by Matt Adams
“We repelled their first invasion,” I tell him. “Now they’re back. We could use some help.”
Orange Band folds his arms across his chest. “What has happened so far?”
“They’ve infiltrated our government. They’re experimenting on those of us with superpowers,” I explain.
“They have an intense interest in those with special abilities,” Klem acknowledges. “The Kiltechs have always been obsessed with such things.” He closes his eyes for an instant. “You have magnificent powers, yet you seem frail compared to your father. My Band tells me your colleague has abilities as well.”
“I’m a teleporter,” Crossworld says, as if he couldn’t have figured that out from seeing us blip across the room.
“A power worthy of the Orange Bands.”
“What are the Kiltechs trying to do? What’s their deal?”
“The Kiltechs do not wish total subjugation upon your world,” he explains. “They wish to… speed up the evolutionary process in this quadrant. They are attempting to improve humanity, in their way. The Kiltechs are preparing your species, but the Orange Bands believe you are not ready for this.”
“I don’t know if I like the sound of that,” Crossworld says. “Preparing us? For what?”
“There are other threats in this universe.”
“Other threats?” I ask.
A smile plays across Orange Band’s lips. “Some things should remain unknown, even to the gifted.”
“Can you help us?”
“I can fight the Kiltechs,” he says simply, disappearing in a flash of orange energy.
Another Pain in the Butler
“How was Seven Minutes in Heaven?” Warren asks as Crossworld and I rematerialize in the rundown research facility.
“Funny, Warren. Funny. We’ll round it out with some Truth or Dare later. I think we’ve got Chutes and Ladders in the game closet for you, kiddo.”
With a pained look, Crossworld clutches at her neck for the Kiltech box. “I have to go.”
I start to give her a mock-salute, but she kisses me on the cheek and teleports away. Both Jaci and my mother look pissed.
“I can’t stop her,” I protest, my arms outstretched.
“Next time, at least pretend to flinch,” Jaci spits.
“We can talk about this tonight.”
She frowns. “Don’t get ahead of yourself when it comes to tonight.”
“What was in there?” Warren asks. Thank goodness for changes of topic.
I give him the quick version: orange-colored Green Lantern rip-off with an Olivia Newton-John headband.
“Frankly, they sound made up,” Warren says. “You sure you haven’t been hitting the comic books a little too hard?”
“I know what I saw. A guy with magical orange powers said he could help us fight the Kiltechs.”
“I did not realize the Orange Bands had encroached on this system,” Falcon Gray says.
“Wait, you know these guys?”
“They are a group of intergalactic beings who pretend to make peace,” he explains. “In truth, they are neither good nor evil. They work only for themselves.”
“The guy did say they were peacekeepers,” I muse.
“Why would peacekeepers carry weapons of such power?” the birdman asks.
“I don’t know, Big Bird. Why does a talking birdman have an upper body straight from 300?”
“A simple answer,” Falcon Gray says, looking around as if everyone else in the room is crazy. “A high-protein diet, maximum-performance birdfood, and a demanding regimen of abdominal exercises.”
It all makes perfect sense, at least to Falcon Gray.
“We need to follow up with the Champions of Justice,” I say, changing the subject to something less likely to involve a discussion of the relative merits of bird kibble. “They’ve been guarding this place, they’re obsessed with my father… maybe they know something about the Orange Bands.”
“Surely they would have told us if that were the case,” my mother—who seems relatively stable right now—says.
Warren shakes his head. “Unless they’re trying to pull a fast one on us. They’re not the most trustworthy lot. I’m sure they’ll be happy to hunker in down in our headquarters to get away from the fight. Then, when it’s all over, they’ll just sweep right in and take control. If Earth survives, of course.”
“You shouldn’t question their bravery, young one,” Falcon Gray says. “While the Champions of Justice may not always have goals that align with our own, they are not without courage.”
“The COJ is a collection of thugs who volunteered to help Colonel Chaos because they enjoyed beating people up,” Warren snaps. “Don’t try to sugarcoat it.”
Feathers ruffled, Falcon Gray erupts into a spastic shimmy. “They acted in haste to serve the New World Common Wealth. You must not lump everyone into the same category. Many who joined simply held to a different system of beliefs. For example, on my home planet—”
“You ever spend some time with any Enforcers?” Warren asks. “They were bullies who taunted the powerless and preyed on the weak. You know how many heroes I saw them put away? Have you ever met someone who enjoyed torture? I mean, really enjoyed it?”
“Fledgling, you have much to learn,” Falcon Gray says calmly. Despite his awkward delivery, the birdman possesses undeniable nobility, and he’s fair to a fault. “Where you see black, others see white. Many see gray.”
“I thought birds were colorblind,” Warren says.
“Only justice is colorblind,” Falcon Gray asserts. He turns toward me. “The Champions have agreed to join us?”
“They should have reached Dad’s lab by now,” I say, turning to Warren. “I bet your father’s got his hand full.”
“That’s not funny,” Warren grumbles.
“We don’t have enough food to feed these people. We barely have enough for ourselves,” the Crusading Comet says, pulling me into a small alcove inside my father’s lab. His right arm seems to hang even more helplessly than normal. “Furthermore, I don’t trust them.”
“I don’t trust them either,” I whisper, gesturing for him to keep his voice down. “But we couldn’t leave them exposed back there. We need allies.”
“I fought against most of them during the superhero revolt,” the Comet points out.
“You don’t seem to have a problem with Sapphire Twelve,” I tell him.
“It was one time,” the Comet says. “One time. Sometimes they won’t take a hint. You ever see Fatal Attraction? That one will not be ignored.”
“I get it, I get it. Sapphire Twelve’s a sore spot.”
“You could say that,” the Comet grunts.
“You’re gonna have to live with her here, pal. Look, I know we don’t have enough protein bars to sustain us for a long time. I realize it’s already feeling a little crowded, but we need help. We can’t trust the Legion. The Kiltechs are working their way into our government and manipulating the media. We get the Champions on our side, it helps us. And then there are the Orange Bands.”
“I don’t even know what to say about the orange thing. I’m half-convinced you hallucinated that guy into existence. No one else saw him.”
“Crossworld did.”
The Comet pats his chest. “You’ll have to excuse me for discounting her as a reliable source.”
“Don’t think for one minute that I trust that woman. She could pop in here any second with a bunch of Kiltech warriors,” I say.
“That’s my point, Chris. Any of our guests could be a sleeper agent. That’s not a very comforting thought.” The Comet leans against a wall. “Damn. Mortimer would’ve had this all planned out. We’d be on our backup-backup plan.”
“There’s always the chance he’s around here somewhere,” I remind him.
“Orange Bands, Mortimer Willoughby. You sure that crash into the Baltimore World Trade Center didn’t scramble your circuits?”
“I don’t appreciate the implication,�
� I say. “I’m not like my mother.”
“I’m not saying anything against your mother.”
“That’s the problem, Comet, no one does. She almost murdered Crossworld right in front of us. Then she went after Falcon Gray.”
“But all the scans say—”
“You sound like my father. ‘I’m a scientist. If the scans say what the scans say, then Miss Lightspeed’s just fine.’ Everyone ignores her ‘episodes.’ They’ve been using her as a one-woman Super Diplomats Corps and hoping she doesn’t go berserk.”
“She’s Miss Lightspeed. She’s earned the right,” the Comet says. “Everyone’s just waiting for the kinks to get worked out. I’ve followed your mother for a very long time—she’s an honorable woman, a truly admirable person. We are fortunate to have her on our side.” There’s something else there, a sense of desperation in the Comet’s words, but I let it slide. He goes on, “Like you said, we need all the allies we can get.”
“Which is why I need you to play nice with the Champions. I know you’re not really concerned about running out of provisions.”
The Comet sighs. “If we got into a desperate situation, I have some emergency stockpiles that wouldn’t be too difficult to access.”
“Then why are you pretending to worry about food?”
The Comet grits his teeth. “I’m trying to keep my mind occupied. It feels like it felt before, when your father took over. You couldn’t rely on anybody. I had Warren and Mortimer. A few other heroes finally came together. Even then, some were working for the New World Common Wealth. It feels like that again.”
“Look, we have to stop the Kiltechs, and it doesn’t matter who helps us. Besides, these guys won’t betray us. I’m sure of it. They have as much to lose as we do. They will go down swinging right alongside Colonel Chaos.”
“I hope you’re right, Chris.”
A murmur rises from the main lab. I look out of our hidey-hole to see several of our guests pointing at the room’s wall-size display. Warren cranks the volume.
“Envoys for Aegis are again condemning the actions of the invaders who targeted Earth before, but insist they were misled by Colonel Chaos,” a news anchor says. “They tell us top members of the Heroic Legion have agreed to hand Chaos over to them after the deposed world leader confessed to a vast cover-up and conspiracy regarding the so-called ‘Kiltech Incursion.’
“Newly released documents from the former New World Common Wealth show Chaos was involved in a complex, far-ranging campaign to undermine the Kiltechs in the public eye and conspired to destroy California to rally support to his cause.”
A series of official-looking documents emblazoned with the not-quite-forgotten “NWCW” logo splash across the screen as the news anchor utters phrases like “manufacture discontent against the alien threat” and “destruction of California lamentable but necessary to unify power base.” My personal favorite happens to be, “Common Wealth leadership must cast public doubt on the pure intentions of the Kiltech race.”
“I expected better from CNN,” the Comet says.
“Even megalomaniacal evil-Chaos has more political savvy than that,” I say, shaking my head. “A totalitarian despot doesn’t have to send out memos so the press can bite him in the ass later. He just orders people to do what he wants.”
“I wonder what’s happened to Colonel Chaos,” the Comet says. The thought isn’t very comforting, and my face shows it. The Comet puts his good hand on my shoulder. “Your father is a survivor, Chris. There are no horrors the Kiltechs can unleash upon him that he cannot withstand.”
His attempt to comfort me comes to a sudden halt as a “breaking news” banner flashes across the screen.
“Breaking news?” Warren says, frowning at the screen. “It’s just a shot of an empty street. They really are reaching for ratings, aren’t they?”
“Breaking news just coming into the newsroom. We’re getting reports of a blue streak of some sort crisscrossing its way along the East Coast, apparently headed for East Rutherford, New Jersey. This is a live look from one of our affiliates. It’s believed to be the same entity that destroyed part of the Baltimore World Trade Center earlier this week. Several witnesses described a ‘moving blue ribbon’ that ‘whooshed past them.’
“We’ve slowed down the footage so you at home can get a better look at what people are seeing,” the anchor says. The slow-motion footage shows a moving, wispy ribbon of dark blue.
I’ve seen it before, and I’m off before anyone has time to remind me that this is a bad idea.
I can sense the speed as I close in on New Jersey. It almost feels like I’ve gained a new sense, an ability to track the Bluestreak—a feeling eerily reminiscent of the connection I felt with Imperator Chris before he died at the hands of Zeus Caesar. I wind through the streets, the blue blur ahead of me.
The Bluestreak comes to a halt. All the ambient noise of the world fades away; the loud yelling of drivers pissed off by the two men in an intersection, the honking horns, the rustling of people milling on the streets.
Everything simply stops as I stare at myself. A reflection; Crimsonstreak in blue. Every detail of his uniform mirrors mine, as if someone dipped my Crimsonstreak uniform in grape Kool-Aid.
An untimely thought pops into my head: Kool-Aid Man, not red and smiling, but dark blue and scowling, busting through a brick wall and menacingly yelling, “OH NOOOOO!”
Focus. My doppelganger keeps his head down, refusing to show his face.
“You’ve been on the news,” I say. “Causing a few problems.”
The ambient sounds of the world start flowing just in time for me to hear an insistent voice yell, “Move yer ass, assclown!”
Ah, the refined dialogue of the New Jersey motorist. I’m sure he has somewhere important to go.
“Last time we met, you outraced me,” I tell my blue counterpart, who stands still, almost as if someone turned him into a statue. “That doesn’t happen very often.”
He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t smile, doesn’t move.
I’m not even sure this guy is breathing. The “CS” emblazoned on my chest says “BS” on his. It undoubtedly stands for “Bluestreak.”
In my mind, I’m calling “BS.”
Who the hell is this guy, really? With stunning alacrity, he’s gone again.
The otherworldly words of Mortimer P. Willoughby come rushing back, “You can defeat the Bluestreak.”
This guy is good.
Real good.
I’ve proven myself time and time again to be the fastest man on Earth. Super-speed is a frequent gift of the super-powered, yet no one possesses the raw potential velocity to outpace me in a footrace.
I’m. Just. That. Good.
But I can’t catch this guy as we wind our way over land and through parks and streets and hills and valleys. It infuriates me. I didn’t invent speed, but I sure as hell own it. This poser—whoever he is—is burning me in a one-on-one showdown.
Like our first encounter, each time I get close enough to see his face, he finds extra speed and pulls away. In terms of raw velocity, it appears he can best me, which is a cosmic impossibility. I’m Crimsonstreak.
He’s not.
The world rushes by so quickly, I enter a different plane of existence. The constructs of the world no longer have meaning to me; the trees and yards and fences and buildings no longer exist.
There is only speed.
My blue opponent remains a few steps ahead of me and I find a higher gear, pulling ever-so-slightly closer to him. He turns his head, but I can’t make out his features. Still, I get the feeling he’s smiling. He’s enjoying this.
Faster, faster still…
Pulling ahead by a step!
A flash of light…
A boom!
A quintet of Crimsonstreaks forms to my left.
On my right, five Bluestreaks.
A distant voice echoes through this rift I’ve opened.
“This is not the time, Crimsonstr
eak! Chris, listen to me! This is not the time! This is too early! We need more time!”
Morty’s voice. Again.
“When the time comes, you can help the Five. You can defeat the Bluestreak.”
To my right, the five Bluestreaks forge onward. They’re so close… like, Elsa and the Holy Grail close. If I just keep going…
But Mortimer P. Willoughby just told me to slow down. If it were anyone else in the world, I’d press on. But it’s Morty.
As I pull back, the Crimonstreaks to my left disappear; so do the extra Bluestreaks. I skid to a stop, leaving a giant rut in the dirt as the horizon swallows my opponent.
I bury my hand in the dirt, picking up a handful and flinging it in disgust.
I’ve never lost a race. Now I’ve lost two.
“You look like crap,” Warren says. Sparks fly as he and his father work on a generator in the lab.
“Good to see you too, Warren. You know our guests are watching The Manchurian Candidate in the front room?”
The Comet flips up his goggles as the sparks stop. “What about it?”
“I just thought it’d be more useful for them to worry about the alien invasion that’s currently taking over the world.”
“So sorry,” Warren snaps. “We figured everyone could use some downtime since you were allowed to go out for a run.”
“I was chasing the Bluestreak.”
“You look like you’re tired, Chris. But there’s something else there,” he says, softer now, his eyes scanning my face appraisingly. “Kind of like someone shot your puppy.”
Warren knows me just a little too well.
“You couldn’t catch him, could you?” he asks.
I’ll have to thank him later for managing not to make it sound like a taunt.
“No. I couldn’t, point of fact. Dude’s fast.”
“Crimsonstreak fast? I don’t believe it,” he says, walking across the room. When he comes back, he tosses me a protein bar.
“We vaulted into a speed rift,” I say, tearing open the wrapper.
“What was that like?” the Comet asks.