Free Turbulence by Samit Basu

and then keep going until you see Mumbai, take a left, and ask someone. Everyone knows the place.”
    Lacking this helpful advice, and seeking to avoid unwanted flying-man spotters, Vir has taken a very roundabout route, involving Tajikistan, China, Nepal, Uttar Pradesh and a long journey on the Rajdhani Express from Delhi in a six-person compartment with a garrulous and unfortunately flatulent family. Like most fighter pilots, Vir loves trains — the constant irritation of sitting in a plane controlled by bungling civilians is usually too much to take — but ever since his powers arrived,anything but the open sky has felt cramped and claustrophobic. He had to exercise all his self-restraint not to simply tear the train apart and take to the sky. It’s good for him to be here now, right next to the open sea.
    Summer has Mumbai firmly in its squelchy grasp, but this cafe is always full in the evenings, teeming hordes of fashionably dressed young people having their last coherent conversations of the day, all constantly scanning the cafe to see who else is in there that they know. Outside, muscular young men roar up and down Carter Road on their motorbikes in silencer-less mating displays, occasionally pausing by the cafe to have hey-dude conversations with other customised-motorcycle enthusiasts.
    On summer days like today, though, the sun-drenched open area of the cafe is usually fairly empty. Only people with actual work or those waiting for be-there-in-five lunch companions are present, sweating stolidly under red umbrellas, wishing the breeze from the large standing fans actually reached them.
    Vir arrives, looking for his mysterious phone friend. Only three tables are occupied, featuring a giggling gang of four girls having a Sex and the City conversation, a young couple — a somnolent young man and an attractive woman typing on a laptop — and a pot-bellied businessman-type sweating profusely as he leers at the girls. There’s a pause in all the conversations as Vir walks in, stumbling a little as he tries not to break the gate. Vir radiates so much charisma that even the waiters, famous for their ability to ignore anything short of a fully-fledged assault, turn and stare. He looks around. The businessman, he decides, is the likeliest candidate. He’s about to approach him when his phone rings.
    “Hey,” a familiar voice says. “Superman. Nice of you to drop by.”
    Vir is puzzled: none of the people at any of the tables are on the phone. He looks inside, beyond the glass doors to the inner section of the cafe. All of the people with phones to their ears are female.
    “Don’t call me Superman,” he says. “Where are you?”
    “You were supposed to come alone.”
    “I am alone. And you were supposed to bring at least yourself. Where are you, in the restaurant? I thought we were going to meet here.”
    “The restaurant is probably full of your spies. Lunch is off. In fact, unless you get rid of your boy across the road, the meeting’s off. Don’t play games with me, Vir.”
    “What boy?”
    “You forget I know what everyone on that flight looks like. You shouldn’t have brought one of them to be your lookout.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “No? Turn around. Look, on the wall between the road and the seafront. Ugly guy, pink shirt, shiny trousers. Not the best outfit for shadowing people, no?”
    Vir looks across the street and spots a dark, hatchet-faced man sitting on the wall, licking an orange ice-lolly, watching the sea and the sunproof lovers on the rocks in front of him. Vir frowns.
    “Don’t pretend you don’t know him,” the voice on the phone says.
    “No, I know him. His name’s —”
    “Mukesh. He’s supposed to be missing. One of yours.”
    “I don’t know why he’s here.”
    “To help you capture us, obviously. In case one super-strong flying man isn’t enough. It’s flattering that you think I’m more dangerous than a Pakistani nuclear plant, of