by Nick Place
‘Listen, I’m making this up as I go along,’ I say. ‘All I know is that Torch has got some personal issues happening right now, Cannonball is still unnerved by belting that kid too hard and I’m worried the OK Team is falling apart. I need you to be strong and I need you to figure out a way to beat Morphul. Can you do that for me?’
‘Well, I don’t want to let the Team down.’
‘Logi-Gal,’ I say, ‘you know and I know that your biggest problem is getting those two egos on legs, Cannonball and Torch, to listen to your orders when you outline our strategy.’
‘I guess I could start by watching security camera footage of the battle,’ she says.
‘There you go. Already, you’re coming up with a plan. I want to do the same thing, to check out Blink’s moves. Why don’t you contact Gotham too and see if Mr Fabulous has any ideas?’
‘I’m still a Hero,’ she says and she’s smiling with relief.
‘Of course you are.’ I finish my hot chocolate as my mobile phone buzzes. ‘A Hero is a Hero. No matter what.’
I read the SMS. ‘And what’s more, I need you to come with me. Golden Boy has summoned us.’
‘THE Golden Boy?’ she asks.
‘There’s only one.’
CHAPTER 17
THAT’S RIGHT!
3,973,642 CAMERAS
CAN’T BE WRONG
Logi-Gal has the same look of disbelief that Switchy and I shared as we approach Hero HQ. As though she can smell something appalling.
‘You must have the wrong house, Focus,’ she says. ‘It’s completely illogical to think that this could be the Melbourne headquarters for the world’s greatest Superheroes.’
‘Yeah, go figure,’ I say. ‘But illogical or not, this is it.’
I press the doorbell and hear The Chicken Dance music. After what feels like an hour, the door opens a crack and the same old man peers out at us.
‘Switchy!’ he says. ‘I never forget a face.’
‘Actually I’m Focus, Your Highness . . . I came here with Switchy last time,’ I say.
‘My mistake, young’un,’ he says, opening the door wide and looking now at Logi-Gal. ‘Come in. I like your new girlie disguise, Switchy.’
‘I’m not Switchy either. I’m Logi-Gal.’
‘Oh, is that right. My mistake again. My brain’s not what it once was. And what’s your Superpower?’
‘I’m extremely logical.’
‘Oh, so no Super strength? No flying ability? No ability to create lamingtons from clay?’
‘Nope. Just the logic. It’s all I’ve got and all I need,’ Logi-Gal says, with a slight note in her voice.
‘Good for you. Better than Super bowels, I suppose. Or Super bad breath.’ He offers us a tray. ‘Lamington?’
‘Made of clay?’ asks Logi-Gal.
‘Of course not. That would be highly illogical. Who makes cakes out of clay? Honestly.’
I get the sense that the old man, royal or not, has fun taking the mickey out of Heroes.
‘Excuse me, Your Highness,’ I say, taking a lamington. ‘Is Golden Boy here yet?’
‘He’s in the video room.’
‘Are the videos VHS?’ Logi-Gal asks, looking at an old vinyl record player across the room. ‘The technology doesn’t seem to be all that flash around here.’
‘Ah, you’re funny,’ says the old man. ‘Actually, our video set-up is pretty sophisticated.’
‘Is it anything to do with the cables running between this house and the Channel Nine satellite?’ I ask. ‘The ones covered by a Hero Haze?’
The old man barks three times and I realise he’s laughing.
‘You don’t miss much, kiddo, I’ll give you that. Follow me.’
He shuffles along the hallway, then down some stairs to a basement level. He opens a door onto a massive room, at least four stories high, or deep, and wider than a football field.
There are computers, and whole bays of storage space, and wires everywhere. There are a range of vehicles down one end of the room, and a large section with racks of costumes lined up in neat rows. There’s also a gymnasium with the biggest barbells I’ve ever seen; at least five times larger than a normal barbell.
Golden Boy is sitting in front of a console that has over a dozen keyboards. He presses a button and cabinet doors in front of him hum and then slide open to reveal at least fifty TV screens.
‘Hello Focus, Logi-Gal. Thanks for coming,’ he says. His voice sounds grim.
‘What’s going on, Golden Boy?’
‘It’s Southern Cross. We’ve got security camera footage of him collapsing four nights ago. I’d like you to see it.’
We stare at the soundless, grainy black and white footage of Southern Cross on the large screen. He’s striking a pose as though about to go into battle. Then he falters and appears to plead with somebody just off screen. Then he grabs his stomach as though he’s been punched and collapses to the footpath.
Golden Boy’s golden glove toggles a switch and we go frame-by-frame in the moments after Southern Cross falls and in one frame only we see a silhouette of a man with a large rectangular head.
‘Is that who I think it is?’ I whisper.
But at that moment Southern Cross disappears from view because something is blocking the camera from very close range. It moves and leans back and we’re looking at a monkey’s face. Silently it mouths the word, ‘ook!’
‘Monkey 2.0,’ says Logi-Gal.
‘And Bushranger,’ confirms Golden Boy. ‘Whatever is going on with Southern Cross, your nemesis is in the thick of it, Focus.’
‘What does this mean?’ I ask, hating what the answer might be.
‘Nemesis?’ says Logi-Gal. ‘It means “a rival – particularly one who seems unbeatable”.’
‘I know what nemesis means. What does it mean that Bushranger was there?’
‘It means that he has to be stopped or Southern Cross will continue to weaken or even die. And it means you have to be the one who stops him, because of your knucklehead agreement to the Knight-Hood Pact.’
‘What if I can’t stop him?’ I ask. He and the old man stare at me until I start to squirm. ‘Bushranger is on S.T.O.M.P. His henchmen have all improved artificially. They’re cheaters.’
‘It can’t be helped,’ Golden boy shrugs. ‘The rules of a Knight-Hood Pact are clear. You have to stop him.’
‘Are there no variations?’ Logi-Gal asks.
‘Well, there are two, but Focus isn’t going to like either of them,’ the old man says. ‘He can opt for voluntary de-caping, which means he could never be a Hero again, as punishment for reneging on the Pact.’
‘That’s not an option,’ I say.
‘You said there were two,’ Logi-Gal says. ‘What’s the second?’
Golden Boy and the old man exchange looks and then Golden Boy shrugs. ‘Focus goes toe-to-toe with Bushranger and loses. If he’s dead, the Pact is settled and any other Heroes can step in.’
‘Creeping Kronkite!’ I say.
‘This is serious, Focus,’ Golden Boy says. ‘Southern Cross’s life is at stake, as well as yours. You should think about stepping down as a Hero so I can sort this out. It would take me five minutes to clean up Bushranger and his gang, S.T.O.M.P. or not.’
‘I can’t stop being a Hero, Golden Boy. You know I can’t.’
He puts a giant golden gloved hand on my puny shoulder and looks at me with kindness in his eyes. But his voice is still firm. ‘Think carefully about it, Focus. This isn’t Hero Ball. This is real.’
And then he strides in his own golden light to the centre of the room and flies straight up and out a hidden exit. He flies so fast, we barely see him move and yet he’s gone.
‘Hot chocolate?’ asks the old man.
I’m about to say that he’s got to be kidding, but Logi-Gal is nodding. ‘Love one, thank you. And while we’re here, do you mind if we check out some more footage? Do you have our last battle on film?’
‘Very lik
ely,’ says the old man, smiling slightly. ‘When and where was it?’
‘Two nights ago in the Northland car park.’
I sit numbly in a chair while his old fingers are a blur on the keyboards.
‘Western end of the car park, or eastern end?’
Logi-Gal frowns for a moment. ‘Western.’
‘What time, Love?’
‘About 9.30 pm. Please don’t call me Love.’
‘Sorry, Darl.’
‘I am not Darl either. My name is Logi-Gal. And I am a Hero.’ She stands up straighter and flicks her cape behind her.
I’m impressed with the way Logi-Gal has bounced back after wanting to quit the Team, but the old man doesn’t seem to hear her. His fingers fly and the screens come to life. Northland and its car park flash across the screens from every conceivable angle. The vision is in fast motion and cars and trucks zoom around like it’s a mad race and fill every space. The shadows move with the sun at high speed until the high-volume traffic thins out and the car park is empty.
The screens freeze.
‘That should be – hmmm.’ He frowns. ‘Oh, silly old man. I forgot to upsat the decryptor on the fractoid distribulator at the heads of the vision bank 16-track. Like I said, the brain’s not what it was.’
He presses one button and the screens return to life.
‘Call yourself a king,’ he mutters to himself.
And suddenly I’m on the screen, looking so out of focus that it’s hard to tell that it’s actually me. Torch is next to me, and then Cannonball, Logi-Gal and The Gamer come into view. We’re talking and then I put out my glove and the others put their hands and gloves on mine. There’s no audio, but I can hear in my head our pre-battle chant.
We run out of shot, and are picked up on another screen, which also shows Southern Cross looking at a small monkey sitting in the middle of the car park. Torch says something and takes half a step towards it.
The Old man freezes the screens.
‘There you go. Looks like the action’s about to start. I might leave you with it. I’ve got some washing up to do. Just jog this toggle to move the vision along and press this button here to pause or restart it.’
Logi-Gal sits in the chair. ‘Thanks. I can’t believe you have access to every security camera at Northland.’
‘It’s better than that, Sensible Girl. We have access to every CCTV and security camera in the world.’
‘I find that very difficult to believe,’ Logi-Gal says. ‘That must be hundreds of thousands of cameras.’
The old man chuckles. ‘In fact, there are exactly three million nine-hundred and seventy-three thousand, six-hundred and forty-two security cameras in operation around the world. Yet not one of those cameras has ever managed to capture a Superhero on film. Have you ever stopped to think about the odds of that?’
‘It’s completely illogical,’ admits Logi-Gal.
‘Exactly,’ he says. His eyes are sparkling with fun. ‘So using your power, you know that there must be a rational explanation for this fact, yes?’
Logi-Gal takes a deep breath. ‘Heroes are wiping the tapes.’
‘That’s exactly right. Every single 24 hour feed from every single camera is surveyed and wiped, as required. Most of it happens at an underground facility in the United States, but we take care of the Melbourne cameras here. Oh, and we keep one copy, for reviewing Heroics, just like you’re doing now.’
‘Where do you store it all? So much footage? So many hours of tape?’
The old man points to a box about the size of a shoebox. ‘There. Hero hard-drives are a long way ahead of the everyday technology. Well, those dishes won’t clean themselves.’
‘Excuse me, sir. What do we call you?’ I ask. ‘Is it Your Highness? Did you mention that you were a king?’
‘You can call me Trevor,’ he smiles. ‘We’re all Heroes, right? No need for airs or graces.’
And Trevor shuffles off, as mysterious as ever.
Logi-Gal and I spend two hours watching the battle. We both wince when Bushranger’s Villains outperform the OK Team members and I shake my head when I realise the Bushranger was standing watching the fight for several minutes before I even noticed him. Southern Cross did though, moments before he unexpectedly flew off. We both find it difficult to watch The Gamer getting killed, even though we know he survived, and Switchy’s arrival and confrontation with the giant squid looks like some kind of old horror film. The global YouTube audience would love that bit of tape.
We toggle back to when Blink was in full flight, and watch it through several times. On the fourth view, Trevor shuffles back through the door and watches it with us.
‘He’s a slippery one,’ he comments.
‘We’re trying to find a sign of where he goes, or how he does it,’ I explain.
‘But we’ve got nothing,’ Logi-Gal says.
We’re watching it through again when the old man says, ‘Freeze it.’
Logi-Gal presses the pause button and Trevor points an old, gnarled finger at the bottom corner of the screen. There’s a dark patch on the ground, only faintly visible in the car park’s lighting.
‘What is it?’ I ask. ‘Blood?’
Logi-Gal sits up straight in her chair. ‘No. Not blood. A shadow.
Without anybody there. It’s got to be Blink.’
Her fingers fly across the keyboard – how did she pick up the system so quickly? Is this part of her logical power? – and we watch frame-by-frame as the shadow moves closer to Torch and suddenly Blink appears behind him, kicking him in the back and then switching out of visibility again. The shadow vanishes in the next frame, even before Torch hits the ground.
‘Where did he go?’
Logi-Gal keeps toggling through the vision and five frames later the shadow reappears four metres to the left of where Blink had been. The shadow drifts over to Torch again as I trade insults with the Bushranger and then bang, Blink appears and lands a punch. Then the shadow reappears four metres to the left.
Trevor sniffs, fumbles in his pocket and then noisily blows his nose into a tattered hankie. ‘Well, that young whippersnapper might have some fancy moves, but they’re limited. Who’d like a cup of tea? Or some clay?’
CHAPTER 18
GOODBYE SOUTHERN CROSS. GOODBYE CAPE
I’m meeting Switchy at the Zenith Café; partly to say hi and partly to see if he still thinks he’s a dog. I’m still wondering about whether to mention Simon’s suspicions about his enhanced powers.
I’m a little early so a FlyBoy has to escort me to the front door, at the top of the Melbourne Central pyramid. I’ve been working on my own potential flying ability, by dissolving into a cloud, but I still haven’t worked out how to stop the gentlest breeze blowing me in whatever direction it’s heading.
In the café, I order a Super Shake, some Heroic Cheesecake and a serve of Caped Chips – which are normal hot chips, but with little paper capes on them. Tomorrow Girl and the G rl-Stars are at a table near the window, and they are singing their annoying pop song.
Grl-Stars
That’s who we are
Girls and stars
Yes we are!
Her-oes!
And we’re girls
We like to fly
And we like to twirl!
It’s as bad as I remembered it – which was very bad indeed. The last thing I want is that stupid song stuck in my head so I look for a couch as far away from them as possible. I choose one near the TV, which beams Channel 78737 all day, unless the footy’s on. We Heroes love our footy.
I’m so engrossed in a story from Scotland, where Super McAngus has teamed up with the Loch Ness Monster to thwart a gang of poachers at Loch Ness, that I don’t notice the wind rising dramatically outside the café. When I look away from the TV, Cyclone Tracy is standing right in front of me.
‘Hi, Focus,’ she says. ‘Mind if I sit down?’
‘Um, sure. Yeah, if you’d like. No problem. It’s totally up to you. That
’s fine. Yep, good. Be my guest. You know that you don’t have to. But if you’d like, that would be fine. By me,’ I say.
Yep, Mr Cool. Needless to say, I’m halfway to a fine mist by the time she actually sits.
Trying to look casual, I lean back and glance over at the G rl-Stars’ table. Tomorrow Girl has her head in her hands and is rocking. The others are looking confused, as though they’re not sure if this is one of those strange dance moves they should be following or, alternatively, she’s in pain. Weird. I pull my attention back to Cyclone Tracy who sits and sips on a Super Shake.
‘So how’s the OK Team going? Is it true that you’re involved in a Knight-Hood Pact with Bushranger?’
‘Um, sort of. Actually, yes.’
‘Why on Earth would a Hero agree to a Pact?’ she asks, wide eyed. ‘Did he attack your family?’
‘No. He insulted me. He told me to come back when I was ready to play with the grown-ups and I got mad.’
‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘Yeah, of course I am.’ I laugh a little too loudly. ‘Hey, where did all these flies come from?’
Swarms of flies fill the air and bounce off the windows. Heroes everywhere wave gloves, wings, shields, force fields and tentacles in front of faces and masks, trying to ward off the insects.
‘Oh, blow. I hate it when Bug Man turns up with his army,’ Cyclone Tracy says.
I turn into a cloud so the flies pass straight through me, but then I have to become solid again in a hurry as Tracy cooks up a southerly breeze to send the flies spiralling to the other end of the room.
Bug-free, we sit sipping our shakes and my heart is pounding. Do I dare? Cyclone Tracy is at least two years older than me and an accomplished Hero. What if I ask her out and she just laughs at me.
‘Tracy,’ I say. My heart feels like it’s about to go through my ribcage, I’m so nervous.
‘Yes?’ she asks, and I’m trying to read her face. There’s a slight grin, a touch of curiosity.
And that’s when Tomorrow Girl arrives, breathless, at our couch.
‘Focus, we need to talk. Right now.’
