I don’t see what happens next, but I hear a loud bang followed by a spurt of fire into the sky. The deathtower crashes into the forest and explodes. I whoop in excitement as Never Lies lands beside me and punches the air. One of her gun platforms is missing and her helmet is dented, but she’s happy and alive.

  They high five, and Day does a victory dance in the air. Never Lies even slaps me on the shoulder.

  “That was close, really close. The other two took off and left when they saw what we were dealing with, but you stayed. You should be dead, kid, but you did well.”

  We fly over to the ruins of the deathtower to have a look. The storm is fading. Bad Day picks up a gun turret and holds it over his head.

  “Pew-pew!” he says.

  Never Lies laughs and picks up a sheet of green metal.

  “There must be a ton of good stuff in here,” she says, and then freezes.

  The strange tentacled alien is watching us from beyond the wreck. It doesn’t flee or make any move to attack.

  “Move slowly. Close and capture. We can do this,” Never Lies says.

  And my helmet goes bang-bang-bang as a second deathtower drops through the clouds and falls right onto us.

  “Go!” yells Never Lies.

  Bad Day grabs me and we escape.

  “East!” I say, remembering the briefing.

  The compass on my arm swings wildly and I can't see the sun. Bad Day grabs me and my stomach lurches as we teleport some distance away from the fight.

  “Just go!” he shouts, and disappears again.

  Good advice. I fly with the storm at my back. I get pretty lost, so I fly high to find my ride out of here. I see a Comet hovering above the trees near me and circle down to it. Bad Day and the others are already there.

  Bad Day is talking urgently into a radio set as I land.

  “You’re alive! Any sign of Never Lies?” he asks.

  Never Lies arrives a minute later, her suit covered in burn marks and Slow Learner slung over her shoulder. She lands next to the Comet and lowers Slow Learner carefully to the ground. A medic runs over to him and pulls his helmet off.

  “He’ll be okay,” the medic calls out, and she nods.

  “Gold Storm is inbound,” says Bad Day, “and they want us to leave. Nothing more we could have done.”

  Never Lies shrugs angrily and opens her helmet. She led her team where others had feared to go, took on the biggest weapons the enemy could throw at her in the worst conditions possible and led a disciplined retreat without losing anyone. Most superheroes dream of being that good, but I can see by her face that she's furious with herself.

  Never Lies climbs into the ranger, powers down her suit and then punches the wall so hard she leaves a dent in the metal.

  I know exactly how she feels.

  Lesson Eight: Anonymous Heroes Are Disposable Heroes

  “As you know, we have our ‘A’ teams the public know and love, and our ‘B’ teams that keep their visors down and do most of the fighting. Despite our best efforts, the public have noticed that the ‘B’ teams have high casualties. This has been very bad for morale. We need to consider the proposal of a ‘C’ team that the public doesn’t know about.”

  -Superhero Corps, confidential memo.

  “They told me that I would never be much good in a fight, but that I would be excellent on TV. So I told them that I would rather fight anonymously than preen on camera, and then I hit my boss with a chair.”

  -One Trick, interview quoted at her trial.

  I’m still not dead, although I’ve come close a few times.

  I’ve racked up eight missions so far, most of them clean-ups after a saucer has gone down. I’ve been told they were easy missions, but they didn’t feel easy. My shields are keeping me alive, and my mutliblaster and egg launcher are earning me some kills, but I’ve taken some heavy knocks.

  Red Three died on our last mission. She was the third of my intake to die. The funerals for trainees are brief, just a few words followed by the single firework rocket that’s a tradition at superhero funerals.

  I’m only on call a few hours a day, and I spend most of my time in training. I train more than any of the other trainees, because I’m determined to prove I belong here.

  Life as a trainee superhero is hard, but there are definite upsides. The food is incredible, and all this training is really filling my skinny body out with muscle. The experimental surgery probably helps.

  I’m eating breakfast on the main deck after a night-time of being on call when the loudspeaker rings out:

  “All operators and trainees to briefing room one. Repeat, all operators and trainees to briefing room one.”

  Briefing room one is shaped like a lecture hall or cinema with multiple levels of seats rising up from a podium. There are perhaps three hundred seats, but less than fifty operators and only a handful of surviving trainees. We spread ourselves out in little clumps, although there are some that prefer to sit in pairs. This is the first time I’ve seen all the operators in the same room, and it is clear to me that there are groups and alliances within this team. It’s just like high school, except much more serious. I sit down next to Bad Day and One Trick.

  A group of four grim-looking men and women walk past us and sit near the front of the hall. They don’t make any attempt to talk to each other, or even make eye contact. Each wears a thin black band on their left arms.

  “What’s with them?” I ask Bad Day.

  “The black bands? All supers who have lost far, far too much. Not a friendly bunch. Don’t mess with them.”

  I can just make out the names written on the backs of the two black-banders closest to me: one is called Three Brothers the other is called Perth Rose. Their deep depression annoys me a little; what makes them so special?

  “We’ve all lost something to the saucers,” I say.

  Firestorm Commando sits by himself in the corner of the room. I heard that Past Prime had been trying to get rid of him, but that The General had insisted that he stayed in the unit.

  Other groups of operators sit in pairs or trios, some quiet and others laughing. A few join Bad Day and me; Day seems well liked. A young man called Die Laughing jumps into the seat next to me, gives me a broad smile and then focusses on folding a paper airplane. He sends it looping through the room as soon as it’s finished, and it hits Firestorm Commando right in the back of the head.

  “He won’t like that,” says Pet Shark from right behind me.

  Firestorm Commando looks around furiously, but Die Laughing just waves back and starts on another plane.

  There are a few operators that sit alone. A man two rows in front of us seems particularly unpopular. He looks strange, even for an operator, and is humming loudly to himself. The loner is skinny with short white hair. A pair of huge men with tattoos on their faces are about to sit next to him when they see him and abruptly jump a few rows away.

  “What’s with that guy?” I ask Bad Day.

  “That’s Extremely Dangerous,” whispers Bad Day.

  Wow. All of the operators are dangerous on and off the battlefield. They are some of the most egotistical, aggressive and temperamental men and women I have ever met. For one man to be singled out as Extremely Dangerous worries me.

  Extremely Dangerous turns around and gives us a thin smile. His eyes are grey and his face is frighteningly pale.

  “Call me Simon Smith,” he says quietly.

  My whole body shivers and even Bad Day seems shaken. The superheroes around us all turn to look at Bad Day; Die Laughing stops playing with his paper plane.

  “Of course, Simon. No offense meant,” says Bad Day quickly.

  “Simon Smith,” corrects Extremely Dangerous.

  “Simon Smith,” I say.

  Extremely Dangerous nods, turns away and starts humming again. All the superheroes around me relax a little. Someone mutters a curse.

  “Nutcase,” whispers Pet Shark, but very, very quietly.

  “He’s good in a fight,” says Die Laughing as if that is all that matters to him.

  He finishes his plane and launches it with a flourish. The plane floats in the air, over the heads of all the superheroes and down towards the stage. I’m so busy watching it that I don’t notice when Past Prime walks up to the lectern. He catches the plane as it passes him, crumples it up and drops it to the floor.

  “Let’s get started.”

  The room falls silent, and we all lean forwards in our seats. I’ve never been to an all-operators meeting before, but I bet it’s important. Past Prime waves at the screen and a map of Korea appears.

  “Three years ago the Asian Fury team damaged a saucer over South Korea. The saucer flew into North Korea before crashing. As you know, we are not welcome in that part of the world. It was decided not to confirm the kill. In hindsight this was a mistake. Last week our satellites reported these in an airbase deep in the North's borders.”

  The view screen behind Past Prime glows into life to show a satellite image of three huge airships in a maze of scaffolding. They look like the offspring of world war one battleships and an amateur's version of a saucer: all gun turrets and short wings, missile packs and heavy armor. They don’t look like they could possibly fly.

  “Last week the airships had disappeared from the base. All three have turned up again today. One is in South Korea, and Asian Fury is handling it. The second is currently over the ocean on its way to Japan, ETA four hours.”

  Everybody groans. Superhero shields don’t work well over water for some reason, which means that intercepting the craft before it hits land is risky work. Too risky for the other teams… but probably not for us.

  “Command has ordered us to take it down,” confirms Past Prime, “and this is how we are going to do it: we drop in a grid around the ship’s expected course. The course is hard to predict, so we will have to throw everyone we have at it. Those who miss will be picked up in Comets. Anyone who has an acceptable intercept will latch onto the enemy with grappling hooks and take it down. Questions?”

  “Where’s the boss?” yells someone.

  “Taking out the third saucer. Now, are we set?”

  There is a lot of complaining, but we really don’t have much choice. People form a line into the armory based on team hierarchy, with the most experienced at the front and me right at the back. Even the other trainees from my intake are in the line in front of me, which is a little insulting. I can’t even see the front of the line. The technician dresses me with quick efficiency and arms me with my multiblaster and a short ranged melting ray for cutting into the ship. Then he hands me a long, thin tube with a cord connected to its tail. The cord runs into a large orange box which one of the technicians straps to my chest.

  “Here’s your rocket harpoon. It has its own radar, so just activate it, throw it and hope it hits. If it does, it will reel you in.”

  “And if it doesn’t hit?” I ask, but the technicians are already pushing me towards a capsule.

  “This is going to put a lot of strain on the cannons,” Bad Memories says as he straps me in place, “they were designed for six at a time, not fifty. Good luck, kid.”

  The capsule clicks shut before I can answer. I doubt he would want to hear my opinion, anyway. I wait in the darkness with the harpoon pressed awkwardly against my chest.

  Every few seconds I hear a thunk-thunk-thunk as the capsules before me launch. My own capsule is warm, uncomfortably so. It’s a strange life being a superhero: this morning I was being pampered, but now I’m so crushed in my capsule that my legs are starting to cramp up and my eyes are full of sweat.

  “Red Five, status check,” says a voice in my helmet.

  “Hot in here… I’ve got sweat in my eyes. Otherwise I’m just fine.”

  The capsule pops open and a technician leans in. He pulls my helmet off, mops my forehead with a towel and ties a sweat band around my head. My helmet goes back on, the technician gets pulled out and the capsule closes again less than a minute after it opened.

  “Set, Red Five?” says my helmet.

  “Set,” I say, although it wasn’t really a question.

  The harness slams into me, and I wake up in the sky.

  The capsule ejects me far higher than I’ve ever been. The air is thin up here, and below me is water stretching out between the horizons. I check my shield: it says 20%, but that drops to 17% as I watch. I can’t see the hybrid saucer below me, so I guess I’ll just hover above the water until someone comes to pick me up.

  “Come in, Red Five,” says my radio, startling me.

  “Yup,” I say.

  “Red Five, you have an intercept path. Prepare to follow trajectory instructions.”

  “What? Where?”

  “Fly north-north-west as fast as you can, horizontal.”

  I start flying, the wind buffeting my body. The cold is already sneaking through my suit; they weren’t designed to fly so high. I don’t know how fast I’m flying, but it feels fast.

  “Slow down, Red Five. Angle downwards.”

  I follow a list of instructions about my flying, and I feel like I’m being used as a guided missile. Am I expected to fight this saucer or just impact on its side?

  “Shield check, Red Five,” says my radio.

  I’ve got used to being independent on missions, and this level of micromanaging is getting plenty annoying. I don’t like it at all. The fact that my shield says 14% is not helping my mood.

  “Does it make a difference?” I answer into my radio. “It’s not like you will cancel the mission because my shield is low.”

  There is a long pause.

  “Fair enough,” says the radio, “prep your harpoon now.”

  I get my harpoon and hit the big red button on its side. The harpoon searches in the air like a live thing, little jets around the harpoon’s barrel pointing it at the target. It stops when it’s pointing down and to my left, and the missile roars out of the barrel and downwards. I follow it, and see the hybrid saucer for the first time. It’s travelling fast, but so am I. Its eclectic collection of turrets and missile pods don’t look as funny as they did on the satellite image, particularly when they start shooting at me. I’m a small target and most miss, but a few impact painfully on my chest and head. Shields down to 11%.

  The harpoon line on my chest goes taut and starts reeling me in. For a horrible minute I'm dragged behind the battleship like rope trailing from a helicopter, whipping around and spinning in the wind. One of the spheroid turrets locks onto me and opens up on me with a trio of machine guns. The sound of the bullets thudding against my armor is disconcerting, but not damaging. I shoot back, but then I’m past the defenses and being held right against my harpoon embedded in the metal armor.

  “Red Five, are you locked?” says a new voice in my helmet.

  “Locked,” I confirm, trying not to swear.

  “Get inside and bring it down,” says the voice.

  “Really? REALLY? I was just going to clean the windshield,” I say as I try to cut into the hull with my melting ray.

  “Are you inside?” says the voice, which sounds annoyed and, I realize too late, also sounds very important.

  I’m probably speaking to a general or air marshal or something now. Perhaps I should be more polite. Nah.

  “Nuh. Can’t cut through. I’m going to try crawling over the ship to find a weak point.”

  “Negative, Red Five, wait where you are while we consider your position.”

  Consider my position? The saucer hits turbulence and I get slammed against the hull. My position is rubbish, and it won’t improve by sticking around. I climb over the hull using the many uneven welds and protrusions as handholds. It’s tricky, but no harder than the infinity wall Small Talk loves so much. I climb up to a gun turret and slash its barrels with my cutter. A second gun turret sees me and opens up with a crude laser cannon, burning through the hull and heating my shield right up.

  What kind of idiots would fire on their own ship like that?

  I cut into the turret and pull myself inside.

  My shield says 5%.

  “Red Five, we advise trying to find another way in. Start moving now,” orders my unseen commander.

  “Yeah… I already did that. I’m in.”

  “Copy. Please wait next time for orders.”

  “I won’t,” I say, “but if it’s any consolation I’ll probably be dead before next time. Shields at five…no, four... ugh. Shields low, anyway.”

  “Try and get to an engine.”

  “What does one of those look like?” I demand.

  The radio falls silent, and I feel a brief moment of triumph. The corridor is filled with long power cables and strange computer screens. I blast everything I see as I walk, just to be sure. Occasionally I see human figures racing through the corridors. Some take shots at me with pistols or rifles, but I ignore them.

  I didn’t sign up to kill humans.

  “Hey kid,” says the familiar voice of Talented Brat, “I thought you might appreciate talking to someone who actually knows what’s going on. Don’t give me that look, marshal, I’m sure the Admiral is-”

  The line cuts out. I find a row of laser cannons pointing out the hull like cannons like it was some ancient ship of the line. There is no one around. The ship groans beneath me and rumbles a little. It hasn’t been flying very well at all; I’ll be surprised if we even make it to Japan without crashing.

  “I found some cannons,” I offer.

  “Right,” says Brat over the radio, “that will do… you need to overload the gun control and destroy it. Then we can send reinforcements and take this baby in one piece.”

  “How?”

  “Place your blaster on the barrel of the nearest laser; we are going to pulse-shift your suit to overpower them.”

  I do as I’m told.

  “Now open all the safeties and give the blaster as much as you’ve got.”

  Sounds… dangerous. I do as Brat says and my suit starts to warm up alarmingly. Power crackles down my arm and the multiblaster turns bright white.

 

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