Eric Stever - Non Metallic

With a cry that was more fear than anger, Bob-Ten hurtled toward his brother, not seeing the Optonian guards that he stomped out of the way, not feeling the direct hit that singed his chest, and caught his robe top on fire. He tore it off, tossing it into a puddle of fuel, and a nearby Armored Wheeler was quickly engulfed and exploded. Laser fire blew past him like snow on a windy day.

Persius glided toward him, his arms outstretched as if to give Bob-Ten a hug. But Bob-Ten knew his strength, knew he was no match for it.

Bob-Ten ran for Persius, screaming at him, at the war around him. Persius’s face was unmoving as he grasped for Bob-Ten. But he could not find a hold.

At the last instant, Bob-Ten rolled underneath Persius, where his legs should have been. He scrambled to his feet, feeling the handmade skirt give way as Persius grabbed at his leg. But naked as he was, Bob-Ten had bested his brother. He ran for the blinkity-blink machine.

The Optonians had spooled it up, thinking they would bag a few more superheroes for their workforce. Realizing it was a trick, they had abandoned that plan, but in the heat of battle they had forgotten to turn it off. And why bother. It would only affect two men on this bridge. Bob-Ten and his brother Persius.

Bob-Ten reached the control panels, a dead-easy system that had to be obvious to hundreds of life forms that might use it. It was a big fat button, and all he had to do was press it. Looking down at his naked body, Bob-Ten supposed he would go out the way he came in.

In the last minutes of life, they say everything slows down. Bob-Ten looked up at his brother one last time, and saw not anger, but sorrow. Persius’s face was damp, tears streaming down it from the ruined eye sockets, his mouth framing one word over and over again as he bore down on Bob-Ten, ready to kill him.

“Please,” Persius said. “Please, please, plea—”

“Love ’ya Pete,” Bob-Ten said. He mashed the button and then everything went black.

Clickity-clack, clickity-clack. Bob-Ten thought the sounds of heaven would be more instrumental, more harps and flutes and less monotonous drumming. More symphony, less solo.

Clickity-clack. He shivered. It should be warmer too. And shouldn’t they tell him what had happened with the war… Bob-Ten sat up.

“He’s awake,” a voice said. There was a thunder of footsteps, of men running toward him.

Bob-Ten felt the scratch of chipped concrete against his legs as he rolled to his side. Getting ready to defend himself. But he was so weak.

“Get the lights, Cushion,” a woman’s voice said.

Clickity-clack. Bob-Ten could see Sertain’s face grinning out at him, Mentissa looking down impassively. Bob-Ten was laying on the concrete in the school basement. Sertain’s men were gathered around him, staring.

A cup was thrust in his hand, and he drank from it. The bitter taste proclaimed medicine.

“We got him,” Sertain said. “We took out the bridge, disabled the ‘honey-trap’, that’s what Mentissa said it was. After we brought you back to her, she told us where the second bridge was, and we played the same script, same day.”

Curtain leaned in. “But you were so hot when we brought you in. You know? That blinkity-blink, it fried you. We wanted a revenge bridge because we thought you were dead. Super-weirdoes on that one too, both changed by the Khaganate. But Sertain got to the blinkity-blink and set it off.” He slapped his hands together. “I drowned one of them myself, poor bastard.”

“Two bridges,” Bob-Ten said, almost to himself. He looked at Mentissa, who smiled, daring him. She knew, he thought. Had always known.

Not breaking eye contact with her, Bob-Ten spoke. “And the super-weirdo on the first bridge, was he dead?”

“Dead as they come,” Sertain said. “You was holding him like you were babies, cradling each other. It took most of us just to get you out of his grip. But the blinkity-blink is too strong for superheroes at close range. The more powerful the hero, the more damage it does. I mean— well you’re not all that super now are you Bob?” He looked at Mentissa. “You’re more of a human-hero hybrid, you know…”

“And that explains why I’m still alive,” Bob-Ten said, his eyes boring into Mentissa’s. “Persius was always the stronger of us two.”

Mentissa recoiled, as if slapped. The illusion of cool genius fell from her face. “Oh Bob… I’m so sorry. I didn’t think it would be him.” She flashed her eyes at the group of men, and they decided, as a whole, to find something else to do. Sertain and his men walked out into the hallway.

“But you knew from the beginning,” Bob-Ten said. “You marked me because you knew I could get to these bridges and survive. You sought me out didn’t you?”

Mentissa nodded. “The Optonians that I embodied confirmed it. Remember when I told you about the Spanish colonizers, how they sought out the centers of power and then used them for their own ends? Well the superheroes are the gold, Bob. We are the treasure. The Khaganate wants us working for him. I think he might have made us, might have made this city to gather us all here. To sharpen our blades, by putting the strongest heroes against the strongest villains.”

Bob-Ten shook his head. “How many does he have right now?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“A handful work for him willingly, but he needs more,” Mentissa said. “His changelings number over one hundred, but they’re weak… There was no way I could know your brother was on that bridge.”

Bob-Ten thought for a while, a strange silence passing over his face. “You never told me which bridge… I chose it. So that part is true,” he said. “But the time for game playing is over, Mentissa. It’s not hero against villain anymore, so stop worrying about your reputation and start giving me all the information. Are they rebuilding the bridges?”

Mentissa nodded, closed her eyes. A moment passed and a slow smile broke across her face.

“Not only that,” she said. “But they are rebuilding them exactly the same. Same materials, same dimensions, and using old concrete if they can find it. Trying to put together pieces of it like a puzzle. They’re upset about the loss of the two. More than upset, they abhor the loss, like it’s sacrilegious.”

Bob-Ten grimaced. “Then that’s a pressure point,” he said. “Nobody likes it when you put boogers on the collection plate.”

Bob-Ten took a step toward the hallway, then stopped. “Mentissa, I want you to embody as many Optonians as you can that have access to the bridges. I want them upset, lonely, and extremely suicidal. Make sure you give them access to high explosives. Cushion can help you with that. We’re taking out as many of those bridges as we can. It’s symbolic, you know? It’s a symbol. We can hurt them too.”

Mentissa closed her eyes, and got to work immediately. Bob-Ten would keep an eye on her, but her guilt over what had happened should give him a month without any lip. If she wanted to claim evil genius credits for their work here, he couldn’t care less.

The attack plan they had used wouldn’t work anymore, but Bob-Ten had an army now. He had flexibility. Without another word Bob-Ten strode into the hallway where Sertain was listening in.

“Hey Sertain,” Bob-Ten said. “Can you learn to drive a speedboat?”

Let’s talk about your brain. A lot of your brain is evolved for non-linguistic interactions, which happen both internally and externally. Most of your brain functions are not conscious. And in case you hadn’t noticed, your brain does a good job of keeping you alive. How are these things related? And what does it have to do with this short story about well-intentioned hippies ruining the world?