by Matt Adams
“When they experimented on super-powered beings, they encountered someone as fast as you. They planned to use that individual to power this machine. They tried to upgrade him, but the implants caused mental instability. Now, their experiment is on the run.”
“He’s the Bluestreak,” I realize. “I’ve had a couple run-ins with him. The guy’s fast.”
“Dangerously so,” the High Imperator says. “He’s obsessed with hitting something called ‘Perfect Speed,’ a velocity that could create an uncontrollable rift in the multiversal plane. We need to stop him.”
“I don’t know that Chris can,” Jaci interrupts. “He’s lost to that guy twice.”
“I wouldn’t exactly say I lost to him,” I counter. My father and the High Imperator give me twin looks of skepticism. “But he is pretty quick.”
“So are you,” my father says, tensing. “I’ve mentioned speed rifts before. Hell, we studied them for a while… the way you can displace yourelf when you hit higher velocities. I extrapolated your ability to create the machine that transported the alternate Miss Lightspeed to our world. The High Imperator replicated that signature to travel to our reality after he detected it.”
“The Crusading Comet and Warren theorized the same thing,” I reveal. “I take it the Kiltechs have managed to crank that up to eleven?”
“I’m afraid so. They’ve magnified your powers as much as possible,” Dad says, pointing again toward the domed structure. “But they can’t control the rift without a power source. Their preferred battery for this is the Bluestreak. You have to keep him away from the Kiltechs.”
“I’ll do what I can,” I promise. “But I need a favor from you guys.”
“What is it?” my father asks.
“We came here for the dual purpose of rescuing you and stopping the Kiltechs’ joyless ‘goodwill tours.’ I’ve got the Crusading Comet and Falcon Gray working on that right now. They could probably use a hand.”
Dad holds up his hands. “We’ll do everything we can—”
The lights flicker for just a second, followed by a series of irritating beeps and trills. Both versions of Colonel Chaos take positions in front of a large viewscreen next to their interdimensional transporter.
“It appears we’re not as thoroughly in control of this wing as we thought,” the High Imperator says. “They’ve looped through the back-channel. They figured out the exploit.” His fingers race across the controls as the viewscreen changes so quickly, even I can’t keep up. The deck shakes.
Dad, working at a separate display, types with urgency. “That wasn’t the Kiltechs. That came from outside.” He swings the display around so the other Chaos can see it. A massive band of orange sits in the middle of space. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what it is, even though I’m in a room with two of them.
“The cavalry has arrived,” I say flatly. I see a dazzling burst of white light.
“I wouldn’t dare call them the cavalry,” a new voice says. I recognize it immediately.
“Morty?!” I blurt out.
The Kensington family manservant and trusted aide de camp stands before us, his expression the typical Morty mask of disapproval. He doesn’t wear his trademark dinner jacket with tails or the white gloves that undoubtedly put every square inch of the Sanctum Cometus to the test. His dark-rimmed spectacles are gone as well. Two additions grab my attention: a bushy mustache and the body armor of the Crusading Comet.
My father scrutinizes his computer display. “I’m not getting any strange readings. Frankly, I think I should be getting some.”
Morty coughs into his hand. “It is so good to see you, too, Mr. Fairborne.” He freezes when he sees the High Imperator. “And Mr. Fairborne. Ah, yes, the joys of the reality with the crossover.” He directs a warm smile at Jaci. “Miss Graves,” he says, taking her hand. “A pleasure to be in the presence of such grace.”
The High Imperator scowls. “I thought I killed this man.”
“You did,” I remind him bitterly. “Sometimes these things have a way of coming back.”
“Don’t think about it too hard,” Morty says, beaming at the High Imperator. “The Fairborne brain is such a fragile thing. I would hate for you to strain it.”
“How is this possible?” Jaci asks.
“Many possibilities exist in the infinite cosmos,” Morty says. “And I am one of them. Now, if you’ll allow me, I must abscond with Christopher.”
“Where are you taking him?” Colonel Chaos asks—both of them, in eerie unison.
“A safe place,” Morty says mysteriously. He pats me on the shoulder. “Ship-shape, chap. Ship-shape. It is time for you to meet the Five.” He turns to the others. “It was very nice seeing all of you.”
The Kiltechs’ machine, a double dose of Chaos, and my girlfriend all dissolve. I have no choice but to squeeze Morty’s arm as tightly as I can.
Tuesdays with Morty… But I’m Not Sure It’s Actually Tuesday
When we get wherever we’re going, I immediately go down on one knee. My entire body feels like someone stuffed me in a suitcase, ran it through customs, flew it cross-country, strapped it to the top of a cab, and drove through the country roads of southern Indiana for three days before careening off a cliff.
Through the haze, my eyes vaguely perceive several figures standing around me, probably gawking and staring and generally making me feel uncomfortable. All of them wear some variation of blue or blue armor.
Morty helps me to my feet. “I admit the transportation can be quite jarring,” he says. “It becomes easier with frequent trips.”
“Where are we?” I blubber. We stand inside a room with sandstone walls and stone floors.
“Now that is a question I cannot provide a simple answer to, Christopher. Perhaps you should’ve asked ‘when’ or ‘how.’ Or perhaps ‘where’ is the operative word. It is hard to say. But we are so very glad to see you.”
As my brain starts to catch up to me, wherever I am, my surroundings become clearer. An assortment of Crusading Comets stands in front of us. I count five of them. “I take it these guys are the Five?”
“Indeed they are,” Morty confirms. “It is time for you to help them.”
“Temporal multiversal displacement is quite disorienting,” Morty says.
“Tell me about it,” I reply absent-mindedly.
I can’t help but stare at his mustache, a silver-white masterpiece that would make William Howard Taft or Sam Elliot envious. The immutable law of mirror universes tells me that the appearance of such facial hair makes this version of Morty suspect. Have I encountered Evil Morty?
He smiles, an action that pushes up his mustache ever so slightly. “Is there something wrong, my dear boy?”
I gesture toward my own face, tracing imaginary facial hair. “You know... just the... uh... ”
His smile trails off, and Morty scratches his head. “I’m afraid I do not follow, Christopher. Is this one of your jests?”
“What is that thing on your face?!” I blurt out with all the subtlety of Michael Scott.
The question comes out with such force that Morty flinches. He strokes his mustache protectively—I suppose it’s better than twirling it Snidely Whiplash style. “I’ve worn this ever since I came to America. My mum always told me it looked quite distinguished.”
“Mothers tend to lie about those things,” I say, eyeing him suspiciously.
“I have nothing but the best of intentions. Sincerely,” he says. “I understand this is difficult for you. Looks aside, I’m not much different from the Mortimer P. Willoughby you knew. I suspect the mustache is the least of your problems. Shifting to another universe is hard on the body and the mind.” He hands me a cup of tea. “I find that this helps ease the discomfort.”
Tea. This is Morty, all right. I’ve never been a big fan of tea—it’s a British concession—but the least I can do is have a spot of tea for old time’s sake. I haven’t seen Morty in three years. So what if he’s grown that
... thing. It almost looks stately on him. Almost.
“You’ve been getting my messages?” he asks expectantly, sipping from his own cup. It’s china, with a saucer. Even here--wherever here is—Morty’s always proper. I doubt an “evil” Morty would bother with such decorum.
My turn to sip. “I heard you once, maybe twice. You said I was the only one who could defeat the Bluestreak, mentioned something about helping ‘the Five.’ I broke my own speed records while trying to chase some schmoe who moved and dressed like me, only in blue. I couldn’t keep up.”
The butler places his tea on the saucer with a ceramic clink. “You can keep up with him, Christopher. You must. The Bluestreak is unbalanced, dangerously so. Obsessed with going faster than any being has ever gone before, determined to do it on Earth. If he reaches this velocity—this ‘Perfect Speed’—he will trigger an uncontrolled, unmanaged merging of the multiverses. Infinite Earths will fold over upon themselves, obliterating all possible universes. We liken it to another big bang, this one starting the universe anew.”
It’s at this precise moment I realize my headache isn’t going away.
Another sip. “You got some sugar for this?”
Morty rolls his eyes and pushes a container toward me. “You Americans and your sugar. Too much is never enough.” He sighs slightly. “It is so good to see you again.”
“Likewise, even if you’re a different Morty,” I say.
He allows himself a soft smile, but something chases it away from his lips. “Infinite realities do allow for such things.”
“I watched our reality’s Morty get struck down right in front of me. We—that’s Warren the Fourth and me—always held out hope that you had one great escape left. Turns out we were right, kind of.”
The butler swallows, undermining his usual stiff upper lip act. “Young Warren. Gone before his time, I’m afraid. And you as well.”
“How did it happen?”
“There are infinite possibilities, Christopher. Some realities mirror others almost to the tiniest detail. Our worlds are close, from what I’ve gathered, but still more than different enough. Your father instituted a worldwide government that thrived in freedom, peace, and prosperity. Then a vicious despot named Wainwright overthrew him.”
Sadly, a reality exists in which the world’s worst supervillain can actually win at something.
“You and Warren the Fourth teamed up to confront this Wainwright, who killed both of you. Warren was young—just seventeen years old—and the last remaining Crusading Comet. His father died during the original Kiltech Infestation.” Morty softly pats his armor. “I took up the mantle of the Crusading Comet in their honor.”
“Not bad for a three-hundred-year-old man,” I quip.
He ignores the jab. “You’ve been gone from my world for two years. You were an untidy houseguest, relatively rude, and a chronic practical joker. Yet you tried to guide the boy. Young Warren didn’t have many friends. The life of a legacy superhero seldom allows for such things, but you provided that and earned my respect for it.”
“My Warren would give anything to see you again,” I tell Morty. “So would his father.”
“All in due time. For now, however, we have some pressing matters to which we must attend. The Kiltechs, of course, must be stopped. I believe that is where you’ve focused your efforts so far?”
“We don’t take too kindly to alien invaders who plan to destroy all of Earth’s realities because they got their feelings hurt during an interstellar brouhaha,” I tell him.
“Have you considered another possibility? Did it seem perhaps overly convenient for a group of powerful beings like the Orange Bands to come to your rescue at precisely the right moment?” he asks.
“They’ve proved helpful, in their own way,” I respond.
“They’ve proved helpful in their own interest, an important distinction,” Morty says. “Their technology is quite powerful, and they have aspirations to rule the universe. At first, I too thought they had arrived to help humanity against the Kiltech threat, but they are deceptive beings.” He reaches for a pouch on his belt and draws out a blue Band of Power.
“Blue Bands? So these guys come in different colors, huh?”
“All the colors of the rainbow, Christopher. It appears blue to me as well, but this is actually an Indigo Band. I wouldn’t care except for the fact that the Indigo Bands are rather insistent on my calling this indigo. I detect a certain… rivalry with the Blue Bands. Regardless of hue distinctions, they came to me in the guise of stopping a war that would end all realities. They insisted that humanity was the key. I was initially awestruck by their powers, but I soon realized that something else was at play.”
“We’ve had a few trust issues with the Orange Bands,” I tell him. “They seem to enjoy holding back important information.”
“I imagine the Bands of all spectrums work that way. Their different colors—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet—have been isolated. You see, the Kiltechs and Bands once worked together on a great intergalactic council that maintains order in the universe. The Kiltechs made a power play, and then the Bands betrayed them while staking their own claim on universal dominance.
“But there are greater powers at work. Before the Bands could create their own empire, their different spectrums were cut off, each one stranded in a different reality.”
“This is a very fascinating look at intergalactic politics, Morty. I really hope we’re able to get the Trade Federation and the Klingon Empire on our side,” I say, pointing to the right side of the room, “but what the hell does that have to do with those guys?”
“The Bands are trying to reunite their seven spectrums, Christopher. The Orange Bands may have invaded your reality, but the other colors invaded other realities. And so… there is you, there is me, and there are the five Crusading Comets.”
He gestures toward the first Crusading Comet, who wears blue and black armor like the Crusading Comet I know, though the helmet is less rounded and looks more like something a cyclist would wear during the Tour de France.
“This is Warren Kensington, Senior,” Morty says. “He’s the first Crusading Comet on his planet, a media mogul who uses his newspapers and TV stations to root out corruption and protect his identity. Yes, superheroes and the media,” he says, catching my incredulous look. “It seems one can’t exist without the other. A young man in his mid-twenties, he has inherited a great sum of money, but has not yet decided to ‘continue the family business,’ so to speak.”
This Comet removes his helmet, revealing a youthful, clean-shaven face falling in between Warren the Third and Warren the Fourth. Call him the Comet Version 1.0.
“You’ll notice the flow of time on some of our parallel Earths doesn’t quite sync. That brings me to our next Crusading Comet. This is Lord Byron Percy Kensington the Sixth. The name is a Shelley joke of universal lunacy. The flow of time in his world puts contemporary society in the Victorian era.”
Unlike the smooth, non-textured armor of the first Comet, this one wears rough, heavy armor that almost looks stonewashed. A fabric belt is slung around his waist, accompanied by a large grappler. Unlike the modern grappler I’ve seen Warren and his father use, this one is a work of art, with a rounded silver handle and a series of idiosyncratic valves and gears. The helmet for this Comet is pointed and riveted and seemingly made of dull steel. Tinted goggles cover narrow eye slits and hoses connect to a power pack on Lord Byron’s back.
He is, for lack of a better description, a steampunk Crusading Comet.
Well, I guess steampunk’s big these days.
“In his world, he is the sixth Crusading Comet, with the traditions of his forebears stretching back to the Templar Era. A true crusader, indeed.”
The Steampunk Comet nods and gestures toward the next in line, a Comet in sleek, shiny metallic blue armor. Unlike the other Comets, this one goes beyond a man in a suit. It’s more like streamlined mech gear, coupled with what I can on
ly guess are rocket boots and advanced targeting systems. For the comic book layman, this is Crusading Comet, Iron Man-style.
“Who’s this guy?” I ask.
A loud hiss fills the room and the Comet takes off a helmet to reveal…
Warren’s long-lost identical twin sister, complete with curls of long, blonde hair.
“I’m Wynne Kensington,” she says.
“In her reality, the Kensingtons are masters of electronic warfare. In the twenty-third century, she is the twelfth Crusading Comet. Interestingly enough, she has also led the effort to privatize world security. ‘A Comet on every planet,’ I believe the company’s mission statement reads. Quite fascinating.”
The next Comet in line wears a simple navy blue uniform that hugs her body.
“This is Jaclyn Graves Kensington,” Morty says. “She is more of a ‘lurk in the shadows’ type, although she possesses limited natural flight powers. In her world, her parents—Warren Kensington the Fourth and Jaci Graves—were gunned down by a mafia crime lord. This inspired her to launch an all-out war on crime, using her family’s considerable wealth to do so.”
I wait for a smile from the Fourth Comet that never comes. She looks down at the floor, her cape billowing despite the lack of any discernible breeze. I infer that on her Earth, Warren and Jaci hooked up and then she stole Batman’s origin story.
Perhaps the multiverses should be destroyed after all.
The final Comet is taller than the rest, but wears no body armor and no mask. Instead, a cloak embroidered with moons and stars and comets is draped across his shoulders. I can see the hint of Kensington family lineage in his features, a mash-up of the Warren Kensingtons I know.
“This final Comet is Warren Lucius Caster Kensington, master of the dark arts.”
“So he’s from medieval times? Thinks he’s an alchemist or something?”
The big man laughs—and he sounds like Warren. “No, Chris! While you and I were stopping a doomsday device, I stumbled upon an ancient magic amulet. When the device blew up, everyone thought I was dead. Instead, I was given access to powers no one ever dreamed of.”
