Action Figures - Issue One: Secret Origins

by Michael Bailey

  “Huh. Good point. Okay, Miss Hauser, if you’d take the minutes?” Matt says, gesturing at me imperiously.

  “Pft. Nice try.”

  “You have the neatest handwriting. And you’re detail-oriented.”

  Correct on both counts, but, “Sorry. Not happening.”

  “But I appointed you. That’s my right as chairman.”

  “Ah, but you’re only the chairman pro tempore. You’re not chairman for the same reason I’m not the secretary: committee officers must first be nominated, the nomination must be seconded, and then the motion must pass by a vote of the simple majority.”

  “What huh what?” Matt says, dazzled by my knowledge of parliamentary procedure. In my younger days, I spent many a night sitting in town planning board meetings with my dad. Believe it or not, I preferred it to staying with a babysitter; any Dad time is good Dad time.

  “I nominate Carrie for chairman,” says Stuart (I mean, Superbeast. Official meeting, you know).

  “Second!” Missy says.

  “What?” Matt (I mean Captain Trenchcoat) says.

  “All in favor?” Stuart says. Stuart, Missy, and Sara respond in the affirmative. “All opposed?”

  “No!”

  “And I abstain,” I say, because it would be crass to vote for myself (even though I am totally worthy of the position). “So, motion passes with three in favor, one against, one abstention.”

  “Congrats, madam chairman. Chairwoman. Chairperson. Chairbabe,” Stuart says.

  “Thank you, and I promise not to abuse the authority you’ve granted me.”

  “What the hell just happened?” Matt says.

  “What happened is you just got owned, son,” Stuart says. “Parliamentary process slam!”

  “I nominate Matt for vice-chairman so we don’t have to listen to him whine all night,” Sara says, and Stuart seconds the motion. It passes unanimously.

  “I would now like to turn this meeting over to our vice-chairman, since he’s familiar with the agenda,” I say, hoping that will mollify him.

  “Thank you,” Matt says.

  “After all that nonsense, you better have something worth talking about,” Sara says.

  “I do, as a matter of fact. There’re some things I think we need to discuss seriously, now that we’re officially a super-team.”

  I don’t know how official we are on that count. Okay, granted, we have powers (check), we have super-hero names (check), we have costumes (that kind of suck, but check), and we’ve fought a couple of supervillains (check—and won, double check), but as far as certain parties are concerned, we’re nothing but a bunch of adolescent wannabes who have no business getting into the crime-fighting biz. Concorde hasn’t made any serious effort to shut us down, but he’s one of the biggest of big wheels in the super-hero community. He could do it if he put his mind to it—which he hasn’t, but I don’t know if it would necessarily be a bad thing if he did. Ask me if our first mission as a team was successful due to our raw talent or to a ridiculous amount of dumb luck and I couldn’t give you a convincing answer. I don’t know myself.

  We might get a better sense of that in a couple of days. We’re scheduled to meet with Concorde and Mindforce to make formal statements for their investigation, and I expect to get an earful from Concorde. For now, however, we’re apparently going to avoid the hard questions and tackle such trivia as...

  “Our team name,” Matt says. “I think we’re agreed it blows big-time.”

  “It sounds so made-up,” Missy says. “I know that’s because we made it up, like, in the middle of something so we weren’t really thinking about picking one of the good names we thought up but you know what I mean about it sounding made-up.”

  “And whose fault was that?” Stuart says.

  “Blame accepted,” Matt says, “but let’s move past that, okay? The only people who know about that name are Archimedes and Roger Manfred, and they’re both sitting in the cozy confines of Byrne Penitentiary. It’s not like everybody has heard of the Hero Squad.”

  “You obviously haven’t been paying attention to the local news,” I say.

  Matt’s face falls. “No, whaaaaaaaat?”

  “The Protectorate held a press conference after the mess at school. Mindforce mentioned us.”

  “Us meaning the Hero Squad,” Stuart says.

  “Yep. He didn’t know what else to call us so he told reporters that the Hero Squad assisted the Protectorate.”

  “The Hero Squad,” Stuart grumps. “Fan-frickin’tastic.”

  “Wait a minute,” Matt says. “Assisted?”

  Oh, how fast the boy’s priorities can shift.

  “We didn’t assist! We found Archimedes and Manfred, we brought them in...”

  “And we are all in agreement with you,” I say, “but there’s not much we can do about it. Or about the crappy team name getting out to the general public, so why don’t we move on to the next agenda item before your brain explodes?”

  “Fine,” Matt says. “Item two: costumes.”

  “Okay, this I can get behind,” I say. Call me vain, but a yellow jumpsuit is all kinds of heinous, aesthetically speaking.

  “I’m only bringing it up so we can think about what we might want for outfits. I’m cool with mine,” he says, prompting a group eye roll, because he’s the only one cool with it.

  “I like my costume because it’s a ninja suit and I’m a ninja,” Missy chirps. “Sort of.”

  “Close enough,” Sara says. “I think mine needs a lot of help.”

  “Yours and mine both,” I say. “We should brainstorm.”

  “I think you should do a spandex bodysuit kind of thing,” Matt says.

  “Oh, why, because I’m a female super-hero and that’s what they wear? Something tight that shows off my body and gives boys something to ogle?” I say, and if I sound testy it’s because I’ve done some research on super-heroine outfits, and I swear they were all designed by teenage boys. Everything is skintight and low-cut and shows off more leg than your average Rockette, and there’s no good reason for me to follow suit. No pun intended.

  “Uh, no,” Matt says, “because you fly and something form-fitting would be more aerodynamic. Loosefitting clothes cause wind resistance and drag and destabilize you.”

  “Oh.” And Carrie Hauser breaks the world record for longest jump to a conclusion.

  This marks a turning point in the agenda. The silly stuff dispensed with, we move on to the reasonable issues: getting ourselves in the habit of calling each other by our super-hero names while in costume so we don’t accidentally spill our secret identities; figuring out how to quickly and discreetly change into our (ahem) costumes; making sure we keep all references, no matter how vague, to our secret lives completely off Facebook and Twitter. It’s all about protecting ourselves now, protecting our private lives and, by extension, our families. Matt, our resident super-hero nerd, says despite popular belief, there have been few documented incidents involving a crazed super-villain taking revenge against a super-hero by going after his loved ones, but it has happened. Good enough reason for us to keep our mouths shut.

  (All the more reason to be grateful Archimedes is tucked away in Byrne. I’d hate to think what that maniac might do to us if he ever got out.)

  We cover a lot of bases over the course of the night, come up with game plans for responding to a variety of scenarios, probable and improbable.

  At no time do we come anywhere close to discussing the possibility of me unwittingly cheesing off the U.S. Air National Guard.

  TWENTY

  At the risk of sounding boastful, I’m a highly intelligent young woman. In middle school, on the leading edge of my Dark Period, a school psychologist gave me an I.Q. test. I don’t know what my score was because there was some stupid rule about students not knowing their own scores, but whatever it was, it made my parents’ jaws drop, literally—which, I trust, is because my score was so high and not because they were shocked to learn I wasn’t a
total moron.

  Anyway, my point is I’m crazy-smart. I learn fast, I retain knowledge, I can figure out almost anything, given time. Not much throws me off.

  And then there is mathematics.

  It is my nemesis, academically speaking. I hate it, and I hate it because the advanced stuff consistently stumps me. The basic stuff, addition and subtraction and the like, that’s cake. I start to get lost in the realm of percentages and fractions and it goes downhill from there. Square roots cause my brain to lock up. Merely mention exponents and I curl into a fetal position.

  I say all this to explain why I am soaring hundreds of feet above the earth instead of heading to the Coffee Experience with my friends for post-school caffeine. I had an algebra test today, and, despite my many hours of studying (including the entire day the school was closed so they could clean up after our fight with Archimedes), I have the utmost confidence that it kicked my butt. I’m predicting a C, maybe a C-plus.

  Because failure and I do not get along, I told the others I needed to take a quick spin to clear my head. I knew as I lifted off, climbing so high only passing birds could hear my grumbling, it wouldn’t make the mediocre grade go away, but it would help me ignore it for a while. Everyone needs to get away from their problems now and then, right?

  At this altitude, Kingsport is a wonky mosaic of awkward shapes and muted colors: green patches of woodland, smaller gray and beige blocks marking larger commercial buildings and their parking lots, freckles of rooftop black. Cars are tiny specks of motion. People are invisible. The sounds of the world can’t reach me. There’s nothing up here but the whoosh of wind and the roar of a pair of fighter jets as they scream past.

  Their sudden appearance, to put it mildly, scares the crap out of me and I stop short, my heart pounding like it’s trying to escape my chest and parachute to safety. The jets shrink to dots as they speed away and then bank hard, swinging back in my direction, circling around in a wide arc. They pass me again, far to my left, and one of the jets does a funny little wibble-wobble of its wings as it streaks by.

  Curious, I follow.

  I catch up to the jets in no time and match their speed, which catches one pilot by surprise judging by his double take when he spots me. I drift close, almost close enough that I could reach out and touch the canopy, and give a friendly wave. He responds with three hand gestures: he points at me, then himself, then at his feet. No, not his feet. He’s pointing at the ground.

  I nod, flash a thumb’s up, and follow at a respectful distance. The other jet falls in line behind me. It’s carrying an imposing rack of missiles underneath its diamond-shaped wings that, without meaning to, sends a clear message: don’t try anything funny. Having no idea what anything funny might be to these guys, I try to maintain a steady speed and a steady course and avoid any sudden moves. A few uneventful minutes later, the lead jet dips and we begin our approach.

  I know Stafford Air National Guard Base by reputation only. It’s not in Kingsport but in the neighboring town of Weymouth, but I hear the jets all the time. It’s a familiar and oddly comforting sound; there was an Air National Guard base on Cape Cod, where I grew up, and the distant roar of jets flying overhead was normal background noise. I never knew what the jets actually did, then or now, but I assume engaging super-heroes who stray into their turf isn’t part of their standard mission.

  As I glide down toward the runway, I catch sight of a trio of people in military uniforms standing outside the air control tower, on a wide walkway ringing the high control room. There’s a spotlight mounted on the railing, flashing at me. Figuring at this point I’m safe from catching a butt full of machine gun fire, I break off.

  The two men are armed with nasty-looking rifles and glare at me like they’re waiting for an excuse to use them. They have to squint to look at me, but not the woman with them, who has a severe air about her. Her deep blue uniform is perfectly pressed, and there’s not a trace of lint to be found. There’s a rainbow block of medals as big as my fist above her left breast, and the nametag above her right breast pocket reads COFFIN, which does nothing to comfort me.

  “Hello,” I say. “Ma’am.”

  “What’s your name?” she says. Her voice is soft and level. Nevertheless, I feel like I’m being chewed out.

  “Lightstorm, ma’am.”

  “Well, Lightstorm,” she says, repeating my name as if it were a profanity, “are you aware you were violating my airspace?”

  “I was?”

  “You were. You showed up on my radar screens as a bogey, which means I had to scramble my jets in case you were something dangerous.”

  “Oh.” Wow, their radar can pick up something as small as a person? I’d be impressed if I wasn’t so scared I’m about to get hauled away to some secret military prison...or maybe Byrne, which would be infinitely worse. I do not want to be Archimedes’ neighbor.

  (I wonder if Byrne is anything like the Protectorate’s holding cells, all smooth and white and clean? iGitmo.)

  “Tell me I’m wrong that this isn’t your first time causing a panic for my base,” Coffin says.

  “You’re not wrong, ma’am. I’ve been in your, um, airspace a few times.”

  “Mm-hm. Do you have any idea how much it costs Uncle Sam every time I have to send my planes up?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “A lot. More than you’ll ever see in ten lifetimes,” Coffin says, yelling at me without raising her voice. “I have better things to do with my pilots’ time and the government’s money than chase unregistered flyers. You read me?”

  “Yes...general?” I say. It’s a complete guess—and completely wrong.

  “Colonel. I work for a living.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do you have an explanation for yourself?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m new to this. I’m sorry. If I knew I was causing problems, I swear I would have—”

  She silences me with a gesture. “Dismissed,” she says to the men, who hesitate a moment before giving the colonel a pair of crisp, synchronized salutes. They turn in unison and march off.

  Colonel Coffin sighs, shakes her head. “Girl, you make it bloody hard to work up a lather. Are you always this polite?”

  “Not always,” I admit.

  “Mm. And do you always glow like that?” she says. She pulls a pair of mirrored sunglasses from her pocket, snaps them open, slides them on. Like she wasn’t intimidating before. At least she’s not non-yelling at me anymore.

  “Not always.”

  “You’re with that new group, right? The Hero Squad?”

  I suppress a cringe. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Awful young to be doing that sort of work.” There’s nothing judgmental behind the statement.

  “You’re not the first to say that. But I—my friends and I—we have these powers, so we feel like we have a responsibility to use them to do something good in the world.”

  It sounds wicked cheesy, but Coffin buys it. “If that means you’re going to be around for a while, you need to get a transponder so we don’t have this kind of mix-up again.”

  “A transponder?”

  “A device that broadcasts a signal that identifies you as a friendly to all civilian and military air control systems,” Coffin explains. “Concorde is in charge of dispensing them for flyers in the New England region.”

  Concorde? Aw, nuts.

  “Talk to him. He’ll walk you through the process and register your transponder with the DOD.”

  “DOD?”

  “Department of Defense. Transponders are entered into the military systems through them.”

  “Ah. Um...is it safe for me to...?”

  “I’ll alert air traffic that you’ll be taking off,” Coffin says, jerking her thumb at the control room behind her. She digs out of her pocket one of those small leather wallets for business cards. She hands me a card but her name’s not on it. No one’s name is on it, just a phone number with, no kidding, a 555 exchange, like in the mov
ies.

  “This is good for one week. Until you get your transponder, each time before you go airborne, call that number. After you get your transponder? Give this to Concorde,” she says, tapping the card.

  “Out of curiosity,” I say, “what happens if I don’t get a transponder?”

  “Burn the card. And consider yourself permanently grounded,” Colonel Coffin says. She turns to leave. “You seem like a nice kid,” she says over her shoulder. “I’d hate to have to order you shot down.”

  “Shoot you down?” Sara says. “Was she serious?”

  “As a heart attack,” I say.

  “Harsh,” Stuart says.

  “And you have to ask Concorde for a transponder so you can fly legally?” Matt says, uttering a brief stream of profanity and taking an angry slurp of his latté. “Yeah, that’ll happen.”

  “Thank you, Captain Optimism,” I say, even though I worry he’s not wrong.

  “What are you going to do if he says no?” Missy says.

  “Failure is not an option,” I say brightly, and my façade succeeds in deflecting the conversation onto more, shall we say, down-to-earth topics: Halloween, Matt reminds us, is but a few days away...

  “So we really need to figure out what we’re doing for costumes. Things have been so nuts lately we let it slide, but we’re getting into crunch time. On the plus side, now that we have a fifth,” he says, gesturing at me, “our possibilities have expanded considerably.”

  “Let’s go as AC/DC,” Stuart proposes. “Missy would make an awesome Angus Young.”

  “Yeah I would!”

  “Yeah, but we went as the Ramones last year,” Sara says. “Doing a band two years in a row?”

  “No, good point,” Matt says. “Hmmm. We have enough for all the Marx Brothers, including the relatively unknown Gummo Marx, or the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”

  “I thought there were only four Turtles?” I say.

  “The Turtles plus Splinter. Or, if we want an allTurtle theme, the female Turtle they introduced in the short-lived live-action series from the nineties, Venus DeMilo.”