“The plan is simple. We are going to drop them off at home.”
Cannon nearly exploded, and for a man who can fire blast waves out of his chest nearly exploding is a literal thing. “No Maggie, we have to get their names and addresses and everything, pictures, finger prints, register them for special conscription. It’s our job.”
“Well they don’t want to be registered. They have secret identities. They’ve promised to be available if we need them, I already got Wraith’s number...”
Cannon was yelling now, she hated when he yelled, “That’s not how it works Maggie. It’s not a choice, conscription is a duty, a law. Compulsory, not voluntary.”
“Well it’s worked out fine so far, I volunteered. We can’t force them to sign up for service. I’m not even signed up.”
“Right, right. I know.” Cannon was already beginning to calm down. Say what you want about the man, he might heat up but he cools down and begins to think quicker than anyone she’d ever met.
“Maggie, if you have his cell number that basically means you can find out everything about him if you needed to, right? Wraith, are you okay with that?” Cannon asked.
“I’m okay with Miss Marathon knowing how to find me, but no more than that.”
Cannon sighed. Maggie knew Cannon was not satisfied, but he was a practical man. “I don’t suppose I could really hold you guys anyway. Misty can’t be held by anything I know of, maybe a soda can.” Cannon smiled at his joke, Misty didn’t.
“McMurphy is going to be pissed,” Cannon said. Maggie nodded.
The USS Patton, silent up until then, cut in with her echoing vibration voice, “Do I get a vote?”
“Patty I’m not even sure I got a vote, and I’m supposed to be in charge. But sure, say your piece,” Cannon said.
Patton vibrated, “I say we tell McMurphy to go to hell. Forcing supers to work for us is too much like slavery. Being friends is better.”
Wow. Patty had a point there. She was growing into a real deep thinker. Maggie felt a touch of maternal pride.
* * *
“They did what!?” Former Senator and now Director of the Earth Defense League, Richard McMurphy, was in direct command over the Special Response Unit, Patton Base. Had he been in Bay City, instead of in Geneva wrangling resources for the new space fleet, he’d be ripping Captain Gannon a new ear hole.
Letting newly discovered super humans go was completely unacceptable. The newscasters only knew of the one, but McMurphy’s backchannel sources confirmed there were two, maybe even three, new super humans involved. Unacceptable. Something must be done about this insubordination, but anything concerning Cannon and Maggie had to be handled delicately.
Damn super humans, hard to control them.
McMurphy watched his vid set, fuming. Local Bay City reporters were interviewing Miss Marathon.
“The recent trouble over Bay City was nothing to be scared of, it was just a kid. A new super human, 16 years old. He did get a bit out of hand but trust me I set him straight,” Maggie said, smiling into the cameras.
“And when Miss Marathon sets you straight you have to believe she’s taken seriously,” said the talking head news anchor, smiling as if he’d just told the world something infinitely insightful.
“And you have experience in this right, Ms. Cole? You were a teacher before becoming Miss Marathon. I’m sure you know how to handle kids,” the fawning reporter said.
“Oh yes. I know how to wield a firm hand.” Maggie, again, smiled at the camera.
“So there you have it folks, all is well in Bay City, thanks again to Miss Marathon, our local hero.” The anchor then passed the show over to sports or some other inane local goings on. McMurphy tuned out.
Margaret Cole, Miss Marathon, was going to be trouble. The big problem was she was the most famous and well respected person on the planet, hands down. Untouchable.
McMurphy was going to change that. For the good of the world he couldn’t let one superhuman handle things any way she pleased. She was letting potentially dangerous super humans go free, contrary to law. For now McMurphy would bide his time, look for his opening. Play the long game. It had worked for him thus far.
Chapter Four
Specimen walked through the halls of the Torvin battlecruiser, Brootstone. Miss Marathon had captured it some months prior through quick and bloody thinking. Specimen had been involved in that fight, but it had really been Miss Marathon that carried the day. She’d rescued both Specimen and Cannon.
Since then every scientist on earth had been studying the battlecruiser. Who knew when the next alien threat might emerge? Teams worked day and night to catalogue and understand the alien tech, to balance the terms of the next engagement.
Several human designed battle craft were already into the prototype stage based on lessons learned from the Brootstone.
Specimen was no scientist, his presence on the ship confused him. He’d been summoned by someone high up in the Earth Defense League and brought to orbit in secret. As he was led to the bridge of the ship he became even more curious. The bridge was off limits to all but the highest brass and the most well connected academics.
As he entered, he saw a familiar face. Raseen. The alien pilot who had crash landed on Earth over a decade before. Humanity’s first and best advocate when it came to the Galactics. He was lounging in the center of the bridge, in what had to be the command chair.
“Raseen? In command of this heap now are you?”
“In a sense, yes, I am. As the senior surviving Galactic Control officer in this system I’m technically in command of everything. Not that I push that point.” Raseen laughed his alien low pitched laugh.
“Really I just like the chair, it’s of Markete design, best form fitting tech in the galaxy. You should try it sometime.”
Specimen grunted, looking around the bridge with his artificial eyes, eyes given to him by Miss Marathon. It was just him and Raseen. Specimen’s guide had left immediately, leaving them to talk in private.
“So what do you want Raseen? You are one of the few that could get command to boost me to orbit, and I know you didn’t bring me up here to show me the galaxy’s most comfortable chair.”
“Right you are.” Raseen spun around in the chair. “The EDL has agreed to send me back to Galactic Control as an emissary. I want you to accompany me on this mission.”
Specimen took a step back.
“You mean you want me to be a diplomat? To the guys that attacked us? I’m a soldier, a good one too. I killed at least a dozen Torvin during my last encounter with the Galactics. Why me?”
“Well, to be blunt, it’s your ability as a fighter and super human that I need. The Galactic Counsel will be skeptical of my story. They’ll have hard questions. Those green glowing hands of yours will silence the nay sayers. Your participation will confirm what is actually happening here on earth, it will show the Galactic Control Counsel humanity’s potential as allies.”
Specimen paced around the bridge, “It might also be good to scare them too, let them know Earth is not to be trifled with. I don’t suppose I have any choice in the matter?”
“No. I don’t think so. When I requested you Senator McMurphy said you’d be ‘volunteered’ for the mission. The term doesn’t translate well, but I was not under the impression you had the option to refuse.”
“McMurphy, that egotistical ass. Not an ounce of real military service and now he’s calling the shots.” Specimen, like Miss Marathon and Cannon, had been on the receiving end of McMurphy’s orders one too many times.
Raseen nodded his head in the human way he’d adopted, “Yes, McMurphy is similar to the politicians of my race and of the many races of the Galactic Counsel. Your experience in handling him will be valuable when dealing with them.”
“Great. More crap to shovel. When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow. We’ll be a few days to Alpha Centuri. Then from the Galactic Control outpost there we’ll secure transportation coreward. It’l
l take maybe 3 weeks to arrive total, barring any navigational anomalies.”
Specimen digested this, but had one last question, “There’s no way they are letting us take the Brootstone, so what are we taking?”
* * *
Raseen strapped Specimen into the copilot’s seat. Quite possibly the most uncomfortable seat he’d ever sat in. It wasn’t made for humans, that was clear enough. It felt like part of the seat was trying to split him crotch to sternum. It leaned him forward, he couldn’t get it to let him lean back.
Raseen put a hand on his chest, “Stop wiggling around, the straps need to be tight. It will be more comfortable in zero gravity.”
“It better be. It feels like an iron maiden right now.”
Raseen got that far away look, he was accessing his internal database, “Iron Maiden, no, not the band. Ah. The torture device from your medieval period. Your people have a brutal imagination.”
Raseen continued to tighten the straps. It was beginning to feel less and less like imagination and more like the real thing. Specimen could swear that something was poking through the backs of his knees. He felt and there was nothing.
“I thought the Galactics had mastered form fitting chairs.” Specimen tried to squirm his way to a better position. He achieved only pain.
“No, the Torvin are a silly lot. The morphing chairs are for command only. When we get to Alpha Centauri we’ll try to find a Markete vessel, my people travel in comfort.”
Raseen finished with Specimen’s straps and was strapping himself into the pilot’s position. Within seconds he was secured, he turned to Specimen, “Comfortable?”
“No.”
“Well, luckily this first maneuver and jump should only take about 12 hours. Then you can unstrap and float about the cabin for a bit.”
Specimen said, as sarcastically as possible, “Only 12 hours? Goodie.”
“That’s the spirit.”
Sarcasm was completely lost on Raseen. Damn aliens.
Chapter Five
Brewskie rode ahead and to the right of Chopper. Sammy followed in the truck. It was a hard ride from Northern California to Colorado Springs, but they were making good time. They’d arrive well before the Colorado Motocross Championships concluded.
Taking back control of his riding club had been easy. One day, some blood spilt, and he was back on top. The boss. The only boss. That wasn’t enough though. Brewskie needed to send one more message.
To Chris Cole.
When Brewskie was away, his club had rode in support of Miss Marathon just prior to her battle with the Torvin. That was all well and good. A little charity type work for the club never hurt anyone.
The problem was Brewskie didn’t order it. Some kid did. Chris Cole.
He was well known to the club, Brewskie had even helped him get his first riding sponsorship. He was a decent hard working kid, but he’d stepped over a line. He’d made some phone calls and rallied the club behind his cause.
There can be only one boss. Black Brewskie. A message must be sent.
* * *
Brewskie was known in the motorcycle community, even this far away from his base of operations. He and Chopper would have had no trouble slipping past security, but no sneaking was necessary. Security was being run by an affiliated riding club out of Denver. They walked straight through the main entrance without being so much as glanced at by the guards. It pays to know people, and if they fear you it’s even better.
They walked around the prep area for awhile, looking for the right team and trailer, moving slow. There was no hurry, they could search for the rest of the evening if they needed. No one would bother them.
It was a huge event with hundreds of riders, mechanics and assorted hangers on scattered throughout the staging areas. Chopper and Brewskie blended in. They stopped to talk to a few old friends. Stopped to eat. Have a beer. No one noticed they were there on a mission, had a purpose.
Finally, Brewskie caught it. Team Cole banners. His travel trailer had his name spray painted on the side. Brewskie motioned to Chopper to be ready. Chopper was already moving away to flank the trailer door.
Brewskie walked up to the trailer and knocked. As luck with have it, bad luck depending on your perspective, Chris Cole opened the door.
“Hello Chris. I’m Brewskie. Mind if I come in?”
“Brewskie? Like ‘Black’ Brewskie? Yeah sure, I remember you. Great to meet you in person.”
Chris Cole turned and walked back into the trailer, leaving the door open for Brewskie to step inside. He stepped inside and hit Chris in the back of the head with a tire iron. Chris went down hard, bleeding.
“You think you can call my boys and set up a ride like that? There’s only one boss, Black Brewskie. You best remember this.”
Chris tried to roll over but Brewskie kicked him in the ribs with his heavy boots. Chris doubled up and started wheezing. Probably popped a few ribs.
Chopper stood guard at the door, to assure this private chat remained private.
To the young man’s credit he did try to fight back. He reached up to grab something from a drawer. Brewskie crushed his fingers with the tire iron, and then set to bashing him in the arms and legs. Slow, methodical. This was to be a lesson that would be remembered not just by Chris Cole but also by anyone that saw him for weeks afterward.
One boss. One boss only.
Brewskie was about to put the finishing touches on his little project, a stomp to the knee that would dislocate the joint, when he was grabbed.
Not just grabbed by the arm or leg, or shoulder, but grabbed all over. Brewskie found himself upside down and spinning into the dining table, breaking it.
Looking up he saw a screaming woman, red with rage. Great, probably a girlfriend who had been in the back, out of sight. Should have checked first to be sure they were alone.
Pissing off a girlfriend wasn’t so remarkable. Brewskie was used to pissing people off. What was remarkable was the woman’s hair. She was the one grabbing him, pinning his arms and legs, and she was doing it with her hair.
Long locks of blond hair where coming from her head, stretching out in tendrils throughout the trailer. A collection of strands started to close around Brewskie’s throat. Killed by super hair, great.
Luckily Chopper saw what was happening. He drew a knife and started hacking at the hair. The knife did nothing, so he took after the woman with it. He stabbed at her a few times, trying to batter away the hair tendrils to get a good jab in. She had to let Brewskie go to deal with Chopper.
Brewskie looked for his tire iron but it was nowhere to be found. He opened the drawer Chris had been grabbing for and saw a revolver inside. Six shooter, a .38 caliber. Perfect.
By that point Blondie had Chopper down and was choking him with her hair, Brewskie acted fast, picking up the pistol and firing. He wasn’t fast enough, the lady released Chopper and brought her hair into a defensive cocoon around herself, with one strand dragging Chris Cole to safety behind the hair shield.
This world is so messed up. Aliens, superheroes and now this shit?
Brewskie fired a few more times while grabbing up Chopper and heading out the door. He emptied the gun at the dense hairball and tossed it away.
The background noise of dozens of high performance motorcycles meant that the gunshots didn’t receive much attention. Brewskie and Chopper were able to slip away without anyone stopping them or asking questions. Blondie and her damned hair didn’t pursue.
Sammy had the truck running and ready to go when they arrived, bikes loaded in the back. Both Chopper and Brewskie were bruised from being throttled and manhandled, but Sammy didn’t ask questions. She gave a short frown upon seeing a blond hair on Chopper’s jacket, Chopper might be paying for that one later, but otherwise she was as steady and cool as always.
She drove out of the lot at speed and they headed back toward California and home. The cab was dead silent the entire way back.
* * *
Maggie was loun
ging in her room on the USS Patton when her cell phone rang. It was her brother calling. She picked up.
“Hey Chris, what’s up?”
“Maggie I’m so sorry, this isn’t Chris. It’s his girlfriend Anne. Anne Gable.” The voice on the other side sounded frayed, weak. Hesitant.
“Yeah I remember you, Chris sent me a picture, pretty and blonde right?” Start with compliments, that’s always best.
“Maggie I’m sorry but Chris has been hurt. He’s in and out of consciousness. They aren’t sure if he’s going to make it. We are in a hospital in...”
Maggie cut her off, “I know exactly where you are. Don’t move, I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
Maggie hung up the phone, “Patty did you hear that.”
“Yes Maggie, I’m already lifting off. I can get us to Colorado Springs in under an hour.”
“Great, but we need to make a stop first.”
* * *
Calvin Darnel, also known as Wraith, sat with his grandchildren eating meatloaf. Not many families sat down for dinner anymore, but Calvin was old fashioned. He insisted the children be home for dinner at least Sunday through Thursday. Friday and Saturday nights he let them go off with their friends.
It was Wednesday night. So the kids were home. Structured. Calm. It was the best he could do as a surrogate parent, after the kids’ mother and father had passed.
A loud pounding at the door interrupted Calvin’s train of thought. Misty poofed out and quickly rematerialized at the door before her brother could beat her there. They were both expecting friends.
What they got was Miss Marathon in her full day glow yellow super suit and motorcycle jacket. Honestly, Miss Marathon was great but that get up left very little to the imagination.
My how times change.
“Wraith, I need a huge favor. Right now, an emergency. Come with me.” Maggie walked in with a nod to the star struck Misty.
“Now? We are having dinner. The kids have friends coming over, can’t it wait?”
“No. Now. Move it!” Miss Marathon yelled, she wasn’t messing around. Calvin got up to grab his jacket.
Miss Marathon #2: Bay City Defenders Page 3
