by Daco
“I have to go,” she said in a crystalline voice. “I must stop this madness. Lives are at stake.”
She turned to Sigfred. “There’s something I’d like you to do for me. Momo is supposed to be the head of The Momaxita. I never quite believed that the organization existed, but it obviously does. Find the man who delivered the package. He’s a Momaxita courier and the key to finding Momo.”
As she turned to leave, Sigfred took her hand. To her surprise, he didn’t seem to feel an electrical shock when he touched her.
“If only I could accompany you,” he said, his eyes conveying both concern and devotion—and not just that, but something more she couldn’t define.
His gaze was so intense that she was the one who had to pull her hand away lest she be overcome.
“You’ve always protected me, Sigfred,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve shown enough gratitude for that.” Reflexively, she used a hand to touch her heart. “But now, you can’t protect me. I have to do this myself.”
“Still, I will be with you,” Sigfred whispered.
They shared a lingering gaze, and then Electromancer ran toward the front door. Gladys raced after her and grabbed her arm. A spark of electricity shot from Electromancer’s arm, and Gladys was thrown back. Thankfully, Sigfred was there to catch her.
Electromancer turned back. “Gladys, I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”
“I shouldn’t have touched you,” Gladys said. “But I’m afraid for you. What if you should, you know ...?”
“Not to fear Gladys. I know how to fly now. I won’t fall.”
“How can you know that?”
“Because,” she paused, flashing them a smile, “I’m Electromancer.” With that, she shot through the door and leaped up to the sky, leaving a bolt of electricity in her wake. She’d become one with the electrical force, sailing through the air at the speed of light. Almost instantaneously, she was zipping above the streets of The Big Apple.
She verified that what Momo had said was true. The magical and colorful lights of Cyber Square had gone dark. The traffic lights were out, so cars and buses and trucks had come to a complete standstill, and there were more accidents than she could possibly count. People were panicking, and the panic would only worsen as day turned to night. It was an unusually hot day with the erratic weather patterns, and without refrigeration, food would spoil. Without air conditioning, the elderly and infirm would die. Hospital backup generators wouldn’t last forever. Very soon, the city would be mobbed with people leaving their high-rise apartments, row houses, and tenement hovels, desperate to find fresh air. Once night fell, looting was sure to begin. As the streets and parks filled, people would try to flee to the countryside or to the nearest city with electricity, causing more disorder and chaos.
Electromancer flew to the top of the Imperial State Building. There she stood, balancing on one foot. Then she bolted up into the sky and flew toward The Big Apple’s electrical grid, which supplied power to eight million people. To run, the grid had to maintain a certain level of voltage. If the voltage dropped below a critical point, the entire system went down. Or if the gates that controlled the flow of energy were damaged, then no energy got out to consumers. So, either the large transformers, which regulated the amount of power that went out to local lines, had gone down, or the generators at the power plant had lost critical voltage. Electromancer flew from one transformer to the next, arcing a bolt of energy into each to test it. They all worked fine. That meant that the problem was with the generators at the power plant. She flew to the plant.
When she entered the generator room, a man cried, “Look. Who’s that?”
“More like what’s that?” a woman replied.
“It’s a she-devil,” another said.
The workers stopped and gaped up at her. Some raced toward her.
“It’s ball lightning!” someone shouted. “Don’t go near it. It’s deadly. If it explodes, the whole place will collapse and we’ll all die.”
Electromancer slowly lowered herself to the ground floor, her wake of electricity dissipating. The people hurriedly drew back. She could see fear in the workers’ eyes.
“Don’t be afraid,” Electromancer said in her crystalline voice. “I’m here to help.”
A few edged their way closer to her, but most remained back.
“How can you help us?” someone asked.
“She’s to blame for this blow out,” another person said.
“Why would she be here, then?” a woman said. “Of course she’s here to help.”
The murmurs in the crowd turned to arguments. One man actually threatened to kill her. Others defended her. A young man threw a hammer at her from five feet away, but Electromancer caught the tool in her hand. Then she raised her arms. “Stop. Listen to me. I truly can help.”
“If you want to help us, you can get rid of that Alexa Manchester,” a man shouted. “She’s to blame. She controls the world’s power.”
Electromancer shook her head in disbelief. How could they blame Alexa? Blame her? Electricity suddenly arced from her fingertips.
Many shrank back in fear, and others turned even more aggressive, throwing tools and other objects at her, all of which she easily deflected with a forearm. She had to do something fast. With the gentlest of springs, she lifted herself off the floor and rose into the air, hovering atop the generator behind her. With a flip of her fingers, she released an arc of electricity, which flowed directly at the generator. The machine’s steel casing glowed red and then turned white hot. Just as the casing softened and was about to melt, she dove through the liquid steel and released a burst of energy, igniting the generator’s core. Turbine blades began to spin and then purred when the water began flowing through the machine. Moments later, the turbine began to produce electricity, and at last, the electrical grid reached the minimal level of voltage necessary to restore power.
Electromancer emerged unscathed from the top of the machine and slowly lowered herself to the floor. She saw the people in the crowd looking at her in awe. The sound of the generator working again was like a soft melody.
“She’s an angel,” a woman said.
“A savior,” another said.
“No. I’m Electromancer. Now, let’s get to work.”
Together, she and the workers began restarting the generators. She’d just emerged from another successfully ignited generator when news reporters from the major media conglomerates burst into the room and raced toward her with their cameras and microphones. Shouting a flurry of questions, the reporters spoke over each other, demanding answers. Who was she? Where had she come from? Was she an alien from another world? How was it possible for her to fly? How was she able to restart the generators?
“How do we know you didn’t cause the blackout and aren’t just doing this for publicity?” a reporter asked.
Electromancer descended to the floor. “I’m here to help The Big Apple, not to answer your questions. I’m sorry, but we have work to do.”
A man dressed in a power company uniform emerged from the crowd, scowling. He was carrying a fire hose. He opened the valve and aimed a hard stream of water at Electromancer. Electrical currents sparked from her body. She tried to remain calm, tried to stop the deadly current, but couldn’t.
People screamed and fell back. Electromancer tried to regain her composure, but her body was immobilized by the water. The foolish man had turned her source of electricity against her. She wanted to scream, but couldn’t. Pain seared through her veins.
“She’s a witch,” the man with the hose shouted as he continued to spray water on her. “Capture her before she can do any more harm.”
Electromancer convulsed, her head involuntarily rolling from side to side. She tried to regain control of her muscles and nervous system, but the water and electricity caused a short circuit. She was dying a slow, painful death. She fought to maintain consciousness, to think of a way to stop this.
“Be Electromancer! It’s your
duty,” a voice said. “That way, you shall overcome.”
Was it her father speaking to her?
Her heart trilled with renewed energy. She began to fight to free herself. She would not give in, no matter how much water surrounded or touched her.
Just then, there was a brilliant flash of light, a roar of thunder, and the appearance of a brilliant blue cloud in the shape of an arrow. Yes, a blue ... no, the Blue Arrow.
Blue Arrow was real, not just a legend!
When Alexa was a teenager, her father, after drinking a bit too much wine one evening, had told her a story about Blue Arrow, a hero with superpowers. Part cloud and part man, he was a talented archer who would use his mythical bow only to ensure justice was served. Of course, she hadn’t believed it then.
The lights flickered, and the air molecules crackled loudly. Then the generator room went pitch dark. In another instant, the electricity was back on, but Electromancer was no longer stuck to the metal or fighting against electrocution from her contact with water. She was free. But how?
She inhaled deeply, realizing that she was now enveloped by blue vapor—in the arms of Blue Arrow. He was transporting her across the sky, through the clouds. This was nothing like the electrical energy that enabled her to fly. This was something different entirely. When she exhaled, she felt her body go numb as if she’d been drugged.
“Father?” she asked.
No one answered, but she felt an undulating rhythm, like waves rolling in from the ocean.
“What’s ... happening?” she asked.
A distant voice said, “You’re safe now.”
Those were the last words that she remembered before awakening back home in her bed.
Chapter 9
Over at City Hall ...
Mayor Baumgartner could wait no longer. Alexa Manchester should’ve arrived long ago. The members of the City Council were growing restless, as were the media and citizens in attendance. There had already been some controversial items on the agenda. The old biddies from Women for Education, Edification, and Decoration of Sidewalks—everyone thought of the group as WEEDS, but only their harshest critics used that word—were pushing for an ordinance that would improve the city’s sidewalks and were seeking approval of a budget that would rival that allocated for national defense. The activists from CABOOSE were out in force, opposing another resolution to demolish the Sugar Express Train Depot that The Mayor had introduced at the last meeting.
To make matters worse, people were panicked about the explosion at The Mick and the near catastrophe in The Big Apple. Everyone was buzzing on and on about the mysterious Electromancer, which The Mayor believed to be nothing more than a media hoax to divert attention from the government’s failure to protect the people. District Attorney Stumpy Stellar and Police Chief Constable Pete Petaud were in attendance to answer the hard questions about those recent events and, The Mayor hoped, to let him remain dispassionate and statesmanlike on the issue.
The Mayor took his place behind the podium, called the meeting to order, and directed the Council’s attention to the first item on the agenda.
“I object to that!” a woman said. “We need to discuss the reprehensible state of our city sidewalks before dealing with Alexa Manchester’s mess ups.” The speaker was chairwoman of WEEDS, Henrietta Hensinger, a stout woman in her early sixties who always wore a hat, but never the same one twice, and who now was dressed in a bright-red chapeau that resembled a combination pretzel and balloon animal, which was undoubtedly selected to match her red high-collar blouse and floral skirt.
“Miss Hensinger, we really must take the agenda in order,” The Mayor said. “Protocol, you know.” He would like to have called the sergeant at arms to throw her out on her ear, but she controlled a large block of voters.
She rose from her chair and stood on tiptoes to see over the man in front of her. “Mr. Mayor, this is a matter of life and death!”
“With all due respect, ma’am, I hardly think a few cracks in the concrete rise to the level of life and death.” He paused. “Not that my administration isn’t dedicated to repairing every crack in the sidewalk.”
“Oh, but you’re utterly mistaken, sir,” Miss Hensinger said. “Our organization’s flower order has just come in this morning and is waiting to be picked up at the nursery. The poor little plants are dying in the sun as we speak. Their little roots are in desperate need of water. The adorable little things must be put to bed. To refuse to consider the sidewalk budget first would be nothing more than mass murder, Mr. Mayor—herbicide, if you will. In that regard, our very own Mr. Zachary Zero, as troubled as he tends to be, needs to be put to work before he slips off and is nowhere to be found again. Need I say more? Because I will if I have to.”
Conroy Corn stood. He would’ve been Miss Hensinger’s husband if only he hadn’t left her standing at the altar on their wedding day twenty-five years earlier. He’d always claimed that he’d been traveling in the Americanas the week before and that he forgot to reset his watch to Britannia time, resulting in his alarm going off eight hours late, and that he still, to this day, wanted Miss Hensinger’s hand in marriage. The Mayor did not like Conroy Corn because he was also the chairman of CABOOSE, dedicated to saving the Sugar Express Train Depot.
“I second Miss Hensinger’s motion, Mayor,” Mr. Corn said.
“I don’t need your help, Corny,” Miss Hensinger said curtly. “I can manage just fine on my own.”
“I’m sure you can, Henny,” Mr. Corn said. “Nevertheless, I second the motion a second time.”
“None of that sweet talk will do you any good, Corny,” Miss Hensinger said. “I’m an old maid because of you, but you are not getting into my knickers. You had your chance twenty-five years ago, and you blew it!”
“Oh, you weren’t so guarded about your knickers back in the day, Henny,” Mr. Corn said. “You were a willing lass. How long must a man pay for one mistake? I still have the marriage license. How about it, love?”
Miss Hensinger pointed a finger at him. “We didn’t do what you’re implying, but if we had done it, you weren’t very good at it. Maybe if you had been, I’d have forgiven you!”
The Mayor had to pound his gavel to end the laughter that broke out through Council Chambers. “Now, now, Miss Hensinger, Mr. Corn. Let’s keep this civil. All right. We’ll take the sidewalk-budget ordinance out of order.” He wondered if Hensinger and Corn had gotten together and planned this just to drive him crazy.
The matter was debated, the vote was taken, and the sidewalk budget, exorbitant though it was, was passed by a vote of three to two. Miss Hensinger and the other women of WEEDS excused themselves. “We have little sprouts to rescue,” Miss Hensinger explained.
“Let’s move on to item number one on the agenda, the explosion at The Mick,” The Mayor said. He nodded to Chief Constable Pete Petaud and to District Attorney Stumpy Stellar.
Just as The Mayor was about to make a brief opening statement, he spotted Biggie Bitterman slip inside the room and take a seat in the back row. This was unexpected. The man was supposed to be long gone and had promised never again to return to Kensington City. His presence could only spell trouble. What did he want?
“I’d hoped that Ms. Manchester would be here today to discuss The Mick,” The Mayor said. “I understand that she’s been unavoidably detained.”
Bitterman stood up and began shouting. “Mayor, haven’t you seen the news? Manchester brought down the power grid in The Big Apple.”
“That’s not true,” The Mayor said. Why was Bitterman trying to blame Alexa? To take the heat off The Momaxita? This wasn’t good. But The Mayor had to play along. “The Manchesters have been benefactors of this community and the world for—”
“She’s also an heiress and in control of the world’s energy!” Bitterman responded. “Who else is to blame?”
There were shouts of agreement and calls for Alexa’s arrest. How like the rabble to turn against one of their own, The Mayor thought.
<
br /> “Order, order!” The Mayor shouted over the din. “Chief Petaud, you and your men take anyone into custody who causes any further disruption.”
When a phalanx of police officers stepped forward, The Mayor scanned the audience but saw no sign of Bitterman.
“Now as I was trying to inform the council, I took a drive down to the river and am happy to report that the water is flowing at full force again,” The Mayor said. “There was unexpected snowfall in the highlands. The good news is that the water shortage is over for Kensington City for the time being.”
“What about The Magpie?” someone shouted. “It went crazy, shut down all the electricity on the grid. And what happened in The Big Apple? Those are both Manchester holdings. Who else is to blame if not Alexa?”
Another man stood. “I’m a businessman, and the power problems stopped production at my bottling plant,” he said. “We’re in danger of losing a contract from our major customer, which means we could be bankrupt. I don’t care what you say, Mayor. I blame Manchester.”
The door burst open, and Alexa Manchester walked in. The crowd fell silent. She strode confidently down the main aisle. There was something different about her, The Mayor thought—she seemed more radiant than usual. The word dazzling came to mind.
“My apologies to the Council for my tardiness,” she said. “I’m here to address the City Council and citizens of Kensington City about recent events.”
The Mayor beckoned Alexa to the stage. She climbed the stairs and went to the podium. “Mayor, if I may,” she said. “The Mick is running back at full capacity. As to Monday’s incident there, I apologize. I know that many of you—perhaps most of you—want to hold me responsible. Well, citizens of Kensington City, I take full responsibility. Just as my father taught me to do. But I assure you that there’s no truth to some of the scandalous reports that we intentionally reduced power or shut down the grid because of some ulterior motive—whatever that would be.”
