New Olympus Saga (Book 1): Armageddon Girl

by C. J. Carella

  Her Christine-sense also told her that Face-Off was a pretty lonely guy, something she could sympathize with. She’d never been good at making friends. In high-school she’d been a total nerd; her love of books, computer games and obscure TV shows and movies had been her first social strike. A brutal acne outbreak and braces that didn’t come out until her seventeenth birthday had pretty much been strikes two and three. Throw in her absent-mindedness and endless chattering whenever she got nervous, except when she got so nervous she just shut down and couldn’t speak at all, and it all added up to a perfect pariah paella recipe. In college she’d gotten a bit better, but even there half of her friends were people she’d never seen except as avatars on online games. Agreeing to go to the fateful frat party had been an impulsive last-ditch attempt to come out of her shell, and instead she’d ended up in another world, shell and all.

  Speaking of absent-mindedness, she barely noticed Face-Off had led her to an elevator leading to the subway, the kind of thing most people that weren’t on wheelchairs or carrying luggage never even noticed, since the stairs were so much quicker and more visible. They got on the elevator, and Face-Off started pushing its buttons in a complex pattern. Now that she was paying attention to her surroundings, Christine followed the pattern and memorized it. It was a thirteen number combo punched in a rapid fashion. The elevator went down, and down, at least two levels lower than it should have. Pretty neat. Christine wondered how somebody had managed to build entire elevator levels on the down-low, and sighed. The last thing she needed was more questions.

  The elevator doors opened up into total darkness. Face-Off produced a flashlight out of a coat pocket and turned it on, casting a small island of light ahead of them. From what little she could see, they were in a disused section of the subway system. The concrete floor was covered with dirt and assorted detritus, and she was pretty sure she saw a couple of rats the size of Boston terriers scurrying about. Yuck.

  “Looks cozy,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant. Her voice broke halfway through ‘cozy,’ so she failed miserably.

  “All part of the ambiance,” Face-Off said without a trace of chalant in his voice. “This is an entrance to my buddy’s secret lair, and he doesn’t exactly roll out the red carpet for visitors.”

  “But you guys are friends, so it’s okay, right?”

  “Yeah. Haven’t seen him in a while, but he’s good people. We’ve worked together a lot, and he’s the go-to guy for Neos who need to learn about their abilities but don’t want to go into the system. He was my teacher.”

  “System, as in prison?” Christine asked as they walked into the darkness, down an old tunnel with old and rusting railroad tracks running along its length. This wasn’t her idea of a good time; talking about something, anything, helped her anxiety a little.

  “Not quite that bad. Every Neo is supposed to register into the Parahuman National Database, get tested for powers and mental defects, get a background check and all his shots like a good doggie, and if he or she is deemed fit to be out in the wild, he’s free to go.”

  “Oh, okay. That doesn’t sound too bad.”

  “You have to provide them with your fingerprints, blood type, DNA samples and a Kirlian Aura impression. If the government ever wants to find you, the database makes it easier than a Google search.”

  “Okay, I can see why people might object,” Christine said. She felt unreasonably happy to hear Earth Alpha had Google.

  “Yeah, a lot of us object. They still haven’t made it a crime to avoid registration, but somebody is always introducing a bill in Congress to make it illegal. For now, it just means unregistered people using their powers can be prosecuted even if they don’t harm anybody.”

  “Yikes.” Christine wasn’t thrilled to find out her rescuer was in effect a criminal.

  Face-Off stopped walking, and she bumped into him. “Hey, I know this isn’t fair to you, tagging along with an illegal like me,” he said. “If you want to turn yourself over to the authorities, they’ll hook you up with a parahuman counselor and social worker, and you’ll probably end up having the Empire State Guardians or even the Freedom Legion looking over your case. I would have put you in touch with them after I rescued you, but Cassandra told me it would be a bad idea. I trust her judgment, but it’s up to you.”

  “That's cool. I mean, thank you, but I’ll stick around for now. I know I can trust you not to intentionally hurt me; I also know you will stop anybody who tries to hurt me; you might hurt them more than you need to, but I guess I can handle that. The killing stuff still bothers me, though. To quote a wise guy: ‘Do not be too eager to deal out death in the name of justice.’”

  “’Even the wise cannot see all ends,’” Face-Off finished the quote, surprising her. “So they have Lord of the Rings in your universe, too,” he added, and she could somehow sense a nice smile behind his no-face.

  “Yes! Speaking of Lord of the Rings, are we going to be wandering around this pretty good simulation of the Mines of Moria for too much longer? I’m starting to get dark- and creepy-phobic. My last name may be Dark, but I’m not a fan of it, not really.”

  “Almost there. But sometimes my pal likes to play tricks on his guests, so be on the lookout for anything,” Face-Off said. “As a matter of fact…” He whirled around and shone his flashlight back the way they’d come. Christine turned around and caught something moving away from the light, bigger than any rat could be.

  “Getting sloppy, Face,” a voice said from the darkness. A female voice. “I could have tagged you and your girlfriend half a dozen times.”

  “Fucking hell. Is that you, Kestrel?”

  “Aw, you still remember me after all this time. I’m Condor’s new official sidekick. Congratulate me.”

  “Congrats,” Face-Off replied. He didn’t sound very enthused at all.

  “Friend of yours?” Christine whispered.

  “Sort of,” he said. He spoke towards Kestrel’s voice, searching for her with the flashlight. “So are you the welcoming committee?”

  “I just wanted to say hi personally.”

  A figure came hurtling out of the darkness and attacked Face-Off with a flurry of punches and kicks, knocking the flashlight out of his hand. In the brief flashes of illumination the spinning flashlight provided, Christine caught a glimpse of a woman in a black latex catsuit, thigh-high boots and a stylized bird mask, also black. She was getting positively medieval on Face-Off, who was on the defensive, blocking and dodging blows like a stunt-man in a Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon sequel, minus the flying leaps. A few seconds into the fight, the flashlight hit something and broke, plunging everybody into darkness.

  Christine could still hear the sounds of a fight, but now she couldn’t see anything. Not only was she a non-fan of being in the dark, but now she was in total darkness while bad things were happening pretty close by. She didn’t like it one bit. She wanted, no, needed to see what was going on.

  And just like that, she did.

  It wasn’t like normal sight at all. The Kung-Fu Fighting duo in front of her looked like two figures made of multicolored swirling lights, mostly reds and yellows in a multitude of hues. The tunnel outlines were rendered in a flat and dead grayscale tone, with little splashes of color here and there which she instantly knew were rats and some of the larger roaches and spiders in the area. She also knew that the woman attacking Face-Off was enjoying the violence with an almost – or maybe not so almost – sexual passion. Face-Off, on the other hand, was mildly amused and resigned to go along with the fight. This was Kestrel’s idea of a friendly greeting, but underlying that was also a test of strength, the kind of macho posturing that Christine thought was mostly a guy thing.

  Now that she could see (or sense, or whatever) the fight, it wasn’t that scary at all. The dynamic dumbos were trading punches that could break bones on a normal person, but they weren’t getting hurt; she knew that just the same way she knew what they were feeling. That is, she didn’t have a clue h
ow she knew those things, just that she knew them. Christine set the mystery aside, figuring she would go insane if she thought about it too much. Instead, she watched the fight and waited for it to stop.

  “Hey, lovebirds!” said somebody behind Christine. “Cut it out or I’m going to turn a hose on you!” Light – the real deal, not the weird stuff she was seeing with something other than her eyes – shone out, also behind her. Her normal vision returned as soon as there was enough light to see by, and the multicolor sensory input went away. Interesting.

  A door had opened off one of the tunnel sides, and a man stood by it. He was tall and athletic, and was wearing a black, gray and silver outfit that seemed to be equal parts rubber, chain mail and metal plates. A silver helmet with a different bird design covered most of his face. He had a big flashlight he was using to illuminate them.

  Kestrel stopped her attack on Face-Off as suddenly as she had started it. “Good workout, killer,” she said in a sultry voice. Christine had never been able to pull a sultry voice in her life: the few times she’d tried people thought she was having a stroke. Unfairly or not, she started hating Kestrel just a little bit.

  “Yeah, was it good for you, baby?” Face-Off said sarcastically. Those two had history together, Christine realized, the kind of history that involves bumping uglies followed by throwing plates and other stuff at each other. She felt a slight pang of jealousy, followed by a not-so-slight burst of annoyance. Yeah, let’s be the cliché damsel in distress getting all clingy Klingon on her knight in shining no-face. Not cool at all, Dark.

  “Face. Good to see you, bud,” Condor said, walking up. The two shook hands and Condor clapped Face-Off lightly on the shoulder. Christine figured Face-Off didn’t hug it out with most people, even friends like Condor.

  “I see you’ve met my new partner,” Condor said. Kestrel moved to Condor’s side and draped herself around him in a way that indicated their relationship involved a lot more than kicking criminal ass together. Kestrel the Super-Slut, Christine thought. Just great.

  “Condor, this is my friend Christine,” Face-Off said. Condor offered his hand, and Christine shook it politely. She sensed that Condor wasn’t a bad man, not exactly, but he had a healthy – or perhaps slightly unhealthy – ego, and even with Kestrel all over him, he still managed to check Christine out; she got the feeling the guy had gleaned her dress and cup size with one quick glance. Even without her new over-sensitiveness power, she could tell the guy gave off God’s Gift to Women vibes. Under that there was a darker undercurrent, but Christine didn’t try to study it too closely; she felt like she was snooping way too much already.

  “And you’ve already met Kestrel,” Face-Off continued. Kestrel looked Christine over but didn’t offer to shake her hand. It took her one look to pass judgment on Christine, who didn’t need super-empathy to know what the judgment had been: plain awkward girl, not a threat, someone to be mocked or otherwise ignored. Some things didn’t change across universes. There was a lot more about Kestrel than that, of course. Even a cursory peek with her new Christine-sense picked up a toxic emotional stew that left her reeling and without any desire to look any further.

  “Any friend of Face is a friend of mine,” Condor said.

  “Too bad all of Face’s friends can fit in the back of a rickshaw,” Kestrel added.

  “Yeah, I love you too, K,” Face-Off replied. He turned back to Condor. “Now that we’re done with all the pleasantries, can we get to work? Christine could use some help.”

  “I told you I would help, Face,” Condor replied. “If we all step into my lair, I’ll set up my equipment and we can do a full scan and all the basic power tests.”

  Hopefully they would be grading the tests on a curve.

  Chapter Seven

  The Freedom Legion

  Atlantic Headquarters, March 13, 2013

  Buried alive.

  Olivia O’Brien regained consciousness in total darkness. Concrete and metal pressed down on her, hundreds of tons of it. She tried to draw a breath and inhaled a mouthful of dirt instead. For a second, panic overwhelmed her, and she trashed against her prison. Something shifted above, and the pressure above her increased. Olivia stopped moving, and forced herself to think.

  She wasn’t in any immediate danger. Neolympians could not be suffocated, a fact that had baffled and infuriated biologists for decades. Lack of oxygen could cause temporary unconsciousness in parahumans, but sooner or later the same mysterious force behind their powers took over and restarted their metabolism, releasing oxygen by breaking down carbon dioxide in their system.

  Olivia had been in similar situations before. Wars and battles against parahumans often led to collapsing structures. Usually she was strong enough to dig herself out. She wouldn’t be doing so this time, not with much of a skyscraper piled up on top of her. She could lift a tank over her head, but she couldn’t move hundreds of tons of metal and stone, and even if she could, she would risk accidentally crushing any human survivors. She would have to wait for rescue teams to reach her.

  That gave her time to think, and to grieve. Cecilia was gone, and so were hundreds of people she had known, worked with, befriended. It had been twenty years since the Second Asian War, the last time she had lost so many people in so brief a time. Without wishing to do so, she found herself remembering the bad old times.

  1991. China. The Middle Kingdom had been a battleground for five decades, the site of two major wars and countless lesser skirmishes. This was no lesser skirmish. The Emperor and fifty armored divisions had burst out from the Dragon Wall and lunged toward Beijing. The Freedom Legion had assembled to defend the sovereign capital from the invaders.

  Olivia flew over the battlefield, her flaming bolts shattering T-95 tanks; Brass Man, Myrmidon and the dozen other flying heroes that made up Second Squad followed her lead. They had already scoured the skies clean of all Imperial Air Force aircraft. Down below, her husband Swift darted through the enemy forces, sending armored vehicles flying like discarded toys. The Patriot, hastily recalled into service, followed in Larry’s wake, leading Third through Fifth Squads, dozens of ground combat specialists, each of them able to fight a tank platoon single-handedly. Above her First Squad – the most powerful Legionnaires, including Ultimate, Janus and Hyperia – battled the Emperor himself and his Celestial Warriors; their struggle generated energy discharges capable of leveling entire city blocks. Behind her, the Seventh and Eight Squads of the Freedom Legion waited in reserve, ready to counter any breakthrough into the hastily assembled Chinese and UN defensive forces that stood between the Imperial horde and a city of eighteen million people.

  An intense flash of light above her was swiftly followed by a wave of overpressure that almost knocked her off the sky. Later she found out the massive explosion had scattered First Squad miles in every direction, temporarily removing its members from the fight. The explosion had also obliterated the Emperor's remaining Celestial Warriors. Olivia looked up and saw the Dragon Emperor, a tall man in a green-and-gold robe, surrounded by a coruscating flux of elemental energies. Held high in his hands was a miniature star, too bright to look at directly.

  “No,” Olivia whispered, a prayer more than anything else. Like so many prayers, it had gone unanswered.

  The Dragon Emperor flung the energy sphere down towards the rear of the defensive lines. It struck Seventh Squad’s positions.

  “No!” Her scream was lost in an apocalyptic explosion.

  The blast was later determined to have an explosive force equivalent to ten kilotons of TNT. Only one member of Seventh Squad survived. The other fourteen men and women, all friends and comrades, were lost, along with six thousand ROC and UN troops killed and three times as many wounded.

  Olivia screamed in wordless rage as she flew towards the Emperor. His elemental aura had faded somewhat, his power drained by the massive release of energy. Her flaming spears struck him again and again, sending him spinning in the air. Her rage fueled her powers to levels she
had never reached before or since.

  Maybe she managed to hurt him in his weakened state. Maybe he sensed First Squad rallying and coming back. For whatever reason, the Emperor fled, leaving behind over half a million Imperial soldiers to be killed or captured in the ensuing days. After the mopping up operations, the Legion held funerals for its fallen members: Olivia endured a heartbreaking parade of family members, friends and other loved ones paying their final respects to the dead.

  It would happen again. More neatly lined coffins, some draped in the national flags of the deceased’s countries of origin, others in the blazon of the Legion. More grieving men, women and children in black or the funereal colors of a dozen other cultures, some sobbing quietly, others in mute agony. Some looking at her with hatred for daring to survive what had killed so many others.

  “Artemis. This is Daedalus. Can you read me?”

  Her cochlear implant had survived the explosions and the ensuing building collapse. She subvocalized a response. “I read you, Daedalus. I’m safe for the time being. Please concentrate on other survivors first.”

  “Way ahead of you, Olivia,” Daedalus said. “You’re the last one. Larry is clearing a path towards your position. Stand by.”

  Now that she had been dragged back to the here and now, Olivia could hear and feel the sounds of Larry using his abilities to liquefy stone and metal, opening a tunnel into the debris. Sweet Larry, who still loved her even if he couldn’t help straying with other women. None of that mattered, of course. She had dead friends to bury – and to avenge.

  Olivia waited for her husband while nursing thoughts of retribution.

  Face-Off

  New York City, New York, March 13, 2013