Stand-In

By J.S. Frankel

Bill Grissom, seventeen, doesn’t have long to live, and when he’s given a second chance as a substitute for his counterpart in a parallel universe, he jumps at the chance to become the Golden Guardsman.

Things go well at first. Along with Veil—Charlene Thompson, Matter-Man—Anders Nixon, and Monolith—Martin Bollock, the other members of the group, they dispense justice wherever it’s needed.

However, Matter-Man’s insistence on getting paid for a job well done doesn’t sit well with Bill, and he becomes jaded and cynical about working for the Collective. To Matter-Man, and to the other members of the group, it’s all about the coin.

As well, more and more super-criminals start to appear, and when Bill discovers who’s coming and more importantly, why, he learns that being a hero involves more than simply dispensing justice. It’s all about living up to the ideals of being one—something that could cost him his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eXtasy Books Inc
• Release date: Jan 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9781487421298

Book preview

Becoming a superhero is difficult enough. Staying one is almost impossible.

Bill Grissom, seventeen, doesn’t have long to live, and when he’s given a second chance as a substitute for his counterpart in a parallel universe, he jumps at the chance to become the Golden Guardsman.

Things go well at first. Along with Veil—Charlene Thompson, Matter-Man—Anders Nixon, and Monolith—Martin Bollock, the other members of the group, they dispense justice wherever it’s needed.

However, Matter-Man’s insistence on getting paid for a job well done doesn’t sit well with Bill, and he becomes jaded and cynical about working for the Collective. To Matter-Man, and to the other members of the group, it’s all about the coin.

As well, more and more super-criminals start to appear, and when Bill discovers who’s coming and more importantly, why, he learns that being a hero involves more than simply dispensing justice. It’s all about living up to the ideals of being one—something that could cost him his life.

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Stand-In

Copyright © 2020 J.S. Frankel

ISBN: 978-1-4874-2129-8

Cover art by Martine Jardin

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by eXtasy Books Inc or

Devine Destinies, an imprint of eXtasy Books Inc

Look for us online at:

www.eXtasybooks.com or www.devinedestinies.com

Smashwords Edition

Stand-In

By

J.S. Frankel

Dedication

To my wife, Akiko, and to my sons, Kai and Ray, thank you for letting me hog the computer night after night. And to—in no particular order—Eva Pasco, Joanne Van Leerdam, Jennefer Rogers, Mirren Hogan, Sara Linnertz, Lolo, Safa, Helen, and my sister, Nancy Frankel, I thank you all for your unwavering support.

Prologue

June seventeenth, present day. Gen City, four-thirty PM.

The shots echoed through the air, sharp, pinging sounds that signaled something bad was happening. Going in for a closer look, yup, just my luck to happen upon a robbery. Couldn’t this guy wait until I’d gotten a soda?

No, he couldn’t, and the crook emerged from the bank, money bags in his hands. He spotted me, and I uttered my line, the corny, clichéd line which everyone had come to know so well these past few months. Stand down before you go down, Preyer!

The crowd let out a collective gasp. They’d been waiting for a show. Wasn’t television enough for them? If any justice in this world existed, they’d have given me ten minutes to relax... but no. The criminal elements never stood still. In spite of my best efforts, Gen City was still one of the most crime-ridden cities on the eastern seaboard.

Everyone scattered like quail when Preyer advanced on them, waving his weaponry around.

What. An. Entrance.

Dressed in his light green bodysuit, he wore artificial claws shaped like a praying mantis’ and used them to emit high-energy laser bursts. He stood only five-six, but his firepower made him a giant.

People, for your own safety, stay back! one of the cops yelled. The regular police couldn’t match what he brought to the table, so they called on me to handle their dirty work. Handling dirty work came with the territory of me being what I was.

In fact, twenty cops had already come around, hanging well back of the action. One of them came over to me during my initial assessment of the situation with an apologetic look on his face. Uh, Golden Guardsman, sir, we’re a little out of our league here. Would you mind...

Overweight and pasty-faced, he probably had trouble stopping tykes from stealing building blocks. Inwardly sighing at the fact my downtime had been turned into no-downtime, I smiled at the policeman in order to reassure him.

I’ll handle it, but could you keep everyone back, please? I don’t want anyone getting hurt.

It would be my honor, GG.

He and his fellow officers hustled over to the group of two hundred or so gawkers, and they did their best to get them out of harm’s way. GG, he called me, and I wished they wouldn’t use my nickname. It had never really thrilled me... but once again, it came with the territory.

While the cops did their job, the technologically amped-up lawbreaker snatched up a mother and her little boy who’d lagged behind. It was a pretty despicable move, but it happened to be his modus operandi.

He always scoped out a bank, went in laser guns blazing, and took two hostages as human shields—never one or three or four—and then threatened to kill them if his demands weren’t met.

My temples began pounding. Aw, crap, the headaches would have to come now, just when justice had to be served. On my own pain tolerance scale, this registered a seven.

Ones to sixes, I could deal with, as they simply caused a pulsing behind my eyes and a throbbing in my skull. Sevens, though, made me sick to my stomach and caused my vision to blur. Still, I had the ability to do what needed to be done.

Guardsman, make it look good!

That comment came from Molly Minter, a reporter. I could always tell her voice, loud and screechy, like long nails raking a blackboard.

Oh, yes, don’t forget about the press. They surged forward and begged me for the obligatory grab-shot, a picture of me in a heroic pose belting out the criminal. Said picture would soon be on the front of every paper and all across the internet.

Molly, a short, plain-looking, chubby lady with pasty white skin and a pushy attitude, gave me a thumbs-up sign. She and I had a deal. She never asked anything personal, in sharp contrast to the other reporters who wanted to know everything about me.

She signaled her cameraman to get ready. My attention turned to the man with hostages in hand. Eugene, I called out. You don’t have to do this.

Oh, yes I do, he answered.

Preyer, whose real name was Eugene Twilliam, let loose a shot from his laser pistol in my direction and then screamed, Call me Preyer!

The discharge bounced harmlessly off my chest and dissipated in the warm June sunshine. He fired again and again and then realizing his weapon didn’t work, took out a regular handgun and pointed it at the head of one of his hostages.

His hands shook from drug usage, which made him even more dangerous. Better back off, hero, he yelled. I’ll do it. You know I will!

Uh-uh, not on my watch. Last chance, Eugene.

The crowd broke into long, sustained laughter, because they knew what would happen next. They wanted action, a show, and they knew I’d provide the fireworks.

Eugene looked around, saw that no one was scared, and went bonkers, screaming, "My name is Preyer!"

Yep, time to close this down. All of this could have been avoided, but now, there wasn’t time to tell him that breaking the law wasn’t the smartest option around. I used my eyebeams to freeze his mouth and nostrils shut. Pretty cool beans right there.

My powers didn’t include laser vision, but my eyes had the ability to fire a below-zero ice-cold burst which could stop anything in its path.

The crook immediately let loose a muffled howl, dropped his weapon, and clutched at his face. The hostages made their escape, and I strode over to where the now-chilled crook stood holding his frozen gob. Eugene, you know what you did was wrong, don’t you?

He nodded, his fingers trying to crack the ice.

You know I didn’t really want this situation to end this way, right?

This time, Preyer’s eyes spoke volumes, saying, Please don’t hit me in the mouth. I can’t afford dentures.

Your wish is my command. I tapped him lightly on his lips with my right palm. My hands could fire bursts of flame, but no, not needed this time. Mentally controlling my power, the flames went to singe mode and the ice melted from his face.

Thanks, he whispered, and then his eyes went glassy. My name is Preyer, and I am a criminal, he intoned in a flat voice. Please arrest me.

No problem.

The mother and her son thanked me, and the police came running up to take Eugene away to jail. One of the cops actually had chocolate frosting on his mouth. You’re the greatest, Golden Guardsman, he said.

I’m just doing my job.

Everyone laughed at another of my standard lines, one that had to be delivered with a great sense of modesty. It wasn’t as if I enjoyed arresting criminals or getting into fights. I didn’t.

But all the same, I’d been given this job to do, and truthfully, it made me feel good to help those in need. A few people came over, asked for my autograph, and they beamed when I wrote Golden Guardsman on their scraps of paper. The crowd soon thinned out, and only the reporters stayed behind along with one other person, Charlene, whom I called Shar.

Shar Thompson, my girlfriend for the past few months, also known as Veil for her ability to shield her body from sight, limped over to me and put her arm around my shoulder. She made doing this job worthwhile. Are you okay? she asked.

My head still hurt, and I shook it a few times to clear it. Good thing I wore a helmet. It masked my features, and it was a given that my face was twisted up in pain. I didn’t need a mirror to tell me that. I’ll make it.

At five-three, she had a head of long, flaming red hair, a pretty face spotted with freckles, and a kind and soft manner, especially when speaking with children.

Of all the Collective members, she stood out with her empathy towards others, and her grace and poise showed whenever she made a statement to the press. She also happened to be hot, and I really cared for her.

Now the writers of the daily word raced up to me shouting questions, and she took over, answering with the usual Collective line. We’re here to help, we thank you for your cooperation, we couldn’t have done this without you, and while they were all clichés, the press, like the crowd, lived for it.

The camera flashes lit up, and my headache went from mild to full-blown, number eight, which meant more aspirin. I let out a muffled groan. Shar noticed my condition, waved her hand at the reporters and called out, No more questions, please!

Molly gave me the thumbs-up sign and took off with her cameraman in order to beat the deadline. She’d make it. She always did.

Hand in hand, Shar and I walked down the steps to her car. I could have flown back home—my apartment lay at the other end of the city near hers, and it would have only taken me a couple of minutes to get there—but she enjoyed driving, and I enjoyed my time with her.

Let me take you home, she offered. We soon arrived at her vehicle, a really cool-looking high-speed Moretto which she loved tearing around the city in.

We got inside, and she drove off down the highway. It was a relief to take off my helmet. The damn thing was hot. She touched my face gently, her usual greeting of affection.

You’re pretty silent today, Bill, she ventured after a few minutes, keeping her eyes on the road. Funny, she rarely called me by name. When you know someone very well you don’t have to go on a first-name basis, although it’s always nice. You usually get so up for a mission.

I’m just a little tired, Shar. Her real name was Charlene, but no one used her nickname except me. It was our way of saying we cared for each other.

Actually, the headaches had been getting worse and lingering for longer periods of time. I leaned back in the soft leather seat and closed my eyes, hoping the pain would go away, but knowing it never would.

Her voice was full of concern, and she asked, Are you sure you’re going to be okay?

She’d asked me the same question just a few minutes ago. I wasn’t a mind reader or a doctor, so I gave her the standard answer of, I’ll live.

Her laugh echoed softly in my ears. It meant she found my standard excuse for getting banged up during a rescue amusing, and then her happy mood evaporated, replaced by one of observation. Did you have to talk to Molly again?

I knew Shar didn’t like the reporter. Still, she didn’t have to worry. Molly and I are just friends. You’re the only one for me.

Cliché number twenty-seven in the manual which read always keep your special friends close to you, and Shar was most definitely special. I was watching you, she said quietly, her eyes still on the road.

The way you handled the crowd, the way you took Preyer down—pure magic. You love your job, and that gives me confidence, too.

To anyone else, it might have sounded like hero worship or butt-kissing, but Shar never sucked up to anyone. She always told it straight. Most people didn’t know how to keep it real. In this whacked-out world, she always managed to.

Doing my job, I answered, feeling tired now. With a sigh of relief, I leaned back. I’m just doing my job.

Shar leaned over and whispered, You’re the best, in my ear, which brought a smile to my face.

Yes, I did love doing my job. It beat the alternative.

Chapter One: Welcome To The Collective

Nine months ago, October. Jail. How rotten is that?

The knock came at eight AM on a chilly pre-winter’s morning. A voice rang out, Grissom, William G., you’re wanted in the warden’s office! A second later, the guard banged on the door, jarring us out of our sound sleeps.

The room, small and bare of anything save study desks and cots, smelled stale from nightly farts and daily body odor. I shivered and eased my feet down to the unheated cement floor.

Most of the other occupants, ten in all, lay in their beds, asleep. I got up, blinking crud out of my eyes. Jim Adler, sixteen, one year younger than me, a stoner’s stoner who’d been tossed in here for drug possession, was awake, but staring blindly at the ceiling. Are they lettin’ you out of this place? he asked.

I’m not sure.

Yeah-whatever was his reply, and then his gaze turned inward. I got dressed and glanced out the tiny window at the sign in the exercise yard which read Oregon Young People’s Correctional Institute.

Perhaps my term as an inmate would end soon. Jim’s would continue. I wondered where he got the dope to pass the day and then decided not to ask. Sometimes it was better not to know.

The guard opened up and motioned me down the hallway. At the stairs, a knife-like pain went through my lower back, and I leaned against the wall for support. Are you going to be okay? he asked.

Yeah, I’m fine.

My response came out quickly. Showing weakness made people targets. If being here had taught me anything, it taught me mental as well as physical toughness. A place like this could break someone. It never broke me.

The guard showed me into Warden Harold Williams’ office. Williams, a short, stocky, unsmiling man, sat behind his desk. Take a seat, he said in a voice devoid of emotion.

As I did so, he picked up my file and the phrases assault with a deadly weapon and attempted murder leaped out at me. My fists clenched and unclenched while the man in charge of my destiny reviewed my case.

While waiting, my mind its own review trip. Before coming here, I’d been a fairly decent student. Not the most outstanding scholar at Portland River High, but okay. Good at most subjects, sucked at math and chemistry... in short, average.

Sports was my ticket out, or so I’d thought at the time. The wrestling team called to me, and I answered. At six feet, around one-ninety, with a lean, strong body and fast hands, my coach tapped me as the school’s future regional champion in my class. Personally, I’d pinned my hopes on getting a scholarship from a local university.

However, during my junior year, just turned seventeen, things changed in a hurry. The so-called experts said that in everyone’s life, there came a moment, usually one of tragedy or heartbreak, which defined their existence and set them on a path to either greatness or nothingness.

That moment went unnoticed by everyone else, but it was recalled and endlessly replayed by the one who’d experienced it.

My moment happened January seventeenth at exactly five-thirty in the afternoon. On my way home after wrestling practice, I came upon a punk with a knife. He was just about to slash a young kid from the neighborhood.

The boy happened to be mentally handicapped, and why his parents let him wander around, I never knew. But there he was, about to get carved up, and he didn’t understand why this was happening to him.

Me either, and I went over to stop it. Coach Rawlins always pushed sportsmanship and fairness, something I gravitated to. Maybe it came from me growing up poor and not having the extras like decent food or affection from my mother. Maybe it was something else.

It didn’t matter. Where I stood, you didn’t kick someone when they were down, and you didn’t pick on others because they were different, poor, or fat. In other words, you did the right thing. Leave him alone.

Three inches taller, forty pounds heavier, stupid and cranked on something, the punk turned his head in my direction. You can fight me then.

Not good. This guy was older, which made a hell of a difference. So did the knife. Wrestling experience or not, I was out of my league and knew it. I don’t want to!

You got no choice.

I had one choice. Choose life. The kid ran off howling, I tackled the bigger man, and during the struggle, the knife went into his shoulder. The cops came and his lawyer—my mother couldn’t afford one, and the state-appointed attorney knew less than zero about my case—managed to make an attempted murder charge stick.

Naturally, they didn’t accept the other kid’s testimony on account of him being mentally impaired and guess what—no witnesses.

You got screwed, my incompetent lawyer told me after the sentence had been handed down. But you did the right thing.

Thank you, counselor-at-law... for nothing.

I got sent to a correctional facility, and oh, yeah, my school expelled me, bad for their image and all that. After kicking myself repeatedly for getting into this fix, I came to the conclusion that I’d done the right thing and didn’t regret it.

What got me was the guy who started the fight wasn’t even a student. He came from a family with all the right connections. My family wasn’t rich, and my mother—never knew my father—decided to forget about me.

Other kids had their parents visit them. My mother never did. A short, fat woman in her mid-forties, she ran a bar at night, drank during the day, and slept through most of my early years, forcing me to teach myself how to cook and clean.

Being poor sucked. My mother got hand-me-downs from the local charity instead of buying me decent clothes, and my coach gave me used wrestling gear which sucked even more. In spite of those smacks to the face, the hardships taught me how to survive.

I do for you, she’d always yelled in one of her alcohol-fueled rages. What do you do for me?

It became her standard battle-cry, one which I could never answer. It had to be the booze talking, but as a kid, you never learn how to deal with an alcoholic parent until it’s too late.

Inside juvey hall, wrestling background or no, the tougher kids kicked my butt and promised to do worse if I didn’t go along with what they