by Matt Cowper
Sam watched as his girlfriend picked up a hammer and wrench and proceeded to bang on the core in a way that struck him as more than a little dangerous.
“Uh, Siobhan––”
“Ah-ha! Yep, pinhole leak at section A29. Lucky I caught it. Even a leak this small generates enough radiation to give an entire state cancer.”
Grinning, she held out her finger, and the tan flesh of her hand turned to a silvery sheen. A tiny metallic drop appeared on her finger, and she pressed the drop into the pinhole.
“There! Now seal her up with that torch of yours, Sam.”
Sam walked over and generated a blue-white flame from the tip of his own finger. In a blink, the drop Metal Gal had added from her own form was welded to the core.
“Thanks!” She flung her arms around him and gave him another, more robust peck on the cheek. “Oops, look at me, grabbing and kissing you again! I'll never get any work done like this!”
“You don't hear me complaining.”
“That's because you don't know how important this core is.”
“I do know. You talk about it all the time.”
“No, you know, but you don't know.” She pinched his nose. “Ah, here I am being elitist. Science is my thing, not yours.”
“Hey, you gotta admit I'm getting better at learning all these formulas and equations and paradoxes.”
“Yeah, I give you an A for effort.” She pushed him away. “OK, back to work! We have to get this prototype working perfectly before I can even think about reducing its size.” She nodded to the core. “I can't very well fit that inside me, can I?”
“You can strap it to your back, can't you?” Sam said.
“That would look terrible!” Metal Gal said. “I'd be like a giant turtle! Plus, it'd be a nice big target for the supervillains.”
“True enough.”
Sam couldn't help but chuckle as he watched Siobhan bounce around the lab, poking at buttons, reading data, and pounding on the Zeta Core.
How different she was now...still wacky, but no longer dangerously mercurial.
She could even maintain a semblance of a human form full-time. When they'd first met, Metal Gal was, as her name implied, always in a metallic, shining form, like a robot made out of aluminum. Though she had human contours and features – except when she was transforming her arm into a cannon or her legs into thrusters, of course – no one would've mistaken her for a real person.
Now, though, her skin was indistinguishable from a normal person's tan flesh, she had a blonde ponytail, luscious red lips, and dancing gray eyes. She was wearing a lab coat, a short skirt, and sneakers. She could walk down the hallways of the Beacon without being gawked at. In fact, the Beacon's staff routinely mistook her for one of the lab techs, instead of Siobhan Rose, aka Metal Gal, one of the members of the Elites, the world's most powerful superteam.
She could, of course, transform at any time, as she'd just done by using some of her bodily material to fix the pinhole in section A29. But the important thing was she didn't have to be in her metallic form – not anymore.
Sam played no small role in maintaining her mental stability, and he admitted he was proud of himself for that. Yes, he liked his girlfriend a lot – maybe even loved her? – but even if they'd only been friends, he would've been glad to help her conquer her demons.
It was sometimes odd being intimate with a robot/cyborg/android/person-thing, but they always worked through any awkwardness.
And Metal Gal was doing some research into female anatomy. She claimed she'd soon be able to alter her composition until she was exactly like a real female....
The thought of that caused some stirring in Sam's nether region.
But then he looked at the giant clock on the lab's video screen, and sighed.
“I know you're getting into the flow, Siobhan,” Sam said, “but that meeting Nightstriker called for is in five minutes.”
Metal Gal looked over at him, blinking, trying to pull herself out of her work fog. “Oh. That. You're right. Hmm. Think I can skip it?”
Sam held up his hands. “If you do, that's on you.”
“What?! Where's the chivalry? Aren't you supposed to come up with some excuse to give Nightstriker so your girlfriend can spend time tinkering with her tech toys?”
“And have our fearless leader stare at me with those stone-cold eyes, then reprimand me in that gravelly voice of his? No way.”
Metal Gal pouted, but in a playful manner. “You're right: I don't want to piss off Nightstriker, and I don't want you to get in trouble either.”
“Good. Let's go, then.”
She hooked her arm through his. “Alrighty. Lead on, lover.”
They exited the lab and headed down the bustling corridor. The Beacon's staffers hurried by, engrossed with their tech pads, and janitorial workers pushed their mobile cleaning units. A few people who recognized Sam and Siobhan nodded, and the couple returned the nods happily.
But their moods took a gloomy turn when they passed by a large video screen near an intersection. The screen played a feed from one of the TV stations – the most far-right, frothing-at-the-mouth one – and several staffers had stopped to watch what was being displayed.
On the screen, the President of the United States, Thomas Lancaster, fulminated about “irresponsible elements in our society.” With his well-tailored suit, rigid posture, and stern features, the President projected the image of a strict disciplinarian – or an authoritarian, as his detractors put it.
“We need to put a stop to this flow of damning information,” he said, his voice cracking like a whip. “Every day, there are new accusations, new innuendos. The government of this country cannot operate when its dedicated officials have to look over their shoulders every second of every day. We will find out who's behind this, and we will––”
“Turn that shit off,” Sam found himself growling.
The Beacon staffers glanced at him, but no one moved to turn off the feed. One even sneered at Sam, like he was a child who could learn something by listening to the President.
“I said: turn it off.”
Fire crackled around him, and the staffers stepped back, their eyes wide. One woman hurriedly turned off the feed, and Lancaster's diatribe blinked away.
“Sam! Get a hold of yourself!” Metal Gal yelled, slapping his arm.
“I hate that son of a––”
“That's no excuse for your behavior! You're frightening the staff!”
Sam glared at the staffers. Some of them had clearly been enthusiastic over Lancaster's rhetoric – though why they continued to work on the Beacon, when the President clearly despised superhumans, was beyond Sam.
Perhaps they were double agents....
“Sam!” Metal Gal said. “Power down!”
Frowning, Sam extinguished the fire around him, lowering the temperature and assuaging the worry of the staff members. After wiping sweat from their foreheads, they bustled away, whispering intently to each other.
“Way to go, superhero,” Gal said, her eyes glowing red. “Real inspiring.”
“I'm sorry, Sibby, but I––”
“I know you dislike Lancaster. I do too, and the other Elites share our opinion. But you can't act like that!”
“But the way they were soaking in his words...like he's Martin Luther King or something....”
She wrapped her arms around his waist. “Sam, a lot of people in this country have political beliefs we think are absolutely insane. We can't change that. If we tried to, we'd end up becoming tyrants.”
“Like Lancaster.”
“Listen, boyfriend of mine: he's the legitimate president of the United States. We can't tear apart the system just because we don't like our elected officials.”
“I know, I know,” Sam said, “but this is different. He's the one pushing our system to the limits. Something tells me we'll have to deal with him sooner rather than later – and something tells me that's why Nightstriker called this meeting.”
Metal Gal frowned and worked her hands nervously. “Yeah...well...let's go see if you're right.”
She hooked her arm in his and they continued down the hallway – though neither of them smiled, nor did they return the friendly nods of the Beacon staff members.
Chapter Three
Nightstriker
The Elites were gathered in Briefing Room One, as Nightstriker had requested.
This briefing room was the envy of a great many scientists, engineers, and security experts.
The Beacon, their headquarters, was a round, floating entity, like a small moon that hovered above Z City. It had all manner of defenses, from traditional artillery to anti-aircraft cannons to laser beams. At max power, the Beacon's shields could withstand an atomic bomb, or a dozen energy blasts from Class S superhumans.
But this room was the most secure place on the entire fortress, by far. Nothing got in or out, not unless one of the Elites wanted it too. No hacker could access the computers sitting along the far wall, no one could enter through the quadruple-ultimatium-plated door, even if they had astonishing superstrength. Even Anna couldn't get inside, as the ventilation ducts had countless screens and sensors that prevented someone in a non-solid form from gaining entry.
Nightstriker had designed this room himself, and even helped construct it. A superteam of the Elites' caliber had to have some place to talk and strategize without worrying about prying eyes and ears.
Now, though, he'd gathered them together to inform them of his own shame.
He glanced around the long, oaken conference table, where his comrades sat.
Blaze: their youngest member at age eighteen, but also possibly the most powerful. He could create and manipulate fire, and his skills seemed to improve daily.
Nightstriker recalled when he'd first recruited Blaze. The kid's ignorance had been dangerous, and he'd been awkward around his teammates and starstruck around Nightstriker.
Now he sat upright in his chair, smiling cordially at his teammates, holding hands with Metal Gal. He wasn't wearing his red and orange superhero costume, instead opting for civilian clothes; once concerned about maintaining his secret identity, he'd recently trusted his teammates with those details. They now knew Blaze was really Sam Boyd.
Metal Gal: with her shapeshifting and energy projecting abilities, she was their most versatile member – and also, until her relationship with Blaze began, their most unstable. Nightstriker was pleased to see her comfortably sustaining a normal human appearance, and to see how enamored the two young lovers were with each other.
Buckshot: the team's marksman. Wearing jeans, a cowboy hat, and snakeskin boots, Buckshot was the quintessential Texan. He drank, swore, whored, and was usually a burr in Nightstriker's saddle. Still, though his hard-living lifestyle somewhat dulled the hyper-senses and reflexes that made him a superhuman, Buckshot was still a crack shot, and surprisingly tough in close-quarters combat.
Slab: a literal rock of a man. He sat in an enormous chair specially designed for him, and if someone wasn't aware of his powers, they'd think he was just a rough-hewn sculpture of a man. He was the team's tank: his strength was top-tier, and few things could penetrate his hide. Slab cracked his giant knuckles as Nightstriker watched him, and the noise echoed off the walls like gunshots.
Anna: not officially a member of the Elites, and the only one without a proper codename. Still, she got on with the other team members so well, and Nightstriker had spent so much time with her, that everyone already considered her an Elite.
Anna may have disputed that, as her thoughts on superheroing were murky. But Nightstriker knew she enjoyed the camaraderie, especially after losing the friends she'd had when she'd followed the Giftgiver.
Her smoky form was remarkably still in a chair by Slab. Nightstriker suspected she was concentrating especially hard, as she sensed this meeting was important.
These were the people who had defeated the Giftgiver, who had saved Z City. Who had persevered, after infighting, poor planning, and immaturity nearly destroyed the team.
Nightstriker was proud of these men and women – more proud than he could ever express.
Which made what he was about to say that much harder.
“Yo, boss man,” Buckshot said, fingering a thick unlit cigar. “You wanna get this show on the road? I got ladies to woo and whiskey to guzzle.”
Eyes rolled all around the table. Leave it the rowdy Texan to break the ice.
“Yes, we're all here, so I'll begin,” Nightstriker said. He solemnly folded his hands behind him and paced at the head of the table.
“As you know, the world is descending into chaos,” he went on. “There have been dozens of reports, dozens of leaks, dozens of allegations against officials everywhere in the country. Many politicians and executives have already resigned, hoping to escape the firestorm. Our own President has resigned, and been replaced by the Vice President, Thomas Lancaster, a man of...obstinate and vindictive character. Frightened by this instability, the stock market is in free fall. Thousands of people, of all political stripes, are protesting on the streets. Thousands more are fleeing the country, as they sense a civil war or a complete societal collapse is imminent.”
“In other words, things suck,” Slab said, laughing his grinding laugh.
His attempt at levity failed. The other people in the room, hearing how serious Nightstriker was, were now as sedate as if they were at a funeral.
“It's a rough time out there,” Buckshot said, giving his cowboy hat a half-hearted twirl. “Ya'll know me; I'm as anti-authority as they come. Always felt like I'd be charging forward on some feisty stallion and waving my pistols in the air when the breakdown came. Now that it's here, though, it all feels...well, it ain't as fun as I'd thought it'd be.”
“It's bad, for sure,” Metal Gal said, “but what can we do? We've helped contain riots, but that's about it. We're a team of superheroes, but there aren't any supervillains to fight or aliens to vanquish. This is...it's bigger than all of us.”
“I don't know about that,” Slab said. “I mean, we're the Elites. But still – the real issue is the person or group who's revealing all the corruption. Who the heck are they, and how can we stop them? Should we stop 'em? Every day, the newspapers and websites report some new information that ruins someone we all thought was trustworthy. But do we try to shut everything down? Shred the Constitution?”
“No, President Lancaster has that covered,” Blaze said bitterly. “When he's done, we'll be living in a––”
“Now you lissen here, sonny,” Buckshot said, jabbing a finger at the young hero. “Lancaster's a good man. Yeah, he kicks some butts from time to time, but they're butts that need kicking. If we had one o' them damn egg-sucking liberals in power, he'd be treating all these anarchists with kid gloves, and things'd be ten times worse!”
“Typical hypocritical conservative,” Blaze said, a ring of flame appearing around him. “You revere the Constitution, until some people do something you don't like. Then you want to ignore civil liberties and throw everyone in concentration camps!”
“That's a goddamn straw man argument, and you know it!” Buckshot roared. “And don't go forming those flames, kid! You may think you're hot shit – no pun intended – but you still ain't good enough to take down the best damn marksman on God's green earth!”
“ENOUGH!”
Nightstriker's shouted word hit each of them like a frigid splash of water to the face. They jerked their heads his way and immediately stopped squabbling and muttering.
“The point of this meeting isn't for everyone to engage in pointless bickering,” he said. “I called you all here because I have something...extremely important to disclose.”
The superhumans sitting at the table glanced at each other, obviously confused and concerned.
“I am...I am the one who's behind all these leaks, stolen documents, and information dumps,” Nightstriker said.
A stunned silence – for a second or two.
Then the room erupted.
“You?!” Metal Gal shouted. “But how––”
“I knew it!” Buckshot said, surging to his feet and dropped both his cigar and his cowboy hat in his rage. “You damn treasonous dog!”
“Why would you do that?!” Anna said, her human-like form devolving into a shapeless cloud. “We just defeated the Giftgiver! We returned everything to normal!”
“ENOUGH!”
Again, Nightstriker's roar quieted the room – though not as quickly as the first time.
“You are all upset and bewildered,” he said. “I understand that. You deserve an explanation.”
His pacing at the head of the table quickened.
“First off: the Giftgiver was right.”
Grumbles all around.
“Yes, I know you disagree. We fought so hard to beat him, didn't we? And I fought as hard as anyone. But that's because I disagreed with his methods, not his basic principles. The Giftgiver was a power-mad fool; he gave superpowers to whoever showed up to follow him. But he had no viable plans to train this superhuman army. In fact, he had almost no organizational skills whatsoever. He thought he could win the day with pure numbers – and he almost did.”
“He did win,” Buckshot said. “You're actin' just like him! He infected you with these idiotic reform ideas, and now you've brought anarchy to the––”
“Let me finish. You can criticize me all you want, but first you need to hear my reasons.”
Nightstriker cleared his throat and continued.
“Buckshot is right, in a way. The battle against the Giftgiver and those so-called Purifiers of his affected me deeply. That entire situation could have been avoided, if we were doing our jobs properly. Our job as superheroes is not just to battle supervillains and aliens bent on conquest, as Metal Gal just put it. It's also our job to maintain a just, peaceful, and equitable society. We obviously failed in that capacity, or the Giftgiver never would have appealed to so many people.”
“So I took it upon myself to cut out the rot of our society,” Nightstriker went on. “You all know my capabilities – it's not hubris to say there are few things people can hide from me. I compiled dossiers on the corruption within our society, and have slowly been disseminating that information to dependable reporters and law enforcement officials. You all have seen the results: dozens of high-ranking government officials are now known to be criminals or con men, and dozens more corporate executives have had their lies and cutthroat actions revealed.”