II Crimsonstreak Page 19

  “He knows me?” I ask Morty, cupping a hand over my mouth.

  “You two were friends in his reality,” Morty explains. “Some things, it seems, are quite the universal constants, whether we like it or not.”

  “So,” I say, getting up to meet the Comets face to face, “you guys are gonna save the universe?”

  “The universes,” Steampunk Comet corrects me, his voice a somber mixture of Darth Vader and the Man in the Iron Mask.

  Morty direct us to a table round enough to make King Arthur jealous. “The Crusading Comets and I have all detected the Kiltechs’ intrusions into our respective realities. It is the magician who helped us meet one another.”

  Mystic Warren—that’s what I’m going to call him before my brain explodes—rises and assays a foppish bow. “I can’t take all the credit for this,” he says. His tone is plain-spoken, patently Warren, which clashes with his outlandish wizard regalia.

  Seriously, I expect him to blurt out expecto patronum at any moment.

  “My magic gives me an edge,” he continues. “The spells grant me the ability to work outside the rules that the Kiltechs and Bands must follow. I can transport interdimensionally, though there is a cost—there is always a cost. It takes considerable energies to transport, and I am unable to summon my powers for some time. Getting this group together took longer than I hoped.”

  “How did you find each other?” I ask.

  “As Mortimer told you, the Bands intruded in all of our realities. When I first met the Yellow Bands, I became suspicious of their motives. I identified six other realities—including yours—in which similar intrusions took place,” Mystic Warren explains. “The first was the realm of the Indigo Bands. It was there that I encountered this alternate Mortimer.”

  Morty clears his throat. “We discovered something very interesting while comparing notes about the Bands. The realities in which they were stuck shared a common thread: the Crimsonstreak analogue of their universes had perished.”

  “So I’m dead? Everywhere but here?” I ask, swallowing hard.

  “In my world, you died with a group of heroes on a planet called Cyclonus Six,” the Iron Comet says. “I was the only person to survive that encounter. Gods, were you irritating.”

  “Count Christopher Fairborne the Crimsonstreaker was killed while he and Sherlock Holmes stopped a madman named Lord Montalban von Titanian from unleashing a steam-powered doomsday zeppelin upon the people of Paris, France,” Steampunk Comet explains.Tour de France Comet is the next to chime in, “The Christopher Fairborne of my reality died in an accident, along with his parents, William and Karen Fairborne. It is believed a syndicate of Asian mercenaries was responsible.”

  “My Chris Fairborne disappeared while racing toward the sun to intercept a rogue satellite rigged with nuclear explosives,” Mystic Warren says.

  “Racing toward the sun?” I ask.

  “I gave him the ability to fly,” Mystic Warrens says. He hangs his head. “He just couldn’t accept that his his parents had the ability while he didn’t.”

  Everyone turns toward the Dark Comet.

  “Christopher Matthew Fairborne betrayed my family,” she says, sneering at me. “I’m not sure if he meant to, but it doesn’t matter. The bastard tried to make amends, but ran right into an ambush from a villain named Mars Olympus. I was robbed of my vengeance.”

  The look of pure hatred on her face almost makes me wet myself.

  “For some of us, it is good to see you again,” Mystic Warren says. “You… or, more precisely, a version of you…were my best friend and most trusted associate.”

  “And as I told you, Christopher, the Crimsonstreak of my era died during a confrontation with the supervillain Wainwright,” Morty adds. “I am unsure if whoever isolated the Bands meant to send them only to realities in which you were dead, but it seems too coincidental for that not to be the case. It also makes your universe a bit of a curiosity. The Bands see that as an opportunity.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “While you cannot call upon magic as Warren Lucius Caster Kensington can, your ability to create rifts between our worlds is something the Bands could exploit,” Morty explains. “And the fact that the Kiltechs unwittingly granted that same ability to the Bluestreak makes your realm the most viable for their attempt at unification. We cannot allow that to happen.”

  “Defeat the Bluestreak, help the Five,” I whisper.

  “The sorcerer’s abilities helped me send that message as you started to approach such a velocity that time and space began to break ever so slightly,” Morty tells me. “We call that Perfect Speed. Whoever can travel fastest can control it.”

  “We need to get the Crusading Comets and all of our other assets away from the Orange Bands,” I realize. “And we need to convince the Kiltechs to help us.”

  “I am afraid it may be too late for the former, while the latter may be difficult,” Morty laments. “But we shall do our best to achieve those goals if we can.”

  The table buckles, and I feel the whole room shake. For an instant, the round table appears to phase out before solidifying.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  Iron Comet projects a green-tinted hologram on the table that features a series of charts and readings. I recognize one as the Kiltech energy signature identified by the Crusading Comets. The rest seem unfamiliar.

  “I thought the Kiltechs would be able to hold out longer,” Morty says, alarmed. “The Orange Bands have gone for the secondary objective—the Kiltech machine. It’s been activated.”

  “Wait a second. My father said the Kiltechs needed the Bluestreak to power that thing—he’s like the battery for it,” I say.

  “The power readings are unstable,” Iron Comet points out. “They’re spiking intermittently.” Again, the table disappears for a split second before reappearing. “Could they have activated it without their power source?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “I didn’t get a real good primer on how it works.”

  “We must accelerate our plan, then,” Morty says. The ground shakes again, and he looks at Mystic Warren. “Are we protected here?”

  The sorcerer closes his eyes.

  “Out with it, mage!” Dark Comet growls. “We don’t have time to sit here while you read tea leaves.”

  “He’s a sorcerer, not a psychic,” I shoot back, somehow unwilling to let my best friend be attacked—even if he’s not really my best friend, and it’s another version of him doing the attacking.

  Dark Comet glowers underneath her cowl. “I’m not even sure why you’re here. The Fairborne I knew was a coward and a traitor.”

  “I’m not him.”

  She withdraws a Comet Star from her belt. “You’d best hope not.”

  “Jaclyn, put it away,” Steampunk Comet orders, his voice booming. “This is not the man who betrayed you.”

  She relents, putting the weapon in a pouch for safekeeping. “Fate robbed me of my chance to kill the man who murdered my parents. When this is all over, I will correct that.”

  “Will someone explain to me how Little Miss Sunshine got into the club?” I ask, throwing up my hands.

  “Jaclyn is the most respected hero in her realm,” Tour de France Comet explains. “Her moral compass is beyond reproach.”

  The sneer on her face, however, is full of it.

  Mystic Warren’s eyes snap open. “The Kiltech machine has disrupted the flow of the universes, but I believe it’s only momentary. I do have some more distressing news, however. The Kiltechs are closing in on the Bluestreak.” To emphasize the point, he projects a portal that shimmers into view. It ripples like reflection in water as it shows a group of Kiltech soldiers lined up in the middle of a cul-de-sac at a housing addition that could be from Anytown, USA.

  Morty lets out a heavy sigh. “If the Kiltechs capture the Bluestreak, their machine will fold all of Earth’s possibilities over one another. The multiverse will not survive the strain. This was not
part of the plan.” He turns to me, “I’m afraid I must ask something of you.”

  I really, really don’t like the sound of that.

  “You must go to Earth and prevent the Kiltechs from getting their hands on the Bluestreak. They need him to complete their plan,” Morty says. “As much as we do not want the Bands to reunite, we also do not want the Kiltechs to collapse the multiverse.”

  “Sure thing,” I say uncertainly. “Sounds like fun.”

  “This is the critical moment. He will attempt to race you, and the two of you will build toward Perfect Speed. It is imperative that you win this race, Christopher. If you are able to outpace him, then you will be able to control the gateways between infinite universes. You mustn’t fail.”

  “I don’t lose many races.” I’m going for cocky, but the look on Morty’s face tells me it’s not working.

  “You’ve lost two recently, if I recall correctly,” he says, calling me out.

  “Just don’t get yourself killed,” Dark Comet warns. “That’s my job.”

  “It’s been so nice meeting you,” I tell her. “I really feel the love.”

  She rises from her seat, but a glare from Morty gets her to sit back down. “We will have to send you alone. The sorcerer will see your way there.”

  “So are you guys just gonna sit around and play multiversal Stratego?”

  “Certainly not!” Morty exclaims indignantly. “We must consolidate our allies. It is time we revealed ourselves. You can defeat the Bluestreak.”

  Mystic Warren chants like a Gregorian monk, and seconds later, Morty and the Five disappear. I can’t stop thinking about the mustache.

  That Dashing Bluestreak

  Morty said mystic transportation gets much easier the more you do it.

  Morty is a dirty, dirty liar. Just like before, the sudden teleportation makes me lose my senses and drives me down to the ground on one knee. I close my eyes, allowing myself a second to take a deep breath and get my bearings.

  When I open my eyes, I note that the sky is overcast and gloomy, surely a sign of things to come. The neighborhood looks like any other generic subdivision in the suburbs. Similar-looking houses line both sides of the street, punctuated with immaculate lawns, mailboxes, and driveways with lazy inclines. Most of the front porches are outfitted with hanging plants and chairs, some made of wood, others wicker.

  Welcome to Anytown, USA—just don’t let the screen door hit you on the way out.

  When I turn around, I see the Kiltech soldiers and their matte black armor. They circle around a cul-de-sac, obviously waiting for someone to arrive. Unfortunately, they think that someone is me, and start yelling in their harsh, guttural language as they move forward. With military precision, they surround me, and I put my hands up. Man, I’ve been getting surrounded a lot lately.

  I notice their rifles are slung over their shoulders; the Kiltechs instead wield nasty-looking nightsticks. Simultaneously, the sticks spark to life. I wanted to hear the snap-hiss of a lightsaber, or even the distressingly familiar crackle of a particle buster, but instead it’s a more sinister electronic belch, like an electric car backfiring. A quick count shows a force of about two dozen guards; certainly easy enough to outrun.

  In the distance, I sense a familiar sensation: speed. Someone’s coming.

  Before the Kiltechs know what hit them, a stack of the electro-whip-things forms near my feet. When the last soldier’s stick is gone, the Kiltechs unlimber their depowering rifles and aim them at me. A ripple of dark blue forms beside me.

  “The Bluestreak has arrived,” I announce over the screech of two dozen powering-up rifles. I steal a glance toward him, but before I see his face, a Kiltech ship materializes overhead.

  Though not as large as the vessels parked over Earth’s major cities, it still casts a huge shadow over the entire subdivision. With a flash of bright light, the Kiltech force multiples exponentially and a towering form makes its way through the ranks. Gotta be Kilgore.

  I can almost hear the Kiltech soldiers urinating on themselves as he passes.

  “Lower your rifles,” the Kiltech leader says impatiently. He looks at the pile of electro-whip-things at my feet. “Their powers must be preserved.”

  Oddly, the typical menace is missing from his voice.

  I risk a startled look at the Bluestreak, who’s making no attempt to hide his face this time.

  It can’t be.

  Not him.

  Scottsdale, Arizona, June 2003.

  “Your days are numbered!” Exponential slurs.

  Every once in a while, one of the Amazing Multiplier Man’s seedier personalities gets control of his abilities. This time, I’m told, it’s Personality Seven-Squared, who has a tendency to drink heavily and then go on a rampage. Well, “rampage” isn’t the word for it, really. It’s more like an epic pub crawl across the entire country, with the various personalities of Exponential under the influence of Personality Seven-Squared in addition to alcohol.

  One of Exponential’s proxies throws a bottle of Hooper’s Hooch Hard Orange at my feet.

  Still full, it crashes to the ground and spills orange liquid all over the sidewalk.

  “That vile drink disgusts me!” Exponential’s forms say in a drunken chorus not unlike a Tau Kappa Epsilon party.

  I lean down to catch a whiff of the stuff; the sickly-sweet orange scent is enough to give me an immediate headache.

  “You can’t stop us,” Exponential says. “Okay, you can’t stop all of us, but why not join us for a drink?”

  I could use some help.

  Most members of the Heroic Legion still think of me as a junior crimefighter, including Exponential’s main Personality. They think I’m a super-speedster with no trace of my father’s or mother’s super-strength or flight abilities.

  Unfortunately, they’re right.

  Sure could use Dad right now, but he’s off… somewhere.

  I miss my mother.

  A sonic boom shakes the ground, throwing all of Exponential’s Personalities off balance.

  The lean frame of Scarlet DashBoy stands next to me. “What do you say, Crimsonstreak? We take out all of Exponential’s buddies and hit the Four Peaks Brewery? Hear they’ve got some killer flavors there.”

  “I’ve told you before, DashBoy. I work alone,” I remind my annoying “partner.”

  Scarlet DashBoy slams his right fist into his left palm. “Yeah, you really look like you can handle all of Exponential here.” A second bottle of Hooper’s Hooch Hard Orange crashes to the ground; another flies over our heads. “What a waste of good alcohol!”

  I just smelled the stuff and it gave me a headache. I suppose the definition of “good alcohol” varies from person to person.

  “Look. You wanna help?” I ask DashBoy, who nods an enthusiastic affirmative. “Then find someone from the Heroic Legion.”

  Scarlet DashBoy’s face drops. “These guys are nothing we can’t handle.”

  As the words come out of DashBoy’s mouth, various Personalities of Exponential emerge from the seemingly countless bars and restaurants on the street while Arizona’s merciless sun beats down on us.

  Dry heat, my ass. One hundred and ten degrees is still freaking hot.

  “We’re surrounded,” Scarlet DashBoy says as Exponential’s Personalities tighten their circle around us.

  “I’m glad you’re here to tell us these things,” I say, channeling my inner Han Solo. I sigh. “Stand back-to-back, DashBoy.” The “hero” does as I ask. “Uh, you don’t have to actually press your butt cheeks against mine, you know.”

  “Sorry,” Scarlet DashBoy says, taking a baby step forward.

  “When I give the word, I want you to break to your right and run in a circle. We’ll pound through them together.”

  “What’s the word?”

  “I’ll say ‘go.’”

  “Oh, come on. That’s boring. Go with something like—”

  A bottle of Hooper’s Hooch flies over our heads.
>
  “Hooch!” I call.

  “Yeah! Yeah! That’s good! Go with Hooch!” DashBoy says.

  Another bottle crashes to the ground. “What, did you buy a seventy-two pack or something?” I yell. “Cut it out!”

  Personality Seven-Squared grabs another Hooch and then goes into the stretch. After taking an imaginary sign from the catcher, he launches the bottle like a crazed Rick Vaughn.

  “Hooch!” I yell, breaking to my right as DashBoy and I start to clear out the many Personalities of the Amazing Multiplier Man.

  “DashBoy?” I say, my voice hitting that dog-and-bird pitch again. The question spills out again, this time in italics: “DashBoy?”

  “The Bluestreak, Fairborne. Fastest man in the universe. DashBoy was weak, your favorite whipping boy. The speedster who just wasn’t fast or cool enough for you. The one you left to die at the hands of Enforcers while sneaking around Chaopolis.”

  “You saw that?”

  “Somehow, between the pain and the electro-whips, I caught a glimpse of two Enforcers moving away from the pack. One of them looked awfully familiar. I thought you didn’t do sidekicks, Crimsonstreak.”

  “I don’t,” I say.

  “You’re a terrible liar. I’ve heard how you let that Crusading Comet kid follow you around. It’s so Batman-and-Robin-ish.”

  DashBoy was once a fresh-faced annoyance, a kid with a relatively sunny outlook.

  The lines around his eyes and on his forehead remind me of how much things can change. There’s also something about his eyes, a sense of increasingly frail sanity. With every facial tic and odd twitch, I can tell the DashBoy is becoming unhinged. He probably already is unhinged.

  “Why on Earth are you dressed like that?” I ask.

  I have a feeling I already know the answer.

  “You wouldn’t let ‘Scarlet DashBoy’ join Team Crimsonstreak,” DashBoy/Bluestreak says. “So I formed my own team. Team Bluestreak. To be honest, the suit is probably a major copyright violation, but I think we have more important things to worry about.”