Blink: Superhero Summer Camp, episode 2

Blink’s earlier adventures:

Blink
Blink’s First Adventure | 2 | 3 | 4

Superhero Summer Camp (this one): 1

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This is really happening, Stevie thought, as the Heromobile turned onto an overgrown lane, barely visible from the highway, marked PRIVATE DRIVE. Ahead of them, two trees blocking the road lifted up enough for them to slip underneath.

Captain Heroic glanced up at the rearview mirror and saw Stevie watching. “That was the first line of passive defense,” he said. “There’s also a fence that runs around the grounds, but you can’t see it from the road. Here’s the blowout strip.” They drove over what looked like a narrow drain grate running across the pavement. Brush and rocks lined both sides of the road, making the whole thing feel closed in. “Active defenses come next. Fortunately, we’re expected, so you won’t see those in action.”

“Active?” Stevie unbuckled his seatbelt and joined Skyscraper City’s first and oldest superhero up front.

“Yeah. Passive defenses are there to slow you down or block your way. Keeps honest people honest, you might say. The active defenses are laser blinders, dazzlers, sonic squealers. Fair warning kind of stuff. If you’re not invited and get past those, then the deadly force kicks in. Mines, guns, that kind of thing.”

“Has it ever been used?”

“Oh, nah. Professor Zero likes to say the best deterrent is one that never has to be used. There’s cameras all along the way as well, on the road and on either side. I’m told some of the local high school kids think the spot in front of the trees is a great place to make out. If they knew there was video… well, it’s reviewed and archived. Every once in a while, one of those kids grows up to be a politician, you know.” The Captain grinned. “So don’t bring your girlfriend down here.”

“Yeah.” Like that’s ever gonna happen, Stevie thought.

The road curved off to the left, but the Heromobile rolled on across the dirt, straight toward a huge rock. “Uh…” Stevie warned, then threw his hands onto the dashboard, bracing for impact.

Captain Heroic laughed, and the Heromobile went through the rock. Lights flared on in front of them, guiding them down a tunnel. “That was a hologram. The road goes to that building you’ve seen on TV,” he explained. “We call it the conference center. It’s a facade, and the only part of the operation the public ever sees. We have press briefings and meetings with local and national authorities there, is all. And the tours, of course. The real work all happens inside this little mountain.”

“Wow.” Stevie stole a glance behind him. The other passengers were totally wrapped up in their own worlds, missing out on all this. Maybe they had seen it before. Ms. Ma probably had, anyway. Well, okay, a tunnel wasn’t all that exciting, but seeing all this in person and getting explanations was way better than just looking around after the fact and seeing you had arrived.

A light flashed up ahead, and Captain Heroic slowed down. The Heromobile emerged into what looked like a tiny city parking garage. Most of the slots were occupied by golf carts, but a few slots were open and Captain Heroic parked in one. “Here we are,” he said over his shoulder. “Your escorts should be here by the time you grab your stuff.” He gave Stevie a lopsided smile. “I’m your escort. Since we’ve already worked together on one job, the Professor figured that you’d be more comfortable with someone you know.”

Ma Ling had already opened the side door and shouldered her bag; Stevie’s mom had bigger purses than that. Sarika put her iPad in a case, then skipped around to the back of the van. She hoisted a backpack nearly as big as herself onto her shoulders with a grunt. “Okay, I’m ready,” she said, leaning forward for balance. She’s a lot stronger than she looks, Stevie thought, with some admiration.

Stevie waited for Ms. Ling to exit, then slid his pack out from under the seat. It contained mostly clothes, and a couple of books in case they didn’t have the ones he was reading. He gave Captain Heroic a nod, then looked at the approaching escorts. Ma Ling’s escort was some dude in a rentacop outfit, but he did a double-take at the young girl sent for Sarika. Nowhere near as gorgeous as Sarika, but there weren’t any girls in his school who were. Still, what were the chances of two girls around his age being here? The other girl in turn gave him a puzzled scowl, then led Sarika to a golf cart and drove off.

“This one,” said Captain Heroic, and Stevie shook himself. He tossed his bag in the back of the golf cart and took the shotgun seat. “Welcome to Zero Point, by the way. Ever thought you’d get a chance to see this?”

“I hoped I’d get to take the tour some day,” Stevie replied. “I guess that’s a big fake-out, though.”

Captain Heroic laughed. “You’re handling this better than some rookies do, so far. And all of them were a lot older than you.”

“Cool. Who was Sarika’s escort?”

“Oh, Nixi?” He pronounced it Nikki. “She’s Professor Zero’s niece. She’s some kind of wizard with computers, so I guess you could say this is a summer job for her. Maybe they sent her so Sarika would have an escort she can relate to.”

“Why are they here? Ms. Ma and Sarika, I mean.”

“Truth be told, I don’t know. You’ll find out pretty quickly, this is a huge operation. I’m not sure even the Professor knows what all goes on here in his own name, even if he gives the whole thing some general direction. It’s like a big corporation, or a government outfit—you’ll find out there’s not much difference, sooner or later—everyone’s working on a different piece of the pie, and it all comes together. Somehow.” Captain Heroic stole a glance at his young passenger. “By the way, I figured you’d be asking me a lot more about Sarika.”

Stevie blushed. “She’s okay. More than okay. I—I don’t know, really.” He had this idea that Sarika’s parents had already arranged a marriage to some guy she had never met, but it was a dumb racist jerk thing to think. He didn’t think he was racist—Lashaun was his best friend, after all—and it embarrassed him to have such a thought.

“Yeah, just remember we’re not here to find you a girlfriend. This is work, even if it isn’t the kind of job you’d expect. In some ways, it’ll be worse than a job. They’re going to get personal with you, and I mean seriously personal. We all have weaknesses, and they’re going to pry into your brain to figure out what yours is. If you know what your weak spots are, you can work on them. By the time you go home, Professor Zero will know more about you than your mother does.”

“Ha. She doesn’t know about the Blink thing, to begin with.”

“Yeah. That’s one of the things that has the Professor worried. He wants to figure out why you manifested so early, and how it’s going to affect you. It’s an awfully big secret to be keeping from your parents.”

“If he has any ideas,” said Stevie, “I’m all ears.”

“Chances are, he’ll recommend you lie low until you get out on your own. No missions, no patrols, just be yourself until you can be Blink without a mom to worry about.” He pulled the cart to a stop. “Well, here we are.”

Stevie just stared at the man standing in front of the cart. Long brown hair, streaked with gray and pulled back in a tail, round wireframe glasses, unruly beard—a face he had seen on TV many times, but now he was seeing Professor Zero for real.

continued…

Blink: Superhero Summer Camp, episode 1

Let’s get this story started! But if you’ve just teleported in, you can click over to Blink’s earlier adventures:

Blink
Blink’s First Adventure | 2 | 3 | 4

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“Mom!” Stevie Winkler shouted from the front porch. “They’re here!”

“All right, honey, I’m coming,” Mom replied, and hustled out to join her son. “Bye.” She hugged him, with some hesitation for a change. “Have a good time. I expect you to write.”

“I will,” said Stevie, shouldering his pack, already looking at the van with the Lake Walnut Grove Summer Camp markings emblazoned on the side. “It might be email, though. The info packet said they have a computer lab and everything.”

“Communing with nature by day, surfing the web by night?” Mom gave him that joshing look of hers. “Sounds like you won’t be getting much sleep.”

“I’ll be fine, Mom.” Stevie hugged her one more time, then shouldered his bag. It had taken a lot of willpower to not just pop out to the van and be gone in the first place. “At least you can get some stuff done without me underfoot all the time.”

“Seriously, Stevie? You aren’t underfoot much, if at all. But maybe I’ll get a little time on the computer, at least until you get back.”

“Ha. Maybe you can get a new computer while I’m gone.” He grinned. “Bye, Mom. I’ll miss you. Try to have some fun, okay?”

Mom nodded, and gave him a little nudge that said it was finally okay for him to burst out the door and run for the van. The side door opened when he was halfway down the short sidewalk, and he jumped in and slid his pack under the seat.

“She finally let you go?” Captain Heroic asked from the driver’s seat.

“Yeah.” This was the Heromobile, wearing a skin that Stevie (aka Blink) thought might be custom for this one job. He looked around, and realized that there were other passengers already here. “Oh. Hi,” he said, with some embarrassment.

“Get settled in,” said Captain Heroic. “We can do introductions once we’re rolling.”

Stevie dropped into the middle seat, next to a skinny Chinese-looking dude in black, and buckled up. “Okay,” he said, and Captain Heroic drove away.

“Hello,” the dude nodded. He had a thick accent and a high, soft voice. “I am Ma Ling. You may call me Linda if you are more comfortable with that.”

“Oh, okay.” Stevie clamped down on his mouth. Saying sorry, I thought you were a guy was probably rude.

“I’m Sarika,” the girl in the back said. She was dark, but not black like his friend Lashaun, and her smile made her cute beyond belief. And...

Something important dawned on him. “You’re a Devi, right? Or your parents are?” He turned to Ma Ling. “And you’re one of the Masked Warriors?”

Sarika laughed, making him feel warm, and Ma Ling nodded. “I am going to help train some of the other heroes in close combat techniques,” said Ma—no, Ling—didn’t they put their first names last or something?

“Cool.” Stevie thought he should say something else, but could not think of anything. “How about you?” he asked Sarika.

“Kind of like what you’re doing,” she replied. She had a little accent, a kind of lilt that Stevie thought sounded cute. “I’m going to help with Professor Zero’s research.”

Jeez, he thought, do I like her or something? Not like she’s going to be interested. Then again, he did have a superpower. Maybe she would be.

“And you’ve both heard of Blink,” said Captain Heroic. “Here he is. The youngest person ever to manifest a superpower.”

“Amazing,” said Ma Ling. “The universe has something important for you to do, if you must shoulder your burden so soon.” She nodded once and turned away.

“You can really teleport yourself?” Sarika asked. “Can you carry anything with you?”

“Yeah,” Stevie replied, happy that Sarika was paying attention to him. “My clothes, obviously. Anything else I’m holding, too.”

“How big?”

“Well, I got Frank Crain away from the Blackuras, and he weighed a hundred and fifty.”

“That much?” Sarika looked confused for a moment. “Oh, you mean pounds.”

“Yeah.”

“How about distance?”

Stevie wondered how many questions she had, but decided that wasn’t important. She was talking to him. “I haven’t tried to find out, really. I always just pop to somewhere close.”

“Through walls?”

“Sure. I pop in and out of my bedroom all the time.”

After that, the questions trailed off, and they all spent the rest of the trip in their own shells. Ma Ling meditated, or maybe she was praying. Or taking a nap. Sarika occupied herself with an iPad, oblivious to Stevie’s mixed admiration and jealousy. Unable to handle the conflicting emotions, he turned around and watched out the window. The supers had already come through with finding Mom a better job, something with steady hours that paid better than Slaver-Mart, but it hadn’t made much of a difference in their situation so far. Mom was too obsessed with catching up on old bills to consider essentials like a new computer just yet. It wasn’t even worth thinking about getting an iPad.

A few more miles down the freeway, and Stevie’s thoughts drifted back to where they were going—Professor Zero’s compound. He had seen a few shots of the place on Channel Fourteen and HNN, but living there for six weeks (while Mom thought he was at some summer camp) was going to be awesome beyond belief. Professor Zero would try to figure out what limits his teleportation power had—that was part of what the supers had disguised as summer camp for him—but maybe it was going to be more than that, if Ms. Ma and Sarika were along for the ride. It was kind of stupid, thinking it was just going to be about him for the whole summer.

Too bad I can’t tell Chris and Lashaun about this. Or anyone else. Being a real superhero would make him the envy of his class. Just getting more than the visitor’s tour of Professor Zero’s place would do that. If he was stupid enough to let on, of course—that thing with Frank just proved giving out your secret identity was a dumb move. But Sarika asking him about how far he could teleport himself got him thinking. He had never given much thought to that before. He occupied himself with a daydream: Strapping on a backpack, he picked up Mom. A second later, they were on the beach. Then again, that wouldn’t pay for their hotel or anything. And letting Mom know what he could do just seemed like certain disaster…

The van shifted, and Stevie jerked awake. They had left the freeway, and Captain Heroic was turning. Ms. Ma was still meditating, and Sarika spared hardly a glance before diving back into whatever she was doing on her iPad. Stevie thought he knew which exit this was; Dad had taken him out here on one of his rare visitation days last summer, to the state park. He remembered that day—they hiked one of the trails and threw a Frisbee for a little while. It seemed like Dad had wanted to tell him something important, but couldn’t figure out how. He remembered wishing they had just gone to the nearby Dari-Freez for ice cream instead.

Sure enough, there was the sign to the state park, but Captain Heroic turned the other way. Things would be different this year.

continued…

Blink's First Adventure (4/4) (#FridayFlash)

Previous: Meet Blink | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Last week, while Captain Heroic created a diversion, Blink popped into the Blackuras’ house to free Frank—but as he untied Frank, a punk confronted them with a lug wrench! Will Blink prevail? Read on for the thrilling conclusion!

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Frank moaned and backed up two steps, and the punk grinned.

Blink thought of several possibilities all at once: yell for help, take off and leave Frank behind, or stand and fight. He reached for his pocket, where he had the panic button that Captain Heroic gave him, but stopped. This is your show. If he was going to be a hero, he had to act like one, not wimp out at the first sign of trouble. And he did have a football player on his side… “Frank,” he whispered. “Log roll.”

“What?” Frank asked, but Blink had already popped out of the room, behind the punk.

“Now, Frank!” Blink yelled, throwing himself forward.

The punk turned, throwing himself off-balance, just as Blink plowed into him with a grunt. He staggered forward into the room, flailing. Frank suddenly realized what Blink meant, and threw himself at the punk’s feet. The punk went down, lug wrench skidding across the floor, and Frank rolled and came up in front of Blink in a three-point stance. Blink flickered away again, reappearing three feet in the air above the punk as he tried to scramble to his feet. He dropped onto the punk’s lower back, slamming him back down. The couple in the next room paid no attention.

“Let’s go!” Frank rasped, stepping toward the door, as the punk curled up and wheezed for air.

Blink popped in front of him. “Not that way. There might be more downstairs. We can take the easy way down, but I need to hold you. Okay?”

“Do what you gotta,” said Frank. “If I have to stand on my head and sing I Kissed a Girl to get outta here, I’ll do it.”

Blink snickered. “Okay. Good work in there, by the way.” He wrapped his arms around Frank’s middle, lifted him with a grunt, and then they were outside before Frank could say “Thanks.”

A yellow four-door pickup truck stopped at the curb, and Blink led Frank to it.

“Who’s truck is this?” Frank asked.

“Captain Heroic’s. I got shotgun.”


“…so me and Blink had to fight our way through the whole gang to get outside,” Frank was telling the crowd gathered around him. “He said I did great! Then Captain Heroic picked us up—in the Heromobile!—and took me home. It was totally awesome. I’m probably gonna end up bein’ Blink’s sidekick or something.”

“And he’ll be called Blank,” Stevie whispered to Lashaun and Chris, who snickered.

“You gotta give him points for creativity,” Lashaun said, once they were safely out of earshot. “He could make geometry sound exciting.”

“We were surrounded by obtuse angles,” Stevie intoned, “me and my acute angle against the horde! But when we lined up back to back, we became… booooom! Right Angle!”

“And the temperature rose to… ninety degrees!” Chris chortled.

Stevie thought, nodding or laughing in the right places, letting the banter wash over him on the way to geometry class. He could be just Stevie until summer, now. Captain Heroic said the heroes would make sure Dad kept up his end of things, so Stevie wouldn’t have to choose between villainy and homelessness. They would also help Mom find a better job. In return, when school finished, he would go to “summer camp.” Of course, that really meant being Professor Zero’s lab rat, and taking lots of training from the other superheroes. And getting interviewed by Montana Rack…

That might be hard, but the hardest part would be keeping Mom from finding out.

THE END

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Blink’s adventures now continue, with Blink: Superhero Summer Camp! And be sure to check out the other heroes and villains of Skyscraper City—here on TFM!

Blink's First Adventure (3/4) (#FridayFlash)

Previous: Meet Blink | Part 1 | Part 2

In last week’s episode, Blink met up with the retired Captain Heroic, and convinced him to help save Frank Crain from the Blackuras. Blink stole that wad of cash from them, and now the street racers are revved up for vengeance! Can he rescue Frank on his own?

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The Blackuras’ headquarters was a house across from an abandoned factory building. The parking lot was open, and had more than enough room for all the members to park their cars (all Integras or Civics, all black). The street was dark, the only sound coming from the house. It sounded like a mid-week party.

The Heromobile glided into the parking lot, wearing its “old sedan” skin, near-silent but for the whisper of tires on pavement. The Blackuras’ own fleet hid it from the house. Before tonight, Stevie would have been thrilled beyond words to get a ride in the Heromobile, but Blink was focusing on the work ahead. He had outlined his plan to Captain Heroic, who suggested a few refinements. But he was ready to go.

“How did you find this place?” Captain Heroic asked.

“I was hangin’ out at the Twenty-Four on Saturday, and one of them came in for gas. I heard ‘em talkin’ about how much money they took in, so I popped into the trunk and hitched a ride. Then I popped out after they cut off the motor. When they went inside, I looked in the window, and saw all this cash laying on the table. So I popped in, grabbed two handfuls, and popped out before they knew what was going on. I found a Slaver-Mart bag in the trunk on the way over, so I stuck the loot in that and got away.”

“Slaver-Mart?”

“That’s what Mom calls Saver-Mart. Where she works.”

“Gotcha. Did anyone get a good look at you?”

“Nah. I was wearing a balaclava, anyway.” Blink fished it out of his hoodie pocket. “I guess I need to put it on, huh?”

“I’ve got something better. In the glove box.”

Blink opened the box, and lifted a black eye mask. “This?”

“Why not? It goes with your hoodie. Maybe wear the two together.”

“Yeah.” Blink pulled the balaclava over his head, then added the mask. “Now you see me…”

“And let’s see if we can locate your friend.” Captain Heroic pulled something out from under the driver’s seat that looked like a futuristic pair of binoculars.

“What’s that?” Blink asked.

“Infrared scope, with image enhancement. Lets me see through walls. Sort of.” Captain Heroic pointed the scope at the house, turned a knob, and began muttering. “Bunch of people in the kitchen… living room… upstairs—uh, that’s not it. Heh. Oh… I think I found him.”

“How do you know?”

“One person, sitting still in the middle of a bedroom. It’s upstairs on the left. Can you do your thing from the ground, up to the second story?”

“No prob. Let’s get started.”


Inside the house, the happy party babble came to a halt with the hollow report of a string of firecrackers going off in their mailbox. Several Blackuras leapt to the windows in time to see an old Buick take off, burning rubber. Even through the walls, they heard someone bellow, “Whoooooo! Catch me if you can, slowpokes!”

With a chorus of “Oh hell naw!” the Blackuras poured outside to their cars, some on cellphones, alerting other members already on the street. With the yowl of highly-tuned four-cylinder engines, the street racers added their own tire smoke to the haze. They turned the corner, and blew by a big yellow pickup truck sitting at the curb.

Upstairs, Frank Crain listened to the commotion, hoping maybe the cops had come for him. But things got quiet again, except the couple in the next room kept doing it, and he shook his head.

Then there was someone in the room with him.

“Really, I ain’t him,” Frank pleaded again. “Just lemme go, okay? I don’t know nothing.”

“Sssh. You wanna get outta here?” a voice whispered.

“Yeah,” Frank whispered back. “Who are you?”

“The real Blink. Now you know why secret identities are supposed to be secret.”

“Yeah. So you ain’t mad at me about sayin’ I was you?”

“Maybe a little, but this ain’t your battle.”

“What’s the deal, anyway? They kept sayin’ something about money.”

“I pulled a fast one on them, and they didn’t like it.” The zip ties around Frank’s wrists parted, and Blink started cutting at the bonds around Frank’s ankles. “Have they figured out you were just talking crap?”

“I thought if they had, they’d let me go.”

“Okay, you’re loose. Let’s—”

“You ain’t goin’ anywhere.” Blink and Frank turned to see one of the Blackuras standing in the bedroom doorway, brandishing a lug wrench. “Siddown, both of you!”

continued…

Blink's First Adventure (2/4) (#FridayFlash)

Previous: Meet Blink | Part 1

Last week, Blink’s mom opened an envelope, to find enough cash to make the house payment! Shortly after, a friend called to say an obnoxious classmate was missing! What happened to Frank? And where did that cash really come from? Read on…

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“Channel Fourteen,” Lashaun urged him. “It’s running right now.”

“…Westside Middle School, did not return home from school today. His parents say they checked with his friends, and nobody has seen him since school let out at 3:35 p.m. If you know where Frank Crain might be, please call Hotline Fourteen at…”

“Geez,” said Stevie looking at the screen, “they put his football picture up there?”

“Yeah. You think someone grabbed him off the sidewalk?”

Stevie had a pretty good idea that was exactly what happened, and who had grabbed him, and why. “Maybe,” he said. “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy, huh?”

“Yeah. Hey, my mom wants something. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Who was that—oh my!” Mom gasped. “Is that boy from your school?”

“Yeah. He’s a real jerk. He probably mouthed off to the wrong person. Or maybe he’s out breaking windows, and he turned off his phone so they can’t track him.”

“Stevie, what have I told you, talking about people like that?”

“I know. Sorry. But he is a jerk.”

“Being a jerk doesn’t mean he deserves something bad happening to him,” said Mom. “Anyway, I’m keeping you home tomorrow.”

“Does that mean I can stay up late?”

“Until eleven. No later.”

“Fine,” Stevie huffed. “Can I use the computer, then?”

“Sure. I’m pretty worn out. I think I’ll go to bed early. But I’ll be checking on where you go.”

“Geez, ma. The computer can’t even play Youtubes, it sure can’t play anything—dirty.” Stevie caught himself about to say fun and corrected himself at the last second.

“I know. A new computer is on the list, once we can afford it.” Mom kissed her fingertip and tapped him on top of the head. “Night, kiddo.”

Stevie waited for the bedroom door to close, then opened Twitter through the anonymizing relay site he’d found last weekend. He had created an account for Blink through it, and followed the known heroes and villains, but had left it dormant since then. Now it was time to use it.

@CapHeroic This is Blink. I need to talk to you in private.

Stevie waited anxiously, hoping for a response.

@Blinkss14 Why?

@CapHeroic I need your help.

@Blinkss14 I’m retired, you know.

@CapHeroic It’s about the missing kid. It’s because of me. Please.

CapHeroic followed you.

@Blinkss14 DMed you.

Stevie sighed with relief, and opened his direct messages.

Can you meet at Fountain of Progress Square?

I’ll have to wait for my mom to go to sleep, but yeah.

See you there.

Stevie logged out, then cleared the browser cache and history. Mom didn’t know he knew to do that, just yet. He clicked around to a few school-related and game sites, checked his email, then got up to check on Mom. She was already asleep, her TV playing some chick flick. He turned it off, then arranged his dirty laundry under the covers in case she checked on him. Finally, he put on his black hoodie and popped outside.


“Captain Heroic?”

“Yeah. Blink?”

“Yeah.”

“Show me.”

“Over here,” Blink whispered. Captain Heroic turned to see the kid, standing thirty feet to the left of where he had been.

“Okay, I’m convinced,” said Captain Heroic. “Let’s skip the small talk. Who took the kid?”

“The Blackuras.”

“Why?”

Blink sighed. “Frank was telling everyone at school he’s Blink. So they went after him.”

“The Blackuras are just a bunch of punks in souped-up Integras. They’re not going to tangle with supers.”

“They run the street races, y’know. I… I kind of popped in on them and grabbed a bunch of their cash.”

“You what?” Captain Heroic scratched his greying head. “You stole money from them, is that what you’re saying?”

“Yeah.” Blink sighed again. “They got it illegally, I figured that wouldn’t make it so bad. Mom can’t get a better job than Slaver-Mart, and Dad’s supposed to send child support so we can get by. But sometimes he doesn’t.”

“So you took the money to help your mom pay bills.”

“Yeah. Grimes Financial threatens to foreclose on us any time we’re late on the house payment. That’s why I was there, that night last week. I was thinking about grabbing some money out of their vault, I figured they’d get it right back anyway, y’know? Then DeVine showed up.”

“Right.” Captain Heroic paced in front of the fountain for a minute. “So what are you? A hero, or a villain?”

Blink fought back tears. “I… I don’t know yet. Frank’s a butthead, but that doesn’t mean I want him getting hurt. So I’m gonna get him out. But I need some help.”

The old hero thought a moment. “I wouldn’t wish this on anyone your age,” he said at last. “Most Type Ones don’t manifest until they’re twenty. Sixteen’s the earliest I ever heard of until now. You’re what, thirteen?”

“Yeah. What’s a Type One?”

“That’s someone who’s superpowers come naturally. They’re genetic. Type Twos gain theirs after some external event, usually a lab accident. I’m a Type Three, just a normal guy with good reflexes and very good gadgets.”

“Oh.”

“Okay, I’ll help. But this is your show. I’m the sidekick, got it? I’ll step in if something goes wrong, but otherwise it’s all you. And no more swiping cash, even from the bad guys.”

Blink grinned. “Fair enough. But you have to drive. I’ll navigate. I got an idea how we can do this.”

continued…

Blink's First Adventure (1/4) (#FridayFlash)

After we met Blink last week, he wanted to let you know about his first adventure…

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“Hey, Stevie! Did you watch HNN last night?”

“Yeah.” Stevie Winkler scooted over a little on his stool, giving his friend Chris some room to set his cafeteria tray.

“Man,” Chris enthused, “wouldn’t it be awesome, to have superpowers like that? Ultra Woman said he was a kid.” He swept a dramatic arm across the cafeteria. “That means it could be someone in here, even!”

Stevie put on what he hoped didn’t look like a fake grin. “Yeah. Kinda like Robin, huh?”

“Except he’s not a sidekick.” Chris looked around the cafeteria, and waved at Lashaun, carrying his tray.

“I guess you heard, huh?” Lashaun took a stool across from them. “Any ideas who it is?”

“Could be anyone,” said Stevie. “Probably goes to a private school or something.”

“Yeah, those rich kids have all the luck,” said Chris.

They ate, talking about their classes and teachers, pausing to watch as girls walked by. As they took their trays to the dropoff window, Marla Davis came up behind them. “Did you hear?”

“Hear what?” Chris asked.

“Frank Crain is Blink!”

“No way,” said Stevie. He knew exactly who Blink was, and it wasn’t Frank Crain. Frank should have been in ninth grade, but got held back last year.

“He’s telling everyone,” Marla insisted, pointing across the cafeteria to a gathering crowd.

The boys followed Marla over to where Frank was holding court. “How do you know it isn’t him?” Lashaun asked Stevie.

“A real super wouldn’t give away his secret identity,” Stevie whispered.

“Yeah, but who’s gonna call him on it?” Chris shook his head.

“…so DeVine was trying to wrap me up in his plants,” Frank was telling the growing crowd of admirers, “and I just kept popping in and out and all about.” He grinned at the unintentional rhyme. “Then I got an idea, and started going around him. He kept chasing me with his plants, and I got him wrapped up in his own tangle!”

That’s not how it went down, Stevie thought, although Frank’s story was a lot more exciting than what really happened. He and DeVine had just talked until Ultra Woman showed up, then DeVine escaped through the ceiling.

“Yeah, and Ultra Woman said I was awesome,” Frank concluded.

“If you’re really Blink,” Stevie called over the other kids’ heads, “give us a little demonstration.”

All heads turned to Stevie, and those closest to him edged away. “I don’t have to show you nothin’,” Frank sneered.

“Whatever.” Stevie snorted softly and rolled his eyes. “C’mon, guys,” he told Chris and Lashaun. “Mr. Eng don’t like us being late for Geometry.”

A rough hand grabbed his arm and jerked him back, and Stevie found himself nose to nose with a much larger Frank. “You callin’ me a liar?”

“Is that how a superhero rolls?” Stevie asked, loud enough for everyone around to hear. “Bullying kids a head shorter than him?”

Frank glanced around at the skeptical faces, then quickly let Stevie go. “I just don’t like bein’ called a liar, is all,” he grumbled. “You got class. Don’t be late.”

“That wasn’t too bright,” said Lashaun. “He coulda punched your lights out.”

“Yeah, but then everybody woulda known he’s talkin’ crap,” said Stevie. “He can’t go pushin’ everyone around, now, or he proves he’s no hero. It was worth the risk.”

“That reminds me,” said Chris, “whatever happened with that dork from high school who was gonna kick your butt?”

“Oh, that.” Stevie had his cover story ready; that was when he’d discovered his ability to teleport. “He put me up against a tree. I ducked, and he hit the tree. I think he broke his hand, but I took off while he was yelling about it.”


Stevie was doing homework a week later, surrounded by the crumbs of a freezer pizza, when Mom came in from work around nine. “Hi, hon,” she said, heading for the bathroom.

“Hey, Mom,” he said, eyeing the bulging envelope on the table. “The PTA sent a flyer home about the bake sale, and some lady came by and dropped off an envelope.”

“I don’t know if we’ll be able to help with the bake sale, hon,” said Mom, over the flushing toilet. “If your father pays the child support this month, maybe. Same with the religious thing, whatever that was.”

“Uh, I don’t think it was a religious thing,” said Stevie, as Mom came in to look over the mail. “She said something about a single mothers foundation.”

“Yeah. Maybe this is stuffed with cash, then,” Mom said sarcastically, ripping the envelope open. She gasped. “Oh my God,” she whispered. She sat down, and Stevie thought it was just luck that she landed in a chair. She fished the cash out of the envelope. “Oh my God,” she said again.

“Wow, it was cash!” Stevie tried hard to sound surprised. “How much?”

“Oh, I…” Mom started counting, but her hands were shaking too hard. “Can you count it, Stevie?”

“Sure.” Stevie counted out the twenties and fifties. “Fifteen hundred,” he said at last.

“Wow,” she breathed. “That’s the house payment, right there. Talk about a big help. If your dad gets off his ass and sends your support check, I’ll be able to put something back for your college for a change. I’m surprised they’d hand out cash, though.”

“I dunno, ma. They just dropped off the envelope. I didn’t know what was in it.”

“I know.” Mom slid a twenty to Stevie. “This will make up at least some of your missed allowance.” The phone rang. “If you’re done with the pizza, Stevie, why don’t you get that? I thought I wasn’t hungry, but now…” she shrugged.

Stevie recognized Lashaun’s number on the caller ID. “Hey.”

“Stevie!” Lashaun sounded almost frantic. “Did you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“Frank Crain disappeared!”

continued…

The Lost Years: Season 1, Ep. 11

Previous:
Episode 1 | Episode 2 | Episode 3 | Episode 4 | Episode 5 | Episode 6 | Episode 7 | Episode 8 | Episode 9 | Episode 10

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Credit: Roy Lathwell

Several soldiers peered around the corner, while the rest listened to the Imperial Keep’s collapse, then flinched back. “It’s gone,” one said. “The walls buckled, and one—” Stones tumbled and bounced by, showering the sheltered expedition with small debris.

“We need to go back,” one of the Strikers said. “Acrom jumped. If nothing else, we need to recover his remains.”

“Why?” Anlayt demanded.

“He was the one bitten by the walking dead,” the Striker explained. “One of the men tells me Acrom was growing sick. Acrom told him he would die but once, then when the wall fell away, he dived out. Head first.”

“Likely a fruitless pursuit to find him,” said Phylok, “as with this entire expedition so far. But we should at last make the attempt.”

As expected, Acrom’s body was buried under the rubble that was once the Imperial Keep. They sang his name at the place they guessed the stairwell had been, offering his soul to Heaven and beseeching the Creator that his body lie still, then returned to Harbor Street and marched west.

Passing through a poorer part of the city, Jira thought of her namesake, Jira the Brown. That Jira had come from such a neighborhood, perhaps this one. She and her friend Pyanya had become Thurun’s apprentices, so legend went, after they stole his staff. Pyanya the White was the more noted, a Protector revered as the Lady of Isenbund in the North. But the original Jira had done well enough for herself, a strong sorcerer and enchanter by all accounts. I will be happy, Jira thought, if they say of me that I was able to keep a remnant of the Empire alive.


The Western Gate was destroyed, and they clambered over the remains to reach the Western Road. “Looks almost normal out here,” one soldier grunted.

“If you don’t look behind you,” said another.

Indeed, for those who only faced west, it could have been an unusually quiet afternoon outside the capital. Grasses and brambleberries grew wild, but the clear zone around the city walls was allowed to grow and seed itself. Two years ago, the poor would have been gleaning the seeds and fruits, or tending small garden plots granted by the crown. The nearest villa was beyond the first rise, where the road disappeared on its long journey to Westmark.

“Patrol formation,” Anlayt ordered. “Captains on point.” The Bronze Circle formed around Jira once again. After what they had seen in the last few hours, she found the protective ring a small comfort. “For Camac… forward!”

The Captains called a halt before they topped the hill. Phylok sent two scouts forward; they slipped through the tall grass and returned after a short time. “The villa is damaged, but inhabited,” they said. “Windows are boarded up. There’s debris piled around the perimeter, and gardens inside. We saw the smoke of a cookfire.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“No.”

“They must be there,” said Phylok. “I would venture that the noise of our difficulties in Camac carried outside the city here, and the inhabitants are hiding. Perhaps watching us, while they gauge our intentions.”

“Strikers, form a defensive perimeter,” Anlayt ordered. “Protector, can you scry about us? Can you locate these residents?”

Jira nodded, and sent her vision outward. “There are no ambushes,” she said, her voice distant. “Nobody stands between us and their makeshift ramparts.”

“Are they in the villa?”

After a long silence, Jira smiled. “In an upper room. They appear to be having a heated argument. One woman is watching from the window, but as engaged as any.”

“How many?” Phylok asked.

“Eight… eleven. They do not carry weapons, but I saw crossbows in the receiving room. Implements that can be used as weapons: axes, scythes. A few hunting spears.” She came back to herself. “A young man looked around as I scryed the upper room,” she warned. “I would assume he is a sorcerer, but I don’t remember him from my earlier visits.”

“I am sure that Protector Jira is more than equal to any mage they have,” said Phylok. “I suggest we form up, and request a parley.” He nodded toward the bugler.

“I have no better idea,” said Anlayt.


The soldiers lined up along the Western Road, staggered formation, so that arrows or other missiles could only strike one at a time. The Captains stood before the villa’s makeshift gate, with a few of the Bronze Circle shielding Jira; she in turn covered them with a fender.

The bugler winded his horn, sounding the “parley” signal. Minutes passed, with no response from the villa.

“Give them another,” Phylok suggested, and the bugler blew again.

After a long minute, the front door cracked open. The Captains felt, rather than saw, eyes upon them.

“Citizens of Camac!” Anlayt bellowed. “Come forth, in all peace and harmony! We seek only survivors and information!”

Finally, the door opened. “Nine,” said Jira. “I expect the other two are covering us with crossbows.”

“Who are you, and what do you want?” It was the young man that Jira had noted during her scrying.

“I am Protector Jira, of the North,” she replied. “With me are Captain Phylok of Isenbund, and Captain Anlayt of Koyr, and four strikes of Camac’s army. We hoped to find other authority here.”

“Protector.” The young man bowed, hand to forehead, in the salute to a superior; Jira and the Captains noted how the others shed their wariness. “I am Arbul the Blue, of the Camac Conclave, until the recent trouble. Fortunately, I earned my sash before all that happened.”

“Are you all that is left of the population of Camac, then?” Anlayt asked.

“Indeed, sir. Many others fled the city, by road and by sea, so they may live on. You had no refugees arrive in Koyr?”

Anlayt frowned. “Neither by road, nor by sea, mage,” he said at last.

“Troubling.”

“So there is no authority,” said Phylok.

“We are the emperor!” An older man twisted free, and pranced forward. Arbul and several others gave each other exasperated looks. “Grand and glorious Camac lives on, so long as ourself!”

Arbul stepped forward, close enough to whisper, “Forgive him, notables. The others say he was mad long before The Madness, imagining himself to be His Sublime Majesty.”

The mad “emperor” joined them. “Good Captains, worthy Protector,” he purred. “Together, we shall conquer the other half of the world, then all will know the benevolent rule of glorious Camac. My court shall accompany us on this grand quest, and all will sing our praises.”

“Majesty,” said another, gently tugging the madman back, “your servants have just returned from an expedition on your behalf. Let them find their barracks, and take the rest they have earned, before sending them forth anew.”

“Wise counsel,” said the man who would be emperor. “Go, in all peace and harmony. Captains, your men have earned extended leave with pay. See that they reacquaint themselves with their… with their families.” He paused, looking confused. “You are all that… no.” He turned and stalked back to the villa, muttering all the way.

“Authority,” said Arbul. “I did not think to see this many sane people in one place, ever again. Let alone any remnants of governance.”

“Do you know who awakened the Cave Wyrm that was under the Keep?” Jira asked.

“No. I presume it was Nisodarun, or perhaps another mage gone mad.”

“Whoever awakened it, had control of her faculties,” Jira countered. “It told me that it swallowed Nisodarun by his own request, then allowed me to dispel it as commanded by the one who awoke it. The Wyrm, I presume, undermined the Keep. It collapsed.”

“That’s what we heard, then. I hope you did not unseal the Library.”

Anlayt grimaced, and Jira nodded. “We did. The walking dead are no more, but I did re-seal the entrance.”

“One of the mages was bitten,” said Arbul, his face twisting. “He lured the remaining walking dead into the Library, then I sealed them all together. If you released him, then… then I thank you. He was a dear friend.”

“He, and the others, are at peace,” Jira assured him.

“Protector,” said Anlayt, looking at the sky. “If we march now, we can reach the pier before sunset. I suggest we do not spend the night in the open, nor in the city.”

“And we would be an undue burden on the villa,” Phylok agreed.

“Arbul, you and your companions are welcome to come with us,” Jira offered. “North Keep has plenty of room.”

“As does Ak’koyr,” Anlayt insisted.

“And Isenbund,” said Phylok, “although you may not want to go that far.”

Arbul looked at his companions, then turned back to Jira and the Captains. “We will stay here,” he said. “For better or worse, Camac is our home. Our gardens, and the gleaning fields, are sufficient to feed us. We did rescue some livestock as well.”

“Arbul, I name you Protector of Camac,” said Jira. “I charge you to keep the peace, to train those who have Talent, and defend your home.”

“I…” Arbul fought to control his emotions. “On the name of Her Sublime Majesty, I do swear to these things. And, come winter, we shall bury the dead and clear the rubble. Perhaps, by next summer, the living will again dwell within Camac’s walls.”

“Strikers, marching formation,” Anlayt ordered. “For Camac… to the pier, then home!”

---

Here ends Season 1. Season 2, “Dissolution,” will begin soon.

The Lost Years: Season 1, Ep. 10

Previous: Episode 1 | Episode 2 | Episode 3 | Episode 4 | Episode 5 | Episode 6 | Episode 7 | Episode 8 | Episode 9

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Credit: Roy Lathwell

“Cave Wyrm!” Jira shouted. She dimly remembered a chamber, down in the foundations of the Keep, where the bones of a Cave Wyrm had lay waiting for a time of need. She worked a spell of binding—not the proper spell to bind an Elemental Dragon, but there was no time to prepare that one—and the Wyrm hung in place, not quite frozen but not moving toward them. “I’ll try to hold it! Go! Get to the ships! It won’t come for you through water!”

Who are you, mage? Everyone heard that voice of grinding boulders, even the first strike clattering down the stairs.

“I am Protector Jira, of the Northern provinces,” she replied. The Bronze Circle parted before her, but the strike flanked her, retreating no further. Brave soldiers, she thought, knowing that the Cave Wyrm could blast the skin from their bones in an eyeblink.

What is your purpose here?

“We seek the Eye of Byula that was in the keeping of the First Protector. If we find the remains of the First Protector, we will mourn him and lay him to rest.”

What you seek is gone. The Eye I swallowed, along with the First Protector, when the mad fool demanded I do so. Now dispell me, mage, if you would save yourself and your companions. I will respect your weak binding while you do your work, in accordance with the commands of the one who awakened me.

Jira bit back the questions she had, as the dragon was unlikely to answer them. A little searching along the Cave Wyrm’s flanks turned up a darker splash of brown, the dried blood of the mage who had awakened it. “A cloth, and water,” she commanded the Bronze Circle, and they were brought. Awakening an Elemental Dragon was simple enough—even a fresh apprentice could do it, given good Talent—but the binding spells, needed to keep the dragon from killing the mage and rampaging about, were more complex. It was said that pure motives were as effective as binding, but who had those?

Nevertheless, the Principle of Closure held. Blood and intent awakened an Elemental Dragon, and removing that blood dispelled it. Jira took the wet cloth, wiped the blood from the rocky skin, and the Cave Wyrm dissolved into a pile of stone and sand. Still, the floor swayed; the Cave Wyrm’s growth had come at the cost of the Keep’s foundations.

“Quickly.” Jira followed the Captains, following the Bronze Circle, down the long staircase. Their footing became more stable as they descended, but the rumbling continued.

“Will the building hold together much longer?” Anlayt shouted above the noise. Below them, soldiers shouted as a piece of the outer wall fell away.

“I have bound the stairs, from here to the ground,” said Jira. “We will reach the ground. After that, if the Keep falls, it falls where it will.”

Soldiers, men and women, spilled from the stairs and onto the ground floor. Strikers urged them forward, urged themselves by the Captains.

The Captains burst into daylight, then whirled about. “Protector Jira!” Phylok shouted. “Captain Anlayt, get the others away from here!” He bolted back into the crumbling Keep as Anlayt gave orders.

“Protector!” Phylok bellowed.

“Here!” Jira pelted over the rubble. Above her, rubble fell over but not upon her—she had raised a fender, a spell of protection. “Phylok, go!”

A large stone glanced off Phylok’s helm; he shook his head to clear it and stumbled toward the light. He felt a hand on his arm, pulling him forward, a voice urging him to move, move. Dim changed to bright, yet the hand and the voice pulled and pushed. He shook his head again, quickly, and lucidity returned. “Which way did they go?” Jira asked.

Phylok shook her arm away, but smiled and pointed. “That way. Protector, what happened?”

“I was rescuing an important piece of our history,” she said. “It has no power like the Eyes, but we need to remember a time when Camac and magic were both thought omnipotent.” She showed him the faded painting, of a man standing atop a vast monolith, itself hovering above a waterfront. Ancient script read: When Protector Thurun bringeth the Great Pier to Camac Harbor. MCLGPE.

“What’s that last part?” Phylok pointed at the letters.

“The apprentice closed his message the same way,” she said. “May the Creator and the Lesser Gods Preserve the Empire.” She sighed. “And we’ll need all their aid, I fear.”

continued…

The Lost Years: Season 1, Ep. 9

Previous: Episode 1 | Episode 2 | Episode 3 | Episode 4 | Episode 5 | Episode 6 | Episode 7 | Episode 8

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Credit: Roy Lathwell

The throne room had the appropriate grandeur for an empire that spanned half the world. Phylok thought, with some irreverence, remove the rubble and rotted corpses, and it would look almost right.

“There.” Anlayt pointed across the room, to where pieces of the throne lay scattered. “Go and see if I am right.” He looked pale.

Jira, accompanied by some of her honor guard, crossed the room. She too, remembered what this place once looked like, and her mind kept trying to superimpose the was over the is. She saw a dismembered corpse among the rubble—Her Sublime Majesty, greeting her from the Pearl Throne—shreds of red and gold strewn across the dais—the robe of state—a hand outstretched in welcome, wearing the Three-Gem Ring—a dried hand on the dais, the Three-Gem Ring dangling from one finger—

“Oh gods,” Jira gasped, staring at the torn hand. She turned to the others. “What happened here?”

“Speculation is unhelpful, at this moment,” said Anlayt, but without his usual force. “Protector, do you verify that those are the remains of Her Sublime Majesty?”

In a year of difficulties, Jira would later write, the most difficult moment of all was this one, the hardest thing was to keep the tears from her eyes and the sob from her voice. “I do,” she said, letting her voice echo through the ruined chamber.

“Then let us gather her remains,” Anlayt suggested. “We can lay her in the tombs. Then, we can see about finding a successor.”

“A dim hope, that,” said Phylok. “But the attempt must be made.”

“And so, to the Western Road? Protector?”

Jira hesitated. “I wish to visit the Imperial Keep first. It’s a slim hope, but perhaps the Eye of Byula, that was in Nisodarun’s keeping, is still there. Having two Eyes, this one and Kontir’s, would let us hold together what is left.”


The Imperial Keep was another place where Jira’s memories kept trying to impose themselves over the present reality. That it was High Summer now, the time she had always come to share wisdom with the other Protectors (as other mages gathered in Stolevan), did not make it easier. A musty smell, the odor of disuse, had long replaced the familiar scents of tea, sweaty apprentices, and that storm-like smell of Air magic in use. She thought about sharing tea in the sumptuous Meeting Hall with her peers, laughing over a forgotten trifle, and a wistful smile came to her.

“Protector?” Phylok brought her back to the present. “Lead the way.”

“Where should we look first?” Anlayt asked.

“The First Protector’s private chambers,” said Jira. “I know not where Nisodarun kept the Eye, but his work area would be the logical place to start looking. Protector Kontir likely spoke to him regularly, as he has an Eye. That is the place to start.”

Unfortunately, those chambers were up ten flights of stairs. They set a marching order, Jira behind the Captains to guide, and began the climb. As they reached the first landing, Jira laughed.

“What about this situation is amusing?” Anlayt scowled.

“The First Protector used to run up this staircase, at least once a day,” said Jira. “He said it kept him young and fit. Indeed he was fit, for a man past his sixtieth summer.” On the other hand, a year of heavy burdens had left Jira and the others fit as well. So they marched, stopping halfway up for a brief breather, until they reached the final landing.

“This entire floor is—was—the First Protector’s chambers,” Jira explained, gesturing at the overturned furniture. The dented remains of a tea service lay heaped in one corner. As with most other places here, it smelled of disuse and decay. “This first room is a public receiving area. I only visited his work area once, but I doubt he moved it.”

“What should we look for?”

“A small box, about a span each direction.” Jira frowned, thinking. “I don’t think it’s ornate.”

“Could you not just scry for the Eye?” Anlayt asked.

Jira gave a sad laugh. “One would think so,” she said. “But the Eyes only find by magic. They cannot be found by magic. Odd, but powerful enchantments often include such oddities. Not always by design.”

“What was that?” a soldier asked.

“A tremor,” said Anlayt. “Perhaps the foundations have been undermined. Let us find what we came for.”

“This way,” said Jira, leading them through wide doors. “Oh!” She stopped, as a stronger tremor shook the Keep. “Captains, I suggest you lead your strikes down and into the street. I can protect myself if—” The tremors became a constant shaking. Tumbled furniture slid across the floor, tapestries swayed. “Captains, go!”

Too late—the floor in front of them burst upward in a shower of rubble. Something that looked like a maw of pointed teeth, at the end of a ridged tube, reared above them.

continued…

The Lost Years: Season 1, Ep. 8

Previous: Episode 1 | Episode 2 | Episode 3 | Episode 4 | Episode 5 | Episode 6 | Episode 7

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Credit: Roy Lathwell

Captain Phylok pulled Jira back into the Bronze Circle, then hustled to Captain Anlayt’s side. “What—oh, gods.”

The stench of death, familiar to all who had survived The Madness, preceded the horror that congested the entrance. Worse than madfolk was an entire cohort of living dead, many still wearing recognizable parts of soldiers’ uniforms. Where clothes did not cover flesh, it hung loose and rotten, or was gone entirely. They choked the doorway, all trying to get out at once.

“Stop that noise!” Anlayt barked; several soldiers were keening a deathsong, mourning their impending deaths. “Stand like soldiers of Camac!”

“Retreat, you fool!” Jira snapped. “Draw them into the street!”

“Who is the fool?” Anlayt retorted. “If we bottle them up at the entrance, we need not fight them all at once! Perhaps you have forgotten how to count, woman? We are likely outnumbered more than two to one!”

“It’s not likely that our enemy has a functioning mage among them!” Jira bellowed. “Phylok! Captains, to me!”

Phylok hesitated. He trusted Jira, who as a Protector was part of the military, but was not sure why she intended such a tactical blunder. Still, she was the Protector. He turned and signaled an orderly retreat, and the Strikers obeyed. Anlayt, in turn, had the choice of facing the walking dead on his own or joining the retreat. He hustled to join the others.

“Strikers,” said Jira, “tell your archers to aim for the knees. Crawling dead are a less formidable enemy.”

“What is your plan?” Phylok asked her.

“Incapacitate as many as possible. Draw them as far as possible from the Library. Then set them afire.”

“Why could you not—ah.” Phylok nodded. “If there is anything to preserve inside, we don’t want it burning.”

By twos and threes, the archers found their marks. Walking dead, their knees wrecked by arrows, limped, fell, and pulled themselves along with gangrenous hands. The ambulatory skirted or clambered over the lame, driven by hunger for living flesh.

“What caused this?” Anlayt asked, cocking a crossbow.

“Perhaps a priest gone mad?” Jira answered with her own question. “Who knows?”

Once the last crawlers were a good fifty reaches from the entrance, Jira acted. Fire magic rode her intent across the short distance, and the crawling dead became crawling torches. Heedless, painless, they lurched onward. At last, cleansing fire undid the last shreds of ligaments and evil, and the charred corpses fell twitching to the pavement. The soldiers continued to retreat, keeping as much distance as possible, until there were only the living and dead.

“Well done, Protector,” said Phylok.

“I hope you do not intend that we wrap and mourn these as well,” said Anlayt.

“No,” said Jira. “We need not trouble these further. Their souls left them long ago.”

• • •

Above ground, among broken windows and the walking dead, the contents of the Library had not fared well. Underground was better; there was some water damage, but the drainage system still functioned. Jira was elated.

“Protector?” Anlayt asked, looking down one long row of shelves. “What of this would you bring back with us?”

“All of it,” said Jira. “North Keep has plenty of empty rooms. Who knows what someone will need to know, a century or two from now?”

“We don’t have—”

“Arms!” Phylok barked, drawing his sword. A strike of archers hustled forward to flank the Captains. Four more of the walking dead shambled toward them.

“Do you need my help?” Jira asked, as the Bronze Circle again tightened around her.

“If this is all that is left, no,” said Anlayt. Archers lamed the approaching undead, until they fell to crawl mindlessly toward the living.

“Spears!” Phylok shouted, and two strikes moved forward. Mindful of clutching bony fingers and snapping jagged teeth, the soldiers came in spearpoint-first. Several of them looked pale; fighting a pack of mythical walking dead was an exercise, a drill, in defeating an opponent without being wounded. Facing real examples, little more than a year ago, would have been as unthinkable as… as Camac being utterly destroyed.

Nevertheless, their training held. The lead soldiers rammed their spears into the open mouths of each crawling opponent, then stood on the shafts to pin the abominations to the floor by their own jaws. Others stood on or speared flailing arms, then waited for a Captain to strike off the head.

Jira whirled at a shout and scream from behind. Taking advantage of the distraction up front, one more had shuffled in and taken a soldier from the rear. It fastened its decayed teeth on the soldier’s arm, trying to tear away a piece of flesh.

Without thinking, the soldier punched the thing in the forehead. Its teeth tore back a piece of his arm, then it let go and the soldier jerked away. In his panic, he swung a beefy fist, and caught it in the temple as it came in for another taste. With a snap, its head jerked sideways, and it fell. A quick-thinking woman stomped hard on the broken neck, snapping the last shreds of skin and tendons, and the head tumbled away. The body twitched for a moment, then was still.

“Let that bleed,” one of the others said, pointing to the torn flap of bloody skin on the wounded soldier’s arm. “Flush out the poison. Maybe he’ll live.”

“Not if we let him bleed out,” said another.

The wounded soldier looked at Captain Anlayt in pale-faced appeal. “Is it true, Captain? Will I become one of them, now?”

“Just a fable, soldier.”

“So were they.” The soldier shuddered and fainted, as the others bound up the wounded arm.

Jira and Phylok conferred, as Anlayt berated the other soldiers for inattention in a combat situation. “Do you truly intend to bring all these books back?” Phylok asked.

“There was a ketch floating in the harbor,” said Jira. “If nothing else, I will fill it with books and call the wind to sail it home. By myself, if necessary.”

“Things have just become a little more complex,” Phylok pointed out, nodding to the wounded man in the rear. “We need to know there’s no more of those things in there, especially since we’ve left the exit clear.”

“I’m trying to imagine how they ended up in the Library,” Jira mused. “Did someone volunteer to become bait, to draw them inside? And who sealed the entrance? There were three or four sorcerers here, besides the First Protector, who were strong enough to do that. If one of them is still alive, there are several vacancies among the Protectors.”

“We need to vacate this place,” said Anlayt, joining them. In the rear, two soldiers helped their wounded fellow to his feet. “Immediately.”

“Counter,” said Phylok. “We need to make sure there’s no more of those things left. If the legends are true, I’m surprised we faced only a cohort rather than a legion.”

“Perhaps the mad ones saved us from that fate,” said Jira. “But Captain Phylok is correct. Let us clear the Library of walking dead, then I will seal the entrance again. The books can stay, for now. I will come for them later.”

“Well, it is good,” said Phylok. “We know that the important parts of the Library are largely intact. We have laid to rest a goodly number of undead. Let us proceed to the Palace, then to the Western Road.”

continued…

Warmonger's Way (2/2) (#FridayFlash)

Last week: Warmonger and Jaguar broke into Bea’s Jewelers, grabbing raw gold and loose stones. But as they slipped outside, they were accosted! Who’s behind that alluring voice? …


Warmonger, who prided himself on self-control, snapped his head to a halt halfway around. Not the worst-case, he thought, but close enough. Only the Masked Warriors, the coolest customers of all, would be worse than Miss Siles. Warmonger was a meticulous planner (DeVine just called him “anal”), and he had contingencies for all the known quantities. He hoped Jaguar had followed orders, which for this case were run like hell. But that voice… that was something HNN didn’t mention. His lizard brain screamed Look! It was taking all his concentration and self-discipline to not just turn around and stare. If he couldn’t run, Jag was toast.

“Cute, babe,” he said, pulling the balaclava over his eyes to obscure his vision further. “Now make me a sandwich.”

He felt only a twinge of anger, not enough to use. That line always worked on Ultra Woman; but she was in Hollywood, filming a documentary. Warmonger thought quickly, and realized that this was likely Miss Siles’s first encounter with a supervillain. The only intel on her was what they’d shown on HNN, and he didn’t like being the one to acquire more. She’s a rookie, he thought, I can’t go down to a rookie. He thought quickly, doing his best to ignore the lizard brain. The slap rounds in his .45 were meant to take out any alarm sirens without making a lot of noise themselves. They wouldn’t kill, even if the target had no body armor, but they could bruise…

He gave in to the lizard brain, and turned to face Miss Siles, but drew his weapon. All he could focus on was that gigantic chest, but that was his target anyway, and he squeezed off three shots.

He had just enough time to think Damn, she’s fast. Miss Siles twisted, not enough to dodge the slap rounds, but enough to deflect them, then those huge knockers came around and slammed him across the side of the head. Taking that blow used up all his remaining energy, and he staggered backwards. His gun had gone flying, but there was nothing to do about that.

His vision was blurry, but he could see how Miss Siles stood gaping. He grinned. “That’s all you got?” he taunted. “You thought you could take the Warmonger out with one shot? Kid, you’re up way past your bedtime. You’re good, but this is the big leagues.”

This shot went home; he felt that surge of red anger. Ahhhh. It wasn’t enough to fill the tank, but it was enough. He averted his eyes just as his vision cleared.

“I’ll make you a sandwich!” she growled, and charged in.

Warmonger shouted down the lizard brain again, forced himself to move, and used his augmented strength to leap straight up, a good fifteen feet, to the roof of Bea’s Jewelers. He landed within reach of Jaguar, whose eyes were locked on Miss Siles. His hands strangled a piece of conduit. He looked toward Miss Siles, who glared up at them. “Catch ya in the funnies, kid!” he said, tasting another generous draught of anger, and dragged Jaguar out of sight.

It took a little shaking and a few ungentle slaps to snap Jag out of it, but he finally held up a hand. “I’m… I’m all right,” he said. “How did you stay… jeez.”

“I’m the Warmonger. I ain’t gonna let some artillery take me down. C’mon.” They leaped from building to building, Jaguar’s favorite way to cover ground, until Warmonger’s energy ran low. Having lost Miss Siles at last, they climbed down and went their ways.


“Jeez, boss!” Nick gasped, looking at the bruise covering half of Ward’s face. “You okay?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” Or would like to handle, his lizard brain chittered. “Where’s the Jack?”

Nick slid him a glass and a bottle, and Ward poured a generous helping of whisky. That was too close, he thought. A rookie, and she almost took me out. We’re gonna be hurtin’ in a year, if we can’t come up with a counter. He tried to think, but the damned lizard brain kept going on about those… humongous…

“Hey boss,” Nick sipped at a mug of beer he’d poured for himself. Employees got free beer, off the clock. It kept them loyal. “You up to hear a pitch?”

Ward downed his glass, and poured another. “Fire away.”

“I was thinkin’. Maybe once a month, maybe the Saturday before a full moon, we could have a Ladies Fight Night. Get the baddest babes in town goin’ at it. I think it would pack the place.”

“Hmmm.” Ward usually dismissed suggestions right away, then came up with a justification, but this one… ah. “We could try it, maybe next month. Give us a little time to, you know, put the word out.” He discussed details with his employee with half his brain. The other half thought, and maybe I can recruit some of the winners. I bet Miss Siles don’t have that effect on other women. Meanwhile, the lizard brain kept up the running commentary. It would take a long time to shut it up, nearly as long as it took for the bruise to fade.

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If you liked this story, there’s more of the Skyscraper City universe, including the supervillain Pulse and the arrival of Miss Siles on the scene. Or if you like superhero stories, but aren’t thrilled with mine, you can always give Tony Noland’s novel Verbosity’s Vengeance a shot!

The Lost Years: Season 1, Ep. 7

Previous: Episode 1 | Episode 2 | Episode 3 | Episode 4 | Episode 5 | Episode 6

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Credit: Roy Lathwell

It was nearly High Summer, but the wind felt cold through Camac’s empty streets. Harbor Street, the thoroughfare that led to the Western Road, was strewn with litter and the occasional corpse. Many of the latter showed broken bones, and some bore marks of scavengers at work. Jira sent soldiers into dwellings to find blankets and linens to wrap the corpses; some of them came out shaken at the evidence of what had happened indoors.

“Do you think we’ll find anyone alive here, let alone an heir?” Phylok asked Anlayt. The two of them were the vanguard of the march.

“It is possible,” Anlayt ventured. “Any heir to the throne may well be waiting for us in the palace. Or what is left of it. If not, I think any survivors might retire to one of the villas outside the city. There may be crops to harvest, and the granaries were along the Western Road.” He turned to Jira, who had Lifted a corpse to make it easier for two soldiers to wrap. “Protector, how do you intend to put these—these citizens to their final rest? We do not have time to dig graves, and firewood is scarce.”

“We attended to many more than these in the Northern Reach,” said Jira. “Where mundane means are insufficient, magic will serve.”


The iron gates that once protected the Inner City were thrown down, and great holes riddled the walls. “Look,” said Jira, “the rubble is outside.” She pointed to the nearest hole.

“So the walls were breached from inside,” said Phylok, watching as much as he could. “But what did that?”

Jira gasped at a sudden mental image. She saw First Protector Nisodarun, screaming in pain, or anger, or both. He called Earth magic, that had been his primary element, sending it against the walls to tear them open.

“Protector?” one of the honor guard inquired.

“Magic.” Jira forced herself into the present and gave the soldier a reassuring look. “A vision, of sorts. A sorcerer, suffering from The Madness, could have done this. Perhaps the First Protector himself.”

“You have said often that the First Protector fell to The Madness,” said Anlayt. “How do you know this?”

Jira glared at the caption. “I received a message via falcon: The capital is in chaos. Over half the folk have gone mad, all at once, and they are destroying everything. The First Protector is one of them. May the Creator and the lesser gods preserve the empire. A senior apprentice sent it. The local Conclave here did what they could to keep order, but one may as well hold back the tide with a shovel and pail. Shortly after the falcon arrived, the chaos came to the Northern Reach as well.”

“You used these falcons to communicate with Protector Kontir, in Stolevan?”

“No. Protector Kontir has one of the Eyes of Byula. Another was here in Camac, at the Imperial Keep, in the keeping of the First Protector. Three were given to the Protectors in the East, so we could react quickly in case of rebellion. The sixth was in the South Sea Islands. The North was both near to the capital, and loyal in any case. The Protectors stationed in the Land of the Dawn Greeters and the Spine watched over peaceful territory, as well.”

“That tells us little,” said Anlayt.

“I am now coming to the point, Captain,” Jira growled. “The Eyes of Byula lend its holders many powers of an Oracle, including the ability to scry over any distance and to communicate with one who holds another Eye. It also allows a holder to speak to the mind of any other sorcerer, over any distance, which can also be done when two strong Talents share an emotional bond. But suffice to say, Kontir has kept me apprised of events in the south. I have not been able to tell him that we intend to visit the south, nor why, but he will find out soon enough.”

“The Library,” said Phylok, putting a welcome end to the discussion.

The Imperial Library was a complex of several grand buildings, all much the worse for wear after The Madness. Jira grimaced at the remains of books, old and new, strewn about the grounds. Nothing outside, after initial abuse and a winter of neglect, was worth salvaging.

“The most important works were kept in the basement of the main building,” she told them. “I hope most of them remain intact. In any case, we should see.”

To their surprise, the entrance to the main building was blocked. “If I didn’t know better,” said Phylok, looking over the huge stones and smaller rubble choking the portico, “I’d say that was deliberate.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Jira, brightening for the first time. “That means someone thought there was something worth preserving inside.”

“And I presume you can clear the way?” Anlayt asked.

“Of course.” Jira waved the others back. Performing magic before folk always involved unnecessary drama, and long habit reigned. She raised her arms, and called a light wind to toss her hair, then invoked the Earth magic actually needed to do the work. The rubble fell away, the great stones heaved. More stones fell to fill the gap, but Jira’s Earth magic moved those as well. In seconds, the entrance was open.

“Forward, my strikes—hoy!” Anlayt began, then recoiled. “Archers!”

continued…

The Lost Years: Season 1, Ep. 6

Previous: Episode 1 | Episode 2 | Episode 3 | Episode 4 | Episode 5

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Credit: Roy Lathwell

“Protector,” the runner stood panting at the door to Jira’s chambers. “The regular dispatch from Isenbund has been spotted, escorted by two fastboats.”

“Thank you, runner,” said Jira. “You are dismissed. Take a meal and rest in the guest chambers. You are familiar with the locations?”

“Indeed, Protector.” The runner saluted. “I presume you have no further message?”

“Oh. I do. Take this message to Hundred Perin, at the garrison: Captain Phylok is landing shortly. Please provide him with an honor guard. Have the runner at the garrison accompany the escort, and inform me when Phylok is ready to receive visitors. That is all. When you have spoken to Perin, you are on leave the rest of the day and all of tomorrow.”

“By your command, Protector.” The runner saluted and headed down the hallway.


“Captain? I trust your journey was uneventful?”

“Indeed, Protector.” Phylok saluted, then smiled. “Anlayt’s suggestion, to search Camac for an heir, was most interesting. I wonder what his ulterior motive is.”

“I believe it a gamble on his part,” said Jira. “If we can find a surviving, legitimate heir to the Pearl Throne, I expect that he will try to exert undue influence as an advisor.”

“That makes sense. I presume we depart for Ak’koyr in the morning?”

“As soon as feasible. I had left orders for Hundred Perin to dispatch the falcon when you arrived, so Anlayt will be expecting us.”


About a week later, one Protector and two Captains—the only surviving parts of a once-vast government apparatus—stood on the prow of the caravel Joy Beneath the Northern Stars, anchored in Camac harbor. Jira felt heartsore at the destruction of the beautiful capital, a place she had visited often, but resolved to show none of it to Anlayt.

Phylok, through lack of either pride or desire, was not so reticent. His voice caught. “This—this. You can hear of something, but to see it with your own eyes…” He turned away.

“This is bad,” said Anlayt, more subdued than Jira expected. “It is worse when you stand in the midst of it. I shed tears of my own at the things I saw.”

“Is there a single soul among the living here?” Jira sounded skeptical. “Can a sane one live among this rubble, knowing what a glorious city this was not two years ago?”

Anlayt shrugged. “I saw nobody among the living, when I made my survey at winter’s end. Unless you count the last few starveling mad wretches as ‘living.’ No, I did not order them slain, although that would have been a mercy. If one had been Her Sublime Majesty, or an heir…” he shuddered.

“The Imperial Library?” Jira asked. “I presume it too is rubble?”

“The entire Inner City, as all of Camac, was a ruin,” Anlayt sighed.

“But if we can reach the Inner City, we should search the Library,” Jira insisted. “Perhaps there is something worth preserving.”

The Great Pier was a solid single stone, said to have been laid in Camac’s harbor by the legendary Thurun himself. Some said that Thurun was a Maker, and Made the pier in place rather than transporting it from some other location. Jira wondered if the painting in the Imperial Keep, showing Thurun lowering the huge stone into the harbor, was still intact. She had always made a point of viewing the painting when she had visited the First Protector. Another stop on the tour, she thought.

But whether the painting survived or not, the pier itself was impervious to such trifles as the destruction of an empire. The caravel anchored in the harbor, and the landing party boarded two fastboats. They rowed to the Great Pier and made fast. One of the more agile sailors scrambled up the rough wall of the pier, then fastened a rope ladder up top for the rest of the party. “Have a care,” she called. “There are bodies on the pier.” She cocked a crossbow and kept vigil as the others joined her on the pier.

Jira reached out with her magic as Anlayt and Phylok set the marching order. She allowed the traditional Bronze Circle to form around her, protecting the mage, but she sensed no danger on the pier. Nor do I expect much in the city proper, she thought, beyond falling rubble. Four strikes coming ashore, and the greatest danger was likely to be overwhelming grief.

“On the way back,” Jira spoke as they passed the first of several corpses, long dead, “we shall wrap and mourn these. No sense in letting their shades add to the rubble.”

“Protector, we could spend a year or more, doing nothing but that,” Anlayt protested. “Besides, is that truly necessary? The souls in question departed the mad folk right away, no?”

“How do you know that?” Anlayt shook his head, and Jira continued. “A ruin it may be, but this is Camac. We will follow her laws. We need not scour the city, but those we find we shall treat with the respect demanded by law.”

“Look around you,” said Anlayt. “This is Camac. Are the laws not also in shambles?”

“If that is so,” Jira replied, “then why are we searching for an heir to Her Sublime Majesty?”

Anlayt scowled, but many soldiers nodded and a few grunted agreement. Phylok gave the “forward” whistle, and the expedition marched across the pier and into the ruined capital.

continued…

The Lost Years: Season 1, Ep. 5

Don’t worry about me running out of steam… I’m working on Episode 9 now. I think Episode 10 will conclude the first season, but it might run a little farther. Just depends.

Previous: Episode 1 | Episode 2 | Episode 3 | Episode 4

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Credit: Roy Lathwell

“I have often thought Captain Anlayt a pompous fool,” said Jira, “but this?” She shook the dispatch, as if trying to jar some sense into it. “Now I wonder if he has contracted a slightly milder form of The Madness.”

“Until recently,” Perin replied, “I did not travel in the circles of Captains and Protectors. But as a Striker, I once overheard Captain Ruslem speak of him. His description of Captain Anlayt was, shall we say, not flattering.”

“Perhaps I should consult our codes and laws. There must be some good reason to remove him from office.”

“If Ak’koyr will allow it. Would you risk a civil war between two of Camac’s three remnants?”

“Four, if you count the southern coast.” Jira grimaced. “But they are so far removed, that there may as well be only three.”

“I find it interesting, that the good Captain would not spare so much as a ketch for carrying regular dispatches,” said Perin, “but he is willing to raise a small fleet to make war on the East.”

“Not only a fool, but a bloody-minded fool.” Jira thought of their visit, and of Anlayt’s off-hand admission; he had ordered Koyr’s mad slain, their corpses thrown into the harbor. Koyr will be haunted for centuries for that injustice, she thought. Perhaps eternally. Camac’s laws demanded that even the corpses of enemy soldiers be treated with respect, and Jira had followed those laws through the long year of rampaging mad folk as much as possible. She pushed aside the indignities of burial pits and mass cremations, and focused on the positive. They had wrapped each corpse, had sung names where they were known, and mourned each death. And they had done so once again, for forty-odd Eastern men who died in a needless raid. Perhaps it would be enough. If the Northern Reach stayed free of unhappy shades, if they could cling to some final shreds of civilized conduct…

• • •

Later, in her chambers, Jira began a reply.

Captain Anlayt, of Ak’koyr:

I have received your dispatch. I am truly glad to hear that you were able to deal with the raiders, especially with a day’s warning. The names of your four fallen soldiers were honored here in the Northern Reach, as is proper. But sinking five ships, with all 150 on board, seems excessive. Some of them may have become willing forced laborers in exchange for food, as are the eight Eastern raiders we captured here, not to mention the possibility for further intelligence.

Our Eastern captives tell us of food shortages, and of inequalities of distribution, at least in Ryddast and other nearby former provinces. The old provincial governors, or the “lords” who have replaced them, will be glad to send hordes of half-starved men to their deaths. They will be twice glad if it is enough to repel your force with heavy losses on both sides. Perhaps you yourself should offer their lords a duel to the death, winner take all.

There has been enough death in the last year. If you have the resources to mount a “punitive expedition to the East,” you certainly have the resources to keep the Royal Road open, at least between Koyr and this garrison. The cohort remaining here, and the folk, are willing to do their part. Keeping order and maintaining trade routes are the primary duties of Protectors and Captains in a general crisis. You have succeeded in the first part. We might debate methods, but in the end you have kept order and preserved a valuable resource.

Now for the second part. Captain Phylok tells me that the spring fishing near Isenbund has been excellent so far, and they are sending us much of their surplus of pickled glacierfish. We are sending them casks of wine in turn; a fairly recent vintage, but good table wine by all counts. There is plenty of both wine and fish, and both we and Isenbund would be glad to trade for salted beef and preserved orchard fruit.

Finally, there is the matter of the southern coast. Protector Kontir tells me that several cities are in reasonable order, and in no need of aid. This is fortunate, because we must assume that the provisioning stops, including Gran Isle and Westmark, are no longer functioning. Neither the cities under Kontir nor we can provide timely aid to the other. Therefore, I am of a mind to sever our ties, in as friendly a manner as possible, and allow them to determine their own fate. Have you any advice in this matter?

Signed, Protector Jira, Acting Governor, Northern and Gulf Provinces

Perin read the draft, and laughed at Jira’s strikethrough. “I note that you did not mention the aid packet we plan to send to Ryddast,” he said.

“If only there was a way to see that it gets to the folk, instead of their ‘lord’ or whatever he wants to call himself,” Jira grumbled.

“Perhaps there is a way. You know of the sea caves?”

Jira smiled. “Ahh. You suggest we land at the sea caves, and transport the aid packet overland to Ryddast’s border?”

“Indeed.”

“I promoted you for good reason, Perin. Who are you assigning to the mission?”

“Mostly former Easterners. Striker Nars, of course. He was born in Pyrlast, not Ryddast, but an Easterner leading the way will perhaps meet a… a less-unfriendly reception. They will take one of the prisoners, as a guide, so that our aid reaches those who need it.”

“Good thinking. But if he escapes?”

“Then our soldiers will leave the aid package where the Eastern folk will find it, and retreat with all haste.” Perin looked at her. “Protector, do you think he would try to escape? They all seem content with their lot.”

“So close to home? He might forget.”

“They use the term wol’it much.”

Jira raised an eyebrow. “Woldt? I know a little Eastern, but not that word.”

“Wol’it. Striker Nars says it describes a sense that anything has to be better than the present circumstance.” Perin chuckled. “It was used ironically, before, to mock one who was emotionally overwrought, but now? They use it in a literal sense. Better to be a well-fed slave than starving and supposedly free, they say.”

“Perin…” Jira grinned. “It occurs to me that we can do more—much more—than dropping a single aid packet. Send food, yes, but also send directions to follow the Eastrim Mountain Road to the plains. Anlayt said the cattle still roam free. They can hunt or herd, as they see fit.”

“Will Anlayt approve?”

“Anlayt is too focused on his own little fiefdom. If any settlers avoid the coast, he will never know.”

continued…