Action Figures - Issue One: Secret Origins

by Michael Bailey

  Like I need any help there, I’m doing fine on my own; my injuries, the exertion, the stress, the plummeting adrenaline, it all hits me at once and I come dangerously close to passing out mid-flight. I keep it together well enough to avoid hitting the ocean at top speed, so it only hurts like a mother instead of killing me.

  The icy water shocks me back to full consciousness. I kick, trusting (hoping) I’m pointing in the right direction. I break the surface and shake a curtain of wet hair out of my face and that’s when I see it, a fiery fist rising up from the horizon into a blackened sky. It’s a stunning, humbling, horrifying sight that sends a chill rippling down my body head-to-toe.

  Either that or hypothermia is setting in. It is December.

  Fortunately, my ride’s here.

  “Carrie? Carrie!”

  “Hey, Concorde. Give a girl a lift?”

  Turns out I wasn’t the only person who got a little too close to an apocalyptic fireworks display. Seconds after I passed Castle Island on my way out, someone triggered a self-destruct sequence that reduced our mysterious facility to a heap of flaming rubble—long after the Squad got out, luckily, dragging along with them none other than Archimedes, plus the schmucks who tried to kill us, and a dozen more assorted people who apparently worked in the building. We can only guess what they did there seeing as none of them are talking.

  Four Boston PD paddy wagons carted them off; they get regular person jail. Archimedes, he gets a special ride directly to Byrne courtesy of Mindforce and Concorde, which means we get to sit tight and enjoy the after-party from a safe distance, huddled among a couple of Red Cross support trucks doling out hot chocolate and sugary snacks (mental note: send generous donation and a nice thank-you card to the Red Cross).

  “This?” Sara says, waving her hand at the smoldering debris, which is currently getting doused by (and this is only my best estimate) every last firefighter in the city of Boston. And I thought the post-mayhem scenes we witnessed in Kingsport were intense. “Let’s never do anything like this ever again.”

  “Agreed,” I say.

  “On the bright side,” Matt says, “we didn’t trash Kingsport for a change.”

  That does make me feel a little better.

  “How are the hands doing?”

  I show Matt my palms. They’re sunburn red and itch like crazy, but they’re whole again. In more ways than one.

  “So, raincheck on all the high-fives you deserve?”

  “This was a team effort,” I say. “A two-team effort, in fact.”

  “That would have ended catastrophically if it weren’t for you,” Sara says.

  “Credit where it’s due,” Matt says.

  “Back at you, dead-eye,” I say.

  Matt shrugs off the compliment. “Nina’s idea,” he says.

  “I was kidding about the rocket launcher,” Nina says, “but hey, who am I to complain about total success?”

  “I wouldn’t call it total. Manticore and that Foreman guy slipped away scot-free, and I doubt Concorde’s going to learn anything useful from that mess,” I say, nodding at the wreckage of Bad Guy Headquarters.

  “Mm, maybe, but you want to know a dirty little secret about the super-hero game?” Nina says. We lean in, our curiosity piqued. “Success is rarely ever total. There’s almost always a loose thread that never gets tied off, or someone slips away in the confusion, or you take a bad beating, or some innocent bystander gets hurt or killed. It happens, so instead of beating yourself up over the ten percent that went wrong, be thankful for the ninety percent you got right and do better next time.”

  Next time. I wonder if Concorde will let us have a next time.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  “How have you been doing, Carrie?” Mindforce says. “Do you feel you’ve adjusted well?”

  “I don’t know how much adjusting I’ve needed to do,” I say. “I mean, everything’s back to normal. What’s to adjust to?”

  “Hmm.”

  “What hmm? Really, everything’s fine. I’m fine.”

  “You lost your powers,” Concorde says, conducting his part of the interview from the briefing room corner, arms crossed, visor down.

  “And then I got them back,” I say. “And they’ve been functioning properly. Guys, seriously, this isn’t a big deal. I got knocked down, I got up again. All part of the business, right?”

  “For a superhuman to lose his or her powers, even briefly, that’s a distressing experience,” Mindforce says. “We want to make sure you’re not experiencing any lingering psychological trauma. Are you eating regularly? Sleeping well?”

  I’m fine, okay? My hands have healed up, my powers work, I aced my last math test, and tonight’s Christmas Eve. Everything’s coming up Carrie.

  “I’m having nightmares,” I say.

  “About what?”

  “Manticore. Attacking me. Chopping off my hands.” Hands that shake as I recall the misty memory of a vague dream I’ve had three, four times over the past two weeks. “Same dream, every time. I wake up covered in sweat. Then I sit in bed for an hour staring at my hands to make sure they’re really there.”

  Something passes between Concorde and Mindforce. I hate mindspeak when I’m not in on the conversation.

  “Would you like to talk about it?” Mindforce says. “Formally, I mean.”

  “What, like, with a shrink?”

  “The preferred term is psychologist, and yes, I mean with a shrink.”

  “With him, specifically,” Concorde says.

  “You’re a shri—psychologist?” Mindforce flashes a guilty as charged grin. I always wondered what he did for a day job.

  “What do you say? You and I, alone, here at HQ, once a week after school.”

  “Why?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Why would you do that for me? Not too long ago I was an annoyance,” I say to Concorde. “Now you want to help me. Why?”

  “We have our reasons,” he says. “The offer’s on the table, take it or leave it.”

  I take it.

  Concorde offers to escort me to the secret subway thingy (I should ask him if it has a real name), but en route he takes me on an unannounced detour to his workshop. He ducks in and returns with—

  “Is that a Christmas present?”

  “Yes. For you,” he says, thrusting the gift at me with all the awkwardness of a teenage boy asking a girl for a first dance. “From Mindforce, Nina, and me.”

  Now I feel like a total cheapskate. “I didn’t get you anything.”

  “I have new toys to play with,” he says, jerking a thumb at his freshly repaired workshop, filled to the brim with Thrasher corpses.

  “Do us all a favor? Don’t reattach the heads this time.” I take the package, which has some heft to it. First thing I do, of course, is give it a gentle shake and listen, but I learn nothing. “Should I open it now?”

  “No. At home. In private,” he stresses.

  Wait, Sara says. Concorde. He bought you a Christmas present?

  Well, co-bought, I say, but still. Crazy, right?

  It’s a Christmas miracle. Or something.

  In Kingsport they say, Concorde’s heart grew three sizes that day.

  Ha! You’ll have to let me know what it is.

  Will do. I’ll give you a shout after dinner.

  Not that I’m not curious, mind you, but first things first. On Christmas Eve, Mom takes the night off from cooking and we order in Chinese, which we devour while watching A Christmas Story. This is a longstanding and revered holiday tradition in the Hauser household, so whoever is leaning on the doorbell and interrupting our sacred ritual better be the delivery guy with our missing fortune cookies.

  “Not it,” Mom says.

  “Excuse me? Not it?” I laugh. “Who are you, me?”

  “Answer the door.”

  Christmas spirit, Carrie, Christmas spirit. That’s why DVD players have pause buttons.

  Oh.

  “Hey, kiddo,” Dad says.

>   It wasn’t a long visit. Dad was on his way to Worcester to spend Christmas with Uncle Tyler and his family and, with Mom’s consent, decided to take a little side-trip to personally deliver my presents. A little Christmas bonus, Mom called it. We exchanged gifts, he stuck around to watch a little of the movie with us and swipe some of my chicken teriyaki, and then he was back on the road.

  It wasn’t a long visit, but it was long enough.

  Dad gone, dinner eaten, and movie watched, I say an early good-night to Mom and Granddad and run up to my room, though my excitement over the mystery box is not what it was. What could possibly live up to a surprise Christmas visit from Dad?

  The door closed and locked as a precaution, I sit on the bed with the package (I’m not ready to call it a gift) and tear off the paper to reveal a plain brown cardboard box. I lift the lid, and the first thing I see is a pair of fancy sunglasses. There are funny little widgets on the earpieces, kind of like those Bluetooth earpieces you see stuck-up executives wearing. I slip them on. The smoked lenses wrap around my face, covering my peripheral vision. They beep softly in my ears and the word INITIALIZING appears in glowing text in front of my left eye. A few seconds later, IDENT NEEDED appears on the left lens, SAY YOUR NAME on the right.

  “Carrie Hauser.”

  The lenses go blank.

  VOICEPRINT CONFIRMED HELLO LIGHTSTORM

  After a few seconds of silence: “Hello, Carrie.” Concorde’s voice. “You’re no doubt wondering what the thing on your face is.”

  “Definitely,” I say, thinking out loud.

  “For starters, it’s your transponder, so make sure you’re wearing it whenever you go airborne,” Concorde says and my heart skips a beat. Transponder! “The lenses are a shatter-resistant polymer, and they’re your heads-up display. The voice-activated onboard computer is GPS-equipped and linked to military and civilian air control systems, so you’ll be able to see where you are, your altitude, your orientation, and if there’s anything else in your airspace. Pay attention to that last function. I’ve flown into more than a few birds in my time and believe me, it’s no fun.

  “You’re also hooked into all the necessary radio bands—commercial, first responder, military, and most importantly, the Protectorate’s communications network. I expect you to use it, a lot.” Concorde sighs at me in stereo. “I’m putting a lot of faith in you, Carrie. You’re a smart girl, and I’m trusting you to be smart enough to know when you’re in over your head. Don’t make a fool out of me.”

  “I won’t,” I say.

  “I’m holding you to that,” Concorde says, and I jump a foot off my bed.

  “Concorde?”

  “What, did you think this was a recording?”

  “I did, actually.”

  “Sorry, kid, it’s me in your ear, live and direct, and you better get used to it,” he says, as surly as ever. “Don’t think I’m cutting you loose. I’ll be watching you and your friends every step of the way, and if you give me a good reason to shut you down I will, by any means necessary, and I guarantee it’ll hurt. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Well, what are you waiting for? Suit up and try it out,” he says, and the earpieces fall silent.

  The next thing I take out of the box feels like no fabric I’ve ever handled before. It’s as thick and tough as leather but as soft as silk, and has the slickness and sheen and stretchiness of spandex. It unfolds into a full bodysuit in yellow and white. There’s a belt and black leather gloves, and a pair of dead sexy calf-height boots sit in the bottom of the box (I’m betting I have Natalie to thank for those).

  Ten minutes later, covered in my long winter coat and armed with an excuse about forgetting to give Sara her present, I’m out the door. Once in the woods near my house and well out of sight from the street, I drop my coat and slip the goggles on.

  LOGIN

  “Carrie Hauser.”

  VERIFY IDENT

  “...Lightstorm.”

  VOICEPRINT CONFIRMED HELLO LIGHTSTORM

  “Hello, fancy shades.”

  TRANSPONDER ACTIVE

  GPS ACTIVE

  COMM SYST ACTIVE

  The earth falls away. Trees slide past me as if they’re retracting into the ground and release me into an ice-blue sky littered with fat clouds. I rise up to meet them and they greet me with a dusting of snow, flakes as white as sunlight and as big as pennies. They touch my aura and, with a whisper-faint sizzle, vaporize.

  Merry Christmas to me.

  Allow me to re-introduce myself. My name is Carrie Hauser. Fifteen years old, high school sophomore, formerly of Barnstable, Massachusetts, currently of Kingsport.

  You can call me Lightstorm.

  I’m a super-hero.

  EPILOGUE

  “Welcome back, sir,” the receptionist says. “She’s expecting you.”

  Of course she’s expecting me, you idiot, the Foreman grumbles to himself. He snatches back his ID, a black plastic card with a magnetic strip and no identifying marks—no name, no photo, no insigne identifying an organization as large as any mid-size American corporation but more secretive than any government black ops outfit.

  The Foreman passes several pairs of security guards en route to the main elevator. Standard security was doubled at every facility after the Boston incident, the lighter weekend shifts eliminated in favor of full rosters. It strains the organization’s finances a little, but so did losing an entire outpost and the millions of dollars of technology within. An ounce of prevention and a pound of cure and all that.

  The guards posted at the elevator know who he is, even without the mask, but they do not greet him as they normally would, with polite nods and Good morning sirs with a heavy dose of respect and not more than a little fear. Word of what happened spread throughout the operation like wildfire and, clearly, it’s robbed him of his prestige.

  But he didn’t rise through the ranks as quickly as he did by making excuses on the rare occasion things went wrong. The same sharp, calculating mind that elevated him will save him from falling...too far, at any rate.

  The doors slide open. He steps into the elevator and they close. The car rises. He hasn’t touched a single button.

  He steps out on the top floor, which is accessible to its owner and whoever she invites up and no one else. He approaches the black marble desk and waits by one of the leather chairs, waits to be invited to sit. He knows the protocol.

  “Ma’am,” the Foreman says.

  “I finished reviewing the loss report on Boston an hour ago,” she says, waving a manila folder at the Foreman. “The total hit is eight figures, plus Archimedes.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “We lost no data thanks to the automatic backups. The facility, the hardware, the manpower, those are regrettable but acceptable losses.” She inhales slowly, exhales. “The loss of Archimedes, however? That is not acceptable.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “He might well have been the most valuable resource we’ve ever acquired, and now he’s sitting in Byrne. Again.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “What do you plan to do about that?”

  “Nothing, ma’am.”

  She narrows her eyes at the man who, up until last week, was her most valued, most trusted ally. “Nothing.”

  “Yes ma’am. Nothing.”

  “Explain.”

  “If I may speak freely?” She gestures: proceed. “Ma’am, your organization’s secrecy has been compromised more in the past two months than it has been in the past five years, thanks directly and indirectly to Archimedes.”

  “Without him we’ve lost an unparalleled datamining operative,” she says. “Our best hackers can’t do half what he did.”

  “I recognize he’s a unique asset, but he’s not ready. He’s too independent. He needs to be broken so we can rebuild him to your liking, and there’s no better way than to leave him in prison for a while.

  “Additionally,” the Foreman continues, �
�if we were to try and free Archimedes right away, it would raise suspicion and risk further exposure—just as it would if we were to make any further moves against the team calling itself the Hero Squad. If I might make a recommendation?”

  “...Go ahead.”

  “Leave Archimedes alone, leave the Hero Squad alone, leave Boston alone, at least for a while. Let things cool down. Let them forget about us. We have plenty of projects to pursue while keeping the organization out of the spotlight, and that is what we need.”

  “Out of sight, out of mind,” she says, “that’s your suggestion?”

  “Consider it a short-term sacrifice for long-term gain, ma’am.”

  She drums her fingernails on the desk, contemplating. “I want you to stay put. I need to keep one set of reliable eyes on the Protectorate and their little youth corps.”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  “They’re going to be trouble, those children. Especially the girl,” she says with an unprecedented note of concern that does not go unnoticed.

  “We’ll take care of her, ma’am. We’ll take care of them all,” the Foreman says. “In good time.”

  “In good time,” she agrees.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Action Figures has been a work-in-progress for many years—some of the characters were born back in high school, in fact—and so it’s deeply satisfying to bring it to a conclusion of sorts in the form of this book (I say “of sorts” because there are quite a few more entries in this series coming, so my work here is not done yet).

  I owe debts of gratitude to a lot of people, starting with my wife Veronica, my number one cheerleader and beta tester. Any creative type will tell you, sometimes all you need to keep going in the face of adversity and rejection is one person who believes in your art, and for me that’s Veronica.

  Fortunately, I had more than just her backing this project. I had a gang of test-readers who got to see this novel in its formative stages, offered invaluable advice on everything from believable teenager behavior to accurate Boston geography, and assured me that it did not suck. So a tip of the hat goes to my test-reader team supreme of Kate Sokol, Rob Isaacson, Julie Tremblay, and Alena Shellenbean.