by Greg James
Suddenly Natalie screamed. The wasp that had been annoying Mr. Flash had flown to her hand and stuck to it, buzzing angrily.
A wasp in the hand, as you may know, is worth really freaking out over—and Natalie was really freaking out. She shook her hand frantically, trying to dislodge the wasp and sending nails flying in all directions, like the world’s most twisted piñata. Mr. Flash’s form blurred as he rushed to her side, grabbed the wasp, and crushed it under the sole of his heavy black boot.
As the class clustered around, Murph turned back to his broom, wondering two things: What was a wasp doing flying about in February? And, more importantly, why had it been attracted to Natalie’s hand?
Was it possible, he thought, to have a wasp . . . made of metal?
On the other side of town, Nicholas Knox bent excitedly toward his central computer screen. He reached out a long finger, swiping backward and forward through the footage from his camera drone.
He watched the large man darting back and forth with superhuman speed as he chopped and kicked at what appeared to be a bakery product of some kind. He watched the girl with dark hair who could apparently attract metal to her hands like a magnet. He looked at the other children in the class.
They didn’t seem at all surprised by any of it, thought Knox. Was it possible they had these kinds of powers as well?
He leaned back in his chair and laced his hands behind his head, plotting like nobody’s business. A school, he mused. A very special school. A school . . . for superheroes? He would have to tell Nektar about this intriguing discovery. But not quite yet. First he needed to know more.
Knox spoke into his microphone: “All drones, repeat, all drones, abandon assignments. Report to last-known coordinates of drone 445 for further reconnaissance. Activate.”
The small ping noise sounded, and across his three screens the video feeds blurred as his robot wasps turned away from whatever else they had been spying on and headed for the sky, ready to seek out their new target.
Murph had scooped up the crushed bits of wasp and decided to show them to Carl. It was now bitingly cold and had started to hail. He bundled himself up as best he could and headed back across the soccer fields, leaning into the wind like an Antarctic hero. He could only just make out Carl’s ramshackle collection of sheds through the driving white lumps that stung his eyes and face. But there was a thin stream of smoke coming out of the tin chimney on top of the right-hand shed, and that hope of warmth was enough to keep him going until, a few breathless minutes later, he was knocking on Carl’s wooden door with a numb red hand.
The rasping noise he could hear from inside stopped. There were footsteps, and then Carl tugged the door open. Murph gratefully slipped through it.
“Morning, Captain Brush. Lovely day for it,” Carl greeted him drily, and returned to filing a long piece of metal clamped to his workbench.
“Carl, can a wasp be made of metal?” asked Murph hesitantly. Carl stopped work and turned to look at him expectantly. “Because I was just watching a CT lesson out there, and a girl with magnetic powers attracted a wasp to her hand.”
“Hard to tell without a sample,” said Carl, raising his eyebrows under his flat cap.
Murph opened his hand, revealing a few pieces of smashed wasp coated in mud. Carl took them, and together they walked to the back of the building, where a large magnifying glass was set up on a flexible stand underneath a lamp. Carl poured the wasp parts onto the table underneath the glass and peered through the lens intently.
“Interesting,” he muttered. “Haven’t seen anything like that before. And this thing was just buzzing around the CT lesson, was it?”
Murph nodded.
Carl looked grim, the wrinkles around his eyes creasing together. “Looks like someone’s taking an interest in us. And we’re not too keen on that here. Nice work, Normal. I’ll keep an eye on this, and you keep an eye out as well.”
Murph had a sudden thought: “Do you think this is connected to the wasp story in the papers? It’s got to be!” he decided.
“Sounds likely, doesn’t it?” answered Carl. “Now clear off back into the blizzard and get yourself to your next class before you’re late. I’ve got some work to do in there.”
He indicated a door to the side of the workshop—which Murph guessed must lead to the large area behind the garage doors at the front of the building. It was securely padlocked and had a sign saying "No admittance under any circumstances" on it.
“What’s in there?” Murph wanted to know, along with the rest of us.
Carl, one hand on his bunch of keys, ready to open the door, turned back to him and may or may not have winked.
“Secrets,” he said unhelpfully. “Now scram.”
Unfortunately, Murph’s warning had come too late. Because over the next few hours, more and more of Nektar’s spy drones converged on The School. The next day one managed to get through the window into the CT lesson and witnessed Elsa making delicate icicles appear from the ceiling as she honed her Capability with the help of Mr. Drench. Another spied on Mr. Souperman as he casually lifted his entire desk up with one hand to retrieve a dropped pen. And it was all beamed back across town to Ribbon Robotics, where Nicholas Knox stamped his shiny shoes in delight. This school could provide him with an army that would be unbeatable. With servants like this, he could do anything he wanted.
“This school could provide you with an army that would be unbeatable,” Knox told Nektar later that day. “With servants like this, you could do anything you wanted.”
Nektar’s bulbous insect eyes flashed greedily as he sucked on a plastic jug of maple syrup like a weird giant wasp baby.
“And you’re sure we can mount a successful picnic?” he asked.
“Picnic?” queried Knox.
“Attack, I said, attack. Mount a successful attack. Stop mentioning picnics!” buzzed Nektar peevishly.
“Apologies, sir.” Nicholas Knox bowed insincerely. “With time to plan, yes, I’m confident. With your permission I shall continue to monitor this school and give you regular reports.”
But Nektar had lost interest already, as Gary had come into the room with a fresh tray of lemonade and a large tub of ice cream.
Knox didn’t stay to find out what weirdness was about to ensue. He swept from the room and returned to his lair to continue spying.
Over the following weeks, Knox learned much more about The School. His tiny robot wasps positioned themselves invisibly in classrooms, hallways, and the auditorium. On his screens Knox’s greedy eyes read the Heroes’ Vow. He listened in to lessons and eavesdropped on teachers in the staffroom.
But as winter began to thaw into spring, he overheard one particular conversation that gave him his greatest and most daring idea . . .
Flora popped her head into Mr. Souperman’s office: “Iain Flash is here to see you, Geoffrey.”
The headmaster was standing at the window with his hands on his hips, idly watching a wasp that was crawling down the glass. “Ah yes, thank you,” he said.
Mr. Flash stomped in, rudely shoving past Flora, who stuck her tongue out at him behind his back before disappearing off to her desk.
“You wanted to see me, headmaster?” barked Mr. Flash, sounding as if he had somewhere more important to be, which of course he didn’t.
“Yes, Iain, I just wanted to check that everything’s in place for your P-CAT next week?” asked the headmaster. “Anything you need? It’s the most important day of the school year, after all, and I don’t want anything to go wrong.”
“All in hand, all in hand, don’t worry,” Mr. Flash assured him aggressively. “It’s not my first time, you know. Not that I hold out much hope that any of this lot will be able to make it past many of the obstacles.”
“Well, not a lot of them usually do, as far as I remember,” mused Mr. Souperman. “Please try not to injure too many of them this year, though. The whole school will be watching.”
“But that’s what it’s all about
, isn’t it?” challenged Flash. “A chance to showcase the best of the best. See how they perform against my assault course and two actual working Alliance operatives.”
“Ah yes, so the Posse will act as your assistants this year?”
“Yep. They’ll be my eyes and ears. And hands, in fact.”
“Yes, well—” began Mr. Souperman.
“And legs,” added Mr. Flash. “Because they’ll be running about—”
“Yes, I understand, thank you,” the headmaster cut in. “And while you’re here, how is young Mr. Cooper getting along?”
“Kid Normal?” scoffed Mr. Flash. “Who knows? He’s off in the shed with Carl every morning now, rather than holding back my CT class. Best place for him. I still don’t know what you were thinking, letting someone without a Cape remain here.”
Mr. Souperman glanced toward the door.
“Yes, with that in mind, perhaps we should keep him out of the way during the P-CAT. I don’t think a boy without a Cape is likely to have much to offer—he might just be a distraction for the other students. Find him something to do during the day to keep him busy, will you?” instructed Mr. Souperman.
“Will do, sir!” replied Mr. Flash happily.
Listening in on his screens on the other side of town, Nicholas Knox realized he had discovered the ideal moment for his attack. It couldn’t be more perfect. The whole school would be together; there would be two actual working superheroes there—he still couldn’t quite believe it. Knox itched to know more about their powers, and waited hungrily for the chance to question his captives. He knew he’d never get a better opportunity to capture himself an army in one fell swoop.
“You’ll never get a better opportunity to capture yourself an army in one fell swoop, sir,” he informed Nektar soon afterward. “With my spies guiding you in, you can use the new attack drones to take over The School. If you mind-control the most powerful people first, they can then assist you, and the rest of the operation should present no problems.”
“Me? You’re not coming with me?” Nektar looked worried.
“I need to coordinate the operation from here, sir. But don’t worry, we’ll be in constant contact. And remember, you’ll be protected by the attack drones at all times. There is no possible danger,” finished Knox, sounding as sincere as possible.
And so they began to plan their attack.
Murph had really started to enjoy his time helping Carl. Since he’d brought the metal wasp to his attention, the janitor seemed to trust him more. Carl had spent hours examining the crushed fragments, but had been unable to figure out much more about the mysterious machine from the tiny fragments Mr. Flash’s boot-pulping had left behind. He had taken to patrolling The School with a makeshift magnetic swatter he’d cobbled together in his workshop, desperate to catch another wasp. He was unaware, though, that Knox’s technology was far too advanced to let that happen. The tiny drones were too cunning and communicated with one another too effectively to let themselves be tracked down.
Carl had also informed Mr. Souperman, who had promised to pass the information on to what he called the “relevant authorities”. But as the headmaster hadn’t been listening to Carl properly at the time, he came away with a vague notion that the janitor had been complaining about an actual wasp. In fact, he forgot the conversation almost as soon as it had happened.
Carl occasionally discussed the metal wasp with Murph over steaming cups of tea as the wind howled outside the wooden workshop. But without any real information, they had no hope of working out what was actually going on. For Murph the chats also provided a chance to try and wheedle more details out of Carl about his past. He noticed that the box of photographs had disappeared from its place on the bench, and Carl was much too sharp to let any details slip.
Still, they both enjoyed each other’s company, and Carl even let Murph help out with a few of the gadgets he spent his days putting together. As a treat, Murph was actually allowed to take home the odd prototype here and there, as long as he promised no one would see it.
One Tuesday, Murph ran home, ready to dart up to his room as quickly as possible to play with something Carl called a Grapple Gun, a small pistol that fired a length of strong rope that could be used for climbing or grabbing things a long way away.
But as he reached the house, he realized something was wrong. His brother had shut himself in his room and his mom was sitting at the table in their tiny dining room with her head in her hands.
As soon as Murph saw her he knew what had happened. He’d been here three times before. Quickly stuffing the Grapple Gun into a rain boot standing just inside the front door, he steeled himself for the bad news.
“They’re not keeping you on at work, are they?” he said bluntly.
Silently his mom shook her head, then seemed to decide she’d have to say something.
“Murph, I’m so sorry,” she said unsteadily. “I realize you like it here—you’ve been much more like your old self these last few weeks. And believe me, I’ve done everything I can. And I’ll keep trying, I promise.”
“And what good’s that going to do?” Murph suddenly felt furious. “This has happened four times now, Mom. Am I ever going to get to stay at a school for more than a year? Or is this it, now? Should I just give up on ever making any friends?”
“Well, I didn’t know you even had any friends,” his mom hit back at him. “You refuse to tell me anything much about this school. I mean, I was relieved to find you a place and it certainly seems to have cheered you up a bit. But what’s the big secret, for goodness’ sake?”
“Oh, what does it matter anyway?” replied Murph bitterly, turning away. “I’d better get ready to leave it all behind again, hadn’t I?” And with that, he sulked out of the door and wandered around to stand on the bridge over the filthy canal.
The full realization of how upset he was about this began to sink in. For the first time in ages he’d started to make friends. But soon he’d have to say goodbye to Mary; to Billy, Hilda, and Nellie; Carl and his workshop; Flora; even Gangly Fuzz Face and his goons: all erased from his life. And he was sure that wherever his family ended up living after this, the next school wouldn’t be half as interesting.
17
Soup
The day of Nektar’s attack was unseasonably warm and clammy. Thick gray clouds hung over the town like a damp, dirty duvet. A faint rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, although it might just have been a dog’s stomach making a noise not that far away. Frankly, it was too stuffy to care.
At Ribbon Robotics, Nektar was making his final preparations. He had emerged from his nest in a good mood that morning, looking forward to beginning the creation of his own private army. For this would bring him a step closer to taking control of the country, which would enable him to ban picnics, get stuck in ice cream, and buzz around trash cans to his stripy heart’s content. He had breakfasted lightly on three chocolate bars and an entire gallon of orange juice that he’d slurped straight from the bottle with his long hollow tongue. Gary the intern had tried to point out the words “dilute to taste” on the label, but he’d been wasting his time.
Nicholas Knox was fussing over him like an overprotective mom on the first day at school. “Now, are you sure you’ve got everything, evil Lord Nektar?”
“Yes, Knox, I’ve got everything,” snapped Nektar. He was dressed in his full yellow-and-black costume, with black boots, a yellow-and-black jumpsuit, and a helmet covering his bulging insect eyes. So rather than looking like an evil man-wasp hybrid, he looked like he was part of an insect-themed motorcycle stunt team. This was the first time since becoming an evil man-wasp that he was going to venture outside his factory, and he wanted to be prepared.
“Have you got the master uplink system for the mind-control helmets?” asked Knox.
“Of course I have,” Nektar raged, his good mood ebbing away. “What would be the point of my going outside this factory for the first time to initiate my evil plan to take
over the country using an army of human drones wearing mind-control helmets if I didn’t take the master uplink system for the mind-control helmets with me?”
“Of course, sir,” Knox reassured him. “It’s just that the master uplink system for the mind-control helmets is over there on that table.”
Nektar marched over and snatched up what looked like a big black watch, snapping it onto his wrist.
The master uplink system was the key to the whole mind-control technology Knox had invented. Whoever wore that black wristband would be able to command anyone wearing one of the helmets to do absolutely anything. It made you the master of an army of servants. Or, if you put the helmets on llamas, an army of llamas. A llama army. You could also dress them in nightgowns and force them to work in a field, making you the master of a pajama’d llama farmer army, but that might be taking things too far.
Nicholas Knox’s fellow robotics expert, Penny Percival, was standing to one side. If you remember, she had once invented a fabulous rainbow robot fish that could have solved all the world’s clean water problems until Nektar stamped on it. But in the last few months she had been working hard on a very different project. She had worked hard on it because Knox had snuck up behind her with a mind-control helmet and turned her into a helpless servant.
Penny’s black-and-yellow eyes watched expressionlessly as Nektar turned to her and asked, “Human drone Percival, do you have the attack drones ready?”
“All is ready, mighty Lord Nektar,” she replied in a monotone, and handed him a small remote-control unit. “Press the homing button in the center to summon the attack drones. They will respond to your commands, O powerful one.”
Nektar grinned to himself. Being the commander of a drone army was super convenient. Though he was a little worried about Knox, who seemed to be getting rather too big for his extremely shiny shoes recently.
Never mind, thought Nektar inside his mean, waspy brain. When I have my army of servants, I won’t need him anymore. He caught Knox’s eye and smiled unconvincingly.