by Andy Briggs
The helicopter was now circling overhead with a loud clatter of rotors. A hesitant voice boomed over the aircraft’s loudspeaker.
“You in the … uh … car on the roof. Come out with your hands up!”
Jake examined the multitude of options on the screen. They were all labeled with icons. What was it with these people—couldn’t they just spell out what the buttons did? Jake had a feeling Basilisk had touched the button that showed an image of the SkyKar.
Jake pressed it.
The SkyKar whined to life and spoke: “Autopilot engaged.”
“Way to go!” he screamed jubilantly.
The vehicle shot up vertically, surprising the helicopter pilot who thrust aside sharply. Jake instinctively pushed himself back in his seat, as the chopper’s lethal rotors filled the windshield as he sped past.
Soon they would be in the clouds, and speeding toward safety. The SkyKar suddenly shuddered. Jake heard several heavy thumps against the fuselage as a pair of bullet holes punctured the SkyKar’s nose.
They were shooting at him.
“What’re you doing?” Jake screamed. He’d watched enough police chase shows on television to know that police helicopters were not supposed to be armed. But he saw the sharpshooter hanging from the side door of the chopper as it banked around.
The rifle was aimed in his direction—until a muzzle flash and a violent thud came from underneath. The computer screen glitched: “You have manual control.” The SkyKar stopped ascending, and hovered in the air.
“What? No! I don’t want manual control. I want to get out of here!” shouted Jake. The vehicle lurched as he thumped the control stick. He looked up to see the helicopter bearing down on him.
“Land now, or we will shoot you down!” came the voice of the chopper pilot.
“Don’t you know I have a hostage? You’ll kill us both!” Of course they couldn’t hear his panicked cries. He also knew that unless he took the controls he’d be history.
He gripped the control column, and his fingers rested on a set of hand grips and buttons like they’d done many times on his game console at home. His feet found a set of pedals, and he hoped his instincts would get him through this. He tried to recall Basilisk’s actions when they had been outmaneuvering the Typhoon fighters.
The SkyKar suddenly jolted low, just underneath the helicopter, which rotated to give chase. It was a skillful move—even though Jake had been attempting to rise over the chopper.
“Controls are inverted!” he said through gritted teeth. And, unlike his computer games, Jake doubted there would be an option to reconfigure them.
The ground rose up to greet Jake, and he pulled back hard on the stick. The SkyKar leveled out three feet above the traffic. He zoomed past parked cars, the air pressure setting off their alarms. Three police cars squealed in pursuit, the helicopter thundering just above them.
Jake pulled on the stick, and swung the SkyKar around into another street. He was going so fast he barely made the turn—the underbelly of the vehicle shattered several office windows as he slewed wide, scraping a building. Jake leveled out. The gallery was in a quiet part of the city, but now he had just turned onto one of the main avenues, and the Saturday traffic below squealed to a halt as the drivers and pedestrians watched the SkyKar race overhead.
Below, the police were struggling to keep up. One took the turn wide and crashed into another car whose driver had stopped midway past a crossroads to gape at the flying car.
Jake glanced at the dashboard and saw one button that resembled a camera. He pressed it and the monitor screen turned into a split view of what was behind and below him. He could see the police chopper was hot on his tail. Jake didn’t have the expertise to lose the helicopter. He’d have to rely on something else.
He gently released the control stick, and the craft remained steady and straight. The road below was long, so Jake took the chance to open the door and lean out. The air blasted his ears, and caused his good eye to smart. He kept one hand firmly gripping the door frame, twisted himself backward, and leaned as far as he dared to face the pursuing helicopter.
He saw the sharpshooter raise his gun—then hesitate when he realized Jake was only a boy.
A bad mistake.
Jake extended his hand. He was mad at himself for messing up such a simple job; that anger manifested itself in his superpowers.
Millions of tiny pellets issued from Jake’s hand, like black ball bearings. They extended into a thick cloud of hail that the copter flew straight into. The effect was instantaneous.
The chopper’s windshield shattered, and the rest of the fuselage was peppered with pinholes. The pellets struck through to the engine and instantly caused metal to grind against metal. Black smoke poured from the engine, as fragments of the rotor were torn off.
In seconds, the helicopter dropped from the sky. The damaged rotors slowly revolved as the air forced them to turn, something pilots called autorotation—effectively serving as a parachute and saving the crew inside.
The chopper landed on top of a bus, the roof of which crumpled, tipping the helicopter sidelong onto a taxi. The rotors shattered as they hit the road; people scattered in all directions.
A smile crawled across Jake’s face as he watched. “No way!” He’d broken things before, but nothing on this scale.
He pulled the gull-wing door shut. Catching his breath he thumbed the autopilot button. It didn’t respond.
“Come on!” He snarled and irritably punched the dashboard. The autopilot light suddenly flashed on, and the computer confirmed it.
Jake forced himself to relax as the SkyKar sharply angled up and accelerated. His hostage was peacefully slumbering next to him.
He’d done it: his first solo task, and he’d enjoyed it—the suspense, the thrill of the chase, and the ultimate sensation of living on the edge. Jake Hunter was officially a supervillain, and he felt proud.
What he didn’t know was that his picture was currently being circulated by police forces across the country, and then passed on to worldwide antiterrorist units. By the time Jake had returned to Basilisk’s hideout, he had become the most wanted criminal in the country.
And by the following week, he would be the most wanted supervillain in the world.
Just Another Day
To say it had been a strange weekend would have been a gross understatement. Jake lay on his bed, in the familiar surroundings of his home. He was feeling restless as he gazed blankly at the ceiling, his mind churning over recent events.
Returning to Basilisk’s volcanic paradise had been straightforward. The supervillain had started to ask Jake if the mission went smoothly, but the question drifted from his lips when he saw the bullet holes peppering the SkyKar. The swelling in Jake’s eye had faded, and he’d finally got his sight back. Embarrassed, Jake had to tell Basilisk about the police pursuit across the city. Basilisk didn’t say a word, but his fists clenched with an audible crunch.
Then Jake was left alone for a while, and he decided to take the opportunity to get some fresh air and explore the island. As he soared up the access tunnel leading to the surface, he could feel the warm tropical air on his face. But as he emerged, the bright sunshine started to hurt his eyes and gave him a headache. His skin felt raw, as though his face had been severely sunburned. It was a bizarre reaction to a beautiful day, and it forced Jake back underground, wondering if his sister’s omen about him falling ill was coming true.
Basilisk strode into the hangar, interrupting his thoughts. “I’ve issued the ransom demand to Ramius’s people, so now we wait. I’m sure they’re crooked enough to want to keep this out of the way of law enforcement. If that’s possible after half the cops in the country saw you kidnap him!”
“My skin is burning!” Jake said, ignoring Basilisk’s accusation.
“Ah, as I feared. You’re becoming photosensitive.”
“Huh?”
“It means you are becoming sensitive to light. In this case, bright UV ra
ys, like you get from the sun. Don’t let it worry you. We’re near the equator. The sun is stronger here than anywhere else in the world.”
“But why? I never used to be photo … whatever.”
Basilisk hesitated. “There are occasional side effects from long-term exposure to your superpowers.”
Jake scowled. “You said there were no side effects!”
“They’re very rare,” Basilisk said levelly. “Now, you will return home until phase three.”
And so Jake sat aboard the hastily patched-up SkyKar and was ferried home. Basilisk’s last words puzzled him during the flight home.
“Keep your head down, and don’t mention this to anyone. We’ll talk soon.” He understood that their devious plan was not something he could divulge to friends. But why would he have to keep his head down?
Jake arrived at his house and walked straight into the living room where his parents were watching television. He was about to tell them his preprepared lie about what he’d done with his friends, when his mother shot him a look of concern.
“Jake, do you feel okay?”
“Fine, why?”
“You look very pale. As if you’re sick. Have you been sleeping okay?”
Jake assured her that he had been and tried to leave the room, but his eyes strayed to the news.
An anchorman was talking about an attempted bank robbery in the city the day before. The sudden surge in violence across the country had prompted the mobilization of SWAT teams. And it was one such air patrol that had tried to foil a kidnapping. The ensuing car chase had caused chaos, the reporter said, but Jake noticed there was no mention of the fact that his car was flying.
Then the image changed to a fuzzy shot of Jake himself. It was a close-up as he hung from the SkyKar, taken from an angle that didn’t make it apparent that he had been in midair. Blurred or not, there was no mistaking that it was Jake.
He felt a sudden streak of terror turn his stomach. His parents watched the report, failing to make the connection with the image on the screen and their son. But Jake was certain that they would any minute.
The anchorman continued to inform the public that the suspect was wanted for both the kidnapping and the bank robbery.
“Police consider him armed and dangerous,” the newscaster said directly to the camera. Jake felt the man’s accusing gaze was boring into him. “Do not approach him, and if you have any information that may lead to his arrest, contact the police as soon as possible. There is a reward.”
The telephone rang. Jake’s eyes shot to it, but his limbs refused to move. His mother leaned across and picked it up.
“Hello?” she said.
Jake knew this was the moment his parents would discover his secret. The moment his newfound chance in life would slip from his grasp.
But his mother shrieked with laughter down the telephone. It was one of her work friends calling with gossip.
Jake bolted from the room and took refuge in his bed with a growing sense of dread. He kept away from everybody on Sunday and avoided the television and any news Web sites. He regularly checked his e-mail, but there was nothing from Basilisk.
“It’s not fair,” he thought, being dependent on the villain. Basilisk had already lied to him about side effects, so what else would he do? Jake just didn’t trust him.
He could hardly believe that he was looking forward to returning to school the next day. Anything to derail his obsessive thoughts.
Jake tensed when he walked past Patel’s newsstand and saw a display with the New York Times headline on it, and the blown-up picture of him in the SkyKar. He was now Public Enemy Number One. Jake studied the picture and decided with relief that maybe identifying him wasn’t so easy.
Feeling a little more reassured he walked through the school gates. As usual everybody cleared from his path, but this time he was thankful for it. Rain had been falling hard since he woke up, and the air was unseasonably warm. His mother had been rambling on about the crazy weather all morning. He didn’t mind getting wet though, as the clouds blocked the sunlight, and his skin didn’t tingle as badly.
He almost walked past his gang, who had the Professor pinned against a wall, threatening him. Jake had to laugh. It seemed they were getting interference from another kid, who Jake knew was Lorna’s brother, Toby. Toby was somebody Jake always left alone because of Lorna. It wouldn’t look good beating up the brother of a girl he liked. Scuffer looked over and waved, but Jake kept on walking.
“Jake!”
The voice snapped him out of his thoughts. He turned to see Lorna struggling to enter a classroom, her arms filled with books. Her usual bright smile faltered when she saw his face.
“You okay?” she asked.
Jake bit back a snappy reply. She was somebody he wanted to keep as a friend, so instead he gallantly opened the door for her. “I’m just feeling a bit run down. Haven’t been sleeping much.” Well, at least that was true.
Lorna was grateful for the assistance and hesitated as she entered the classroom. “Thanks. I heard about you saving Mr. Falconer. That was a very brave thing to do, especially after what he did to you.” She blushed and looked away.
Jake didn’t know what to say. If Lorna knew about Mr. Falconer, then the whole school would definitely be talking about it.
“You’ll have to tell me about it,” she continued. “You know. After school some time?”
Her cheeks were burning now and she glanced behind him. “Your fan club’s here. See you around.” She slipped into the classroom, and the door swung shut as Jake felt Knuckles’s big hands slap him on the shoulders so hard his knees buckled.
“Hey, Hunter, what’s up?”
Jake’s thoughts jumbled in his head. One minute he was worrying about being a wanted man, and now he was trying to figure out if he’d just been asked out on a date. He could deal with the notoriety, but girls were uncharted territory. He pulled himself together; Lorna was another item on the growing list of things he didn’t want his friends knowing about.
“Knucks. Hey, guys.”
Scuffer walked alongside him; never one to make direct eye contact, he looked even more shifty than usual. “Where’ve you been all week?”
“I have the worst luck. As soon as we’re not in school, I get ill.”
“Is that right?” mumbled Scuffer.
“You look sick,” Big Tony said with a trace of concern. “I’m not going to get it, am I? Don’t wanna lose my appetite.”
“No chance,” thought Jake, but tactfully remained silent.
“Is that all?” pressed Scuffer.
Jake paused; his companions walked several steps onward before they noticed he had stopped. A few days away from his friends made him realize what a dull life they led and how much better it had been without their constant dares and immature behavior. Maybe Jake was finally growing up. But he was suspicious of Scuffer’s tone. “What do you mean?”
Scuffer gave a forced, humourless smile. “Nothin.’ Just meant: is that all? You didn’t get up to anythin’ else? You know, flyin’ around … with your family or somethin’?”
Jake narrowed his eyes as he scrutinized his friends. The three of them looked in every direction except his. The school bell rang, breaking the tension.
“Later,” Jake said bluntly before he turned and walked away.
Out of earshot, Scuffer confided to the others. “See, he’s actin’ weird. I told ya, but you don’t believe me. Swear I saw him get into some sort of flying thingy the other night. Somethin’ strange is going on!”
Knuckles laughed. “We heard you before, and you’re still mental.”
“I don’t understand,” said Big Tony. “If you think he’s an alien, why is he in school?”
Knuckles broke into laughter. “Yeah, Scuff. You’re just losing it.”
Scuffer winced as they laughed, his cheeks burning red from embarrassment. He hated being the butt of any joke, and he was certain about what he’d seen. There was something strange
going on with Jake Hunter, and he was going to find out exactly what it was.
* * *
Jake was on edge all morning, convinced that a teacher or student was going to single him out and accuse him of the kidnapping. But nothing was mentioned. His fear was then overshadowed by his sudden heroic status as word got around that he had saved Mr. Falconer. Of course a parallel rumor circulated that he had been the cause of the blaze. As the gossip took on a life of its own, Jake noticed people staring at him from whispered huddles, but with looks of curiosity rather than fear. It was as if he had become a celebrity. He wouldn’t admit it, but he had a feeling that he would enjoy being famous.
Or infamous.
Later in computer class, Jake reluctantly started the assignment he’d been given, to research how a small local business could grow through e-commerce, when a thought struck him. Basilisk had mentioned that he was originally from Canberra, Australia. Jake tried to remember what he said he’d been called. His fingers drummed the desk as he searched his memory, and when he glanced up he caught Scuffer quickly looking away. Jake angled his monitor so Scuffer couldn’t see. His friend tried not to react, but Jake couldn’t help but notice the scowl across his face.
Baker, that was it. Scott Baker. Jake typed the name and location into Google along with any other keywords that would help him find information: ARMY, ACCIDENT.
The search engine churned through its immense database in a fraction of a second and returned over a hundred thousand hits. Only one successfully matched all of his keywords “Scott Baker Army Accident.” Jake clicked on it.
A scanned newspaper article from the Canberra Times showed a picture of a young soldier, in full army uniform. The headline read: LOCAL HERO KILLED IN FREAK ACCIDENT. Jake read more, but the details were sketchy: apparently it had to do with an army supply tanker flipping off the road; the soldier had been crushed underneath. It wasn’t of much use to Jake.
“Killed?” murmured Jake. “Something’s not right here.”
