New Olympus Saga (Book 2): Doomsday Duet

by C. J. Carella

  The Legionnaires spread out in a shallow C formation, facing John and Cassius, and stopped a hundred and fifty feet away from them. Kenneth kept walking forward. So far so good, John thought. His colleagues’ deployment was defensive. An aggressive posture would have involved some of them taking to the air and enveloping John and Cassius’ position, surrounding them and exposing them to attack from all possible directions. Their formation showed caution, which he could understand perfectly. This was a very delicate situation.

  Kenneth walked up to them and removed his helmet. John noticed several Legionnaires tensing up when they saw what he was doing. Without the protection of his Brass Man armor, Kenneth was terribly vulnerable to attack; removing his helmet had definitely not been part of the Legion’s plan. It was a show of trust, and one John appreciated and understood. A wave of relief coursed through him. He couldn’t imagine a traitor exposing himself so completely.

  “Cassius, John,” Kenneth said, nodding at his friends as if they were at a casual get together. “How are you both doing?”

  “Fair to middlin’,” Cassius replied dryly. “Just fair to middlin’, Doctor.”

  “I’ve had better weeks,” John admitted. “Better years, too.” He paused for a second to gather his thoughts. “I know how this whole situation looks, Kenneth.” He smiled. “I’d have to be crazy not to.”

  Kenneth grinned back. “Well, John, I believe that’s the issue at hand. What happened?”

  “When I attacked the Chicago Guardians, I was being mind-controlled. By none other than Doctor Cohen.” John went over the therapist’s true identity and his treachery in a few brief sentences. “He was able to overcome my psychic defenses because someone, someone in the Legion, put a device in my cochlear implant to bypass them. There is a traitor in the Legion, Kenneth, and he’s been orchestrating a campaign designed to drive me insane and become his puppet. And no, I didn’t kill Doctor Cohen, although I wish I’d had the chance. When his alleged murder was committed, I was elsewhere, still recovering from a fight that almost killed me. The fight took place on an island in Lake Michigan, an island that blew up last night. I’m sure you heard about that already.”

  Doc Slaughter was well known for having a great poker face. His reaction was nearly imperceptible, but John saw shock and disbelief flittering behind his calm façade. Kenneth turned to Cassius. “And you believe this story?”

  “There’s more to the story, Ken,” Cassius said. “And that part I believe. It matches quite nicely with things I learned on my little trip.” Kenneth’s eyes widened at that; he had been terribly disappointed and upset by Cassius’ refusal to speak about his twenty-year journey into outer space. “So I figured, in for a penny, in for a pound. He’s not crazy, Ken. A little cracked around the edges, perhaps, but at our age, who isn’t?”

  Kenneth took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “I was afraid of this. You do realize if what you say is true, we face the greatest crisis in the Legion’s history.”

  “It only gets worse, Kenneth,” John replied. “There is also the attack on Freedom. I don’t like coincidences like that. I think that’s also the work of the traitor. He, or they, created two massive crises within a couple of days. I think they are meant to distract us from the traitor’s actual goal.”

  “Which is…”

  “I’m not sure, but I have some suspicions. And that’s only part of the story, Kenneth. See, I met this girl…”

  * * *

  John was as succinct as possible, but it still took him several minutes to outline his discoveries to Kenneth. By the time he was done, and Cassius had added his own two bits, Kenneth looked as flabbergasted as he ever had. The always unfazed Doc Slaughter clearly needed to sit down and assimilate the information, but since he couldn’t, he worked hard at maintaining his composure. It would have been funny if the situation hadn’t been so dire.

  “It appears that we have been thoroughly compromised,” Kenneth said after a few seconds. “The fact that your communication implants – for all I know, all the Legion’s implants – were tampered with narrows the number of possible suspects considerably.”

  “Who built the implants?” John asked. Truth to tell, he hadn’t paid attention to those kinds of details. Most of the gadgets and gizmos the Legion used were the creation of a dozen or so geniuses-in-residence, Kenneth being one of them.

  “The implants were devised and fabricated by Daedalus Smith.”

  “Daedalus?” John asked incredulously. A founding member?

  “I think…” Kenneth started to say before he froze. His face twisted in a rictus of agony.

  “Kenneth!” John shouted, reaching for his friend.

  The left side of Kenneth’s head burst open in a spray of blood and gray matter. Doc Slaughter collapsed limply into John’s arms. A second later, his suit of armor exploded, leaving John holding scraps of flesh and bone that moments before had been part of a living being.

  Out in the distance, the amplified voice of the Myrmidon cut through the sounds of the explosion.

  “TAKE THEM DOWN!”

  Myrmidon. Daedalus. The traitor.

  The Legion attacked.

  Hunters and Hunted

  Baotou, Empire of China, March 15, 1963

  Daedalus Smith woke up in pitch blackness, gasping for air, the nightmare that had plagued his sleep for decades still fresh in his mind, a nightmare in which the world burned as unworthy gods killed innocent millions for their sport. His awakening was accompanied by pain, and he remembered. They had broken his arms and legs, for starters, and then a Celestial Warrior had really gone to town on him, using a weapon made of segmented metal bars as a whip. He’d felt his ribs cave in one by one; that’s when he had passed out.

  His bones hadn’t healed fully. The pain he was feeling, and the nearly-unbearable itching under his skin, were symptoms of his regeneration abilities working at their utmost to undo the damage. It was almost as bad as the original torture, but he forced himself to ignore it. He was back in his cell, a bare square of stone with no furnishings but a chamber pot. There were no windows or a door: one of the walls was a twenty-ton block of stone that one of the stronger Celestial Warriors would drag in and out of place. It was less a cell than a tomb.

  “Welcome to the Dragon Empire, where the fun never stops,” he muttered to himself, and chuckled at his own joke. He was Daedalus Smith, and men like him laughed in the face of death. His sense of humor rarely survived more than five or six minutes after a torture session started, though: it was hard to joke around when all you could was scream. “Fun, fun, fun,” he said, resisting the temptation to sob like a child. He was Daedalus Smith, dammit.

  How long had he been there? He had no idea. They had caught him during a night raid, explosions and gunfire waking him up in his tent. He’d reached for his plasma blaster, but someone had rushed in, moving inhumanly fast. The Celestial Warrior had knocked Daedalus’ weapon away and followed up with a punch that had pulverized his jaw and knocked him out for several days. When he’d woken up he’d found himself a guest of the Imperial Dungeons beneath the New Forbidden Palace. Time had lost any meaning after that.

  There were periods where he was tortured for what seemed like forever, and periods where he was left in the dark for what seemed like forever. It could have been weeks, or months. His friendly rival Doc Slaughter had a mental clock that let him know the exact passage of time, even while unconscious. Daedalus wished he had that ability. Better yet, he wished Doc Slaughter was in the cell instead of him. Daedalus would love to see how long the blonde giant’s impassive demeanor lasted after going a few rounds with the Chimp torturers. You’d scream too, Doc, you self-righteous bastard. You’d scream too.

  Might as well wish for the strength of Ultimate. There was no point. He had to survive and escape. Had to. The world needed him.

  Besides, the big blonde lug was probably almost as tough as he pretended to be. Maybe he wouldn’t scream even after they did that thing with the metal
tongs that always made Daedalus go full soprano. That thought pissed him off to no end.

  He sat on the cold bare floor, as far away as he could from the ceramic bowl they had given him to do his business in, and had himself a good long think. In this oversized sarcophagus, all he could do was think, eat whenever they remembered to feed him, take a crap in the ceramic bowl, and jerk off. He figured thinking was the most productive use of his time. Despair was not an option. He was too damn stubborn to give in to despair.

  He’d come up with and discarded half a dozen plans, and tried to carry out a couple of them. Whenever the door slid open, there was always a Celestial Dragon present, since only a superhumanly strong being could open the ‘door’ to his cell. He’d tried overpowering the guards three times already, and all he had gotten in return was a sound trashing. Granted, after the failed escape attempts he was usually too battered to torture, which was a victory of sorts, but on his third try they had dragged him off to the torturers anyway, and he’d come pretty close to dying as a result. His next step had been to work on his restraints during the sessions, patiently trying to wear off the tough leather straps by working them against the metal frame where he endured his ‘treatments.’ He’d been looking forward to the moment when he would free a hand and grab the chief torturer; he could do a lot of damage with one hand. Unfortunately, they must have discovered what he was doing; two treatments ago, he’d found the straps had been replaced with new ones. Back to the drawing board.

  His current project involved faking his death. Doc Slaughter had learned that trick after one of his jaunts to the Orient, where he had studied under Indian fakirs, Tibetan monks and assorted other gooks and spooks. He’d tried to teach some of the techniques he had learned to the rest of the Legion, but Daedalus hadn’t really paid attention. He had better things to do than listen to Doc spouting off about Asian mystical twaddle; it was bad enough to have to have to consult with him on technical matters. As it turned out, not paying attention had been a suboptimal course of action.

  Oh, well. He would have to work with whatever little bits he’d gleaned. Breathing exercises, for one. He might not need to breathe, but breathing helped set the stage for controlling the body’s autonomic systems. He needed to learn how to arrest his breathing, and slow down his heartbeat, all while being distracted by those pesky Orientals breaking every bone in his body and then massaging the broken bits to tear the flesh around them, which was rather distracting. It was going to take a while.

  He’d been doing the breathing exercises for about two hours when he heard the block of stone sliding back. The anticipation of what would happen next was pretty bad, but he forced himself not to cower and whimper. It wouldn’t help – if it had, he would have cowered and whimpered like a champ – and it might actually hurt. The guards, mostly ethnic Mongols, had developed some measure of respect by the way he comported himself during the treatments. He took one deep breath – he’d actually managed to keep his pulse rate down, which helped steady his nerves – and thought of a few choice insults in the Khalkha dialect the guards used amongst themselves. He always regaled his welcoming committee with some colorful commentaries on the sexual habits of their mothers, sisters and cattle.

  Footsteps echoed through the opening. Normally it was three of them, a Celestial and two vanilla jailors, but he only heard one set of steps this time. He didn’t like that. Any change in his routine, even his current routine, wasn’t likely to be good. The jailors usually brought a lamp along, too, but this lone visitor seemed at home in the pitch darkness.

  The footsteps stopped a few feet away. Daedalus considered launching himself at the unknown arrival, but decided to wait until he knew who he was dealing with.

  “Ni hao,” he said in Chinese.

  “I am rather well, Mr. Smith.” The words were spoken with an impeccable Standard Received English accent. Daedalus recognized the voice, although it had been almost five decades since he’d last heard it in person.

  I am FUBAR, he thought idly. He was lucky he had used the ceramic bowl before sitting down for his think, or he’d likely have pissed himself.

  Light appeared, not from a lamp or a torch, but emanating from the tall figure standing in front of him. The garb of the tall Chinaman wasn’t his usual outfit. The official newsreels and pictures the Empire put out for propaganda purposes always had him clad in the traditional Qin Dynasty Dragon Robes, richly embroidered silk, either yellow, red or blue, depending on the occasion; the complex and impractical gowns allegedly took years to tailor to perfection. At the moment, however, the Dragon Emperor, destroyer of cities, very likely the most powerful Neolympian to ever walk the Earth, was clad in simple nomad clothing: a deel-style overcoat, fastened with a silk-and-leather belt, over riding trousers and boots. The man in the Mongol outfit was tall for an Asian, close to six feet, athletic, handsome even with that ridiculous long mustache hanging from his face. The Emperor’s eyes had a feverish glint that Daedalus found he couldn’t meet for more than a few seconds.

  This was a man who had knocked Ultimate through a mountain, who had taken Janus’ battleship-melting energy blasts and come back for more, who had killed seventeen Legionnaires with his bare hands. Daedalus Smith could bench-press three thousand pounds and his right hook could shatter bricks. Against the Dragon Emperor, his chances in a fight were as good as a newborn baby’s. Maybe worse than that: the Emperor might find a baby too cute to squash like a bug.

  Daedalus had planned for an eventual confrontation with the Chief Chimp. Much of his secret research, the stuff he’d never shared with his pals at the Legion, involved ways of dealing with the arrogant Chinaman once and for all. He wasn’t ready yet, though. Even if he had his full bag of tricks, it wouldn’t have done him any good. The Godkiller program was nowhere near ready to deal with the Emperor. It was irksome, being utterly at someone’s mercy.

  “I trust you have found the accommodations entertaining enough,” the Emperor went on in a pleasant tone of voice, as if they were a couple of old college chums meeting on a cruise ship or tennis court.

  “They’ve certainly kept me busy. If I have the time, I’m going to write a travel guide about the delights of the Empire,” Daedalus replied glibly. He might die in the next few seconds, so all he could do was face his fate with dignity. “So what brings you to the Presidential Suite, Mr. Qiao? Come to discuss the terms of your surrender?”

  The Emperor’s face tightened slightly around the lips. “That name is no longer relevant, Smith. Do not use it again. I do note, however, that you have regained some of your memories from our encounter with Mr. Night, if you remember my old identity.”

  “Some? I remember everything, pally. And Mr. Night? He works for me now. Well, he pretends to work for me. He thinks he’s using me, I think I’m using him, and the wheel goes round and round. He doesn’t know his little forget-me spell faded away a few years back. Please try not to tell on me if you ever run into him.”

  “If I ever lay eyes on that creature, I will crush it like an overripe grape.”

  “Small wonder he never comes by your neck of the woods,” Daedalus said, just to pass the time. As long as they were talking, nobody was breaking his bones, and he might even learn something new.

  The Emperor looked intently at Daedalus, as if trying to divine his thoughts at a glance. “What game are you playing, Smith? When I regained my memories, I made inquiries about everyone present at that meeting in New York. The Gypsy woman seems to have disappeared altogether. Cushko is doing much the same as I am, while indulging in his romantic fantasies of a Ukrainian Nation that never truly existed.”

  As opposed to your utterly pragmatic fantasies of an Imperial China straight out of legends and fairy tales, with a dash of Genghis Khan thrown in? Daedalus thought but was smart enough not to say out loud.

  “Damon Trent seems to live a quiet, almost ascetic life for a man of his wealth,” the Emperor continued. “Although I suspect he is one of those masked vigilantes you Yanks
are so fond of.”

  He is the Lurker, as a matter of fact. But if you think I’m going to share that tidbit with you, Solly, Cholly.

  The Emperor paused for a second, but when Daedalus refused to take the bait, he went on. “And that leaves you, Mr. Smith. Amassing wealth like a merely human capitalist. Fashioning devices instead of improving and mastering your native abilities. One would have expected you to be my rival in power, somebody like the Iron Tsar. Instead, you are a trinket maker, only slightly more powerful than a mere human. How did that come to be?”

  I didn’t sell as much of my soul as you or Cushko, that’s what happened. “I must have gotten the short end of the stick.” It was close enough to the truth. He’d done everything he could think of to improve himself, but his physical powers had stubbornly remained at Type One levels. He thought that his early experiments with the Shadow Energy, the force that animated the abominable Mr. Night, had stunted his progress. That was something else he wouldn’t share with the Chief Chimp.

  “I could continue the interrogation process,” the Emperor said casually. Daedalus barely resisted cringing at the idea. “But given that you are largely powerless, unable to overcome even the least of my Celestial Warriors, I think I can make some use of your paltry abilities instead. You will be taken out of your cell for twelve hours a day, which you will spend in my workshops, under the supervision of my Artificers. If you perform adequately, you will be given better food and gentler treatment. If not…”