Action Figures - Issue Three: Pasts Imperfect

by Michael Bailey

  “ETA ten minutes,” Concorde says over the comm system. “Stick close, Mindforce, we’re behind schedule.”

  “Copy that,” Mindforce says.

  “Behind schedule already? Unacceptable. Ten points from Gryffindor,” Nina says.

  “If we’re late, will Concorde put us on secret probation?” Matt says.

  “Double secret probation.”

  “Harsh.”

  “I can hear you, you know,” Concorde says. “God, this is going to be a long day. Lightstorm, channel zero.”

  The private line? Wonder what’s up. “Lightstorm is go on zero.”

  “I read your report. Very thorough.”

  “Thanks. Hope it helped.”

  “Not really, but that’s not on you. I’m hoping the feds will turn up something more useful.”

  “The feds?”

  “The illegal possession of nuclear material is a federal offense. The FBI got wind of what happened in Sturbridge and now they’re all over it, but investigations like this take time. I don’t have time. I need to know how my tech is getting out of my facility now.”

  “Getting out of your — wait, what? I thought Belcher got them from — I don’t know, from whoever made them for the Thrashers, or for Manticore’s suit.”

  Manticore. Jeez, I can’t even say his name aloud without my throat going dry.

  “I almost wish that were the case.” Concorde sighs. “Years ago, six micro-cells, the first run mass-manufactured by my company, disappeared from the facility. I suspected industrial espionage at first. Two months after the theft, Manticore made his first appearance.”

  Manticore was only the first super-villain to show up wearing a high-tech, nuclear micro-cell-powered battlesuit, Concorde says. Many others followed, and Concorde made it his mission to personally take them down (which, as it happened, led to his reputation as one of the nation’s all-time top super-heroes). What he quickly learned was that none of the battlesuits were using his micro-cells; they were powered by, for lack of a better term, bootleg versions — micro-cells based on his original designs. Whoever took that initial batch replicated the tech to sell to wannabe super-villains. Concorde says they all bought their micro-cells through a variety of black marketeers, but he’s never been able to track down the supplier.

  This time around, it was easy to trace Belcher’s micro-cells back to their source. “All micro-cells produced by Bose Industries have electronic tags built into their casings, just in case something like this ever happened again,” Concorde says. “Belcher’s micro-cells were tagged.”

  “He bought them from someone inside your company?” I say.

  “Not directly, no. He told the police he bought them from an online black market.”

  “Are you serious? He got the things on an underground eBay?”

  “Basically.” Concorde tells me the feds shut down the site and are in the process of hunting down whoever ran it, but it could be weeks, maybe months before the investigation uncovers who in the company is acting as the supplier. Understandably, Concorde isn’t feeling that patient. “I spent the entire weekend personally sifting through our production and shipping records for every nuclear micro-cell we’ve ever made, and every single unit is accounted for.”

  “And yet,” I say. “If I can help in any way...”

  “You can’t. This is my problem to deal with,” he says, ending the conversation by switching back to the public channel. “Byrne, this is Concorde, en route for prisoner transport detail, ETA two minutes.”

  “Concorde, this is Byrne control, we copy,” replies a rich, microphone-pleasing voice with the faintest of Southern twangs. “Landing pad’s clear for your detail, the warden will meet you there, over.”

  “Copy that.”

  We arc toward the ground, and I get my first look at the infamous Byrne Penitentiary and Detention Center, the New England region’s supermax prison for superhuman offenders. I did a little reading about Byrne and learned that, in addition to its unique clientele, it’s an unusual prison in that it holds inmates at the federal, state, and district levels; superhuman offenders aren’t so common that there’s a need for separate prisons for each level of criminal (thank God for that), so Byrne multi-tasks. A tall, cylindrical building serves as a central hub. The southern face is open to a courtyard and a sprawling parking lot almost as large as the prison itself. Three smaller buildings sit to the north, east, and west, none of them visibly attached to the central structure. These, as I recall, are the prisoner housing units: one for federal-level offenders, one for people who’d normally go to a state penitentiary, and one that holds people awaiting trial (like Archimedes) and convicts who would normally serve out their sentence in a county correctional facility. A dense forest surrounds the compound, and a tall, razor wire-topped wall surrounds that. I don’t know jack about prisons, but this place looks as solid and as inescapable as any.

  The landing pad sits off the east wing, well away from the complex. As Concorde and I touch down, an African-American man steps out of a black Humvee. He’s a little smaller than the car. He must shop for suits at the same place as Joe Quentin. He strides out to meet us and extends a hand.

  “Concorde,” he says, his voice as deep and resonant as the Pelican’s maglev system.

  “Good morning, warden,” Concorde says, shaking his hand. “Warden Pearce, this is Lightstorm of the Hero Squad. Lightstorm, Harlan Pearce, warden of Byrne Penitentiary.”

  “Lightstorm,” Pearce says. My hand vanishes in his. Heck, my entire head could fit inside that catcher’s mitt.

  “Warden, sir,” I say with the utmost respect. Powers or no, I think this guy could take me.

  “The prisoners have been prepped for transport,” Pearce says, and he doesn’t have to raise his voice to be heard over the Pelican as it lands behind us. “I’ve doubled the guard detail.”

  “Mm, good call. I don’t anticipate any trouble...”

  “But why take chances?”

  “Exactly.”

  The Pelican touches down long enough to drop off Mindforce, then, with Nina at the stick, lifts off to set up shop at the courthouse. After the warden and Mindforce exchange brief niceties, we climb into the Hummer for the short ride to the prison. The interior is set up like a limo, with front- and rear-facing seats in the back half of the vehicle. I sit on the rear-facing seat with Concorde and Mindforce, Pearce gets the other seat all to himself.

  We hop out at the main entrance, where a half-dozen guards stand at attention. They’re in black fatigues and full body armor, and each of them totes an automatic rifle equipped with a laser sight. Flash-bang grenades dangle from their belts, and I count two pistols on each guard: one under the arm, one at the hip. I’m starting to feel unnecessary; these bad boys are ready for a war.

  “Captain,” Pearce says to no one specific, “call it in.”

  One of the men taps an earpiece. “Control, Captain Dekes calling it in. Send out the hearse.”

  “The hearse” is the prisoner transport, the hybrid offspring of a small school bus and an armored car. It backs up to the entrance and rear double doors swing open to reveal another six guards, all of them armed to the teeth. They pile out to join their comrades, forming an intimidating gauntlet between the prison and the transport.

  “The hearse is in place, control,” Dekes says. “Bring out the prisoners.”

  One by one, three people in neon orange jumpsuits file out of the prison, shackled head and foot; thick steel cuffs encircle their wrists and ankles, heavy cables rather than chains link the shackles together, and they all wear what appear to be steel collars. Each prisoner is more shocking than the last.

  The first person out the door is Archimedes, and my God, does he look rough. His skin has grown tight and pale, giving him an unsettlingly skeletal appearance, and his hair has grown wild to form a scraggly mane. He doesn’t look up from the ground as he shuffles toward the hearse. Captivity has not been his friend; he’s demoralized, defeated, and a g
ood sneeze would knock him over — and yet, the sight of him fills me with cold dread.

  The last time I saw the man marching behind Archimedes, who I know only as Minotaur, Stuart had pounded him into the ground with an SUV. He’s abnormally tall and ripped like a bodybuilder on an all-steroid diet, and his blank, slack-jawed expression suggests the beating left him mildly brain-damaged. Either that or he’s heavily drugged. I can’t tell which.

  The girl bringing up the rear is maybe a little taller than Missy. Her dark hair is cut short at the sides but is long on top, and spills over one side of her face in an unkempt wave. She smirks at the guards as she passes and, when her gaze briefly falls on me, I catch a malicious glint in her eyes. She can’t be any older than me.

  My God. They threw a kid in this place.

  I glance over at Concorde and Mindforce. They’re unreadable, as is Pearce, who watches the proceedings with the detached, critical eye of a man who’s used to being in control of every last square inch of his domain. This is business as usual for them, and the presence of a teenage girl among the prisoners, unrepentant killers both, is an irrelevant detail.

  The prisoners climb into the hearse. Eleven of the guards pile in after them. Captain Dekes seals the vehicle, the doors closing with a cold, hollow clang. Dekes and Mindforce join the driver in the cab of the vehicle, which revs up with a low, throaty roar.

  “The hearse is sealed and ready to roll out. Concorde, Lightstorm, over to you,” Pearce says.

  “Warden,” Concorde says by way of a goodbye. “All right Lightstorm, let’s hit the sky.”

  TEN

  “Concorde, what’s up with the girl?”

  Concorde doesn’t answer. My headpiece tells me he’s there, flying five hundred feet above and behind me, shadowing me while I shadow the transport at low altitude — a “staggered high-low formation,” he called it, intended to provide maximum visual coverage, and to facilitate the immediate interception of any threats from the sky or the ground — but he’s not responding.

  Right, then, plan B. “Mindforce, what’s up with the girl?”

  “This isn’t the right time, Lightstorm,” Mindforce says, uncharacteristically terse. “We can discuss her later.”

  “What girl?” Matt says from many miles away.

  “The girl in the hearse,” I say.

  “There’s a girl in the hearse?”

  “I’m going to say this once,” Concorde says. “Can the chatter. We need to keep the channel clear for priority communications. Everyone stay off the comm unless it’s important.”

  “With all due respect, Concorde, the Hero Squad hasn’t been fully briefed on two of the three prisoners, and we’re utterly unfamiliar with one of them,” I say. “We’re unaware of her capabilities. That means, in the unlikely event of an escape attempt, the Squad is ill-prepared to deal with the threat in an effective manner.”

  I say this knowing Warden Pearce is on the line, and hoping he’s not going to like the fact that part of his super-hero escort detail has been kept in the dark. Yes, it’s playing dirty, but I want to know what a teenage girl could have done to warrant getting chucked into a supermax.

  “Concorde, you told me you briefed your team,” Pearce says. Thank you for playing, warden.

  I have to hand it to my fancy headset: The sound is so clear and clean I can make out every swear word hiding in Concorde’s annoyed grumble. “Let’s make this quick,” he says. “You already know Archimedes and Minotaur...”

  “Whoa, hold up. Minotaur?” Stuart says.

  “Minotaur is a low-risk prisoner. He suffered moderate brain damage from that beating you gave him. He’s barely functional.”

  Called it.

  “Oh,” Stuart says. How about that? Guilt also comes through my headset with crystal clarity.

  “The girl is Joyce Morana. She calls herself Buzzkill Joy. Do you remember the incident at Roxbury High School last fall?”

  “Yeah, there was a shooting, wasn’t there?” I say, failing to remember any specifics; I was in the middle of the big move from Barnstable to Kingsport when it happened, and I wasn’t paying much attention to anything going on in the world.

  “It wasn’t a shooting,” Concorde says. “Buzzkill Joy murdered seven people with her bare hands.”

  She what?

  “She’s strong, fast, and vicious. Think Kunoichi without a conscience. Handling protocol is simple: If you’re not invulnerable or a long-range fighter, stay away from her. Questions?” No one responds. “Good. I want radio silence for non-priority matters from here on out.”

  I actually have a ton of questions, but not the kind Concorde could answer — like, what would drive a young girl to kill seven people? I’m tempted to fire up my headset’s browser and do a little Googling on Miss Buzzkill, but like Mindforce said: This isn’t the time. Focus on the task at hand, and satisfy my perverse curiosity later.

  The courthouse sits in the middle of the city, surrounded on all sides by hotels, blocks of businesses, and restaurants. A massive convention center sits to the court’s southeast. Soon the streets will teem with people heading to work, but for now they’re relatively empty, which is the point: Fewer people mean fewer potential casualties should something bad happen. That’s the theme of the day: Try to predict what could go horribly wrong and compensate for it, and I think we’ve covered every base short of Godzilla dropping on us from a passing blimp.

  Captain Dekes breaks radio silence. “Worcester Court, this is Byrne transport, on final approach. ETA, one minute. Security code beta upsilon delta epsilon three.”

  “This is Worcester security,” replies a man. “Copy that, we’re ready to receive the hearse. Security code omega omicron kappa omicron four.”

  “Copy,” Dekes says. “Special security?”

  Nina replies. “Special security in place, Byrne transport. Security code nu iota eta epsilon five.”

  “Copy,” Dekes says, and the comm falls silent again.

  For the final mile I’m to fly in low, below rooftop level, while Concorde stays high to scan for any suspicious activity. I descend, catching sight of the Pelican sitting in a parking lot across the street from the court, then I spot the Squad and Nina at attention at the side of the courthouse. They flank a pair of sturdy steel doors that accordion open: an entrance for prisoner transport vehicles. If anything is going to happen, it’s going to happen now, before the hearse vanishes into the bowels of the building.

  The mini-caravan rounds the final corner.

  “All clear from above,” Concorde says.

  “All clear at street level,” I say.

  “Confirmed,” Nina says.

  The hearse rolls up to the garage doors. Captain Dekes rattles off another Greek alphabet soup security code. The doors open, the hearse and its companion disappear into the side of the building, Nina and the Squad file in behind the transports, and the doors slide shut.

  “The hearse has arrived,” Dekes announces.

  Well, that was anti-climactic, I think.

  And then someone shoves white-hot ice-picks in my ears.

  Within the confines of the garage, a kill box of hard, echoing surfaces, the sonic shriek hits with stunning intensity. Those outside the transports collapse to the cold cement floor, their equilibrium crippled, their brains on fire. Those inside the transports, linked to their companions by their comm headsets, fare no better.

  “That was almost too easy,” says the woman known to the general public as Harpy.

  “What?” Kobold says.

  “I said, that was almost — oh, for...” Harpy mutters. She taps an ear: Take your earplugs out, moron.

  “Oh, right.”

  “Move fast, Bestiary,” Hydra says, sloughing off his stolen courthouse guard uniform to reveal his trademark weaponry, a unit on his back sprouting four mechanical arms, each arm capable of projecting a heat beam powerful enough to reduce steel to slag. “Minotaur, you’re up.”

  “You heard the man, substitute,
” Kobold teases. “You’re the can opener, so get opening.”

  “Bro, you best watch your teeny-tiny mouth,” Minotaur says, glowering down at his diminutive teammate, “else I might step on you like you was gum on the sidewalk.”

  “Behave, children,” Harpy says. “Don’t make me yell at you.”

  “Cripes, people, can I possibly get some professional friggin’ behavior here?” Hydra barks. “Minotaur, open the transport, now! Harpy, find the control for the collars.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m on it,” Minotaur says. He runs his hand along the seam where the rear doors meet, searching for a gap. Finding none, he makes one, forcing his fingers between the steel slabs. He pulls. The doors creak, yawn, scream. Four case-hardened deadbolts snap, the pieces tinkling like an off-key wind chime as they rain to the floor. The bodies inside lie in a tangled heap, flashes of orange speckling the black and blue mass of uniforms and body armor.

  “I went to parties in college like that,” Kobold says.

  “Hey, Archimedes!” Hydra’s shout barely cuts through the siren wailing in Archimedes’ ears. “Time to split, buddy. You’re ride’s here.”

  Ow.

  My dad took me to a Springsteen concert once. We had sixth-row seats for four hours of blaring rock music. My ears rang for two days afterwards.

  This is worse. It’s like someone’s blowing a whistle right in my ear — but it’s taking my mind off the pain racking my body, so there’s that.

  I roll onto my back, my fingers clutching at the pavement beneath me. It’s solid, real, something stable for my brain to latch onto. The chilly asphalt is like a welcome splash of cold water, and it calms the nausea-inducing spinning sensation that’s keeping me from getting to my feet.

  “Lightstorm, report,” Concorde buzzes in my ear. “Lightstorm?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “All right-ish. There’s pain,” I say, but I was flying low when — well, whatever happened happened, so I’ll take the pain; it means I’m not street pizza.

  “Hold on.” A few seconds later, Concorde touches down next to me, landing with a drunken stagger-step. He kneels to grasp my hand and help me up. “Anything broken?”