Freak City

by Saje Williams

  Why anyone would want to bring an imp into the physical world again no one knew, but they left the option open just in case.

  "So you discovered how to create the imp by watching a ritual involving the invocation of elemental spirits?” Athena asked. She'd had some contact with the local pagans herself, but she hadn't realized they'd held the secrets to doing anything like that. Chaz, who'd been involved with them when they'd met, hadn't ever said a word of it, either.

  Jaz nodded. “It was weird, but I saw those things they called on—but I don't think any of the ritualists did."

  "Huh. The weird thing,” she mused, “is that the night you say you say all this isn't one of their holidays. I can't figure out what they were doing out there in the first place."

  "They weren't pagans,” Chaz said, staggering up to the steps and dropping between them. “Ceremonialists of some sort, obviously. “I didn't even know there was any ceremonial groups around."

  "What I don't understand is why they'd be doing all that stuff if it didn't do any good. They can't see mana—how could they cast spells?"

  "You know how all this works, don't you? What mana actually is?” The engineer propped his legs up and stretched them across the stair, leaning back against the staircase wall.

  She shrugged. “I'm taking Magic 101. I know the theory."

  "Then you should understand that people didn't need to actually be able to touch mana to do magic. It was just far more subtle. When the energy potential builds high enough, things happen regardless. It could be from the unconscious desires of the human race as a whole, a segment of the population, or a major potentiality shift such as a presidential election or a war between two opposing powers that are more or less equal.

  "These things shape the universe to come. Sometimes, if it's built up enough energy that isn't siphoned off, a split occurs and a new universe is born. Regardless, the energy has to go somewhere. Sometimes strong belief can also shape mana."

  Jaz eyed him skeptically. “So you're saying that they created these spirits?"

  "In a very real way, yes they did. They took the ancient theories and gave them power by continually referring to them as if they had a real existence outside their beliefs. Whether they could see it or not, mana responded. Mana is untapped potential, probability that hasn't been given form. They gave it form."

  "Okay,” she muttered, “this is just weird. So what about Gods?"

  He laughed aloud at this, aiming a sly glance at Athena. “Some of the immortals exhibited greater power than they know now. Ask Stormchild—he says he used to be able to fly, and cast lightning at will. He can't anymore, can he?"

  "Occasionally,” Athena commented with a shrug. “During my battle with Sif, I understand he manifested a portion of that power while fighting outside."

  "Mana responded to the beliefs of those who worshipped them as Gods. It gave them powers they have subsequently lost. Out of all of them, only Deryk wasn't affected by the loss of that belief—he built his own belief in his own invulnerability. As an immortal, he's already sturdy, but he's one hell of a lot more than that."

  "So, what you're saying is that the immortals could regain the powers they lost if they believe strongly enough?"

  "Maybe. It's certainly possible. Or if they could induce enough of the population to believe in it with them."

  "To become Gods again?” Athena asked, frowning. “I can't speak for anyone else, but that's the last thing I want. The human race needs to get past all that shit. They have to learn to believe in themselves, not powers greater than themselves."

  Chaz nodded. “And Loki helped with that by letting the metaviruses loose on the world. Sure it's causing conflict now, but eventually all humans will be something greater than the average human of today. It's inevitable."

  "If the Centians allow them to survive long enough,” Athena sighed.

  "That's what we're here for,” Chaz said with a grin. “Right, kiddo?"

  "Don't call me kiddo,” Jaz told him. “I really don't like pet names."

  "Take her, for example,” he said to Athena. “She's a mage, and a parahuman. She might live a couple hundred years—more, if she figures out how to harness magic to extend her life span. She might well discover another path to immortality. There's no telling where that might take her."

  "That's quite enough,” Athena cut in, eyes narrowing. “I think she's got enough of a swelled head without you giving her ideas like that."

  "You sure she doesn't deserve a swelled head?” he asked, his grin growing so wide he looked a little impish himself. “Look what she's accomplished."

  "And look what we had to do to clean up after her,” the Amazon retorted. “Oh, I'll give her this much—if she doesn't get herself killed doing something foolish, she could grow to be a power to reckon with. But she's got a lot to learn. And not a hell of a lot of time to learn it in.

  "The Centians are coming. Their servants are here now. This war is just starting. We can't forget that they have most of the advantages. The only real advantage we have is magic—it's the one thing they're not likely to touch. But it's a double-edged sword. We can't forget that. If we do—we're reaming the weasel.

  "Who's for breakfast?” she called out suddenly. “It's on me!"

  The crowd seemed to materialize at the bottom of the stairs. “Did someone say breakfast?” asked one of the mages, an older gentleman with a shock of white hair and a goatee.

  "You bet. I'm hungry, and I'm sure you folks are, too. You did some good work. Let's go treat ourselves."

  "You don't have to ask me twice,” Chaz said, pushing himself to his feet. “I'm starved."

  Twenty

  Hades leaned back in his chair, allowing a slim smile of triumph to touch his thin lips. In less than an hour he would own half of GreyCorp, his payment for accomplishing the impossible. Unlike his old enemy, Deryk Shea, Hades had no talent for acquiring wealth. And it was wealth, with all the power, influence, and choice it brought, that remained his greatest desire.

  How many times in their old life had he been reduced to begging to receive the funding his projects so richly deserved? How many times had he watched as research grants he deserved been given to that charming rogue Loki?

  Back in those days they'd been friendly rivals, both pursuing the same dream of wresting evolutionary forces out of the hands of nature and putting them where they belonged.

  Loki's approach had been purely biological, gengineered nanoviruses that could be injected into a host, preprogrammed to seek out and repair damage on a cellular level.

  The possibilities were limitless.

  Hades had been concerned with the possibility of mutation. His plan involved making the nanoviruses unable to reproduce without outside assistance. He proposed developing a wetware module that could monitor the virus—injecting a required enzyme for reproduction only into undamaged viral cells.

  He'd made the mistake of likening it to a salmon spawning ground. That hadn't been received particularly well by the government scientists, much less the general public.

  The price tag for developing this extra piece of hardware rang up at an additional two billion monetary units.

  In the end the grant ended up going to Loki, the general consensus being that the mutation rate would be low enough that a safety net wouldn't be necessary.

  To this day Hades maintained that they would have seen the outcome of this irresponsible decision soon enough had government agents not stumbled upon evidence of the impending Centian invasion before they'd moved to human trials.

  He considered Loki a rotten scientist. At least as far as following good methodology. A genius, certainly, but prone to leaps of intuition that defied logic.

  In a word, dangerous.

  And far, far luckier than any being had a right to be.

  He'd stumbled across the genetic damage that prevented these humans from touching magic, most certainly by accident, and, within a matter of months, managed to come up with a way to rever
se it. It should have been impossible ... at least without years of research. Especially starting out with the stunning misapprehension that the damage was the result of the Bubonic Plague and that plague alone.

  Hades was willing to bet there were other bugs at fault, though he didn't know this for a fact. The Centians simply weren't known for doing things in half measures. Besides, if memory served, the Black Plague had been mostly contained in Europe. Yet most of the world—at least all of it that Hades had heard of—was similarly stripped of magic.

  In the New World it had been smallpox, above all the others, that had been the most likely culprit. He chuckled at the thought. That explained why the Great Ghost Dance never had a chance of working.

  A knock at the door roused him from his musings. He lifted his gaze to the door. “Enter."

  The door swung open and the scarlet-hued face peeked inside. “The werewolf is awake, sir."

  "Good. Come in, Donner."

  The devilish-looking man, his horns buffed to a gleaming white, his black goatee waxed to a sharp point, hunched in and stood just inside the doorway, hands stuffed in the pockets of his gray smoking jacket. “You wanted something, sir?"

  "Who's watching the lycanthrope?"

  "Chase."

  Hades nodded thoughtfully. “Go get him and bring him to the lab. I'll meet you there."

  The satanic-looking former judge nodded and ducked back through the door. Hades snorted at his retreating form and shook his head in disgust. All he wanted was his old self back. Personally he found the whole thing highly amusing. Donner had been in Thomas Grey's pocket for years. Corrupt as he was, the image of a devil fit him perfectly. Hades had promised him that he'd return him to his old appearance.

  Unfortunately for him, that was a lie. Hades knew of no way to reverse the change. But he'd string the stupid bastard along for as long as he could.

  * * * *

  Ben woke, feeling as though he were choking, and lifted his hands to his throat. His fingertips encountered something hard and he pawed at the obstruction as he struggled up from unconsciousness.

  "I wouldn't do that if I were you,” a voice cut through the darkness. He opened his eyes, the sudden infusion of light exploding into his skull like a hammer blow. “Oh, God.” The room swam in and out of focus.

  "Where am I?” He turned his head, realized he was lying on a bed, and blinked in confusion at the figure sitting in a chair only a few feet away.

  "I'd like to say you were safe,” the voice—slightly familiar, he noted—replied tersely. “But I'm afraid that would be a lie. Don't fumble with the collar around your neck. I'm not sure how sensitive it is and I'd hate to see you accidentally get your head blown off."

  He sat up. His head threatened to explode all on its own. “Son of a bitch!” He turned to look at the person sitting to his left and grimaced. “Gavin Chase."

  "In the flesh,” the other replied with a tight smile. “How're you feeling?"

  "Like I was run over by a tank,” he replied. “What happened?"

  "Dusk used a lightning dagger on you,” he said with a shrug. “Apparently you're a little more susceptible to electricity than we would've guessed."

  "Dusk? That would be that huge woman?"

  "With the bat wings? Yes, that's Dusk."

  "She zapped me?"

  Chase let out a barking laugh. “Yeah, she zapped you good. Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

  "I need to take a leak,” Ben said. “Can I get up or will this thing pop my head off like a dandelion?"

  "Moving around should be safe enough. They don't want you to take it off, but they don't want you dead. Not yet, anyway."

  He didn't like the sound of that. “What's the point of this thing, anyway?” Ben growled, pointing at his neck. “A bomb? What the hell are you people up to?"

  "It's supposed to be leverage,” Chase replied. “To ensure Ms. Keening's cooperation."

  Ben gave a snort. “You're kidding, right? Boy, have you guys hitched your horse to the wrong cart. She doesn't give a damn about me."

  Chase crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair, an amused looking flashing briefly across his sharp, vaguely Asiatic face. “Well, we have it on good authority you've gone to bat for her a number of times."

  "And how many times—exactly—has she gone to bat for me?” he snorted. “I can count them on no hands."

  Chase nodded thoughtfully. “It's a good argument. Unfortunately I don't think the powers-that-be are going to buy it. They want something from her. And they'll do what they have to in order to get it."

  Ben let out a ragged sigh and sat up. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “So where's the bathroom?"

  "Through that door there,” he said, pointing at a thin portal on the wall opposite the bed, next to a large bookshelf filled with a panoply of medical and anatomy textbooks.

  A couple minutes later Ben emerged, feeling greatly relieved. “I gotta ask—why are you being so friendly?"

  "I'm not your enemy,” Chase responded with a shrug, much to Ben's surprise.

  "Huh. You're sitting here in a ... house—I assume this is a house rather than a hospital or private clinic, despite the medical books on the shelf over there—where I'm being held hostage to insure another hostage's good behavior and you tell me you're not my enemy? I've got a bomb wrapped around my neck, for God's sake. That's pretty fucking hostile."

  Chase sat forward and shrugged again. “Doesn't mean that I, personally, am your enemy."

  "Of course not. How long have you been keeping Cory prisoner? Four years or so?"

  Chase's eyes narrowed slightly. “He could have left any time."

  "Except, for some inexplicable reason, he was held hostage by a personal interest in your well-being. It makes no sense to me, but...” He let his voice trail off, shaking his head. “What the hell is this all about, anyway?"

  "Thomas Grey getting old,” Chase answered casually. “He's got this crazy idea that the aliens—I think your people refer to them as Centians—have the means to transfer his mind into a new, younger body."

  Ben wasn't sure he was hearing him right. “What?"

  "About a week ago Grey had his lawyer draw up a brand new will. This one gives everything to Ms. Keening."

  Ben didn't even have to consider the implications of this—putting the two statements together made it as obvious as a thirty foot stop sign. “That's impossible ... isn't it?"

  "The Centians don't seem to think so. They're the ones who promised it to him. All he had to do was choose a ‘donor.’”

  "Let me guess. No, on second thought, I don't need to guess. The old weirdo chose a woman's body?” He didn't really want to focus on the fact that it was his Amanda that was the subject of the old man's twisted choice. Grey wanted to steal the life of the woman he loved and claim her body as his own. Literally. He felt a growl rising in the pit of his chest and heard it burst out from between his teeth.

  Chase took a step back and raked him with his eyes. “Shifting would be really painful right now,” he said conversationally. “I don't think the collar would shift with you. And it just might ... well ... go ka-boom."

  "Important safety tip,” Ben grumbled sarcastically. “But I see your point. So do you have the trigger for this thing?"

  Chase shook his head. “I don't think I'm high enough on the food chain around here for that."

  "Food chain? That's an interesting choice of words, don't you think?” Ben bared his teeth in a less-than-friendly grin. “Question is whether or not I'm going to take the risk and decide to eat the messenger."

  Chase blanched. “Now let's not be hasty."

  "I'm never hasty,” Ben replied. “Or didn't you know that? I'm thoughtful and deliberate. Usually. But I can't let this happen. You say you're not my enemy. Prove it. Help me stop it from happening."

  "There's not much I can do, Ben. I wish there was."

  "How did I know you were going to say that?"

  The door slammed open sudde
nly and, much to Ben's surprise, the devilish countenance of Frank “call me Franklin” Donner glared in at them. “Are you done playing nice-nice with wolf boy?” he asked in a voice far too snotty for a former Judge. He sounded like a antagonistic high-schooler. “Hades wants him down at the lab."

  "Oh, now I'm supposed to follow you? I wouldn't follow you out of a house fire."

  Donner turned a deeper red. “I don't have to take shit from you, Dalmas.” He held up his left hand, showing a cylindrical object about six inches long and as big around as a roll of quarters. “You know what this is, wolf boy? It's a trigger. For that half pound of C-4 around your neck. I could push this button and send you into the hereafter without a second thought."

  "Mighty brave with that thing in your hand, aren't you, Frank?"

  "Franklin."

  "Whatever.” Ben wasn't going to let the satanic looking Donner intimidate him. Trigger or no trigger. He couldn't afford to set it off. They needed him to threaten Amanda into cooperating—regardless of just how effective Ben thought it would be. They obviously thought it was worth a shot. “So what are we waiting for? You lead, I'll follow."

  "You're an arrogant little prick, aren't you?"

  "Considering you're the first person I've heard that from, I'll just have to take your word for it,” Ben sneered. It was true enough. No one had ever called him arrogant.

  Donner grunted at that and stepped aside, holding out his arm to suggest Ben take the lead. Shrugging, the werewolf strode calmly past him. The scent of his fear washed over him as he stepped through the doorway and into the hallway beyond. He smothered his grin. No use antagonizing him too much.

  Chase followed them into the hall, and appeared to be planning on following all the way to the lab, but the devilish man turned a baleful stare on him. “You're not invited."