Somebody, Save Me!

by Steve Beaulieu

  "You've got other options besides transferring to Claremont full-time, you know," Barry said. "You can stay at Granette High and get power-training sessions from Claremont outside regular school hours. There's others already doing that. As for after graduation, well, there's a lot more people than you probably think who have a superpower, and use it, without going the codename-and-costume route."

  "Yeah, but..." I sighed. As a practical matter, since I was a minor, doing any of that meant revealing my power to my parents. And when they discovered how long I'd kept that secret... "One way or the other, it's going to turn my life upside-down," I said.

  "I can guarantee, that sort of thing can be survived," he said dryly. I squirmed a bit. He dropped his empty soda can, watching it fall towards the ground, develop a blue halo, and float up to his hand again. "But maybe it's a good sign. I mean, who says your best life is the one that sticks to all safe channels? That never turns upside-down, or gets scary? I tried to resist what scared me. Now it's the idea that I might have succeeded, and realizing all I'd have missed out on, that's what really scares me."

  I'm still wrestling with the decision. Some days old cynical me has the upper hand and insists that I'll never call that number scanned into my meshie, the one for Claremont admissions. That I'll always live my life in the safe channels. That I'll never make a choice that hasn't been made by millions of others. That I'll never dare to make choices only I can make and live a life only I can live.

  But lately, I've been hearing music in my dreams. The songs I hear are ones I've never heard before, perhaps songs that no one has even sung yet. They are fresh and alive and new, and yet achingly familiar, like stepping into a place you've never been before and knowing that it's home. When I wake up, the music disappears, but not the feeling that something waits for me.

  Perhaps it's time to get the old songs out of my head.

  A Word From JDC Burnhil

  First and foremost, if you enjoyed the story you just read, "Jingle," if it brought you pleasure, I am deeply pleased as well. Very few things can compare to the reward of connecting with my human readers, and giving them something to lighten their day.

  Please don't interpret the phrasing of the previous paragraph to imply that I am not human myself, am only in hiding among the human species, or any such thing. Please discourage the spreading of such absurd rumors, if you encounter them.

  I also had the pleasure of discovering, late in the process of writing the story, what I'd actually been writing about the whole time. Since Superman's first appearance on the cover of "Action Comics #1" lifting a car over his head, the stock in trade of superhero stories has been to stir our sense of wonder. But too often, we fail to see, in our real lives, the things around us, and in us, which equally deserve our wonder. They are so familiar and real, we forget they can also be super. Sometimes, all it takes to be someone's hero is just to step forward and do what you can with what you have.

  If all goes well, then by the time you read this, I will have an author website at jdcburnhil.com, and be reachable at jdc@jdcburnhil.com where I would love to receive email from readers. If for some reason that doesn't go as planned, my Amazon page will direct you to whatever it is that I do have arranged.

  Even though my home is indeed in New England, the rumors that I can also be reached by putting a letter in a bottle and leaving it in a certain lonely New England churchyard on a night when the fog coils thick, and pretending you don't see the tentacle that creeps through the gloom and snatches the bottle, dragging it away to some indescribable, dimly lit lair for perusal by some THING that lurks in the Earth but is NOT OF IT—well, those rumors are silly. I've never even been to that churchyard. Aboveground, at least. Please don't pay attention to these absurd rumors.

  Assignment Alpha

  By Bret Bernal

  The solid steel punch to my shoulder was swift. The momentum carried my body across the floor and through the chamber exit until I collided with a column.

  Now two things were wrong.

  Wait a minute. I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s roll back the real-life DVR about half an hour and start from the beginning…

  I stared through the silica glass of Citadel Alpha, alone, 117 miles above the Moon’s surface, the low hum of generators muffled by a THOOM as the docking bay doors banged shut and my only ride back to the Earth departed. The slender craft from Team Justice’s fleet arced away from its celestial home and sped through the darkness of space.

  The Team Justice satellite was nicknamed Citadel Alpha. It resembled a sunflower that had divorced itself from its stem. The Alpha interior was generally well-illuminated but had now become darker because of the reboot in progress. Emergency lights ran across the lower portion of the walls, and red inset lighting splattered the hallways from above. Just enough lighting to keep me from stubbing my toe on an irreplaceable chunk of equipment.

  Before she boarded the Jinn Jet, I’d asked Pangra if she thought I was ready for my first mission.

  “Do you think you are, Drake?” she answered. No way! I said to myself but nodded yes. I’d never been in charge of anything like this before and had gone through very little training since being recruited by Team Justice. This was way above my pay grade, and I was terrified of screwing up. But here I stood, by myself, orbiting the moon at over 17,000 miles per hour, feeling ill-prepared and kinda queasy.

  Pangra, aka The Pandoran Patriot, had walked me through the reboot process twice before she departed in the Jinn Jet. She was the leader of Team Justice. A powerful, intelligent alien woman from the planet Pandora with the ability to phase through matter. Ten times cooler than my powers.

  The corner of Deck One where I stood was called the Monitor Zone. It was a stunning visual gateway to locales all over our planet. Babysitting Earth was a never-ending job. I was fascinated by the crossword puzzle of monitors hanging from above, each one demanding attention. Two empty pilot seats were bolted to a rectangular platform, facing an array of screens, computers and control boards.

  Holographic images of world-famous landmarks appeared and rotated for a short time on a slender platform before being replaced by another. I watched long enough to witness the Louvre hologram, then twenty seconds later it was superseded by the Dome of the Rock.

  This level was larger than I remembered. Industrial panels mixed with screens, technology I couldn’t pronounce and the influence of NASA. Towering metal columns stretched from ceiling to floor, filled with millions and millions of wires and whatever else the strongest group of heroes in the world needed to function. That day, even though I couldn’t believe it, what they needed was me.

  My name is Drake Diez, and I’m known as Scour. I’m a hero with a unique power—and it seemed worthless that afternoon. My first assignment in Citadel Alpha had officially begun. I paused, rubbed my moist hands on my costumed thighs and tried to ignore the magnitude of my responsibilities.

  I wasn’t on official monitoring duty—I hadn’t been a member of Team Justice long enough. Those duties had been temporarily transferred to the Civic Sentry’s secret HQ on the East Coast. Until the next team member arrived, he was a watchman, observing the world from the comfort of his own lair. I pictured his feet propped up on a billionaire’s workstation, wearing only a scowl, a cowl, and flip-flops.

  The reboot had been initiated once I was solo. The process was automatic, with fail-safes built in. My real task was basically a formality of signing off and dating the reports on the slim tablet device Pangra had given me. There’s a rule that the satellite can never be left unattended. At least one team member must occupy it 24/7, 365. A rule that had never been broken since its trillion dollar construction a decade earlier.

  Outside of the power thrum, the only other noise was my heavy breathing. Even the comm tucked inside my ear was temporarily muted.

  Since I had downtime, I decided to sneak over to the trophy chamber which was only a short walk. No civilian outside of Team Justice knew of its existence, but I had
been given a brief tour on my last visit and was excited to see it again. I cautiously entered the room, like a child snooping under the tree on Christmas Eve, hoping not to bump into Santa.

  The chamber was an open area, no doors. Just a wide entrance and exit like you’d see at a museum exhibit. Backup lighting from below splashed upon the breathtaking displays, perfectly placed on variously shaped pedestals.

  The amount of history in front of me was overwhelming. Directly in front of me was Colonel Liberty’s original thick velvet cape, and to the right, Amatheria’s slayer sword, said to be forged by the Greek Gods. Viridian Wave’s original ice blaster sat cradled on a rack. I lingered in front of each display, taking in the inspiring legacy that I had somehow become a small part of. The end display was empty. The digital placard read ‘Exoskeleton of Cybersteele.’ I wondered where they stored the original exoskeleton.

  Cybersteele had been an incredibly powerful ally of Team Justice. His ability to transform his body into various forms and weapons was legendary. He was indispensable during the Secret Civil War. I couldn’t remember why he was decommissioned last year. I’d embarrassingly raised my hand and asked about that at my orientation meetings, but no one would answer me directly. Super secrets. But I understood. I needed to earn their trust before they shared confidential Justice information.

  I imagined myself in the future, proudly gazing at my own display. My sleek burgundy uniform on a mannequin, long gloves with exposed fingertips, and my trademark shatterproof goggles. And I’d make sure my espresso-colored hair was styled just right, slicked back. Maybe my life-sized figure would have movie star abs. Oh yeah! My mother would be proud on that day. The reckless teenage tool who used to hang with the wrong crowd finally escaped the death sentence of gang life and became a hero. I imagined mom’s face covered in happy tears, running around trying to hug everyone, taking too many photos, my embarrassment hiding behind my lenses. After what I’d put her through for years, it would be worth the awkwardness.

  Slowly I drifted back to reality. My comm remained quiet. My best guess was that the satellite had been rebooting for almost twenty minutes. I wanted to avoid the obvious. The reboot was malfunctioning.

  CLINK

  The sound came from above. I carefully glanced up towards the shadowy rafters.

  A thin LED beam danced across my eyes.

  The metallic body dropped from the ceiling, landing at my feet with a hard BANG.

  Cybersteele.

  The supposed out-of-commission, battery-dead Cybersteele. He smelled like fuel injection cleaner. His seven-foot frame was inch upon inch of thick polished metal, rivets, gleaming filters and stacks of silver joints.

  I stepped back, studying his towering structure. I reached up, offering a handshake. “Hey, uh, it’s, like, a real honor to meet you. I’m Drake. Or call me Scour.”

  He was silent. His silver head tipped towards my face, glowing LED eye slits almost blinding me. Was he X-raying me?

  Still no reaction. I cleared my throat and tried again to break the ice.

  “I’m waiting for the reboot to finish. What are you doing here? Thought I was alone… not that I mind.“ I was really blowing it. “Did I already say it’s, like, really great to meet y—.”

  The solid steel punch to my shoulder was swift. The momentum carried my body across the floor and through the chamber exit until I collided with a column.

  Now two things were wrong.

  And now you’re caught up. So, I was about to get my butt handed to me…

  “Sensors indicate Citadel Alpha reboot interrupted,” the French-accented computer announced.

  “Noted,” Pangra said.

  Pangra dipped the final saltine into the mug of chocolate milk, slapping the soggy cracker onto one of her three elongated yellow tongues. “Zaashweetza,” she whispered. The expression meant delicious in her native Pandoran language. She felt the temperature rise on her oblong forehead and its random patches of ocellus, a biological sign of pleasure. A chuckle escaped her gills as she lifted the mug, glancing at the bold letters stamped on its side.

  ‘F.U., E.T.’

  Even as an alien outsider, she appreciated the humor.

  She ignored the Jinn Jet’s flight deck controls, adjusted her cape and wiggled to make herself more comfortable in the pilot chair. The course was plotted, and the ship would do the rest. She lapped up the remaining milk. There was no food similar to milk or crackers on Pandora. It was her favorite food discovery when she’d escaped to earth twenty years earlier.

  “Reactivating comms for immediate communication is highly recommended,” the computer suggested.

  “Whatchu talkin’ bout, Willis?” Pangra said. The other Team Justice members rolled their eyes when she used American TV slang. Pangra, however, wanted to absorb herself in the culture as much as possible. She spent most evenings studying reruns of sitcoms. She felt this helped her to better understand the English language, and gave her a sense of humor, which her teammates hinted she severely lacked.

  “Keep comms offline. Continue the approved flight plan, no deviation. We have a team member on scene to solve any issues that may arise,” she said.

  “Affirmative,” the computer answered.

  She licked a stray saltine flake from her chin and relaxed her eyelids as she settled in for Pandoran meditation.

  My head throbbed from the collision with the wall and the second punch to the side of my head that followed. No way was I prepared for a battle with one of the most powerful members of Team Justice. Or former members. Didn’t matter. He was here now, and I was on my own.

  My first thought was to contact Pangra on the tablet. Then I noticed it lying in two pieces on the tile, the screen blank. I had dropped it when Cybersteele assaulted me.

  I decided on retreating and coming up with a game plan was the best solution. Cybersteele reached out to snatch me from the floor, but I spun away, barely escaping his bladed fingertips. I stayed low and skipped away. Fortunately, Cybersteele was not a speedster, which gave me an edge as long as he didn’t catch me. Unless he could morph into a Supercross cycle. Then I’d be a blood stain.

  Warning sensors activated, blanketing the level in flashing red light. What had happened? Was the satellite being attacked? A virus? Between my breathing, my pain, and my panic, my short supply of confidence was fading. I thought my head was bleeding, but I didn’t stop to check.

  I tapped the comm in my ear, hoping Pangra would respond. No reply. Cybersteele’s metal hand dug into my shoulder. “Unggh!” The pain bolted through my neck. He had me. I had panicked and let my guard down. He dragged my limp body alongside his. Where was he taking me?

  There was only one possibility that made sense. Whoever was attacking the satellite was probably controlling Cybersteele. This could be the first phase of an all-out assault on Team Justice. I envisioned alien warships hovering outside, waiting for the signal to invade. I had to warn Pangra somehow.

  I clenched my teeth and drew in a lungful of air. Focus, Drake. I raised my palms towards the tiled floor. My eyes glowed, the hair on my neck stood at attention. Microscopic dust particles appeared before me, floating, swimming, swirling in the satellite’s artificial gravity.

  As I said, I have a very strange power. I can scour any area and manipulate the particles. Dust, mold, bacteria, anything microscopic you learned about in science class.

  The energy within me manipulated the molecules in a ten-foot radius. The pain temporarily faded because of my intense focus. Scouring the floor for any particle I could use to my advantage. As if in slow motion, I could see the millions of shapes and sizes of the micro-world. One giant scattered puzzle, and my goal that moment was to form that puzzle into a shape or form I could use to save myself.

  Cybersteele’s claw hand slid around my neck, breathing became almost impossible. He continued to drag me along the floor like a dog carrying its favorite chew toy, wandering aimlessly. I tried to ignore the thoughts of hopelessness and concentrat
e again on scouring the area.

  I pushed my powers harder than I’d ever tried, reaching out to every ounce of dust or fleck of atom I could sense. My head pulsated, fading, it felt like it was cracking from the strain. A blanket of ionic dust particles, shaped like a spear, aimed for their target; the exhaust filter near the base of Cybersteele’s neck. From every corner of the room, they soared, more and more particles joining the almost invisible air assault.

  Cybersteele released his grip and grabbed for his filter. He wasn’t human, so he didn’t need to breathe, but I’d hoped clogging the filter would cause him to overheat. I scurried away, sucking in as much air as my lungs would allow.

  I crawled back to the trophy chamber, desperate for a dark corner to fade into. That little stunt would only buy me a minute.

  CLICK, CLAAK, CLAAK.

  Or less.

  The iron footsteps were already coming towards me. I rubbed my aching neck, preparing to use my powers again. I’d never attempted using them so soon without resting. I needed more time. Maybe I could work my way down to a lower level, get more distance between us.

  Maybe I was about to die.

  CLAAK.

  The sound now closer.

  A reflection from the emergency lighting grabbed my attention. There it was, my possible salvation.

  The Slayer Sword.

  I dove towards the display, landing on my knees directly in front of the weapon. An unintentional kneel to the gods for the sacrifice I was about to make. The sword was solid and frigid. It took both hands and all of my arm strength to yank it from its cradle.

  Regaining some of my confidence, weapon in hand, I rushed out of the chamber and towards the tin titan.

  Cybersteele had morphed his arm into some kind of badass looking cannon. It was aimed directly at me. We stood face-to-face, two heroes on the same team, but today at odds. How would I get close to him before he blasted a hole through me? I needed a quick diversion.