New Olympus Saga (Book 1): Armageddon Girl

by C. J. Carella

  “Oh, God, that would have been horrible,” Christine said, her good humor vanishing. She normally didn’t glare at people, but the idea of her getting angry at somebody and blasting a hole through them made her a little nauseous. Or nauseated. One of those two, or maybe both.

  “It’s okay," Condor assured her.” I was able to measure the energy level of the impact, and it would have been survivable by your average Type Two Neo. It wouldn’t have been pleasant, though.”

  “So how did I do it? I didn’t see energy beams coming out of my eyes or what not.”

  “Most energy beams are invisible to the naked eye. Plasma discharges are visible, but what you unleashed on my poor pitching machine was pure kinetic energy. To be exact you caught one of the baseballs and accelerated it to three thousand feet per second, right into the mechanical pitcher.”

  Christine did some quick math in her head. Let’s assume a five ounce baseball at 3K fps. Don’t forget to carry the zero… “That's like sixty thousand joules of energy!”

  “Give or take,” Condor said, sounding impressed. “Four times the punch of a .50 caliber bullet. I forget you’re a Genius, too.”

  “I’m a Physics major,” Christine said. “I can do math; that and being a gaming geek meant I had no prom date, or much of a social life. But I could do math before I became Wonder Womyn. Danica McKellar is my personal idol.”

  “They didn’t have girls like you when I was going to school,” Condor said bemusedly.

  “Of course, that was back in the Sixties,” Face-Off commented.

  “As in the Nineteen-Sixties?” Christine blurted out.

  “You didn’t tell her about Neo longevity,” Condor said to Face-Off.

  “I was going to get to it, but I’ve been answering a bazillion other questions all day,” Face-Off said. “Sorry, Gramps.”

  “You’re saying Neos – we – don’t get old?” Christine broke in.

  “Not that you’ll notice. I told you about Ultimate coming out in 1938, right? He’s still around, and he looks about the same as he did seventy-odd years ago.”

  “Except the eyes,” Condor said. “You can see his age in his eyes.”

  “Well, I haven’t had the honor of looking into his eyes,” Face-Off muttered.

  “So how old are you?” Christine said. “Sorry, rude.” Was he like eighty or something insane like that? Creeposome.

  “Twenty-seven this July,” Face-Off said. “I’m a newbie.”

  “And you should respect your elders,” Condor said.

  “You got it, old-timer.”

  Christine ignored the byplay. Never getting old. Not the kind of thing you really think about at age twenty-one, except when reading bad vampire romances, something she was guilty of doing on occasion. Go Team Edward, but without having to suck blood or glow in daylight. Kinda neat. Watching every normal friend you have die of old age, not so neat. Maybe not having a lot of friends had an upside.

  “You okay?” Face-Off asked her.

  “Yeah, just thinking things through. I keep getting hit with information overload, but I figure some meditation time and a hefty dose of anti-psychotics will take care of it.”

  “Well, no time for either,” Condor said. “Now that we know what you can do, we need to get a feel for your limitations and capabilities.”

  That meant more balls to the face, Christine guessed. “Fun.”

  The Freedom Legion

  East Kazakhstan, Kazakhstan, March 13, 2013

  Chastity Baal coughed and spat blood onto the sandy oil. A broken rib made its presence known with a sharp jab of pain when she tried to move. Behind her, the flames consuming the burning jeep alternatively crackled and roared. For a few seconds, she didn’t know where she was or what had happened.

  Ah, yes. The Celestial Warrior.

  She had seen the figure rushing towards them faster than the Jeep had been traveling. She started to swerve but the running man had smashed into the vehicle. Metal crumpled and the world spun out of control as the multi-ton vehicle was flung into the air. That was the last thing she remembered.

  Celsius had gotten his wish.

  Chastity looked around. Bao was crawling away from the ruins of the vehicle, still alive but badly injured. Some fifty feet away from the Jeep, Celsius was confronting the Celestial. The Chinese Neolympian was short but heavily muscled, with a shaved head and eyes that blazed with unnatural light. He was bare-chested and the Imperial Sigil branded into his skin glowed with the same hues as the Dragon Wall. Celsius was unleashing a torrent of fire onto the Celestial, but the flames sputtered away inches away from the target, leaving the Imperial unscathed. The Celestial advanced through the stream of fire, leaning forward like someone pushing into a strong wind.

  She reached for the pistol in her belt holster, ignoring the stabs of pain from the broken rib. The Celestial was nearly upon Celsius. The Legionnaire switched tactics and encased the Chinese Neo in a sheath of ice. That stopped the Celestial, but the ice began to crack seconds later under his relentless strength. Celsius’ face was contorted with exertion and fear. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold the Celestial for long.

  The pistol’s 9mm rounds would be useless, but the weapon also had an integral mini-grenade launcher under the barrel. Chastity calmly loaded the launcher as the Celestial broke through the ice and hurled himself at Celsius, who tried to dodge away but wasn’t fast enough. The Imperial grabbed the Legionnaire in a grip meant to rend him limb from limb. Chastity took her shot.

  The 15mm grenade hit the Celestial on the right temple. Its shaped-charge explosive warhead created a jet of plasma no thicker than a knitting needle, concentrating all its power in the smallest possible surface. It was designed to punch through the protective fields that made some Neos largely invulnerable to conventional weapons. The explosion’s flash hid the Celestial’s head for a second, and the man staggered but did not fall. When the smoke dissipated, Chastity couldn’t see any signs of injury on him. The Celestial’s hold on Celsius had not slackened, either. He twisted the Legionnaire’s body. Celsius screamed in overwhelming agony and even from fifty feet away Chastity heard the loud crack when his spine broke.

  The Celestial Warrior let the limp body drop to the ground as he turned towards Chastity. The Imperial hesitated for a second when he saw he was facing a woman. His angry expression was replaced by a lascivious smile.

  Panic flickered inside of her, stirring the animal desire to flee. Fear was an old acquaintance of hers; she had lived with it from an early age, and from an early age had learned to set it aside. Running wasn’t an option; it would only provide the Imperial with the thrill of the chase to add a little spice to the main course of rape and murder.

  Chastity struggled to her feet, letting go off the useless gun. Only one thing left. She reached for the scabbard built into her right boot and pulled out a dagger. It was a fighting blade, seven inches of high-quality steel, curved and single-edged with an unusual symbol carved along its length, a sinuous interlaced design that Chastity had not been able to identify even after consulting with several experts. The weapon had been a parting gift from a lover. “Keep it with you, kiddo, but don't use it unless you're at death's door,” he had told her. “It's a prototype, and it's got flaws. Flaws that might kill you. But if you ever need someone dead, no matter what the cost, this is the tool for the job.”

  For five years Chastity had kept the dagger around whenever practicable, but had never used it. It was time to see what it could do.

  The Celestial reached for her, going for a grapple. She sidestepped the overconfident attack and slashed at him with the dagger, striking his forearm. The protective field that had ignored Celsius’ flames and the armor-piercing grenade parted under the impact like an elastic membrane pierced by a scalpel. The blade cut through his flesh and scored the bone beneath. With a cry of surprised pain, he spun away from her. The shocked expression in his face matched her own.

  The dagger was glowing. Chastity saw the bl
ood on its edge disappear, absorbed into the weapon; the symbol carved into the blade flared brightly. It appeared to be moving as well, but she had no time to look at it closely. The Celestial charged her again. This time he was all business, intent in destroying the woman who had hurt him. For several seconds, Chastity was too busy dodging a whirlwind of punches and kicks to strike back. She used the knife defensively, presenting a threat to his bare-handed attacks and forcing him to be cautious. The man had been trained well, a rarity for someone who was largely invulnerable to conventional attacks. She did not score another hit on him, but she managed to keep him from striking her.

  They broke contact and circled each other warily. The Celestial's shock at being wounded had been replaced with anger, but he was still proceeding coldly and deliberately. She had a slight speed advantage on him, but it would not make a difference if he pressed on with his attacks. Chastity might cut him again, but if one of his blows landed it would kill or at best cripple her, and the fight would be over. She watched her opponent intently, looking for an opening.

  That's when she noticed the dark tendrils extending from the Celestial's wound, thin veins of blackness that drank the blood spurting from the slash and spread like a network of roots beneath the man's skin. The tendrils pulsed bright with purple-black hues, and a tingling feeling in the hand holding the dagger matched the rhythm of those pulses. Chastity’s eyes widened in surprise.

  Sensing her distraction, the Celestial struck. She ducked away from a kick, but wasn't fast enough to completely avoid it. The impact of his foot against her midsection should have sent her broken body flying into the air. Instead, Chastity had her breath knocked out of her and was pushed back a couple of steps. The Imperial warrior tried to follow up his attack, but the graceful maneuver turned into a clumsy stumble. The dark tendrils around the wound had spread further; she saw them creep under the skin of his chest, surrounding the Imperial Sigil, and quickly slither towards his face. The Celestial screamed and his body started convulsing.

  Chastity moved closer. In an ordinary fight, she would have cut the man’s throat and been done with it. There was nothing ordinary about this. Dark light flowed from the fallen Imperial and reached towards her. Chastity felt its approach as a wave of heat and pressure rushing in her direction like a slow-motion explosion. The dark light coalesced around the dagger and flowed into its blade. Its handle shook and grew hot in her hand. She tried to let go of the weapon, but her fingers wouldn’t obey her. The symbol along the dagger’s edge was clearly moving now, twisting and turning in a hypnotic pattern, and the metal was humming with a matching rhythm. The Celestial at her feet gave a last galvanic spasm and was still.

  Pure agony rushed into the hand holding the dagger and beyond, suffusing her entire body. Chastity had been beaten and tortured dozens of times during her checkered career, with items and techniques ancient and modern. None of those experiences had prepared her for this. Every nerve, every cell in her body burned in a fire that seared without consuming. Worse still, the pain did not overwhelm her consciousness; she remained fully aware. She knew several mental disciplines that allowed her to distance herself from pain and discomfort, but she was overwhelmed too quickly to use them. Her writhing body collapsed next to the man she had killed.

  Along with pain, her mind was flooded with alien thoughts and memories. She became a young boy growing up in a family farm until government soldiers with the scarlet markers of the Imperial Guard came to take him away. A kaleidoscope of sensations followed: brutal training sessions, being forced to kill while still a child, steps in a relentless process that leached away all traces of humanity and compassion, a final ceremony in which the young man’s body was transformed, granted superhuman powers through the Imperial Sigil carved into his chest.

  The fire within her flared up one final time, erasing all thought.

  Chastity woke up some indeterminate time later. The pain was gone; the dagger was still in her hand, an inanimate object once more. Her first impulse was to fling it away, but she forced herself to put it back in its scabbard. The weapon had saved her life, after all. As she finally let go of the handle, she felt fresh pain on the palm of her hand. A mark had been burned there. It looked like a combination of the symbol on the blade and the Imperial Sigil. She examined the Celestial’s body. The man’s face was contorted in a final rictus of agony, and the Imperial Sigil was gone from his chest.

  There was no time to think about what had transpired. Imperial troops would be on their way, and perhaps more Celestials. She activated an emergency beacon and went to check on Celsius. The Legionnaire was breathing shallowly, still alive despite having his spine broken. She injected him with a heavy dose of restorative serum. The Doc Slaughter invention would seal internal injuries and speed up the healing process, even the miraculous healing process of Neolympians. Celsius would probably recover.

  Bao was next. The Mandarin had two broken legs and painful but non-life threatening burns and scrapes. She set the broken limbs and injected him with a dose of serum. Just as she was done with her ministrations, a low rumbling noise alerted her to the arrival of the stealth helicopter.

  Chastity waved at the descending vehicle. Once they were out of danger she might have the leisure time to dwell upon the gift that had saved her life.

  She was afraid it had exacted a price she would regret paying.

  Face-Off

  New York City, New York, March 13, 2013

  “So what’s the verdict, professor?” I asked Condor. We had taken a dinner break. Christine was washing up and we were having a drink while we waited for dinner. Kestrel had briefly returned during the tests but Condor had sent her off on a Chinese food run. We were sitting in his informal dining room, the one that only seats eight or ten people. He was having wine, something expensive and French. I was drinking beer straight from the bottle. Imported beer, just to be fancy.

  “I think we haven’t even begun to see what she’s capable of,” he said. “For starters, she has strong empathic abilities and some sort of multi-spectrum vision. Her physical powers are pretty impressive. Her force field and kinetic attack are at least in 2.6 or 2.7 range, possibly higher. She’s scared of her abilities and isn’t really pushing them. That isn’t unusual, especially when we’re dealing with someone who didn’t even know Neos existed. Going from her aura readings, I think she’s got the potential to be a Type Three, and sooner rather than later.”

  Some Neos started out at low power levels, but developed them over time. The more they used their abilities, the more powerful they got. Others never improved from their starting point. Everybody had an opinion about why that was the case, and nobody knew anything for sure.

  It had been a long but interesting afternoon. Christine’s control over her force fields and kinetic blasts had improved surprisingly quickly. By the end of the session she was knocking baseballs out of the air with bolts of pure energy. Her defenses had gotten stronger as well. In addition to the force shields she had a secondary protective field around her that had appeared when Condor switched to heavy attacks. Protective fields were the most common powers among heavy hitters; that’s how they could survive massive explosions or military grade heavy weapons. Below a certain threshold, damage was shed without making any impression, not even budging the target. Past that threshold, a fraction of the damage got through the shield, enough to hurt or kill, depending on how tough the Neo was. Nobody knew how either form of protection worked, except that they appeared to violate several physical laws.

  “I hope your psychic guide figures out your next step quickly, before whoever is looking for her gets their act together,” Condor added. “Anybody trying to use a potential Type Three has to have some serious muscle backing them up.”

  “That’s something I’ve been thinking about,” I said. “The snatch team consisted of a pack of Mob buffoons. Okay, they had a Neo along for the ride, but the whole thing felt like an improvised play to me. Like they didn’t expect her to pop up
in Central Park and end up in a hospital.”

  “Sure. If someone or something dragged her from her world to ours, I’d imagine they wanted her to arrive somewhere under their control. A properly staffed and outfitted secret base, for example. She must have gotten away somehow.”

  “Yep. Something went wrong. They figure out where she is, and they try to grab her quickly, using the local Mafia as subcontractors; that move goes tits up, too.”

  “Thanks to you and Cassandra,” Condor pointed out.

  “True. If Cassandra hadn’t sent me to get her, Christine might have ended up right where her abductors wanted her. Their move may have been improvised, but it almost worked. My worry is that their next move is not going to be improvised, not if they have any brains. They’ll come after her with all the muscle they can put together.”

  “Hopefully by then we’ll be out of town,” Condor said. “I’m perfectly willing to go along, mind you. I just happen to love this city, and it’s already taken too much damage lately.”

  I nodded. Neos didn't go on rampages very often, but when they did the results were spectacular. New York had a very high parahuman population, so it ended up getting wrecked more often than most places.

  “Epic battles are a lot more epic when they don’t generate massive collateral damage,” Condor went on. “Ideally somewhere with wide open spaces and nobody around.”

  “Do you guys get a lot of epic battles?” Christine asked as she came into the dining room. She was wearing the generic black and silver costume Condor provided for his students. She clearly wasn’t comfortable wearing tight spandex and knee-high boots – she had sensibly picked a pair without high heels – but I thought she looked great.

  Down, boy. You’re her bodyguard, not her boyfriend.

  “Not as many as they do in the movies or the comics, thankfully,” Condor said. “The ones we do get are bad enough.”