Take Us to Your Chief (18 page)

As expected, twenty Kepler minutes later, Eric showed up at the Astronosphere. He considered this place the doorway to the galaxy. Inside its walls, the young man could access all aspects of the galaxy in a few minutes, though that was a misnomer. Time was a tricky concept in the world of astronomy. Light-years were not a measurement of time but of distance. And in the four or five minutes it would take him to load the computers and access any one of the numerous technological arrays that scanned the heavens, the information he would be looking at would be hours, weeks, years, more than likely millenniums old. But the important thing was he could look at them now, regardless of when the visible light or gamma rays or
X
-rays had begun their journey across th
e universe.

Eric's father, like many people in the settlement, had several responsibilities. He worked in hydroponics as well as metallurgical structuring. The founders of Plymroc felt that focusing on one field of expertise for the rest of your life, so far away from most Earth-like diversions, could create psychological problems. So most Keplerites juggled two professions to keep the mind active. This way, each individual could flex different parts of thei
r cognizance.

His father had never noticed Eric's midnight absences. He was always too busy or too tired. Although it was twenty-two years old, the settlement of Plymroc was far from complete. It was a never-ending construction site, with priority given to such necessities as atmospherics upgrades and water purification. Right now, the list on the original Schedule of Priorities drawn up on landing was only two-thirds finished. It was estimated another twelve to fourteen years were needed before the framework of the settlement would be finalized. It would be that long before his father and many of the other colonists would be released from their twelve-hour workdays. Eric's mother had died not long after he was born, what with the med centre being less of a priority than the atmospherics and biofoo
d domes.

As he had expected, the Astronosphere was empty. In an attempt to mimic Earth as much as possible, Plymroc founders kept the normal terrestrial manifestations of time on Kepler-186f. The rotation of the planet was only fifty-six minutes longer, so it didn't take much of an effort to adapt it. Plymroc was on night shift now, so he had the lab to himself, a
s usual.

The Astronosphere was one of the few locations in the settlement specially shielded against the pervasive pulsations of the atmospherics. Because of the delicate nature of the equipment it contained, the room had been precisely designed to act as a buffer against man- and Kepler-made vibrations—the planet had a unique hum because of pulsations emanating from its highly crystalline core. For that reason, Eric had found great peace in the Cosmicon, short for Cosmic Consciousness. The Cosmicon was a small room within the Astronosphere with digital readouts and input monitors scattered in all six directions. If you manipulated things correctly—which Eric was very adept at—you could almost make it look like you were deep in space, alone and floating, surrounded by everything the Big Bang had spit out. Making himself comfortable in the Cosmicon, Eric booted the familiar program and adjusted th
e levels.

For about seven months now, since he had learned and decoded the programming behind the Cosmicon, he'd been able to shut out the outside world and manoeuvre himself through the far reaches of space. Floating below him in the inkiness was the Crab Nebula; dangling overhead was the distorted Orion's Belt. To his right, the twin suns of Sirius. To his left, a magnification of the massive black hole at the centre of the galaxy. And directly ahead, a strange, far-off place calle
d Earth.

Of course, Eric had never been there. He'd been born several years after Plymroc was founded, but he'd heard the stories of the Origin. The elders of the community even jokingly referred to their exodus as “the Origin Express.” Few now got the joke. Eric had visited the archival web, as well as taken the yearly courses in school. Every resident had studied Earth's history, composition, location and people in school, and he had studied far more by himself, in here, alone. Although the planet was far and remote, he held it close and personal. He sure wished he could see an elephant in the flesh, but that was most definitely unlikely t
o happen.

It was the
SATD
that got the first settlers here—Space Altering Thrust Drive. It altered the fabric of space, allowing transit in a remarkably short time—though, again, time is relative. It took 490 years for light from Earth's yellow sun to reach Kepler, and it would have taken double, triple, quadruple that amount of time for a spaceship to traverse that distance by conventional means. The
SATD
took only twenty years, the problem being it was a one-way trip. The drive burns itself out. The citizens of Plymroc could try to build another one to return with, but why? They would travel for twenty years to settle this planet, only to spend five years and much of their limited resources building a new
SATD
, then travel for another twenty years to return to Earth. Not much point in al
l that.

Eric knew every nuance and shade of that far-off blue planet. Kepler-186f had more of a dull greenish-grey tinge to it, unlike Earth's fabulous bright cerulean. It was unlikely he would ever set foot on Earth, but there was no harm in visiting it with his eyes o
r mind.

The image in front of him had taken 490 years to reach Kepler-186f. Again, in galactic terms, that wasn't very long. The Earth he was looking at was very different from the Earth he knew was there now. It was like looking into a time machine. When the sun's light had bounced off the planet's surface and begun its journey across the cosmos to this hidden part of the galaxy, the human race had not even flown in planes yet. It was just a hundred or so years after somebody named Columbus had sailed across what had been thought of as an impenetrable ocean, navigating by the stars, and landed on a continent populated by people who no doubt had their own ideas about the stars and planets far abov
e them.

Once Columbus had landed, colonies had spread, and eventually people from those same colonies had crossed what they thought was an even more difficult and impenetrable terrain—the vastness o
f space.

Maybe right now, looking up at him from somewhere down on that faraway planet, was another young man just like him, looking up at the heavens, stargazing.

Wouldn't that be something, Eri
c thought.

Super­disappointed

Kyle Muncy woke that morning as he did every morning, with a weary resignation and a general reluctance to open his eyes and face the day. His logic being that once his eyes became naked and were forced to focus on the world around him, his day would have to begin, and no doubt end just as dismally. “Colour you blue,” his lawyer would frequently joke. Somewhat embarrassed, Kyle had to look up the word, but in the end he had to agree. Disillusionment was such an unfortunate state of mind for the world's first Aborigina
l superhero.

As a child, he had devoured comic books and cartoons about characters that through any varied number of experiences had ended up like him. In his teenage years, the television shows had promised a life of adventure and heroism. The adult years had provided movies glorifying the acts of those gifted and blessed with powers not possessed by the majority of the population. But, he told himself these days, he was not the first Native person—super or otherwise—to be lied to by the dominan
t culture.

Once again, Kyle focused on his sealed eyelids. Under normal circumstances—though few things in his life could be called normal—his lids had the kinetic power to lift small horses, should such a need ever arise. At present, it was his will that was lacking. Thus, with great mental effort and the knowledge that putting off the inevitable was useless, Kyle made the choice to start his day. Hesitantly, he contracted the enhanced muscles that operated his lids, and light from all parts of the spectrum flooded his eyes. His immediate empire was once again revealed to him. This realm consisted of a weathered fifty-four-year-old one-bedroom house located on the edge of the Otter Lake First Nation, a community that prior to his conversion to mythic status had been virtually unknown to the country at large. Below him was a small basement crammed with generations of family clutter. Above him, a patched roof barely kept the elements at bay. He greeted this familiar reality with a weary sigh. It was another day to do battle with. Just another stretch of time for dealing with all the crap that now accompanied hi
s superlife.

Every muscle in his body was ridiculously powered, but Kyle moved like a tired old man, though in reality he was thirty, as regular humans measured time. It wasn't gravity that ate away at his nimbleness, because he had long ago conquered such a pedestrian natural element. Instead, it was a psychological lassitude that seemed to weigh down his body, the kind he'd seen in his grandfather during his later years. The man had nine kids, a low-paying job most of his life and a series of repeated minor and major crises that always seemed to spring out of nowhere. When he died, his grandson thought he could see a smile on the old man's now-peaceful face as the lid of the casket wa
s lowered.

Kyle sighed again and finally rose from his single bed. The bed had been a present from his parents almost twelve years ago. It was practically the newest thing in his modest house. As if making some sort of ironic statement regarding the hoarding of precious Aboriginal artifacts by museums around the world, his home was littered with numerous refugees from the twentieth century. Along the back wall sat a sizable collection of eight-track tapes. Underneath a small coffee table by the window sat both a fax machine and a rotary phone. And so on. It seemed his house was where that century had gone t
o die.

Like most people in the world, the man got dressed and performed his morning ablutions. He made and ate his breakfast. Brushed his teeth. Did all the usual things everybody else in the world does who doesn't have superstrength and the ability to fly. He was practically invulnerable, but for the thousandth time he wished he could get a haircut. An unexpected side effect of his condition. Same with shaving. He had to manually pull the hairs out of his chin. Luckily, being Aboriginal limited the amount of growth, but still, it was a painful and annoyin
g affair.

It would be a long day, for there were things to do and errands to run for this man of amazing abilities. First on his agenda: hitchhiking into town. Standing there along Highway 48, his thumb out, he found himself looking up. Far overhead, Kyle could see the condensation trails of a high-flying jet. Yes, he knew it would be so much easier and quicker to fly into town, like he used to do when it first began. Snap your fingers and he'd be walking down the main street before the dust had settled on his dirt driveway. But that, like so many things, was then. And then was not now. Still, he had hi
s superthumb.

Twenty-two minute
s later.

“Hey, you that guy with all those superpowers?” Kyle climbe
d in.

The large man driving the truck looked like any man who spent most of his time sitting in pickups eating fast food. The floor of the vehicle looked like a dozen university students had partied in a mall food court and left the remnants behind for a future archaeologist to decipher. Amid all the wrappers and cardboard, Kyle couldn't see his weathered sneakers. The man, whose name was Karl if his vanity licence plate was correct, took another look at hi
s passenger.

“Huh? Tha
t you?”

Kyle had been in this position many times before and dreaded the upcoming questions. “Yeah, that'
s me.”

The driver looked genuinely excited. “Why you hitchhiking, then? I thought you coul
d fly.”

“Yeah,
I can.”

Karl, if that was his name, looked like he was wrestling with calculating pi. “Like I said, the
n why…?”

Kyle was quick with his answer. “It's a long story. But the municipal airport is so close…” At that moment, up ahead on the north side, a small plane could be seen climbing over the distant trees. “…and I've had three—they say it was four, but they're wrong… I'm pretty sure it was only three—nea
r collisions.”

The driver made a hard right turn and all the refuse on the floor seemed to shift and slide as a whole. “N
o shit?”

A squirrel did a shoulder roll into the ditch as the truck powere
d by.

“No shit. Since then I've been asked not to fly within the county lines, under penalty of law. And some people claim some of the local cows get nervous when they see me flying by. Farmers say they stop givin
g milk.”

“And that's why yo
u hitchhike?”

Kyle took a deep breath before answering. “Yeah.”

It took an unusually long moment for Karl to gather his thoughts. “Tha
t sucks.”

“Yeah. I
t does.”

In addition, there was a rare and protected bird of some sort nesting in the nearby trees, and there was concern Kyle's flying might be a hazard to it. Kyle thought it best not to say anything more about the issue and, despite Karl's repeated attempts to converse with the celebrity in his truck, spent the remainder of the trip into town nursing hi
s silence.

On both sides of the vehicle, almost two dozen farms of every description whizzed by. Some corn- and hay-based, others more concerned with animal husbandry. Kyle could see, hear and smell pigs, cows, chickens, alpacas and something else that was foreign to his supersensitive nose. It all looked s
o peaceful.

Following his arrival in the mid-sized community of Bayfield, there were three important errands he needed to accomplish that day, the reason for his sojourn from the safety and anonymity of his small house into the harsh light of this municipality's curiosity. First and foremost, a long-awaited conversation with Raymond Laurier, owner of the Bright Morning Café. He'd been dreading this for a while, but it was a talk that was a long tim
e coming.

As usual, Raymond was behind the dessert case putting out what appeared to be raspberry cheesecake and some sort of apple crumble. It was still early and the place was empty. Looking lean and fit, the man seemed just as tasty to the superhero as the sweets he was peddling. As Kyle opened the door, Raymond looked up with the smile he used for customers. It disappeared upon recognition of Kyle, and then a different kind of smile wa
s substituted.

Two minute
s later.

“Kyle…”

Kyle returned a similar smile and joined his boyfriend… former boyfriend… he wasn't sure which was more accurate right now. That's why he wa
s here.

“I wish you'd phoned and let me know you were coming int
o town.”

Raymond didn't seem as overjoyed to see him as Kyle had hoped. In fact, he seemed kind of nervous. Perhaps that's why they were sitting at the small table in the back, near the bathrooms. Above them on a sturdy-looking ledge hung a number of sizable tennis trophies, all bearing Raymond'
s name.

The super-Aboriginal drank his coffee, enjoying a heat that would scald most humans. “I was gonna, but I'm fairly sure my phone is tapped. You know how thing
s are…”

Raymond lifted his coffee cup and then put it back down. Too hot for his mortal mouth. “Aren't you being a little paranoid? I thought most of the stuff with the government had died down and everybody was letting you live your life… normally.”

“As normally as possible” was what Raymond was probably thinking. Kyle didn't comment. He added four more tablespoons of sugar to his coffee. With his accelerated metabolism, he needed a lot more calories than the averag
e person.

“First thing I do practically every morning, once I crawl out of bed, is throw a couple rocks up at the sky and bring down as many of those stupid drones that are always circling my place as possible. With my hearing the way it is, I can barely sleep. No wonder they're calle
d drones.”

For a moment, Raymond touched Kyle's hand in sympathy, then just as quickly he returned his hand to his side of th
e table.

“I don't know if they're the government, or the press, or just people curious to get a peek a
t me.”

Automatically Raymond looked out the front picture window, half expecting to see something hovering there. No
t yet.

“Unfortunately, there's nothing I can do about that satellite hovering a couple hundred kilometres over my place,” Kyle said as he took another sip of coffee. “I mean, yeah, I could, but that would probably get me in a lot mor
e trouble.”

Now Raymond managed a small chuckle. “Now that sounds like paranoia fo
r sure.”

Kyle shook his head. “Nope. I can see it. One of the solar panels has a hole in it. Probably from some meteor or space shit. But it's there.” He looked up, as if he wanted to see the satellite again through the mauve-coloured ceiling. Instead, he broached the reason he'd come to the café. “Ray, I haven't seen you in
a while.”

Luckily, the café was still empty and nobody else could see the mortal man shift uncomfortably in his seat. “Things have bee
n busy.”

Kyle looked around at the empty chairs. “Uh-huh. I ca
n tell.”

Staring down at the pale-blue tablecloth, Raymond searched for the right words to say to the man whose bed and heart he had once shared. “Kyle, I'm too old for all this. My days of sneaking around are long gone. Even with somebody like you. Yes, I know it's been a while since we got together, but you're just as much to blame as I am. I mean… I've been waiting for you to acknowledge me in your life. I was part of it before, and I wanted to be part of i
t again.”

Of all the inconveniences of being super, being forced apart from Raymond had been the hardest to bear, and Kyle could bear a lot—after all, he was bear clan. There was a time when the man across from him had brought him strength; now the superstrength he had was keeping them apart. Theirs was a history going back six years. A lot had happened in those six years. But the last eighteen months had proven too much for their relationship t
o survive.

“Ray, yo
u know…”

“What do I know, Kyle, what? That you had your chance? God knows you've had a million chances to share me with the world. You couldn't fart without it making the media. And now, to tell you the truth, I don't know if I want you to acknowledge me. It's too late.” There. It was out in th
e open.

Kyle responded by trying to be as positive as he could. “Look, Ray, I can only come out of so many closets at once. I came out of the superhero closet when all this stuff happened to me and told the world who and what I was, and look what happened. It became a circus. If I tell people I'm gay, too… Well, things will go crazy again. For me and for you. For different reasons. That'
s why—”

Raymond responded with a shot of honesty that stopped Kyle cold. “I understand. I truly do. That's why… I… I think we should go our separate ways. You need time. We bot
h do.”

Somehow, Kyle wasn't as surprised as he would have thought he'd be. Some part of him must have known this was coming. Maybe he was developing precognition as a ne
w power.

Raymond continued. “I don't like the spotlight, you know that. I've got this business to look after and you… Well, you've got a shitload of your own things to work out, personally and privately. I can only imagine what you're going through… None of this is your fault. I just think it's more than me and you can deal with, Kyle. I'
m sorry.”

Kyle was silent for a moment. Then he reached across and gently squeezed Raymond's hand. “Is that the onl
y reason?”

Raymond squeezed Kyle's hand back. “Well, if what the doctor says is true and your muscles will keep getting stronger and stronger, there's no telling what could happen. Ray, you're still a work-in-progress…, in every sense of th
e word.”