A few minutes after the spaceship crashed into the intersection, Lofton the butler, with a sullen Blake Silver in tow, set off down Seagull Street to search for the ship.
“You’re certain you’ve been tracking the right ship?” Lofton asked him, his crisp British accent making him sound more irritated than he actually was as they stared down the street. At first glance, the pair looked like a serendipitous meeting of two Florida stereotypes: an older retired man with unusual taste in suit patterns, and a young, blond, athletic surfer dude.
The surfer dude, Blake, grunted in reply, never taking his eyes off the tablet.
Lofton sighed. “We should have come earlier. Anything could happen if he gets lost in the city.”
They walked briskly down the sidewalk until they came to that massive intersection known as 8th and Columbine by the locals of Avalon Beach, Florida. The wreckage of Jay Julian’s fastest craft, the Crusoe, lay on the tiny media. An enormous cloud of smoke was billowing up from it.
“Jay always did like making an entrance,” muttered Blake. “Guess he wanted to make sure the new guy did too.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Lofton said, looking at the people around the intersection. “No one can see it. The SPECTRUM must not have been damaged.” He raised his hand to shade his eyes from the summer sun, trying to find Sir Errol in the wreckage. “I wonder where he is.”
“Probably stuck on the median,” Blake sneered.
“Oh, dear, that must be him over there,” said Lofton, catching a glimpse of tattered blue cloth.
“Where?”
But Lofton had already taken off down the sidewalk, black coat-tails flapping out behind him. Blake gave an irritated grunt and followed him. Catching up with Lofton, Blake stared down at the unconscious man on the sidewalk with a mixture of curiosity and contempt. Incredibly as it seemed, it was clear to the pair that they were indeed staring at a genuine 12th-century knight. His unnaturally blue eyes were frozen open, staring sightlessly at the busy Florida intersection. Lofton knelt down beside him and examined him anxiously.
“He looks dead,” said Blake cheerfully. If only.
Lofton felt his pulse. “He’s alive.”
“Weird,” Blake said, stepping back, thinking Really, Jay? This guy? Some crazy medieval dude is more qualified to protect this city than I am?
“I think we’d best get him to Dr. Finkenbinder,” said Lofton.
Errol groaned, causing Lofton and Blake to jump. His crazy eyes went back into focus as he looked up in alarm at the strange faces above him. Thinking they might be enemies, Errol scrambled backward to get away from them, groping frantically for his sword. He stopped just as suddenly, recognizing Lofton from the tablet. He got to his feet, thoroughly humiliated. “You must be Lofton. Forgive me— I don’t usually--” His sword hand dropped to his side as he remembered that the guards had confiscated it centuries ago.
Lofton said, “Don’t worry. It’s likely a combination of motion sickness and traumatic shock. Defying the laws of gravity tends to make most people ill.” He extended a hand. “You are Sir Errol, I presume?”
“Yes, I am he,” Errol said, shaking his hand. He still looked as if he did not quite have his wits about him.
“As you may or may not know, I am John Lofton, the butler,” Lofton said with a measure of pride. “This is Mr. Blake Silver,” he added, nodding to his companion.
“Mr.?” inquired Errol, confused. “Is he not a knight?”
“No. Why would you think that?” said Lofton.
“He’s wearing armor, is he not?” Errol could clearly see Blake’s complex suit of modern armor.
Lofton paled as realization hit him. “You can see through the SPECTRUM.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Errol, bewildered. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to offend. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Silver.”
Blake glared at him and shoved his hands in his pockets. Pockets, he found, were essential to life, and no self-respecting superhero should be without them. He’d hated Errol for inadvertently stealing his job, but now he hated him all the more for being able to somehow see through his tech.
Worried lines creased Lofton’s forehead. “I’ll explain as we go. We need to move before we draw too much attention. Put this on.” He handed an odd-looking necklace to Errol.
“What is it?” Errol asked, slipping it over his head.
“It’s called the SPECTRUM,” Lofton said, “You’ll have to get Mr. Silver to explain it to you as we go.”
He set off at a brisk pace down the sidewalk, leaving Blake to glare at Errol as they both ran to catch up with him.
“What does SPECTRUM stand for?” Errol asked.
“Sonic Projecting Electronic Computer Television Radio Ultrasharp Mediator.” Blake replied, speaking rapidly in hopes of further confusing the knight. “It’s a highly sensitive computer and video projector that changes the appearance of the wearer--it can even make them disappear entirely. I invented it.”
Errol was silent for a moment, processing yet another overload of information. “So it is a form of disguise?”
Blake stared at him in anger and amazement. “Yeah. The best active camouflage ever invented. I’d get some serious attention if I wore this armor without the SPECTRUM on.”
“What do they think you look like?” Errol asked.
“What I am. A surfer.”
Catching a glimpse of his reflection in a store window as they passed, Errol saw that his chain mail had vanished, replaced with the strange casual clothes of the city. “Incredible,” he murmured.
“Better than anything they had in your time,” Blake snapped.
A tense silence followed. They turned down another street, and Lofton stopped abruptly.“Ah, here we are.”
They had come to a small, Mediterranean-style house covered in ivy. Hanging above the door was a placard that read:
Cyrus Finkenbinder, MD
By Appointment Only
“Deactivate SPECTRUM,” Lofton said.
Another line of words appeared on the sign:
Specialist in Superhuman Medicine and Maladies
“Activate,” Lofton said quietly, opening the door as the hidden words vanished once again.
The interior of the building was bare and sterile-looking, with a few extremely square benches placed against one wall. A tiny bamboo plant perched on the corian-topped reception desk was the only sign of life.
“Can’t you read?” exclaimed the receptionist, startling all three men. She glared at them over her dark-rimmed glasses. “It says by appointment only!”
“We have an appointment, Ms. Damiens,” Lofton said wearily, stressing the ‘Ms.’ as if he’d been chastised for not using it before. “Under the name of Errol.”
“Last name?” Ms. Damiens inquired.
“No last name was given,” Lofton replied.
“I need one for the records,” Ms. Damiens said.
“Greenfeld,” Errol interjected.
Ms. Damiens’ fingers flew over some sort of board with letters on it, and stared intently at the computer screen. Finally, her eyes alighted on what she was looking for.
“Very well, then,” she replied. “Through that door and to the right.”
Lofton gave him a quizzical look. “Greenfeld?”
“It’s the name of my father’s castle in the north,” said Errol. “I suppose it’s…not there anymore, is it?”
“I suppose not,” muttered Lofton under his breath as they went through the door and down a long white hallway.
Errol felt increasingly uneasy. In his experience, few physicians or apothecaries could be trusted. Some dragged out their patient’s “cure” so as to extract as much money as possible, and some sold poisons on the side. Not once did they fail to bleed you.
“Dr. Finkenbinder is a specialist in superhero medicine,” said Lofton, seeing the apprehensive look on Errol’s face. “The only one of his kind, according to Mr. Julian. He’s a bit eccentric, but an absolute expert.”
“He’s a nut,” said Blake. “How long is this gonna take, Lofton? There’s supposed to be really good waves down at the Thirteenth Light Station.”
“Mr. Silver, you can surf after we’re through,” Lofton replied. “This will only take a few minutes. Do not tempt me to make it take longer.”
Errol’s head was beginning to ache from deciphering all the modern jargon.
“Ah! So you are Sir Errol!” Dr. Finkenbinder said, appearing in the doorway. He looked up at Errol, a bit taken aback at his great height. “I thought people were shorter back then.”
Lofton laughed.
Errol ventured a nervous smile, silently taking the measure of the man. He wondered if this would be the last time anyone ever called him Sir Errol. The doctor was somewhere between Blake and Lofton in height, with bushy gray hair and beard, and a broad, intelligent face. He looked Errol up and down appraisingly, as the castle blacksmith had looked at Errol’s fine Turkish chain mail when he brought it in for repair.“Have a seat,” the doctor said, gesturing to what looked like a high padded table.
Errol did so, feeling extremely self-conscious. Dr. Finkenbinder immediately began to buzz around him, examining him with various instruments.
“So what is your superpower, exactly, my friend?” Dr. Finkenbinder asked. “I’ll probably be able to give you a more medical explanation of it eventually, but it is helpful to know beforehand.”
“I can see what’s hidden,” Errol said. “Thoughts, emotions--but I don’t just see them--I feel them, but only sometimes. If they’re strong.”
“So it’s a little bit more complicated than just mind-reading, eh?” Dr. Finkenbinder said.
“And I can also do this,” Errol said shooting beams of white light from both hands. He was beginning to enjoy their surprised reactions.
Even the seasoned doctor was a little startled. “Okay. Well, that should give me enough to work with.”
“Now, then,” Lofton said, settling into an uncomfortable-looking armchair. “The first thing we need to work on is your secret identity. Every superhero has one— although Mr. Julian’s was rather…”
“Sketchy?” supplied Dr. Finkenbinder. “Pretty much everybody knew that Jay Julian was the Inferno.”
Errol’s eyes widened. “Then…there are others…like me?”
“Yes,” Lofton replied. “At least, I believe so. Though Dr. Finkenbinder’s not allowed to tell, he does keep very busy, which makes me think that there are indeed many like you, some good, some trying to hide it, some evil.”
“Blake, for example, is a scientific genius of the first quality,” Dr. Finkenbinder said. “At the age of four he infiltrated the Space Center in Cape Canaveral to launch his own homemade rocket. He also has some control over the ocean. As you might imagine, he caused quite a ruckus at the Center. His parents were absolutely mortified. Being one who usually has his ear to the ground, the Inferno took him under his wing. His superhero name is Firetide.”
Blake, who was leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest, did not look happy about having his personal history revealed.
“But what of Mr. Julian? What is his story?” Errol asked, trying to turn the conversation away before the apprentice superhero exploded.
“He’s the head of Jay Julian Enterprises , a company that specializes in innovative technology— all the latest in computers, cell phones, appliances,” said Lofton.
“Weapons and armor, too, on the sly,” added Dr. Finkenbinder.
Lofton nodded, and continued. “The company headquarters is here in Avalon Beach-- about a block away in the business district.”
“And… how did he become a— superhero?” Errol asked.
Lofton leaned forward in his chair. “When Mr. Julian first started the company, he designed all the products himself— and tested them. One day, he was working on some kind of flamethrower, for the military, I believe, and it well, backfired.”
“I think he did it on purpose,” Blake interjected.
“It didn’t kill him?” Errol asked.
“No, astonishingly enough,” Lofton said. “He came out of the room looking very sooty, but otherwise he was fine. I didn’t think much of it until he started shooting fireballs. He has a bit of a temper, you see. That’s how we met Dr. Finkenbinder.”
Errol cried out, from surprise more than anything, as a nurse jabbed a needle in his arm.
“Just taking a blood sample,” Dr. Finkenbinder said.
Blake snickered unpleasantly.
“But what happened to the business?” Errol asked. He gritted his teeth, determined to ignore whatever the doctor and nurse were doing to him.
“I run it now,” Lofton said. “I have a secret identity too, I suppose. I’m the unofficial C.E.O. of Jay Julian Enterprises. All of his enterprises. Which means that, presently, I’m in charge of the superhero operations as well.”
“That means that he calls the shots,” Blake said, tossing his head so that his blond bangs moved briefly out of his eyes.
“I see,” Errol said, ducking as Dr. Finkenbinder jabbed yet another instrument into him. The room was silent for a few minutes.
“Being a—a superhero changed Jay Julian, didn’t it?” Errol asked.
“Yes,” Lofton said. “It forced him to look at life from a new direction. He could no longer ignore the suffering that goes on here. It made him a better man in some ways…but in other ways it damaged him.”
Errol had just formed the word “How?” on his lips when the room went completely dark. “Strange,” he murmured. Though he could see that the room was pitch-dark, he could see everything quite clearly.
Sounds of thumping and banging came from the direction of the lobby.
“Oh, dear,” Lofton said.
“What happened?” asked several voices at once.
“Peace!” Errol said. “Listen.”
The door to the room opened and slammed shut again.
“Doctor!” came the receptionist’s voice, as she crashed around the room towards them. “There’s—There’s men in the lobby with guns“
Blake pulled out his gun. “I’ll get it.”
“Wait,” Errol commanded. “Don’t go out.”
Blake paused, irritated.
Errol slid almost noiselessly off the table and crept towards the doorway, seeing beyond the walls into the hall.
“They’re in the hallway. They want…information. They want the physician’s records,” he whispered. “Records of the superhuman.”
“That’s impossible,” Finkenbinder whispered. “I have those records so encrypted and encoded that it takes me twenty minutes to get into them.”
“They can do it in five,” Errol said.
“I can take them, Old Man,” Blake growled at Errol.
“Wait,” said Lofton, his voice calmer than before. “Let him handle it.”
Errol nodded, and then began scanning the room for some sort of weapon. He’d never seen a gun before and had no idea how to use it, but he saw a short, knife-like sword in a cabinet on the wall beside him. That would do. “You said the SPECTRUM can make you invisible, right?”
“Yes,” said Lofton. “All you have to say is ‘Activate full SPECTRUM.”
Errol vanished. He retrieved the machete, opened the door, and shot a blast of light into the hallway. He leapt through after it, slamming the door behind him.
Various coarse expressions of fright burst from the thugs in the hallway.
“He must have a patient,” one said, cocking his gun and waving it wildly in different directions.
There were twelve of them— six on either side of the small hallway. Even for an invisible person, it would be difficult to pass unnoticed.
“Cracker, hurry it up in there!” the first thug called. “Someone’s loose!”
There was a slight thud, and the first thug dropped to the ground, senseless.
“You got him?” the second thug called.
Dead silence, and then another thud, farther down the hall.
“Get him!” the second thug squawked.
The two lines of thugs collided, battling the first thing they came in contact with— each other. Errol was caught in the middle, fighting against an enormous ruffian. His huge, hairy hands clamped around Errol’s throat. Panicking, Errol shot light wildly from his fingers until he managed to shoot it straight into the thug’s eye. The blinded thug shrieked, loosening his grip just enough for Errol to get free. Errol dropped to the carpet, and began to crawl down the hallway, dodging legs and falling bodies as the thugs managed to knock each other out.
There were exactly thirty seconds left until the files downloaded onto Cracker’s device when Errol emerged from the hallway. Cracker was sitting at the computer desk, yanking on his long hair in agony, waiting for the files to load. As quietly as he could, Errol got to his feet, and stepped carefully towards the desk.
Cracker heard the office door creak open and squeak as it swung shut. He could hear footsteps coming, but he couldn’t run or fight, not while the files were still loading. Silently, Errol raised the machete and set its ragged edge against the man’s neck. The bar on the screen was almost full--Errol sensed how important this was to Cracker.
“Give me the device and I will release you,” Errol said quietly.
Cracker tensed. Errol could see him analyzing, pleading silently for the device to load faster. “Activate SPECTRUM” Errol said, feeling the man’s thoughts. Eighty-five percent…eighty-six percent…eighty-seven percent… It was a mind game, now. Errol could see the man wondering whether the files would download onto the stick before whoever was behind him sliced his head off.
Just in time, Errol saw the second thug lunge at him from behind. He dove out of the way, his blade crossing the Cracker’s neck with a thin line of blood. Before the second thug could recover, Errol tackled him, knocking him senseless before he could string a plan of attack together.
One hundred percent!
Cracker yanked the device out of the computer and made as if to vault over the desk, but Errol grabbed his hand, wrenching the device from it. In the space of a few heartbeats, Errol dropped the device on the ground and crushed it with his foot, then looked up, breathless, at the intruder.
Groaning, Cracker slid off the desk and onto the carpet in front of him. A dull look came into his eyes as he stared at the remnants of the memory stick on the floor.
“Kill me,” he said, still staring at the remains of the device. “It’s better than what he’ll do to me when he finds out.”
Choking, deafening fear filled the man’s thoughts, accompanied by images so nightmarish that Errol fought to block them out.
“Who is he that you speak of?” Errol asked quietly, his face mirroring the thief’s emotions.
Cracker looked up at the knight, his face looking eerie in the blue light from the computer screen. “The Shadow Reaper. No one escapes him.”
“Help me,” Errol said suddenly. “We can protect you.”
“No, you can’t,” Cracker said, shaking his head. “If he doesn’t get me, the police will.”
Errol turned the sword so that the flat of the blade was parallel to the man’s face and swung. The blow connected, and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
“If you will not choose life for yourself, I will choose it for you,” Errol murmured.
The lights flickered on. Errol looked up, hands shaking, and saw Lofton coming down the hall, followed by the others.
“Should I call the police?” the receptionist asked uncertainly, stepping over unconscious men scattered about the room.
Lofton nodded. “Do.”
“We need this one,” Errol said, gesturing to Cracker. “I think he will help us, if we can convince him that there are options besides suicide.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Lofton said, putting handcuffs on him. “We can’t shelter him from the law, but I’m certain I can make a case to have him incarcerated at the mansion. Errol, I suggest you remain invisible for the time being since we’re not quite ready to explain you to the police. Mr. Silver, kindly escort him to the back room, just in case.”
“Sure thing. You’re not quite as pathetic as I thought you’d be, old man.”
Errol cast a questioning glance at Lofton.
“Well, you are over a thousand years old, Sir,” Lofton said, shrugging.
Horrified, Errol glanced at his quickly disappearing reflection in the lobby mirror. He still looked, and felt about twenty-two. After his reflection had completely vanished, he slipped into the waiting room, his eyes wide with fright.
Old! Older than anyone else alive, with the looks and experience of a twentysomething! What torture was this, especially in such a world as he’d come to live in? The people here valued youth more than gold, and bottled and sold it as a commodity. Aside from Lofton, Blake, and whoever else he might work with, no one would ever know, and no one would ever believe him if he told them.
He watched through the walls as Lofton, Blake, the doctor, and the police bound and carted off the criminals, and heard Lofton’s slight hints that something a little more than natural had occurred here. The butler was soon in deep discourse with the head officer concerning Cracker. Apparently, Lofton had some kind of permit for this sort of thing in extenuating circumstances. Eventually, the policeman nodded, and notified the chief of police.
A few minutes later, Lofton, Blake, the doctor, and Cracker, still handcuffed, entered the room where Errol was hidden.
“They’re going to be a while,” Lofton said. “There’s nothing more we can do here for today.”
He stared at the wall beside Errol. “Deactivate SPECTRUM,” he murmured.
A door appeared in the wall. “I think we must be going, now, Doctor,” Lofton said. “Blake has waves to catch.”
Errol bit back the laughter that suddenly threatened, and settled for a grin. The two superheroes, the butler, and the prisoner proceeded out the door.
“Come back tomorrow!” Dr. Finkenbinder called. “I’m not nearly finished running tests on you.”
“We’ll be here,” Lofton said. “Early in the morning, if you don’t mind. There’s much to be done.”
