Superhero Universe: Tesseracts Nineteen by David Perlmutter, Brent Nichols, Claude Lalumiere, Mark Shainblum, Chadwick Ginther, Michael Matheson, Mary Pletsch, Jennifer Rahn, Corey Redekop, Bevan Thomas
Authors: David Perlmutter, Brent Nichols, Claude Lalumiere, Mark Shainblum, Chadwick Ginther, Michael Matheson, Mary Pletsch, Jennifer Rahn, Corey Redekop, Bevan Thomas
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to knock him out, tie him up, and put him in the back of your truck? All by yourself?”
Harriet shook her head tiredly. “No,” she said. Then she hesitated. Luke would hate to be the centre of this kind of attention. And she owed him her life.
“There was a man,” she said finally. “A masked man. He saved my life.”
Officer Scully looked back at the bridge. “Masked? Where is he now?”
Harriet shrugged. “I don’t know.” But she hoped she’d see him again.
* * *
Based in the Yukon, Marcelle Dubé writes fantasy and crime novels for Carina Press and Falcon Ridge Publishing.
The Jam: A Secret Bowman
Bernard E. Mireault
Gordon sat with his arms wrapped around his knees near the wall of the ramshackle shed. It housed the roof access stairwell of the ancient apartment building that he now called home. The building was one of a group of five in a tight cluster, but his was the tallest at twelve storeys. The view was good; a million things to look at, some illegal.
His dog, Harvey, a Labrador-sized mixed breed, was asleep beside him with his black nose on his paws. His business had been done an hour ago but the dog knew the routine and seemed happy with it. Harvey didn’t seem to need much exercise to stay fit; he had the physical trimness and reflexes of a ninja. Gordon wished that he could claim half as much.
He scratched the top of the dog’s head for a minute and then slowly stood up and had a good stretch. He wore a loose-fitting costume: dark green jogging suit with an inverted orange triangle sewn onto the chest and a hood that had been modified into a mask. There were other little bits of orange sewn onto the forehead and cheeks and the clumsy hand stitching showed plainly. The hood covered the back, top and sides of his head and face, with large square holes for the eyes. It split at the bridge of his nose and fell to either side of his head where it eventually attached to the shoulders of his outfit, leaving the lower half of his face visible and creating a dark cave on either side of his neck. His gloves and boots were dirty white, as was the jury-rigged tool belt that he wore around his waist, with four small tubes on either side of a large rectangular interlocking buckle. Most of the costume’s components were regular athletic wear. The boots and gloves bore large cuffs, custom-made by his sister.
Gordon had a final look around before he returned back to his tiny apartment four floors below. Eastward, downtown Montréal sparkled and blinked like some weird jewel in the autumn night. He loved the older neon signs, they had so much style. When he was younger he used to find himself walking those streets several nights a week, going for some live music and beer at one of a handful of dive bars. These days money was such an issue that it just didn’t make sense to spend it at a bar; when he felt the need he just did his drinking at home. As for music, he wrote songs and played them on his own guitar. That was good, too.
A weird scream. A strange, quavering cry. His dog leapt up and pointed in the direction where the sound had come from. The costumed man crossed the roof and, with care informed by late-onset vertigo, knelt down about three feet from the edge and braced himself, looking cautiously over. Below him was the top of the neighboring apartment, an eight-storey building with a roof garden; assorted plants growing in a multitude of large white buckets arranged in rows. A young man dressed in grey and beige military camouflage came out from behind the roof access shed holding a bow and quiver in one hand and an acoustic guitar case in the other. Moving quickly he laid the case at his feet, took the string off the bow, and broke it down into three pieces. He turned his attention back to the guitar case, undoing the fasteners quickly and flipping the lid open. He placed his weapon and quiver inside, then shrugged off his jacket and pants to reveal a white T-shirt and faded blue jeans. He
Harriet shook her head tiredly. “No,” she said. Then she hesitated. Luke would hate to be the centre of this kind of attention. And she owed him her life.
“There was a man,” she said finally. “A masked man. He saved my life.”
Officer Scully looked back at the bridge. “Masked? Where is he now?”
Harriet shrugged. “I don’t know.” But she hoped she’d see him again.
* * *
Based in the Yukon, Marcelle Dubé writes fantasy and crime novels for Carina Press and Falcon Ridge Publishing.
The Jam: A Secret Bowman
Bernard E. Mireault
Gordon sat with his arms wrapped around his knees near the wall of the ramshackle shed. It housed the roof access stairwell of the ancient apartment building that he now called home. The building was one of a group of five in a tight cluster, but his was the tallest at twelve storeys. The view was good; a million things to look at, some illegal.
His dog, Harvey, a Labrador-sized mixed breed, was asleep beside him with his black nose on his paws. His business had been done an hour ago but the dog knew the routine and seemed happy with it. Harvey didn’t seem to need much exercise to stay fit; he had the physical trimness and reflexes of a ninja. Gordon wished that he could claim half as much.
He scratched the top of the dog’s head for a minute and then slowly stood up and had a good stretch. He wore a loose-fitting costume: dark green jogging suit with an inverted orange triangle sewn onto the chest and a hood that had been modified into a mask. There were other little bits of orange sewn onto the forehead and cheeks and the clumsy hand stitching showed plainly. The hood covered the back, top and sides of his head and face, with large square holes for the eyes. It split at the bridge of his nose and fell to either side of his head where it eventually attached to the shoulders of his outfit, leaving the lower half of his face visible and creating a dark cave on either side of his neck. His gloves and boots were dirty white, as was the jury-rigged tool belt that he wore around his waist, with four small tubes on either side of a large rectangular interlocking buckle. Most of the costume’s components were regular athletic wear. The boots and gloves bore large cuffs, custom-made by his sister.
Gordon had a final look around before he returned back to his tiny apartment four floors below. Eastward, downtown Montréal sparkled and blinked like some weird jewel in the autumn night. He loved the older neon signs, they had so much style. When he was younger he used to find himself walking those streets several nights a week, going for some live music and beer at one of a handful of dive bars. These days money was such an issue that it just didn’t make sense to spend it at a bar; when he felt the need he just did his drinking at home. As for music, he wrote songs and played them on his own guitar. That was good, too.
A weird scream. A strange, quavering cry. His dog leapt up and pointed in the direction where the sound had come from. The costumed man crossed the roof and, with care informed by late-onset vertigo, knelt down about three feet from the edge and braced himself, looking cautiously over. Below him was the top of the neighboring apartment, an eight-storey building with a roof garden; assorted plants growing in a multitude of large white buckets arranged in rows. A young man dressed in grey and beige military camouflage came out from behind the roof access shed holding a bow and quiver in one hand and an acoustic guitar case in the other. Moving quickly he laid the case at his feet, took the string off the bow, and broke it down into three pieces. He turned his attention back to the guitar case, undoing the fasteners quickly and flipping the lid open. He placed his weapon and quiver inside, then shrugged off his jacket and pants to reveal a white T-shirt and faded blue jeans. He
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