by Matt Cowper
“Why?” Sam asked, genuinely confused.
“Why?! Cuz if you don’t…people will get hurt!”
“There’s no one nearby but us,” Sam said, “and I don’t think you have any secret weapons that could lead to the deaths of hundreds.”
“You don’t know that! You…ah, fuck it! They don’t pay me enough for this!”
He rushed Sam like the other goon. Sam stepped to the side a few inches, enough so the goon’s punch missed, but not enough so that his hand missed the Fire Shield. One burning hand, a few screams, a low blow, and a half-dozen punches later, and the goon was moaning and out of action like his buddy.
Of course, the boat now had no one helming it, and it was running directly towards a tanker that was sitting in the bay. Here at night, it looked like some giant monster that had arisen from the depths. Its hull was already looming over them like a skyscraper.
Sam rushed over and grabbed the wheel. He didn’t have his captain’s license, and hadn’t spent much time on the water at all, but the basics of handling a boat weren’t that difficult. He pulled back on the throttle and spun the wheel, and they churned past the tanker with fifty yards to spare.
He then directed the boat back to the docks, keeping an eye on the goons. Their zeal, however, had been thrashed out of them, and they did little more than whimper.
Controlling the boat in the open bay was easy enough, but Sam had little idea how to dock it. He’d seen captains zoom into marinas, then kick it in reverse and spin the wheel, sliding into their slips like they were stunt drivers driving a souped-up car on some Hollywood lot.
Sam’s docking wasn’t exactly as impressive. He banged into every piling within a hundred-yard radius, it seemed, and knocked at least ten boards loose. Realizing Nightstriker was standing there watching him, his own goons already tied up, he quickly terminated his docking maneuver. He grabbed a line and wrapped it around the first cleat he could find, and then floated over to Nightstriker’s side.
Nightstriker looked at him like he was a delinquent driver’s ed student. “Were you being serious just now?”
“Uh – yeah,” Sam replied. “I did the best I could. Driving a boat isn’t like driving a car, because there’s water churning under you…and stuff.”
If Mad Dog were here, he’d be laughing his ass off at that lame excuse. But Mad Dog was dead – and Nightstriker was certainly not his former mentor. There would be no laughing from this man, not now, and perhaps not ever.
“I told you to destroy the boat,” Nightstriker said.
“Oh, I will,” Sam said, “as soon as we get those two off it.”
“Why didn’t you just fly them off the boat, and sink it while it was out in the bay?”
“Well, I could, I guess, but my fire powers sometimes…burn stuff they shouldn’t. If I carried those two guys – one guy at a time, actually, since they’re heavy – they might get scorched. And anyway, my hands wouldn’t be free to blast the boat if I had to carry them off.”
A long pause. Sam felt that Nightstriker was a master of long pauses.
“Get them off,” Nightstriker said, “then destroy that boat.”
Again, Sam obeyed without hesitation. He had to slap the two goons some more to get them up, and he had to pull the boat closer to the dock so they could get off without having to make an Olympic-level jump. Once they were back on solid ground, Nightstriker bound their arms with some sort of rope or twine and shoved them towards their other bound comrades in criminality.
Sam flew up about fifty feet above the boat, and held out both hands. To engulf the boat, he’d need a good sized fireball, so he turned off his Fire Shield so could concentrate better. Slowly, orange flames appeared in front of him, lighting up the dockside area. When he felt he’d generated enough power, he cut loose, and the fireball slammed into the Daisy Blue, destroying the canopy instantly and turning its fiberglass hull to ooze.
However, the Daisy Blue had an engine and a fuel tank, of course, and the flames ignited the diesel fuel, creating a spectacular booming explosion that demolished a few more pilings and boards. Flaming wreckage surged skyward, then drifted down to the water, which was now stained with oil, hydraulic fluid, and some fuel that hadn’t ignited.
“Not bad,” Sam said. “That’ll send a message the bad guys can’t misunderstand.”
As he floated towards Nightstriker, though, he saw that the hero was seething. Nightstriker evidently didn’t storm and point fingers when he was angry, but his clenched fists and icy stare were, like the explosion Sam had caused, hard to misinterpret.
“Uh, one boat kaput,” Sam said sheepishly.
“I can see that,” Nightstriker growled, “though I do not understand why you didn’t drive it out into the bay so that we would be far away from the explosion.”
Sam looked past Nightstriker, and saw the goons were as scrunched up as tightly as they could get. Blackened debris lay around them, and at least one of had been injured; blood ran down from a cut on his forehead.
Nightstriker held out his arm, and Sam saw a small tear in the spandex around the elbow. He didn’t think it had been torn by a goon.
“Umm…did some debris hit you?” Sam asked.
“Yes.”
“Umm…sorry? You said destroy the boat, so––”
“I know what I said,” Nightstriker interrupted, “but I expected you to have enough sense to determine the appropriate course of action.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I just get––”
“Enough,” Nightstriker said. “I know you’re inexperienced. That’s why I’m here.” His features became less icy, but while he wasn’t blasting Sam with a blizzard, he was still sending out a light snowstorm. “How did you learn about this weapon shipment?”
“Well, I got a tip,” Sam replied.
“From whom?”
“This one mugger guy. He was robbing this lady in broad daylight. Pretty stupid, huh?”
“And why would you think a random mugger would know about a shipment of this size?”
“Well, I pumped him for information, and – are you saying this was a setup?”
“Seaspray was here waiting for some foolish hero to show up, wasn’t she?”
“Yeah, I…guess she was.”
Of course it was a setup! The goons and Seaspray had just told him it was, to boot! Sam knew he should’ve known better. This had happened before, and each time he’d mentally flogged himself for being such a dunce, but here he was making the same mistake.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Sam said. “I just got overeager, wanted to take these guys out. I didn’t verify that mugger’s information, and I didn’t have backup. I know those are cardinal sins, and––”
“Yes, you’ve pretty much been operating alone since Mad Dog died, haven’t you?” Nightstriker said.
He knew about Mad Dog? About Sam’s mostly solo superheroing? Why was a legend like Nightstriker keeping tabs on some wet-behind-the-ears kid?
“Uh, yeah,” Sam replied. “I have.”
“That’s not a good idea,” Nightstriker said, “especially for someone your age. You need support and training – you need a team.” He regarded Sam with that cold gaze for another long moment. “How would you like to be a member of the Elites?”
If Sam’s emotions could be translated into imagery, rainbows, a bright smiling sun, confetti, a marching band, and a cheering crowd would’ve burst into being. The Elites! The world’s greatest superteam! The Power, Professor Perfection, Light Racer, Hellacia….
But his awe and ecstasy faded in an instant, like someone had flicked off the lights to his happy production. He was thinking of the old Elites – but they were gone. Professor Perfection had betrayed the entire world, and was now being held on some specially-outfitted prison island in the Pacific Ocean. The Power, saddened by the Professor’s betrayal, had left Earth, and might never return. Light Racer was AWOL. Hellacia was living in some jungle away from society.
What was Nightstriker ta
lking about, then?
“The Elites were disbanded,” Sam said. “So, even if I wanted to join them, it would be impossible – right?”
“Incorrect,” Nightstriker said. “The Elites are being reformed – by me.”
“By you?!”
“Yes. The Department of Superhuman Affairs has seen fit to put me in charge of this new iteration. I can select whoever I want for the team. I’d like you to join.”
The happy production started up again, but now there was a large vein of confusion running through it.
“Me?” Sam said. “But I’m only eighteen….”
“One of the reasons why I want you on the team,” Nightstriker said. “You may not realize it, but you have the potential to be a Class S superhero. You––”
“Class S?! No way! Mad Dog said I’d be a Class B, and that was only if I trained hard!”
“Your late mentor was mistaken,” Nightstriker said, “or he deliberately misled you. I suspect it was the latter. He may not have wanted you to know how much power you possess. He may have thought it would make you act rashly, or inflate your ego.”
“I…but…Class S? Really?” Had Mad Dog misled him, and for the reasons Nightstriker suspected? And if he had, how was Sam supposed to feel about that? Angry? Sad? Confused? “Why do you think that?”
“Many superhumans with fire-based powers can only manipulate fire – they can’t produce it. To be effective, they have to have equipment capable of creating a sizable flame. This, of course, poses many problems. There has to be a fuel source, for one, and just about any supervillain will recognize this as the weak point it is, and attempt to destroy it.
“The superhumans who can produce fire on their own still usually have limitations. They can only handle fire within a certain temperature range, or they’re not invulnerable to their fiery powers. Fire does not hurt you, however – I don’t think any heat source could hurt you – and you can create flames of extreme temperatures. I would bet we could toss you into the sun, and you’d be completely fine.”
“Wow,” Sam said. He could survive in the thermonuclear reactor of the sun? He was still scared of getting his hand burned on the stove. But Nightstriker was right: since Sam’s powers had manifested, heat hadn’t bothered him. He could be out in the summer sun and not sweat, or take a shower under scalding water and not get burned.
With all these clues to his invulnerability, though, Sam was still cautious. He always expected something to go haywire and a part of his body to end up a smoking, charred slab of meat. He loved using his Fire Shield and shooting fireballs at bad guys, but there was always that voice in the back of his head telling him to be careful.
But should he believe Nightstriker? The guy was a legend, and had forgotten more about superhumans than Sam would probably ever know, sure, but this was Class S they were talking about….
“How…how do you know all this?” Sam asked. “I’ve never had anyone measure my power output….”
“That’s correct – and that’s something that needs to be done. Right now, all I have are theories. I don’t like theories. I don’t like random. I like everything quantified. The more data we have, the more we prepare, the easier it is to stop the criminals and psychopaths. Most of them aren’t very good at preparation, but there are some geniuses who have mathematical models that would leave the most accomplished statistician in awe. We have to be one step ahead of everyone.”
All of this wasn’t exactly new to Sam, but it wasn’t part of his superheroing repertoire. He didn’t have time for mathematical models – plus, the math he was forced to take in high school was bad enough. Even if he had time, poring over a spreadsheet wasn’t a high priority.
He’d followed Mad Dog’s approach, which was, for the most part, “See bad guy. Beat up bad guy.” Mad Dog had always scoffed at the “ivory tower superhero intellectual” who published papers on the usefulness of super-speed or the limits of certain elastic powers. He’d considered all that crap a waste of time, an exercise in hubris when one should be out patrolling and cracking skulls.
But Mad Dog was dead, and Nightstriker was definitely not dead. In fact, though Nightstriker had no superpowers, he was more feared than the guys and gals who could lift twenty tons or shoot lasers out of their eyes.
Nightstriker, however, was not known as a leader. Sam could vaguely remember that he was once a member of the Elites, but resigned in protest, or was forced out. Since then, he’d worked solo. Did he really have what it took to lead a team of superhumans?
“This is…all really wild, sir,” Sam said. “Being a member of the Elites would be freakin’ awesome, but…I have to talk it over with my parents. I’m still in school, too…crap! I shouldn’t have told you that! My secret identity…a hero should always protect it….”
“In most cases, yes,” Nightstriker said, frowning. “Some so-called heroes aren’t trustworthy, and there are plenty of shapeshifters about that can pose as an ally. I, however, don’t hide my identity…but that’s a discussion for another time. Your gaffe is irrelevant, in any case, as I already know your identity.”
“You do? But…how?”
“I followed you, of course. It wasn’t difficult – you don’t use your abilities to properly throw off pursuers. You may think you do, but you don’t. With your speed and flying ability, any tracker should have a rough time trying to stay with you. But flying through a few alleyways or abandoned buildings before heading in a straight line to your suburban home isn’t a best practice.”
Sam gulped, and he was sure he was blushing. He may not be bothered by external heat, but his face could still turn beet red.
Mad Dog had told Sam he was progressing nicely as a hero, but now Nightstriker was telling him he was as green as Seaspray’s smooth skin.
“In any case, to return to the points you brought up: if you do join, you would not be expected to attend a standard high school and also be on the team,” Nightstriker said. “An arrangement like that would be untenable. You would be quartered on the Beacon, and you’d be tutored by the best teachers I can procure. I’m a product of the American education system myself, of course, and I can assure you that the education you will receive on the Beacon will make your high school subjects look first-grade simple. You will be prepared to attend any college in the world after the education you receive.”
“Uh…that sounds…good,” Sam said lamely.
“Unfortunately, your parents would not be allowed to visit, both for security reasons and to protect your secret identity,” Nightstriker went on. “But be assured: they will be watched twenty-four hours a day by a rotating group of superheroes, and various security measures will be put in place to guard their home, vehicles, and so on. Should your identity somehow be discovered, it would be extremely difficult for a supervillain to harm your family.”
“Extremely difficult?” Sam echoed. “But not impossible, right?”
“Nothing is impossible,” Nightstriker said. “And you are already making yourself a target by acting as the superhero Blaze. Joining the Elites will simply increase the focus on you.”
“Yeah, it’ll be like running for president, or something,” Sam muttered.
“As for the other members of the team, you do not have to reveal your identity to them, but it may be prudent for training purposes and team chemistry. If you do reveal it to them, you can trust that I’ve vetted them thoroughly, and that betrayal is unlikely – we won’t have another Professor Perfection incident. I will be watching them all carefully, of course, in case they get lured down a dark path.”
“This is all so…big,” Sam said. “Everyone in the world would know who Blaze was! I don’t know if I can do this to my family….”
“I may sound callous, but I have seen many superheroes fail to reach their potential because they were worried about family or loved ones.” Nightstriker suddenly looked old and tired, little more than a well-trained man, not an unbeatable legend. “For all my preparation, I have still seen frie
nds and allies perish, and have suffered countless injuries. One superhero, one of those pranksters, once said my medical file is as thick as a Russian novel. But I don’t run from all that pain and strife. It’s part of the job. It may sound cliché, but someone has to do it. I have the ability, the will, and the intelligence, so why should I waste my life on some pointless enterprise, like running a money-hungry company or working as a lawyer in some sociopathic firm?”
The question didn’t come out as stalwart as Nightstriker may have hoped. Sam knew the legends: Nightstriker was brilliant. Nightstriker was relentless. Nightstriker never slept. And yes, Nightstriker was crazy. But now he looked like a guy who wanted nothing more than to retire to Florida and play golf for the rest of his days.
The new leader of the Elites straightened up, though, and again his stare was glacier-cold.
“I can’t make this decision for you,” Nightstriker said, “but regardless of whether you join the team or not, I still want to study your powers. Will you agree to that?”
“I…sure, that’s fine,” Sam said. “It would be helpful, and––”
“Good.” He turned to the goons, who were still sitting there helpless, looking at the two superheroes fearfully – or the one superhero fearfully, that one being Nightstriker. Sam knew he was still a puppy to these criminals. “You have forty-eight hours to decide. Discuss it with your parents, and do whatever soul-searching you need to do – because if you do decide to join, I want you fully committed.”
“OK,” Sam said. “I’ll do…all that. But how will I contact you? Or will you find me?”
Nightstriker pulled a card of some sort out of a pouch on his costume and handed it to Sam. It was an ID card. On it, “Elites” was written in stylized blue font, there was a headshot of Sam as Blaze – he had no idea how Nightstriker had gotten that image – and beside the image there was “Blaze” in red-orange letters.
The back was blank, save for a black dot about the size of a dime in the middle of the card. Probably some advanced tech.
A real ID card for the Elites…Nightstriker certainly knew how to set the hook.
