New Olympus Saga (Book 1): Armageddon Girl

by C. J. Carella

  Twinkling points of light over the horizon grew closer and resolved into man-sized figures flying straight at Kuo and his pursuers.

  The enemy had plans of his own.

  * * *

  Isabel Quispe, code name Chasca, was angry.

  Anger was a natural emotion for a woman of color in Peru, where the social divide between whites and the cholos – the Quechua Indians that made up much of the country’s lower classes – ran deep. Things had changed a great deal over her lifetime, but she still seethed when remembering the genial contempt she had endured as a cholita, a little Indian girl good for nothing more than cleaning the houses of her betters, and that under supervision, because everyone knew that cholos would steal anything not nailed down if they were not watched closely.

  She would have ended her days as just another anonymous brown face if not for the random chance that turned her into a demigod. The more superstitious among her people believed she truly was the reincarnation of the goddess Chasca, Lady of Dawn and Twilight, protector of virgin girls. In reality, her code name was a bitter joke. Her own virginity had been gone before her Neo powers manifested themselves, taken by a family friend who had caught her alone one day. She had never told anybody about the rape, nursing her rage and hatred in private. Even the possibility of vengeance had been taken from her: the family friend had died in a drunken car crash months before her ascension. Those cholos, you can’t trust them with liquor, either.

  Anger had driven her even as she became the darling of the press, the heroine who had winkled out gangs of bandits in the Andes, death cults in the Amazon, and helped defeat international criminal Hiram Hades, although it had been the yanqui demigod Ultimate who had finished off the villain. Ultimate had sponsored her entry into the Legion, but whatever gratitude she had felt had been tainted with frustration and rage. Look at the nice cholita. Let’s make her an honorary member of the Legion of White Aristocrats. She had used her position to fight for the rights of the poor and oppressed, and to stamp out the racist and paternalistic tendencies within the Legion itself, but she had never been satisfied, never felt content or happy. Despite all her achievements, Isabel often wondered if her rise to the ranks of the Legion Council had been another pat on the head rather than a reward she truly deserved. Those doubts only made her angrier.

  The pursuit of the rich Chinaman was stoking her anger in a way the attack on the Legion had not. The Legion should inspire hatred: privileged genetic aristocrats looking down their noses at the rest of humanity deserved whatever they got. The fact that she was one of them did not affect her judgment. But to find out the attack had been engineered by yet another elite – a billionaire who had never done a day’s honest work in his life and had enriched himself by exploiting millions of oppressed workers – was infuriating. The attack had not been a blow for freedom, just part of a power struggle between two oligarchies. She would make that filthy capitalist pay for his crimes and for confirming her worst suspicions about the state of the world.

  Chasca pushed her powers and unleashed a much stronger blast of concentrated photons. Kuo thought he could take it; let’s see how the puerco liked this! She struck dead on, and Kuo’s defenses nearly broke under the onslaught. Soon he would fall.

  She was too intent on finishing off the capitalist to notice new enemies had arrived.

  The newcomers were wearing some sort of powered armor with rocket packs for propulsion. They opened fire on her just as Artemis shouted a warning through their communication system. Belatedly, Chasca went into evasive maneuvers. The attackers were using Imperial fire lances, artifacts that lobbed balls of plasma at bullet speeds. She dodged all but one of them; the single hit did not pierce her protective aura. Those attacks had been a decoy, however. A twisting stream of purple-hued energy reached out to her, changing its trajectory when she tried to evade it and reaching for her like a living thing. The energy tendril broke through her defenses as if they didn’t exist. Excruciating agony paralyzed her. No longer held aloft by her will, her powers stripped away, she began to fall.

  Isabel Quispe was no coward. She glared hatred at the armored figures as they leveled their weapons at her.

  Chasca died snarling her defiance.

  * * *

  This was shaping up to be a really bad day.

  The awkward silence on the flight to Hong Kong seemed to confirm Larry Graham’s worst fears. Olivia knew. He’d been too much of a pansy to try to talk to her about it, however. As it turned out he would rather not know for sure: doubt was better than certainty when certainty meant the love of your life thought – no, knew – that you were a cheating, lying son of a bitch.

  To make things worse, Chastity Baal was the Legion’s point woman in the operation to discover how somebody had managed to smuggle out a flying carrier from the planet’s most notorious rogue nation. Did Olivia know about his fling with Chastity? Larry couldn’t tell: his wife had been downright grim the entire night, which could mean nothing or everything.

  The operation to get information from Kuo Wei-Fang had turned into a fiasco. Larry had tried to subdue the financier and had gotten knocked into next week for his troubles. Luckily a telekinetic operative of the Chinese Secret Service had caught him before he could land on someone or something important. By the time he had woken up, the fight with Kuo had gone aerial. Larry had hurried up to join the fray.

  Running on air was a pain. His ability to go out of phase had to be fine-tuned to let him grip air molecules and use them as a surface to run on. He had no idea how he did it, and neither did anyone else, although there plenty of theories that made for entertaining bull sessions. When he ran while intangible on the ground, he only needed to hold on to solid molecules on the ground or other solid surfaces. It took a great deal more concentration to do so in the air, and the effort translated into overall lower speeds and bursts of agony when the occasional errant nitrogen or oxygen molecule passed through his semi-tangible body, inflicting painful albeit short-lived injuries. He’d learned to grin and bear it, but it was no fun.

  He had the feeling that no fun was just what the foreseeable future had in store for him.

  Larry caught up with the action somewhere over Deep Water Bay. He arrived just in time to see Chasca torn apart by plasma fire from the armored fliers that had joined the fight. Olivia exploded one of the fliers with a fire spear just before being hit by a strange energy attack, a fluid, tentacle-like stream of purple-black light that he’d never seen before. Olivia’s flame aura disappeared and she fell limply through the air. She would end up like Chasca if he didn’t move quickly.

  Only two of the armored attackers wielded the unusual energy weapons; he went after them first. Larry accelerated towards the closest one, ignoring the pain, and became solid long enough to ram into him at supersonic speeds. Larry felt the impact distantly; he knew he’d shattered the suit of armor and the human being inside, but all he cared about was going back out of phase to correct his course and hit the next target.

  If the power armor pilots had been Neos, they would have had the reflexes to track and hit him before he could turn back towards them. They weren’t and they could not react in time to deal with him, although the bastard with the strange beam weapon came close. The energy stream twisted around as if it was alive and almost hit him. Close but no cigar. Better luck next time, buddy, Larry thought coldly before he smashed into the shooter and turned him into a mix of metal confetti and meat puree.

  The surviving three fliers engaged him with their fire lances. A direct hit burned him painfully – his intangible state did not protect him against some forms of energy attack – but inflicted no permanent damage. He wiped them out in a few seconds. It turned out to be a few seconds too long: by the time he was done, Kuo was nowhere to be found. The son of a bitch had gotten away. The other Legionnaires just arriving to the area would have to look for him; Larry needed to look after his wife.

  Olivia’s emergency beacon still worked. He found her bobbing unco
nscious in the water. Alive. He could breathe again. The thought of losing her was more than he could bear.

  Why are you driving her away, then? He had no answers.

  The Invincible Man

  Chicago, Illinois, March 14, 2013

  John Clarke wanted to sit down, cradle his head in his hands, and close his eyes for a few moments.

  He couldn’t do that, of course. Not in front of others, especially not in front of other Neolympians. The Invincible Man couldn’t show weakness. He stood up straight, towering over most of the gathering, and watched the Lurker and his daughter’s rather awkward reunion while trying to make sense of it all.

  The encounter with the Lurker had been a shock. John had not seen the vigilante in decades; the two of them had run in very different circles after the war. The man in the gas mask had never been a pleasant fellow on his best day, and he clearly had not improved with age. After his own brush with madness, John found the obvious instability of the Lurker profoundly disturbing, especially when combined with the powers the mystery man had demonstrated. He was certainly not the kind of ally John would have chosen.

  He considered the other members of the gathering. Condor was a talented crime fighter and he’d worked with the Legion on several occasions, even though he was technically an ‘illegal.’ Face-Off and Kestrel had been linked to a number of murders and disappearances around New York City, although not enough evidence to press charges had ever been found. The alleged victims had all been hardened criminals, and the authorities hadn't pursued those cases very vigorously. Neos who wantonly murdered innocents were a priority for law-enforcement; relatively discreet vigilantes like those three were relatively safe from prosecution.

  From Face-Off’s body language, he'd expected John to start reading him his rights. Or perhaps he was still bothered by the sight of Christine in John’s arms. The crime fighter might not have a face, but his body language clearly showed he felt protective – and possessive – towards the girl.

  The girl… She’d made quite an impression on John. But there was no time for that at the moment.

  The Lurker hadn’t said anything after Christine’s initial greeting. He seemed to be deep in thought. Christine turned to Face-Off. “Okay, can you tell me what happened? Dad’s gone to his happy place, apparently.”

  “We got grabbed by the Russkies. The Lurker showed up and rescued us.”

  “I guess we’re doing the Cliff Notes version,” Christine grumbled. “Me, I learned how to fly, despite not having been given any flying lessons, thank you so very much for that, got lost in Chicago, got mugged, sort of, and then the local superheroes tried to arrest me.”

  “Yeah, I saw you on the news. You were kicking ass and taking names,” Face-Off said and Christine smiled. “You too,” he added, nodding towards John.

  “Oh, yeah,” Christine said, looking uncomfortable. “When that masked guy…”

  “The Dreamer,” John said.

  “The Dreaming Dude, when he took over your mind, he used you to smack down the other guys.”

  Condor pushed a button and a replay from an earlier news report came on one of the screens. “We can now confirm that Ultimate the Invincible Man has attacked the Chicago Sentinels. This is exclusive footage from an eyewitness’ Goggle-Cam.” The viewpoint switched to a wavering view of a street. A silver and red streak moved past. It was replayed in slow motion: John had never seen that manic leer disfiguring his face before, but the face itself was perfectly familiar and recognizable.

  Whoever was behind this had played his cards all too well. John was already under suspicion after his erratic behavior in the past several months. Now he had publicly attacked a renowned hero group. He could go back to Legion HQ and try to explain himself, but who could he trust? None of this could have happened without the connivance of someone inside the Legion. Kenneth Slaughter had recommended Doctor Cohen. Had he been duped? Could he be under a similar form of mind control? Or was he a conspirator? Going to the Legion was too much of a risk.

  John had felt alone before, but he belatedly realized how petulant and childish he had been. This was what being alone was like. Before this madness had begun he had been one of the leaders of an international organization, a man with dozens of friends and hundreds of associates, all of whom would risk their lives for him, as he would for them. And he’d dared to feel alone? Alone was not daring to contact any of his friends out of fear they would be targeted by the traitors in the Legion – or that they would be traitors themselves. He could trust no one.

  John couldn’t even trust himself. He forced himself to speak. “I think I’ve been under some form of mental attack for some time now,” he told the gathering of vigilantes. “Christine helped me break free, but I don’t know if that’s a permanent situation.”

  “You’re still a puppet, man of metal,” the Lurker said, and chuckled. “They sank their hooks into you, sank them deep.”

  “Dad!” Christine said. “Could you cut down on the creepy and be a little more helpful? Please?”

  The mystery man stood silent for a moment before speaking again. “It’s hard holding on to things. You start slipping away, and then all you can do is laugh.”

  “I said helpful, Dad.”

  “Help. Yes, help’s on the way.” The Lurker walked towards John. “I can help. Who sees the darkness in all men’s souls?”

  “The Lurker does!” Kestrel shouted. Condor covered her mouth with both hands, but the Lurker did not seem to hear. All his attention was on John.

  “One does not bring down a god in a day,” the cloaked man muttered. “Baby steps, little traps, little tricks. Little hooks for a big fish.” He reached up towards John’s face. John let him. The Lurker’s gloved fingers touched the sides of his head.

  There was a brief flash of pain. John blinked. The Lurker was holding John’s cochlear implants, the communicators everyone in the Legion was issued. The old vigilante had ripped out his implants, somehow bypassing John’s near-impregnable protective field without any apparent effort. The implications were disturbing.

  “Do you see?” The Lurker turned to Christine and was showed her the bloodied implants.

  She squinted for a second. “Yeah, I can see some swirling energy thingy around them. It’s like those energy streams the Russians used on us.”

  “Yes!” The Lurker’s tone was triumphant. “You can see the truth. That’s why they want you. That’s why you’re here.” He turned back towards John. “You are not free and clear, Invincible Man, but this will help. These are the hooks they put into you. They could whisper things into your ear. Make you remember things. Make you relive them. Make you dream. Listen to you.” The Lurker made a fist and crushed the transmitters. “They can find you through them. They know where we are.”

  “We’d better get the hell out of here, then,” Condor said.

  “Yes,” the Lurker agreed. He concentrated, and his cloak stretched and flowed out, enveloping them in darkness yet again. When they emerged from it, they were still in the Condor Jet, but the aircraft was listing slightly to the left. The ship was no longer in a warehouse in Chicago. “This is my island,” the Lurker said. “Come on in, the water’s fine. We can talk and plot.”

  Talk and plot indeed. John followed his newfound allies out of the craft.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Freedom Legion

  Atlantic Headquarters, March 14, 2013

  Kenneth Slaughter walked into the Legion’s main communication room, where Daedalus Smith, Hyperia and Meteor were already gathered. Meteor had flown to the Atlantic Headquarters to serve as a replacement for Swift and Artemis. If someone tried to attack Freedom Island again, they might need his help. Under the current circumstances, they might need more help than was available.

  A dozen communication technicians sat behind large screens covering one third of the oval room. Kenneth nodded to one of them, and the comm call Kenneth had received minutes ago was transferred to the largest central screen, rev
ealing the battered face of Doctor Cohen.

  “You’re on, Doctor,” Kenneth said. “Please repeat what you just told me.”

  “It’s Ultimate,” Cohen said anxiously. “I’m afraid he has suffered a psychotic break of some sort. He didn’t exactly attack me – I wouldn’t be alive otherwise – but he rushed past me as if he didn’t see me, and I was slammed me into a wall and knocked unconscious for some time. He was talking about a plot against him from within the Legion’s ranks. He specifically blamed you, Doctor Slaughter, but he appeared to blame most of the Legion as well.”

  “To that we can add the reports that Ultimate attacked the Chicago Sentinels for unknown reasons,” Hyperia said, her dark blue eyes bright with concern. She absently played with her jet black hair as she continued her report. “They were subduing a rogue Neolympian when he struck them down and carried her away, also for unknown reasons. The Sentinels suffered minor injuries, except for Devolution Man, who had to be hospitalized.”

  “I am extremely worried,” Doctor Cohen continued. “If he has been consumed by paranoid delusions, it may be nearly impossible to reason with him.”

  “Thank you for your help, Doctor Cohen,” Kenneth said. “We will be in touch.” The therapist’s face was replaced on the screen by a replay of Ultimate’s attack on the Sentinels. Ultimate’s expression in the news footage was wholly alien to the man Kenneth knew. That raised his suspicions. Could John change so much, so quickly? Or was there another factor in play?

  “I’m going to go out on a limb and say this isn’t good at all,” Daedalus said with his usual flippancy. Kenneth knew that his counterpart used humor as a tension reliever, but it still never failed to irritate him.