The Power Within

The Power Within

An iHero Omnibus

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used ficticiously.

The Power Within

Frank Fradella

Published by New Babel Books at Smashwords.

©2011 Frank Fradella

Cover art by Reynan Sanchez

All rights reserved.

www.newbabelbooks.com

www.ihero.net

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Dedication

For Sean Taylor, who refused to be bullied.

For that, he will always be my hero.

A long time ago I went looking for a writer.

I got a brother in the bargain.

Acknowledgments

It is increasingly rare to find a group of talented people who will give so much of themselves for the dream of what something could be. I was blessed to find such a group in the likes of Sean Taylor, Tom Waltz, Matt Hiebert and Andy Massari. Each of them is an alchemy of talent, vision and dedication, and they took the simple world I’d created and made it a universe.

It’s a shame that the shelter one’s parents provide in your formative years prevents you from really seeing how your parents stack up against their peers. I was an adult before I realize how truly amazing my family is and how grateful I am to be part of this clan. Thank you, Mom and Dad. Thank you, brother and sister.

Thanks also go to Elizabeth Donald who never stopped pushing me to get back in the game. That kind of faith is hard to come by.

A nod goes out to Travis Otto, who knows a thing or two about saving the world.

And most of all, to my partner in so many things, the Amazing Dani Burke™. For her patience, her support, her endless cheerful nature and her unflinching belief that people are inherently good, my world is a better place.

Table of Contents

Introduction by Justin Gray

Part 1: Early Years

The Swan

The Minuteman’s Final Hour

Run For Your Life

Preventative Measures

Best Served Cold

Arachnid: Origin

The Descending Ghost of Heaven

Hell in August

Survival Instinct

Heating Up the Cold War

Awakening the Genie

Part 2: Growing Pains

Fowl Weather Friends

Cold Hard Cash

The Timelessness of Ghosts

Fear of the Dark

Personal Life Intruding

Stream of Consciousness

A Father’s Blessing

Application of Knowledge

A Cause for Vengeance

Birds of a Feather

A Day Unfit for Mice and Men

Burn Down the Mission

Part 3: Dark Ages

Special Delivery

The Damning Rays of Sunshine

A Question of Mettle

The Semblance of Life

The Endless Howling Soul

Child’s Play

Dark Quiet Places

Blind Revenge

Forgotten

Running Away From Home

Minute by Minuteman

In Love and War

Plague

The Ritual of Vesta

Part 4: Reunions

To the Finish

After the Fall

Ghost and Feathers

The Only Good Nazi

The Return of Outback Jack

A Thousand Ships

When Calliope Calls

The Patriot Act

A Pinhole in the Universe

Thaw

Introduction

By Justin Gray

What is a superhero? Seriously, you have to ask yourself, what kind of idiot walks out the front door of their home in a brightly-colored, form-fitting costume? Think about it, if you see someone on the street wearing a bulletproof leotard and matching cape, what’s your first reaction? Of course you would laugh. You might even carry the story with you, informing friends and family about this nut job dressed like a flying rodent lurking in the alley beside your apartment.

On the other hand, if on the way home one night you cut through the park, a place you know you shouldn’t be at that hour, and the same nut job in his bulletproof leotard saves your life, well then that’s a whole other story. Maybe you start wondering why you should have to live in a world where it isn’t safe to walk the streets? Maybe, if there were a few more people wandering around in chain mail underwear, the world might just be a little better off.

It’s that optimism and desire for a better life that eventually gave birth to Superheroes. The appearance of Lee Falk’s The Phantom in Ace Comics No. 11 in 1938 gave comic books their first costumed hero and set the stage for Superman, Batman, Captain Marvel, Green Lantern and a host of others. While descendants of the science fiction and adventure heroes, superheroes took on more political and social elements. By the Second World War, superheroes like the Shield and Captain America reflected the hopes and dreams of their creators. Immigrants and the children of immigrants that came to America during WW2 created costumed men and women who fought epic battles in the name of goodness and humanity. They came in search of a new life far from the social and religious persecutions of their native lands. The adventures of their heroes reflected their plight in bold and astounding ways. These heroes became the physical embodiment of the virtues, freedom and fairness that America represented to their creators. I’m sure you’re familiar with the term Truth, Justice and the American way.

Certainly a lot has changed since the Phantom dared to wear a purple bodysuit in public, but the love of superheroes as an American art form and the ideals that they represent are just as important and valid today as they were sixty years ago. This is something that Frank Fradella is not only aware of, but cherishes and adds new meaning to in his work.

While Mr. Fradella’s stories reflect a multitude of ideas and characters that both dazzle and delight, they always remain true to this fundamental idea; people are good. He has taken what was once a two dimensional, four-color world and, like a mad scientist, brought forth a living, breathing monster of possibility. His work is rich with complex emotion and a childlike sense of wonder that is desperately needed in popular fiction.  

Mr. Fradella has no doubt that inside all of us there is a superhero that longs to make the world a better place. Maybe your power is helping an elderly person cross a busy street. Perhaps you have some genetic mutation that forces you to volunteer as a victim advocate. Perhaps you are so selfless as to rush into a burning building, risking your own life when you know others might be dying. No matter how big or small your power, trust me friends, there is a cape in your closet and Frank will inspire you wear it.

Justin Gray

Writer of 21Down, Batman: Legends of the Dark Knight,

Marvel Adventures Fantastic Four, Heroes for Hire

Author Note

Perhaps the most unique thing about the iHero Universe is that it exists in real time. Our characters age. They change. They are affected by the stories we tell, by the world around them, and at our best, by the current events of the world we live in. With that in mind, I’ve done my best to organize these stories roughly in the order in which I wrote them.

Also, though my original intent was to include every story I’d ever written in this universe, there were some casualties along the way. The story of Jade Tiger’s origin, for example, was only technically a superhero story. The three-part serial amounts to a kung-fu laden piece of historical fiction set in ancient China, and it’s only at the last moments when he decides, coming to America, to be a superhero. That felt a bit like cheating, and since his origin is retold in later stories, I decided to leave it out.

Other stories simply didn’t hold up very well. I started this universe in 1999 and no writer gets it right every time. A mediocre story featuring characters you’d never seen before and never saw again didn’t need to be part of this book. The rest is the best I could make it.

I’ve been living with these characters for more than a decade now. They’ve become friends of mine. Like family. I hope that, in getting to know them, you feel the same way.

Part 1: Early Years

The Swan

Featuring: The Swan

It began, as it so often did, with a scream. And, as it did countless times before, the scream was followed by the sound of running feet and the small, almost imperceptible fear that this time he may be too late.

Taut muscles coiled and released and hurled him into motion with a grace that some called unearthly, his breath easing in and out of his lungs with casual ease. Even his heart, too big for his own good, and too feeling, showed no sign of the underlying tiny fear as it pumped vital oxygen to his limbs.

But in his mind there was none of these things. Nothing but the chase and the quarry. Nothing but concern for the victim. No distractions at all to the compelling need for justice.

At the very edge of the roof, balanced flawlessly on the tips of his toes, he paused, his eyes seeking out the source of that cry. There. In the alley. An elderly woman, her belongings scattered on the ground. She was on her feet. That was good. It meant she probably did not require medical attention. At least not right away.

Pausing a second longer, seemingly suspended in the air, he noted the dispersal pattern of the change from her purse and, with a nearly inhuman agility, launched himself from the rooftop and spread his arms, allowing the white, downy wings to unfurl. He glided the three stories down to the neighboring rooftop, his arms contracting even as his feet began to propel him forward once more. Had anyone been watching, they would have marveled at the fluidity of his movement, his perfect physique.

Barely a half-dozen heartbeats later, the edge of the building loomed before him. Eyes scanning ahead, past the building to the street below, the sight of his quarry eluded him. But not his influence. On the rapidly diminishing rooftop, the man known only as The Swan scanned ahead and watched as the people on the street looked behind them, marking his prey as surely as x-ray vision ever could. Without breaking stride, The Swan leapt off the building, twisting his body in mid-air with his arms extending once more, to bring him to the ground a dozen yards in front of the would-be thief.

Otto Pirelli was still looking behind him, looking for some sign of pursuit when The Swan landed in front of him. By the time he turned around, he barely managed an, Aw, sh..., before a snow-white glove connected with his jaw with just enough force to separate him from the land of the conscious.

* * *

Otto Pirelli toggled his loose tooth with the tip of his tongue and winced as he pressed an ice pack to his cheek. He sat in the back of the limousine, the dark, tinted window separating the driver from him and his vision. The car sat still in front of the courthouse, its engine purring.

Otto shifted on the cool black leather seat. He was not an overly bright man, but he was smart enough to know that nobody did something for nothing. He rapped with his knuckle on the glass.

Hey... uh... pally. Listen... I ‘preciate you bailin’ me out and all, but... uh... I don’t know you from Adam, see? So... uh... can I go now?

The driver turned his head slightly and raised a hand with a single finger extended. Moments later, the phone in front of Otto Pirelli started to ring. Confused, and not altogether thrilled with his prospects, Otto answered the phone on the fifth ring.

Uh... hullo?

Good afternoon, Mr. Pirelli. I am going to talk. You are going to listen. If you do exactly what I say, you will be a very rich man. And we will both have our revenge on The Swan...

* * *

The Swan removed his mask in the safety of his apartment and wiped his face with a damp cloth. He peeled the right glove from his hand and examined the small gash on his knuckles. He slipped the hand into the cold water collected in the bathroom sink and flexed repeatedly.

That fellow had something of an overbite, he muttered. Really must be more careful in the future.

A fluffy white cat walked the tightrope on the edge of the sink and nudged The Swan’s arm with its head, purring.

See, Parnassus? I told you I wouldn’t be long today.

The cat nudged his hand harder and meowed, insistent. The Swan chuckled, stroking the feline between his ears.

Okay, okay. Just let me put some antiseptic on this and we’ll see what’s for dinner.

* * *

"...total chaos down here as more than 20 people are being held hostage by the man police have identified as Otto Pirelli. As you can see by our cameras, the cable car is stopped in mid-air, suspended some 50 feet above the ground, and there are roughly 15 pounds of explosives attached to the wheel assembly that carries that cable car to and from each station house.

According to detectives, Pirelli has barricaded himself inside the lower station house and is heavily armed. At this time, all attempts to negotiate with Pirelli have met with dismal...

The Swan clicked off the television, causing the practiced intensity and concern of the newscaster to disappear.

He took a moment to center himself. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. Somewhere, he knew, in the deep hidden chambers of himself, there existed a place of stillness. A place of peace. In his mind, he swam down toward it. The deeper he went, the further he was from the vague disgust he felt for people who could report the news, to make others aware of death and tragedy, and do so with a smile on their face. He understood they were just doing their jobs. But for all the compassion they conveyed, they might as well have been mannequins.

He swam deeper still, needing to separate himself from the blame he placed on himself for his part in today’s events. Otto was a two-bit hood. He never imagined the man was capable of... no. Mustn’t think like that. There was no way he could have known. When I stopped him he was just a purse-snatcher, he thought.

Further still he swam, deeper into himself until he shrugged off the last bits of doubt and fear and reached the place of stillness. The transformation within complete, he grabbed his costume even as the first glimmers of a plan formed in his mind.

* * *

Otto Pirelli blinked and removed his hand from the trigger only long enough to wipe the sweat away from his face. He fidgeted in the center of the room, seated on the stool behind the high-powered rifle mounted on the tripod. He glanced around in barely-contained terror, making sure for the thousandth time that no sniper had a clean shot so long as he stayed put. They didn’t know what kind of detonator he had; didn’t know if their mere presence would cost the lives of those people. So long as he stayed put, he was safe. Just like the man said.

A sudden movement of white in the corner of his eye caused Otto to grab frantically at the rifle and thrust his eye to the scope, pointing it at the cable car dead ahead. Sliding down the thick cable, grabbing it with both hands, was the figure of The Swan. He moved with none of his usual grace, his limbs stiff as he hurled himself toward certain death. Within the cable car, the passengers saw his approach and pressed themselves against the walls, trying to catch a better glimpse of the crime-fighter in action.

In the lower station house, Otto Pirelli began to fire. The window in front of him exploded with the first bullet, but he barely noticed. In his head, there was just the rush and pounding of blood. Nothing but thunder and noise as he sent bullet after bullet into the chest of his adversary.

Through his scope, past the shower of stinging sweat, he watched in a kind of terrified glee as the missiles slammed home and the body of The Swan shuddered with each impact. Finally, the white-clad form came to a lifeless stop above the cable car, its hands still locked in a death-like grip.

Otto’s hands shook as he continued to pull the trigger long after the clip had emptied and a nervous giggle had started to bubble up from his chest. He looked through the scope, the magnified corpse of his enemy still locked there. His giggling began to subside slowly as the first nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right overtook him.

Shaking, he looked closer at The Swan in his scope; riddled with holes, his costume in shreds. The windows of the cable car had exploded from the occasional stray bullet and all of the passengers were huddled together on the floor, nearly drowning in their own despair. But still... to Otto Pirelli, small-time hood turned terrorist, something wasn’t quite right.

His breath heaved in and out of lungs like a great bellows. He wiped the sweat away from his forehead once more and re-examined the lifeless body in the sight. Slowly, realization dawned, and Otto’s hands began to shake uncontrollably. There was no blood. Not a drop.

That wasn’t The Swan! It was just a dummy! A decoy! Pirelli shouted. The Swan is...

Right behind you, Otto, came a voice that would haunt his nightmares for years to come. In an act of pure desperation, Otto swung the rifle around, trying to club the figure who blocked his exit. The Swan ducked beneath the wild swing with all of his usual grace, moving no more than was absolutely necessary.

My tailor is going to be very cross with you, Otto.

Pivoting with incredible speed, Swan delivered an uppercut that sent the man reeling the length of the room. Pirelli hit the wall hard and sat still on the ground, trying to clear his head.

The Swan walked toward him as though he were gliding over ice. Come to think of it, Otto, if any of those people are hurt, my tailor is going to be the least of your problems.

Pirelli scrambled to his feet, leaning on the wall for support. His knees seemed completely unwilling to join him in any effort.

Mustering the last of his courage, Otto Pirelli screamed in fear and launched himself at The Swan. He hadn’t taken three steps before a solid right hook sent him sprawling to the ground, unconscious.

The Swan breathed a small sigh and knelt over the body of Otto Pirelli. Softly, he whispered, You didn’t plan this, did you, Otto? No... no, I think not. There’s more going on here than meets the eye. This isn’t over yet.

The Swan rose to his full height, uncoiling himself with a fluid-like motion, and walked to the window where he signaled to the police that all was well.

* * *

"...only minor injuries to those in the cable car, most of those due to the shattered glass. Otto Pirelli is in police custody once again and will undergo a psychiatric evaluation.

Police cite the major contributing factor to the successful outcome of today’s rescue attempt was the graceful, fly-by-day adventurer known only as The Swan. As always, The Swan declined to speak to the press, but stuck around the scene long after the shouting was over to help assure the ultimate safety of the hostages. Police seemed glad th..."

The Swan clicked the TV off and flipped on the radio. Humming to the music, he poured himself a drink from the pitcher in the fridge and took a sip. Parnassus insinuated himself around the hero’s ankles, meowing for attention. The Swan picked up a needle, some thread, and the tattered remains of his costume and looked at Parnassus through the gaping hole in the chest area.

Smiling, he said, Tailor, my foot.

Parnassus meowed back in apparent agreement.

The Minuteman’s Final Hour

Featuring: The Minuteman

I’m going to tell you what happened.

But I’m going to tell you in the way it should be told. Not as a reporter. Not this time. What happened to the Minuteman... it shouldn’t be reduced to a bunch of names and dates.

It shouldn’t be so... detached.

So I’m writing this, nursing my third scotch, listening to the rain patter against the glass of my apartment and knowing it will probably never see print. But it needs to be told. It’s too important to be left to the tabloids.

I’ll tell you about the Minuteman.

* * *

He began as soldier in the United Stated Army back in 1939. The Second World War raged on around us and we steadfastly kept our distance. Higher ups knew it was only a matter of time before we got dragged into the thick of it and they wanted to be prepared.

The rumor mill had it that Hitler was on the verge of developing a secret weapon that could lay waste to America before we could mount a defensive. We needed something that could avert that disaster, if it ever came. We needed a form of defense that could withstand everything the Nazis could throw at it and do so from anywhere in the world. And whatever it was, it needed to be ready to defend our country with as little warning as 60 seconds.

In 1939, the scientists and the engineers had their work cut out for them.

By the summer of the following year, the team of the secluded brain trust known as the Manhattan Project received a confidential and most unexpected visitor. The outcome of that meeting was nothing short of miraculous.

In the summer of 1940, a brave and noble young man named Corporal George Gordon, hand picked by his superiors, entered that top secret installation and, without so much as a tremble in his voice, is reported to have said, When can we start?

* * *

For more than a year, George Gordon was the subject of tests and experiments whose severity caused three scientists and one military police officer to quit the project. Agreements were made, vows of secrecy taken and the four men were quietly transferred elsewhere and given the very best psychiatric treatment. They were haunted by nightmares up until their deaths.

Despite enduring horrors that I don’t even have a names for, George Gordon rose from his bed each and every day, eyes clear and head held high and said, I’m ready.

The only notable exception to this was a short period where the bones in Gordon’s feet had been shattered, reportedly by some experiment with gravimetrics. He is said to have refused any sort of medication here for fear that it might introduce an unknown variable into the ongoing procedure.

There are people back home who are counting on me, he said.

* * *

On December 19, 1941, the United States entered the war. When Gordon heard about the attack on Pearl Harbor, he drove his fist through a four-foot thick steel wall. The resulting shockwave destroyed nearly three million dollars worth of equipment.

Gordon stormed out of the complex. No one tried to stop him. An hour later, his clothes torn and singed, he walked up to the Director of Operations and said, Teach me to fly.

Theoretically, it was possible, of course. They had counted on it. The problem was... who would teach him? He had no wings, no strap-on rocket. The potential merely lay dormant within him. But how to unleash that potential... that was something else entirely.

If the task had fallen to any of us, could we have shown a man how to ignore gravity? Or breathe water? Who among us could instruct a bat how to see? And unlike a bird, who is born with an intuitive grasp of its very physical abilities, this was a man we were talking about here. Granted, he was a man unlike any other, but he was a man nonetheless.

A multitude of methods were employed in an effort to make his body perform the task for which it had been prepared, including throwing him out of an airplane without a parachute, hoping that fear and necessity would trigger the proper chemical combination. Were it nor for his newfound invulnerability, George Gordon would have died a hundred times in his pursuit for flight. In the end, success came while everyone was sleeping. Even George.

He awoke to find his nose scraping the ceiling and immediately fell to the ground. But, in his mind, the possibility had been established. This was no longer a dream, far away and unattainable. For George Gordon, it was the future. Inside of a week, he was soaring like an eagle.

I can’t even begin to fathom the courage that process took. I sometimes think about the leap of faith required to let another man point a machine gun at you and open fire just to test whether or not the bullets will kill you.

* * *

When he finally left the Manhattan complex in July of 1943, he had dubbed himself the Minuteman and departed through a whole in the roof of his own making, arriving in France exactly 43 seconds later. His brightly colored cape trailing behind him, he made short work of the Axis forces, earning stunned cheers and applause from the Allies.

It would be the last time he ever took a human life.

His adamant decision to act only in a non-lethal manner did not please his superiors. He was created to be their ultimate weapon, after all. But all of their threats fell on deaf ears, even to the point of disobeying a direct order from the President of the United States. His prophetic speech to the press is still as spine-tingling today as it was when issued back in 1943.

Though it seems contradictory, I believe that the purpose of any war is to end a conflict. Had there been any other way to settle our dispute, I must believe that our leaders would have found it. But I will not be the bullet in anyone’s gun. I will not take the role of assassin. Toady, I stand before you as the first superhuman to walk this Earth. I can only believe that there will someday be others. If they should look to my actions to serve as an example for their own conduct, I will walk a path that seeks to preserve the sanctity of life. For a country at war pays its highest price with the blood of its children.

In that instant, he captured the heart of a nation.

* * *

In the years that followed, he would team up with other costumed heroes, some of them with fantastic powers, others with advanced technology, all of them coming together as the Sentinels of Liberty.

It was, as they say, the best of times and the worst of times.

The Sentinels of Liberty cut a swath through the Axis powers, crippling their essential operations throughout Europe. There was the speedy Swift Justice. The media’s darling, Lady Liberty. The scale-slinging Patriot (whose descendant still bears the name). The armored might of Platoon. And there was the Minuteman. Newsreel after newsreel of their exploits reached our shores, doing more for the morale of the country than any other factor. And not once did the Sentinels shed the blood of their adversaries. But, in the end, it wasn’t enough.

In 1945, suffering too many losses and tired of molly-coddling the enemy, we dropped the bomb on Hiroshima and effectively ended the war. The Sentinels of Liberty, no longer needed, were disbanded. The Minuteman’s vow to never work for the government again was lost in the staggering arrival of such a devastating weapon.

Details of the others remain sketchy, but it is known that both Swift Justice and Platoon retired from active adventuring once the fighting was done. Lady Liberty is said to have been reunited with her husband and settled down to raise a family. Patriot, the star-spangled avenger, has existed in some form or another ever since. The Patriot of today, his grandson, wielding his Scales of Justice, acts as a Special Diplomatic Liaison to the United Nations.

The Minuteman settled down in Boston, Massachusetts and continued to arrive wherever, and whenever, needed. And always in under a minute.

I had, at first, thought to include here a short list of Minuteman’s contributions to the world for the past 50 years or so, but even the most cursory research proved that there was no such thing as a short list. His documented appearances number near the half million mark. It has been supposed that he has saved at least one life a day for the past half century, and on some days, as was the case with Mt. Manalaho erupting, as many as 100,000.

I sometimes wonder if that wasn’t the very reason we began to take him for granted. I mean... how many of us look up at the sky every day and give thanks that the sun is still there? Though we don’t always see it, it’s a given that it will always be there tomorrow. How many of us think of the consequences if it didn’t?

* * *

Decades passed and, save for a brief partnering with the Colonial Kid in the late 60s, the Minuteman always traveled alone. Perhaps it was the Kid’s death in Vietnam in the early 70s that made the Minuteman realize how fleeting life really was, or perhaps the two incidents were unrelated, but in 1975 the Minuteman became George Gordon again just long enough to tie the knot with a young woman named Mary Barnes.

I cannot find a way to express the grief that he and his wife must have felt when they discovered that the process which allowed him to save so many lives also prevented them from creating a new one. Of all the pain and suffering he had endured over the years, I think that was perhaps the worst for him, except when Mary herself died in 1992 from complications as a result of a bullet that careened off his body when a contract killer deduced his secret identity.

Minuteman, despite his personal loss, continued to protect humanity, most often from itself.

* * *

On May 9, 1999, the supervillain known as Maliferous arrived at the home of award-winning chemist, Dr. Lucius Fennil and stole him away from his family. In less than a minute after his departure, the Minuteman arrived on the scene. Dr. Fennil’s wife had been badly hurt in the attack and their 8-year-old son was standing on the front porch crying for his father.

Using his special powers to diagnose Mrs. Fennil’s injuries, Minuteman determined that the woman would be best served by an ambulance and called for one on the Fennil’s home phone. Then, with more gentleness than you would expect from someone who moves mountains with their bare hands, the Minuteman picked up the little boy and brought him to a neighbor’s house for safekeeping. Then, and only then, did he begin to pursue the kidnapped chemist.

Within four hours, the family had been reunited and Maliferous, despite his hordes of lackeys and the awesome powers at his command, was behind bars.

Over the next two weeks, the Fennil’s child, Rowland, had grown unusually quiet. He would often burst into tears for no apparent reason and was plagued by nightmares nearly every night. Finally, through the quiet urgings of his parents, Rowland’s secret came out.

The Minuteman had inadvertently left the Fennil’s little boy in the hands of a child molester. During the few hours he was left in that neighbor’s care, Rowland had been the victim of abuse.

* * *

When the warrant was issued for Minuteman’s arrest it made the six o’clock news and the front page of every newspaper in the free world. At 6:43PM on Tuesday, May 25. 1999 a man named George Gordon, wearing a blue suit and a grey fedora, walked into police headquarters and surrendered himself to the authorities. His shoulders squared and his big barrel chest undiminished, he was charged with criminal negligence pending a trial to determine his guilt or innocence.

The Fennils also filed suit, seeking monetary compensation.

* * *

This afternoon, I was just another reporter waiting for the principals to appear and make history. My editor hand-picked me for the assignment, much in the same way that George Gordon’s superiors had picked him more than 50 years before. This was the opportunity of a lifetime. Other vigilantes had been victims of the courts, to be sure, but they were always the gun-toting, fear-inducing types. This was the Minuteman.

He was a hero.

Now... I had grown up hearing stories about the Minuteman. I had even dressed up as him one year for Halloween. But this was the opportunity of my career. There were maybe 30 of us from the press there, no photographers allowed. If my paper was going to have a story at all, it was going to come from me.

And all that was forgotten the second I saw him walk into the room.

He was wearing his dark blue suit, a white shirt and a pale grey tie. His hair was greying, and though he was in his late 70s, he didn’t look more than 55 thanks to his advanced immune system. He entered the courtroom with the bailiff in tow and his head, as always, held high. He had a presence about him, and a dignity, that made my throat hurt. I remembered then how my father used to talk about Joe DiMaggio and I finally understood what he meant. Only his eyes betrayed the grief he felt.

He didn’t need the costume. The name no longer mattered. It was HIM. This was the man who had worked tirelessly to safeguard our lives. Those hands could have snapped the handcuffs that bound him as though they were nothing more than a spider web. He could have avoided capture for the rest of his life, had he chosen to do so. Furthermore, there was no prison that could hold him. But it would.

Because he would let it.

He would stand by the judgment of the court and we all knew it. The Minuteman always kept his word, once given. As I reflected on that very fact, I knew that I wasn’t going to write the story that my editor wanted. And I knew it would cost me my job, my home... my career. I looked out over that jury, growing more nauseous by the second.

Bear with me for a moment... I’d like to relate a story to you briefly. A little more than a year ago, I had been seeking out some collectibles that were a hobby of mine. I found a seller and made an offer. We agreed on a price and that was that. A few days later, the seller contacted me again and told me that he had sold the items in question to someone else because they were willing to pay him $20 more than we had agreed on. I pointed out that we had a deal, that agreements had been made. He countered that he had consulted his friends and that they all agreed that he should take the offer of more money. Perhaps I might have felt differently about the whole affair if I had been given a chance to counter the offer. But the seller and his friends apparently disagreed with my views.

Do you understand? These thoughts raced through my head and I realized in horror that the jury box was filled with people just like them. The Minuteman, brave and noble and honorable, would have no trial governed by a jury of his peers. We live in a world where the price of a man’s word is a $20 bill. A world where a rescued scientist and his still-breathing wife seek to destroy the very man that saved them both.

Who among us could sit in judgment of the Minuteman? Which of us could proclaim to be his equal?

* * *

The bottle’s empty and rain has reduced itself to a kind of half-hearted drizzle that makes the city look very pretty through the window. The red and white kaleidoscope of car lights continues sporadically as the dawn approaches. I’m not looking forward to tomorrow.

I left the courtroom without my story and noted that in the front row of the court sat an elderly woman, very elegant and sad, who kissed Gordon’s cheek and made him smile. Lady Liberty? I think so.

Tomorrow morning, the whole world will know the outcome of that trial. We will know if there is justice left in the world. But... still... I wonder...

Even if we find him innocent of that crime... even if the Fennils lose their case... would we have any right to expect the Minuteman to protect us ever again? Have we just witnessed the Minuteman’s final hour?

Run For Your Life

Featuring: Rush

1.

The bullets spit out of the submachine gun with a flash of fire and sick staccato popping that sounds nothing like it does on tv. I kick it into high gear and watch as the whole world goes into slow motion. The bank windows are almost frozen in place, shattered and falling from the sonic boom. The six bad guys’ll probably have their ears ringing for a week after this. Then again... the banks customers probably aren’t going to like it much either. Still, there’s an awful lot of hot lead flying around and I’m the only one fast enough to stop the bullets from hitting their targets.

Oh, yeah. The name’s Rush!

Well... at least that’s what folks call after 3 o’clock on school days. And... well... before 5:30. After that I gotta get home for dinner or my mom gets kinda cranky. That leaves me just 2 and a half hours to kick some bad guy’s butt. If I hurry.

Heh. Not a problem.

Still... even at super speed, catching bullets in mid-air is like trying to get the mail out of your mailbox while driving by at 70 miles an hour. I snatch the last one just before it makes a hole in the nice lady in the hat.

I come to a stop in front of the shooter and drop the spent lead at his feet. Okay... so I was showing off. Sue me.

Next time I’ll turn them around in mid-air and send them back at you, I say. Which is, like, a total bluff. I tried it once. I ended up breaking my wrist. They may look like they’re frozen, but there’s these little things called velocity and inertia. I can outrun them — to a point — but I can’t make ‘em go away.

The guy just stares at me and shakes his head like he doesn’t understand. Great. Of all the would-be bank robbers in this burg, I gotta get the crew that doesn’t speak English.

The bad guys just stare at each other. Then they look at me. All together they raise their guns and point them at me. I take a quick look around the bank. There’s an old lady and her husband who don’t look like they can take another sonic boom. For a moment, I’m a blur. When the moment ends, I’ve got a collection of magazines that kind of puts an end to the debate. They try the triggers anyway.

Jerks.

Of course... I didn’t think about the bullets they already had chambered. I move out of the way as fast as I can without putting the customers at risk, which means below the speed of sound, and I don’t quite make it before one of the bullets grazes my arm.

I scream in pain and my whole arm feels like it’s on fire. For a long second, there’s nothing but white, searing waves of agony. I drop to my knees involuntarily and just wish the pain would go away. The bad guys start shouting at each other and gesturing wildly at me. I’m too far inside the pain to make out what they’re saying, but a little piece of my brain feels the need to point out that they’re speaking English after all. That’s when I realize that they just didn’t hear me before. You know... sonic booms’ll do that.

I’m shaking pretty bad, kind of like I did at my cousin Eileen’s wedding when the bartender thought it’d be okay to let me get totally drunk and puke all over the place. I’m so lost in the pain and shaking that I don’t even see the guy come over and plant a field goal kick to my midsection that knocks the wind out of me and makes me want to re-enact my performance at Eileen’s wedding.

I roll with it as best I can, flopping onto my back as ungracefully as humanly possible. My head’s swimming... the world starts to spin... and I can’t seem to get enough air into my lungs. And on top of all of that... the shaking gets worse.

The lead bad guy grabs me by the front of my costume and lifts me off the ground. I kind of cave into myself and wish I could just disappear. He thrusts his head forward hard into mine and a thousand light bulbs explode behind my eyes. The shaking gets so bad I kind of go limp and stop fighting it, my head drooping into my chest. The bad guy looks over his shoulder and laughs to his friends.

Geezus H. Chrissmas, Roc. He’s just a kid, he says.

Give ‘im here, Sal, Roc says, entirely too happy for my tastes. Sal hands me over like I don’t weigh a pound and Roc pulls back a fist the size of Minnesota and prepares to cave my head in.

And then the shaking stops. The pain dissappears, too. My head snaps up like Michael J. Fox in the last scene in Back to the Future and I smile at the guy knowing what’s coming next.

His fist pauses for a fraction of an instant, cocked back behind his ear. More time than I need.

I slap the guy about a hundred times back and forth across the face like a Three Stooges routine on crack and mop the floor with the rest of his crew before he hits the ground.

I stick around long enough to sign a few autographs and answer the cop’s questions when they finally get there. Then I bug out. It’s a little after 5 and I’ve got time for another tour of the city before I head home.

I run to the outskirts of town before pushing past the sound barrier again. That’s one of the good things about living in the suburbs: open fields to run in where you don’t have to worry about shattering windows every time you cut loose a little bit. Most superheroes steer clear of the burbs ‘cause there’s no network of rooftops to patrol. Also... things are so far apart out here that it makes it kind of hard to patrol the whole city. Unless you’re very, very fast. Like yours truly.

Like I said, it’s after five so I punch it up a bit and move into Still Time. When I move this fast, nothing moves but me. The whole world is like some giant photograph that you can walk through. At this speed, I can race lightning to the ground and win. You ever seen a hummingbird frozen in flight? I have. I cover the whole city in a matter of seconds. Quite frankly, I don’t think there’s a word for this kind of speed. Except maybe Ludicrous Speed.

I’ve only gone this fast once before. It made me sick for a week. The strain on my body is beyond comprehension. But I’m feeling kind of invincible after the bank so I figure... what the hell?

I zig-zag in-between the cars on the road and head into the heart of town. And that’s when I see her.

About six blocks away. And moving. MOVING.

And she’s pulling away from me.

2.

Up until a few seconds ago, I thought I was just about the fastest thing in the world. My name’s Rush... currently, I’m running at near the speed of light. At this speed, there’s no movement anywhere. I’m moving too fast for most of Nature’s physical laws to effect me, and the people around me are nothing but statues. It’s a stunt I’ve only tried once before and my body paid for it for days.

The knockout blonde six blocks ahead of me makes it look easy as she pulls away from me and turns the corner at 5th and Main. A nanosecond later she pokes her head around the corner and blows me a kiss before she disappears again.

My lips tighten into a grimace and I give it everything I’ve got, pouring on the juice. I take the corner at nearly a ninety degree angle and I half-expect to see her in the distance mooning me or something.

Wishful thinking.

As I finish the turn, I notice (too late) that she stopped and flattened herself against the wall and stuck out her foot. She catches my ankle but good and my heart skips a beat or three as my feet stop where they are but the rest of me continues in a straight line. Arms flailing wildly, I go careening down the block and scream involuntarily as the building ahead rushes up to meet me. I close my eyes knowing that this is gonna hurt. A lot.

I cover my head and try to roll myself into a ball, hoping that I won’t please god don’t let me die chasing some stupid girl like a total geekezoid please please please!

A loud crash and it’s over... and I didn’t feel a thing. Sitting on the ground, I look at my hands and check out my body and wonder why I’m not a smear on the sidewalk. The cornerstone of the building is, like, totally totaled and there’s junk scattered all over the place. I must’ve busted open one of those stupid time capsule things like we did in Ms.