Super-Borg Chapter 1
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Chapter One
“Stupid wannabe superhero,” a bulky man holding a metal pipe said, swinging it at Super-Borg, “why don’t you go home and read your comic-books?” Super-Borg had already disarmed the man of his gun but was surprised by the man’s resourcefulness when he pulled out a metal pipe.
Super-Borg ducked the wild swing and brought his clenched, reinforced glove up into the man’s jaw, shutting him up. He hated banter. He stood over the unconscious man, catching his breath and wiping rain away from his goggles. His black exoskeleton-enhanced, military-grade personal armor creaked when he bent over and zip-tied the man’s hands behind his back.
As he stood up, two bullets struck Super-Borg in the back. The carbon-fiber reinforced plates in his suit absorbed most of the blow, but it still hurt. He dove behind a garbage can as another shot fired; it didn’t provide much protection. He spotted the shooter standing fifty yards away, which placed Super-Borg directly between the shooter and the Space Needle. Super-Borg bolted from his cover, staying low to the ground.
Even in a crouch, his powered suit allowed him to cover half of the distance quickly. He straightened up and then, as more shots whizzed by, he jumped, letting his suit propel him eight feet into the air. At the peak of his jump he threw a disc, about the size of a hockey puck, at the gunman. The disc struck just above his eye, and he crumpled with a grunt.
Super-Borg landed and slid on the mud, crashing into a bush. He stood up, extricated himself from the bush and picked trash off his mud-caked suit. It wasn’t the most graceful landing, but it worked. Super-Borg sprinted over and zip-tied the man’s hands behind his back. “Let’s hope the cops find you before your friends do,” Super-Borg said to the unconscious man. “And hopefully the cops aren’t your friends.”
A bullet struck the tree next to him, and he ducked instinctively, jumping behind the tree. All this gunfire was bringing more unwanted attention. Yelling echoed through the vacant grounds around the Space Needle. What few lights that worked did little more than create small lighted cones of rain and mist. His disc was at the base of the tree but he didn’t bother to pick it up. He had lost so many that people were collecting them and reselling them online. Periodically he changed the design of the “SB” stamp he put on them, just to make the older discs collectible. People were funny. Even with all the chaos and economic instability, people still collected things.
The Space Needle, with its boarded-up gift shop and graffiti-covered cement supports, loomed ahead. The Neuro-syndicate was a gang specializing in the theft, production, and sale of neuro-enhancing drugs. Neuro enhancers were used by everyone: from corporate employees trying to stay sharp while they put in twelve-plus hour days, to professional gamers looking to get an edge in their next online tournament, or even school kids looking to pass their prep-school admissions tests. While it would be hypocritical for Super-Borg to object to people using neuro enhancers, the Neuro-syndicate killed people, and the stuff they cut their neuro enhancers with caused long-term brain damage and sometimes death. When neuro enhancers weren’t covered by a person’s corporate benefits plan, the black-market stuff was all most people could afford.
Super-Borg was there to stop the Neuro-syndicate from making a major sale, but he did not expect them to have this much armed support. The deal must be bigger than he thought.
“Super-cycle, deploy the drones and release smoke bombs between my location and the Space Needle.” Super-Borg used drones for several purposes. He was surprised more supers didn’t use them. But most supers weren’t rich. Super-Borg wasn’t Bruce Wayne rich, but he was rich enough, and after dropping out of med school he had earned a degree in engineering, so he could build most of his own equipment. He relied on drones to survey his surroundings and record his excursions. He used the recordings to make videos he released online to his followers, to watch for his own personal training, and he occasionally used them as evidence in court. Drones were also invaluable for providing a distraction. He could see the small flock of drones in the heads-up display built into his goggles. Soon dense smoke filled the park.
His super-suit featured large, modified high-tech goggles that provided a heads-up display and video link from his drones, an open-face reinforced motorcycle helmet, and a face mask covering his nose and mouth. The mask was wired to receive his voice commands, amplify and alter his voice, filter out all smoke and toxins, and supply extra oxygen when he was exerting himself like right now. Sensors in his suit adjusted oxygen levels as needed.
People yelled loudly, calling out to each other in the smoke, trying to get a handle on what was going on. An occasional shot rang out when someone saw — or thought they saw — something.
An alert on his display warned him that his heart rate was elevated. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. “Keep it together, SB.” Super-Borg took a deep breath in and slowly let it out. “Someone has to do something. This is what you do. This is who you are,” he said, repeating the oft-invoked mantra. He took a deep breath, “Up, up, and away,” he whispered, and sprinted for the Space Needle.
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Who brings rocket launchers to a drug deal? Super-Borg thought, running to get clear of the falling Space Needle. Beams, bolts, and concrete built to survive a 9.1 earthquake began to scream as if in unbelief that they had finally failed. As he ran, Super-Borg was still looking up at the falling Space Needle. It was like a bad dream. He was trying to not run directly in the path of the falling mountain of architecture, but there seemed to be no escaping it. He tried to change direction and tripped — over what, he didn’t know — and fell sprawling into the mud. He cursed himself for not watching where he was going, scrambled to his feet — determined to watch where he was running — and kept his head down as he ran. He was so intent on running and watching where he was going, that he failed to see the furniture dropping out of the old top-floor restaurant. A chair slammed on the ground immediately in front of him. He didn’t have time to hurdle it, so he tried to kick it, but his foot got stuck in the armrest and he fell again. Debris and concrete rained down. He curled up into the fetal position as Seattle’s most iconic landmark buried him.
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Trent was coughing on water and his head was throbbing, but he wasn’t awake enough to open his eyes.
“Trent? Trent, can you hear me?” His father’s voice sounded like it was coming from very far away. “Trent, I need you to wake up.” His head shook slightly, and water sloshed around the side of his face, like it was bobbing in the ocean.
Trent’s eyes snapped open, his head hurt, and he was still coughing.
“He’s awake,” his father said, sounding relieved. “I think he’s okay.” His father was looking at him, but he wasn’t talking to him.
“That’s great, Mr. Daeshaun,” a woman’s voice said from overhead. “Help is on its way, just hang in there.”
It came back to Trent then. Headlights swerving into their lane. His dad swearing. Tires screeching. The world spinning.
“Trent. Buddy. Can you hold your head up? I need to let go.” Trent realized that his head was being held up out of the water by his dad, who was turned around from the driver’s seat — one shaky arm holding Trent’s head up so he wouldn’t drown and one hand pushing against the steering wheel, giving him the leverage that he needed to reach Trent. Trent nodded and lifted his head up.
“Mr. Daeshaun, how are you doing? How are your legs?” the woman asked, with an intentionally calm voice — not emotionless or robotic, but not worried either, just appropriately concerned.
“I still can’t feel my legs. I’m feeling light-headed.” Trent’s dad glanced back at Trent and then added with the best smile that he could muster, “But I’m fine. I got my boy here with me, so everything will be okay.” Trent’s dad was a cop, so he knew how to lie convincingly.
Trent was twelve and knew when his dad was being a cop and when he was being a dad. Right now, Officer Daeshaun was in the driver’s seat, and everything would be okay. Trent knew when his dad put on his work persona in front of him: it was either because he needed immediate and unquestioning obedience, or when he needed to lie because whatever was going on in the world was out of his control and he couldn’t face his son with the truth. For the first month after his mother died, he lived with Officer Daeshaun and didn’t see his dad much.
Trent always thought he looked like a faded version of his dad. He had seen pictures of his dad as a kid and they looked so much alike, except Trent had his mother’s lighter Indian skin. His mother was beautiful, but he had always wished he had been darker like his dad. He spent a lot of time looking at his dad’s complexion and had learned what the subtle changes meant. He could tell when his dad blushed because his cheeks and ears turned a richer color of brown. When he was sick or light-headed, he looked like the chocolate Easter bunny Trent had forgotten about for almost a year that had developed a gray-tinted film over the surface. His dad looked like that now.
“Dad, what’s wrong?”
Officer Daeshaun looked back and met Trent’s eyes, “We were in an accident. Help is on the way. It will be okay.”
“Dad, you’re shaking. You don’t look good.” His dad was shivering severely.
“Don’t look good? You calling me ugly?” The laugh that followed was weak — even weaker than the joke. Trent said nothing.
Trent’s dad sighed, “The wreck was pretty bad. We’re lucky to still be alive. My legs are trapped. I also think I lost a lot of blood.”
“That’s why you’re shaking so bad?”
“Probably a combination of shock and the adrenaline wearing off. But the blood loss isn’t helping.”
“Mr. Daeshaun,” the voice spoke from their car speakers, “the paramedics and the police are arriving now.” Trent could see the flashing lights and hear the vehicles pulling up. “I’m in contact with the officer in charge. I will leave the line open until you are both out of the vehicle.” Neither Trent nor his dad bothered to respond. They were both transfixed by the emergency vehicle lights.
“Mike?” They could hear footsteps and the sound of a belt full of equipment bouncing as the officer it was attached to ran toward them. “Mike?” A flashlight moved closer, breaking away from the emergency vehicles parked along the road, like a bright white scout sent out from the hive of flashier, colorful lights.
“Here. We’re here.” Trent’s dad called out. Tears filled Trent’s eyes and he wasn’t sure why, he tried uselessly to wipe them away with a wet hand.
Light filled the windshield and then came around to the driver’s window. The car had rolled into the lake, but they were near the shore where the water was shallow. Trent sat in the backseat, passenger side — his dad still preferred him to ride in the back so the airbags wouldn’t hurt him if they were ever in a wreck. Trent almost laughed as the tears ran down his face. The one time they were in a wreck, and the airbags failed to go off.
“Mike, thank God you’re alive.” It was his dad’s partner, Jose, and Trent knew he was crossing himself. His dad teased Jose about how much he crossed himself and uttered little prayers. Trent was glad Jose was praying for them.
“Jose, Trent’s in the back. Get him first.” The flashlight turned its stare on Trent and panned back and forth.
“Trent, you hurt?” Jose said.
“I don’t think so.”
“Trent, can you unbuckle yourself?”
“I think I can,” Trent said, reaching down until he found the buckle and unlatched it.
“Bring me a stretcher,” Jose yelled back toward the flashing lights. “Trent,” Jose said, in his soft, but still firm, everything’s going to be okay if you do what I say voice, “I’m going to pull you toward me and then out. Okay?”
Trent nodded and slid toward Jose. Large hands reached in and grabbed him. Trent began coughing again.
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Super-Borg woke up coughing on dust and his whole body was in pain. His mask had come off, it was dark, and dust filled the air. He was trapped and concrete dust coated everything, forming a sticky paste as it mixed with the rainwater. His head hurt and his ribs screamed in pain when he coughed. “Broken rib, great.” The display on his goggles wasn’t working. There was a cold breeze and drops of rain splashed around him. His leg felt trapped, and he didn’t have much room to move, but he was thankful to be alive. Trying to lift the slab of 1960s concrete that trapped his leg proved impossible as there was no power from his suit, and without it he wasn’t strong enough.
A sharp pain in his knee pulsed like someone was stabbing it with an icepick in time with his heartbeat. The concrete rock kept him from bending his leg, but he moved his toes and then his foot. “I don’t think the leg’s broken, that’s good.” There was a large gash on the armor over his chest where a large piece of rubble had bounced off and broken his ribs. He was lucky to be alive.
He coughed again and forgot about the icepick in his knee as pain shot through his chest. He could feel his ribs shifting when he coughed. Between the dust and the broken rib, it was hard to breathe, and he felt light-headed.
“I can’t believe they dropped the Space Needle on me. What the hell?” His voice was rough and scratchy from dust and coughing, but talking to himself helped to keep him calm.
No power in his exoskeleton or in the goggles meant the suit was in sleep mode, out of power, or the impact had somehow shut everything down. It was also possible the suit was critically damaged, but he didn’t want to think about that. Opening the cover of the touchscreen on his arm, he poked at it a few times. Nothing happened. He coughed again and grimaced through the pain. The suit would need a hard reboot.
Lifting a panel built into the armor on his shoulder, he flipped open the small breaker box. Sliding the switch inside to the off position, he counted to three and then slid it back. The slow, electrical whining of his suit waking up filled his little cave. He lay back, exhausted but smiling.
Looking at the screen on his forearm, he could see his suit’s power was at 20 percent. There was also a problem with the right knee joint. All of his drones were still circling the area, collecting data. They reported that his immediate vicinity was clear — the Neuro-syndicate must have bolted. The police weren’t there yet, but an alert told him they were on the way. Super-Borg had no desire to talk to the police. They disliked supers, and Super-Borg was a vocal critic of the privatization of the police force. Whenever he had to deal with the police, they went out of their way to make things difficult for him. He still respected the badge, but he knew even his dad wouldn’t like what had become of the force. His best option was to try and get out of there quickly and quietly, and file his community marshals incident report later.
With the power restored to his goggles, he turned them to night-vision mode and located his mask. He braced himself, then used the power of his suit to lift the chunk of man-made rock off his leg. Even with the suit doing most of the heavy lifting, his ribs still screamed at him. The rock shifted and he stopped, catching his breath, trying not to cough.
Taking a slow breath, he repositioned his hands and lifted again. The concrete slowly shifted, causing a small avalanche of rubble to fall on his helmet.
He slid his leg out and slowly stood, leaning against the same rock that had been trying to crush him. There was a piece of rebar wedged into the knee joint of his suit. The rebar had cut a large gash in his leg. Blood dripped down his suit, mixing with the dirt and rainwater, but he thought how incredibly lucky he was that it had not skewered his knee. He grabbed the piece of metal and pulled it free, inhaling sharply as it dragged across the cut. The mechanized joint on his suit was useless, but he could still bend his knee.
It was only a few blocks to where he had parked his motorcycle. He hoped no video of him limping away from the scene would turn up online.
He made it to the super-cycle without any hassle. He called it a super-cycle, but it looked like any other motorcycle. That was the point. He pulled a large, black hoodie from the storage compartment under the seat and covered himself up. As he rode away, shame and embarrassment flushed his cheeks. This was bad. He would have to call his publicist.
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Super-Borg Limps Away from Destroyed Space Needle
We are receiving reports that today’s collapse of Seattle’s iconic Space Needle happened during an altercation between the Neuro-syndicate and the community marshal known as Super-Borg. Amateur video of Super-Borg fleeing the aftermath of the fallen Space Needle has been posted online.
Today, Super-Borg has given more fuel to the fire for those who think the community marshals cause more harm than good when he was involved in an altercation that resulted in the collapse of the Space Needle. Losing the iconic Seattle structure has many residents calling for the disbanding of the community marshals. While some call them superheroes, others call them reckless vigilantes.
Fredrick Harman, the owner of a vegan hamburger truck called, Where’s the Beef, who lives in an apartment near the Space Needle, doesn’t see the purpose of the community marshals anymore. “They just run around playing superhero and doing more damage than they prevent. We lost the Space Needle today. Is it worth it?”
Deputy Veishea of the local community marshals’ office has continuously stated that because the police are now privately funded, their priorities don’t always align with those of the public.
The Space Needle is owned by the city and has been condemned for years, so there were no police assigned to the area, but they are looking into the use of banned weapons and explosives that reportedly brought it down.
From The Seattle Wire
