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

–The Watch Tower, a popular superhero blog.

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

–Confidential report to the U.N.

Life as a superhero is getting interesting. I wake up covered in bruises from my assessment the day before, but there is no time to rest.

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

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

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

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

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

“Too slow, trainee,” he says.

So much for teamwork.

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

“What the saucer?” I demand.

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

My next partner is One Trick.

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

“Good,” I say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That sounded smart to me.

“Okay, let’s do this,” he says.

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

“You did good, kid,” Day says.

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

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

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

“Why that name?” I ask.

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

Free Man grunts and curses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good,” I say.

Never Lies snorts and laughs.

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

Past Prime shakes his head.

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

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

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

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

Born Lucky laughs.

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

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

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

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

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

“Whatever he was cooking smells good, though.”

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

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

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

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

“So those are…”

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

“Wow,” I say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This way,” says Born Lucky.

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

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

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

“Make yourself at home,” says Born Lucky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you deaf as well as stupid?” Pet Shark asks.

“I’m not deaf,” I say.

“He’s earned his place here,” calls out One Trick, “he’s been on a mission.”

“I heard The General wants you dead,” whispers Pet Shark, “and I wonder how long you will last.”

I finish my food in silence and then stand to leave.

Never Lies is walking in as I walk out.

“Enjoying yourself?” she says.

“I guess so. I don’t think I’m supposed to be here, none of the other trainees are.”

“Trainees are allowed up here after their first mission. You can stay, if you want.”

I sit back down and she hands me a thin book called ‘Tactics’.

“Read that. It might keep you alive.”

I spend an hour reading it in the sun, but every time a new operator walks onto the deck they give me an odd look. Eventually I retreat to my room and keep reading until a quarter to six.

I find a steward and ask her to point me to the canteen, so she leads me right to it. I try to strike up a conversation, but her answers are monosyllabic. It seems like technicians and supers don’t mix much.

Other supers are already waiting outside the canteen. I walk up to Bad Day and One Trick. They’re watching two small groups of supers who are arguing loudly. One of the belligerents pulls off his slipper and throws it across the room. An alarm rings out and he falls, clutching at his neck. Everyone else laughs.

Pet Shark snickers from right behind me. I didn’t hear him arrive.

“A shock just for throwing a slipper?” I ask in surprise.

“It didn’t use to be that way,” says Bad Day, “we used to have slipper fights all the time.”

“What changed?” I ask.

“I filled my slipper with iron filings and used it to knock a guy cold out,” says Pet Shark matter-of-factly.

“What? Why would you do that?”

“He asked too many questions.”

Right.

The canteen doors open and we enter. I sit next to Bad Day, and Pet Shark sits down next to me. A handwritten menu stands on the center of the table. Everything sounds delicious, but my appetite is somewhat spoiled when Firestorm Commando sneaks in and sits at a table on the other side of the room.

“I was hoping it would be lasagna,” Pet Shark says loudly, “Chef makes the best lasagna in the world.”

“Not true! My mama makes the best lasagna in the world!” yells someone from across the table in an Italian accent.

Everyone turns and stares at the operator, who shrugs.

“Perhaps Chef makes the second best lasagna in the world,” he concedes.

Dinner is a seven-course meal, each course more expensive and delicious than anything I’ve ever eaten before.

“You guys eat like this every day?” I ask through a mouthful of cheese and grapes.

“Just five days a week. Chef won’t cook on Monday or Tuesdays, so on those days we barbeque or pizza. Not bad, right?” says One Trick.

She laughs as I wash my cheese down with sparkling water.

“Save some space for dessert.”

Dessert is glazed pastries and ice cream. It looks amazing and smells even better. Chef brings it out himself, serving the twenty or so diners and accepting compliments as he walks between tables. Chef stops in front of Pet Shark, offers him another glare and holds out a plate. Pet Shark reaches for it, but Chef changes his mind and snatches the plate back.

“I am French, sir, and I serve French food. If that is not good enough you may satisfy your hunger elsewhere!”

Bad Day laughs quietly to himself. I get the impression that he doesn’t particularly like Pet Shark.

Then Past Prime walks in through the doors and stands at the front of the room. There’s something in his manner that shuts the room up quickly. Every eye turns towards him.

“Your attention, please,” he says, “a saucer approached New York this morning. It was large enough that we were requested to send a team. Ice Blood and his crew were on call. As some of you know, Ice Blood’s brothers live in New York. Unfortunately the saucer was an omega-class battleship escorted by two large saucers.”

The whole room groans.

“Other teams of superheroes were gathering for the defense, but there was no consensus of command. Ice Blood and his team attacked while the saucers were still over water. They were not supported by the other teams, but they damaged the omega-class and it retreated before it reached the city.”

He pauses.

“Ice Blood, Violent Behavior, Card Thief, Green Six and Blue Twenty died in the attack. Punch Up survived but is badly wounded.”

The room is silent. People look stunned. Only Pet Shark and Firestorm Commando don’t seem moved by the news. Pet Shark uses the distraction to steal my dessert, and Firestorm Commando is actually smiling.

“If they had followed orders they would still be alive. Idiots,” says Firestorm Commando loudly enough for the whole room to hear.

That causes uproar and riot. Someone hits Firestorm Commando on the side of the head with a dessert plate, and Firestorm Commando uses the controls on his arm to shock us all through our collars.

“ENOUGH!” roars Past Prime.

He grabs Firestorm Commando and marches him out of the room before returning. The ruckus settles down, but the mood is ugly.

“The funeral is tonight at sunset. I know this is a shock for us all. Ice Blood and his team were excellent supers, and their loss will be keenly felt. But Ice Blood would also be the first person to remind us to focus on the mission.”

Past Prime turns to walk away, but stops.

“This loss means we are shorthanded,” he adds, “please check your timetables for new squad scheduling. That is all.”

I wonder how many times Past Prime has made a speech like that, and whether it gets any easier. I didn’t know Ice Blood, but his death seems like a big deal.

“Not Ice Blood,” whispers Bad Day, holding his head in his hands.

I remembered Violent Behavior from my first day as a trainee. He hadn’t looked much like a hero, but it sounds like he died like one. We trickle out of the room. I stick close to Bad Day as he walks up onto the main deck. He’s shaking a little, so I find him a plastic seat to sit on.

“Not Ice Blood,” he says again.

Others join us, including Never Lies.

“He was one of our best. One of the best ever,” adds Never Lies, shaking her head.

“Why did he do it?” I ask, “why didn’t he wait for help?”

“Saucer shields are vulnerable over water. No one has ever brought an omega down, and Ice Blood knew that once it reached land it would be impossible to stop.”

“All the supers knew that,” interjects Bad Day.

“But our shields don’t work well over water, either. Ice Blood knew that whoever flew out there wouldn’t be coming back. His team provided him with support but only he made it all the way to the saucer. None of the other superhero teams would even leave land.”

“He must have been a hell of a superhero,” I say.

What kind of a person takes on the largest saucer ever seen and wins? What kind of a super convinces his team to follow him against those kinds of odds? That’s the kind of superhero I want to be.

“He never failed a single mission. He was only sent here because his original team was intimidated by him. They said he was dangerous because he couldn’t feel fear,” says Bad Day.

“He felt fear,” says Never Lies.

They start telling stories about Ice Blood and the other named superheroes. The trainees like me barely get a mention, which is a stark reminder of my place in the order of things. I leave them to it and start walking back to my cabin.

Pet Shark is waiting for me at the stairs.

“Bad Day is taking this pretty badly,” I say.

“Oh, Bad Day idolized Ice Blood. He was really something, you know. He must have overloaded his suit to hurt the omega,” says Pet Shark, “but the other suits were recovered. Looks like you are about to get promoted, Red Five. Good for you.”

“What is wrong with you?” I ask, astonished at his callousness.

“Why should I care if Ice Blood dies? Why should you?”

I don’t really know what to say to that, so I push past and walk to my room. I lie down on my bed and start counting how many times Simon Smith has been carved into the ceiling. I’m up to one hundred and twenty-seven when I get bored.

“Search for Ice Blood,” I tell my tat-a-gotchi.

His list of achievements is intimidating; he must have been one of the most powerful supers in the world. He took out saucers single-handedly, and completed hundreds of missions. Under number of kills was written “thousands”. Ice Blood’s rise was meteoric until its sudden, tragic end. He was only twenty-five.

“Search for Born Lucky,” I say.

I’m not surprised to find that Born Lucky comes from a rich, politically connected family. He is a powerful super, too, although not in the same league as Ice Blood.

“Reason for assignment,” I ask.

The computer seems to think about this one, then spits out: “Volunteered for the Cerberus Brawlers.”

“Search for other volunteers,” I say.

“None found,” the computer says.

I’m not surprised.

“Search Pet Shark,” I ask.

“Record classified. Error! Unauthorized access detected–”

The screen on my arm starts glowing red. I stop my search and wipe any evidence of my prying with practice that comes from years of misspent youth. I doubt anyone will be able to trace the unauthorized access back to me, even if they notice it. My tat-a-gotchi reappears on my arm and glares at me. I feed it, and it falls asleep.

I lie back on the bed, but it’s not long before my thoughts are interrupted by a loud knock on the door. It’s Past Prime, and he does not look happy. I try to look innocent.

“I’ve assigned you to a team. It’s only temporary until our roster stabilizes,” he says.

“I’m ready,” I answer.

“You aren’t, but we are desperately short handed. Be at the armory in twenty minutes.”

He closes the door.

I should be mourning the loss of Ice Blood and his team, and part of me is.

I should be terrified, and part of me is.

I should be worried that I’m not up to this.

But all I can think of is that I am getting a chance to fight saucers again, and this time I know what I’m doing.

Maybe I also have ice for blood.