by Matt Adams
“I, too, traveled through the infinite universes, Christopher. So intoxicating, isn’t it? So easy to lose oneself. And when they offered me this,” Morty reaches for his belt and withdraws his Indigo Band of Power, “I nearly believed that they were the saviors they appeared to be.”
As Morty talks, I feel my body getting stronger. My thoughts become less jumbled, and I realize I’m hungry. As if he’s read my mind, Morty tosses me an energy bar. I take a bite, “Where are the Five? The Comets? What happened to them?”
“The latest activation of the Kiltech device allowed me to send the Five out to other dimensions,” he says, practically strangling the Band of Power. “While the Kiltechs’ plan to merge all realities against the Bands isn’t feasible, we can do that in a limited fashion in this space. I believe we have given us a fighting chance, even if it isn’t much of one, Christopher.”
Another voice: the Crusading Comet. My Crusading Comet.
“It won’t be easy to get out of this one,” he says.
I finish off the energy bar and swallow. “How long have you been here?”
I toss the wrapper to the ground, but Morty picks it up and says, “During your previous trip through the infinite realities, we were able to rescue Master Kensington and bring him here. I am afraid the Orange Bands still have young Warren. They wish to expand their membership,” Morty says, stretching the Indigo Band between his hands, “in preparation for ruling the multiverse. They felt the Crusading Comet was a good place to start.”
“I tried to convince him not to do it,” the Comet says. “But he thought it was for the best.”
Morty and the Comet are acting like I know what they’re talking about. “Back it up here. What did Warren think was for the best?”
The Comet sighs. “He joined them. I think he believes he can hurt the Bands from within, but it’s a Faustian deal.” He points at me. “He’s always been jealous of people like you, Chris. The super-speedsters, the telekinetic heroes. The Bands can offer him that.” He shakes his head. “It’s far superior to grapple guns and shurikens, at least until you know the cost.”
I put a hand on the Comet’s shoulder. “Hey, you guys have come a long way with grapple guns and shurikens—especially when they have ridiculous acronyms.”
That, at least, coaxes a wry smile from the Comet. “I just wish he was here with us. I’ve pushed him so hard. A mantle like that can crush a person.”
“He’ll be all right. Sure, he’s living in your shadow, but he’s starting to come out. Let’s just hope it’s the start of spring and not six more weeks of winter.”
The Comet shakes his head and glances at Morty. “What does that mean?”
“I haven’t the slightest, sir. As I recall, Christopher can be quite exhausting.”
“Don’t you two start teaming up on me,” I chide. “You aren’t even from the same time zone. I think the caterpillar under his nose proves that.”
“It is terrible,” the Comet says. “It looks like something a Civil War general would grow.”
“Perhaps it would be better for us to focus on the task at hand,” Morty says through his teeth. He gestures toward the multicolored tunnels above us. “You can see the tunnels taking on different colors as the Bands find their way back to one another. If they succeed, the realities will become garbled, mass and matter will be transferred on a dangerous scale, and the worlds will simply cease to be.”
“There’s nothing simple about it,” I interject.
“I suppose the physics involved are quite complicated,” Morty admits. “But in the end, all those who lived and died and laughed and cried will be no more. I will no longer know you, and you will no longer know me.”
“Don’t they realize what will happen when the universe folds over on itself?” the Comet asks.
“Power mongers such as the Bands do not stop to consider the unintended consequences of their quests for power,” Morty offers, keeping a stranglehold on the Indigo Band of Power. “They seek only the outcome they desire.”
“Even if it means destroying… everything?” I ask, incredulous.
“That is correct,” Morty says with unsettling casualness.
“We’d better start working on a plan, Mortimer,” the Comet prods.
“Master Kensington, have you ever known me to proceed without a plan?” Morty asks, offering the Band of Power to the Comet. “It starts by my giving this to you.”
The Comet steps away from Morty.
“I thought we wanted to avoid these things,” I say.
“Unlike some magical items in the cosmos, Bands of Power can be gifted to another by the intended wearer,” Morty explains, releasing the indigo headband. It floats gracefully in the air of this barren plane for a few seconds before gliding toward the Comet. “A power like this should be wielded by someone who respects it. Someone dedicated and just. That could only favor the Crusading Comet.”
“Mortimer, I can’t,” the Comet says. “The power is too much. And I’m not too fond of trusting something that comes from our enemies.” The headband floats toward him, but Warren Kensington III shoos it away like a mynock. The motion has the opposite effect; the glowing headband appears in his good hand. “Get this thing off me,” he says through gritted teeth.
“The Indigo Bands offered it to me of their own accord. It seems only fitting to use their own power against them,” Morty says. “I choose to give it to you, Master Kensington. Warren Kensington III and Warren Kensington IV—the ones I knew—desired to save the world. And after becoming acquainted with several members of your line, it’s certainly in the genes.”
The Comet tries to stop the accessory from wrapping around his head, but the Band has a mind of its own, easing its way around his forehead over the mask. Cerulean and cobalt light explode around him, transforming his Crusading Comet armor into something more akin to the first Tron movie. The Crusading Comet logo on his chest glows like a neon sign outside a diner.
“That feels… funny,” the Comet says, his reticence seemingly gone. He flexes his good hand and then lifts his previously crippled arm. “What can this thing do, Mortimer?”
“The real question, Master Kensington, is ‘what can’t it do?’ I daresay I’m quite satisfied to be rid of the bloody thing,” he says, taking a deep breath. “The Indigo Bands tried to make me a tool of their dastardly plan. Now I hope to repay them.”
The Comet, having regained his full range of motion for the first time since our ill-fated escape attempt at the Clermont Institution for the Criminally Insane, spends several seconds doing calisthenics. Probably just to, you know, prove that he’s still in shape despite the fact that he lost his ability to lift one of his arms three years ago. He probably did PT every day, just in case. He even flexes for us, an action made even more surreal for being executed in a glowing outfit that makes him look like Dr. Manhattan with clothes.
After the gun show, he becomes a quick study on flight powers, moving up and down as effortlessly as I run. For his next trick, the Comet projects beams of energy from his palms and forehead. His encore involves putting up a transparent wall of congealed indigo energy that appears to shield him. At this point, I expect him to use the Band of Power to form all kinds of energy-powered contraptions—large fists, airplanes, machine guns, giant catchers mitts, boxing gloves, and the like. I’m pretty sure that’s in the “item of power rulebook.”
He doesn’t do any of those things, though. I ask him about it.
“The Band is using up a lot of its energy to reinforce my body armor,” he explains, spinning toward Morty. “I’m not sure how I know that.”
“The Bands communicate telepathically with their users, although the connection is so unobtrusive, it seems like it’s not there at all,” Morty says. “The Band also integrates the user with a collective consciousness.”
“Is the Comet communicating with the rest of them right now?” I ask.
“The connection is weak, thanks to this realm I have brought us to. Eventually, the Ba
nds will detect a new user in their ranks. I expect that will draw them here,” Morty says carefully.
“They’re coming here?” I ask, my voice whinier than anything Luke or Anakin Skywalker ever uttered. “Dammit, then why did you give him that thing?”
“They will eventually come here no matter what we do. My hope is that the Kiltechs arrive first.”
Kiltech ships surge into the zone, blanketing the sky.
“Right-o,” Morty says, looking up.
Kilgore appears in a flash of blue light, along with several of his soldiers, Samson Knight, and a few other Heroic Legion notables. Once he spots the Crusading Comet, he grumbles something in his guttural language and the soldiers level their rifles at what they perceive to be an ordinary member of the Bands.
“Easy there, big fella,” I say. “He’s on our side.”
“He is a Band… and therefore should be terminated.”
I put myself between the Kiltech leader and the Comet. “It’s the Crusading Comet, moron. Like I said, ease up.”
Slowly, Kilgore holds up a hand, and his soldiers lower their weapons. “What is the situation here?”
“The situation is… normal enough,” I respond. “This is an interdimensional butler named Mortimer Willoughby. He is working with us. Morty, this is Kilgore.”
“Charmed,” Morty says flatly.
“Willoughby? What are you talking about, Fairborne?” Samson Knight demands, making my last name sound like something you’d utter after stepping barefoot on an errant Lego. “He’s dead.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “You haven’t been paying any attention to this whole multiple reality thing, have you?”
I shouldn’t be amused at the thought of Samson Knight’s face turning red under his mask, but I can’t help it. “Well, I never—”
“Samson Knight,” Morty interrupts, “I’m just as surprised to see you. In my reality, you died in an unfortunate accident. So we all have adjustments to make.”
Kilgore pushes several buttons on his wrist communicator, but stops in frustration.
“Try adjusting for the Alpha-Seven band,” the butler suggests. “Communications are easily garbled here. This is a protected zone that will lessen the effectiveness of the Bands’ collective powers. The headband currently worn by the Crusading Comet will soon draw them to us.”
Kilgore grunts.
“I have planned for this contingency, however. Once they get here, they shall be hard-pressed to leave.”
“You do not speak clearly enough,” Kilgore bellows. The big guy is trying to sound tough, but I recognize dumbfounded when I hear it.
“While learning about the Bands, I discovered a way to slipstream into tiny pocket spaces,” Morty explains.
If he utters the phrase “the spaces between the spaces,” I’m gonna kill him.
“Think of this as a place between a place,” he continues, his employment of a synonym saving him from my homicidal wrath. “Not quite there, yet not quite nowhere. This astral plane is as good a location as any for a final stand. I recommend deploying as many of your ground forces as you can.”
Kilgore fiddles with his communicator, barks out a few orders, and waves of Kiltech soldiers and ground vehicles begin to appear. Some familiar faces join them: my father, my mother, the High Imperator, Jaci, Sapphire Twelve, Falcon Gray.
Above us, the tunnels connecting the various universes of the Bands ripple and flow. A rainbow-colored breach opens up in the bright blue sky. Dots of light surge through. The Bands divide themselves into ranks by color, and the sky darkens for an instant. A second later, it looks like someone threw a bag of immaculately organized Skittles into the air. Taste the rainbow, indeed.
After a pregnant pause, Kilgore growls a series of orders. I, of course, have no idea what he’s saying. For all I know, he just ordered all the Kiltech troops to turn my friends and me over to the Bands.
In battles, they always say the guy who holds the high ground wins.
We definitely don’t have the high ground.
A bunch of grounded shock troops against legions of flying super-powered beings.
There was a time when the Kiltechs thought merging Earth’s infinite histories and brutally altering the genetics of its population would create a force large enough and strong enough to fight these guys, and I understand their reasoning now.
I’m reminded of the old threat from the Battle of Thermopylae: “Our arrows will blot out the sun.” The warrior’s response: “So much the better, for we shall fight in the shade.”
But this enemy doesn’t blot out the sky; they are the sky. I don’t see any shade trees, either.
The gut-wrenching promise of an unavoidable and unwinnable battle looms large, and I wonder if the Bands would be honorable enough to accept terms. Maybe we could even parley. I mean, it worked for pirates on occasion.
The Crusading Comet appears next to me, apparently still in love with his new powers. I notice slight changes in his body language and armor before coming to the realization that this isn’t Warren Kensington III.
In fact, he’s orange.
Now I get it; we’ve skipped ahead a generation.
Warren.
The Ends of the Worlds as We Know Them
“Thank God, Warren. You gonna talk some sense into those guys?” I ask, pointing up at the Skittles Brigade.
“They make a pretty compelling argument,” the kid says. There’s something about his voice, an uncertainty I find somewhat discomforting. “What have we ever done but fight against one another? All through history? War, war, war. If the Bands take control, they’ll eliminate all of that.”
You have no idea how right you are about that last part, buddy.
“They work together, the Bands,” he continues. “Now that their powers—our powers—are combined, I can truly see the future. People united under one banner, the rainbow colors of the Bands. Just and fair rulers.”
“So you’re going to hand humanity over to them?” I ask. Most of the time, I don’t have any trouble reading Warren, even under that mask he wears as the Crusading Comet. Right now, though, an eerie orange glow obscures his features.
“It’s incredible, you know?” the kid says. “To have powers? To be like you, Chris. Never having to worry about bullets or encountering villains you can’t handle. Being able to bring the hammer or just fly away.”
My best friend is being corrupted by the lure of superpowers. Terrific.
“It’s a special feeling,” Warren continues, his voice thick with longing. “And the Bands hoard it for themselves like the last piece of pie. They wanted me to be their mouthpiece, but I’m not very good at that stuff.” Without warning, Warren removes his Orange Band. His armor regains its blue metallic sheen. “I don’t want this thing anymore.” He flings the headband in the direction of Colonel Chaos.
My father holds it up, considering it like he’s Ned Nederlander and the Band is a bag of money given to him by peasants. “I’d rather not,” he admits, “but the depowering ray has taken its toll.”
“I’m sure taking your powers away seemed like a good idea at the time,” I remark, peering back up at the large enemy force in the sky.
Dad places the Band on his head and floats a couple feet in the air, just like his normal self, save for the orange luminosity. He lands next to me. “This one’s gonna be rough.”
As if to prove his point, the Bands converge on our position.
I don’t know how it happened or even when it happened, but it turns out the Kiltechs had a few tricks of their own in reserve. As soon as the Bands broke their rainbow in the sky, Kiltech ships materialized above them. I don’t know if they were cloaked or simply needed to wait until the Bands moved, and I don’t particularly care. All that matters is that as soon as the Bands rushed those of us on the ground, Kiltech ships started shooting.
Now here we are. The aliens, our ostensible allies, don’t care who they hit. Their firing is flawed and imprecise, an indiscrim
inate spread meant to distract and maim. They certainly have the Bands’ attention.
Before long, my group realizes what’s happening and responds in kind. Flight-powered heroes try to take them from the rear while the Kiltechs and energy-based heroes light ’em up.
As a super-speedster and nothing more, I’m not much use, but the ever-reliable Colonel Chaos and Miss Lightspeed are giving them hell. The High Imperator stands beside Kilgore and Morty, barking commands and making recommendations about the order of battle. I’d almost prefer to have the High Imperator powered up and kicking ass like my dad, but he’s a ruthless field general and we need the tactical superiority.
Multicolored bursts of light flash around us, turning the astral plane into a Trans-Siberian Orchestra concert. The unlikely duo of Sapphire Twelve and Falcon Gray leads an assault against a group of Violet Bands. The birdman hammers through them with little problem. The deposed alien queen finishes them off with waves of intense blue power.
Below them, Samson Knight and Great Alexander lead a charge of Heroic Legion members against Bands determined to break the Kiltechs’ ground defense. Energy crackles around Samson Knight’s electro-mace as he smashes it into the face of a Red Band. Great Alexander clocks another bad guy right in the midsection, sending him flying back a few football fields.
For a few minutes, we give even better than we get, but it doesn’t take long for the Bands’ overwhelming power to jolt us back to reality. A single spray of their energy-based attacks is enough to wipe out a handful of Kiltech soldiers. At the rate our alien allies are disappearing, we’ll be out of troops in the time it takes to heat up a Hot Pocket.
I’m doing my best to harass the Bands’ ground units. They can’t touch me at Crimsonspeed, and I dodge all kinds of energy blasts: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. That’s right; suck it, Roy G. Biv. I stop momentarily to push Samson Knight out of the way of an attack from an Orange Band. The unexpected impact sends his electro-mace into the air, but Jaci retrieves it, dropping it back to him just in time for him to clobber the guy.