“What are you doing here?” John said. He belatedly covered himself with a pillow.
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry, but I’ve got some really bad news, and now I know why you were so happy, but... But, it’s not real. None of this is real!”
“What is she talking about?” Linda said.
“Damfino. What do you mean, not real?” Even as he asked the question, John felt a sinking sensation deep in his gut. Wrenching horror gripped him; it felt as if a man expecting to celebrate his wedding had stumbled into a wake for his dead fiancé.
“He’s mind-controlling you, Laughing Mask Man is; he’s a, uh, a puppet master, a mind frakker. And he’s right behind me, so you’ve got to snap out of it. Sorry. I know this was the worst possible moment, and I’m sorry, but I had to find you and tell you, because right now you’re kidnapping me, my real body, your real body is kidnapping my real body, and if you don’t wake up we’re all in deep crap.”
“You’re out of your ever-loving mind, whoever you are!” Linda snapped. She looked like Linda, sounded just like Linda, but… John blinked. Suddenly he could see right through his wife as she became ghost-like and translucent. Shock washed over him. He blinked again and the woman on the bed was a skeletal scarecrow with a bare hint of the features of the woman he loved, dying alone and afraid. He remembered, and felt his heart break all over again.
“No.”
“You little bitch!” said a man in a theater mask and clothes that had gone out of fashion when John first arrived to New York City. John hadn’t seen him enter the room, but there he was. He slapped the woman in leather and sent her flying through a wall.
John recognized him immediately. They’d only worked together a handful of times. The masked man had been one of the early mystery men. He’d been featured in the pulps and had a short-lived comic book. John had never liked or trusted him much, not least because he was a master of illusion and misdirection, abilities that always struck John as dishonorable, no matter to what ends they were used.
The Dreamer.
“Back to sleep, you imbecile,” the Dreamer commanded. John started to move –
John was back in bed with Linda. “Again? You are insatiable, you know.” Linda smiled and kissed him deeply and passionately as he held her in his arms. He was home. He was happy. She gasped as he entered her…
“OMG, do guys ever stop thinking with their dicks? Wake up!” the girl’s voice cut through his happy daze like an icy knife.
Linda was gone. Linda was dead, long dead. He felt his heart break all over again.
Linda vanished, leaving only the girl and the Dreamer. The Dreamer had overpowered the girl and was trying to strangle her.
“Healz, please…” she choked out.
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut the hell up!” the Dreamer shouted, smashing her head against the floor over and over. He seemed to have forgotten about John.
The punch should have been immediately fatal. John did not restrain himself. He gathered all the fury and sorrow that were flooding back into his soul and released it into one blow. The Dreamer’s head snapped back and he was knocked off the girl. That was all.
No, not all. The blow had knocked away his mask. The Dreamer’s identity had remained a secret throughout the decades. He had disappeared in the Seventies, dead or retired, nobody knew. Until now.
“Doctor Cohen,” John snarled.
“The name’s Muller. Dietrich Muller,” the Dreamer spat back. “The Juden doctor was just another mask. The real Cohen has been dead for a while. Pity, isn‘t it?”
“I am going to kill you now,” John said in strangely calm voice.
“I don’t think you can,” the girl said, getting up. Her wounds were gone, and she looked grimly determined. “We’re in Dreamland and nothing lasts very long in here, even death.”
“I’m putting you back to sleep, boy,” the Dreamer said, a savage grin in his face. “And then that little bitch and I are going to spend some quality time together. There is some incipient trauma in her mind that is going to be a pleasure to explore.”
“We can’t kill him,” the girl said. “But if we beat the crap out of him enough, we’ll kick him out of your head.”
The Dreamer’s grin wavered. He looked at John and concentrated, but nothing happened. “Was ist das?”
“That’s me, stopping your mind-frakking crap,” the girl replied. “Time for some tank and spank.” She charged the Dreamer.
John reached him first. Being able to hammer someone with all his strength filled John with savage elation. For a while he was able to wash away his grief in blood.
The Dreamer tried to fight back, but it wasn’t much of a fight. The girl kept stabbing him in the back, and if he tried to turn towards her John smashed him down. It wasn’t much of a fight, and it didn’t last long. The Dreamer seemed to deflate and he faded away.
“Pwned you! Can’t wait to do it for real next time,” the girl said.
“Ditto,” John agreed. “We were never properly introduced, by the way. I’m John.” He offered her his hand. Now that he had time to actually look at her, he realized her eyes and hair color were almost identical to Linda’s. The realization brought another pang of sorrow, but it was somewhat muted now.
The girl shook John’s hand tentatively. “Christine. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, Christine. Ah, do you know how we get out of here?”
She furrowed her brow in concentration for a few seconds. “I think… Like this.” She snapped her fingers.
John found himself floating in mid-air, holding Christine with one arm. She was dressed in regular clothes, looking much the worse for wear. He shifted his grip on her so they were facing each other. Their eyes met.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she replied, smiling at him; she was flushing. John smiled back. She was beautiful.
“Let her go,” someone said in an inhuman voice that echoed with strange whispers.
John turned towards the sound. The Lurker stood in the air facing him, floating and surrounded by an aura of dark energy.
“Another creepy guy in a mask?” Christine said. “How many of them are there?”
“Wait. I know him,” John said, but even as he tried to reassure her, he wondered. He’d known the Dreamer, too. And who had sent John right into the Dreamer’s trap? Kenneth Slaughter. His best friend. He couldn’t trust anybody.
“Let her go, Invincible Man, or I will show you things,” the Lurker said, and tittered. “Things you won’t like.”
“What do you want with me?” Christine shouted at the Lurker.
In lieu of an answer, the mystery man removed his gas mask.
Christine’s face froze.
“Dad?”
Chapter Eighteen
Hunters and Hunted
New York City, New York, March 14, 2013
Cassandra was dying.
For decades, paranoids everywhere had feared the day when Neolympians with the power to control and manipulate the minds of others would take over the world. Some of them claimed that day had already happened, and people did not realize it. The truth was that mind to mind communication of any kind was a two-way street. To control or even affect another mind, you had to become intimately linked to it. The targets’ memories and emotions touched the controller. Their pain became the controller’s pain. Telepathy begat empathy. The effect was magnified by the number of minds affected. The psychic trauma caused by trying to affect too many people was prohibitive. No Neolympian could control more than a few minds at once, and even that would bear a terrible price.
Below Cassandra, eleven men and one woman died time after time, as she forced their neural pathways to experience alternate realities. She experienced each death in turn. Thought was becoming reality, and she was bleeding from multiple spontaneous wounds, far beyond what her limited healing abilities could handle. Soon they would overwhelm her and she would fall.
It was worth it. She had held the hunte
rs at bay for crucial hours, time for Marco and his friends to do what was necessary.
* * *
Archangel crawled up the stairs. They kept disappearing, replaced with scenes from his past. He knew they were there, however, and he forced his body to move even as he died yet again.
The amulet he wore under his neck had finally started working, muting the effect of the visions. Each new death felt less real than the last. Horror had been supplanted with rage. Only one thing mattered: to find his tormentor and destroy her. Archangel had sensed her presence through the kaleidoscope of death. A woman, a little Gypsy witch, was responsible for this. He would make her pay. He would make her scream.
Another step. Another death, this one wholly impersonal: a young woman with hard eyes and a bruised face going to a doctor to take care of her little problem. It took him a while before recognizing the young woman as his mother. Archangel spat blood and ignored the psychic feedback tearing his body apart. He would heal or he would die, but he would keep climbing for as long as he lived. He grinned, revealing red-stained teeth.
Almost there.
* * *
The dance of possibilities was coming to an end. Two alternatives remained. The man called Archangel would reach her and kill her, or she would die of her wounds before he did.
It had been a good life, a worthy life. She had enjoyed some of it immensely, and left the world a better place than she had found. What more could be asked of anybody?
There was one last thing she wanted to do. She gathered her nearly depleted reserves even as the Russian staggered towards her, and sent forth the last of her will and power. A last message for Marco.
Cassandra said her goodbyes, and let go.
* * *
“No!”
The roar of denial was useless, futile. He had been mere steps from her, savoring what he would do to her. He could almost taste it. The torn burning flesh, the screaming and pleas for mercy. They all begged in the end, if they had enough breath left. He had begged and pleaded a hundred times during his climb up the stairs, and now it was her turn. He wanted, no, he needed to hear her scream.
He held the slight, lifeless body in an almost tender grasp. The Gypsy bitch had sighed and died seconds before he reached her. She had died peacefully like an old babushka at the end of a long life. She was covered in wounds, should have perished in agony, but her face told a different tale. She had been smiling at the end. Had felt no pain at all. Had not revealed any information. Had fucked with him like no one ever had.
He tore apart her corpse with his bare hands, not even bothering to call forth his divine fire. Useless. The bleeding carcass could not feel anything. He could never make her pay.
“Did you love anyone, bitch?” he whispered to the severed head in his hands. “The faceless man, did you care for him? He will pay for what you did, him and everyone you ever loved. You owe me a thousand deaths. I will collect every single one.”
Useless. She could not hear him. He carelessly tossed the head aside and went back downstairs. He would do all the things he had promised her corpse, for he was a man of his word, but they would provide him little satisfaction.
Nichevo.
He found Medved kneeling over Lady Shi. The Bear’s breath came out in shuddering spasms. Tears were still running down his face. Lady Shi was lying so perfectly still that Archangel thought she was dead, but just as he reached the landing, she opened her eyes.
Lady Shi giggled like a schoolgirl. Giggled and did not stop. The giggles became savage laughter, not sane in any respect. Medved held her tightly and continued to sob while she laughed.
They would recover, or not; at the moment, he could care less. Archangel walked past them and gave them their privacy. He checked the time. They had been trapped with the witch for hours. Where were his men? Where were those useless pieces of shit?
Nine of them were scattered around the building’s lobby. Eight of them were dead. Six of those bore a myriad phantom wounds. The other two had killed themselves, one by the simple expedient of bashing his head against the wall until his skull had cracked open, the other by disemboweling himself with his bare hands, something Archangel had not thought was humanly possible. The ninth one was kneeling down, breathing shallowly, his eyes glazed over. Useless. Archangel casually broke his neck and put him out of his misery.
He found the last three survivors standing by the cars outside with their thumbs almost literally up their asses. It was only by the Devil’s luck that the police had not shown up to find out why exactly three expensive cars were parked outside an abandoned building in this neighborhood. His first impulse was to take out some of his frustration on the cowardly assholes who had decided to wait and see, but their losses had been heavy enough as it was. Anger was counterproductive. He had already lost his temper over the Gypsy bitch, and that had been one time too many. Instead of going into a murderous rage he walked up to them as if nothing had happened.
Nothing, after all, had happened. He’d seen phantoms that had never been, and endured some psychic feedback. He’d lived through worse. He’d inflicted worse. If he told himself those words enough times, one day he might come to believe them.
“Report,” he said curtly.
“Nobody left the building until you did,” replied one of them, trying desperately to be helpful. He failed miserably, of course, but he did not know his life had already been spared. Let him keep trying.
“Anything else?”
“Nothing here. Vladimir in Chicago wanted to speak with you. I said you weren’t available.”
Archangel shrugged. That had been true enough. He checked his wrist-comm – his very secure, signal-encrypted wrist-comm – and saw he had two voice mails from the ex-KGB man, his point man in the operation to capture or kill the Lurker. They were juggling too many balls at once. The operation in New York to recover the lost subject, and the Chicago mission; those were the two he was overseeing directly. He knew of at least two more operations in different parts of the world, and suspected of at least one or two more. Not all of them had to succeed for the Project to come to fruition, but there were still too many things left to chance. The technical expression was multiple failure points. Not all of the operations were essential, but some were, and if any one of those failed, the whole Project would collapse.
Nichevo. Great rewards required great risks.
Grisha, Vladimir’s second in command, answered the call. He had news. All of it was bad.
While the Gypsy witch kept Archangel and his team busy, Vladimir’s main team had found Face-Off and the bloody girl! They had stumbled upon them purely by accident, while following one of the Lurker’s henchmen. The idiots hadn’t even known about the girl, and in any case she had managed to escape. Vladimir’s team had captured Face-Off, but even that small triumph had turned into shit very quickly, however.
Archangel controlled his breathing while Grisha listed all the ways things had gone to hell. Vladimir and everybody on his team except Grisha – he had been lucky enough to be running errands when the Lurker struck – dead. The girl, apparently captured by Ultimate – how the fuck had that happened? – and whisked off somewhere unknown. The Lurker, Face-Off and two other Neos gone, also to parts unknown. Archangel’s search efforts in New York had been rendered moot, unless their quarry decided to return to the city, which wasn’t bloody likely. Grisha was nearly hysterical: Archangel had to calm him down, something he was not used to doing, and something he did not do well. It took some doing, but he managed to steady Grisha enough to start acting professionally, at least.
In his business, failure often meant death. Both missions had failed rather spectacularly. Archangel considered his options. He could run. He could contact his handler and offer another possible course of action. Or he could try to take down his bosses before they put him down. None of his choices were optimal, and none offered a great chance of success. It was a challenging situation.
Medved and Lady Shi emerged from the bu
ilding. They looked calm and composed, almost back to the way they had been before facing the witch. There were subtle differences, however. There was more distance between them than before. Archangel wondered if some of their visions involved one of them meeting a bad end at the hands of the other. That wouldn’t surprise him one bit.
“What now?” asked the Bear.
“We leave here. I will contact our superiors and ask for new instructions,” Archangel replied as a decision crystallized in his mind. Running would be futile. So would be trying to strike back. Much as the idea bothered him, he would place himself at the mercy of his superiors. He was a valuable asset. They would seek to use him.
He had made a promise to the dead witch, and he intended to keep it.
Face-Off
Chicago, Illinois, March 14, 2013
“She’s stopped somewhere over New York State,” Condor reported. “Damn me, but Ultimate is fast.” He sounded envious.
“Fast isn’t always good,” Kestrel purred.
“The Lurker must have caught up with them,” I said before the happy couple could trade more pleasantries. “I wonder how that’s going.” I found it hard to believe that even the creepy, seemingly supernatural Lurker could take out the man J.R. Oppenheimer had dubbed 'Shiva Incarnate, Destroyer of Worlds.' “Can we go after them?”
“Even if I go on afterburner the whole way, which I don’t have the fuel to do, it wouldn’t matter,” Condor said. “We wouldn’t get there in less than forty-five minutes.”
“Shit.”
“Look, the Lurker may not be able to take down Ultimate,” Condor said, then visibly reconsidered. “That is, I don’t think he can. But he’s tricky. He could easily grab Christine and disappear. Ultimate is a tough guy and no dummy, but he’s no Doc Slaughter. The Lurker can fool him.”
New Olympus Saga (Book 1): Armageddon Girl Page 31