by Matt Adams
“We’re going to have to trust them,” Warren says.
“No. We don’t have to trust them. We just have to work with them until we can figure out what they’re up to,” the Comet growls. “While you head to Legion HQ, I’ll see what information I can extract from their database. I want to know what kind of intel they have on the Kiltechs—and what they’re not telling us.”
“The main Kiltech ship is called the Invincible,” I tell him. “That’s where they’re keeping my father.”
“That has to be our primary objective,” the Comet suggests. “We need Colonel Chaos in the fight.”
“We have to get to that ship and destroy the device they’re building. If the parallel worlds merge like they want, we’re screwed,” I say.
“From what you’ve told me, the Orange Bands can get onboard quite easily,” the Comet says. “Let them handle it.”
“They’re a bit… insistent… about their role, Comet,” I say. “Some crap about only helping those who help themselves.”
The Comet flexes his good hand. “I think we’re doing enough to get a little help. The Champions are already going after the Kiltechs’ awful, accelerated-eugenics program. Let’s hope they can handle that. After we recruit some help from the Legion, we have to make a push for that command ship. We get on there and destroy that device. Maybe we can figure out a way to send a withdrawal order--issue a fleet-wide directive to leave Earth and never come back.”
“I’m sure that’ll work great with a direct message on Fleet Twitter,” I say, relieved that Falcon Gray isn’t in the room to throw one of his Tweety Bird fits. The birdman hates Twitter. “Warren and I will focus on the Heroic Legion first. I’ll send Miss Lightspeed and Jaci to help the Champions.”
“You need Miss Lightspeed,” the Comet says, overlooking the sea of stars outside. “Her physical tools are too effective to waste on diaper duty. And her diplomatic skills could prove invaluable against the Kiltechs.” He turns back to face me. “You know Jaci will refuse to leave your side. Sapphire Twelve and Falcon Gray will follow, too.”
“And there’s one more thing, Chris,” the Comet says. “I’m concerned about some of the chatter I caught before the Orange Bands ripped us away from your father’s lab. We all heard how the Kiltechs upped their rhetoric against your father’s regime, but I’ve noticed a shift during the last few days. They’re focused on you. There must be a reason why, and I bet the Bands know. They seem to be the types who like to conceal such things, just to keep the upper hand.”
As expected, our Orange Band buddy didn’t want to discuss an increase in Crimsonstreak chatter over media channels, although he agreed that going back to Heroic Legion Headquarters involved great risk. He didn’t bother to mention if it was simply risky for them or risky for me.
We’ve split into two groups. My team—Jaci, my mother, and Klem the Orange Band commander—pinpointed the Legion’s Hall of the Fallen section as our arrival point. The final resting place of past Legion leaders, it’s likely low priority on the Kiltechs’ security grid.
The other team—Warren, Sapphire Twelve, Falcon Gray, and another Orange Band—will infiltrate a relatively unprotected storm drain.
I’m not a big fan of this approach. There’s too much risk of being heard, too much risk that someone will smell a wet birdman and call for help. I advocated getting in through the break room, which probably isn’t getting much use these days. Warren Kensington, however, overruled me.
Both of them.
In a flash of orange, we materialize in the musty air of the Legion’s revered burial place. Stone tablets commemorate the legacies left by men and women like the Noble Patriot, Griffin, and Atemala—all former leaders of the Heroic Legion.
“A lot of history here,” Miss Lightspeed recalls. “I… I remember many of these people.”
She sounds surprised. She probably is.
These days, I’m surprised whenever my mother has clarity in her thoughts.
“I’m in their system,” the Comet says through my earpiece. “There are no changes in their security protocols. You’re in undetected.”
“Let’s hope so,” I say.
“I’m not sensing anything out of the ordinary,” Klem says. His headband glows just enough to help us find the release for the door. In the tight quarters, he’s taller than I remember. “A door release? You Homo sapiens are so quaint,” the Orange Band commander scoffs. “Of course, once you think in four dimensions, such things become unnecessary frivolities.”
With that, the door opens and we exit into one of the Heroic Legion’s main hallways. Typically, the area is filled with activity: heroes floating to other areas of the HQ, others conversing side by side, a few standing around recounting their latest adventures. To see the hallway so devoid of life doesn’t feel right.
“Where would they keep prisoners?” Orange Band asks.
Without even thinking about it, I tap my fingers on my forehead. “You mean ‘Magic Orange Vision’ doesn’t just auto-magically tell you?”
“I do not appreciate the implication,” Klem retorts. “We are not all-seeing.”
I sigh and start explaining. “This is the main hallway of the HQ. There are some holding cells just south of here, but nothing big enough to contain the entire Legion. I would imagine they’ve shipped a lot of them out of here. Kiltech cells probably have better security than ours.”
“If I were trying to hold a bunch of heroes, I’d put them in the Planning Room, station guards inside, and then rotate more guards around the perimeter,” my mother says.
“You’re right,” I admit. “Holding the Legion in cells they designed themselves wouldn’t be too bright.”
“Shipping them to Kiltech cells carries equal risk,” Klem says. “They could engineer an escape en route.” He squints. “This Planning Room, does it have a large table? Tactical displays? Several rows of chairs?”
I nod. “That’s exactly what it is.”
“My ‘Magic Orange Vison,’ as you so drolly put it, can see through walls. I’m afraid to report that the Planning Room appears to be in use for its intended purpose. Within the room stands a man in shining white armor. Another man is there as well; he wears a dark purple cape and golden chest armor. They are surrounded by Kiltech footsoldiers.”
“They’re forcing Samson Knight and Great Alexander to give them full access,” Miss Lightspeed says. She levitates several feet and then looks down at the rest of us. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go!”
Before she can fly off, Orange Band projects a titian beam of energy that stops her in mid-flight. Again, I’m reminded of the incredible power wrapped around his head.
She floats with her hands on her hips and then returns to floor level.
“Take that beam off me right now!”
I recognize that tone of voice; it usually accompanied the Dreaded First-Middle-and-Last Name when I was a kid. Somebody’s in trouble now...
Klem releases my mother from her orange-tinted prison.
“Do you not comprehend what I say?” he asks, apparently disgusted by a perceived slight from my mother. “The Planning Room appears to be in use for its intended purpose. Your Heroic Legion friends are not being held hostage. They appear to be working with the Kiltechs.”
My mother’s face twists in consternation. “That’s impossible. This is Samson Knight we’re talking about. One of our great supporters. A leader.”
“Can you project that image so we can see it?” I ask Klem.
Nodding curtly, the space cop puts his fingers up to his ridiculous orange headband and projects an image of Samson Knight, who stands in the middle of the main Planning Room with his electro-mace strapped to his back. He motions as Kiltech crews appear to react to whatever he’s saying. Great Alexander, looking distinguished in his orange-tinged purple cape, folds his arms and nods in sync with Samson Knight’s orders.
Samson Knight turns for just an instant…
A small, silver strip is bonded
to the neck of his white ceramic armor helmet.
LEDs flash on its surface.
“He’s working with them, all right,” I tell the group. “Not willingly, though. They’re controlling him with with one of those computer strips.”“I did not detect that before,” Klem says, frowning slightly. “The Kiltechs have been known to use such devices on other planets. They bond to the body’s nervous system. We have not been able to gauge the effect on humans, but I would assume it’s similar to what we’ve seen elsewhere.”
“They ever use those things as bombs?” I ask.
The image from the Planning Room disappears and the Orange Band commander rubs his chin. “Those devices are mostly for control, but the Kiltechs are well known for their ruthless methods.”
“They took out some of our own heroes with those things,” I tell Klem.
“We do have records of victims rejecting the implants,” he says thoughtfully. “In some cases, the Kiltech implants fail to make a full connection. When the victim’s free will spills over, the implant will sometimes self-destruct. It’s a redundancy the Kiltechs built into the devices. Successful removal requires a specialized skillset.”
So… the Clermont escapees could be controlled only to a point. When their free will started to surface, the implants exploded. And we all know villains are a pretty stubborn and willful bunch. Whether they meant to or not, the Kiltechs basically unleashed a bunch of walking bombs on the planet when they started “experimenting” on them. Wonderful.
“We probably shouldn’t just stand here in the hallway,” I tell the group. “I think it’d be best if we…” I trail off.
“If we what?” Jaci asks.
“I... don’t know. Maybe we should just go in there and see what Samson Knight’s doing.”
“He’s surrounded by Kiltech soldiers,” Klem says. “I do not think it wise to rush in without a plan.”
“Who said anything about rushing?”
We make our way down another empty corridor.
The Planning Room is just around the corner, but we’re strategically placed by the locker room and shower area, waiting for the rest of our strike force to arrive.
If you want to know about a superhero, all you have to do is look at his or her locker. The steel lattice doors give you a glimpse into the the psyche of an individual. Tiger-Strike, for instance, has a Detroit Tigers poster hanging in the back. A Clemson pennant is stuck back there, too, along with an LSU one. You don’t have to see the “Tiger-Strike” placard to know it’s Tiger-Strike’s locker.
Goofy-looking topcoat and a deck of cards?
The Amazing Merrick. Most days, he floats around in a silly teal cape and maroon Hammer pants, but every once in a while he pulls out the sophisticated-looking magician’s gear. I wish “every once in a while” really meant “every single day,” because Merrick’s regular uniform is ridiculous.
A peek inside another locker reveals several golden idols, gold-plated arrows, a golden dagger, and a gold fleece quiver. That all belongs to Golds-Eye, the Legion’s resident archer. Yeah, every superteam has a freaking archer. Some wear purple, others wear green. Ours just happens to wear gold. He thinks he’s some ancient Egyptian deity, hence the golden idols. Yeah, every superteam has a reincarnated Egyptian prince, too. Conveniently, our archer and reincarnated Egyptian prince are the same guy. Saves on salary.
As we wait uneasily in the locker room, it takes all my willpower to keep from talking to break the tension. I want to tell everyone about the unsettling scenarios running through my mind. Most of them revolve around Samson Knight. If he’s working with the Kiltechs, it’s going to complicate things. He and my father never got along—among other things, I think the Trial of Demonspawn came between them. Dad advocated mercy, Samson Knight pushed for execution.
Killing is one of those things that you either embrace or distance yourself from. My family has never been particularly fond of the killing part. Dad’s seen it from both sides, and regrets what he did as a supervillain. He says something like that taints your soul. Judging by Dad’s subsequent heroic conversion and the fervor with which he condemns killing now, I think he really believes it.
My father’s convictions are so strong that he refused to kill Zeus Caesar after my mother’s death, despite ample opportunity and plenty of support within the Legion to do so.
A man has to stand by his ideals.
Even if, down the road, those ideals take the form of a tainted, totalitarian society based on the principle of cloning your dead wife and framing your own son.
Not that I’m bitter or anything.
Regardless of what started it, though, something important always stood between Sammy and my father, and I didn’t realize it was my mother until I was old enough to start noticing girls. I don’t know if they dated “back in the day,” but Samson Knight takes too much of an interest in Miss Lightspeed. He shows my father only the most basic courtesies, and it’s clear he’s never cared much for me.
Thus, it should come as no surprise to anybody that Samson Knight would ask the Legion to take extreme measures against my father, advocating the death penalty for his role in establishing the New World Common Wealth. Other members like Great Alexander and Matsumoto have kept him in check, reminding him that perhaps he wasn’t seeing clearly because of the Demonspawn situation and his bias against my father.
All those thoughts have to go away right now—we need his help.
A subtle, grating noise fills the locker room area, and the rest of our team crawls through. They’re drenched, with Warren dripping wet and Falcon Gray smelling like Big Bird just got wrung through the world’s biggest wash cycle. Oh, and someone forgot to add the detergent.
“You guys look fantastic,” I say as flatly as possible.
“It was not the most dignified of journeys,” Falcon Gray says. His head and eyes are in constant motion, as if staying still for two seconds might actually kill him.
Warren removes one of his gloves and squeezes it over a sink. A sickening cascade of gray-green water follows.
“That was not my idea of a good time,” the Once and Future Comet—well, I suppose he is the Comet now—says.
Both Sapphire Twelve and the Orange Band are spotless. One of them even smells vaguely of vanilla. Not sure which one.
“No trouble getting through, though,” Warren says, taking his other glove and spilling more of the murky water into the sink. “Although, come to think of it, why didn’t Thing One back there transport us straight here?”
The other Orange Band—Waid—covers his mouth. “You didn’t ask,” he says, exchanging an amused look with Klem.
“We do so enjoy seeing the human spirit triumph under trying circumstances,” Klem says.
These guys are raging, interstellar a-holes.
“Sure would’ve smelled better,” Warren growls, his disapproving gaze shifting from the Bands to Falcon Gray.
The birdman keeps up with the Avian Perpetual Motion Machine.
“No resistance? No scanners? Nothing?” I ask, disbelieving.
Warren shakes his head. “It was criminally easy.”
Criminally easy. Certainly an irony for the fortified stronghold of the Heroic Legion.
“Give me a sitrep,” Warren says.
The phrasing is a little too Tom Clancy for my taste, but I relent. “We haven’t tripped any security measures, either. Samson Knight and Great Alexander are in the Planning Room surrounded by Kiltechs.”
“Let’s get ’em out of there,” Warren says, smacking a wet gloved fist against a wet gloved palm.
Holy Burt Ward impression, Comet!
“We can’t,” my mother says. “Samson Knight and Great Alexander are working with the Kiltechs.”
Warren tilts his head. “With the Kiltechs? Or for the Kiltechs?”
“We’re not sure,” I tell him. “We saw one of those silver strips with the flashing lights on Sammy’s neck. My guess is his cooperation is coerced.”
Warren puts a hand up to his left ear. “You getting this, Dad? Dad?”
My hand shoots up to my own earpiece, and I realize we’re getting nothing but static.
I Liked Legion HQ Better When People Didn’t Attack Me
For just a second, Warren Kensington IV becomes the angry, scared teenager I met back in the Sanctum Cometus in New Chaos City. He regains his composure a second later. “We’re down several levels. A lot of concrete and steel around here. I bet it’s blocking the signal.”
“Reasonable enough,” Jaci says. She doesn’t sound entirely convinced.
“He’s supposed to be coordinating our operations on the Bands’ ship,” Warren says. “I would hate to find out—”
A wailing klaxon sends us all into high gear. Warren takes a defensive position behind a sink while I zip toward the door. Kiltech soldiers rush by the window, but they don’t seem interested in what’s going on around the locker room.
“They’re going right past us,” Warren whispers. “Keep down. Don’t want a curious Kiltech getting a free look.”
The thundering, clanking footsteps slow before stopping entirely. We don’t move for a few more seconds, just to be sure.
“What can you see in the Planning Room?” I ask Klem.
He projects another orange beam to give us a closer look at the command center. Four Kiltechs remain inside with the Legion’s leaders. The alarms continue to blare.
“This is our chance,” Warren says. “Maybe we can get both Samson Knight and Great Alexander out.”
One day, the pressures of heroism will suck the optimism right out of the kid. Let’s hope that day’s a long way off.
When we reach the main door of the Planning Room, my mother rips it right off the reinforced hinges. Sometimes it’s easy to forget the raw strength she possesses.
Before the soldiers have even turned to see the door vanish, I’ve taken down two Kiltechs. Miss Lightspeed makes quick work of the other two, leaving our little raiding party standing toe-to-toe with Samson Knight and Great Alexander.
