II Crimsonstreak

by Matt Adams

  Words from Orange Band echo in my thoughts: Were you aware the Aviary system has only eleven planets?

  Warren looks at me and I realize, yet again, we’re thinking the exact same thing. I bet he’s also thinking about how we’re both thinking alike. Yeah, another one of those “OMG! Head explodes!” moments. Love those.

  “You say you’re from Aviary XII,” Warren says. His intonation is calm, almost paternal.

  I don’t hear him talk like this very often. He actually sounds like a real superhero.

  Almost.

  “That is correct,” Falcon Gray says, proudly thumping his muscled chest with a hand-wing.

  “Earlier, Commander Klem said there are only eleven planets in the Aviary system. Am I missing something?”

  “There once were twelve,” Falcon Gray says. “It is how I ended up here on your Earth. Some call me the ‘misplaced birdman of Aviary XII.’ That is a misnomer. The only thing misplaced is Aviary XII itself.”

  The overwhelming sadness in the birdman’s deep voice makes me momentarily forget I’m talking to the lovechild of Chicken Boo and a Spartan warrior from 300.

  “Why didn’t you say something earlier?” I ask.

  “Not everyone must prattle on as you do.”

  “The Kiltechs did this to your people?” asks Jaci.

  “They go from planet to planet claiming they’re the last bastion of hope against an even greater threat,” Falcon Gray says. “And while great threats do indeed exist in the universe, the Kiltechs do not have mercy upon those who stand in their way, or refuse to aid them. Such was the fate of my people on Aviary XII.”

  “Are there any of your people left?” Jaci wonders.

  “Not many, though I do have a cousin on the distant planet of Klebbia,” the birdman explains. “But I do not believe he would not come to our aid. My cousin would never travel to Earth. He finds human beings… disagreeable.”

  Great.

  The man-bird’s cousin is a speciesist.

  “You said you saw a column of light like this while going through the detention area?” I ask Falcon Gray, trying to get back on track.

  He nods. “That is correct. The opening to our left likely leads to holding cells. I would surmise that is where the Kiltechs will be holding your father. Perhaps your mother as well.”

  “We need to find out where they are and get them out,” Jaci says.

  “Your nest-mate is correct,” Falcon Gray replies.

  “Nest-mate?” I ask, my voice hitting an octave only dogs (and perhaps galaxy-trotting birdmen) could hear.

  Falcon Gray looks among the three of us. “My apologies. I have observed your interactions. You seem to show the classic signs of nest-mating. Unexplained arguments, your misguided attempts to show dominance over the other, the constant conversations. Is she then the young Comet’s nest-mate? I have observed similar behavior from them as well.”

  I shoot Warren the dirtiest look I can muster.

  Warren holds up his hands. “Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa! Don’t look at me like that! I can’t help it if she’s attracted to me!”

  Jaci punches him in the shoulder. “Excuse me, Comet Junior?”

  The kid rubs his shoulder—Jaci’s strong, and she doesn’t always hold back. “You could make things a lot easier on the both of you if you just, I don’t know, finally committed to each other.”

  “His mother put you up to this, didn’t she?” Jaci asks, obviously upset. “We’ve been busy, if you haven’t noticed. Clermont escapees, Champions of Justice, overbearing birdmen, alien invasions.”

  Not to mention not-so-dead British butlers.

  “It’s been three years since you two got back together,” Warren counters. “Any sane person would think you guys would’ve… you know… done something about it by now.”

  We turn toward the speechless Falcon Gray, who tilts his head and makes his usual spastic body movements without saying another word. Guess he’s not a birdbrain after all.

  “We’ve been trying to get a government back on track, kid. And do I need to remind you that we’re stuck on an alien ship right now? That doesn’t leave a lot of time for romance,” I point out.

  “Those are just excuses,” Warren argues. He jabs a finger at me. “Your mom and dad never had problems dealing with that type of stuff when they were your age.”

  Oh, Warren.

  Dear, sweet Warren.

  If you only knew.

  Fountain City, Indiana. May, 1993.

  Sixth-grade graduation. Parents, siblings, teachers, friends, and fellow students pack the gymnasium at Northeastern Elementary School. Thanks to exemplary scores and Emily Jacobson’s math tutoring, I get to give a speech in front of the group.

  I’m looking forward to it, mostly. Mom and Dad said they’d be here.

  They were here for about fifteen seconds before I caught my father looking at his wrist chrono, then tugging on my mom’s sleeve. They politely excused themselves and went somewhere. I’m assuming another crisis threatens the globe. Just last week, they defeated Ulteron Version Five-Point-Eight. Maybe Version Five-Point-Nine is out of beta.

  As I sit among my fellow students, I try not to think about it. My parents are important. They’ve given me the talk. It’s just… it would be nice to have them here for a big event. To their credit, they make it most of the time.

  Then, there are the other times. Like when Baron Maleficent attacked Chicago during the championship game of my Little League tournament. They missed my ground-rule double, but made it just in time to see me strike out with the bases loaded in the fifth inning. My friend Cory saved our butts in the sixth.

  Oh, crap. Mrs. Sheets is gesturing for me to step up to the microphone. Everyone turns their gaze on me.

  My father told me I should put some notes on index cards to help me get through the speech, but I told him I had it memorized. He told me to do whatever made me comfortable, and I decided to write up some index cards, just to be sure. It’s a good thing, too.

  I can’t remember where I am. Wait…

  Sixth-grade graduation.

  My name is Chris Fairborne.

  Okay. I’ve got this.

  A big sigh. No one hears it over the applause.

  Emily Jacobson smiles at me as I rise from my seat and walk across. Stupid Billy Hardwick tries to trip me, but I step over his foot. Cory Rinehart—the kid who hit the home run in that Little League game—holds his hand out for a high-five. The crowd laughs as we connect. There’s nothing wrong with a high-five.

  The microphone squeals as I adjust it. Even as a sixth-grader, I’m taller than Mrs. Sheets. My eyes turn toward the crowd and scan for my parents. They haven’t returned from wherever they went. Most parents tell their kids to “imagine the crowd naked.” My father always joked to “imagine the crowd as supervillains.”

  Bad idea. Cory Rinehart morphs into Fourth-Reich Rich. Emily Jacobson becomes Queen Strike. Stupid Billy Hardwick turns into Simeon Saber. Various B-list villains appear in the crowd.

  I try to clear my head, wondering why my father gave me such horrible advice.

  The crowd falls silent; I can feel its impatience.

  I clear my throat, and it echoes over the loudspeakers.

  Hot mic, idiot. Hot mic. I can’t remember where I am again.

  Index cards!

  Wonderful index cards!

  They’re warped and slightly moist after sitting in my back pocket, but thank God they’re here, even if the ink is a little smudged.

  “In a few years, this class of 1993 will become the class of 1999,” I say.

  Stupid Billy Hardwick has his hand up his nose. It’s all the way up to his wrist. He’s probably Class of 2000 material.

  Focus, genius. Focus.

  “And you know they say a lot of stuff about the future and how people like us will affect it. I want to say that we smell…”

  Smell? That can’t be right! Smudged ink!

  “…that we shall have an impact on our
community and the state of Indiana. Some of us may even do something really important, like save the world.”

  This part of the speech calls for me to recognize my parents in the crowd, but they had to leave, so I skip to the next card.

  “I don’t mean necessarily fighting, like, supervillains and stuff. I mean, like, doing stuff that saves our world. Like the environment and other stuff.”

  Eloquence, thy name is Fairborne.

  “I’m honored to be here next to my friends and all of you today as we get ready for our next chapter. Let’s hear it for the sixth grade class of 1993!”

  Clapping and whooping follows. For a second, I think there might be a standing ovation, but it doesn’t materialize. I wave “thank you” to the crowd, run the arm of my gown across my sweating forehead, and walk back toward my seat.

  My index cards fly into the air, and I find myself staring at Emily Jacobson’s shoes. Stupid Billy Hardwick got me. Cory helps me up, and I take a seat just in time to see Mom and Dad return through the double doors at the end of the gym.

  They missed my speech, but they also missed my tripping over stupid Billy Hardwick.

  I hope it was worth it.

  “Maybe you should concentrate more on continuing the Comet lineage than worrying about us,” Jaci says. “You are planning to continue the family line, aren’t you?”

  At that, Warren squirms. “Hey, this is not about me.”

  “We just want to make sure the storied legacy of the Crusading Comet continues, pal,” I say disingenuously.

  The kid folds his arms across his chest. “I’d rather not talk about it. Shouldn’t we go rescue your dad?”

  Yeah, sure. Just not yet. There’s more fun to be had at Warren’s expense.

  “We’ve all seen it,” I tell him. “Since you’re the reigning Crusading Comet, your daddy’s been pressuring you to find a successor. Of course, by ‘find,’ I mean ‘create one.’ Since you’re no cloning expert, you’re going to have to ‘make’ the next Crusading Comet with a suitable partner.”

  Of course, then he’ll have to manage not to get killed for twenty years in order to give the next Comet the requisite training. One more reason to miss Morty.

  “You shouldn’t meddle in affairs you don’t understand. My father’s not like your father. Colonel Chaos is practically immortal. Nigh-invulnerable. Always gonna be there to pat you on the back and tell how you did a good job,” Warren says. “Not so much with my dad. He could’ve been killed at Clermont. Hell, he should’ve been killed at Clermont. He’s falling apart, man. Your mom’s indestructible, too.”

  The last comment hits home, and I grab Warren by the gap in his armor where the sternum joins the neck.

  “She’s not indestructible. My mother’s dead!” I yell. I begin shaking Warren so hard and fast, his armor becomes a blur. “That woman who says she’s my mom isn’t my mom. She’s a deranged, delusional Frankenstein monster created by a science experiment.”

  “That’s enough!” Jaci whispers insistently. “Keep your voices down!”

  I catch myself and drop Warren, edging away as much as the tight space will allow.

  “You must keep your feelings in check,” Falcon Gray says calmly, quietly. “If you must argue, it must wait until after we’ve stopped the Kiltechs.”

  I reach a hand out to Warren, but the kid waves me off.

  “I feel like I just played ‘dizzy bats’ down at Yankee Stadium.”

  You look like it too, kid. Damn.

  “I should’ve kept my temper.”

  Somebody’s gotta eat a heaping helping of crow, and it may as well be me.

  “I shouldn’t have said what I said about Miss Lightspeed,” Warren concedes. “I know how hard it’s been for you to have her back, but not really have her back.” He cracks a ribald smile directed as Jaci. “But I’m still not giving up on you, ma’am.”

  “Let me know how that works out,” Jaci says sardonically.

  “My friends, you have completed the bonding. We must now commence with the mission.”

  Again, the birdman—the crazy birdman—is the voice of reason. I’ve really gotta get a grip.

  “What do we do now? The Kiltechs down below have all left their posts,” Warren says.

  “Just break through the glass and make a run for the holding cells,” I suggest. “Seems to be the most painless way to do it.”

  Falcon Gray takes the mighty talon on one of his hands and scrapes it across the clear surface in front of us, creating the most god-awful metallic screeching sound you can imagine. It’s worse than the “Carnage in C-Minor” episode of Transformers. Worse than a song from Selena Gomez and the Scene. Worse than the cheering of the pro-Patriots crowd at Gillette Stadium.

  Warren whips out his scanner. “No shit!” he says. “Look at this!”

  He thrusts the device in my face—and, yes, I realize how suggestive that sounds, but that’s totally not what I mean. The screen shows a lot of equations and a diagram of a molecule.

  “Transparent aluminum! Can you believe that?” Warren exclaims, clapping his hands together.

  Transparent aluminum. Good to know our new nemesis has seen Star Trek IV. Now, if I could only punch Scotty for giving them the damn formula.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I say.

  Warren shrugs. “Admiral, there be whales here! We’re never gonna stop with the movie references, are we?”

  I channel a little Gladiator. “They say no.”

  “You guys really need to stop watching so many movies,” Jaci says, rolling her eyes.

  “We cannot break through the material,” Falcon Gray says. “Perhaps we should seek an alternate route.”

  Before the birdman finishes his sentence, Warren’s already cutting through the metal window in front of us.

  With a Comet Torch, I’m sure.

  After a few seconds, the torch melts a large section of the window, giving us enough room to jump through.

  It’s farther down than I anticipated, and I roll into a landing, bumping up against the Kiltech console. By the time I stand up, Warren’s already at the controls, trying to direct the flow of information.

  “I can’t read any of this. It’s all in Kiltech,” he says.

  He sounds surprised by this.

  How dare the Kiltechs use their own language aboard their own ship!

  It’s like that part in U-571, where Harvey Keitel screams that “everything’s in German!”

  So, yes, Warren just had a Harvey Keitel moment.

  “Got any schematics? Anything useful?” I ask.

  Warren reaches into the holographic display and manipulates the data. By skill or pure luck, we’re now looking at the feed from the main docking bay, where the “tourist” shuttle has just landed.

  Kiltechs dressed like human airline staff wave and welcome their new guests aboard the ship. Some people take pictures with their camera phones.

  International roaming fees will kill you; imagine interstellar ones. I bet the woman whose camera just flash-bulbed a Kiltech “guide” would love nothing more than to text her triumphant picture to someone back on Earth. Maybe she’d want to blog about it. Maybe she’d want to tweet or Facebook it. Throw a tour video up on YouTube. Really give it the full treatment, you know?

  That would really piss off the Kiltechs—can’t have their behind-the-scenes action show up on the latest hot Pinterest board, after all. These guests aren’t here for the “goodwill tour” they think they’re gonna get. The aliens will examine them thoroughly and they’ll end up like poor Henrietta Davies, their innards splattered all over the place.

  We’re not gonna let that happen.

  Because we’re the good guys.

  But we’ve gotta find some help first.

  A Flock Together. Always

  Falcon Gray was only kind of right.

  The pentagonal opening led to some holding cells, but not the holding cells we were hoping for. If I were to hazard a guess—and I love hazardin
g a guess—this is a processing center for captured subjects, not the actual detention area. No one’s here; they probably only staff it when they need to.

  Warren’s gotten his grubby, Comet-gloved little hands on another Kiltech computer interface, and even though he can’t read the language, he’s somehow figured out where we need to go. We’ll have to thank the Kiltechs for making their military interface so intuitive. Maybe they’re comparing notes with Apple.

  He’s spent the last few minutes trying to shut down the ship’s ever-present security systems, but without any kind of readable confirmation, we’re playing it safe and assuming it didn’t work. If only the Kiltechs had a big ol’ thumbs-up icon to let us know we torched their security. Now that would’ve been user-friendly.

  “The main holding cells are on this deck,” Warren says. “It doesn’t look like they’re very far away, but this is a monster of a ship. It could take several minutes to get there.”

  “Kid, you’re talking to Crimonstreak!”

  “Describing the Son of Comet as a ‘kid’ seems to be pejorative,” Falcon Gray squawks. “Why do you insist on demeaning him?”

  “Relax, Super Chicken. It’s a term of endearment,” Warren says, flexing his hands and rewarding us with the squeaky sound of straining rubber. “Kind of like me calling him a jerk.”

  “Sometimes, I do not comprehend human behavior,” the birdman admits, ruffling his feathers a bit.

  “It’s what we call a bro-mance, Falcon Gray,” Jaci explains. “It’s a very special bond.”

  “Onto more pressing matters,” I interrupt. “I can get to the holding cells before you guys.”

  “I don’t like the idea of splitting up,” Warren says.

  “Four targets are harder to catch than one,” I point out.

  “My people had a saying on Aviary XII,” Falcon Gray adds. “‘A flock together. Always.’”

  “What does that mean, exactly?” I ask.

  “Whether together or apart, the flock is always together. Stronger together,” Falcon Gray explains.