by Matt Cowper
“Of course I can't know it for certain, as I don't have access to sufficient data. Now please – stop shouting. I have work to do.”
Surprisingly, his teammates did stop filling the commlink feed with noise. Nightstriker had to grin – it took a last-minute gamble of this magnitude to shut them up.
Engine Room Two was a maze of pipes, wires, and sturdy concrete columns. But Nightstriker didn't need to worry about that labyrinth; he only needed to find the main conduit that usually fed power from the now-destroyed core.
Of course, he knew these systems inside and out, so he quickly found the wire that connected to the control panel, before heading off to the main thruster.
A few seconds of wire-stripping later, and Metal Gal's Zeta Core was now powering Engine Room Two. The massive engine purred to life, the lights on the control panel lit up, and the diagnostics and control screen turned on.
Nightstriker turned the thruster level to 100%, and the room began shaking and rattling so much that bolts and screws popped out of the walls and pipe fittings. A deafening roar, like a thousand locomotives, made him wince.
“What do you see?” he barked into the commlink. “Is it working?”
“I can't see!” Slab shouted. “My pod landed in a––”
“Who can see?!”
“We can!” Metal Gal said. “The Beacon is still falling, but slower than it was! And it's heading towards Bootheel! And it's tilting! You might make it!”
Indeed, the Beacon was now rolling like the ball it was, as there were no other engines to keep it stable. Nightstriker grabbed onto the side of the control panel to keep from sliding into the wall.
“Metal Gal, confirm my calculations!” Nightstriker shouted. “Your core was at 40% power level. That means it should run a single thruster at max power for two minutes. Correct?”
“I...I....”
“You're a brilliant scientist!” he said. “You designed this core. You know how the Beacon's engine systems work. Focus!”
A few tense seconds passed.
Finally, Metal Gal said: “Yes! To be exact, it'll last for 115 seconds!”
“Thank you,” Nightstriker said. “That mean it will run out...now.”
Right on cue, the rattling and roaring stopped, and the Zeta Core was now dark and silent.
The Beacon was still slightly rolling, though. Nightstriker dangled from the control panel, watching as the Zeta Core, the blown-off screws and bolts, and other debris clattered into the wall.
“What do you see now, people?” he said.
“You're heading towards the edge of Bootheel,” Metal Gal said. “The Beacon might hit a few old buildings, but––”
“Now will you leave?!” Gillespie yelled. “You're about to impact!”
A dozen plans, strategies, contingencies raced through Nightstriker's mind. He paused at each one, hoping to find some way to stop the Beacon's fall.
He came up with nothing. He'd done all he could.
But should he abandon ship?
This was his fault. He hadn't planned for the loss of the backup cores. There would be casualties because of this, no matter where the Beacon specifically crashed.
And on a broader scale, he was the one who'd challenged the establishment. Thomas Lancaster was allegedly behind this, but Lancaster was President because Nightstriker's secret war had targeted the former President, as well as many other corrupt officials and executives.
Nightstriker had created and perpetuated this environment of distrust, fear, and cruelty. Nobody in the U.S. Government would have sought to blow up the Beacon if he hadn't been on board, stoking the fires of discontent.
Maybe he should die here.
Maybe the world would be a better place without a Nightstriker trying to right every wrong in a ham-fisted way.
But the thoughts of martyrdom and suicide dissipated almost as soon as they formed.
No, he wouldn't throw away his life. He wouldn't let Lancaster and his ilk win.
Today, they'd started a war – a hot war, not the cold war Nightstriker had been waging.
And while they'd thrown the first punch, it would not be the last.
Nightstriker let go of the control panel and crashed into the wall – or what was now for him the floor. He felt a twinge in his shoulder as he hit, but it was only a minor injury.
He was up in a flash, heading towards the nearest escape pod.
Chapter Seven
Blaze
The Beacon now looked some foul mushroom blooming from the edge of Bootheel, the blue-collar borough of Z City. It dwarfed the smaller buildings it had plowed into as it made landfall.
From the air, Metal Gal and Blaze had watched the enormous gray orb plummet to Earth, then stall and change course when Nightstriker used the Zeta Core in Engine Room Two. Finally, with the core drained of its energy, the Beacon had crashed into the old brick buildings of Bootheel, rolling like a giant soccer ball, and carving a path roughly three blocks wide before coming to rest by what appeared to be an abandoned factory.
There would surely be casualties, but this area hadn't been bustling like the center of Z City. Nightstriker had likely saved hundreds of lives.
But, as their leader was reminding them over the commlinks, there was still work to be done.
“Elites, I need a status update from each of you,” Nightstriker said.
“Me and Blaze are flying to the crash site now,” Metal Gal said. “Blaze is tired, and he can't turn on his powers, but other than that we're both OK.”
“My pod landed by Jameson Bay,” Buckshot said. “I'm hustling to the site fast as I can. No injuries that I know of.”
“I crashed down into the subway tunnels,” Slab said. “I'm fine, too.”
“Gillespie? Anna?” Nightstriker said.
“I'm already at the site,” Gillespie said. “I see a few casualties. And the property damage is, of course, immense.”
“I'm here, too,” Anna said, “though in my smoke form, there isn't much I can do.”
“If nothing else, you can provide comfort to those trapped in the rubble,” Nightstriker said. “I'm en route as well. Link up near the Beacon, and we'll see what our best course of action should be.”
Metal Gal swooped down past the borough's rusted rooftop water towers, and landed close to the Beacon. Now that they were mere feet from their former HQ, Sam was astonished at its size. He'd flown around it many times when it was hovering thousands of feet above the city, but he'd never really felt its enormity, not until he could contrast it with normal terrestrial buildings.
Though the Beacon had crashed through thousands of tons of steel, brick, and wood, it still hadn't broken apart. Its hull was scraped and gouged in some places, but Sam could see no major breeches, and only a few fires.
But Sam knew the Beacon's hull was its strongest feature. The insides, while built to withstand all manner of attacks, could not absorb such a colossal impact. Everything within would be a shambles.
The Beacon could possibly be salvaged, but it would take months of work. Contemplating such a monumental task overloaded his already tired mind, so he stopped thinking about it altogether.
Bootheel had taken a similar beating as the Beacon.
The Beacon had demolished everything in its path. It looked like a Class S superhuman had blasted a wide area with energy beams, or blown everything down with super-breath. A few small fires burned, and two water mains had ruptured.
Metal Gal set Sam down besides a car coated with dust from the destroyed buildings, and Sam immediately slid down to a seating position. His legs felt like they were as insubstantial as sand.
Gal bent down beside him. Her eyes turned a bright blue, and he knew she was scanning him.
“There's no need to keep scanning me,” Sam said. “I'm fine. Just fatigued.”
“But your powers...you still can't use them?”
Sam held out his palm and concentrated, trying to form a fireball. Only a few minutes ago, he could'v
e formed one as easily as he could open and close his hand. Now, he couldn't even create a single spark.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “I wish I could help. I could blast this rubble away––”
“You've already done enough.” She kissed him lightly. “Time to let others do their share.”
As they waited for the team to arrive, they watched as some civilians approached the scene. The first ones on the scene were hobos, bearded and gawping, and muttering to themselves. Next were some robust looking men in uniforms – the area's blue-collar workers. Finally came the teens with their smartphones, taking video of everything.
Most of them glared at Sam and Gal with undisguised contempt, but none of them were brave enough to harangue the superheroes. Sam wanted to walk over and explain that it wasn't their fault, that the Beacon had been sabotaged, but he didn't think his words would penetrate their suspicion and scorn.
A few seconds later, Gillespie showed up, her professional attire torn and dirty. Sam hadn't seen the Secretary of Superhuman Affairs in some time, and hadn't even known she was on the Beacon until they all assembled at the core.
He had a million questions for her, but after a brisk conversation with them, Gillespie fell silent, and her dark look made it obvious that pestering her would be dangerous.
Next came Slab, Buckshot, and Anna. Finally Nightstriker ran up, his jaw set in a hard line, looking like he'd just finished a brutal training session instead of nearly dying trying to stop a moon-like object from shattering a highly-populated commercial center.
“You're all here,” he said, gazing at them in turn. “Good. Let's fan out and––”
“No, first off I want to know what in God's name just happened,” Buckshot said. “Who the hell sabotaged us? And why did Gillespie pop in right when the core went wonky?”
“I only have parts of the answers to those questions,” Nightstriker said. “Gillespie can explain what transpired – but she will have to do it later. We need to save anyone trapped within the rubble, put out any fires, contain any other dangers, and then depart quickly. We are now targets. Each second we're out in the open––”
“––is one second too many,” a voice said.
Everyone turned towards the voice, and Sam was stunned to see five people nearby, all of them dressed in bright costumes, all of them clearly superhumans. How had they snuck up on them?
“Who are you?” Nightstriker growled.
“Collectively, we are known as the Patriots,” the man who'd spoken said. “I am the Judge, and these are Crimson Tiger, Code, Midnight, and Breaker.”
The Patriots? Sam had never heard of them. They didn't look patriotic – they looked eager, almost desperate, for a fight.
The Judge was dressed in a costume of black spandex, much like Nightstriker, but he had a silver image of blind justice on his chest. It struck Sam as hokey – and incongruous, as the Judge's furrowed brow and sneer didn't exactly bring to mind the concepts of fairness and honor.
Crimson Tiger crouched low, literally frothing at the mouth, his claws clacking together. Like his name suggested, he looked like a cross between a man and a tiger, except with red fur. His costume was only a set of black trunks.
Code was a slim, almost emaciated young woman in a white leotard. Her bald head gleamed, and strange tattoos ran down her skull and neck. Her eyes were sunken and bloodshot, like she hadn't slept in days.
Midnight was a man of medium build – Sam thought he was, at least. He seemed to be a living shadow, and his form constantly shifted, much like Anna's smoke-form. In the brief moments where his face turned into the semblance of a normal human's, Sam saw a manic grin that promised depravity and death.
Finally, there was Breaker, a large black man with all-white eyes in a yellow bodysuit. The Patriots' muscle, no doubt.
Wait, he looked familiar....
“You're one of the Giftgiver's followers!” Sam said. “We fought you before!”
Breaker smirked. “Dunno what you're talking about. Name's Breaker, and I'm a government-sanctioned superhero.”
“No, Sam is right,” Nightstriker said. “You are Lucas Flint, and you did follow the Giftgiver. You should be in MegaMax Prison.”
The large man shrugged. “Still dunno what you're goin' on about. I'm just here to whup some justice into wayward fools. That is, into you all.”
“I remember him now,” Slab said, taking two big steps forward, steps that caused the ground to shake. “Last we met, I knocked you through about five buildings. If you're here to cause trouble, I got no problem doing so again.”
“Whatever you say, rock guy,” Breaker said, cracking his knuckles and stretching.
“Gillespie, can you explain this?” Nightstriker said.
“Unfortunately, I can,” she replied. “These are your replacements.”
The Elites stared at the new superhumans, who continued to stare back like they were eyeing morsels they hoped to soon gobble down.
“Replacements?!” Metal Gal said, morphing her arm into a cannon. “What the heck does that mean?!”
“It means exactly that,” Gillespie said. “This is a new government-sanctioned team, with much closer ties to President Lancaster and his cronies. They attempted to assassinate us by blowing up the Beacon, but now that that's failed, they're here to kill us personally.”
“Officially, I have to say you're delusional,” the Judge said. “But unofficially? Well, let's just say I'm going to savor ripping you all apart.”
“You'll savor nothing,” Nightstriker said. “I see now that, like Lucas Flint, you're all villains who have been pulled from your prison cells and repackaged as heroes.”
“Believe what you want,” Crimson Tiger growled – though his feral chuckle made it obvious he was enjoying the irony of his new role as “superhero.”
“Indeed, their beliefs are irrelevant,” the Judge said, “for they'll be captured shortly. You see, Nightstriker, it was not us who sabotaged the Beacon, but you. You tried to drop it right onto Midtown, out of sheer malice. If we hadn't diverted the Beacon's descent, many more would have perished.”
“You've gone rogue,” Midnight said, his voice seeming to echo. “We must stop you before more people suffer.”
“No one will believe that!” Metal Gal shouted.
“Oh, they won't?” Code said, her eyes glowing oddly. “Dozens of news stations lap up Lancaster's every word. And don't get me started on the true believers on the Internet. No, this tale we've concocted will easily pass muster.”
“Somebody tell me this is just a sick joke!” Buckshot said, whipping out his pistols.
“It's not,” Gillespie said. “They're deadly serious.”
“Yes, we are,” the Judge said, “and you will be taken down as well. To think, a Cabinet member committing such vile treason...the nation will never forgive you.”
“I've heard enough,” Nightstriker said.
He lunged at the Judge, in a move that looked to Sam like suicide. What was he thinking, to jump into the fray before everyone else was ready?!
The Crimson Tiger had lunged as well, preparing to intercept Nightstriker before he could reach the Judge. But Nightstriker planted his right foot and stopped instantly, then pivoted towards Tiger. Sam saw the feral “hero's” red-tinged eyes go wide as Nightstriker threw him over his shoulder, slamming his furry head into the pavement.
Nightstriker knew the Crimson Tiger would pounce, and he'd planned a counter-move.
As he'd said, he knew who these faux-heroes were – and that meant he knew all of their idiosyncrasies, all of their weaknesses.
Of course he did. He was Nightstriker.
“Elites!” the legendary hero yelled. “To battle! Do not hold back!”
The Patriots looked slightly less confident and bloodthirsty now that Nightstriker had rattled the brain of one of their members. But the Judge recovered quickly, and pointed at the superheroes opposing him.
“Patriots, subdue these traitors!” he roared.
Chapter Eight
Nightstriker
Another mistake, one out of many blunders he'd made recently.
Nightstriker hadn't expected these Patriots to show up. He hadn't even heard of them – and that galled him. Someone had pulled these sociopaths out of prison, stuffed them into gaudy costumes, slapped a family-friendly name on them, and sent them off to perform this despicable charade – all without him knowing a single detail.
The Elites shouldn't have lingered here. The destruction of the Beacon was the largest shot across the bow one could imagine. Saving lives here in Bootheel was one thing, but they could save nothing if they were all in the grave.
Luckily, Blaze had recognized Lucas Flint, and this had allowed Nightstriker to connect the dots regarding the other Patriots. He'd surely have recognized their powers and fighting styles on his own, but likely only after the fighting had started. Blaze's observation had given them a slight advantage.
The man Nightstriker was fighting called himself the Judge, but Nightstriker knew him as Carrion. As his name implied, he was a killer – one of the most efficient killers in modern history.
Many psychiatric evaluations had been done on Carrion – with one noted psychiatrist hanging himself after spending far too much time with the madman. Nightstriker had read all these evaluations, and, after putting Carrion in MegaMax Prison years ago, had visited him frequently to try to gain some insight into his twisted mind.
Though Carrion was an expert manipulator, his evaluators, and Nightstriker, had learned some solid facts: though Carrion had no superpowers, per se, he had a driving compulsion to murder that, paired with his obsessive physical fitness, put him on par with many superhumans.
Carrion had to kill. If he didn't, he couldn't think straight, as he once admitted to an evaluator: “It feels like my memories are slipping away, like I'm drugged or something.” Roughly two weeks of pacifism was all he could take before he had to snap someone's neck, slit their throat, or toss them into a meat grinder. Since he'd been in prison, he'd killed seventy-five of his fellow inmates.