The earth shook when Iron Heel slammed his boot down onto the ground, and the oncoming train, the roofs of the boxcars riddled with the parasites who some days ago had refused the good jobs given them in British Columbia, jumped the tracks. Bodies scattered, men and even youth of undesirable backgrounds hit the parched earth, which eagerly drank the blood so many of them spilled.

The one slap of his heel upon the land was all that was needed, he was sure, and with his work now done Iron Heel stood back to watch as his team of Mounties rushed in to clean things up. The Marxist rabble would learn their lesson from his rare appearance, and their leaders, even this mysterious Hero who called himself Slim, would be soon brought up on charges and then unceremoniously dumped into the Super Wing at Kingston, as escape-proof a place as would ever exist for those with Powers who refused to use them for the common good.

But something was wrong. Police were suddenly shooting weapons, tear gas swirled into existence, and men who hadn’t been hurt when the train had catapulted from the tracks were now falling, injured or dead. A large group of Mounties moved in on one particular knot of men; a rifle was fired, a man dropped, and it was clear even from this distance that the shot had torn a ridge through the top of the man’s skull.

Marxists and revolutionaries though they were, Iron Heel knew that if many more were killed in this fracas he would lose even more public support. Secrets about this day would be spilled, causing even more damage than the splattered blood. He raised his foot. . . .

. . . but instead of hitting the ground with it watched as a young man reached down, placed his hand on the gaping wound in the other man’s head, and with a gesture the wounded—dead, surely, but how was this happening?—man stood back up. A third man said something to the gathered Mounties, and without a second thought they all scattered, running as fast and as far as they could.

“You’ll do no such thing!” Iron Heel barked, and once more he brought his foot down to the ground, harder this time. Buildings swayed, people screamed, and everyone for hundreds of yards around his personal epicentre stumbled and fell to the ground.

Except for two men. The young man who had healed the one who had been shot, and the one who had spoken the words that had sent everyone running. They held their balance, and then ran up the small hill toward him. He raised his boot once more, this time holding it back behind him, preparing to kick at the two men if they came any closer, hoping that he would be able to keep his balance; he wasn’t the young Hero he’d once been.

But they stopped about five yards shy. Neither man wore a mask, which was very odd and quite strictly against convention. Even though most everyone in the country must by now know the former secret identity of Iron Heel, he still wore a simple mask over his eyes. Indeed, he kept a collection of them, each designed to match whichever jacket he was wearing that day. Today’s was a basic grey with a hint of faded tartan, the colour he had deemed most suitable for this expedition to the dustbowl of Saskatchewan.

Before he could say anything, the first man turned sideways and seemed to disappear from his sight—it was Evans, whom he’d had removed at that angry meeting in Ottawa. Evans was Slim!—and before he could react he was thrown to his back, Slim having turned himself to an angle where he couldn’t be seen and then snuck up upon him. Iron Heel lay there, the wind knocked out of him, and wondered why and how a Hero would cast his lot with Marxists, with unionists, with the lowest rabble of society. It was beyond his ken.

Not a Hero, then. A villain.

“Mr. Prime Minister,” said the second man, now standing over him, careful to stay clear of his feet. He was in his twenties, with wire spectacles and with his hair parted along one side. He was quite small and lean, and Iron Heel did not doubt that he could take the youngster in a fight, even given his relatively advanced age, if only he could get up from his turtle-like position: on his back in the dust. But before he could make a move Slim reappeared beside the other man.

“Who are you?” Iron Heel asked. “You seem to have the better of me at the moment.”

“The people around here call me Medicine Man,” came the answer, and Iron Heel cast his memory back over briefing papers about any new Heroes that might have cropped up in these parts, but nothing came to mind. “But I make no secret of who I am, and you will find out soon enough. Next election, I stand for the Co-operative Commonwealth Federation in Weyburn, not far from here.”

Iron Heel chuckled, though he felt appalled; how could anyone think a socialist in the House of Commons would be a good thing? King, that ever-irritating psychic Hero sitting across the aisle from him, was a Liberal, which was already too close to socialism for his liking. King would know how to use someone like this “Medicine Man” to his benefit, and Bennett couldn’t have that. “You’ll never win,” he said.

“But he will,” said Slim. “Your time has come and gone, Mr. Bennett.”

“That’s not my name today, Slim, just as your name is not Mr. Evans,” said Iron Heel. He slowly pulled himself up to a sitting position, and the other men danced back a step or two, both ready if he tried anything with his Power. He shook his head. “I told you before, my government will not go in for your extortion racket.”

“We only want what’s right for these men,” said Slim, and Medicine Man nodded in agreement. “The relief camps are no place for a man to earn his dignity, to say nothing of money to help support his family.”

In the distance, high in the sky, something winked brightly and momentarily in the sun. Iron Heel sighed in relief. The Mounties were gone, routed by the remainder of the rabble who had come to town riding atop the boxcars, and he had not been sure if he was going to find his way out of here. But Transporter, one of his Cabinet ministers who had also once been a Hero, was on his way. He counted silently to himself, and at the right moment he quickly raised both hands into the air and called out in pain at the sudden jerk of being pulled up and forward into the sky at high speed. Transporter wasn’t wearing a mask—it was his glasses Iron Heel had seen glinting in the sun, and his conservative tie and grey hair flapped and waved in the flurry. “Hang on, sir!” yelled the Hero, making sure his voice could be heard over the rushing wind. “I don’t have the strength or endurance I had back when we were young and setting the world afire! I’ll have to set you down very soon!”

But Iron Heel wasn’t listening. Instead, he craned his neck and looked back at the two men receding into the distance, and wondered if he would indeed see Medicine Man again. He’d have to see what he could do about disallowing socialists from taking public office.

Provided he could convince King to cooperate.

__________

Derryl Murphy is the author of the Aurora Award-nominated novel Napier’s Bones. His newest book is the collection Over the Darkened Landscape. He was born in Nova Scotia, grew up in Alberta, lived in BC, and is now in Saskatchewan.