Of late, the sun called to him. If he went back, he didn’t know if he would turn away from it.
John Clarke, a.k.a. Ultimate, the Invincible Man, flew through the sky, his metallic silver, gold and scarlet costume glittering in the morning sunlight. Once he’d had a cape that fluttered after him, but he had given it up as too childish. The damn thing would get ripped up all the time. No matter. Cape or not, his appearance over the waiting crowd on the ground was greeted with cheers and waves. Amazingly, people never tired of the spectacle of watching a man fly. Brass Man and a woman surrounded by a fiery nimbus joined him in the air. Artemis, the Living Goddess, waved and blew him a kiss as she passed him by. She looked magnificent in her golden breast plate and tiara, her trademark fiery spear held high in her right hand. John smiled. Artemis – Olivia O’Brien to her friends and relatives – always managed to cheer him up. Sometimes he wondered what would have happened if the lady wasn’t spoken for, but she was all too married, and to another friend to boot.
It didn't matter anyway. John had not truly wanted another woman since Linda’s death.
John dutifully performed some aerial acrobatics with his fellow Legionnaires, to the elation of the spectators below. Other than the press corps there was the usual gathering of tourists – whose financial contributions helped the Legion’s ever-growing budget needs – and a number of local residents, who despite working with Neolympians day after day seemed to retain their appetite for the pomp and pageantry of it all. Was he a source of inspiration, or merely titillation? He was no longer sure.
Time to come down to earth and mingle with the mortals.
Ultimate and his companions floated down to the podium and waited for the outburst of applause (mainly from the tourists) to die down. He did the usual dog and pony show, greeting everyone, introducing his fellow spokesmen – spokespeople, he corrected himself – and then ceding the floor to Doc Slaughter for the main fluff pieces: reports of progress assisting the victims of Japan’s earthquake, the capture of a cell of anarchist terrorists, and the release of three new pharmaceutical patents (one developed by Kenneth Slaughter himself, the other two by fellow genius inventor Daedalus Smith) into the public domain. One of those three drugs would soon make the HIV virus as irrelevant as smallpox or the common cold (the latter cure being another Daedalus Smith breakthrough).
Artemis took over and delivered statements dealing with some not-so-bright spots. Things in Iraq were getting nasty, with a neo-pagan movement led by several mythology-inspired Neos clashing with the Islamic Brotherhood. A joint Legion-UN mediation team had been beset by assassination attempts from both sides of the dispute. Things remained chaotic in several countries in Africa, thanks to Neolympian warlords stirring old tribal feuds into life. And of course there were the two great bogeymen of international politics.
“Will the Legion support new trading sanctions against the Empire of China?” one of the reporters asked as soon as the floor was open for questions.
Imperial China was one of those nightmares that refused to go away. Four hundred million people lived under the tyranny of the Dragon Emperor. Famine and repression had led to the deaths of millions, and only two brutal wars had prevented the Empire from overrunning the Republic of China.
John found himself flying over a burning city, helplessly watching thousands die under unrelenting artillery fire he was too late to stop. He saw a little girl run into a house seconds before a shell erased it from existence…
“… new sanctions will work?”
John shook his head and returned to the here and now. Those episodes of lost time were becoming more frequent every day. His mind wandered off without warning, especially when he wasn’t concentrating on something. John noticed some of the people in the press watching him intently. There already had been rumors circulating that Ultimate was losing it, mostly in the blogosphere, but that was becoming more and more important every day.
Hell, he was losing it.
“We are doing our best to build the international consensus needed to deal with rogue nations like the Empire and the Dominion,” Kenneth said smoothly. Too smoothly by half. John had been growing steadily more cynical about the two evil empires of the 20th century as they endured and prospered into the 21st. The Dominion of the Ukraine languished under the Iron Tsar, and its influence over Eastern Europe, Russia and the former Soviet states had only grown over the decades. The Chinese Empire had become more cunning after the Second Asian War, and now it could garner several dozen UN votes among smaller countries in Asia, countries that viewed the growing power and influence of the Republic of China with envy and trepidation. When the Dominion and the Empire cooperated (something that was happening with increasing frequency), they often had the votes to render the UN helpless. There was even a movement underway to grant the Empire a seat at the Security Council.
John suddenly realized he had missed another question, this one directed at him. “Can you say that again, Peter?” he said with an apologetic look. Ultimate: Going Senile? He could just picture the headline in one of the more lurid periodicals.
Peter Fowler was one of a new generation of independent Hypernet newsies. John admired some of them; their drive reminded him of times past, when he’d been a cub reporter for The World’s Journal during his all-too-brief attempt at having a normal life. But a few of them had the morals of a vulture and instincts to match. This particular journalist was one of them.
“I asked you how you planned to meet the demands for sensitivity training and closer supervision for senior members of the Legion?”
“Uh, I’m not sure what you mean,” John said.
“I’m sure you are aware of accusations of racism, sexism and general cultural insensitivity leveled towards Legion members,” Fowler said, apparently forgetting he was supposed to ask questions, not make statements. “There are some, shall we say ‘old fashioned’ attitudes among your members, and a lack of understanding that we live in a multicultural, more diverse society. The Legion seems to be dominated by white straight males with outdated views on women and minorities.”
“I am hearing a lot of comments, many of which I don’t agree with, and some which are utter falsehoods, and no questions,” John said in a flat tone that people who knew him would take as a sign to ease up, and quickly. He almost blurted out that one of the founding members of the Legion might have been male but also black and gay, and then remembered Janus had never made his sexuality a matter of public record. Wouldn’t that be great, outing his friend by accident?
“Here is my question. Don’t you think you and other members of the Legion need to do more work to acclimate yourselves to the mores of the 21st century?”
“No, I don’t. Next question. Paula?” John gestured to the GNN correspondent, but Fowler kept talking.
“What do you say about claims that your wife left you because she was afraid of you?”
Dead silence.
In a tiny fraction of a second, he could turn Fowler into a thin red mist. So many ways to kill a human. Easier than snuffing a candle. He could kill all of them in the time it took to draw a breath. It would be so easy…
“Ultimate is not going to dignify that kind of question with an answer,” Artemis said forcefully, breaking the tense silence. John had no idea how long he had stood there, fantasizing about murdering Fowler and everyone else in the conference room. “Mr. Fowler, this press conference is not a forum for baseless slander,” Olivia continued. “Is that understood?”
Everyone was looking at Fowler like something nasty they had accidentally stepped on. “Understood,” Fowler said sullenly, blissfully unaware of how close he had come to dying. That was not an exaggeration. John had nearly snapped. He had never been so close to losing control over so small a provocation.
What is happening to me?
Chapter Three
Face-Off
New York City, New York, March 13, 2013
I mostly prefer to be the man without a face. Whenever
I’m relaxing by myself or with the handful (okay, three) friends I have, that’s how I look. Nobody has figured out how I can breathe, see or talk with a smooth layer of skin, flesh and bone where most people have a pie hole and assorted other orifices. I have no mouth, but people can hear my voice just fine. It’s a Neo thing. You wouldn’t understand.
On the plus side, I never have to worry about getting my nose broken or someone poking an eye out. On the down side, most people aren’t comfortable talking to me when I go blank. It’s pretty antisocial. When the damsel in distress woke up, I would definitely put a face on to greet her. Something soothing and friendly, with a full head of hair.
I used to have a regular face, but my stepfather beat it out of me. Sad, isn’t it?
At the moment, the girl was sleeping in the basement of the Church of Saint Theodosius, a Ukrainian Orthodox church presided over by one of my few friends. Father Aleksander was a Type One Neo with some minor healing and empathic abilities, abilities he had put to good use ministering to the local Ukrainian community. We had struck a fast friendship during an altercation with some Russian mob stooges that had ended with said stooges in prison after some time in the hospital. Hanging out with the good father always led to interesting conversations and the consumption of some very smooth vodka. Aleksander ran a discreet underground railroad for assorted people in need of a place to hide – refugees from the Dominion and Russia, mostly – and I trusted him to watch over Jane Doe and keep his mouth shut. The man took the concept of sanctuary very seriously.
After leaving her in Father Alex’s care, just as the sun was coming out, I went to a diner and enjoyed a tall stack of pancakes, courtesy of the nice wad of cash I’d collected from the mobsters I’d killed that night. I wore one of my regular faces – Tony the wannabe wise guy – in honor of all the Italians I’d recently sent off to their greater reward. After breakfast, I headed to the Bronx to see another friend.
Aleksander had eventually gotten used to talking to me face to no-face, although it had taken quite a bit of vodka to thaw him out. Cassandra, on the other hand, had never had any problems with me. It helped that she was blind as a bat, of course.
I know, a blind seer going by the name of Cassandra. The clichés trip all over themselves. I always poke fun at her about it, and she claims that her name was Cassandra before her parahuman powers manifested themselves. It might even be true.
Of course, she is blind only in a technical sense. Among her many abilities, my spiritual adviser is aware of everything within a three block radius around her. Aware as in she can read a letter inside a sealed envelope, or know how many rats are in the vicinity, and how many fleas are on each of those rats. It’s fairly impressive; you learn quickly to never play cards with the woman. And don’t ever try to sneak up on her. I tried a couple of times just for shits and giggles, and discovered she is quite fond of practical jokes and homemade traps. One such incident involved several bowling balls and a minor concussion. After that, I just walked up to her front door and knocked politely, at least until I ended up getting my own keys and a room at her place.
Cassandra lives in a boarded-up three-story building in a bad area of the Bronx. From the outside, it looks like the kind of shithole self-respecting junkies would avoid. The inside is a lot cozier, though. Since I don’t really have a fixed address, I sleep there more often than not. The front door doesn’t look like much but is solid steel and has some unusual characteristics. It was open wide this morning, Cassandra’s cute way of letting me know she was expecting me. I walked in and ignored the loud clang as it slammed shut by itself. The first time it had done that had been pretty startling, but I was used to it.
The first floor looks like a condemned building should, complete with dust, peeling paint, cracks along the walls, and an atmosphere of disuse and abandonment that makes most people feel not just that nobody lives there, but that nobody should live there. No junkie has ever tried to set up shop in the building, and teenagers looking for a place to party always give Cassandra’s building a wide berth. I’m pretty sure it’s a psychic thing my friend does, but she likes her little mysteries, so she’s never confirmed or denied it.
Originally there were twelve apartments in the building, but that’s down to nine. Cassandra makes her home in the second floor; all the original apartments on that level have had some walls knocked down to turn the whole thing into one big dwelling, a huge apartment covered in rugs and tapestries and flickering in the light of a bunch of candles. Even though the place has electrical power, she uses candles for illumination and doesn’t have a TV or computer. My part-time crib is on the third floor, an apartment I’ve furnished over the years with a combination of Salvation Army furniture, lots of books, mostly second hand (I like to read a lot) and a few choice electronics I’ve ‘liberated’ from assorted assholes who had the misfortune to cross my path.
It’s a safe house, but it’s not my home. I don’t really have one of those. When I’m there I’m Cassandra’s guest. Same as when I crash at Father Alex’s or (far more rarely) at Condor’s underground base. When I want to be on my own or am entertaining a lady friend I usually sleep at cheap motels that charge by the hour, or the lady friend’s place if we’ve gotten chummy enough. I only keep stuff I need at Cassandra’s, without much in the way of decorations or personal touches.
Cassandra’s dwelling, on the other hand, is full of personal touches, a candlelit museum of eclectic tastes. Carpets and tapestries cover the floors and walls, mostly Middle Eastern designs that must have cost a fortune. In between the tapestries there is a lot of artwork, from a few paintings that are either very good replicas of old masterworks or have been liberated from someone or other, to a black velvet Elvis portrait whose eyes seem to follow you everywhere. One large room which I’ve dubbed the Hall of Knick-Knacks is filled with shelves stacked with little porcelain figurines and display cases with antique jewelry and objects that probably should be in a museum. And like I said, lit candles all over the place, in all shapes and colors. It’s a miracle she hasn’t burned down the place, but miracles are Cassandra’s stock in trade.
That morning, Cassandra was waiting for me in the room with the Elvis portrait in it, relaxing on an ancient-looking armchair and playing something Gypsy-sounding on her violin. My psychic pal is very short and strikingly beautiful, with smooth mahogany skin, high cheekbones and sharp features. She appears to be in her thirties, which doesn’t mean anything when you’re dealing with Neos, since we either don’t age or age very slowly, most likely the former. Most people thought she was black or Hispanic, but I suspected she was something more exotic, some multinational blend I've never been able to identify. I don’t ask about that kind of thing, though. It’s enough that I know she loves music and laughter, and that she has never turned down anybody who needed her help. Her eyes are covered with a milky pale film, and to avoid making people uncomfortable she usually hides them behind sunglasses. Not when it’s just us, though; we are very tolerant of each other’s deformities.
I figure she was blind before her powers manifested themselves, since most Neos can recover from crippling injuries. That’s another thing I’ve never asked.
“Hello, Marco,” she said as I entered the living room. Cassandra is the only person who knows my legal name is Marco Martinez. Father Aleksander calls me ‘my friend,’ or ‘my young friend’ when he’s trying to pull rank on me. Condor, a friendly costumed Neo I often work with, just calls me Face. When I’m interacting with most everyone else I’m wearing a fake face and a fake name; when I’m wearing my real no-face people call me Face-Off or profanity-laced versions thereof.
I don’t mind that she calls me Marco, although I would like Mark better. It’s not my name anymore, but it used to be, and Cassandra lives in the past at least as much as she does in the future, so it’s fitting somehow.
I sat down on an overstuffed armchair facing her. “Hey, Cassie.” She nodded at me. “I found the girl.”
“I know,�
� she said. “I was able to see some of the rescue. The outcome was never in doubt.”
“That's nice. It got pretty hairy for a while. The Neo you warned me about turned out to be pretty tough.”
“I saw you dealing with him. He was powerful but overconfident. He never had a chance,” she concluded.
Working with Cassandra is equal parts helpful and maddening. Much of the time, she lets me know places to be or people to find. Thanks to her, I know where to go to stop trouble or find people who need killing, or at least need a good beating followed by some time behind bars. That works great for me, since it gives me something to do and people I can fuck up and rob with a clean conscience. But she often doesn’t tell me the whole story beforehand, and things sometimes end up being more complicated than they first appeared to be. She claims it’s the way her visions work and that giving me too much information can actually change the future events she has seen. The paranoid part of me thinks she just likes to make me sweat.
This last escapade made for a good example. “Why didn’t you send me to her directly instead of having me beat the location out of Giamatti? Not that I minded doing that. The fucker needed to be put down.”
“I wish I could have,” she replied. “The problem is simple; it’s very difficult for me to sense her location. It’s very difficult for me to perceive her at all, as a matter of fact.”
The job had been weird from the get go, even by our standards. Early last evening Cassandra had contacted me telepathically, which was unusual in itself. She only does that during emergencies, since she claims it takes a lot out of her. She told me about a girl being abducted from a hospital, how many perps had been involved and the name of the ringleader. I’d had to find the ringleader and get the girl’s location from him. Normally Cassie would have just sent me to the address where the girl was.
“What do you mean? You saw her get kidnapped, right?”
New Olympus Saga (Book 1): Armageddon Girl Page 4
