Resistance (10 page)

“This is most disappointing,” says Norio. “I don’t know why, but I expected you to be really intelligent. But that’s not your power, clearly.”

“No, it isn’t,” says Aman. “But I work things out eventually. You’ve brought me here, to what has to be the world’s least impressive villain lair—”

“Sorry about that.”

“Yes, seriously, you should be. Where are the minions? The aquariums? The doomsday devices?”

“I actually have a few doomsday devices. Thanks to Sundar.”

“Where is Sundar?”

“Elsewhere.”

“Well, it’s insulting, is all I can say. At least when I kidnapped you, you got a nuclear-class submarine. And you would have had a crazy beautiful underwater base after that. And a really friendly interrogator. Also, why is there no security? Where are the underlings in uniform?”

“I don’t mean to insult you. But you are no threat. Why would I need guards? My hospitality, though, yes, I should be keeping you in more discomfort. But I work with humans, not supers, so these things take time.”

“It’s all right. Where were we?”

“You were telling me what my master plan is.”

“Yes. So you brought me here because you want to use my powers. But you’re blocking my powers, which gives me a hell of a headache, by the way. You’re not even doing a decent monologue telling me what you want. So you’ve essentially brought me here because you want to put me in a Utopic zoo. Run tests on me, bottle my powers, whatever it is that you people do.”

“Wrong answer,” says Norio with a shrug.

“Well, then, I don’t know, Norio,” says Aman. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“You got one bit right, though,” says Norio. “I do want to kill Jai Mathur. Honour demands it.”

“Then you should have asked nicely,” says Aman. “And I would have told you I don’t know how.”

“And I wouldn’t have believed you,” says Norio. “If anyone knows, you do. And I’m going to find out.”

“Are you planning to torture me?” asks Aman. “Because you can skip that. I have a very low pain threshold.”

Norio laughs. “No,” he says. “Aman, I would have enjoyed being your ally, and putting my hopes and dreams in your hands, but I am afraid I do not have time for that. I am neither a murderer nor some sort of crazed villain, and you should know I regret deeply what I am about to do to you.”

Aman sighs. “Tia will find me, you know. She’ll save me. Or she’ll avenge me.”

“She won’t need to,” says Norio. “When I’m done, I’ll let you go.”

“You won’t,” says Aman. “We both know that.”

“Well, we shall see. Now can I trust you to sit here quietly for a while? I need to bring some equipment from another room. It’ll take a few minutes.”

“Sure, go ahead,” says Aman.

Norio turns and walks out of the door.

Aman gives it two minutes, and then sprints after him.

The door leads to a landing, there are flights of stairs in both directions, and an elevator. Outside, it’s daylight. Aman can see tall buildings. A billboard, with large Japanese letters. A pigeon sitting on it. And Azusa, who’s standing by the elevator dressed in a sharp blazer, a resigned look on her face as she walks towards him.

* * *

When Aman regains consciousness, he’s back in the hall, and back in his chair. This time, his hands are tied behind his back; the knots aren’t tight, but they are firm. Azusa stands beside him, idly toying with a long and slender samurai sword.

“Thanks,” says Aman. It comes out squeakier than he intended.

Azusa nods.

The door opens, Norio enters, pushing a large trolley on which sits what looks like a computer from a museum. Wires trail behind it, occasionally tangling up with the trolley’s wheels. On top of the bulky monitor sits a tin-foil helmet with two wires attached to a chunky cluster of chips on top of it.

“Almost done,” says Norio. “I’ll just have to set this up. There’s an extension cord somewhere. Azusa, entertain him. Tell him some jokes or something.”

Azusa subjects Norio to a piercing gaze, and then turns and stares at Aman, who flinches.

Norio swiftly plugs in the extension cord and switches on the computer. It takes ages to start up, with a series of moans and dying-fridge noises. When it finally starts running, the foil helmet lights up, and Norio picks it up and puts it on Aman’s head. He walks back to the trolley and stands in front of the large, unwieldy keyboard.

“All set,” he says.

“And what new low-budget delight is this?” asks Aman.

“This is a mind control machine,” says Norio. “I type in commands, and you execute them.”

“That’s ridiculous,” says Aman.

“Yes, it is,” says Norio. “But all of Sundar’s inventions are. How long did you and he work together? A few months? I’ve had him for several years. And your friend is industrious to a point that puts us Japanese to shame.”

“Let him go,” says Aman. “You know who wanted to use Sundar exactly the same way? Jai.”

“Sundar isn’t a prisoner. He’s the head of my zaibatsu’s R and D department,” says Norio. “I’ve given him a life of luxury, a fat salary, and all the toys he needs to be the very best mad inventor he can be. He’s happier now than he’s ever been before.”

“I need to see him,” says Aman.

Norio smiles. “No, you don’t,” he says. “Now, sit very still.”

Aman sits in his broken office chair, a tin-foil helmet on his head, feeling like a complete idiot, as Norio types into the keyboard. And then Norio looks up, smiles and hits a key. The helmet shakes and crackles, and Aman smells his hair burning.

* * *

Norio watches as Aman’s face contorts, and he struggles in vain to free his hands and lift the helmet from his head. Aman struggles in the chair for a few seconds, and then slumps forward, drooling, his eyes rolling upwards.

At a signal from Norio, Azusa extracts a small device from her pocket, and switches it off.

“He can go online now?” Norio asks.

Azusa nods. “How long will it be before he regains control?” she asks. “Should I strike him when he does?”

“Well, it lasts for about ten minutes on normal people,” says Norio. “So let’s say about two minutes for him, and then just turn the blocker on again. There’s no need for violence.”

Azusa gives him a very odd look indeed as he starts typing, fast, the sound of his keystrokes incredibly loud. Sundar’s machine hums even louder, and a thin trickle of blood flows out of Aman’s nose.

Norio feels Azusa’s gaze burning twin holes on his forehead.

“What is it?” he snaps. “What do you want to say?”

“It is not my place, sir,” says Azusa.

“Just tell me,” says Norio. “Our – relationship has never been about master and servant. You know this. You’ve always known.”

Azusa shakes her head. “There are too many questions.”

“You want to know what I’m making him do.”

“I want to know everything,” says Azusa.

* * *

Norio glances at her and clears his throat. She’s never seen him so nervous.

“Before we can end the superhero plague, I have to know exactly who they are and what they can do,” says Norio, his eyes fixed on the monochrome monitor in front of him. “Aman is sending us a list. Everything he knows about every superhero in the world. Powers, weaknesses. Where they are. Teams, free agents, Utopic prisoners, fugitives. How to find them, and how to kill them.”

Azusa makes sure her face is perfectly composed before speaking again. She looks away from Aman, whose nose and ears are bleeding heavily now, his moans of pain almost inaudible below the drone of Norio’s computer.

“You want to kill all supers?” she asks. “Is that not… excessive?”

“I don’t want to kill them
all
,” says Norio. “But the world is slipping away from humanity. Out of balance, out of time. I have to find a way to stop this.”

Azusa draws a handkerchief out of her pocket and mops up Aman’s face.

“Why not just find out where Jai Mathur is, and send a nuclear missile there?” she asks. “No one has tried that before. You will have your revenge. Your honour will be satisfied.”

“Because I need to look Jai in the eye when I destroy him. But that is a personal matter. Jai is not the real problem,” says Norio. “This war we have entered will not stop until the world is in balance again. This plague – and I call it a plague because it is unnatural, and wrong – must be ended. Killing Jai is just one step. Jai is just one man. There are others like him.”

“You think of it as a disease,” says Azusa. “But the world thinks of it as evolution. The powered think of it as something that happened by chance, or because they were chosen, by karma or kami. Many with powers never asked for them. They do not deserve to die.”

“And I never said I would kill them. But no, this is not evolution, Azusa.”

“Why not? A new species of human is here. The birth of any new era has been heralded by bloodshed and violence. But supers have helped the world too. It’s a leap into the future. And yes, the unknown always inspires fear. But you were never one to look back, Norio. You were always the one who believed in better worlds.”

“It’s not a better world. It’s a world where humans have given up. The new super-race does all the real work, and earns all the glory. And humans watch, and stagnate, and die.”

“That is not true. The supers are reshaping the world, and humans are richer for it. You are richer for it. Think of the ways Sundar’s inventions have helped the Hisatomi zaibatsu alone. Think of the gene-sequencing programme. In a few years you’ll be selling augmented limbs and making humans who run like cheetahs and can breathe underwater. You’re making bioprinters. Fountains of youth. Cyborgs. Drinking water teabags. You’re splicing genes. Birthing new insects. Space elevators. The supers aren’t just an improvement themselves, Norio, they’re helping us grow as well. If this isn’t evolution, what is?”

“If it were evolution, if it were natural, the children of supers would be supers too. This is something else. Something artificial. A contamination. A problem we must fix.”

“Why us?”

“Because no one else can.”

“I do not agree,” says Azusa. “You are giving up your life – and your ancestors’ work – to follow this quest, and already it has changed you too much. I do not know you any more.”

“Those are strong words,” Norio snaps. “You know me, Azusa. No one else knows me better. I’ve trusted you all my life. Is it too much to ask that you trust me in return?”

Azusa walks up to Norio, and looks deep into his eyes. He looks back, unwavering, solemn.

“I do trust you,” she says. “But I don’t know if you’re right.”

“When I am done, the world will be better,” he says. “The journey will be rough, and I will need you. I will give you many reasons to doubt me. But can you also believe in me?”

“I think so,” she says.

He moves forward, grasping her shoulders, and leans in to kiss her, but she shivers involuntarily, and he lets her go, almost pushing her away.

Azusa stands silent, head bowed.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers. “I am still Norio. I haven’t changed.”

His eyes follow hers as she looks at Aman, now bleeding freely again, shuddering in his tin-foil helmet, his body bent awkwardly, like a discarded puppet.

“Do you love me, Azusa?” Norio asks.

She says nothing.

Norio types in a sentence and looks up at her. “Do you wish to leave my employment?” he asks.

“No,” says Azusa.

“Then restore the signal block. He’s coming round.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

Norio glares at Azusa’s back as she strides away. He types in another command, and the machine’s humming grows softer as it powers down. He lifts the helmet from Aman’s head, and Aman blinks and groans.

Norio looks into his eyes as he wakes.

“Are you done?” Aman asks.

“No,” says Norio. “But now, thanks to you, I can finally get started.”

A broad, dusty, cratered highway runs through the desolation of Gurgaon, in what used to be north India. Either side of the highway lie clusters of burnt, broken buildings; gigantic hoardings advertising everything from holo-projectors to experimental jetpacks glitter and swivel, displaying their wares to wandering packs of feral mongrels. The afternoon sun is dazzlingly bright; occasional gusts of wind blow swirling patterns of dust across the sky.

In the silence, the sound of an approaching van is deafening, but the lone figure trudging down the side of the highway towards Delhi shows no signs of having heard it. It’s a woman, short and shapely, dressed in a kurta, protected from the sun and wind by a dupatta draped over her head and shoulders.

The van is white, and full of lean, hungry boys. They look like teenagers, and the guns in their hands and the rattling van they’re huddled inside, look considerably older. Through tinny speakers in the back, a wailing turn-of-the-century British-Punjabi rap song competes with the noise of the van’s engine.

They spot the woman from far away, and their faces light up; pickings for the rape gangs of Gurgaon have been slim, since the mass exodus of five years ago. They scream obscenities at her: ripe fruit ready for plucking is the politest comparison they make.

Tia walks on, ignoring them as they slow down behind her and cruise for a few minutes. It’s only when one of the boys in the rear seat slides open the van door that she reacts at all.

Five minutes later, it is over, and the rape gang is but another bad memory. Tias drag the bodies back into the van. Already, a flock of crows has assembled in the sky above them. She’d tried to scare them away, to reason with the last few, but she didn’t know if they had even understood her Hindi. Some of them looked like Afghans; they could have been from any of the war-torn fiefdoms that now ran from western Afghanistan to central India.

Tia pushes one of the bodies into the driver’s seat, merges back into a single body, puts the dead driver’s foot on the accelerator and starts the vehicle. The van drives off the highway, runs into an abandoned petrol pump and crashes into a vending machine. Tia walks away, imagining herself in slow motion, waiting for a huge explosion behind her. But there is none, the pump has been abandoned for years.