The World Savers

by Matt Cowper

  “No, it doesn’t,” Metal Gal said. “Nightstriker has been trying to teach us that.”

  “Nightstriker,” Sam whispered, like it was a holy word. “He was the first one who told me I had Class S potential. Mad Dog never told me that. Maybe he had no idea – or maybe he didn’t want me to get a swelled head….”

  He could see Mad Dog right now, talking a mile a minute. He was sort of like Buckshot: profane, politically incorrect, a lover of booze and women. He was never clean-shaven, his orange costume always had stains and tears on it, and his trench coat looked like it was washed in oil.

  But beneath all the bluster and coarseness, Mad Dog had a good heart – until it was frozen solid….

  “Mad Dog tried to fight the Antarctic Anarchist alone,” Sam said. “The Anarchist had taken over an elementary school and was holding the kids hostage. He threatened to freeze them all unless he was given two billion dollars and his own private island. I was in school when I heard about it. I changed into my costume and flew across Z City as fast as I could, but by then it was already over. Mad Dog hadn’t waited for me – hadn’t waited for anyone. The Antarctic Anarchist was a Class S – he had no business fighting him. But he couldn’t let those kids get hurt. The Anarchist…he…he froze Mad Dog…then shattered him into tiny pieces of ice….

  “Sam….” Now Metal Gal was wiping away his tears. “I’m sorry….”

  “The Power showed up a few minutes later and beat the Anarchist easily,” Sam went on. “None of the kids or teachers got hurt. If Mad Dog had only waited….”

  “He did what he thought was necessary,” Metal Gal said. “He––”

  “No, it was idiotic!” Sam said. “And if I’d have been there, I could’ve protected him. My fire powers would’ve countered the Anarchist’s ice powers….”

  “You can’t beat yourself up, Sam,” she said. “There was nothing––”

  “But don’t you beat yourself up over what happened to Keith?”

  “I…I do.” She smiled sadly. “I guess I’m a hypocrite, huh?”

  “No, you’re…I didn’t mean to get so heated.”

  “But you’re Blaze! You’re meant to get heated.”

  Sam chuckled, glad to hear something that eased the tension. “Well, if we’re gonna make puns about our powers, I could say you’re hard-headed – literally. I’d break my fist on that thick skull of yours.”

  Metal Gal grinned and slapped him on the arm. “That’s not fair! I can make myself as hard or as soft as I want! So anything you––”

  His lips were locked onto hers. She was cool, with a metallic taste – then she again made her body flesh-like, and moistened her tongue. Sam ran his hands over her now-warm curves. He hadn’t had many intimate experiences with the opposite sex, but this was already better than the fumbling make-out sessions he’d had. The temperature within the room rose, and flames swirled around Sam like they’d been caught in a high wind.

  He pulled away and looked into Metal Gal’s face. It looked more human than he’d ever seen it. There were dimples, eyelashes, freckles and moles, even nose hairs. Her eyes no longer glowed like LEDs; they were a green-gray color, like the sea.

  “Wow,” Metal Gal said.

  “I was hoping I’d surprise you,” Sam said. “You know, you look different….”

  “Yeah, I could feel my features change. I didn’t do it consciously, though.” She touched her face. “This is how I looked…before, I think. And…crap, I’m ruining the moment.”

  She shoved Sam onto the bed and crawled on top of him. They kissed, their hands explored each other’s bodies, the fire licked at Metal Gal’s form. Some of the more intense flames melted parts of her, but neither one of them cared. Sam was almost achingly aroused, and Metal Gal’s hands clearly knew this.

  Sam managed to get out a few words, though the onslaught of kisses made it difficult. “You know…my name…my real one, I mean…but I still don’t know yours….”

  “Oh! That’s right!” She sat up and looked down at Sam. “My real name’s Siobhan. My mother was Irish.”

  “Huh. Siobhan. Certainly has a different feel than Metal Gal.”

  “Most real names do, when compared to superhero names.” She tugged on his manhood, grinning mischievously. “You like it?”

  “What? Your name, or you tugging on my––”

  “Both.”

  “It wouldn’t be very smart to say no to either of them, would it?”

  “No, it wouldn’t.” She lowered herself back onto him and gave him another wet kiss. “You know, Nightstriker ordered us to get eight hours of sleep, and we’re both exhausted. Maybe we should––”

  “Maybe we should keep doing what we’re doing,” Sam said. “We’ll still get those eight hours of sleep – eventually.”

  Siobhan smiled. “Sounds like a plan.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Nightstriker

  The Giftgiver held out his glowing hands. Combined with his white mask and robes, he looked like a holy man about to heal the afflicted.

  “Let me touch you, Nightstriker,” he said. “Let my powers do their work.”

  Nightstriker backed away and adopted a defensive stance. How did he get here? And where was here? They were in a dim, Gothic cathedral, apparently alone. The only light came from dozens of candles flickering from dull brass holders. Outside, rain pelted the stained glass windows and thunder cracked, its cacophony like mountains shattering.

  “You’ve always wanted superpowers, Nightstriker,” the Giftgiver said. “You felt you deserved them, while others did not. You despise the effortless superiority of superhumans. They don’t know what they possess, what responsibilities they have. They’re lazy and incompetent, the equivalent of timecard-punchers. They don’t train properly. They take breaks, even vacations. But you would never do that, would you? If you had super powers, you would – dare I say it – remake the world.”

  “If I wanted powers,” Nightstriker said, “I could’ve conducted experiments on myself years ago, or constructed a battle suit. I choose not to.”

  “No, you haven’t done so because you fear failure,” the Giftgiver said. “For every successful experiment someone undertakes to acquire superpowers, there are roughly two failures. You know the statistics. Consider Metal Gal’s story. And a battle suit has weaknesses that counter its strengths: it can be hacked, or it can malfunction and shatter your limbs.”

  He advanced, and Nightstriker backed away, looking around wildly. Shadows danced around the cathedral, and the Biblical depictions on the stained glass seemed to promise harsh judgment and endless torment.

  “Don’t touch me,” Nightstriker whispered.

  “You have nothing to fear,” the Giftgiver said. “My powers do not malfunction. They might give someone strange abilities, but the net result is never negative. Don’t you want to see what will happen? What thoughts my powers will latch onto to create your own superpowers? With a mind as sharp as yours, you could probably focus on something particular and give yourself any powers you want.”

  “I said don’t touch me!” Nightstriker shouted.

  “Nightstriker!” another voice said.

  The cathedral turned into gray metal walls, and now Nightstriker saw he wasn’t standing, but lying down. Of course: it was just a dream. He jumped up and assumed the same defensive posture he’d been using in the dream. The dream’s images and emotions still clung to him like thick vines, and he blinked rapidly and shook his head to try and rid himself of them.

  Beverly Gillespie stood in front of him, holding a plate of food. She had on a gray pantsuit and just a touch of makeup. She had returned to distinguished government official after her brief foray back into the world of superhuman combat.

  “What are you doing here?” Nightstriker asked. “How did you get into my room?”

  “I brought you breakfast.” She held out the plate, which contained eggs, bacon, and toast smeared with jam. Nightstriker saw she had a mug of coffee in her o
ther hand. “And I entered your room because, in your fatigue, you forget to set the lock protocols.”

  Nightstriker eyed her suspiciously for a few moments, then relaxed. Something dripped into his eye – sweat. He was covered in it; the dream had worked its cruel magic. He was also only clad in boxers, and though Gillespie was trying to keep her gaze fixed on his face, even she wasn’t disciplined enough to not let her eyes wander.

  Nightstriker walked over to his closet and quickly put on his costume. Gillespie considerately turned her back while he dressed.

  “Did I really forgot to lock the door?” Nightstriker asked as he tugged on his boots.

  “Yes, you did,” Gillespie replied. “Not that it matters – I have a master override code for every door on the Beacon.”

  “I see. I’ll have to figure that out sometime.”

  “Good luck. You’ll need it.”

  “Thanks,” Nightstriker said, smiling. He tapped Gillespie on the shoulder, and she turned back around. “And thanks for the breakfast.”

  “A gracious Nightstriker?” she said, smiling back. “You really are trying to change.”

  He took the plate and mug from her, set it down on his desk, and began eating. His body immediately responded to the food; he’d only had a few energy bars and some water before he collapsed on his bed last night.

  Gillespie noticed the surge in energy as well. “You already seem recharged. I thought it would take you days to get over your captivity.”

  “I thought you’d researched my history,” he said. “You know those…incidents never derail me for long. And it’s been months since I got a full eight hours of sleep.”

  “Yes, I know your durability is impressive, but after what I saw…is the breakfast good?”

  “Not bad,” Nightstriker said. “Don’t tell me you made this yourself.”

  “Unfortunately, the Secretary of Superhuman Affairs is far too busy to fix breakfast, even for a…valued friend such as yourself. But I’ll give my compliments to the Beacon’s kitchen staff.”

  Nightstriker had already polished off the plate. There was nothing left but the coffee, which he gulped down with alacrity.

  “When I came in, you seemed to be having a nightmare….” Gillespie said.

  “Yes, an odd one,” Nightstriker replied. “Don’t worry about it. Now what can I do for you? I assume you didn’t come here just to deliver me breakfast and engage in idle chit-chat.”

  Gillespie shook her head. “Already back to business. Actually, I didn’t come here for any larger purpose. I simply wanted to see if you were OK. Your teammates are worried as well, but they didn’t dare disturb you.”

  Nightstriker chuckled. “Good to see I’m still intimidating. Is everyone up?”

  “Yes. You’ve actually been asleep for nine hours, not eight. We figured you deserved an extra bit of rest.”

  Nightstriker frowned at his alarm clock. The device was state-of-the-art, designed to emit a sound that pierced the thickest sleep. That he’d still slept through it testified to his exhaustion.

  He finished the coffee and rose. “Where are you holding this Anna?”

  “The gas-form superhuman? She’s in the lab on level twenty-two.”

  “Tell everyone to assemble there. I want to see her for myself.”

  *****

  The brown smoke swirled within the thick containment cylinder, occasionally assuming a vaguely human form before breaking back down into wisps and puffs, like campfire smoke. To an ignorant onlooker, this would look like a complicated scientific experiment, maybe a test of some neutralizing gas that would help fight crime. But to the Elites and Beverly Gillespie, as well as the staff in the room, this was the superhuman known only as Anna, one of the Giftgiver’s many followers.

  Nightstriker studied the smoke and the containment cylinder. The cylinder was foot-thick glass, specially engineered with ultimatium reinforcement and embedded with microscopic shielding. Wires as large as Slab’s arms ran to the cylinder, powering its many security measures and filling the room with a soft hum. Five staff members manned five different control panels which measured everything from the humidity within the cylinder to the subtle shifts in Anna’s coloring.

  It was a high-security, even obsessive containment area, but Nightstriker knew that, if Anna was aware of the full extent of her powers, she could break out of the cylinder as if it were nothing more than a cardboard box.

  That she hadn’t done so meant she was still untrained, as most of the Giftgiver’s followers were – or she could be playing some subtle game, biding her time until she broke out and ravaged the Beacon. But Nightstriker didn’t think that was a possibility; while many of these superhumans were clever in a general sense, they lacked the insights and carefulness required for long-term planning.

  “Good to see you up and at ’em, boss,” Metal Gal said.

  “Yeah, you look fit as a fiddle,” Buckshot said. “I wish I could recover after one of my benders as good as you recovered after that torture session. It ain’t fair, ain’t fair at all. I’ll look like death warmed over, while Nightstriker here looks like he just had a vacation in the Bahamas.”

  Nightstriker smiled at his comrades. Smiling was still a new thing to him, and the other Elites clearly hadn’t gotten used to it yet. “You all look refreshed as well. Good – we have work to do.”

  The Elites nodded solemnly. They looked ready for whatever war Nightstriker would lead them into – but Nightstriker also noticed a strange energy, a tension in the room. He looked closer at his teammates – yes, there were some unmistakable glances passing between Metal Gal and Blaze. Had they been intimate? There had been a spark – no pun intended – between them since the beginning. Nightstriker recalled how the two had worked together during the jungle training session, and how furious Blaze had been when he saw Metal Gal getting blasted during their recent battle.

  Metal Gal’s morphing ability meant she could transform herself into a sexually-functioning female, so there was no issue there. She could, perhaps, even have a child, if she absorbed enough material and researched the intricacies of maternity. Blaze, however, was not sexually experienced; Nightstriker had researched his relationships thoroughly before asking him to join the Elites.

  Still, one had to start somewhere, and though Blaze was younger, he was arguably more stable than Metal Gal, who had suffered greatly when she acquired her powers. Nightstriker thought it was a good match – but he’d still have to monitor it closely. These were both powerful beings, and an argument could quickly turn into a dangerous battle, putting everyone on the Beacon at risk.

  “So, what’s going through your mind, Nightstriker?” Beverly Gillespie asked. “Why did you want us all assembled here?”

  Turning away from Blaze and Metal Gal, Nightstriker again scrutinized the immaterial form of Anna. Again, a human shape appeared briefly, then it dissolved, as if a high wind had snuffed it out.

  “Because I believe Anna here has abilities that will help us tremendously,” Nightstriker replied. “In fact, she may be the key to the Giftgiver’s defeat.”

  The smoke whipped around, forming a shape akin to a tornado, but Anna didn’t reply.

  “Why do you think that?” Slab asked. “She’s nothin’ but a bit of smoke. Yeah, she nearly choked Blaze to death, but she can’t do that to dozens of superhumans at the same time – can she?”

  “She could, actually, if I’m not mistaken.” Nightstriker stepped closer to the cylinder, speaking into the speaker system they’d set up so each party could communicate. “Anna, you’ve heard of a superhuman named Miasma, haven’t you?”

  The smoke rushed to the opposite side of the cylinder, as far away from Nightstriker as possible.

  “Yes, I thought so,” Nightstriker said.

  “Who’s Miasma?” Blaze asked. Again, he shot a glance at Metal Gal, and Nightstriker saw a flame briefly flicker around his forehead.

  “Miasma was one of the first superhumans,” Nightstriker replied.
“It’s commonly believed that superhumans burst onto the scene in the 1930s, and while it is technically true that a large number of men and women with extra-normal abilities suddenly appeared during those years, that wasn’t the true beginning of what some call the Superhuman Age. There were several superhumans before this, scattered around the world, their existence kept secret by fearful governments and a tame press. And over the years, the files on these superhumans have either been destroyed, or locked up in places you won’t find on any map – not that those measures stopped me.”

  “Well, I damn sure didn’t learn that in school,” Buckshot said. “Then again, I never made it to those liberal indoctrination centers called universities, so I mighta missed out on all this.”

  “I’ve never heard about this either,” Metal Gal said, crossing her arms and frowning, “and I can tap into any database I want to. You sure you’re not exaggerating, Nightstriker?”

  “No,” Nightstriker replied. “But if you doubt my words, perhaps you should look at Ms. Gillespie’s reaction.”

  The Elites turned to the Secretary of Superhuman Affairs, who was staring energy daggers at Nightstriker. When she saw she was being stared at herself, she tried to relax, but she still couldn’t control her flushed face.

  “How did you learn about the early superhumans?” she asked, her voice so cold several of the staff looked over.

  “I won’t divulge my methods,” Nightstriker said, “not that it matters. What matters is the information itself.”

  “No, it does matter,” Gillespie said. “I want to know how––”

  “You’ve been keeping important information from us, haven’t you?” Blaze said. The temperature in the room jumped five degrees. “Information that could’ve helped us defeat the Giftgiver, right?”

  “OK, slow down, everyone,” Slab said, holding out his rocky arms. “We’ve gone from this Miasma character to government conspiracies in about two seconds. Someone explain what’s going on.”

  “Gillespie has kept information from us,” Nightstriker said, “but she’s just doing her job. She is, after all, a government official, and could not simply dump beyond-classified files in our laps without facing severe reprisals. But for all her knowledge, I doubt she has heard of Miasma. If she had, she would’ve found some way to inform us – perhaps an anonymous tip. Am I correct?”