Collateral Damage

by Steve Beaulieu

  Leenie could not believe what she was seeing and lifted Rik higher before she placed him gently on the ground as confirmation that she was actually in control. As soon as he was safe, a puzzled look came over her face just as the horn terminated the pulse beam and morphed itself back into a trumpet and surprisingly, right back into her hand.

  “What the…?” Leenie was trembling a bit, with a combination of excitement and confusion.

  “Thank you!” called out Dr. Lloyd. “I was actually worried there for a second.”

  “How did…how can that be possible?”

  “See, Kathleen, you did that! You have the uniquely rare gift to control this…instrument.” She placed her hands firmly on her hips, beaming. “You kept poor Dr. Lloyd from injuring himself. And we all appreciate that.”

  Trembling as she looked down at the strange vintage horn, she asked, “Can I know what just happened?”

  “Sure, but will you at least agree to stay for breakfast?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Leenie, now hungry but still reeling because she just levitated a researcher with an old French trumpet.

  • • •

  It was miraculous. I remember exactly what I felt when I first heard that incredible resonance outdoors. Not the visibly shifting waves of white and light-green ripples in the atmosphere, or the tremendous force that saved a scared little boy as it held back a commuter train—visually I know those components were amazing to witness—but it was the sound I made that was astounding.

  The effect was staggering. It felt like it was enveloping me from all sides, and also seemed to come from nowhere. It was focused into a vibrating column, but also echoing and oscillating against all of the hard surfaces around us. It sounded like a roar mixed with swirling wind, a throttled jet engine combined with a torrential rain storm and broad ceremonial gongs from a far-off land. To be honest, I almost cried because the experience was so awe-inspiring.

  At first, most people didn’t even notice that the sound, the pulse, and that power was coming from me.

  • • •

  “So let me guess. You're going to ask me to join you to become some kind of superhero and do good deeds,” Leenie said sarcastically, with her mouth full of yogurt and granola.

  “Actually, no, we don't have to ask you to join us because you're actually already one of us,” said Dr. Gauvin. “We’re scientists and researchers but everyone who works in this lab is also a musician, either by training, hobby, or passion. We all want to change the world with our minds and our music, but your gift to humanity is on another level, Leenie.”

  “You can move massive forces with the sound waves emitted by the technology in that vintage instrument,” said Dr. Tanaka.

  Marcelle stood up from the table to make herself more tea in the lab’s small break room. “You know that feeling that you have in the pit of your stomach when you wish you could do more and you could change the world? Well, you can,” she said with a point of her finger. “We’ve researched and tested thousands of musicians over the last four years, and you’re the only one who can do that.”

  Leenie was lost in thought for a moment by the gravity of that statement.

  “You have the means to access the power of these resonant sound waves that can be used to protect humanity,” Marcelle continued. “You can literally move mountains, help stop calamities and disasters, and when it comes down to it—defeat evil.”

  “That’s way too much to put on one person!”

  • • •

  When I grabbed Ruby’s elbow near the edge of the platform, she was already weeping and mumbling about how her mother said to always watch out for her little brother. She said it was her fault Thomas had fallen. She'd looked away. That's the day that little girl stopped thinking about her baby brother as someone always getting into trouble, and started worrying he might get hurt.

  The little girl’s mom was so hysterical about her son on the tracks, she would've had two kids down there if I hadn’t grabbed his sister. The crowd’s agitated movements weren’t helping either.

  I knelt down and looked Ruby in the eyes. “Don’t worry, sweetie,” I said, squeezing her shoulder. “I’ll get him.”

  • • •

  “I know,” said Dr. Tanaka, “But along with this capacity to change the world, you also have us—a support network of good, smart, caring people to help you! You might not understand that now, but in time you will.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve already given a lot of thought to what I'm supposed to be doing in this world. I think I can be a ‘change agent’ for good just by making music. A life of art, music, and creativity—isn’t that enough?”

  “Yeah, maybe…but you have another gift, too. For some people seeing the beauty of art, or hearing the reflection of someone else's humanity in a song is enough to keep them on the right path. But some forces of danger, crime, or evil are beyond that. What about those too jaded and cursed who are deaf to music, blind to art, and impervious to poetry? Sorry to say it, but sometimes those forces need to be stopped from causing destruction. The strength and will of that level of evil or misdeeds needs to be met with an equally powerful force for good and that's where this Pulse Armor comes in.” Dr. Tanaka lowered her head for a moment, smiled gently, and said calmly, “And you are the only one who can wield this power.”

  “We can’t stop Rik falling off of a cart with our music. We found a shield, a strength, a power that's equal to all those things that can go wrong in the world, or to curtail those who have chosen to go wrong.”

  “We think you already know what you need to do. But feel free to go home, sleep on it, and get back to us. After some consideration, if you're not willing to assume this responsibility and become the person we're asking of you, we just ask that you let us keep the old trumpet, and we will try to get it in the hands of someone who will use it as a tool for justice.”

  • • •

  That unsuspecting boy tripped and fell on the track because he wasn’t looking at the ledge, and his shocked mom started screaming immediately. Climbing down to get her son was not something that woman could ever do based on her level of panic. And everyone else’s. As soon as Thomas flopped over the first rail and found himself on the tracks, striking his elbow and winning himself a couple of skinned knees, we all saw what his mom saw that made her wail.

  The morning commuter train, fresh from its last stop in New Haven, was arriving now at the station, and the conductor clearly did not see Thomas on the track. Luckily, he was already slowing to pick up passengers, but only when the commotion on the platform included yelling and waving in his direction did he decide to aggressively slow the train. At that speed, it would still likely take at least a half mile I guessed, which was not enough before the massive train and the fragile boy would be in the same spot.

  Minutes before, I had been watching and listening to those two guys—street musicians, busking to make a few bucks from commuters and business travelers as they left the station—and they clearly saw me drop my backpack and get down onto the cold and filthy track next to Thomas. The trombonist and trumpet player were holding their own shiny brass horns, staring at me with their mouths open. Anyone who stays at a station all morning sees everything, and these two were fully aware of the strange occurrence underway. They watched my silver-plated horn morph into the metal armband the team calls pulse armor. Emanating from my shiny device was this miraculous sound wave, larger than I had ever created before, and powerful enough to halt this oncoming train. I made that pulse, that sound, that resonating column of rotating light, and stopped that train.

  I felt like I was dreaming.

  My resonant wave wasn’t painfully loud, but even with the screeching noise of the braking commuter train, it was a very clear sound that the pulse armor had activated. It took its igniting energy from me, mostly on the molecular level, and funneled it through this alien technology, amplified by a chemical reaction in the alloys, and activated and charged all the atmospheric molecules
in its path until it was a dynamic force of incalculable power. At least that’s how the team at Mount Wachusett explained it to me.

  Everyone was stunned, but no one more than me. Because I was watching those buskers watch me, a female musician of relatively small stature — display an other-worldly skill, harness an alien power, and solve a serious crisis — and an urgent one. I’m a musician and I know from performing over the years that feeling of people watching me while I concentrate on my music, my creativity, or my individual expression, but this was utterly different. I was truly honored at that moment that I had this power to help that boy, and these musicians—my fellow musicians as witnesses, made it all the more real for me.

  • • •

  “How is it possible that this trumpet can change its shape like that?” Leenie asked.

  “Well, actually you do it. It’s responding to some synaptic commands coming from you. So far we know that the metal alloy under the silver plating is not something found on Earth, or anywhere in our solar system for that matter. That much we know,” said Dr. Tanaka, “But when we researched the manufacturer of this instrument, and tracked the serial numbers to the early twentieth century, we were led to their main instrument factory in Paris. At our hotel, someone anonymously left us a work journal from 1934 found in the company’s archives that spoke of a secret instrument lab outside of Paris where a guest—‘un invité’—helped an employee of Courtois fabricate this ‘instrument de musique.’ The cryptic last page of that journal translates as: “Use this trumpet wisely to lead humanity in the right direction. We will return for it soon.” That’s where the trail goes cold…”

  “Of course, our theory is that in the 1930’s, approaching an inflection point with a dictator and a global war, someone not from our world decided to lend us a much-needed hand, “ said Dr. Gauvin. “Incredible, right?”

  • • •

  When it was all over I made a slight adjustment to my pulse armor with my thoughts alone. I then swept across the crowd full of witnesses with a harmless, low-energy wave to offer them a safe general haze of confusion, distraction, and short-term memory loss. Just as the scientists at Mount Wachusett Research Facility thought I might be able to do. It keeps all short term memories from becoming permanent.

  Little Ruby ran from the ledge back to her mother as one of the musicians helped lift Thomas back up onto the platform. As I swept across the crowd again wiping memories from all who had witnessed what I had done, I stopped at the two street musicians.

  When our eyes met in that moment, those players nearly bowed at me, so I made a decision not to fade their recollection of the events right away. They watched as I swept across the train’s engineer, a couple porters, security personnel, and two police officers who started to crowd onto the scene. Everyone's memory of this event would be extremely foggy at best. The police reports of the day were vague and later only included a note about how the train was able to slow itself down outside of the station. And that some bystanders jumped down onto the track after the train had stopped and helped the young boy back into his mother’s worried arms.

  “How did you even—”

  As he spoke, my trumpet reappeared in my hands, morphing back from the incredible pulse armor that had just stopped a morning Amtrak commuter train.

  “Is that real?” one of them asked, still stunned after everything they’d seen.

  “Sure,” Leenie said, bringing the trumpet’s mouthpiece up to my lips and playing a few bars of the Harold Arlen/Johnny Mercer old standard “Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive.”

  “Cool,” the musician said, still dazed by the adrenaline, “nice playing. And seriously, the way you and—that horn—stopped the train and saved that kid. That was freakin’ amazing.”

  “Thanks. I’m still getting used to it.”

  “Are you some kind of superhero or what?”

  “No, just a musician—one of the greatest tribes on the planet, as I like to say—trying to do good, just like you two.”

  “Oh, thanks,” they said sheepishly, “we’re just playing to help brighten people’s day and make a couple bucks in tips.”

  “It was very cool,” she said with a gentle smile, flexing her wrist for a second and signaling the trumpet to morph again, “but I hope you understand I need to wipe your memories too.”

  • • •

  “We hope you’ll work with us. We have resources, access, and more to make our efforts effective as a force for good in the world. And we know where the dangers are. The kind that you can help with. We’d like to put you on salary, pay your expenses, and even create a few performance opportunities for you to get you in the right places where you’ll soon be needed. We’ll train you on the best ways to deploy the pulse armor, and beyond that, we’ll make sure that your life stays pretty normal otherwise. To your friends and family, you’ll still be a professional musician making your way in the world.”

  “Okay, I’ll help you. But I think I might need…a cool superhero name.”

  “Seriously? We can work on that.”

  “And what about a sidekick?” Leenie asked.

  “Phase One of our plan was to identify those musicians who had the ability to control this. Based on years of searching, we think you might be the only one, but there may be others. Did we tell you that we have three more instruments just like yours?”

  “Wow, that would be very cool.” Leenie smiled at her vintage horn. “This might turn out to be a good gig.”

  “Your first job is to keep a journal of all of this starting today?”

  “Like a practice log?” Leenie asked.

  Rieko grinned. “Exactly.”

  A Word from A.J. McWain

  A SHORT WORD FROM THE PRESENTER

  As a pastor, I often get the chance to present things. “I present to you, for the first time, Mr. and Mrs. Happily-Married.” Weekly, I do something called presenting the gospel. I present high school and college graduates with Bibles, and new mothers with clothing and diapers for their beautiful new additions. Presenting is a part of my everyday life and I would have it no other way.

  There are two things I love to do (well, there surely are more than that), pastor people and write books. Pastoring is the art of doing life with people. Getting to know and love people, despite their faults, personality differences and idiosyncrasies. When I think about melding those together, the result is short story anthologies. What better way to experience camaraderie with other authors than to work intimately together to create something beautiful to present to the world?

  To be able to give something to humanity is an honor and a privilege. And this collection is no different. It was with great joy and excitement that I have presented to you, the reader, this collection of short stories. I hope that it has enriched your life, made you smile, and made you think.

  If you enjoyed your reading experience, you might also enjoy other volumes of Superheroes and Vile Villains. While you’re there, I would encourage you to take a moment and review this book on Amazon. If everyone who loved our books and stories left reviews we would find ourselves in a much different boat. Reviews are the lifeblood of a book—they can make or break an author’s career. Even if you didn’t love the stories found within, we still want you to share an honest review.

  Thank you for your time. We all know how valuable it is. May the God of the Universe bless you.

  With Abounding Love,

  Steve Beaulieu

  Would you consider reviewing our collection on Amazon?

  Reviews are vital to the life of a book. A book without reviews is a dead book. The more honest reviews a book earns, the better the chances of it being successful. Even if your review is…less than savory, leave it! We don’t expect that this book will appeal to everyone, just be honest when you write your review and, if you write a critical review, please make it helpful to other readers who might be interested in the collection. This book represents food on the table for authors. It represents artistry and the expre
ssion of ideas and ideals. It is our lifeblood and we share it, willingly and excitedly, and we want to know what you think.

  So please, write a review.

  If you loved the book, please spread it around to your friends and on Facebook. Word of mouth is still the best form of advertising and we hope to put a thousand words in your mouth about Collateral Damage: A Superhero Anthology.