“I can imagine. Having fights between people who can throw cars around has to be bad for the environment,” she said as she sat down next to me.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Condor offered. “I have a nice wine selection, and even a good assortment of beers for my more proletarian friends,” he said, looking at me.
“I’ll just have a diet soda, please. I’m done with alcohol for a while. Oh, can Neos get drunk? I figure the regeneration thingy would flush alcohol out of our systems pretty quickly, wouldn’t it?”
“That’s correct,” Condor said, giving her an ‘I really like you’ look. “It’s almost impossible for most Neos to get drunk on wine or beer,” he continued, handing her a glass filled with Diet Coke and ice. “Hard liquor will do it, but we don’t stay drunk very long, and we never get hangovers.”
“Wow. That’s pretty neat, except for the huge bar tabs,” Christine noted before taking a sip of her soda. She looked at her glass. “This doesn’t taste like diet at all.”
“Why should it taste differently?” Condor asked. “Some people pretend they can tell the difference between diet and regular, but they are full of it.”
“In my world diet and regular sodas don’t taste anything alike. More Neo super-science at work, I guess.”
“The original formulae were developed by a Neo scientist, yes. Diet foods are mostly made of ‘mirror molecules’ that fool your taste buds but have no nutritional value.”
“Which can cause problems sometimes,” I added. “Between the diet sodas and diet foods, there’ve been cases of people literally starving to death even while eating like pigs. That’s why there’s huge warning labels on all the diet shit, to make sure morons don’t kill themselves.”
“Now that’s pretty amazing. If I brought the formula or recipe or whatever back to my world, I’d become mega-rich, like buy and sell Oprah and J.K. Rowling rich. Funny thing is, I like the way diet soda tastes, even though I know the stuff is terrible for you. This stuff actually tastes too sweet for me. Weird. I don’t really gain weight easily anyway – hmm, can we get fat? I figure the super-metabolism and healing must burn calories like crazy.”
“Well, it’s a complicated situation,” Condor said, and I sat back, slurped my beer, and resigned myself to a lecture on Neo biology. “First of all, no amount of food intake would allow for the energy usage even a Type One Neolympian displays. The weakest Neos can recover from near-fatal injuries in a matter of days or even hours, for example. Our bodies get energy from an extra-biological source. Nobody’s sure exactly what it is.”
“Einstein went crazy trying to figure it out,” I said, just to be part of the conversation. I wasn’t crazy about the way Christine was looking at Condor. He normally has that effect on women, but in her case it was clearly his brains she found attractive. “He called the source of Neo powers ‘spooky energy’ and spent the last few years of his life trying to find out where it came from.”
“In any case, our energy consumption is supplied by that ‘spooky’ source of energy. Our digestive system is like a car battery hooked up to a nuclear power plant. It’s basically redundant.”
“Wait – that means we don’t really need to eat,” Christine said. “We don’t really need to breathe, either, I guess.”
“In theory, yes,” Condor said, and he looked just like a professor who’d just found his new favorite pupil. “In practice, you will feel hunger pangs if you don’t eat, and lack of oxygen will cause temporary unconsciousness, but not death.”
“Holy mother of crap. So we can’t get fat, then.”
“It’s not impossible – excess calories above our metabolic base rate will still create fat cells. But it takes something on the order of nine, ten thousand calories a day for an average-size Neo to start putting on weight. If I ate that much and led a sedentary life, I’d probably gain a couple of pounds a month. So if you ever see an obese Neo, and there are a few out there, they must be eating ten or twenty times as much as a normal person over a period of years or decades.”
“That’s cool. The not needing to breathe thingy is cooler, though.”
“It makes breath control games so much safer,” Kestrel said, entering the dining room. She was wearing civvies: tight red leggings, an even tighter black tank-top and high heels that accentuated her long legs. Her dark black hair was done differently than the last time I had seen her without a mask, cut short in a pixie-like fashion. The sharp facial features were the same, with a nose that was a bit large for her face but which in combination with her high cheekbones created a striking if not quite beautiful whole. She kissed Condor and sat on his lap. “I can let Condor choke me until the lights go out. It’s pretty intense.” Kestrel smiled at Christine. “You should try it sometime.”
Christine didn't say anything.
“Ease up, Kestrel,” I said. “Not everyone is a preevert.”
“There aren’t any perverts. There are people who dare to try new stuff, and people who don’t,” Kestrel replied playfully. Condor looked embarrassed but didn’t say anything, and I realized his new sidekick had gotten her hooks into him real good. The couple of times Kestrel had gotten me to go along with her S&M games it’d quickly become obvious I wasn’t into them. From the look in Condor’s eyes, I was pretty sure he’d discovered things about himself he hadn’t expected. What a mess.
“Let’s play nice,” Condor finally said. He was actually blushing a bit. “Dinner is in the kitchen, right?” he asked Kestrel.
She nodded. “I brought dinner and heard some rumors,” she said. “Looks like every Russian, Belorussian and Ukrainian gang in the city has gotten new marching orders; they are looking for a pale girl with red hair. There’s even a picture of her making the rounds.” Kestrel tossed a flier on the table. There was no text on the flier, just a picture of Christine, taken while she was lying on a hospital bed.
“First the Eye-talians, now the Russkies,” Condor wondered.
“Or maybe it was the Russians all along,” I said. “They don’t do that well outside their little enclaves. They might have subcontracted the grab at the hospital.”
“Yay. Find me, win valuable prizes,” Christine said in a low voice. She didn’t look very happy at all.
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “Condor’s lair is very well protected. Nobody’s going to find you here.” Of course, sooner or later we’d have to leave, and things would get interesting.
My comm started vibrating. It was Cassandra, finally.
Her call wasn’t as helpful as I hoped.
Chapter Nine
Christine Dark
New York City, New York, March 13, 2013
The food was good – even in Bizarro universe, you could find good Chinese takeout in New York City – but Christine only picked desultorily at her General Tso’s chicken. She was on the verge of an anxiety attack, and she desperately did not want to lose it. Not in front of Face-Off. And certainly not in front of Kestrel and Condor. She might be immune to asphyxiation, but not to embarrassment.
So how do I worry thee, she told herself. Let me count the ways.
For starters, the whole super-power bit was beginning to scare the ever living pee out of her.
Christine had never been all that much into superhero comics, except for a brief love affair with The X-Men when she was a child. She had been crazy for all the movies (well, until the third movie, when they butchered most everyone), and for a while it had been all about graphic novels and Anna Paquin posters. For the most part, though, she’d been more into fantasy, both sword and sorcery and contemporary dark modes. Dragons and vampires were her thing, not men in tights fighting crime.
The idea of running around in a painted-on costume – the little spandex model Condor had made her wear didn't show too much skin, but it was pretty snug and made her feel like the star of a fetish porn production – didn’t exactly thrill her. The idea of fighting crime, or even things like pollution, global warming or offshore drilling sent the
butterflies in her stomach into a fluttering frenzy. Christine was perfectly comfortable fighting giant monsters in an online game, but real life confrontations turned her into a wet noodle. No effing way she was going to go around beating on people in a world where cosplay wasn’t play at all.
She really wanted to go home. Yes, her life on Earth Prime kinda sucked, but it was a suckitude she could handle. Going to school and dealing with Sophie and worrying she’d graduate with a six-figure student loan and a job at Starbucks, she could handle. Sitting in some underground secret base while a guy with no face who apparently killed people whenever they annoyed him discussed strategy with a genuine All-American Superhero, she couldn’t handle all that well. Especially when the All-American Superhero’s girlfriend was a crazy S&M skank who every few minutes looked at Christine much the way a cat would look at a particularly tasty tiny critter. Whatever Kestrel was thinking about Christine, she was sure it involved lots of adult toys and not-so-erotic asphyxiation. Even worse, Kestrel and Condor had exchanged a couple of glances that seemed to include Christine. She was afraid that if Face-Off wasn’t around the words ménage a trois might rear their ugly French heads. Or, since Kestrel wasn’t exactly shy, by the time dessert came around the words ménage a quatre might pop up.
The worst part was, no matter how scared and desperate to go home she was, she was stuck here. There was the whole question of who had brought her here, and why. Since whoever it was had sent a bunch of mobsters to pick her up at the hospital, she was pretty sure their plans for her did not include a pony, tiara and all-expense paid vacation to Disney World (did they have Disney World in Earth Alpha? Not now, brain!). She wanted to go home, but they, whoever they were, had found her there. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
Christine forced herself to bite into a piece of chicken while fighting off her incipient panic attack. Blubbering and demanding to go home wasn’t going to help. Let’s try some damned Vulcan logic. Something had plucked her from her home, and might well do it again. At least here she had some allies, and she might even be able to protect herself. From the tests Condor had put her through she had more firepower and defenses than your average 25-man raid. She wasn’t going to run around in a cape and mask, but she might be able to deal with this situation, hopefully without too much violence, and then go home.
While Christine confronted her anxieties, her new pals continued to discuss the call Face-Off got from Cassandra. Christine had wanted to say hi to her – it would have been nice to talk to her outside dreamland – but the call had been short and abrupt, and her marching orders had left Face-Off angry and bewildered.
Do not contact the authorities. Find the Lurker. Do not contact me again. That had been it. If she had been Face-Off, she would have been peeved off, too. Who the eff was the Lurker?
“All I can tell you is that he hasn’t been in New York in decades,” Condor told Face-Off. “The Lurker’s been working out of Chicago since the Seventies. We teamed up a few times, but the last time was back in ’08 or ‘09. We hunted down a Neo serial killer, a really nasty bastard who liked to travel around. I have no idea where the Lurker is now. He’s been off the radar for a while. That’s been his M.O. for a while. Disappears for a year or two, makes a quick kill or two, then disappears again.”
“And you have no idea where he goes when he disappears?” Face-Off asked.
“Well, he is the Lurker. He doesn’t exactly show off for the press. He might have been in Chicago all along, or walking the earth. Who knows?”
Kestrel spoke in a deep, gravelly voice. “Who sees the darkness in all men’s souls? The Lurker does!” She was clearly quoting something.
“The Lurker was one of the first mystery men in the late 1920s and early ‘30s,” Condor explained to Christine. “He even got a radio show very loosely based on his adventures. That was the show’s signature catch phrase.”
“A radio show and dozens of novels, not to mention a few movie serials, and a really lousy motion picture in the ‘90s” Face-Off said. “He was my favorite mystery man when I was growing up.”
“Yeah, he suits you. You both like to work in the shadows and shoot people,” Kestrel commented. “I wonder what else he likes to do in the shadows.”
“He’s not your type, Kestrel,” Condor said. If he was bothered about his girlfriend-sidekick showing interest in other men of mystery, he didn’t show it. “The Lurker is all work and no play. The guy’s straight like a Mormon and pretty creepy to boot. He’s a strange little man. He never took off that gas mask he always wears, even when we were kicking up our heels after the job was done. Doesn’t drink, doesn’t joke around. And you don’t want to ever, ever quote that ‘darkness in all men’s souls’ line to him. He really doesn’t like it.”
“Yeah, you’ve only told the story a million times,” Face-Off said.
“Uh, I haven’t heard it yet,” Christine said tentatively.
“Condor tried to be a smartass, and the Lurker punched him through a wall. The end,” Face-Off said in a deadpan tone. “There, I saved you a good ten minutes of your life.”
“You have no storytelling skills, Face,” Condor said.
“I’m just fucking frustrated. Cassandra can be cryptic sometimes, but this one takes the cake. There’s probably better instructions in the fortune cookies that came with dinner.” As he spoke, Face-Off cracked open a cookie and read the little paper strip inside. “Here we go: ‘Hard work you enjoy is not hard work at all.’ That’s only slightly less helpful than ‘Find a superannuated mystery man.’ And why him? He’s one of the oldest Neos around, sure, but why can he help instead of the Freedom Legion or someone with more juice?”
“We just don’t know,” Condor said. “Besides, the Legion has problems of its own. I know you’ve both been too busy to follow the news, but someone nuked them earlier today.”
“Nuked?” Christine gasped.
“Yeah. It’s pretty bad. I’ve been checking updates in between the tests. They haven’t released a casualty report yet, but it’s got to be bad. They are going to be pretty busy dealing with that. Anyway, maybe that’s why the Legion can’t help. Or maybe it’s because they don’t know anything about Christine, and somehow the Lurker does.”
“The Lurker does!” Kestrel said in her fake Lurker voice. Christine got the feeling that when Kestrel found something funny, she kept picking at it long past its expiration date.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Face-Off said. “I was a fan of the guy but he’s never been a major player. About my league, maybe, and that ain’t the majors, that’s for sure,” he concluded bitterly.
“He’s a strange guy,” Condor mused. “And I only saw what he wanted me to see, but he’s learned quite a few tricks over the years. Invisibility. Some sort of darkness powers. I think even teleportation, although how much is sleight of hand and how much actual Neo powers I don’t know. He might be a lot more capable than we think.”
“Cassandra has never steered me wrong before, so I’m not going to start second-guessing her,” Face-Off said resignedly. “Just wish she’d just told us why we have to go see Mr. Creepy.”
Christine had a sudden nasty thought. “I have one more theory,” she said. “Maybe he’s my father.”
Condor looked at her. “I really hope that’s not the case.” The expression in his face made Christine shudder. Her dad had been a bit weird and creepy, though. It kinda fit, even if the idea scared her.
“Could be. If he's learned so many new tricks, maybe he can hop to other universes, too. Wish Cassie would just tell us,” Face-Off said. “I guess we’ll find out when we meet him. We’re going to have to go look for the Lurker in Chicago. Got any ideas, Gramps?”
“I have a couple of contacts in Chi-Town that might help,” Condor said. “And don’t call me Gramps, it’s disrespectful.”
“Sorry, Gramps. Any ideas on how to get there?”
“I guess I’m going to have to dust off the old Condor Jet.”
“No wa
y,” Christine said. She hated flying with a passion. She'd actually made her mother and grandfather drive her and her stuff from New Jersey to Michigan rather than get on a freaking plane when she went off to college, and the two round-trip flights she'd taken home since then had been among the worst experiences in her life, up until the last couple of days, of course.
“It’s fast, it’s stealthy, it’s VTOL, and it seats twelve,” Condor said. “It’s a perfectly serviceable aircraft.”
“No freaking way,” Christine said, for all the good she knew it would do. They were going to make her fly, her father was probably a creep who walked around wearing a gas mask, and she was going to cosplay whether she wanted to or not. She didn't think things could suck any worse, but she had a feeling she'd be proven wrong about that, too.
The Freedom Legion
Atlantic Headquarters, March 13, 2013
“We might as well get started,” Daedalus Smith said wearily.
They had done all that could be done for the living. The dead were being slowly extricated from the wreckage. Hyperia and Kenneth had survived the explosion as well, although both had been badly injured. Daedalus had been just far enough away to avoid the worst of it, and his Myrmidon armor had weathered the distant flash and shockwave without taking damage. The others had been too close to the blast.
The Legion’s meeting room was in the Freedom Hall, which had survived the attack nearly unscathed. The assault had focused on the office buildings on the island; the attackers had targeted civilians and support staff. John felt ashamed about that. The island’s vaunted defenses had been overwhelmed by the opening missile barrage, and the civilian buildings had never been meant to withstand military weapons. Should they have done more to protect the thousands of humans working for the Legion? The aftermath’s answer was clearly yes.
Four of the eight Council Members (Kenneth, Olivia, Daedalus Smith and himself) were sitting at the table. The other four (Chasca, Darkling, General Xu and Meteor) were based on the Pacific Headquarters in the Marshall Islands and had holographic avatars in place, linked by the most secure communication systems the Legion could devise. John missed the old days when the entire Legion could meet in a conference room. That was no longer possible; the organization had over two hundred full-time members. A governing Council had been formed in 1962, with eight Councilors elected by the Legion’s membership for two-year terms. John had served in the Council every term since then. People trusted him. If they only knew what was going on in his head lately…
New Olympus Saga (Book 1): Armageddon Girl Page 17
