New Olympus Saga (Book 1): Armageddon Girl (35 page)

“You shouldn’t let them scare you,” he
went on.

“I know: fear leads to anger, anger leads
to hate, hate leads to suffering, yadda Yoda.”

“That’s one of the stupidest things I’ve
ever heard,” Dad said, starling her into a burst of laughter.

“You know what? You’re right.” She gave
him a weak smile. “See? All better now. Thank you, Dad.”

“I wish I had been around more. I would
have taught you how to fight,” he said.

“That would have been cool. Like that
line from
The Stand
: 'Give me kung-fu in the face of my enemies.' I
could use some kung-fu lessons.”

“Oriental fighting styles are fine, but
you don’t need them,” Dad said, and went on before Christine could mention that
‘Asian’ was the preferred term this century. “Attitude is essential. And
ruthlessness. You need to be willing to do whatever it takes to win, and show
it.”

“And if the other girl or guy has
attitude and ruthlessness, and is bigger and stronger?”

“Then you will lose, of course. But at
least they’ll know they were in a fight.”

Christine snorted. “Dad, you don’t just
not sugarcoat things, you don’t even Splenda-coat things. And why did you sneak
into my school? You know Mom doesn’t like surprise visits, or unsupervised
visits.” Even now that she was a couple years away from voting or serving in
the military, Christine’s mother didn’t want her to be alone with Dad.

“I wanted to show you this.” ‘This’ was a
cube he held out in his hand. It was made of some sort of brightly polished red
stone, and was covered in little carvings, weird symbols she’d never seen
before. “Here.” He handed it to her.

It felt heavy, like lead or gold, and it
was warm. Her fingers tingled where they touched the stone. The symbols were
pretty interesting. They were important, she was certain of that, although she
had no idea why. She thought she could figure them out if she just looked at
them long enough…

Dad took the cube away, and Christine
felt like she’d just woken up from a nap. “What was that?”

“Something I made. I wanted to see what
impression it made on you.”

“Well, it kind of hypnotized me, I think.
It…” Something had happened between the moment she’d started looking at the
symbols and when Dad had removed the cube from her hand, but she couldn’t
remember it, just the way sometimes she would wake up knowing she’d had an
intense dream but was unable to remember it. “You made a cube that plays Jedi
mind tricks?”
Or you made a cube and coated it with some really good drugs?
Christine wanted to trust Dad – yes, he never was around but he’d sent money to
her mother every month, and he seemed to give a crap about her in his own curt
non-people person way – but let’s face it, she didn’t
know
Dad.

“Something like that.” He seemed
disappointed in her somehow. “It was nothing. Forget about it.”

And she did. The memory would only come
back five years later, floating forty thousand feet above the Earth while held
in the arms of the Invincible Man.

“So no Thanksgiving,” Christine said.
“Maybe next year?”

“I won’t be here next year,” he said.

Christine did not ask about the year
after that. She had the feeling she wouldn’t like that answer, either.

The school bell rang. Her free period was
over. Weird. Even counting her little encounter with the Cheerleader Death
Squad and her chat with dad, it had only been like ten or fifteen minutes,
hadn’t it? She looked at the time on her cell phone. Nope, an hour had come and
gone. Time flies when you’re spending quality time with Dad.

“I have to go,” she said. “Or I could
commit some truancy and we could go out for ice cream.” She’d never been absent
without leave, but there’s a first time for everything.

Dad shook his head. “I have to go as
well.” He did something very unlike him next: he hugged her tightly. “You will
be all right now,” he said cryptically. “Take care, Christine.”

“You too, Dad.” This didn’t sound good.
It sounded like goodbye. She felt tears gathering behind her eyes. She’d
thought she’d cried herself out, but here was Dad sounding like he wasn’t
coming back. Like ever.

He stepped away, and his eyes looked a
little moist, too. Without another word, he left.

She didn’t go to the Halloween Dance,
much to Harry Yang’s disappointment. The Princess Giselle Has an Alien Baby
costume never got worn. Just as well, because the dance turned into a real-life
horror story. Ellen, the rest of the Cheerleader Death Squad and their
boyfriends had all gotten killed in a freak car accident on their way to the
dance. The deaths were blamed on drugs, and the rest of the school year was a
mess, between grief counselors and D.A.R.E. speakers and all that happy crappy.
Christine felt sad and guilty for months. She’d often fantasized about Ellen
meeting an untimely end, and that was a fantasy she now wished she’d never had.
She never connected the deaths with her father, not until years later at
forty-thousand feet yadda yadda.

Christine didn’t see her father again.
Not on that world, at least.

* * *

“Dad?”

Maybe Porta Potty Man wouldn’t have been
so bad.

The emotional Space Mountain ride was
really getting to her. She’d been dealing with Ultimate’s feelings in the dream
world, massive grief followed by massive anger; thank God he’d calmed down a
little after beating the living crap out of the Dreamer. Then she’d had this
little moment with him when they’d woken up, and her heart was still doing a
little hippity hoppity thing. She didn’t go for jocks at all, but Holy Crap!
Something about him just made her blush like a schoolgirl. And now, this:

“Last chance, Ultimate, or whoever is
controlling him,” Dad said. His voice sounded kind of like she remembered, if
you hired a sound FX team that loved to use reverb and had read the complete
works of H.P. Lovecraft and put it to work jazzing it up. It was the scariest
voice she’d ever heard. It made Darth Vader sound like Jessica Rabbit. Then Dad
laughed, and
that
was the scariest laugh she’d ever heard. She didn’t
want to even imagine what his yodeling would sound like.

“Dad!” she called to him, and he stopped
laughing, for which she felt immensely grateful. “It’s okay. He was being
controlled, but I helped him break free. He’s fine now.”

“She’s telling you the truth, Lurker,”
Ultimate – John, that’s his name, use it – said. He didn’t sound overly
impressed by the Lurker’s – by Dad’s, that’s his name, use it – scary special
effects.

Dad considered this for a few seconds.
When he spoke next, his voice sounded a bit less scary, almost the way he
sounded during his visits back on Planet Normalcy, a long time ago in a galaxy
far away. Christine desperately wished she was back there.

“Very well,” he said. “She must come with
me.”

“Fine,” John said. “But I’ll be coming
along.”

“Wait!” Christine said, intruding into
the superhero equivalent of dogs sniffing each other’s butts. “My friends.
Face-Off and Condor.” And Kestrel, she guessed. “They got captured by the bad
guys. Russians with weird ray guns. We have to find them!”

“Already taken care of,” Dad said. “I’ll
take you to them.”

He floated closer, and she felt John
tensing up, but he let Dad get to within arm’s reach. Lurker-Dad did some weird
trick with his cloak, and things went dark and cold for a very disturbing
second or two. Christine most definitely did not try to use her super-senses
inside that darkness, and even without them she got the feeling there were
things there, things she most definitely did not want to see. The darkness
thankfully went away quickly and Christine, still in John’s arms, found herself
in the now fairly crowded passenger compartment of the Condor Jet. Condor was
leaning over Mark, who was slumped on a chair. Kestrel was looking away. Nobody
looked happy.

Mark… Christine broke free from John and
rushed to him. Mark’s pain was as bad as what John had experienced in
Dreamland, and it hit Christine even harder. When he saw her, he hugged her
convulsively, like a drowning man reaching for life preserver. “What happened?”
she whispered as he squeezed her hard.

“Cassandra’s dead,” he said. The tone was
flat. He was trying to bury the grief away. Christine let him do it for now. He
wanted to be cool in front of everybody, and she could understand that. “I’m
glad to see you in one piece,” he added.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. Cassandra had
been so nice. Christine wanted to cry but this wasn’t the right place or time.
“And I’m glad to see you in one piece too. I feel like crap for running away.
That was not heroic at all.”

“No, that was the smart thing to do.
Those assholes want you for some reason. You never give assholes what they
want.”

“Too many words to put on a t-shirt, but
I approve of the sentiment,” she said, and felt him smile a little. But then he
saw John and the invisible smile disappeared.

Crap. She’d forgotten that Mark was an
unlicensed vigilante. If John decided to arrest him, things might get messy.

“John, this is Face-Off. He saved my
life. Face, this is John. He was being mind-controlled, but he's all better
now.” She disentangled herself from Face-Off, who went over to John and shook his
hand. Condor and Kestrel also exchanged greetings. Condor and John had already
met, of course, although the vibes she got off them weren’t all warm and fuzzy.
Kestrel was looking at John like a cat looking at a Red Lobster special. Was
there anybody on Earth Kestrel didn’t want to screw? She was like a man with a
vaj.

After greeting time was over, there was
an awkward silence. Dad had put his gas mask back on, the one covered in
symbols that hurt her head if she glanced at them for a few seconds – and which
looked much like the ones in that cube he had shown her the last time she’d
seen him. She was picking no vibes off him. Either he didn't have any emotions
or he knew how to block her senses. Probably just as well. She was pretty sure
she didn't want to know what was going on inside Dad's head. She still needed
to know what was going on, however.

“So, Dad,” she said casually. “What’s
new?”

Chapter Nineteen

Hunters and Hunted

New York City, New York, March 14, 2013/Kiev, Dominion of the
Ukraine, February 28, 2013

“… and we returned to the safe house to
await instructions,” Archangel said. On the phone’s view screen, Mr. Night’s
expression did not change, his asymmetrical smirk seemingly frozen in place. “I
have Medved and Lady Shi standing by, and the remnants of my team. Should we
proceed to Chicago?”

“Things are moving fast, my dear
cherubim.” Archangel’s jaw clenched at the mocking tone but he remained silent.
“I’ll be there shortly.” The connection went dead.

Archangel started at the desk phone’s
blank screen for several moments. Mr. Night was the middleman for his
superior’s American partner, and in overall charge of the operation. Even on
short acquaintance, he had come to intensely despise the old man with the
uneven features and grating voice. To have to answer to him was nearly
unbearable, and yet...

“And yet one does what one must,” Mr.
Night completed Archangel’s unspoken thoughts. Archangel whirled on his chair
and saw the man who had been in Chicago moments ago standing behind him.

“I decided it would be best for me to
fetch you,” Mr. Night explained. “Things are not going well, dear boy, not well
at all. We lost the girl, we lost Ultimate, who could have made such a great
puppet, and I must presume that the Lurker and the girl have been reunited by
now.”

“Is all lost, then?” Archangel asked
cautiously. He would have to strike swiftly and with all his strength if he had
any hopes of overcoming Mr. Night. If failure was total, there was no point in
waiting for the inevitable punitive measures that would follow. He'd tried to
intimidate Mr. Night once before, and that had ended up badly. This time he
would not be posturing but fighting for his life, however. It was probably
futile; the man in the black suit could read his thoughts and would be ready
for his attack, but it was better to go down fighting than to meekly await his
fate.

“Lost? Not at all, my murderous
cherubim,” Mr. Night replied before Archangel could act. The words stilled any
thought of action, for the time being, at least. “My adversary is sure to try
to induct his precious little girl into the mysteries of the Source,” the
strange man in black continued. “He will take her somewhere he deems safe, of
course, but the process will create a very powerful energy signature. I will be
able to locate it and take us to them. Then you will have your chance to redeem
yourself, dear boy. You may even have a go at the faceless freak you want to
slaughter so badly.”

Archangel had learned that his deepest
thoughts and emotions were like an open book to Mr. Night, for all of his
training in countering such forms of mental intrusion. This time he didn’t
care. The chance to fulfill his promise to the dead witch made him surprisingly
eager to do Mr. Night’s bidding. “What do I need to do?”

“The very words I wanted to hear.
Splendid! Let me go gather our lovelorn couple: the Bear and the deadly lady
have just completed renewing their carnal acquaintance and are cleaning up. Their
experience at the hands of Cassandra was a bit harrowing for them, the poor
things.” Mr. Night’s smile didn’t change, but something seemed to shift behind
his sunglasses. “Ah, Cassandra. If I only I’d dealt with you when we first
met.” Mr. Night left the room, leaving Archangel alone with his thoughts.

Two weeks days ago he had been in the
court of the Iron Tsar, as content as one can be in a den of snakes where
courtiers and favorites jockeyed for position and despised him for being a
Russian parvenu. He had made his place there by strength and cunning, and he
had no further ambitions beyond enjoying himself as much as he could while
safeguarding his position. This assignment had changed everything.

* * *

Archangel answered the summons and
arrived promptly to the Golden Spire, the 850-meter tall structure that
dominated Kiev’s skyline and served as the Tsar’s home. On the lengthy lift
ride up, flanked by two motionless Automaton guards, he forced himself not to
think about what awaited him above. The Tsar rarely gave personal audiences.
Most of his interactions with the Dominion’s monarch had been ceremonial: state
dinners, parades, and special celebrations. Archangel was not a member of the
court’s inner circle, and he never expected that to change. An ethnic Russian –
or a German, Pole, Rumanian or Jew for that matter, for all that they made up a
large proportion of the Dominion's population – could only advance so far at
court, with very few exceptions. This meeting was an unusual event.

Archangel retained his impassive demeanor
and spent some time looking at himself in the gold-framed mirror on one of the
lift’s walls. Not a hair out of place, his ghostly-pale persona intact. Good.
Style was substance in the world of living legends and demigods. Whether this
unusual meeting presented a danger or an opportunity, he would face it looking
his best.

The lift’s doors opened, revealing the
Wall of Enemies, a honeycomb of glass-covered cases containing thirteen severed
heads in a pyramidal arrangement. Pride of place was given to two heads: Nikita
Khrushchev’s and Stepan Bandera’s. Khrushchev, the Ukrainian Communist Party
leader, had been killed by the Iron Tsar’s own hand in 1940, an act of open
defiance to Stalin and part of the campaign to avenge Russian crimes against
the Ukrainian people, a campaign that continued to this day. Stepan Bandera,
the former leader of the largest Ukrainian nationalist group on the eve of the
Great Patriotic War, had died for the crime of being in the way of the Iron
Tsar’s ambitions.

The other eleven heads changed from one
year to the next, as new enemies were executed and put on display. The replaced
trophies were in a museum-like room a lower level; the last time Archangel had
bothered to check the Gallery of Enemies had contained ninety-seven heads. He
noticed a couple of new faces at the bottom of the triangle: a Russian general caught
plotting against the Dominion and a young woman, the former leader of a
pro-democracy movement. She was fairly attractive. It was a pity she had chosen
to become an enemy of the Throne.

Other, less gruesome trophies lined the
walls of the crimson-carpeted corridors leading to the audience chamber. He
walked past several historical art pieces, including portraits and busts of
Vladimir the Great, Saint Olga, Yaroslav the Wise and many other rulers and
heroes of Ukraine’s past. A modern painting depiced the Iron Tsar accepting the
surrender of Soviet general Zhukov in 1944. The look on Zhukov’s face was that
of a man trying to wake up from a terrible nightmare. Archangel could
sympathize. The world had been living in a terrible nightmare since the New
Olympians had become the masters of the planet. In such a state of affairs, of
course, it paid to be one of the nightmarish beings rather than their victims.

A sliding steel door at the end of the
corridor opened, revealing the audience hall. Blue-and-yellow flags unfurled on
every wall in between  windows that looked down on the city and the Dnieper
River. The floor was gold-rimmed marble, with purple-and-gold carpets
stretching towards the gilded throne. The ruler of Ukraine sat casually on the golden
throne, his consort sitting on his lap.

The Iron Tsar was a tall man wearing a
dress military uniform with the tabs and insignia of High Marshall. His face
and head were covered by an iron and bronze great helm, a medieval design that
completely covered its wearer’s face except for a thin eye slit. The stories
and rumors about the helmet were legion. He had never been seen without it.
Some claimed the helmet was permanently affixed to his head, and to remove it
would mean his death. Others thought it concealed some horrible deformity or
injury and that is was vanity that kept his features forever hidden behind the
metal mask. Or maybe the helmet helped contain his godlike power, acting as a
safety valve to keep the Tsar from obliterating his surroundings with his mere
presence.

Archangel did not know whether any of the
rumors were true, or care overmuch. All he knew was that the few times he’d
been close enough to look into the Tsar’s eye slit, a red glowing light had
been shining within. Whatever lay behind the metal mask was no longer human, he
was sure of it. That would have bothered Archangel if it were not for the fact
he was no longer human as well.

Archangel was one of the most powerful
beings on the planet, a 3.1 in the PAS system, but the Tsar’s mere presence
humbled him. There was an unmistakable aura of power and confidence around the
man. After meeting the ruler of the Dominion in person, nobody had to wonder
why entire Soviet Army Groups had surrendered and switched their allegiance to
him.

In addition to the platoon of Automatons
standing guard along the walls, there were two other people in the audience
room. Baba Yaga was embracing the Tsar and smiling languidly. The Witch of the
Pripet Marshes was in her more pleasant guise: she appeared to be a beautiful
young woman with long black hair and flashing blue eyes, wearing a diaphanous
purple gown. Archangel knew her other two shapes were far less lovely; she
could look like a hideous crone when she so wished, and in combat she became
something utterly monstrous, a misshapen chimera of animal and human body
parts. Only a madman or a god would consider taking such a being to his bed.
She was the Tsar’s consort and chief adviser, and men would suffer and die by
her whim, with no regard to their station and rank.

A short distance from the throne stood a
fat man with an oversized head and squinting mismatched eyes, one far bigger
than the other, clad in the green tunic of the Ukrainian Science Corps.
Archangel barely avoided an angry sneer at the sight. The Mind was a German,
one of only two foreigners in the Tsar’s inner circle. The obese Neolympian had
defected to the Ukraine shortly after murdering Hitler, knowing his life was
forfeit if the Allies captured him. It was a pity he was so useful and that he
had managed to ingratiate himself into the Tsar’s confidence over the decades.
His presence at the meeting was not reassuring; the Mind’s schemes and devices
were always brilliant and they almost always worked flawlessly, but when they
went wrong they did so spectacularly.

One of the Automatons announced Archangel
as he walked in, stopped at the requisite fifteen steps from the throne and
went down on one knee, bowing deeply as protocol demanded.

“No need for formality, Feodor
Igorovich,” the Iron Tsar said. His voice sounded perfectly normal, even
pleasant, nothing like the reverberating metallic tone he used when trying to
intimidate others. “There’s important work to be done, and you’re just the man
for the job.”

“You do me honor, my lord,” Archangel
replied, using the informal form of address as ordered.

“I have forged an alliance of convenience
with an American, an artificer of some skill,” the Tsar explained. “You will
bring some special equipment to him – to his underlings, rather – and will
assist him in any way he requires. You will also supervise the shipment of some
new devices to our people in America.”

“As you command, my lord.”

“The Mind will provide you with the
details,” the Tsar added, gesturing towards the German.

“If I may, my lord?” the Mind said in
badly accented Ukrainian. At the Tsar’s nod, he went on. “The equipment will be
loaded in two containers. One is to be delivered to the American’s agents in
New York. The other is to be distributed among our men in New York and Chicago.
Everything must go according to plan. We are on the verge of a momentous event.
Soon we will have access to the Source!”

“No need to bore Archangel with the
details,” the Tsar said mildly, and the Mind shut his mouth, looking guilty.
Archangel wondered what the Source was, but realized the German had already
said more than the Tsar wanted him to hear. Something important, obviously.

Baba Yaga rose to her feet and walked
sinuously towards him. Archangel watched her coldly as she approached. Her
beauty did not affect him much; it would not have even if he didn’t know what
lay beneath it. He preferred his women to be properly subservient, and her
wanton expression and smug smile only made him want to beat her until they were
gone from her face. That was not an option here, of course, even if they were
not at court. Baba Yaga‘s power level was unknown, but she had always bested
him every time they had sparred. She was a trickster and deceiver, an expert at
finding one’s weak spots and striking at them.

Baba Yaga embraced him and pressed a cold
cheek against his. “I made you a little gift, Archangel,” she whispered in his
ear. As she disentangled herself from him, she placed something heavy and
metallic on his hand. It was a metal bracelet. “An amulet of sorts,” she
explained. “Keep it close, and it will serve you well.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he said politely.

“Consider her gift as a reminder of the
importance of this mission,” the Tsar said as Baba Yaga returned to his side.
“Failure cannot be countenanced. Do you understand, Archangel?”

“I do.” But he hadn’t, not until much
later.

* * *

Archangel looked up and saw Mr. Night walking
back into the office, Medved and Lady Shi behind him. The killers were fully
attired for battle. The Bear had replaced his street clothes with a black
jumpsuit, metal gauntlets that left his clawed fingers uncovered, and heavy
metal-banded boots. Lady Shi was wearing a one piece black bodysuit that left
her arms and legs bare, accentuated by a golden belt, vambraces and boots. Her
hair was gathered in a tight topknot. Archangel smiled. If this was to be their
final battle, at least they would enter it in the full panoply and pageantry
expected of the gods of the twenty-first century.