II Crimsonstreak

by Matt Adams

  Obviously, he doesn’t know her.

  “Colonel Chaos dreamed of making a unified world free of disease and division and deceit. It was a commendable idea that went horribly wrong,” Jaci argues. “The most egregious acts were perpetrated by the other Colonel Chaos.”

  Great Alexander, sitting on the tribunal dais, raises his hand. “Could one not argue that our Colonel Chaos is responsible for bringing his doppelganger into our reality?”

  Jaci turns toward the Comet, who grits his teeth while trying to clutch the pen tighter in his dead hand. He nods, and Jaci smiles. “Which came first, your honor? The chicken or the egg?” She shuffles through some papers. “We successfully argued this point before. You ruled on it. Why are we still talking about this?”

  Great Alexander tugs at his purple cape. “Colonel Chaos nearly killed his own son. His lust for power pressed you into service with his Enforcer Corps. His guards maimed the Crusading Comet so severely that your assistant counsel can barely lift his arm. He is responsible for untold deaths, and destruction never before seen on such a scale.”

  “We can definitively prove which Chaos is responsible for these acts, your honor. To blame William Avery Fairborne—our William Avery Fairborne—for everything goes against what the Heroic Legion stands for.”

  At that, Samson Knight rises to his feet. “You are not qualified to lecture us on what the Legion stands for. Had it not been for the convenient intervention of Chaos’s son, you might very well stand before us on the other side of this tribunal.”

  The Comet strains to stand up and balances himself with his left arm. “You’re losing focus, Samson Knight. This vendetta of yours with Chaos must end. The results of his actions are unfortunate. Unconscionable, even. But in the end—”

  Jaci whispers something I can’t make out and places a hand on the Comet’s shoulder. “You’ll have to excuse my assistant counsel. I believe what he’s trying to say is that what Colonel Chaos did turned out to be very wrong. But in the end, when it was the good guys versus the monsters, he was with the good guys. I’m not asking you to clear his name. I’m asking for leniency.”

  The members of the tribunal—Samson Knight, Great Alexander, Matsumoto, Double Decker, and Swiss Miss—cover their microphones and huddle. Samson Knight appears to defer to Great Alexander, but the other hero waves him off.

  “William Avery Fairborne—Colonel Chaos—is accused of crimes against humanity, human trafficking, genocide, treason, murder, and other despicable acts. You ask for leniency?” Knight grandstands. “If we grant leniency, it will only be so that Colonel Chaos lives out the rest of his natural life.”

  A murmur rises from those around us.

  “That’s enough! Order!” Samson Knight shouts, hitting his electro-mace hard against the long table. His armor glistens as the weapon crackles with blue energy.

  Brings back fond memories of ye olde particle buster. Lovely.

  “We’ve been at this for three years,” Jaci points out. “Yet we’re no closer to resolving anything. We have a world to rebuild.” She turns and points toward my father, who sits a few feet away in power-restraining wrist and ankle manacles. “We need men like Bill Fairborne to make that happen. Turn this into an opportunity to unite.”

  “In the world you describe, counselor, there would be no punishment for criminals. That is a world I do not wish to live in,” Samson Knight says.

  I can’t see very well from my vantage point, but I imagine Jaci’s killing Samson Knight with a look. Her voice, however, is remarkably composed and smooth. “He redeemed himself.”

  “Many of us were foolish enough to believe this supervillain had truly changed, but look at what he has done, backed by our trust and hope,” Samson Knight thunders. “He nearly destroyed the United States of America. The politicians came close, but he almost sealed our fate… and took the world along for the ride. Our prudent companions overseas,” Samson Knight nods at Double Decker, Matsumoto, and Swiss Miss, “were not drawn as deep into his dementia. And what was the cause of all this? A man’s unrelenting failure to accept that death is a part of life. Colonel Chaos sent our world into a dangerous tailspin because he couldn’t cope with the death of his wife.”

  A hush falls over the spectators.

  “Miss Lightspeed was a great hero,” Jaci counters, breaking the silence. “The man lost his wife. He was lost! He was rehabilitated once. Let him try again.”

  Samson Knight points his electro-mace in her direction. “The loss of a loved one—even a great hero such as Miss Lightspeed—is no excuse for putting the world on a course of death and destruction. Please don’t claim the insanity defense, Counselor Graves. It’s unbecoming of you. Or are you still a loyalist? Perhaps I should call in members of the Champions of Justice?”

  Jaci stands her ground. “You are in charge of the Heroic Legion, Samson Knight,” she says. “It gives me no pleasure to argue with you right now.” I’m sure that was a blatant lie, and I can’t help smirking a little. “Colonel Chaos was grief-stricken. He would do anything to bring back his wife. He did not understand—”

  “He understood perfectly,” I say as dozens of heads turn in my direction. “Jaci, please, this isn’t helping him.” Our eyes meet and Jaci’s narrow for just a second. I’ll pay for that tonight.

  “Christopher Fairborne, this is not a cattle market in which you can yell whatever you please,” Samson Knight chides, training his weapon on me.

  Part of me wants to hit Crimsonspeed and exit stage left. Samson Knight has that effect on people. Instead, I say, “No one here is arguing that what my father did was right. He knew what he was doing when it all started. But Jaci—I mean, Counselor Graves—is right. He was grief-stricken. He wasn’t thinking straight. Was it a good idea to open a rift into a parallel dimension? Probably not. That never ends well. But in the end, he made the right decision after making so many wrong ones. He’s only asking for the chance to fix what he has broken. I echo Counselor Graves’s point: it’s been three years, ladies and gentlemen. We’re still haggling?”

  A commanding yell quiets the hushed conversations that follow my question.

  “That’s enough!”

  It does not come from Samson Knight or Great Alexander or anyone in the peanut gallery.

  My father, though restrained, stands during his own tribunal. “I realize this is a breach of protocol, but rules have never been my strong suit,” Colonel Chaos says, eyes fixed on Samson Knight, glaring. Apparently, that whole “Trial of Demonspawn” thing still stands between them. “I regret my actions as they pertain to the New World Common Wealth, but I do not regret bringing back Miss Lightspeed. If the world had more heroes like her, there would be no need for organizations like the Heroic Legion and the Champions of Justice.”

  “Miss Lightspeed is another matter entirely,” Samson Knight says.

  “Is she?” Dad replies.

  “This tribunal is focused on determining adequate punishment for you, sir, and figuring out how best to fix this mess you’ve created. Meanwhile, we will find a way to send your doppelganger back where he belongs.”

  “I’m afraid that will not happen today. Or any time soon for that matter.”

  The declaration comes from my father—but not from my father. The evil Colonel Chaos, his temples gray, his face lined and wrinkled from excessive frowning and general douche-baggery, floats in the middle of the chamber.

  A high-pitched crackle echoes as Samson Knight powers up his electro-mace. This time, it must be for real. “How on Earth did you escape again?” the head of the tribunal demands. He sounds like a parent whose hyper five-year-old has managed to spill his chocolate milk for the fourth time in one afternoon. The former High Imperator Colonel Chaos escapes a lot these days.

  “You debate my future without even letting me be present,” the High Imperator says. “This is not justice.”

  Samson Knight laughs.

  Now there’s a reaction that will calm down the evilest man on Earth. W
ay to go, Sammy.

  “You are not of this world,” Great Alexander says. “And you are a criminal besides. You have no say in the matter. Guards, please put him in restraints.”

  Several court bailiffs—all super-powered, of course—converge on the parallel-world Chaos, who allows them to fit him with power-restraining chains.

  That’s it? Really?

  The building shakes as the super-bailiffs escort the ex-High Imperator to a table next to my father. Samson Knight and Great Alexander exchange confused looks as debris rains from the rotunda. Beams of blue light seep into the main chamber.

  The former High Imperator turns, allowing me to glimpse an expression not often seen on the man’s sinister face.

  Panic.

  Chunks of the Capitol Rotunda fall into the crowd, but Matsumoto conjures a force field to stop the debris. The rumbling shakes every part of my body.

  Colonel Chaos—the evil one—rises from his new seat, pulled by an invisible hand toward the opening in the rotunda. A monstrous figure in matte black armor appears next to him. His head is dark green and ugly, the lower half of his mottled face covered by a mask. Too bad he isn’t wearing anything over those sickening yellow eyes.

  “Your help is required,” the dreadful figure says. “As you promised.”

  “No! No! No!” Chaos screams. “It didn’t work. I don’t owe you anything!”

  “Silence, Chaos. That your leadership failed does not invalidate our agreement. You will provide assistance.”

  A droning whine fills the room as beams of blue-white energy converge on the High Imperator.

  A split second later, he’s gone.

  Just as quickly, the shaking and rumbling stop—and the Capitol Rotunda is back in place.

  Samson Knight breaks the stunned silence. “This tribunal is adjourned.”

  Samson Knight Does His Best Captain Murphy

  I sit in a secret chamber with a few other members of the Heroic Legion. Jaci, the Crusading Comet, and the resurrected Miss Lightspeed are here, too. Dad sits next to me, still in power restraints.

  “Now do you believe me?” I ask.

  Samson Knight shakes his head. “This is impossible. There has been no indication of Kiltech activity…”

  All together now…

  “For five years,” everyone in the room says.

  “You should have listened to Chris,” my father says. If Dad could project laser beams from his eyes, Samson Knight would be post-Ark of the Covenant Toht by now.

  “Your son barged into my chamber before the tribunal and began ranting incoherently,” Samson Knight says. “He had no proof.”

  “My recollection of that conversation is a bit… different,” I counter. “Mindbender Baron caught a thought from Wainwright just before his face exploded.”

  Dad cocks an eyebrow. “Wainwright?”

  “He was holed up in a warehouse with some of the Clermont escapees. Come to think of it, Fourth-Reich Rich was there, too. Didn’t seem to be a Nazi zombie plot, either. I’ll be damned.”

  “Will you please focus, Fairborne?” an exasperated Samson Knight grumbles.

  “Wainwright vaporized Griggs. He had super-strength and power gauntlets that actually posed a threat.”

  “That’s a first,” Jaci says. “That guy is a horrible supervillain.”

  “You’re telling me. He was being controlled, I think,” I say, pointing toward my right ear. “There was a box under his ear. Silver, with flashing lights. He clearly wasn’t himself. His entire team had them, too.”

  “This information would’ve been helpful sooner,” Samson Knight says irritably.

  “It’s hard to get a word in edgewise when the leader of the Heroic Legion is more concerned about ‘dispensing justice’ to my father than countering an actual threat.”

  The electro-mace comes down yet again. “You had no proof.”

  Miss Lightspeed gives him a stern look. “Gary, let it go.”

  The electro-mace loses power. A few words from Miss Lightspeed—whether in admonishment or kindness—usually do the trick for Samson Knight. She has that effect on people. Mentally, I let out a relieved sigh. These days, when my mother gives someone a look like that, you don’t know what she’s going to do. Let’s just say there’s a reason the Legion hasn’t given her the most vital assignments lately.

  “You might try listening once in a while,” she says. “We’re all in this together. If the Kiltechs have truly returned, then we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

  “My apologies, Karen,” Samson Knight stammers. “It’s easy to lose perspective when there is so much at stake. The Clermont escapees, the rift with the Champions of Justice, putting the government back together. It all… clouded my vision.”

  “This is not the time for petty jealousies,” Miss Lightspeed scolds him. I can practically see Samson Knight blush underneath his helmet. “We have to stay together. You have to forgive what has happened in the past.”

  Publicly, no one says anything against my mother, but people are tiptoeing around the issue. Being resurrected at the hands of a mad supervillain leaves a mark on a person, and my mother isn’t exactly stable anymore. My greatest fear is that the Evil Miss Lightspeed will return. I’ve talked about it with my father, but I can’t get anywhere with him. Samson Knight still uses her in an advisory capacity, but he keeps her away from potentially explosive situations. I know that hasn’t escaped my mother’s notice. Or my father’s, for that matter.

  A beep trills in the room and Samson Knight pulls a smartphone from his belt. “Gray Centurion and his team just ran into another group of Clermont escapees. He reports strange behavior from the rogue villains before they blew themselves up.” He looks over at me. “Delta Team did not have a mind-reader in its ranks. Gray Centurion is the sole survivor.” The device chirps again to signal an emergency Heroic Legion communication. “This is Samson Knight.”

  “I just ran into Epsilon Team,” a familiar voice says over the static-filled transmission. “They were pinned down. I tried to assist, but now I’m pinned down, too.”

  “Crusading Comet, what is your location?” Samson Knight asks.

  “Lower Manhattan. I was tracking a group of five escapees. Apparently, Epsilon Team was on the same trail.”

  What has Warren Kensington IV gotten himself into this time?

  “Do you need backup?” Samson Knight inquires.

  “Of course not, Gary. I just called to chat,” Warren deadpans on the other end of the transmission.

  “I’ll send—”

  I never hear the rest of Samson Knight’s order, but I’m assuming the missing bit is “Crimsonstreak,” even though it’s probably something more like “anyone but Fairborne.” Samson Knight would probably prefer that I stick around to amuse everyone with my crazy stories about the Kiltechs.

  But Warren’s in trouble.

  Lower Manhattan has an uncanny resemblance to London during the Blitz. Minus the really great architecture, that is.

  Ick. New York again.

  At least it’s not still New Chaos City these days.

  Small fires rage in different parts of the neighborhood. Wall Street is in ruins. Wonderful. We just started the stock exchanges back up a few months ago. People run through the streets—it’s a nice mix of guys in power ties, women in Hillary Clinton suits, hot dog vendors, and stickball kids—as energy blasts echo off the skyscrapers.

  “Warren, Crimsonstreak here. What’s your location?”

  To my relief, the communicator works. “Oh, thank God. We’re saved,” Warren says flatly. “I’m just north of Battery Park. Group of five bad guys has me trapped.”

  “Understood. Where’s Battery Park?”

  Warren’s agitation washes over me like a tidal wave. “It’s south of the Financial District.”

  “What’s the Financial District?”

  “It’s—dammit, Chris, just get your ass over here!”

  The streets shake again and I do a fast loop
of the area, quickly spotting the park, where the Crusading Comet squats behind a large concrete barrier. I’m next to him before he even spots me.

  “Where’s Epsilon Team?” I ask.

  Startled, he gasps and throws a Comet Star that lands at my feet. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people,” he mutters, petulantly flinging another Comet Star that would’ve clocked me in the forehead if I didn’t move so fast.

  I snatch it from midair, handing the projectile weapon back to him. “Epsilon Team?”

  “They were just across the Custom House. I haven’t been able to get to them,” Warren says. He grabs me and we huddle for cover behind the barrier.

  “Who are we after?” I ask.

  “It’s more like who’s after us. I didn’t think this group was going to be much trouble. It’s just Shadowsmith and some C-listers. Shadowsmith’s been disrupting our communications intermittently, but he can’t hold the interference.”

  “That’s strange,” I reply.

  Shadowsmith. I never saw him during my little vacation at Clermont, but I certainly heard Mom and Dad talk about him. Disrupting electronics and turning out the lights is the guy’s favorite pastime. He’s not much fun to have around on Call of Duty nights.

  “You get a look at the other baddies?”

  Warren shakes his head as another powerful blast shakes the street. This one makes my ears ring. Straining to hear myself, I tell him about Wainwright. “He was stronger and more powerful than he had any right to be.”

  My communicator pings. “Heroic Legion, this is Epsilon Team… rallied from… pressing forward... they’ve left their cover… moving onto the street. We believe—”

  The transmission cuts off.

  “I don’t recognize the voice.”

  “It’s Baron Gallant. Some hero from Baltimore,” Warren explains. “I don’t know why they put him in charge of a task force. He seems… testy.”