by Greg James
Knox gave a watery smile back, thinking to himself: When I have my army of servants, I won’t need him anymore.
That’s one of the main problems with being a supervillain. It’s really hard to get staff who don’t end up plotting against you.
Nektar pressed the single yellow but ton on the black remote control and immediately there was a loud buzzing from the hallway outside. Gary ran past, making a terrified squeaking noise as Penny Percival’s new inventions rounded the corner and came floating in through the open door. There were four of them: huge robot wasps the size of motorcycles.
They flew with the aid of rotor blades suspended from their metal backs. They had a black-muzzled machine gun fixed to each of their yellow-and-black-striped sides. And inside the gaping mouth of each attack drone was a small blue flame—the pilot light for their built-in flamethrower.
Basically, since becoming a human drone, Penny had lowered her sights considerably from wanting to save the planet.
These machines had been built with one purpose: to destroy the enemies of whoever held the central control unit. Right now that person was Nektar, and he regarded them with delight.
He pressed the yellow button again. “Attack drones, maintain formation and protect me with full firepower,” he commanded. The drones maneuvered themselves into position, two behind each of his yellow leather-clad shoulders.
Right, go and do my dirty work for me and bring me back a load of super-powered servants before I snatch the control units away from you and take control of this whole operation, said Nicholas Knox, but only to himself.
Out loud he said, “Your attack vehicles are ready in the front courtyard, mighty Nektar. The coordinates of The School have been preprogrammed. I shall monitor things from here using my spy drones and assist if necessary.” He smiled awkwardly.
Nektar grimaced back at him before marching out of the room and into the elevator, humming a dramatic tune in his waspy voice. He was on course to take over the world. Nothing could stand in his way.
The elevator was out of order, and he had to go down the stairs.
The day of Nektar’s attack was also the day that Murph decided there was absolutely no point to anything, least of all going to school. It was the morning after he’d discovered the news about his mom’s job, and they had hardly spoken since. She had dropped him off early as usual, and he was now sitting moodily behind his empty desk in the entrance hall, doing some really hard-core scowling.
“Why are you even bothering going to work?” he’d grumped at her before she’d driven away. “They’re getting rid of you. What’s the point? And what’s the point of sending me to school if we’ve got to move again in the summer?”
“The point is not to give up,” his mom had snapped back at him. “We can’t all roll into a ball and refuse to come out of the house just because we’ve got to move again, Murph.” She softened as she saw how upset he was. “I hate it just as much as you do. Next year I promise I’ll look for something that’ll last for longer.”
“You—”
“Said that last year,” finished his mom. “I know.” She sighed, but before she could think of any more mom wisdom, Murph had slammed the car door and trudged away across the road toward the empty school buildings.
And now here he was, looking forward to a morning of helping out Carl while the rest of his class honed their superhuman abilities. It was going to be a bad day.
Murph was working himself up into such a mood, he even began to feel bitter about his friends. They’d all have forgotten about him in a few weeks’ time, he mused to himself furiously, just like last year, and the year before that. And when the next school year came around they’d just go on without him, while he tried to settle into another new town and another new school.
Murph had sunk into such a miserable state that he only grunted when Hilda walked past on her way to the coatroom, waving at him. He pretended not to hear Billy’s shouted greeting. Mary came up and stamped her foot at him after he responded to her cheery “Morning, Murph!” with a growly bleeurgh noise.
“What’s gotten into you today?” she demanded, but eventually walked off in a sulk when he refused to reply.
“I thought you’d say ‘good luck’ at least,” she shouted over her shoulder at him. “We’ve got the P-CAT today.”
Murph had actually forgotten that the rest of his class would be taking the P-CAT that day, the test that would determine which CT class they’d be in next year. He felt a tiny spark of pleasure pierce the gloom curtain: watching the test might be kind of fun. But once again, Mr. Flash appeared on the scene to smoosh his muffin of hope into crumbs of sadness.
“NORMAL!” he bellowed, striding toward him. “Welcome to Hero Day. Not that it concerns you. You won’t be watching the P-CAT with the rest of The School,” he continued, as if he were a mean-spirited mind reader. “Mr. Souperman’s decided it would be best if you stay out of the way, so I’ve left a couple of buckets and a scrubbing brush in my classroom. Give the floor and the walls a good cleanup, would you? Some of the older students got a little bit carried away with their Capes in Mr. Drench’s lesson yesterday, particularly Gareth. He can summon soup whenever he likes, but he hasn’t quite got it under control yet. Anyway, if you could clear up the minestrone, that’d be perfect.”
And he marched off, muttering something about useless Capes and soup.
“Fine,” said Murph to Mr. Flash’s retreating back. “Great.”
He grabbed his bag and was about to head toward the classroom. But suddenly, the whole thing seemed like an intolerable waste of time. Despite what his mom had said, going home and curling up in a ball was the only thing he felt like doing right now. He wasn’t even going to be allowed to watch everyone take their P-CAT. It was the final insult. Murph looked around at the drab walls of the school hallway and felt he couldn’t bear to spend another minute there.
Angrily, he shouldered his bag, and instead of moving toward the CT classroom to begin de-souping, he found himself walking right out of the doors and heading back across toward the school gates.
“Murph?” came a shout from behind him. It was Mary. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going home. I’ve had enough of this stupid school,” yelled Murph, rounding on her. “You’re all right; you’ve got a Cape. How do you think I feel? I’m only good enough to clean up soup! I don’t even like soup.”
“Why are you talking about soup?” asked Mary, who’d come back to make peace with Murph before her exam, and wasn’t expecting to have an argument about soup. “And my Cape’s nothing much to get excited about anyway—you know Mr. Flash thinks I’m useless because I can’t do it without the umbrella! It’s not just you.”
“Oh, so I’m useless now?” snapped Murph.
“Of course you’re not useless. I said Mr. Flash THINKS we’re useless. But that’s the point, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter what he thinks of you. He’s a bully.” Mary had planted her hands on her hips as she entered Lecture Mode. “And you know the thing about bullies, Murph? They’re only powerful if you listen to them. Don’t let him get to you!”
A part of Murph’s brain tried to shake off the gloomy fog that was enveloping him, but it was stuck in place: an oily, suffocating cloud of depression. Even though her reasoning made sense—and actually reminded him of something his mom had said—it was too late. Mr. Flash had gotten to Murph. In fact, Murph’s whole life had gotten to Murph, and for now he just needed to be on his own. Ignoring Mary’s disappointed face, he walked right through the school gates and headed for home.
He was so angry he didn’t really register the four very large yellow-and-black trucks branded with the Ribbon Robotics logo that thundered past him in the other direction as he turned the corner at the end of the street. He didn’t even hear the thin whining of the tiny spy wasp that followed him home.
18
Attack of the Killer Drones
Everyone at The School looked forward to Hero Day—
the day of the P-CAT test—more than any other. Everyone except the youngest students, that is. For them, it was a terrifying jump into the unknown that no one would tell them much about.
For the rest, however, it was a chance to watch the younger kids take on an almost impossible assault course. It was a bit like watching a bunch of people jump into a freezing cold lake when you’re already out, wrapped in a warm towel, and enjoying a hot chocolate.
Rows of bleachers had been set up on the soccer fields for the spectators, with wooden benches for the competitors. Boxes of ribbons and medals were being lugged up to the fields by some of Mr. Flash’s least favorite students—he quite liked the irony of the least capable carrying awards for the most capable. But, then again, he would, wouldn’t he? Not that many awards got handed out anyway—most years only three or four students got to the end of the P-CAT assault course.
A course that the youngest students were now regarding nervously.
It stretched the entire length of the sports fields, and it looked terrifying. Impossibly high climbing nets were slung from wooden posts, and beyond that there was a fence of vicious-looking barbed wire. Farther in the distance there was a tunnel to crawl through that seemed to be full of smoke. And right in front of their terrified eyes was a line of stout straw dummies with thick rope arms.
Deborah Lamington and Dirk Scott—aka the Posse—were also ready to take part. Deborah was positioned at the back of the soccer fields, not far from Carl’s workshops, beside a large pile of brightly colored plastic hula hoops. Dirk, holding two thick foam pads as tall as himself, was standing beside the pavilion expectantly.
“Right!” barked Mr. Flash, marching up and down in front of the nervous line of students. “This course has been expertly designed by me to test your abilities to the limit. Whether you’re a skimmer, super-strong, or you’ve got a mental Cape like tele-tech, you should be able to figure out a way to get around most of these obstacles. Even if your Capability is”—he increased in volume slightly and glanced at Hilda—“utterly, completely useless, you may still be able to find a way through. Think about your Cape and try to fit it to the problem you’re facing. But remember—this has been designed to simulate the conditions of a real mission. So just like in the real world, you’re on your own. Don’t expect anyone to back you up. And don’t stop to help out the weaker ones. Only the very best will end up in my class next year and stand any chance of joining the Heroes’ Alliance. Most of you don’t have a hope in heck. Good luck!”
And with that, Mr. Flash darted over to Deborah at the other side of the field in a fraction of a second. The students could see him talking to her in the distance. Over on the bleachers, Mr. Souperman rose to his feet and addressed the whole school, holding a microphone to his mouth.
“Welcome, everyone, to the P-CAT test. We’re all looking forward to seeing how many of our youngest students can complete the course this year.” There was a chorus of jeers and shouts from the rest of the school—clearly they didn’t think many people would be getting to the finish line. Mr. Souperman calmed them with a wave of his right bicep: “Settle down, everyone. Right, Mr. Drench, are you ready?”
Mr. Drench was standing in the center of the course with a clipboard, apparently ready to assess the students’ performance as they struggled with the obstacles. He waved a hand.
“Excellent,” continued the headmaster. “Well, I think we can ask Mrs. Fletcher to sound the starting horn as soon as Mr. Flash is ready.” The librarian was sitting at the corner of the stands, looking expectant.
Mr. Flash, who a second ago had been talking to Deborah, was suddenly back in front of the class again. He bent to whisper something to Dirk Scott, who lifted his foam pads and abruptly darted out of sight.
“READY?” screamed Mr. Flash at the class. Nobody said they were ready, but a second later he had made a chopping motion with his arm. This was Mrs. Fletcher’s cue.
“PAAAAAAARP!” went the librarian’s foghorn head.
“GO!” screamed Mr. Flash at lung-tearing volume. He started pushing the students one by one toward the line of straw dummies. They had now started spinning at incredible speed, their outstretched rope arms whistling as they cut through the air.
At the other side of the field, Deborah Lamington picked up her hula hoops and started skimming them across the course. They came fizzing along at around head height, forcing everyone to duck and weave as they ran toward the dummies.
Charlie, the boy who could burn muffins with his eyes, reached them first. For a moment it looked like he was going to use his Cape on the dummies and set one on fire, but almost immediately he got a thick rope arm in the face and fell over backward, stunned.
Everyone else hung back nervously, until Dirk Scott appeared behind them and started jabbing them all forward with his foam pads.
“THIS IS WHY NONE OF YOU ARE EVER GOING TO GET TAKEN ON BY THE ALLIANCE!” screamed Mr. Flash. “Isn’t anybody going to use their Cape, for Pete’s sake? What’s the matter with you all?”
Mary, Billy, Nellie, and Hilda were clustered together on one side of the course. Mary thought about flying over the obstacles, but every time she looked up, a bright plastic hoop skimmed above her head. One of Billy’s hands inflated suddenly and he fell over sideways. Nellie kept her head down, hair covering her face.
“I wish Murph was here,” muttered Hilda to herself. “He always makes me feel better.”
The first of Nektar’s four attack vehicles smashed through the school gates and skidded to a halt on the concrete area outside the main doors. Nektar climbed out of the passenger seat and surveyed the empty buildings, his huge attack wasps detaching themselves from the roofs of the trucks to hover beside him, bristling with firepower.
“Come in, Knox. It doesn’t look like anyone's here.”
The voice of Nicholas Knox crackled in his earpiece: “My spies indicate that the assault course is taking place on the grass area behind The School, Lord Nektar. All the students and teachers are assembled—it couldn’t be more perfect for me—” He coughed and Nektar’s earpiece crackled annoyingly. “For you,” Knox corrected himself. “I do beg your pardon. If you use the drones to transport yourself over the school buildings, we should have the element of surprise. I can direct you to the best preliminary targets.”
Back at the P-CAT assault course, Mr. Flash was still yelling at the class. “Use your Capabilities, you useless nitwits! Come on, think!”
But there wasn’t much time to think with hula hoops flying around and dummies spinning in front of you. It was like a really weird dream, only one in which you actually got hit on the head. And a lot of the class were struggling to understand how this was supposed to relate to a real-life situation.
“Sir,” asked Elsa breathlessly, after one of Deborah’s missiles had knocked her to the ground, “do you come up against many flying hoops working as a crime-fighting superhero?”
“SHUT UP!” screamed Mr. Flash, turning so red he looked like a hairy-lipped lobster.
Suddenly there was a fizz and a spark from the electrical wire leading to the dummies, and they gradually stopped spinning. The class began to shove their way through.
“That’s more like it,” said Mr. Flash, going a slightly more normal color. “Was that you, Timmy boy?” Timothy, the boy with the Capability to control electrical items, gave him a thumbs-up.
Now, usually, if a man dressed in yellow and black appears above your school roof, feet balanced on the backs of two huge robot wasps, you would notice. But, in the middle of a savage assault course set by a maniac, you could easily miss it. And indeed most of the class did, as they concentrated instead on tackling the second obstacle, a wide ditch that you had to swing across using ropes. Except the ropes were on fire.
Nektar looked down across the field, scanning for likely targets as he spoke into his remote control: “Attack drones, engage mind-control helmet s. Prepare for combat and assimilation.”
A hatch toward the back of e
ach of the four drones opened, and four of Knox’s yellow helmets were lowered into attack position.
His earpiece crackled: “Focus on the teacher first, Lord Nektar,” said Knox’s voice. “He is quite an impressive specimen. The man with the large mustache by the wooden building.”
Nektar saw Mr. Flash at once: he was standing alone by the shed, bellowing something to Elsa about freezing the rope and leaving everyone else behind.
Nektar spoke into his attack drone control unit: “Target the shouting bald man to our right. Capture him!”
Before Mr. Flash, or indeed anyone else, had noticed what was happening, one of the drones was hovering above him. A yellow helmet was lowered onto his head, and his shouting stopped abruptly as the lights along the sides of it winked on. Mr. Flash’s eyes emptied, then went a frightening pattern of black and yellow.
“Welcome to the hive, my friend,” murmured Nektar, who had landed beside him.
“That’s bees, Lord Nektar,” said Knox’s voice in his ear, but Nektar ignored it. Instead, he had some instructions for Mr. Flash.
“You are now servant to Lord Nektar, human drone. And you will help me to conquer and capture everyone at this school.”
“I obey, Lord Nektar,” said Mr. Flash in a monotone.
“Begin with the most powerful. Who else has a power like yours, human drone?” demanded Nektar as a hula hoop skimmed past them.
“The Sheriff has my power,” said the teacher, pointing at Dirk Scott, who had reappeared behind the youngest students to prod them toward the burning ropes.
But just then, Dirk looked back over his shoulder and saw what was going on. He took in Mr. Flash, with his blank eyes, and the weirdly costumed man by his side who seemed to be giving him instructions. This didn’t look good. As an attack drone whizzed toward him, already lowering a helmet, Dirk raced into action.