit the wooden barrier, smashing it half off its hinges, then she continued across the office and out through the window. Glass shattered, and then she was into the open air.

It was cold out, she knew, but her suit could handle it. What it couldn’t handle was the imposing suit of power armor standing on a rooftop across the way. She knew that suit almost as well as she knew her own. That’s Dad’s armor. Even thinking his name made the bile rise in her throat.

She kicked her suit into high gear, pulling up and over the police station in a climbing turn. Behind her, she heard his thrusters roar into action. Her suit was lighter and more agile; she could keep ahead of him in the short term. But he could outlast her, or disable her suit with an EMP strike, or blow her out of the sky if he wanted to. She didn’t think he’d shoot her down, but she hadn’t thought he’d sexually assault her, either. If she was going to get away, she had to do something now.

Her supply of flares and chaff was limited but she needed to drop out of sight, so she blew through them all in seconds. Then she played her trump card.

Activating Stealth Mode.

Warning: Prolonged use of Stealth Mode will result in higher than normal drain on power reserves. Do you understand this warning? Y/N

Do you wish to leave a frequency window open for radio use? Y/N

Do you wish to leave a frequency window open for tracking beacon use? Y/N

Operational Duration using Stealth Mode during flight: 12 hours 14 minutes.

A skin-level force field mapped over every part of her armor, then flickered as it went into active camouflage mode. Her heat emissions were similarly disrupted; she wasn’t invisible, but it was the closest she was going to get. At the same time, the sound of her thrusters went from a dull roar to a faint whisper. This had the downside of a somewhat higher power draw, but not even the best PowerTech sensory systems could pick her out from the background noise now. Or so she hoped.

As she straightened into level flight, her father burst through the cloud of fluttering foil and burning magnesium, then came to a hover. Vanessa? he called out. Vanessa? Come back, baby!

Gritting her teeth, she rounded a building, so she didn’t have to hear his voice anymore. Then another, and another. Slowly, she made her way west. Out of the city.

I’m never going back.

Flying just fast enough to use the suit as a lifting body, she flew onward, following the maglev rail. Three times, she was nearly picked up on radar by PowerTech drones flying a search pattern. The third time, she realized what she was doing wrong; the gleaming rail made a nice bright landmark, for both searcher and refugee. Angling northward, she flew until it was out of sight, then turned west again.

Extending the suit’s stub-wings made for slower going, but it let her stretch the power reserves. Normally, she could’ve flown across the country and back more than once on a full charge, but she didn’t dare drop out of stealth mode. As a result, the suit was chewing power like a frat party consumed beer and pizza. It didn’t help that she kept feeling the impulse to turn south again and she couldn’t understand why. It wasn’t as though she’d be any safer from her father, and right now she needed to stay away from the maglev rail.

As the darkened landscape rolled by beneath her, she couldn’t help going back over what had happened in a vain attempt to make sense of events. She hadn’t been asleep or dreaming; every detail was razor-sharp in her mind. There was no doubt that the man who had attempted to force himself on her was her father, Adam Power. Worse, her mother had not immediately jumped to her defense, but had instead questioned her version of events. Now, she had no idea who she could trust. I am never, ever going back.

Two hours into the flight, her power reserves were still in the high seventies. Her original goal had been Seattle, but now she was reconsidering. If she started a gentle curve around to the south, at her current rate of power consumption she should be able to make Los Angeles easily.

Her internal debate over the matter was rudely interrupted when every icon available to her neuro-induction display activated at once, flashing more danger signals within the virtual image-space than a five-alarm fire. Audible warning buzzers within the helmet blared in counterpoint to the urgent messages popping up in her NID.

Warning: Stealth Mode offline.

Warning: Fuel Cells venting. Power Reserves compromised.

Warning: Secondary Suit Systems offline.

What the hell? What’s going on here? She triggered menus as fast as she could, trying to force a suit restart and get past whatever glitch the operating system had encountered.

Warning: Suit Restart failed.

Warning: Power Reserves at 59%.

Warning: Primary Suit Systems failing.

Around her, the suit jolted, the thrusters surging and then stuttering in and out. She flicked through the few remaining menus, cutting non-essential systems out of the loop and trying to reverse whatever the hell was causing her fuel cells to vent their contents to the night air. Fortunately, the suit also incorporated high-density batteries; while these didn’t have anywhere near the storage capacity of the fuel cells, they couldn’t be accidentally discharged either.

Warning: Power Reserves at 37%.

Warning: Flight Systems offline.

Crap, crap, crap. Adrenaline flooded through her as the thrusters died for good. She pulled up a specific menu and activated the emergency auto-landing option, cursing herself for not doing this earlier. The auto-landing function was hard-wired into the suit’s capabilities and involved air brakes, a landing chute, and the ability to draw on all power reserves, no matter how limited. This was where the batteries would come into their own.

Warning: Power Reserves at 13%.

Warning: Battery Pack ejected.

Warning: Emergency Auto-Landing Sequence disabled.

The air brakes, which had begun to extend, retracted again. With a bang of explosive bolts, the landing chute detached from its niche behind her shoulders without ever deploying properly. And with it went the battery pack, and her last chance for a simple, safe landing.

What the hell? That shouldn’t even be possible. None of this should be possible.

Warning: Emergency Tracking Beacon disabled.

Warning: Power Reser&*#@:;…

As the power died, the warning buzzers cut out, along with the NID itself, leaving a profound sense of emptiness in her head. Gone was the running analysis on the suit’s failing (now failed) systems. Also gone, the neuro-induced synthetic proprioception that had allowed her to operate the suit as an extension of her own body and experience the airflow over the suit’s exterior. All that was left was her, the silent suit, and the whistling wind audible through the helmet’s insulation.

Of that, the only things keeping her airborne and alive right then were the suit’s stub-wings. Had they been retracted, as they normally were, she would’ve had about ten seconds before the power armor smashed into the rock-hard midwinter soil at several hundred miles per hour. The suit’s padding was augmented by her winter clothing, but no amount of cushioning was going to protect her from being pulped against the inside of the armor under that kind of impact.

The stub-wings weren’t so sophisticated as to contain dedicated control surfaces; their function was more to reduce energy expenditure by improving the overall aerodynamics of the suit. Fortunately, the suit had one last built-in fail-safe, in that the joints and articulation remained flexible in the event of power loss. This was a common precaution for anyone using ‘fully invested’ power armor, where the user’s limbs extended into the suit’s arms and legs. The alternative was to risk being locked into place like a store dummy in the event of a power failure.

This meant that in a pinch it was possible to use the suit’s posture to change the angle of the stub-wings and thus the direction of travel. As the suit’s trajectory began to curve downward into a dive, she arched her body. This angled the stub-wings upward and pulled her descent back into level flight for the moment, with the inevitable trade-off that she lost airspeed. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it would keep her alive for another minute, so she took it.

Up ahead, starlight shimmered off the frozen ground; stub-wings or no, she would die when she hit it. She was just traveling too damn fast, and the suit’s air brakes were out of commission, so the inevitable crash-landing would require a miracle to survive. But then she saw the white-edged black ribbon and she knew she’d found her miracle. An ice-covered river running from north to south, it offered a single, sole chance of landing safely. It would take everything she had to pull it off, but she was all out of better options.

Tilting downward, she concentrated on flying the dead suit as precisely as she could. Pulling a deliberate descent raised the airspeed perilously high, but she couldn’t help that. She stretched her arms wide, doing her best to replace the non-functioning air brakes. This was still going to hurt.

The river loomed closer as she skimmed over the frozen terrain. She lost as much height as she dared, her heart in her mouth. With the suit systems down, the collision-avoidance radar was nothing but ballast; one power line in the wrong place and she would be toast, in more ways than one.

In level flight with no thrusters, her arms held out with all her strength against the freezing slipstream, she felt herself losing airspeed. Up ahead, beyond the river, she saw headlights travelling from south to north. A remote, analytical part of her mind noted that the vehicle was traveling at a reasonable clip, which meant it was on a sealed road of some kind.

The riverbank whipped beneath her and she put all extraneous thoughts aside, bringing the second stage of her plan into action. Twisting her body as hard as she could, she put everything she had into banking the suit hard left to line up roughly along the river. As wide as it was—maybe a thousand feet, at this point—it was still far too narrow for her needs if traveling across it. Along it, however …

At this point, her lack of precise control bit her in the ass. As she dragged the right-hand stub-wing into the air, the suit stalled out and lost lift altogether. Out of control, she tumbled, flailing. I should’ve started turning sooner.

On the knife-edge of panic, she stilled her mind and followed the procedure that had been drummed into her. Tucking into a ball, she snapped out of it with her body aligned along the direction of travel. Immediately, she felt the lift once more as air flowed over the stub-wings. She was gliding again, but the mishap had cost precious altitude, and she was halfway across the river already.

More carefully, she angled around; by the time she was flying straight once more, there was less than five feet of separation between herself and the dark ice beneath. And her airspeed was still higher than she was strictly comfortable with.

She didn’t want to hit the ice any faster than absolutely necessary. Punching through and into the freezing water beneath would be as much of a death sentence as impacting the ground on either side of the river. Even if she made it out of the water, hypothermia would kill her before she got half a mile. Which was why she was coming in at the shallowest angle she could manage.

And then there was no more time. Even with the stub-wings, the suit’s glide ratio was for crap. The suit hit the ice, leaving great cracks everywhere, and bounced. Inside the suit, Vanessa felt as though she’d just slammed into Mount Rushmore. She hit again, then skidded face-down across the ice. From the uneasy feeling, however, the ice wasn’t all that thick. She could feel the crunching, crackling sensation of it subsiding as the heavy suit scored its path diagonally along the river.

And then the cracks spread ahead of the suit, and she saw water spraying up around the faceplate, freezing onto it in the night air. By her internal calculations, she was getting close to the other side of the river. This was a good thing, because the suit’s forward momentum was almost spent; it was about to break through the ice for good and sink to the bottom.

There was a very specific posture that her father had trained her in, then told her never to assume unless she absolutely had to. Now, at the last moment, she assumed it; arms held so, legs held so, fists clenched, and index fingers making a trigger-squeezing motion. This activated the manual switches distributed throughout the suit, connecting internal storage batteries into a single circuit. Half a second later, explosive bolts blew the entire back of the suit off. Using a slightly different mechanism, the gloves and boots—and helmet—also came away from the suit. A giant punched her in the gut as an airbag inflated beneath her, blowing her clear of the sinking wreckage to spin crazily through the air.

She’d been trained in gymnastics from almost before she could walk, allowing her to get her bearings before she landed. Twisting in mid-flight, she got her feet underneath her, but it was still a rough landing. There was no way she was going to keep her footing, so she let herself go down, absorbing as much of the impact as she could. Hitting the ground with bone-jarring force, she rolled over and over, curled into a ball to protect her vital organs. When she finally came to a stop, she sat up and looked around. She was bruised and battered, and the helmet faceplate was cracked all the way across, but she was safely on dry ground; for a given definition of ‘safe’.

Her heart still thundering in her chest, she scrambled to her feet and pulled her helmet off just in time to watch as the patch of dark water where her suit had vanished began to freeze over once more. That could’ve been me, if I hadn’t hit the ice just right. Or if Dad had timed the sabotage a little earlier or later, I’d be wrapped around a hill or a tree right now. And nobody would ever know why. It was a sobering thought, in a night full of them.

It was cold, but that was only part of the reason she was shivering as she removed the dead boots and gauntlets and pulled the hood up over her head. The adrenaline still in her system was another part of it; the stark realization that she’d just survived a determined attempt to murder her with her own suit was the third part. Moving automatically, she stashed the remnants of the suit in the hollow of a dead tree. The fewer traces she left of her passing, the better.

Gotta keep moving. Shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her fleece-lined jacket, she turned and started trudging up the bank, her eventual destination the road she’d glimpsed earlier. The first order of business was to distance herself from where she had crash-landed on the ice. The second, to be carried out at some later date, was to return with some method of salvaging her suit before anyone (including her father) found it.

She still had trouble wrapping her head around the idea that her father had deliberately sabotaged her suit. Had it been his way of ensuring that she’d never tell of what he’d tried to do to her? She had no doubt he was the one who’d rigged her suit to fail; after all, he’d been fiddling with it just before she came out of the bathroom. The most chilling realization, biting deeper than the wind swirling around her, was that he’d done it before he knew how she would react to his advances.

He’d already decided that I needed to die, no matter what happened.

I don’t want to believe it. But it happened, so I have to believe it.

I can’t let this beat me. I can’t let him win. I have to keep moving.

Reaching the road was easier than she’d expected. The wind was still bitterly cold, but she found she could handle it. Her breath blew away in long streamers as she turned, getting her bearings. To the south, the lights of a small city or large town glowed in the distance. Setting her hood more firmly on her head, she started out with a determined stride. This felt like the right way to go. There would be a bus terminal. Farther south would be a bigger city. Places like that always held opportunities for someone who was strong, smart and determined.

All her life, she’d been taught that she was someone special. That there was nothing she couldn’t achieve, given the right tools. Which was a good thing because as of right then, she was on her own. There was absolutely nobody else in the world she could depend on.

I’m Vanessa Power. I got this.

- End of Prologue Two -

Prologue Three

Passport to Opportunity

Contents

Monday, September 16, 2013

- End of Prologue Three -

Prologue Four

Appeal from the Heart

Contents

- End of Prologue Four -

PART ONE

Maglev

Capes? Cowls? Cogs? Who even thought of these names?

- Jericho Hansen

1

Jericho

Contents

Savannah, Georgia

Sunday, October 6, 2013

4:02 PM Eastern Daylight Time

Jericho Hansen sat on the edge of the bed, holding the letter in one hand and an envelope in the other. He’d read and re-read the single page more than a dozen times since writing it, and he was sure of two things. The first was that he would never be able to express himself more clearly than he’d already done. The second; Stephen would still insist on not understanding. But I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

There was a creak from the living room, and he froze. After a few seconds without hearing any more sounds, he allowed himself to relax long enough to slide the letter into its envelope. Leaning over slightly, he folded back the pastel-pink comforter—Stephen’s idea, not his, though he had to admit it kept them warm on cold winter nights—and placed the envelope on his boyfriend’s pillow.

When he’d first gotten powers and gone out as a costumed hero, Jericho had assumed he’d find social acceptance and maybe even companionship among his like-minded peers. That was, after all, the basic theme of every second superhero sitcom. As it turned out, Savannah held slim pickings for either one. The city’s only other costumed protector was a brash, loud, crude redneck who went by the name of Pickup and piloted a highly modified 4×4 which could become a bipedal robot with the Confederate flag emblazoned across its chest (otherwise, the hood of the truck). He didn’t like Jericho, and the feeling was mutual. Even though both were technically heroes, their political and social viewpoints made them polar opposites; they’d clashed on more than one occasion. Boyfriend material, he was not.

But then there was Stephen; at thirty-one, he was eight years older than Jericho. Stephen was involved in the Enabled (otherwise known as super-powered) scene as well, but from an entirely different angle to both Jericho and Pickup. Specifically, he was the owner, editor, photographer and sole employee of a moderately successful web-magazine called Gay!Power, which showcased ‘alternately oriented’ heroes. They’d met when he contacted Jericho’s costumed identity of G-Man (the ‘G’ stood for ‘gravity’) via social media to set up an interview and a photo shoot. Jericho had accepted a subsequent offer of dinner, and things eventually progressed from there.

While it hadn’t been love at first sight, they’d eased into a relationship that managed to outlast the first clumsy attempts at intimacy and become something deeper and more meaningful. It hadn’t been all smooth going; Stephen had had to ask Jericho to move in with him several times before he accepted. It was only on their first anniversary, when Stephen posed the offer yet again, that Jericho’s underlying trust issues had finally allowed him to say yes. And that was … Jeez, has it been six months already?

Their one and only spat had come about a month after Jericho completed the move, when Stephen advanced the idea of a much more private photo shoot, one with less in the way of costume and more in the way of suggestive poses. Jericho had nothing against the concept of skin shots as such, but as a respected superhero, that wasn’t the sort of exposure he wanted; so to speak. Despite Stephen’s assurances that the pictures would never reach the public eye, he’d turned the idea down flat. After sulking for a few days, his boyfriend had dropped the subject and it never came up again.

On occasion, he’d heard of low-tier Enabled going the other direction; committing flashy but relatively harmless crimes, surrendering to the police for a reduced sentence, then using the notoriety as a springboard into the skin trade. Their bodies, their choice. It was his choice not to, and he’d never regretted it.

That was the closest they’d come to having a serious disagreement … until now. Their happy streak had been broken when Jericho got the email confirmation for his tryout interview to join Force Majeure.

He wasn’t sure if Force Majeure was the most powerful superhero team in the world—the metric for determining this varied from observer to observer—but it was definitely up there in the top five. Counting only those within the continental United States, it rated as the most prominent by far. While the core membership was based in Utopia City, they had satellite teams of secondary members in cities all over the country. Jericho knew he had no chance of becoming a part of the inner circle, but even being accepted into one of the auxiliary teams would fulfill his long-held goal of becoming a professional superhero. Of course, to do that, he would first have to get to Utopia City.

He’d originally asked Stephen to accompany him when he got the email. Stephen, after all, had been taking regular trips long before the maglev came to Savannah. Given how Enabled were spread all over the country, it followed that gay and lesbian heroes were extremely thin on the ground. It was almost always inconvenient for them to come to Savannah (not to mention the fact there wasn’t much incentive for them to travel to one corner of America to be featured in a niche publication such as Gay!Power). So, when it came down to it, Stephen had to go to them rather than vice versa.

It used to be that whenever he had a prospect, Stephen would fall out of bed at an ungodly hour and take the bus to wherever he needed to go. Now that it was possible to take the maglev directly from Savannah, he could rise at a much more civilized hour and still get where he was going in good time.

Jericho had figured this travel experience would be invaluable for his first trip out of state, right up until he ran into the brick wall of Stephen’s refusal. Which didn’t make a great deal of sense, considering how Stephen himself traveled so regularly to gather material for the magazine. But there it was. No matter how much he loved Stephen and respected his views, Jericho wasn’t about to let his own dreams die by the wayside. He was sorry, but Stephen was going to have to learn to accept that.

However, there was one tiny snag with his resolve: the interview was tomorrow, and Stephen was still adamantly opposed to his going. They’d spent the last month arguing the issue back and forth, and so it had come to this. Sneaking out behind the back of the man he loved. I hate myself.

Straightening up, he caught his reflection in the dressing-table mirror. Hazel eyes stared back at him from features that might have been described as delicate but for his firm jawline. His build matched his face; tall and slender, wiry rather than bulky. Reaching up, he pushed his shoulder-length brown hair back from his face, bunching it at the nape of his neck. A hair-tie lay on the dressing-table; it was the work of a moment to pull his ponytail through it. The mundane act helped him to clear his thoughts and push past the illogical certainty that the guilt he felt was written all over his face.

His overnight bag was already packed. Going to the bedroom window, he slid it up on its runners, taking care to ensure that it didn’t make any noise. When it was open wide enough for him to climb