Action Figures - Issue Six: Power Play

by Michael Bailey

  “You did a great job, though.”

  Matt smiles. “So will you.”

  “Matt...”

  “It’s your job now. I didn’t have a choice and neither do you, but you do get to choose whether you’re going to suck it up and accept it or leave your friends hanging. They’re going to look to you now. You can’t let them down.”

  No. I can’t.

  “I won’t,” I say.

  “I know.”

  “I should go. I’d like to say hi to Sergeant Scotty before I head home.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Really well. She might even get out of here before you.”

  “Jealous. Off you go then. Keep me updated?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Matt stops me at the door. “Hey. I love you.”

  Once upon a time, those words would have sent a hot surge of panic through me. Matt fell in love with me when we were little kids, and by the time he mustered the courage to tell me, I’d come out as a lesbian. It crushed him. He vowed he’d make an honest effort to get over it, but I’ve always secretly worried he was faking it for my sake.

  He wasn’t. His words are filled with love, but not the same kind of love he once held for me. They’re the words of a true friend.

  “I love you too,” I say.

  ***

  I have two things on my to-do list for this evening: start studying the battle plans and let Christina know what’s going on. Neither are fun. Both are necessary.

  Christina takes the news with as much grace as one might expect. I don’t divulge the specifics of the op, I simply say I’ll be taking part in a high-risk mission to capture a dangerous super-villain, but that’s more than enough to fire up the mama bear instincts. She asks me to step down. I say I can’t and won’t. With Matt out, I’m responsible for keeping Stuart and Missy safe, I say. She understands. She doesn’t give me her blessing, but she doesn’t explicitly oppose me either.

  After school every day, I head right home to study the maps of Straitsmouth Island, review Edison’s plan, and brush up on my prospective new teammates’ capabilities. Black Iron is a standard tank on par with Stuart in terms of strength and invulnerability. The Amazon is another tank, but she prefers fighting with a sword and shield over barehanded brawling. Yankee Spirit is one of several patriotically themed super-heroes in the US, but he’s the only one with corporate backing; he’s the official super-hero of the New England Patriots. Natalie says he has enhanced strength and speed and is a decent enough fighter, but he spends more time as a human photo op at car shows and high school pep rallies than he does taking down bad guys. To round out the team, Edison recruited Shift, a woman capable of short-range line-of-sight teleportation. She’s a sneaky hit-and-run fighter, someone to complement Missy. It’s a solid lineup.

  I’d trade all four of them for Matt and Carrie in a heartbeat.

  But what’s that stupid saying? You fight with the army you have, not the army you want, so my smartest course of action is to learn everything I can about them — and about the Thrashers, our most likely first line of resistance. Fortunately, Edison has had his mitts on one for more than a year and has dissected the thing down to its tiniest components. The Thrashers fly using a maglev system not unlike the ones in Concorde’s suit or in the Pelican, and they’re armed with electromagnetic railguns capable of ripping through anyone without bulletproof skin. The chassis is some kind of advanced, reinforced polymer as strong as steel but as light as plastic, which Matt says is an important feature in a mech. Apparently, giant robots like you see in cartoons and movies are practically impossible because of something called the “square-cube law.” Basically, it means that every time you double the size of something, you exponentially increase its weight, which means you need a lot more power to make it move. If the Thrashers were any bigger, they’d need a much larger network of nuclear micro-cells to power them, which would require a stronger cooling system, and that would add more weight, et cetera, et cetera.

  Anyway, the Thrashers are tough, but they’re not indestructible, and their design isn’t without flaws. The suit’s visual sensors are in a head that can be destroyed with relative ease, and like a person, if you take out a leg you bring down the suit. However, a Thrasher’s greatest weakness is the man or woman inside. The pilot is shielded against telepathic attacks but, like any person, he or she is susceptible to things like anger, fear, and good old-fashioned human error. We have to assume the pilots have combat experience and won’t rattle easily, but that doesn’t mean we can’t throw them off their game.

  Matt is always a text away when I have questions, which is often. It’s comforting having him as a resource, and I think he’s happy that he can contribute to the cause even if he won’t be joining us in the field. We spend an hour on the phone Thursday afternoon going over the plan one more time, then he gives me a rousing pre-mission pep talk, offers a few last words of advice, and wisely sends me to bed to get in a nap.

  My alarm goes off at eleven. I wake up, put on some coffee to take on the road, and put on my uniform. Edison might have given it to me for slimy, underhanded reasons, but I’m not so proud that I’d throw it back in his face on principle — especially since my old shirt was reduced to tattered, blood-caked rags.

  I slip out of the house with my coffee and a couple of cold Pop-Tarts and sit on the porch to wait for my ride, leaving Christina to sleep through the night. It’s better this way. I don’t want her sitting up for hours worrying about me. I want her to wake up and find me sitting in the living room, seriously worn out but safe and sound.

  Catherine pulls up to the house. She’s driving the Protectorate’s van, which, for once, isn’t disguised as something innocuous. I climb in the back. Missy, who’s also already in full uniform, offers a subdued greeting from the passenger’s seat.

  Stuart is the last pickup on the route. His house is lit up like it’s early evening instead of creeping up on midnight. He steps out onto his porch, shadowed by his grandmother. She sends Stuart off with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and she waves at the van as we drive off.

  “Not one word,” Stuart says.

  “I was going to say I’m a little jealous,” I say.

  “Oh. Okay, that’s cool.”

  We make one more stop to grab coffee and pastries from the twenty-four-hour Dunkin’ Donuts in town. The only nonemployee in the place this late is a cop who recognizes Stuart from their ride-alongs. They make small talk while Catherine places our order. The woman working the counter gives us a funny look but does her job without comment. I’m sure she’s seen a lot weirder things than us on the graveyard shift.

  We reach HQ well before midnight, but we’re nevertheless the last to arrive. The conference room isn’t large enough to hold everyone, so we meet in Concorde’s workshop in the basement. Introductions are made where appropriate. Yankee Spirit looks like the Fourth of July ate an American flag factory and then threw it up all over him. Shift, who’s on my team, is more tastefully dressed in a loose black outfit similar to Missy’s, topped with a hijab. She’s a Middle Eastern woman about Missy’s height with my build. She moves fluidly, gracefully, like a dancer — or a cobra. I’m curious to see her in action. Black Iron, who’s also on my team, is a massive African-American man in a tank top, army surplus store camo pants, and a full-head iron mask that makes his deep voice ring metallically. The Amazon is the second-tallest person in the room after Rockjaw, and her musculature rivals that any of the other tanks present. She wears a stylized Greco-Roman suit of armor — complete with bronze chestplate, thick leather skirting, and a bulky bucket of a helmet — and carries a convex rectangular shield. A short, wide-bladed sword hangs at her hip.

  There isn’t much in the way of chitchat. We nibble unenthusiastically at the donuts and bagels, chug coffee, and wait for Concorde to get things rolling.

  “How’re you feeling?” Mindforce asks me at one point.

  “As well as can be expected, I guess,” I sa
y. “You?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  I hesitate before bringing up the sore subject du jour. “And how are things with Edison?”

  “We’ve had a discussion or two. He owes you an apology for what he pulled on you and I intend to see that he follows through. And I’m going to make sure he makes good on his offer to teach you to fly the Pelican, assuming you’re still interested.”

  “Yeah, absolutely.”

  Mindforce nods. “I feel like I owe you an apology as well. I let Concorde put you in an awful position.”

  “You didn’t let anyone do anything. Concorde made his choices and I made mine.”

  “You made the right one. In case you were wondering.”

  “I had a great teacher.”

  That gets a smile. It may be the only one I see today, so I savor it.

  After that, Meg and I retreat into a corner and hold each other, neither of us saying a word. We stay like that until midnight sharp, when Concorde calls us to attention. He reviews the basics of the plan and asks if there are any questions. There aren’t.

  Nina, Stuart, Missy, Black Iron, and the Amazon climb into the Pelican. My team, which includes Meg and Kilowatt, get on the Raptor. We run a final check on our comms. Everyone is online.

  Doc Quantum fires up the Raptor’s engines. Meg squeezes my hand. “Love you, Strawberry,” she says. I hear it twice, once in my left ear, once in my right through my comm. Oops. Everyone heard that.

  You know what? I don’t care. I have so many reasons to survive this mission. Meg is at the top of the list, and I don’t care who knows it.

  “Love you, Sparky,” I say.

  And with that, every last ounce of anxiety drains out of me. On some level I’m still scared as hell, but my body refuses to acknowledge it. My hands are cool. My heart beats at a slow, steady pace. My mind is clear.

  Let’s do this.

  ***

  Five miles out, we drop below the radar envelope — or so Concorde hopes — and skim the ocean for the rest of the trip.

  “Attention, all teams. We’re on final approach to Straitsmouth Island,” Concorde says. “Megawatt, Kilowatt, get ready.”

  The Raptor glides to a stop. Rockjaw pops the side hatch, letting in a gale-force burst of freezing night air. He stands back, clearing the deck for Concorde and TranzSister to land. Meg and Kilowatt climb into two-person harnesses similar to the ones skydivers wear for their first jump. Once they’re strapped in and hooked up to their respective flyers, Meg throws me one last smile.

  “Time to go wake the neighbors,” she says.

  “Give ‘em hell, Sparky,” I say.

  The flyers and their passengers step out of the Raptor and vanish into the night.

  The assault has begun.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The airships hold their distance at a mile out, well outside visual range, and wait for the twins to do their thing.

  I join Doc Quantum in the cockpit as Concorde and TranzSister reach the island, undetected as far as we can tell; if the island has any external defense systems, they haven’t been activated. A heads-up display projected onto the windshield shows us the world in night-vision mode. Everything has a toxic green tint to it. Two dots shrink into the distance. The HUD labels one as CONCORDE and KILOWATT, the other as TRANZSISTER and MEGAWATT. The dots touch down on the island, near the northeastern face of the house. Each dot splits into two; the ones labeled CONCORDE and TRANZSISTER rise up, leaving behind the ones labeled KILOWATT and MEGAWATT.

  “We’re clear,” Concorde reports. “Go.”

  “Copy that. EMP in five. Going offline,” Meg says before switching off her comm to save it from getting fried.

  Doc Quantum counts down. “Four. Three. Two. One.”

  There’s no flash of light. There’s no boom. There’s no shockwave. The only way I know Meg and Kilowatt have done their job is when Concorde gives the order to move in. The Raptor tilts as Doc Quantum jams on the throttle. My adrenaline levels go crazy.

  “I’m picking up electrical activity from the lighthouse,” TranzSister says. “It didn’t work! The base’s systems are still online!”

  Or the lighthouse was outside of the twins’ range and the base itself is fried, but the rule of thumb for this op is to err on the side of caution. I like this rule.

  “You heard her, people, we’re going in hot!” Concorde says.

  In the likely event the EMP failed, the first course of action for the advance air team is to target the lighthouse and blind the base’s tracking capabilities. Over the comm I hear Concorde fire off a concussion blast, immediately followed by a crash of twisting steel and shattering glass.

  Our next order of business is to recover Meg and Kilowatt. The Raptor skims the ground and we head straight toward the dots indicating Meg and Kilowatt — dots that, to my distress, aren’t moving at all. Rockjaw pops the side hatch in anticipation of the pick-up.

  “We have activity,” Doc Quantum says. At first I don’t see what she sees, and then I realize the roof of the house has split in the middle, along its peak, and is sliding open.

  “Hit ‘em!” Concorde says.

  She doesn’t wait for a target to show itself. Doc Quantum fires off two scramblers, missiles that act like giant flashbang grenades. They go off directly over the house. Twin bursts of light briefly fill the HUD. They don’t even slow down the Thrashers that rocket up through the opening.

  “Incoming!” Doc Quantum shouts.

  We planned for resistance. Concorde expected we’d face at least six Thrashers but left room for the possibility of more. I count a dozen before things go absolutely crazy.

  Doc Quantum fires two more scramblers into the clump of Thrashers. They return fire. Railgun rounds stitch across the windshield, leaving golf ball-sized divots. The Raptor plows through the hoard, scattering them, and swings around.

  “Joseph!” Doc Quantum says, an uncharacteristic note of panic in her voice.

  “On it!” Rockjaw says, and he leaps out of the Raptor. The airship finishes its one-eighty in time for me to see Rockjaw crash-land and charge toward the house. Two Thrashers touch down near the twins with a grace that belies their mass. I don’t remember these things being so agile.

  “Get me on the ground!” I say as I wrestle out of my seatbelt. “Iron, Shift, Entity, you’re with me!”

  Doc Quantum doesn’t question me. We drop fast, so fast my feet leave the deck as we achieve a moment of false zero gravity. I jump out, fire up the night-vision mode on my headset, and race after Rockjaw. Black Iron, Shift, and the Entity follow.

  Rockjaw hits one of the Thrashers with a flying tackle that takes it to the ground. Moving much faster than a man of his size should, Rockjaw springs up and windmills a fist into the second Thrasher, which is when it hits me: something’s off about the suits. They’re different. Where are the head assemblies?

  That’s not the only change. Rockjaw lays a kick into the second Thrasher, knocking it away, and then cries out as a pair of airborne Thrashers open fire on him. The rounds scream through the air as white streaks. Oh God.

  “Concorde! The Thrashers are firing hypervelocity rounds!” I say.

  “I noticed!” he replies, but I barely hear him; I’m too focused on keeping Rockjaw from getting torn apart. I reach him and throw up the biggest telekinetic shield I can, tall enough and wide enough to cover him and the twins. The Thrashers pour it on. Gunfire lights up the night like a raging electrical storm.

  “I need backup and emergency evac for Rockjaw!” I say. “Iron, Shift, get the twins clear!”

  I can’t tell if they heard me, but I can’t afford to split my attention to look. If I lose focus now, those Thrashers will shred us. It’s taking all my will to keep the shield up. I won’t be able to hold it for much longer.

  Everything that happens next happens almost simultaneously. A subtle change in air pressure signals Dr. Enigma’s arrival. Doc Quantum shouts in my ear a split-instant before her last tw
o scramblers roar overhead and slam into the Thrashers without detonating. They prove more effective as flying battering rams; the battlesuits spin out of control. Before they can recover, TranzSister swoops in and sprays them with miniature air-to-air missiles. Rapid-fire explosions pepper the suits, knocking them from the sky. I drop my shield and collapse to my knees as the air pressure shifts again.

  “Rockjaw’s clear!” Enigma says over the comm.

  “The twins are clear!” someone else says. Black Iron, I think?

  A hand lands on my arm. I’m too exhausted to flinch. “Are you all right?” Shift asks.

  “Yeah. Need a minute,” I pant.

  “Time is not our friend.” Shift helps me to my feet and drags me around the corner of the house, out of the direct line of fire, but it can’t shield us from the cacophony. The shriek of hypervelocity rounds, the deep whoomp of Concorde’s concussion blasts, the low rumble of all the maglev systems in action, the shrill pop of detonating ordnance, and overlapping voices barking orders and warnings over the comm system stab my ears in disorienting stereo.

  “A door,” Shift says.

  “What? Oh,” I say. I don’t know why I’m surprised to see a door. I mean, this is a house — or a reasonable imitation of a house.

  “We’re of no use up here,” Shift says. I catch her meaning right away.

  “I could use some ground backup,” I say.

  “On our way,” Stuart responds.

  Shift tests the door. “Locked,” she says. She backs up and delivers a crushing side kick that wrenches the door free of its frame.

  We slip inside, stepping onto a wide steel walkway with a high railing. I look over the railing and down into a gaping pit. The floor is, by my best guess, five or six stories below us — and it’s swarming with people, who appear as green dots on my headset. Their voices carry up the shaft. I can’t make out anything specific, but I definitely detect a powerful whiff of confusion.