II Crimsonstreak

by Matt Adams

“She was never yours to protect!”

  “Perhaps she would’ve been, had the Kiltechs left us alone. Perhaps if we had been able to punish your father.”

  “I thought such small-mindedness was beneath you. I thought you wore that white armor for a reason.”

  He looks up at me with hurt in his eyes. “I am only a man, Chris. Only a man.”

  The Heroic Legion leader sits perfectly still at the head of a long table inside another one of the Kiltechs’ countless tactical rooms. Samson Knight, his helmet back on, won’t even look at me now. Great Alexander sits beside him, purple velvet robes hanging limp in the still air. Other guests shuffle in.

  I grab my right ear. “Nice to see they’ve taken off the control boxes now that we’re helping them.”

  “They decided that having members of the Heroic Legion spontaneously explode wouldn’t prove effective in a crisis situation, Fairborne,” Samson Knight replies. He’s back to normal—and I’m back to being Fairborne.

  “I suppose we’re all friends now, aren’t we?” I ask disingenuously.

  Samson Knight waves his hand dismissively. “How could we have known that we shared a common enemy with our alien invaders?”

  “In the first place, they’ve could’ve been upfront with us,” I say, scoring a point in the Stating the Obvious championship match. “We would’ve avoided a lot of unpleasantness.”

  “The Kiltechs think themselves superior,” Samson Knight points out. “They came to the conclusion that it would be easier and faster to control us than to negotiate. They miscalculated.”

  Great Alexander shakes his head. “Crimsonstreak’s right. We could have been much more prepared for the true threat. We thought the Kiltechs were the enemy. We understand now… but it’s almost too late.”

  “Don’t fool yourselves into thinking these are the good guys,” Jaci adds. “Their plan still involved taking over the planet and subjugating humanity. They invaded Earth and infiltrated our government. Those aren’t exactly the actions of an ally.”

  “Not to mention the crappy propaganda. I mean, come on, Aegis? Really?” I say.

  “Their ultimate goal was to stop a greater threat,” Samson Knight insists. “Their folly was an unwillingness to trust humanity to make the right decision.”

  “How could we trust a society so fractured?” Kilgore asks. The Kiltech leader doesn’t bother to sit down. Instead, he’s content to stand with his jackhammer arms behind his back. “Factions. Factions everywhere. In your government, your military and law enforcement divisions, your religious and educational institutions. You’ve even factionalized and sub-factionalized your super-powered beings. ‘Heroes.’ ‘Villains.’ ‘Heroic Legion.’ ‘Champions of Justice.’

  “An invasion gave you the opportunity to unify against a larger threat or become pliant subjects of our Kiltech Empire. Yet it seems you have chosen neither path.”

  “We can think for ourselves,” Jaci says. “Why you had to find that out the hard way—twice—shows you have a little room to grow yourselves.”

  My father wags a finger at Kilgore. “It was never your place to dictate what we do, and it never will be. You might have earned our trust.”

  I can’t see Kilgore’s mouth, but I can only imagine a leering, creepy smile spreading underneath his jaw guard. “Why bother? You are such a corrupt species that we were able to infiltrate you at almost every level. Even within your Heroic Legion.”

  Samson Knight, Jaci, and my father all stand, ready to scream their next point at the Kiltech leader.

  “I’m really enjoying the cultural deconstruction here, but we have to figure out what’s next,” I break in, tired of the posturing. In response, my trio of allies sits back down. “The Blue Bands have the Bluestreak. They’ve probably already convinced him to go hopping through the multiverse looking for their Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat of Superpowers. The Orange Bands here in our world have the Crusading Comet. They’ve got Warren, too.”

  A beep sounds and Kilgore checks a display mounted on his wrist. “Kiltech posts are detecting a surge in interdimensional activity. This is not being caused by our array.” He flicks a button on the side and a full-color hologram appears in the middle of the table. Five specific Earths light up, speared by a straight line.

  “There’s the tunnel,” Dad says. “Well, tunnels.”

  “They’re connecting the different Earths,” the High Imperator gasps. “The Bands are marshaling their forces.”

  A second later, a sixth Earth lights up, joined to the others by a holographic tunnel.

  “They’re not linked to our Earth yet,” my mother realizes. “The Orange Bands are still isolated from the rest of their forces.”

  “Our array in the other room is scrambling the possibilities,” my father explains. “The Bands as a whole can’t pinpoint our exact interdimensional zone. The Orange Bands, however, know where we are.”

  “They will come for us, and soon,” Kilgore says.

  “I thought your ships were protected from their powers,” my mother says, raising an eyebrow. “They can’t just transport themselves here.”

  “We have safeguards against the Orange Bands in this reality,” Kilgore admits. “But a large group of assorted Bands would be difficult for even us to stop.” He surveys the room. “If they hit us with a concentrated attack…”

  “They will strike a blow with a great rainbow hammer,” Falcon Gray says.

  An image flashes through my mind of a giant Lite Brite hammer slamming into the side of the Invincible. Despite the gravity of the situation, it’s all I can do not to giggle.

  “We must stand and fight,” Falcon Gray says, standing to emphasize his point. “We must not let them touch the array. Otherwise, they would merge their universes and become lord over all realms.”

  “The bird wants us to stand here and fight,” Samson Knight says, waving dismissively in the air. “Who am I to argue with a bird?”

  I don’t like the way he mocks Falcon Gray. I don’t mind having a joke at the birdman’s expense, but he’s my birdman.

  “We are drawing our fleet around in a blockade that will protect us,” Kilgore reveals. “The order has been sent out and verified. Still, it will be difficult to withstand a full-on attack from the Bands’ united force.”

  “We have to stop them,” my father says. “We have to prevent the Bands from uniting.”

  “The only way to do that, Fairborne, is to negate their advantage, their copycat of your son,” Samson Knight says.

  “I can beat that guy,” I say confidently.

  “You can?” Jaci asks. “Seems like he’s been getting the best of you.”

  “I beat DashBoy before he became the Bluestreak. I can do it again,” I insist. “But the Bands are getting ready to breathe down our necks, and we need to do something.”

  Another ping from Kilgore’s wrist communicator. This time he hits a different switch and a giant viewscreen lights up. Big gray blobs—I assume they’re the ships in the Kiltech fleet—surround the even bigger gray blob of the Invincible. In a matter of seconds, several smaller orange circles form around the fleet. It’s gray blob genocide; the orange dots make quick work of the Kiltech fleet.

  “We don’t have much time,” Kilgore says. He turns toward me. “You must run through the dimensions.”

  I gesture around us. “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “Your culture is doomed until you learn to abandon your two-dimensional thinking,” Kilgore growls. “We must reactivate the machine just long enough to enhance your abilities and create a rift.”

  “I am not sending my son through that thing,” my father protests.

  “You put him in there, it might kill him,” the High Imperator says. “Even more than that, it could create a cataclysmic instability that will—”

  Kilgore cuts him off, “I am not speaking of the power activation chamber. I am referring to the machine itself. What is the alternative, Chaos? Delaying will allow the Bands to grow s
tronger. Make no mistake: this is the critical moment. If you wish to save your world, there is no call for caution.”

  The faces in the room tell the story: worried, confused, and horrified. They are also expectant, curious, and even hopeful.

  “I’m not sacrificing my son. There has to be another way,” my father yells, rising to his feet.

  Others in the room begin to protest Kilgore’s idea. It’s too dangerous, they insist. I could die, they say. I listen only enough to get the sense that everyone wants to protect me. That someone else should be the one to do it. They say I could die; I hear I’m not powerful enough. They say there must be another way; I hear I’m not brave enough. They say someone else can save us; I hear I’m not inspiring enough.

  I lock eyes with Samson Knight and think back to that moment at Heroic Legion Headquarters when he suggested that younger heroes looked up to me. He didn’t mention what the older ones had to say. He holds my gaze.

  I take a deep breath. “That’s enough,” I say softly, unable to calm the rising tide of outage and hopelessness. “That’s enough!” All eyes are on me now. “I’ll do it. I’ll go.”

  “Son, that is a dangerously unstable device. I should know—I built it. You can’t take that risk,” my father pleads.

  “He has to go,” Jaci says softly.

  “I don’t see any other alternatives,” I tell them. “Fire up the machine so I can open another rift and collapse the Bands from within.”

  The Invincible shakes, and the large monitor shows that Orange Bands have the ship surrounded. My father and the High Imperator rush out of the room, ostensibly making their way for their precious device. Kilgore nods. I take off, arriving at the lab ahead of the Colonels Chaos.

  “We’re only going to open this for a few seconds,” my father explains. He points toward the long hallway leading to the lab. “You’ll make your approach from back there so you can build up a good head of super-speed.” To my surprise, he smiles. “You’ll have to go a lot faster than eighty-eight miles an hour.”

  “This is heavy, Doc,” I tell him.

  “The Kiltech ships can’t hold much longer,” the High Imperator warns. “They will be making a jump in just a moment. They have no choice but to retreat.” His hands glide across his display, and he turns to my father. “The power feeds are steady. Get him in position.”

  I zip down the hallway until my back hits the wall. Even though it’s not technically necessary for me to do so, I get into a runner’s stance and pretend I’m coming off the starting blocks. I can see the glow of my father’s twin blue columns of energy and hear the woo-woo-woo of the machine as it speeds up.

  My father holds his arm in the air, pauses for a moment, and then drops it emphatically. I explode out of my stance as the world becomes a blur around me. Just when I think I’m going to run right into the High Imperator’s console, I go through a flash of white.

  The flash becomes even brighter…

  It changes…

  Blinding red…

  Blinding yellow…

  Blinding green…

  Blinding blue…

  Blinding… still blue…

  Blinding purple…

  I feel another presence—the Bluestreak. He’s running harder and harder now as an overwhelming wave of orange light comes upon us. I run through it, but he can’t follow and the orange light darkens to the color of burnt sky.

  Nightfall…

  Darkness…

  Black.

  Another flash of white.

  Every possibility is laid bare before my eyes, but they go by so quickly I can’t even tell where, when, or what they are. The rift grows larger and larger—immense enough to swallow an entire planet.

  A distant voice urges me onward.

  Morty.

  “Keep running. Keep it together!” he urges.

  Keeping it together is easier said than done; this is a drug. Running free through the infinite possibilities of reality, my mind and body craving more, more, more. Like Johnny 5 in the bookstore in Short Circuit 2, I need more input.

  More input!

  An ordinary Earth devoid of heroes where William Avery Fairborne is a high school baseball coach, his wife Karen Jo Fairborne a librarian. Their sons—yes, sons—are working their way through life, one as a standout baseball prospect and the other attempting to join the cast of Saturday Night Live.

  Mortimer P. Willoughby—or someone resembling him—walking the streets in London with a tall London Metropolitan Police hat on his head and the department's famous billy club swinging loosely in his hand as he patrols the streets. This is his last day to walk the beat—he should've been pushing papers long ago.

  “Concentrate, Christopher! Focus!” Morty’s disembodied voice orders.

  Warren Kensington IV leaps a tall building in a single bound, surprising a group of thugs. They open fire, but the bullets bounce off Warren's chest. He wears no armor, and knocks five men down by merely clapping his hands. Seconds later, the building below him crumbles.

  A world where the Kiltechs have remodeled Earth, replacing skyscrapers and grand hotel buildings with their bright, shining silver towers.

  A world where Crossworld and my father move beyond a fling to become partners in crime, wreaking havoc on the world with an assortment of schemes both grandiose and trivial.

  Wainwright sitting in the Oval Office, his ever-present bowtie replaced by a red silk tie. He seems genuinely confused as he leafs through a large stack of papers on his desk, enraged when he realizes Congress has rewritten some brilliant bill of his own design.

  Jaci bouncing a toddler on her lap; a second later, the child is gone... and she's chasing around a speedy super-baby. Scarlet DashBoy enters the room and scolds the young boy, who tries to break away but can't outrun his father.

  The images and sensations assault me...

  Hit me...

  Hit me...

  Hit me...

  “Slow it down! It’s too much!” Morty cautions.

  In the back of my mind, a tiny reminder fires off like an alarm clock. I’m supposed to be somewhere. Someone needs me. Somewhere, someone is depending on me. Just as quickly as the thought forms, it goes away, replaced by...

  Three Warren Kensingtons, each garbed in bright green armored uniforms with flowing black capes. The Crusading Comet is now a collection of crime-fighting privateers, services available as they wait for a check to clear. When it doesn't, they walk away while bank robbers start picking off hostages.

  My father throws out the first pitch at the World Series...

  Peyton Manning plays out the rest of his career as a member of the Indianapolis Colts...

  Tom Brady scrubs floors at a random high school, after no one picks him in the NFL draft...

  World War I never happens... and when it does, it's actually World War II.

  More input...

  More input...

  The alarm goes off in the back of my mind once more, but I hit the snooze button.

  It doesn't work.

  The bell rings in my head, a song refusing to go away, one that bores into your consciousness and won't let go.

  I'm all out of love, I'm so lost without you...

  Damn you, Air Supply.

  Sweet Caroline… Good times never seemed so good…

  So good… so good… so good…

  Damn you, Neil Diamond.

  It’s impossible to ignore.

  A greater purpose, something bigger and more important than running through realities like a channel surfer with a bag of Cheetos and an endless supply of Code Red Mountain Dew.

  Running.

  Always running.

  A bright blue gate separates itself from the other realities. It flashes as Morty’s voice grows louder. “Here you go, chap. Slow it down, now. Slow it down!”

  With my mind on overload, I want more. Instead, I seize on Morty’s voice and take the blue gate ahead.

  Now on another plane of existence, I’m no l
onger running. Seven multi-colored tunnels converge here. The sky is North Carolina Tarheel blue.

  The ground is... flat. Truly flat. No hills, no textures, no sand dunes, trees, or buildings. No icebergs, no water, no sidewalks. A smooth, dark, featureless expanse.

  The mission.

  My mind is struggling, still dizzied by the infinite possibilities I just experienced.

  Remember the mission.

  What was it?

  Stop the Kiltechs!

  No...

  The Kiltechs are allies!

  Yes!

  But... no...

  Need help from the Orange Bands!

  Yes!

  But... no...

  The Orange Bands are evil!

  Maybe not evil...

  Just misguided.

  The Kiltechs are evil!

  Fact!

  No... they're...

  Misguided, too?

  The alarm in my head—the same one insisting there's some greater purpose to all of this—conjures another alarming thought: I shouldn't be here.

  And there should absolutely, positively not be seven shimmering tunnels connected to this place.

  I examine the tunnels and realize Roy G. Biv has gotten me again. The colors of the rainbow swirl in the sky above.

  “They’ve almost done it,” a voice echoes.

  Mortimer, three o'clock.

  This is Crusading Comet Morty. I know because of the atrocious Magnum, P.I. right above his lips.

  Terms of endearment come to mind.

  “You British sonuvabitch,” they tumble out. Unreal, ethereal, damn near majestic.

  “No need for that,” he insists. “Warren Lucius Caster Kensington is otherwise occupied and could not bring you here. Thankfully, this worked well enough.”

  “Where is here?”

  “A protected zone where we can observe. A place where the Bands will have their powers, though they will be somewhat lessened. Only somewhat, I’m afraid.”

  “What’s the play?” I ask.

  “A last stand. It is all we have. The Bands say they favor peace, prosperity, and freedom,” Morty explains. “But that means peace through subjugation.Prosperity for them, freedom for none. I recognized that when they approached me.