Action Figures - Issue Six: Power Play

by Michael Bailey

  “Ah.”

  That’s the last thing anyone says throughout the drive home. We’re too exhausted to talk, and me, I’m too fascinated by how abandoned Kingsport feels. It’s early afternoon — oh my God, it’s early afternoon? — and there are barely any signs of life. The Kingsport Plaza parking lot should be full, but it’s absolutely barren, and none of the businesses appear to be open. Same goes for the three gas stations at the next intersection and the supermarket beyond that. The Dunkin’ Donuts right before my road is closed, and if a Dunkie’s in New England is in lockdown, you know things are serious.

  Matt rolls up to the curb in front of my house. I wrestle out of my cloak and ball it up so I’m only a little conspicuous, and then I sit there, hugging my ball of cloak and trying not to vomit out of sheer terror. Everything from serial killers to demons have tried to kill me, and I’ve shrugged it off, but what I’m about to do now — what I have to do now scares the living hell out of me.

  “Last chance to stop me,” I say to Matt, secretly praying for a miraculous brainstorm.

  Instead, I get a Willy Wonka reference. “Stop. Don’t. Come back,” he says.

  “Really? That’s it?”

  Matt sighs heavily. “I know you have to tell her. You don’t have any choice.” He pauses. “All I ask is that you don’t let her tell my parents.”

  I glance back at Stuart. “You do what you have to do,” he says.

  “What they said,” Missy says, and then she goes right back to sleep.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  Matt waits at the curb until I reach the front door. I wave at him. He waves back then pulls away.

  I grab the doorknob. It takes me a few minutes to muster the courage to open the door.

  Christina is where Carrie and I left her this morning: on the couch, in her bathrobe, glued to the TV. I think she’s even clutching the same mug of coffee. She jumps up when I enter, her expressions flipping through surprise, relief, anger, concern.

  “Sara, where have you been?” she demands. “I got a call from Matt’s parents and they said you never — what are you wearing? Where’s Carrie? I’ve been worried sick about you two! Where have you been all day?! I called and called and neither of you picked up the —”

  “Christina, please,” I say. “I need to tell you something.”

  Her runaway emotional train comes to an abrupt stop at Panic Station. “Where’s Carrie?” she says, barely above a whisper.

  “Sit down. Please.” I pick up the remote control and turn off the TV, cutting off a reporter in the middle of harassing the governor about the alien invasion.

  “Where’s Carrie?” Christina repeats.

  “She’s okay,” I say instinctively. Maybe I’m not lying. Oh, God, where do I begin? I should have rehearsed this. When in doubt, begin at the beginning, I guess. “Christina, do you remember the day you told Carrie you were divorcing her dad?”

  She does a double take. “What does that have to do with —?”

  “Do you remember?”

  “Yes, I remember it.”

  “Do you remember Carrie ran off? She was gone for hours?”

  “Yes...”

  Bombs away.

  “She found a dying alien in the woods. The alien gave Carrie his powers, and after she moved to Kingsport with you, she became a super-hero. She’s Lightstorm.”

  Christina laughs, but it’s an empty, hollow sound — an instinctive reaction to something so ludicrous it couldn’t possibly be true.

  The floodgates open, and I tell Christina everything — everything about Carrie’s life as Lightstorm: Archimedes, the Thrasher rampage on Main Street, her various encounters with Manticore, the Foreman and his shadowy organization, Black Betty and all the mayhem she unleashed, Buzzkill Joy, the King of Pain, the breakout at Byrne, Galt and the Black End and the dreadnought and the Vanguard.

  Partway through my epic, rambling monolog, Christina’s legs give out. I move to catch her, but she shoves me away. She manages to stagger back to the couch before collapsing. She sits there with a blank, distant gaze throughout the rest of my story, and near the end, I’m wondering if she’s even listening to me anymore.

  I wait for a reaction, my heart pounding so hard it makes my entire head throb.

  “Where’s Carrie?” she says after God knows how long.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know where she is or how long she’ll be gone. The aliens said she went willingly, so —”

  “Oh, the aliens said she went willingly?” Christina says with a manic laugh. “Well, then, I guess if the aliens said Carrie went willingly everything’s all right, isn’t it?!” She leaps off the couch. I retreat as she charges at me, screaming, “My daughter is missing and all you give me is some insane story about her running off with a bunch of aliens?!”

  I cower in the corner of the living room, unable to move or speak as Christina tears into me, questions and accusations and denials pouring out of her in an incoherent stream that fails to express a fraction of the gut-wrenching terror and frustration and sheer helplessness she’s feeling. The psychic battering is worse than the verbal assault. I’m so wiped out I can’t focus well enough to keep my defenses up. Her emotions hit me like an avalanche, crushing me under their weight. I sink to the floor, my arms wrapped around my head, like I’m expecting Christina to lash out and hit me. I don’t know how long it goes on, how long I sit there curled into a fetal position, before Christina completely spends her anguish. She falls back, sitting hard on the floor in front of me, and clutches at her hair. Her face is bright red and stained with tears and snot.

  “I want my little girl,” she rasps, her throat raw. “I want my little girl back.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say in a pathetic squeak. “I’m so sorry.”

  I force myself to stand. I run upstairs and start to throw clothes into my backpack, enough to last me for several days.

  I don’t think I have a home here anymore.

  THREE

  The television news stations have been recycling the same information for several hours now, and meager information at that: a mix of first-hand eyewitness accounts from people who didn’t see much, chatter picked up on unencrypted public radio channels, and a great deal of idle speculation passed off as fact by deskbound anchors pressured into filling airtime until something substantiated comes along.

  Her operative in the area has been silent, but not unexpectedly so. He had other, public responsibilities to attend to first in the interest of maintaining his cover before he could turn his focus toward his other job — his real job. She remains anxious nevertheless. The ship’s appearance was wholly unexpected. This could change everything.

  A soft ding draws her attention away from the television, toward the private elevator at the far end of her cavernous and equally private office. The doors slide open, and a man in a rumpled suit steps out. Normally, he maintains an impeccable appearance as a matter of personal pride, but an early morning phone call leading to a hastily booked cross-country redeye flight tends to diminish one’s attention to personal detailing.

  “Mr. Nemo,” she says. “Thank you for coming out on such short notice.”

  “Of course, ma’am,” John Nemo says. “My business in Seattle was finished anyway.”

  “Good.” She waits for Nemo to take a seat then gestures toward the wall of muted TV screens. “I assume you’ve been keeping up with the news of the day?”

  “I have,” Nemo says with a rare note of awe. In the course of carrying out his duties for the woman he knows only as Sharona, Nemo has met the incredible and witnessed the improbable, but until today, he has never experienced such a powerful and humbling sense of wonder.

  “The news has been frustratingly stingy with usable information,” Sharona says. “My contacts within the media have been equally unhelpful. Once the battle broke out, most of the reporters at the scene fled for safety —”

  “A wise course.”

  “— and anyone who might have
critical information isn’t sharing with the press.”

  “Have you no operatives within the law enforcement or military personnel on site?”

  “Within the local police department, no, and my few people inside the National Guard have failed to report in. For all I know, they’ve been killed in the fight.”

  “Unfortunate,” Nemo says without any real compassion. “And the Foreman?”

  “He should be calling in any minute.”

  Nemo pauses to consider the phrasing of his next remark. “If I might ask, ma’am, how is this relevant to us? While this is undeniably a historic event, I don’t see how this could impact our operation.”

  “It’s a variable I did not account for,” Sharona says, leaving her explanation there.

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  “What matters now is whether we can turn this into an advantage. Ah, here we are.” She presses a button on her phone, silencing its urgent beeping, and puts the incoming call on speakerphone. “Foreman.”

  “Ma’am. My apologies for the delay. I’ve spent much of my morning eavesdropping on the public safety and encrypted military channels.”

  “Understood. Mr. Nemo is here as well.”

  “Foreman,” Nemo says as a matter of courtesy.

  “Nemo,” the Foreman says.

  “I trust your time has been well spent,” Sharona says.

  “I believe so, ma’am. I managed to make contact with one of our operatives. He reported heavy casualties among the law enforcement and military personnel, but it appears the Protectorate and their associates suffered no losses — though that is not to say they escaped unscathed. Some of their number may be out of commission for days, perhaps weeks. I’m still working to pin down specifics.” He pauses, giving his mistress a moment to weigh in. Her thoughts on the matter remain her own. “I’ve also learned that the aliens who pursued the warship to Earth plan to dispatch a recovery team. There’s no clear timetable for its removal but the thing could be beached off Kingsport for a few days.”

  “Under guard, I assume?” Nemo asks.

  “Oh, yes. The National Guard has been tasked with securing the perimeter by land. A pair of destroyers out of Naval Station Norfolk will back the Coast Guard on sea patrol duty, and Stafford will remain on standby to lend air support if necessary.”

  “What about the Protectorate and their allies?” Sharona asks.

  “Our operative believes the Protectorate handed control of the scene over to the military.”

  “He believes that’s the case? Belief is not a fact,” Nemo says. “We’d be foolish to act on such uncertain intelligence.”

  “I was unaware we’d planned to act at all,” the Foreman says. “Ma’am?”

  She settles into her high-backed chair, the leather squeaking beneath her weight, and folds her hands in her lap. “Head to our outpost on the North Shore, immediately,” she says following a lengthy silence. “I want a full salvage team on standby. We’ll continue to monitor the situation in Kingsport.”

  “Understood. Foreman out.”

  “Is that wise, ma’am?” Nemo says. “Risking exposure by dispatching a salvage team —”

  “The technology on that ship is worth the risk,” Sharona says. “It could advance our work by months, perhaps years — and make no mistake, Mr. Nemo, time is now of the essence. We’re going to have to accelerate many of our timetables, including several of your projects.”

  “I see. May I ask why?”

  She levels a cool gaze at Nemo and says, “No. You may not.”

  “Ma’am.”

  “Get some rest, Mr. Nemo. Tomorrow, I want you in Massachusetts. You’re to start contacting your prospects. If you deem any of them suitable candidates, provide them with whatever resources they need.”

  “Yes, ma’am. And then?”

  “Then set them loose to do what these people do best,” Sharona says. “Raise hell.”

  FOUR

  I spend the afternoon sitting on the floor of my bedroom, my backpack in my lap. I’d planned to call Edison to take him up on his offer of a place to stay, but then I remembered: my phone is in outer space somewhere, and I don’t remember his number. I can’t get in touch with anyone online, and I don’t want to harass Meg with this. I’ve burdened her enough for one day. So here I sit, paralyzed by indecision and too scared to go downstairs and face Christina again. I’ve seriously thought, like, a million times about sneaking out the window.

  I can’t avoid her forever.

  I wish Meg was here.

  I wish Carrie was here. God, I wish Carrie was here — but she’s not. She’s not around to help me out of trouble this time. She might never —

  No. Dammit, no, I will not go there.

  But I have to face facts: no one’s going to fix this mess for me.

  I get up, throw my backpack over my shoulder, and go downstairs.

  Christina is right where I left her, sitting on the floor, staring into space with the most distraught, desolate expression I’ve ever seen on a person. She doesn’t look up at me. She doesn’t move.

  “I’m sorry, Christina. I’m sorry for everything.” No response. I try to think of something else to say, something that might comfort her, even a little bit, but I come up empty. “I’m going to go. I’m sorry.”

  I’m almost out of the house when she stops me. “Sara,” she says in a whisper. I turn. She gazes up at me with livid pink eyes. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

  I close the door and sit on the floor across from Christina. My impulse is to say Carrie was protecting her. The Squad has done a lot of good and saved a lot of lives, but we’ve also made a lot of enemies. If big bads like Manticore or Buzzkill Joy ever learned our true identities, they wouldn’t hesitate to hurt our families to get back at us.

  None of that’s untrue, but really, Carrie had a more selfish reason for keeping her other life a secret, and that’s what I tell Christina. There’s no point in trying to hide it. The age of lying to her is well and truly over.

  “She knew you’d try to stop her. She didn’t want you to,” I say. “She believed in what she was doing too much. You would’ve told her to stop, she would have disobeyed you...”

  “Sounds like Carrie,” Christina says. She lets out a long sigh, and her entire body sags, like it’s deflating. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “I don’t either. All we can do is wait and hope Carrie sends a message back.”

  Christina’s head snaps upright. “What?”

  Shoot, I must have forgotten to mention that. In my defense, I dumped ten tons of crazy on her; I can be forgiven for missing a detail or two.

  “I recorded a message on my phone and gave it to the Vanguard. They have to come back to salvage the Nightwind, so maybe Carrie will send something back. We just have to be patient.”

  I expect another question or two, or ten, or a thousand, but all I get is a weak nod.

  “Okay,” I say. I start to get up, but Christina grabs me by the wrist.

  “You don’t...no,” she says, her eyes brimming with tears. “You don’t have to...I don’t want you to go.”

  And so I sit back down, next to Christina. She wraps her arms around me and holds me. She holds me so tightly, like she’s afraid if she lets go I’ll disappear too.

  She holds me like a mother protecting her child.

  ***

  Exhaustion eventually overwhelms us both, and we agree, silently and mutually, to go to bed. I don’t even bother changing out of my uniform. I sleep, but not peacefully. Several times throughout the night, I awake with a start, my heart thundering in my chest. I don’t remember any of the dreams. Maybe that’s for the best.

  Around six, I give up on the whole sleeping thing. I trudge downstairs and briefly consider turning the TV on to see what the news has to say, but I decide I don’t care. Besides, if anything important happened between yesterday and today, I’ll hear about it from Concorde.

  I have no motivation to make breakfast and n
o appetite to eat it, so I settle for putting on some coffee. Christina comes into the kitchen as I pour myself a cup. She doesn’t say good morning to me; I don’t say it to her. I pour some coffee for her. She accepts it without a thank-you, and we stand there sipping our coffee and staring at the floor, silence draped over us like a shroud.

  When the phone rings, it’s like a siren going off. I let out a startled squeal. Christina flinches, her breath catching in her throat, and she snatches the extension on the wall near the fridge.

  “Hello?” she says. “Who may I say is calling?” She does a double take and then holds the phone out to me and says in a whisper, “He says it’s Edison Bose.”

  I take the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Sorry to contact you over an unsecure line like this,” Edison says.

  “Well, my phone’s in...um.” Right. Unsecure line, he said, which means we have to speak in euphemisms. “It’s not easily accessible right now.”

  “Yes, I realized that after I tried to call you the first time. Matt’s on his way over to get you. I need you to come to work.”

  “Oh, God, what now?”

  “Matt will fill you in. Go get dressed.”

  He hangs up.

  “Why is Edison Bose calling you?” Christina says.

  I have to tread carefully here. Edison’s a well-known figure in Kingsport, but the general public believes Edison and Concorde are two different people — employer and employee, respectively, which gives me an angle to play.

  “He was relaying a message from Concorde,” I say. “Something’s up. I have to go.”

  “Go? What do you mean go? Go where?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

  I head into the living room to pick up my backpack, which is on the floor where I left it last night. Christina throws herself in front of me, barring my path to the front door. “You are not leaving this house, young lady,” she says.

  “I have to go.” I move to slip past her, but she grabs me. I try to pull away, but her hand is like a vice on my arm. “If Concorde’s calling me in, something important’s —”