"Okay," she said, "I'm opening the hatch from the outside."

  "It's no good," he said, "I can't do anything without the suit. You need to go for the police. It's our only hope now."

  She ignored him, reaching her hand out to feel across the frame, searching for the hatch that hid his emergency release handle. The metal scorched her fingers, and she snatched her hand back with a low cry.

  "The cooling system's a bit smashed up," Dan said.

  "My God! You must be cooking in there!"

  "It's a bit toasty," he admitted, "but I'll be all right. So long as you go right now," he added firmly.

  She pulled out her handkerchief and used it to protect her fingers as she popped open a small panel on his chest. A wave of heat came rolling out. She leaned forward, looking inside.

  She could see the release handle, painted bright red. All she had to do was grab hold of it and pull.

  There was a length of copper tubing beside it, and she saw that her hand would have to press against the copper. She eyed it dubiously, then moistened one fingertip and touched the copper tube.

  There was a hiss of steam and she flinched back. A tiny blister now decorated her fingertip. She muttered a curse, moistened another fingertip, and touched the handle. It was hot as well, but not as bad as the copper tube.

  For a long moment, she stared helplessly at the handle. She knew she ought to search around for something to protect her skin, but there wasn't time. The Harpoonist would die in a matter of minutes if not seconds, and then the gang would come after Crusher and Typhoon. She had to act now.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, remembering the night of the fire, her helplessness, her terror. Her home destroyed, her flesh burned, and nothing she could do about it.

  "Not this time," she murmured. "This time I choose it. This time I decide what happens. I choose!"

  She draped her handkerchief over the red handle, took a firm grip, and pulled. The metal was hot against her hand, but not painful, and the handle slowly moved upward. She felt the heat of the copper tube scant fractions of an inch away, could smell the tiny hairs on the back of her hand as they singed away. She gritted her teeth, knowing she dared not scream, and pulled the handle all the way out.

  Her hand sank against the hot copper tube. Her skin made a horrible hiss, not quite drowned out by the low wail that started in the back of her throat. For an endless second, she pressed her own flesh against the metal, and then something clicked inside Crusher's suit. Kim pulled her hand out, cradling it against her stomach, and the hatch slid open.

  She grabbed the steel hatch before it could clatter to the floor. She set it down gently, then helped Carter wriggle out of the contraption. His clothing was hot to the touch and soaked with sweat.

  She wanted to curl up and nurse her burned hand, but there wasn’t time. She leaned close to his ear and hissed her instructions. "You've got to release Typhoon. Use a harpoon."

  "They'll see me," he protested.

  "No they won't. I'll be distracting them."

  "No, you can't—"

  But she was already moving away from him, stooping to pick up a fallen harpoon, sliding to her left so the behemoth was between her and the gang. Behind her she heard a stealthy rustle as Carter dragged himself along the floor.

  Kim held her breath as she approached the huge machine. With all the villains gathered around the Harpoonist and no one manning the controls, it was as harmless as a parked locomotive, but her heart still thumped unheroically as she pressed her back against a steel leg.

  She peered around the behemoth and spotted a cable snaking across the floor. That would be how they controlled it, then. She took a deep breath, stepped around the behemoth's legs, raised the harpoon in both hands, and brought it stabbing down into the cable.

  It was cloth-wrapped and as thick as her arm, and solid enough that the impact jarred her arms. The cloth covering tore and she saw the gleam of metal cables inside. She swung the harpoon frantically, chopped again and again, until the cables began to fray and part.

  She managed half a dozen swings before someone shouted behind her. She ignored the shout, continuing to chop. In the corner of her eye she could see Carter, in plain sight, using a harpoon to heave himself onto his feet beneath the net that held Typhoon.

  A shot rang out, the bullet bouncing from the behemoth with a loud clang, and Kim dropped flat. Another shot rang out, she heard the whip of the bullet passing above her, and she sprang up, darting around the behemoth, using its legs for cover. More shots made her flinch down. She could hear running footsteps. The air stank with cordite, and she felt her whole body trembling. Being shot at was terrifying.

  She watched as Carter, his legs trembling, raised the harpoon over his head and jabbed at the cargo net. After three jabs, a hand shot out of the net and plucked the harpoon from his hands. Carter fell to a sitting position.

  "Don't move, Missy."

  Kim twisted her head around. One of the men had circled around the behemoth. He stood a dozen feet away from her, a pistol rock-steady in his fist. Kim crouched, frozen, as another man darted around the other side. A hand closed around her upper arm and yanked her to her feet.

  The three gunmen gathered around her, eyes menacing behind their masks, smelling of sweat and dust and coal smoke. One man turned and called to the leader, "It's just some broad!"

  "Kill her," the voice boomed out.

  Three pairs of cold, impersonal eyes focused on Kim. Then the man in front of her seemed to spring forward, crashing into her. She fell, the man sprawling on top of her.

  Typhoon descended on the gunmen in a blur of motion. A pistol swung toward him and he knocked the wrist upward. The pistol fired into the ceiling, Typhoon's hand smacked into the man's lowest rib, and Typhoon was past him before he finished doubling over.

  The man with the shotgun flinched backward, and a foot shot out, catching the shotgun and sending it spinning into the air. Typhoon stepped in close, delivered a kick to the man's chest that sent him stumbling back, and then stuck out his hands and caught the shotgun as it fell. He stepped forward, used the butt of the gun to thump the man across the forehead, then dropped the weapon and turned to face Kim.

  The man sprawled on top of her started to rise. Typhoon sprang onto his back, kicking off, flying into the air and driving the man back down onto Kim. Typhoon flew at the third man, who was again trying to line up his pistol, and slammed kicks into his face and chest. The man toppled backward and Typhoon landed nimbly on his feet. One foot lashed out and the man on top of Kim went limp.

  She wriggled out from under him. Behind Typhoon, she saw the man in the Stetson lifting an enormous pistol from beneath his coat. She opened her mouth to scream, knowing she would be too late, as the Harpoonist clubbed the man soundly over the head with his chair.

  For a long moment no one moved. Kim wanted to sink to her knees, cover her burned hand, and have a good cry, but her racing mind wouldn't let her. She strode deeper into the warehouse.

  The Harpoonist, weaving on his feet, made his way gingerly toward the Justice Wagon. Typhoon took Carter's arm over his shoulders and heaved the man to his feet, then helped him walk to the Wagon.

  Kim knelt over the leader of the ambush party and patted him down, tossing aside a small pistol she found in his boot, a couple of knives, and a straight razor. There was a wallet in his coat, and she pocketed it. Then she grabbed the shoulder of his coat and started dragging him across the floor.

  "Kim, what are you doing?" Carter's voice sounded puzzled and infinitely patient.

  "We're taking this one with us." She continued dragging him toward the Wagon.

  "We don't take prisoners," Carter said. "We leave them for the police."

  She gritted her teeth. They should be helping her, not making inane arguments. "We need to ask him a few questions."

  "We don't torture prisoners," the Harpoonist said sharply. "And we can't kill him in cold blood, either."

  "It's not our way," Typhoon agreed.

  Kim turned to face them. Three sets of eyes bored into her, stern, disapproving. She had been deferring to these men for two years, and she nearly gave in again. But the smell of burned flesh still rose from her hand, and it stiffened her resolve. She'd earned the right to be heard.

  "You know we won't torture him. I know that." She glanced down at the man in the duster. "He doesn't know that. My conscience is fine with scaring some answers out of him."

  Carter's eyebrows rose. "But why, Kim? He's just a bank robber."

  She stared at him. "A bank robber? Who just happened to have an elaborate trap set, just for us? Who wanted proof that he'd killed us? There's something bigger going on, Dan. Someone is hunting us, and I want to know who."

  He frowned, looking unconvinced, but Typhoon walked over, grabbed the cowboy's other shoulder, and helped her drag him into the truck.

  She turned the Justice Wagon around, backed up as far as she could, and took a run at the warehouse doors. The doors crashed open, revealing a crowd of curious onlookers and half a dozen special constables, nearly half of the city's fledgling police force.

  The closest constable walked up to stand beside the cab, frowning in at her. She smiled as sweetly as she knew how and said, "We caught your bank robbers. They're just inside."

  "I don't think we need—" he began stiffly, but the excited crowd pressed in, and he was jostled aside.

  A fresh-faced young man with a notepad in his hand hooked an elbow over the top of her door. "I'm Harry MacRae with the Daily Colonist," he said. "Can you tell me what happened?"

  It was the team's policy to never speak with reporters or the public. Team Justice was to be aloof, mysterious. It was yet another policy Kim didn't endorse. The public's good will was a resource they would be foolish to squander.

  "We came as soon as we realized citizens were in danger," she said. "We pursued three men into this warehouse and apprehended them. While we have every confidence in the abilities of the police, we feel it's the duty of every Vancouverite to lend assistance when they can."

  There was a pause as MacRae scribbled furiously. A woman behind him shouted, "Hey! Who are you?"

  Kim glanced at her injured hand, tucked in her lap out of sight. She hesitated, then looked up and said, "I'm Firebrand."

  "And what do you do for the team?" MacRae asked. "Are you the driver? We haven't seen you before."

  She smiled. "I'm the mastermind. Now if you'll excuse me, our work here is done." She kept the brake on, but gave some power to the back tires, making them grind and spin. The crowd began to edge back.

  "But I have so many questions!" MacRae cried.

  "Another time," Kim promised.

  "When? How will I find you?"

  The Justice Wagon started rolling forward, and she leaned out, shouting above the chug of the pistons. "Wherever the forces of crime gather, that's where you'll find us. Whenever the good people of Vancouver are in danger, Team Justice will be there!"

  Then she gave a blast on the steam whistle, waved to the cheering crowd, and the Justice Wagon rolled away.

  Aeolus, Chiron, and Medusa

  John A. McColley

  I never read hero stories when I was a child. I was always taught to be more practical, keep my mind on learning math and reading the classics. Now that I think of it, though, the classics were full of heroes, so perhaps my current situation isn't as off-track as I thought. Something to ponder.

  What I meant at the beginning there was that I never occupied my time with following the exploits of The Silver Cane, Jongleur, or Lady Lyrica. I never tied a blanket around my neck and ran around the streets or broke my arm trying to leap from one roof to the next as Farley Carnaise down the way did. I never dreamed of looking down on Rouen from hundreds of feet in the air, at the bridge of an airship or punching out twisted mutants sent by mad scientists.

  I was always happy being me, the eldest of three boys, all well-loved by our parents and our needs seen to, yet never spoiled. I enjoyed engineering, but Papa said it was beneath us, and so I became an accountant. It's still a bit dirty, with the ink, though the new quick-drying inks they have are a wonder.

  But this isn't really about my childhood, or getting ink on my hands. I suppose one might classify it as a medical issue. Were I more of a romantic, I might even call it a 'super power.' But I have little use for melodrama. I'm a sensible young man who eats the same breakfast, lunch and dinner every day, except Sundays when I visit with my mother.

  It was on one of these Sunday excursions that this all began....

  *****

  Mother and I sat at a café after Sunday services. She sipped coffee, and I Earl Grey. We watched people wander by in the fresh spring air. A waiter tripped, sending his load of steaming mugs toward Mother. The next moment, the tray had changed its course inexplicably. The tray clattered and china shattered, both contributing to the din begun by cries of outrage all around. No one was scalded. Mother deemed it a miracle, but I had felt something in that moment, a burst, a gust of wind from my hand as I instinctively reached out to protect her.

  I said nothing to her. No one had seen and I ignored the event, or tried to, for days. Wednesday, it must have been, I was sitting at my ledger. A pigeon landed on the windowsill, as they are wont to, especially in wet weather. The rain was thin, falling straight down, and the office gets ever so stuffy if we close the window.

  The bird shook itself, sending a shower towards the papers I'd been poring over and the still-wet page I was making marks upon. Reflexively, as before, I threw up a hand. Papers on the desk riffled, some sailing to the floor, while the ledger remained dry, the droplets deflected, and the bird thrust back out into the wet. The window swung shut. I just sat, staring at it for some time.

  Out of curiosity or sloth, I flicked my hand toward the papers, which had fallen. Nothing happened. I wasn't really sure I wanted anything to happen. It should be much better if nothing happened, and there was only a peculiar coincidence which my mind had made into something more. I gave the papers a few more waves, to no effect, finally relenting and rising from my chair to retrieve them.

  That was the end of it until a month later. The newspapers had issued a crescendo of war reports, starting with trouble in Romania. These were followed by threats from a number of countries and non-national parties. Finally, four inch high lettering declared a worldwide war. Generally, in case of one or two troublemakers, the superheroes stepped in and defused the situation. The whole episode became a tale told in dramatic photos of costumed figures dangling other costumed figures from high places or wrapping them up in iron girders. A few months later, they were retold in cartoon form, fodder for children’s daydreams.

  The unseen side of this, downplayed by the radio and newspapers, was that with all the superheroes hundreds or thousands of miles away, there was nothing keeping the local thuggery from turning loose. Some of those characters in Rouen and Paris were even of the costumed, 'super' variety. The authorities were all but powerless.

  At lunch, I sacrificed some of my newspaper reading time to practice. I would wave my hands at balled-up paper or a simple origami bird. Making these was a skill I'd learned from a classmate in my one drafting class before concentrating wholly on finance math. Papa would call such a skill 'mental clutter,' but the crane was the first thing I moved with intent. Another, the sparrow, was yet a further step, something I could sustain in the air for extended periods.

  That took days to accomplish, and weeks to effect a more 'naturalistic' flight instead of tumbling end over end. Those were good weeks for me, days of drudgery and failure punctuated by gusts of success. The world, on the other hand, suffered. Rouen suffered.

  This was all still a game to me, a secret little vice, like putting an extra sugar in your coffee or taking a slightly longer route home to catch a glimpse of a pretty shopgirl. It wasn't as though I could fly, or even thought about such. I had a parlor trick I couldn't ever show anyone lest I be cast out from the throng as 'abnormal.' I had spent twenty years fitting in and I didn't have any intent of leaving that comfort behind for a paper sparrow.

  *****

  One evening I was forced to work late. I broke the curfew the gendarmes imposed in an effort to reduce crime. It was that or sleep in my office and work through the next day in soiled, wrinkled clothes. That would never do.

  The night was hot, sticky. Still, I walked as quickly as I could, briefcase snugged up under my arm.

  "Oy! You!" A man called at me.

  I ignored him and kept on, hoping I could pretend I hadn't heard. The whine of machinery and the clomp of hooves approached behind. Before I could duck into an alleyway, a hand grabbed my suit jacket and shirt at the scruff of my neck. I was lifted like a kitten. The hand turned me. I nearly fainted.

  Being lifted from my feet and the sounds should have alerted me that this was not the gendarmes. They rode around on velocipedes, not horses. The monstrosity before me now harkened back to the Greek myths I'd read of part-human creatures, centaurs. Here, though, the horse was mechanical, flywheels spinning behind round cases, pistons pumping hooves up and down. The man part was no doubt some sorry soul who had lost the use of his legs, but knew much of technology and had built his upper body to astounding proportion.

  "And what are you doing out after curfew?" The other's voice boomed at me. I shook.

  "I—I—was caught up in my work. I didn't know the time until I was on the street. I'm just trying to get home."

  "Don't you know it's dangerous?" The other frowned in the weak light of the nearby streetlamp. The peaked metal helmet he wore blocked the flickering light, casting shifting shadows over the man-beast's upper face. What I had first taken for incredibly defined torso muscles were in fact artifacts of a well-made breastplate. The arms were bare but for forearm gauntlets and he carried a spear, which was as tall as him, perhaps eight feet, in the hand which wasn't holding me up.