Tracer

Jeff Boeing did become a super-hero. He stopped muggers in their tracks, plucked would-be victims out of burning buildings, rescued kittens stuck in trees, even pushed a stalled car or two out of traffic. He found out pretty quickly that his energy armor was bulletproof. He even, eventually, figured out how to un-clamp himself from the generator box without needing to die first, and sometimes left it off all night while he slept.

But super-heroing was a full-time job. Fortunately, Duane and Sheila back at the shelter knew its operation backward and forward, and had stepped up beautifully in his absence. Julia had been a different story. She and Jeff had met at the shelter; she'd helped her sister get into the shelter a year ago, after said sister's now-ex fiancé had drunkenly beaten her up, and she and Jeff had hit it off immediately. But super-heroics were an entirely different ballgame from running a domestic violence shelter — from the vigilant hours it demanded each day, to the vast web of attention it created, to the glaring lack of a regular salary. Julia had once considered moving in with him, but now balked at the publicity that followed him around, to say nothing of the fear that she'd become her boyfriend's income stream.

The FBI had, surprisingly, become his ally. If they couldn't control him, they could "suggest" cases he could work on that would put his powers to use. Most of the time, state and local emergency services and law enforcement were Jeff's best source for such cases — he'd even taken to carrying a handheld police radio with him — but every now and again something came up that fell under Federal jurisdiction. To stay on his good side, they even started paying for his (quite meager) living expenses, not as an employee but as an "independent contractor," similar to how the CIA treated its operatives. They couldn't give him orders, but that once-in-a-blue-moon occasion when his abilities made a difference made this arrangement worth it for them.

Jeff Boeing became, in many ways, a celebrity. He reveled in the spotlight, and the public ate it up. This new life didn't seem to have a downside.

Then came the Stuart Henry Hornbock incident.

A call came over police radio one night about a man out back behind a bar. He'd snapped, and gone berserk. Officers were having a tough time subduing him, and suspected he was on PCP. Jeff didn't like handling drug crimes — he felt most drug use was harmless to others — but he'd dealt with PCP-addled people before. Contrary to popular belief, the drug did not made its user stronger; but it did make its user less susceptible to pain, and could occasionally trigger the fight-or-flight response or even hallucinations. When Jeff had gotten involved with PCP users in the past, after regular police failed to contain them, the mildly augmented strength bestowed by Jeff's energy armor had always been more than enough to subdue them.

This guy, though, was different. He was a body builder, practically a solid brick of muscle. He lunged furiously at Jeff the instant he landed, slamming into Jeff with the fronts of both of his arms, then pounding on him with his fists. None of it hurt Jeff, of course, his energy armor made certain of that, but the impact force drove Jeff back. Jeff would've stumbled and fallen if not for a few dance steps that kept him upright. As with the previous PCP users he'd dealt with, he said to the man, "Calm down, I don't want to hurt you," then grabbed him in a bear hug.

But even Jeff's enhanced strength was no match for this man's musclepower. He broke free in an instant, then picked up a broken lump of concrete from the alleyway and hurled it straight at Jeff's head. The concrete shattered on impact with Jeff's energy armor. That much blunt force trauma to the head would've killed an unprotected man. Jeff had to do something to keep this man from hurting others.

He couldn't restrain the man. He couldn't immobilize him. The only thing Jeff could think to do was try and knock the wind out of him, and maybe (if he was lucky) knock some sense into him. He'd have to hit him as hard as he could. As the man charged toward him yet again, Jeff cocked back his right fist. He couldn't see it, but the front of his fist started glowing a brilliant yellow-white, far brighter than his energy field normally was. He swung, and his fist made contact with the man's chest.

And when it did, a bright yellow-white flash erupted from the point of contact, accompanied by a clap of noise like thunder or a gunshot. The man hurtled backward and slammed into the wall of the building behind him. Then he slid down, limply, and slumped in a heap, not moving.

There was blood on the wall where the man's head had struck it.

Jeff stared back-and-forth in shock between his fist and its victim. The police officers behind him, seeing their suspect was no longer a threat, advanced. One officer patted Jeff's shoulder and, in jarring contrast to the tumult going on inside him, said "Good job." Another officer put a hand to the man's neck and said, "I'm not getting a pulse."

Oh no. No no no. What the hell had he done?! Jeff hooked his finger inside the chestbox's deactivator hood and shut his energy field off. His breathing was hard and nervous. He glanced from one officer's face to another. "Call an ambulance," he said, his voice shaking. "Somebody!"

Jeff sat there in the back alley with his energy box turned off, in the dark, barely moving. He stayed long after the man's body had been hauled away. The man he'd killed. Oh God. He didn't . . . he wasn't . . . how . . . why . . . Taking a life. Taking another man's life. That man probably had friends. Family. Maybe even his own children, for all Jeff knew. And . . .

A new pair of headlights pulled up next to him. A familiar face got out of the car; it was Henry Sampers, the same FBI assistant site manager he'd met on the day after he'd found the alien. He sat down next to Jeff in a manner calculated to put him at ease. "I understand you've discovered a new ability that the alien device gives you."

"At the worst possible time," Jeff said.

"They've identified the body," Henry said. "His name was Stuart Henry Hornbock. He has a criminal record of drug abuse, with several different substances. And yes, the coroner did find PCP in his blood. A lot of it. He also said that there were scorch marks around the point on his chest where you hit him."

Jeff winced.

"Nobody blames you for what happened," Henry continued. "There's not a court in the land that wouldn't agree you acted out of self defense."

"Self defense?!" Jeff retorted. "I had my energy armor on! Nothing he could have possibly done would have hurt me, and I knew it!"

"Still, he —"

"He made mistakes," Jeff cut him off. "He didn't deserve to die. No one deserves to die."

Henry drew a deep breath. "There are some vile people in this world, and sometimes the only —"

Jeff glared at him. "No. One." He stabbed an index finger downward with each word. "I . . . I don't want to fight crime anymore. I don't want to kill anyone else ever again."

Henry mulled over what to say next, then: "We'd like it if you came back to our facility, so that we can analyze the new ability you've discovered."

Jeff sneered, "You have got to be kidding me."

"Listen," Henry replied, "If tonight proved anything, it's that you don't know how this new 'blasting' power works. You don't know how to trigger it, you don't know how to keep it from triggering, you don't even know if it's limited to the tip of your right fist. You could be rescuing a kitten from a tree and trigger it accidentally. If you'll come back to our classified lab, we can help you figure out how to control it."

Jeff frowned. "Maybe I do need to figure it out." He stood up. "I'm not going to stay, you understand. I'm not your puppet, and I'm not the FBI's employee."

Henry stood beside Jeff. "Agreed. You have the address; if you'd like, you could fly there yourself. Or I could give you a ride right now. And if you do get a handle on this new ability, please reconsider your new stance on crimefighting. With enough control, you might be able to fight criminals without any risk of using lethal force."

Jeff exhaled, partly to strengthen his resolve, and partly in resignation. "I'll see you there." He pressed the pink button on his chestbox that switched on his energy field, leapt into the sky, and streaked eastward.

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