by Matt Cowper
They passed over the Garden. Then Midtown. Then over Jameson Bay. That is, if his calculations were right, which they almost certainly were. Now they were angling nearly straight up, the Siren’s engines still purring. Malcolm could feel the elevation change affecting him.
They were going to the Beacon. There was no other possibility.
The Beacon, the airborne headquarters of the now-disbanded Elites. A symbol of hope for many, a symbol of arrogance for others. Nightstriker was squarely in the latter camp. Yes, the Elites had saved the world countless times, but they’d gotten lax, and let a fiend like Professor Perfection outwit them.
He could remember one of his first meetings as a member of the world-renowned superteam. He’d suggested they set up oversight committees, to make sure the watchers were being watched. To buttress his argument, he’d presented plenty of examples where renowned teams had been undone by corruption from within.
The Elites looked at each other nervously, like Nightstriker was a silly child who had said something inappropriate. Finally Professor Perfection cleared his throat, then gave him a lecture on the integrity of each member of the Elites, and how such committees would do nothing except bog everyone down with procedures and paperwork.
Nightstriker knew then his days were numbered. He’d lasted three months, about two more than he expected, then the good Professor had sent him packing.
“We’re here, sir.” The Siren had landed with the softest touch, like someone placing a hand on a pillow.
Nightstriker nodded to the trooper and unbuckled. He didn’t wait to be led out of the transport’s confines, instead marching down the ramp and out into the air.
They were indeed on one of the Beacon’s landing pads, on the uppermost portion of the giant floating orb. To his left, right, and behind him was nothing but sky and clouds. The earth was a five thousand foot drop below them, but Nightstriker wasn’t worried about falling; unless things had changed, a tractor beam would immediately lock onto him and pull him to safety. The Beacon had countless technological innovations designed to protect itself and its inhabitants.
A good distance away loomed an ultimatium wall with several doors set in it. No artistic flair in its design; the wall was meant to be functional and intimidating, nothing more. Malcolm knew there was all manner of weaponry hidden behind its wall, ready to be unleashed at the first sign of attack.
One of the doors opened, and a small contingent marched out; obviously his welcoming committee. He counted ten troopers and one woman in civilian garb, likely Gillespie. The distance between them and Malcolm was about five hundred yards, but he didn’t move towards them, though the trooper at his side was giving him a look. Let the bureaucrat and the kid soldiers come to him. He clasped his hands behind his back and waited.
If ever a person could be described as statuesque, it was Beverly Gillespie. Her charcoal-gray pantsuit was as severe as her thin, hawk-nosed face. She was the only woman within sight, but that didn’t appear to bother her in the slightest. Indeed, compared to the confidently striding woman leading them, the young jarheads looked naive and uncoordinated.
“Nightstriker,” Beverly said, extending a hand. The smallest smile appeared on her face, then it vanished. “Welcome to the Beacon. I’m glad you decided to talk.”
Nightstriker shook her hand. Her handshake was forceful, and she looked into his eyes with a stare that he knew was very similar to his own. Nightstriker let a brief smile of his own appear; perhaps this was, after all, a person he could work with.
“If you’ll follow me,” she said, “we have a conference room set up.”
She turned and marched away, and the contingent followed behind her, like small metal objects being pulled by a strong magnet. Even Nightstriker kept quiet and let himself be led. There was a time to assert oneself, and a time to keep still and listen.
After walking across the long metal platform, they entered a corridor lit with what Nightstriker knew was plasma lighting. It created a pleasant, natural glow that offset the cold metallic surroundings. The corridor was wide enough, but not as wide as the vastness of the landing platform. Nightstriker felt the troopers pressing close to him, and their furtive glances and twitching fingers made it obvious they didn’t like being so near one of the most dangerous men on the planet.
Beverly led them down a series of corridors, all of them roughly similar in design, until they reached a door that said “CONFERENCE ROOM A-1: LEVEL 10 CLEARANCE NEEDED.” She stopped and nodded to the troopers, who arranged themselves along the wall in a guarding position.
She placed her palm on a pad beside the door, and there was a beep and the door swished open. “Please enter.”
Nightstriker did so, scanning the interior rapidly. It was a large room, with a long table surrounded by comfortable-looking leather chairs in its center. A giant video screen, currently blank, sat on the far wall, and he noticed that each place at the conference table had its own built-in tech pad. A small table off to the side contained various snacks and beverages.
The door swished behind them, and Beverly marched to the front of the room.
“Sit wherever you like,” she said.
Nightstriker sat down slowly in a seat at the middle of the table, placing one of his Spiders on the underside of the table. One of his greatest inventions, the Spider would send out pulses, much like a bat’s sonar, to analyze the area. Within a few minutes, he’d know what was really in this room, as well as what lay beyond its walls. He had only to quickly pop in a specially-designed contact lens to see the results.
He suspected whoever was manning the Beacon’s defenses would detect this tech, but it didn’t matter. By the time they did, he’d have the data he needed.
Beverly folded her hands behind her and stood there stock-still, watching him. She could probably stand like that for hours, if the situation called for it. With such control, she’d make a deadly sniper or a crafty spy – and Nightstriker knew, in fact, that she’d been both in her illustrious career.
“I would give you an elaborate welcome,” she said, “but you have no patience for banality or bluster. Neither do I, so I’ll begin.”
She pressed a button on the table, and the video screen lit up with a frenetic image of a superteam doing battle: The Elites. Professor Perfection, his incredibly powerful robotic Algos at his side. The Power, melting something with an eye-beam. A blur that was likely Light Racer. Nightstriker counted at least eight other heroes, all of them slugging it out with humanoid creatures that looked like they’d been sculpted out of mud.
“The Elites,” Gillespie said. “The world’s greatest superteam. Here they’re doing battle with the Sculptor and his creations. They won, of course, as they always did. No enemy could defeat them permanently.”
Another image appeared: a photo of Professor Perfection standing in the Hero Pose – hands on hips, feet shoulder width apart, gaze fixed towards the middle distance – his Algos standing by him in similar poses. The photo was forced, almost absurd; likely a shot used by the press or for promotional materials.
“That is, no outside enemy could defeat them permanently,” Gillespie continued. “This man, Professor Perfection, was the cause of their downfall – as you predicted years before it happened.”
“Indeed I did,” Nightstriker said. “This could have been avoided.”
“I know,” Gillespie said. “The signs were there, but it’s difficult for people to rein in obvious success. The Professor had always prevailed, and his astonishing inventions improved the lives of millions. Everyone was willing to follow him unquestioningly – until the end, of course, but by then the damage was done.”
Another image: this time of a man, his clothes torn, scorched, and bloody, his right arm a strange mixture of shadow and glowing blue light. He was standing over an equally battered Professor Perfection, saying something to him. Half the world had seen this photo, one that was taken by the AI during the famous Battle of the Beacon; it was the equivalent of Muhamma
d Ali standing over Sonny Liston. It was Johnny Wagner, the self-proclaimed Godlike PI, the man who’d finally unraveled Perfection’s schemes and beaten him.
How exactly a Class D superhuman had beaten the Professor was still a mystery to most of the world, Nightstriker included. But Wagner did have a God Arm, and things of a magical or mystical nature were potent and unpredictable….
“You know this image, I’m sure,” Beverly said. “Johnny Wagner and his God Arm, an entity known as Dakroth’gannith’formaz – quite a name – defeated Perfection, something that many thought impossible. Yet it was done, and now the Professor sits in MegaMax.”
The next image showed a newspaper headline from the Z City Times: “THE END OF THE ELITES.” Below the headline, another famous photo: the Power flying into the sky as onlookers pointed and gaped.
“Appalled and saddened by these events, the Power, our strongest hero, departed Earth,” Gillespie said. “His whereabouts are unknown, but most experts conjecture he’s left the solar system.”
Gillespie pressed the button again, but this time the screen went blank.
“You know the rest. The U.S. government acted, beefing up the Department of Superhuman Affairs and formally taking control of the Elites, a group that had heretofore been basically autonomous. This was an election year, and in the outrage of the moment, it was decided by the current administration – with Congress’s ecstatic approval – to disband the team until a thorough investigation could be completed and recommendations for rebuilding the team could be formulated. Those efforts are now complete.”
Beverly pulled a thick folder from an unseen drawer and dropped it heavily on the table.
“The Department of Superhuman Affair’s Official Report on the Battle of the Beacon. Much of it is dry, bureaucratic language, of course, but there are several sections of great interest to the public. We’re releasing the report tomorrow. You may have that copy, if you wish.”
Nightstriker made no effort to grab the folder. He’d already hacked into a congressional staffer’s computer and stolen a digital copy.
“Why don’t you give me the summary?” he asked.
“Very well,” Gillespie said. “After what occurred, most people suspected widespread corruption within the team. However, while there were various minor laws broken and various questionable things done by other members of the team, the bulk of the wrongdoing was done by Professor Perfection. We see no reason to prosecute anyone else.”
She looked at him for a moment, perhaps expecting him to argue, but Nightstriker simply sat there looking back.
“However, the command structure of the team was, of course, dangerously top-heavy,” she went on. “The Professor used his power – in every sense of the word – adroitly. He silenced dissenters, manipulated politicians, and, as the world well knows, attempted to keep an entire alien race, the Kaxians, in its warlike state, all so the Elites would have a suitable enemy to fight. We won’t make that mistake again. When the Elites are reformed, they’ll be watched closely by my staff and I.”
“It sounds like you want me to be a figurehead leader,” Nightstriker said. “If so, I decline your offer.”
“You’ll be anything but a figurehead,” Gillespie replied. “You will be able to form the team, create strategies and priorities, manage the Beacon with all its data and weaponry, and set an agenda for public outreach. Everything the leader of a superteam would be expected to do.”
“And what’s your role?”
“I’ll handle the bureaucrats and politicians, and will assist with logistics, resource procurement, and any other area where I’m needed,” Gillespie said. “Also, I’m the team’s watchdog. I will not allow another Professor Perfection to emerge, and I’ve already set up measures to ensure you won’t do anything underhanded. But, judging from your history, I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
“Elaborate,” Nightstriker said.
As Gillespie began, Nightstriker wiped a hand across his forehead. To an onlooker, it looked like he was simply rubbing or scratching his eyebrow. But in that moment, he’d put in his specially-designed contact lenses, allowing him to see what the Spider had caught in its web.
And it had caught…nothing. No recording devices or countermeasures active. No one within a thousand yard radius except him, Gillespie, the troopers outside the door, and some random person taking a dump in the bathroom down the hall. Malcolm had expected the Beacon’s defenses to be on full alert, and an entire battalion stashed nearby, waiting to ambush him. But he was being treated like a visiting dignitary, not a vigilante.
“You’re Nightstriker, the world’s most dangerous man,” Beverly said. “Emphasis on man. You have no superpowers; everything you’ve accomplished has been through sheer grit, an almost masochistic drive to better yourself. You’re a master physical combatant, skilled in the use of innumerable weapons and vehicles, a capable engineer and scientist, and an unparalleled strategist. You’ve been in the game for over twenty years, and are still alive, where others – most of them with far more raw power than you – ended up as casualties. Some would argue that you aren’t technically a superhero, and that we should just call you a hero. Not to sound sappy, but I think you deserve the superhero designation.”
“What people call me is irrelevant.”
“Not to you, perhaps,” Gillespie said, “but to the world, it is very relevant. But again, you’ve never cared what the world thought.”
Nightstriker simply nodded.
“For all your capabilities, you’ve never led a team,” Gillespie continued. “You’re not the sort of leader most people want – too blunt, too driven, too focused on results instead of glad-handing and political maneuvering. And above all that, you have a high sense of integrity. You say what you’re going to do, then you do it. You’re much like me, actually – and if I may, I’d like to tell you some of my story. Perhaps you’ll see things clearer.”
Again, Nightstriker nodded.
“I was an Army brat, and like all brats I swore I’d never join the military – then trotted off to basic training as soon as I turned eighteen. I was effective, disciplined – and scorned. Like you, I didn’t kiss anyone’s ring or tell someone ‘good job’ when they’d made an utter mockery of an assignment. My career was going nowhere – until a sympathetic colonel got me a tryout for Delta Force.”
Nightstriker rubbed his chin, remembering. He’d been in plenty of tight spots with the Deltas, in numerous conflict-ridden spots on the globe. He didn’t fear them – he didn’t fear anyone – but they and other special forces operatives were more dangerous than a large number of supervillains.
“I made Delta, only the third woman to do so. From there I flourished. The egalitarian, no-bullshit atmosphere was perfect. But beneath my contentment was a voice: ‘You can do more.’ So I tried out for the Superhuman Support Squad – and made it.”
Nightstriker nodded in approval. If the Deltas were the elites, the SSS, or Triple S, were practically demi-gods. Triple S was a group designed to back up lesser-tier superheroes, the ones Class C or lower. Many of the heroes were simply newbies who needed guidance, but some were underpowered and couldn’t handle a real fight on their own.
Some people – the average ignorant Joe and Jane – looked at Triple S and thought it was a glorified babysitting job, but Malcolm knew better. Even a Class C was far more powerful than a regular human, and they fought villains that were just as powerful. A member of the Superhuman Support Squad had to be brave, resourceful, and durable – and willing to die. The turnover in the group was notoriously high, and it wasn’t because its members resigned or got fired.
“This was my true calling,” Gillespie went on. “Many normal humans are bitter at being upstaged by superhumans. They throw up their hands and say, ‘I give up. We can’t compete with them.’ But power only goes so far. If a superhuman doesn’t know how to use their abilities at maximum efficiency, a normal human can easily defeat them – as you’ve proven over and o
ver.”
“Hm,” was all Nightstriker said.
“I excelled in Triple S, and politicians began to take notice. Mainly, they like me because I’m a woman. I’m a good mascot for feminism and equality and what have you – or so they think. I didn’t argue when they decided to make me Secretary of Superhuman Affairs. They saw what they wanted to see, and I wasn’t going to let this position out of my grasp, once I saw I had a chance at it. But I’m no mascot, as they’re quickly learning.”
Nightstriker smirked. He already knew all this, of course; he wasn’t going to not research the Secretary of Superhuman Affairs. And he was certain Gillespie knew that he knew her bio – but she’d told him anyway, banking that it would have a greater effect coming from the person who’d actually lived it.
She was right – but Nightstriker wasn’t going to sign on the dotted line just yet.
“It seems you’re sincere,” Nightstriker said slowly.
“Seems?” Gillespie let out the barest chuckle. “Always the cautious one, Nightstriker. I assure you, I am sincere. But if I’m not, what do you have to lose? You can simply resign and return to your lone wolf ways.”
“I have a lot to lose,” Nightstriker said. “There are several reasons why you might want an infamous vigilante to lead this team.”
“Such as?”
“You could be setting me up for failure,” Nightstriker replied. “This may be how those who dislike me and my methods remove me from the picture – permanently. Or I could just be the ‘terrible’ interim leader, so the next leader – likely some wholesome superhero – looks all the more stellar.”
“Now you’re moving from caution to paranoia. If my bosses wanted you out of the picture, we could’ve captured you when you were engaging in sexual relations at that motel. As for your interim leader theory, when you see the amount of resources and support we’re putting behind you, I think you’ll be convinced no one is waiting in the wings to replace you.”
