by Matt Cowper
“We only gang up on you when you’re wrong,” Sam’s mother said bluntly.
Anthony looked like he’d been slapped. “Oh, I’m wrong? Tell me how, exactly, I have erred, dear Isabel?”
Like his mother calling her husband Anthony, when his dad used Isabel instead of Izzie, it meant the kid gloves were off. Things had already been intense; now the temperature was going to be turned up a few degrees, and not due to Sam’s powers.
Sam and Achilles could only pray they didn’t get mowed down in the crossfire. Feeling that they should comfort each other before their probable demise, Sam snapped his fingers at the husky, who dutifully rose from his spot and walked over to get some nice, thorough petting.
“I’ll be glad to inform you of your failings, dear Anthony,” Sam’s mother said. “First, you jumped on Sam as soon as he told us about this offer. For someone who prides themselves on their intellectual rigor and open-mindedness, this was an extraordinarily dogmatic – not to mention rude – thing to do. Secondly, you’ve mentioned that Sam needs training in the use of his powers numerous times, but now you reject the best training regimen I can imagine. For all his flaws, Nightstriker has survived for decades without powers; there’s no doubt he can teach our son a thing or two. Sam will also be stationed on the Beacon, with all its advanced technology––”
“The Beacon was nearly destroyed by what’s-his-name, that Wagner guy, and Professor Perfection––” Sam’s father began.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Isabel snapped. “That battle happened weeks ago, and the villain responsible has been imprisoned on an entire island created solely to contain him. By your logic, we should move out of Z City, since superhuman battles happen here all the time.”
“That’s not my logic, and you know it,” Anthony said. “Z City is dangerous, but so is any other heavily populated area, what with all the superpowered beings in the world, and their desire to rob banks and blow up buildings. But the Beacon is ten times more dangerous than Z City, for reasons which, again, you are well aware of.”
“I am not, actually, aware of that,” Isabel said, “Plus, Sam has already acted as a superhero for two years. You, in fact, encouraged him! Why are you now––”
“I did encourage him,” Anthony said, “and he should use his powers for good. But you have to crawl before you can walk, and you have to walk before you can run. Sam is jumping from crawling to a hundred-meter sprint in one beat!”
“Well, what do you think he should do, then?” Isabel asked. “Keep doing what he’s doing? With Mad Dog dead, he has no mentor––”
“I think he should join one of those teenage superteams,” Anthony said. “Their facilities and members aren’t as top-notch as the Beacon and Nightstriker’s buddies, I’m sure, but it will get him the experience and confidence he needs. Then, a few years down the line, if they offer’s still open, he can join the Elites. If it’s not, there are dozens of other ‘adult’ superteams who’d be glad to have him. Why are we acting like this is a one-time thing? You talk about my cognitive failings, but jumping at a special offer, like those things you get in the mail, is something you never do!”
“I…yes, that’s true.” Now her face was reddening like her husband’s. “However––”
“OK, I’ve heard enough,” Sam said, trying to sound tough. His parents swiveled their metaphorical mini-guns toward him, which erased whatever toughness he’d mustered. Still, he rose slowly from the couch, after petting Achilles one last time to try to absorb some of the dog’s obstinacy and vigor. Achilles, though, was nonplussed; he looked up at him like Sam was a World War I soldier who’d decided to hop out of the trench alone.
“I appreciate your concern,” Sam said, “but I don’t want to listen to this for hours. I thought if I held off on telling you, it would make things easier, but it hasn’t. I’ve already made my decision. I’m joining the Elites.”
Silence save for the sound of Achilles scratching his ear.
“Just like that?” Anthony said. “Your parents have no say in the matter?”
“You have had your say,” Sam said. “You’ve been ranting for fifteen minutes. And now mom is gonna rant right alongside you. But I’m eighteen – I’m an adult. I have to make my own choice.”
Another eon-long moment of silence.
“Well, then, if that’s your choice, I wish you well,” his father said. “Goodbye, Sam.” He tried to march out of the living room in a huff, but before he reached the hallway he turned back and looked at his son sadly. “Whenever you want to visit, know you’re always welcome.”
Then he was gone, clomping down to the basement, probably to let out some of his whirling emotions by pumping iron.
Isabel gave him a small hug, then regarded him closely. There were tears in her eyes, and this was more shocking than if Seaspray had sent a tidal wave crashing into their house. He’d only seen his mother cry once: when her father, his granddad, had succumbed to cancer.
“My little boy, all grown up,” she said softly. “Please be careful, Sam. You might think your parents are stodgy, but we remember how it is to be young. You want to do everything, no matter how outlandish – in fact, the more outlandish, the better – and any adult who tries to stop you gets shoved aside.”
“I know, mom,” Sam said. “But really, this isn’t that outlandish. It’s a great opportunity.”
“It is indeed,” Isabel said, “and while I did argue with your father, that was because I can’t stand someone – especially your father, love of my life though he is – holding forth like that without anyone resisting. I have the same reservations he does. I hope you aren’t doing this to rebel against your parents, and that if you think you’ve made the wrong choice, you’ll still keep going just to try and prove you were right.”
“I won’t,” Sam said solemnly. “If it’s not a good fit, or if there’s any corruption, like there was with Professor Perfection, I’ll quit. I promise.”
She kissed him on the forehead and squeezed his arm lightly. “That’s honorable of you, Sam – but I hope nothing like that happens again. I hope this will be the best time of your life, and that you’ll learn to be the superhero you always wanted to be.”
More tears came, and she turned away, wiping at them irritably. “Look at me! Crying like we’re in some movie…go on, get your stuff packed. And don’t forget to take a flashlight, sunscreen, bug spray, and a compass! Even someone with fire powers needs those things. Oh, and a first aid kit! You don’t have a healing factor, you know.”
She left the room quickly, heading to the basement to likely join her husband in an intense workout session.
Sam didn’t immediately begin packing, though. He walked around the living room, touching things, looking out at the dogwood trees that sat in the front yard, at the fence that separated their yard from old Ms. Woodruff’s. Remembering. His parents were minimalist people, so the room wasn’t cluttered with mementos, but there were still a few pictures, albums, books, and trophies that stirred his memory.
There was a picture of Sam when he was four, swimming in the community pool with his cute little orange lifevest. There was Sam’s trophy for winning MVP on his eighth-grade baseball team. There was the family on vacation in Alaska, the awesome peaks of the Denali range behind them. There was Achilles as a puppy, gnawing on some rubber toy they’d bought him.
“Look at you back then,” Sam said. “A cute little bundle of fur. Now look at you – stubborn as a mule.”
The husky did not seemed concerned about Sam’s jesting.
“You want to come with me?” Sam asked. “Come fight the bad guys? You can be Achilles, the Amazing Husky. We’ll get you a cape if you want.”
Achilles’s barking and excited tail-wagging seemed to confirm he was ready to thwart villainry.
“I wish you could come, buddy.” He bent down and rubbed the dog’s belly, which increased the tail-wagging. “But I’ve gotta leave you behind. I’ll be back to visit, though.”
Another bark seemed to indicate Achilles would miss Sam, and that he’d better visit often, or else.
“Well, I guess I better get packing, like mom said. Tomorrow is the first day of my new job – Sam Boyd, superhero name Blaze, member of the Elites.” He smiled. “Man, that sounds awesome.”
Chapter Five
Nightstriker
They were all assembled in what Nightstriker had outfitted to be the main conference room. He called it Briefing Room One. He’d driven the Beacon’s staff hard for days to get it ready. It still wasn’t quite finished, but when it was, it would be the most advanced information center on the planet.
There was a large video screen on the wall that could be split up into sixty-four segments, if one wanted to absorb a tremendous amount of information. They had feeds to every television channel on the planet, as well as every video streaming service. Nightstriker had hired twenty analysts, all with advanced degrees and years of experience, to monitor the planet’s information flow. Threats needed to be found, assessed, and then dealt with – and speed was paramount. These analysts sat at beyond-bleeding edge computers below the large screen, focused on their never-ending task.
The room was also equipped with holographic projectors, should something need to be shown in 3D form. Like the analysts, a team had been hired to design and maintain a holographic database.
On each wall, there were cylinders that looked vaguely like phone booths. These cylinders were transports that dropped directly down to one of the hangars, where four specially-fitted Sirens were held. The Elites needed to deploy quickly, and not have to run down endless hallways to get to the ships. Beverley Gillespie had objected to cutting holes in the Beacon for these transports, but Nightstriker had ignored her, and when some of the staff members were reluctant to move forward with the project, Nightstriker had grabbed a laser torch and done some of the work himself.
Security was beyond paranoid – it was demented. Or so Gillespie had told him. At great cost, Nightstriker had installed three layers of electromagnetic shielding around the room, with only a small channel open so they could access planetside feeds. This channel, being the weak point, was monitored by fifty different security programs, designed by fifty different security experts.
There was some overlap in the programs’ capabilities, but each expert had their own flair; getting through every layer before being noticed would be nigh-impossible for even the best hacker. This wasn’t a theory – it was known. Nightstriker had hired the best hackers he could find, and gotten MegaMax Prison to “loan” him their best tech minds, and none of them could make it past level twelve before being unceremoniously dumped out of the system.
But the four people in front of him, plus himself – these were the core of this entire enterprise. These were the Elites. These were the people who would handle each threat up close and personally.
They were looking at him attentively or with bored looks – or not paying attention to him at all – depending on their personality. But for all their differences in powers, experience, and temperament, they shared one thing in common, though they probably didn’t know it yet: they were misfits.
Slab was a giant man-shaped gray rock, like a walking pile of granite. Eight feet tall, four feet across, and weighing two tons, he was the group’s muscle. Immensely strong, and nearly invulnerable, Slab should’ve been a top choice for any superteam, but a reputation for stupidity clung to him like the moss that sometimes grew in the cracks of his rocky hide. Nightstriker knew better – and grinned when he saw Slab was reading a collection of Shakespeare’s plays.
Buckshot had his cowboy boots up on the conference table and was smoking a cigar, like this was some Texas saloon, not the Beacon. An expert marksman – though he adored shotguns, hence his name – and a decent hand-to-hand combatant, Buckshot was a capable superhero on paper – but there were other issues, mainly political, that soured his relationships with other heroes.
Then there was Metal Gal, full of psychoses, as Gillespie had put it. Her smooth metallic body was usually gray, but it could change color at her whim; now she was yellow, which Nightstriker knew meant she was curious.
She was a shapely woman/robot; it looked like someone had poured glossy yellow paint over a model. All of the male eyes in the room had taken a glance at her assets – but those nice legs could transform into thrusters, or those impressive breasts into plated shields. Most of the group seemed to understand that flirtation would be dangerous.
Then there was Blaze. Young, nervous, looking slightly ridiculous in his orange costume and red face mask. He clearly wanted to speak, but didn’t know what to say, so his mouth kept opening and closing like he was chewing on something.
Nightstriker’s gaze lingered on the kid. So much untapped power – with some training, he could likely melt Slab and Metal Gal, or become fast enough to give Buckshot and Nightstriker himself a challenge….
“Scuse me, boss man,” Buckshot said, letting a cloudbank of cigar smoke drift to the ceiling, “but you gonna get this briefing session or whatever you wanna call it on the road, or are you gonna keep staring at us in that tough-guy way you prefer?”
Nightstriker frowned at the man, but he knew he shouldn’t be surprised. A Texan through and through, Buckshot despised authority, the government, illegal immigrants, bleeding-heart liberals, and a number of other things that made him a terror in polite company.
“Very well, Buckshot,” Nightstriker said. “We shall begin. This briefing will be kept as short as possible. I am not one for pointless speeches – we all have more important things to do, such as train. As you know, you are all here because you’ve been selected for the roster of the Elites. While this team name is the same as the one the world has known for years, we will be doing things very differently than our predecessors.”
“We damn well better,” Buckshot grunted. “If you or anyone else pulls a Professor Perfection, I’ll shoot you between the eyes myself.”
“I have a question for you, cowboy guy,” Metal Gal said, smiling like she was drunk. “Can I call you Bucky? I like Bucky. Though, now that I think about it, it’s the name of a dead sidekick, isn’t it? Oh, and excuse my randomness. I’m random.”
“You can call me anything ya like, girlie,” Buckshot said. “I’d especially like it if ya shouted my name to the heavens after a roll around in the hay. Mayhaps we can schedule a dosie-doe, and you can see the Texas jackhammer in action.”
Slab facepalmed, and Blaze didn’t seem to know whether he should laugh or be outraged. Leave it to Buckshot to not be afraid of flirting with Metal Gal.
“A jackhammer, you say?” Metal Gal said. “Hmm…no. I’ve X-rayed through your clothes, and measured your penis size. According to the information on male reproductive organs I have on file, your ‘man package’ is only average sized.”
“But…but…that’s cuz I’m soft right now!” Buckshot sputtered. “Lemme get aroused, and you’ll see how ‘average sized’ I am! Why, the girls at the brothel – a legal brothel, of course – say they should be paying me for the fucking!”
“You’re as coarse as they say,” Slab said. He shifted in his seat to look closer at Buckshot, and his rocky “muscles” ground together. The seat had been designed for his weight and girth, but Nightstriker still heard it strain. “And you’re old enough to be her father.”
“I ain’t! Well, I am, but I’m a still a dapper forty-five!” Buckshot said.
“Forty-seven,” Metal Gal said. “And you have plenty of white hairs. I can see right through your hair dye.”
Slab laughed. It sounded like a bear coughing. “That’s what you get for hitting on a girl who’s like a walking super-computer.”
“Both of youse are ganging up on me!” Buckshot reached into his leather vest, probably about to pull out one of his pistols. “I don’t like being mocked! Ya’ll best apologize, or––”
“Or what?” Slab said. “You gonna shoot me? Unless you got ultimatium-tipped bullets, you ain’t
gonna hurt me – and even those only go in a few inches.”
“You were the one who started being disagreeable,” Metal Gal said. “What’s the matter? Can dish it out, but not take it?”
“Hellfire and damnation!” Buckshot said, puffing on his cigar like he was in a cigar-smoking contest. “You both…you both…hey, boss man! You gonna let these freaks talk about me this way?”
“Freak, you say?” Metal Gal said softly. Her body began to turn red, and her arm began to morph – Nightstriker didn’t know exactly what she was forming it into, but it was sure to be a weapon.
“Enough!” Nightstriker said, pounding the conference table. Everyone jumped, even the nearby staff members. “I know you all have…interesting personalities. That’s partially why I chose you. But we need to act as a team, not like a group of immature, squabbling siblings. In fact, that’s mainly what this briefing is about: team building. You all have flaws, but I believe this team has incredible potential. In a few months, we may even be more powerful than the old Elites.”
“What?!” Buckshot said. “You gone mad? The Power could crush us all with every limb tied behind his back. Hell, Light Racer wasn’t the brightest bulb in the candelabra, and he could have us all hog-tied before you could blink.”
“On paper, I agree that the old Elites appear to be unbeatable,” Nightstriker said. “But, as you know, the Power was defeated by Professor Perfection – by several of the Professor’s Algos, mainly, nothing more than robots he had spent years developing. We have Metal Gal, who is as versatile as any superhuman or Algo. By disciplining her…unique mind, I believe she will be more than an able replacement for Professor Perfection and his powerful devices.”
Metal Gal didn’t know if she should feel complimented or offended. But, to Nightstriker’s relief, she morphed her arm back to its normal shape and no longer seemed intent on slaughtering Buckshot.
“As for Slab,” Nightstriker continued, nodding at the rocky superhuman, “he has gone toe to toe with supervillains who are comparable to the Power in strength – and has not been beaten to a pile of pebbles. Slab’s weakness is his immobility – he’s slow, and can’t fly. A villain need only drop him into a large body of water and let him sink to the bottom to disable him, for example.”
