Chastity lunged at Daedalus and slammed him against a wall, one hand tight around his throat. “What the hell is that thing, Daedalus?”
He pushed against her, to no avail. “My, you seem to have gotten a tad stronger,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me what happened, Chastity? Then I’ll explain as much as I can. And would you mind letting me go? I’m not in the mood to play bottom tonight.”
Chastity released him and stepped back. Daedalus absently rubbed his throat and waited for her to speak. “A Celestial attacked us. He took down Celsius. I used the dagger.”
“Saved your life, didn’t it? Any Celestial would have torn you apart otherwise. They run at 2.5 or higher, mostly higher. Why so mad, then?”
“The dagger did something to the Celestial. It did something to me.” Chastity said and showed him her scarred palm. The burn had healed but the symbols seared into her skin remained. “What is that thing?”
“It's a prototype,” he said. “It took me ten years, working on and off, to build the damn thing. My own little vorpal blade, snicker-snack. But it didn’t work very well for me, so I thought it’d make a great gift for the girl who had everything.”
“Stop talking nonsense. You made a magical dagger? I thought your devices were all technological.”
“My best toys have nothing to do with any technology humanity can understand,” Daedalus said. “Might as well call it magic. My Myrmidon armor cannot be reproduced: the best combat suits Smith Industries builds for the US military have six percent of its firepower and maybe two percent of its defensive capabilities. It’s all magic, Chaz.”
His infuriating use of a diminutive for her name had been one reason she had left him. His tendency to pontificate for any reason or none was another. “So what does your vorpal blade do? What did it do me?”
“Tell me what happened, and I’ll try to explain it to you.”
Chastity described the events in Kazakhstan. Daedalus nodded. The calculation in his eyes had been replaced with measured excitement. “Okay. First of all, I picked the right person for the blade. Few people have the strength of will to use the device. I’d probably have ended up dead if I had used it on a Neolympian. The couple of times I tested it proved that rather definitely.” Seeing Chastity’s glare grow in intensity, he rushed on. “Short form: the dagger absorbed the Chimp’s energy matrix. Found the link between him and the Source, severed it and drained all the energy in his body. It tried to do the same to you, but you resisted it, and instead it forged a connection with you. And dumped at least some of the Celestial’s power right into your sexy bod, by the way. I’d be careful on my next sparring session if I were you. My guess is you’ll find you’ve gone up several points in the Parahuman Ability Scale. Maybe a full integer.”
“What is the Source?”
“It’s my pet term for whatever fuels our powers. Einstein’s Spooky Energy, or Oppenheimer’s Gifts of Shiva, if you will. The dagger was an attempt to manipulate our access to the Source. It was partially successful.”
“You knew that if I used the dagger it could kill me.”
“I told you to use it only if the alternative was death,” Daedalus said without a trace of remorse. “Like I said, it was a prototype. If I perfect the design, there won’t be any side effects. I’m still working out the kinks, in between saving the world and building better mousetraps for the edification of the masses.”
“So what happens now?”
“That’s up to you, my dear. I’m guessing you didn’t mention the dagger or what it did to the Celestial in your report, did you?”
“I wanted to talk to you first, and Swift didn’t give me a chance to do it before the debriefing. So, no, I didn’t say anything.”
“Good ol’ Swifty. Why the hell did you sleep with him? Larry’s a complete fuck-up when it comes to women. One of these days Olivia is going to wake up and snap his neck. At least I’m an honest philanderer who’s never going to get married.”
Chastity shrugged. “What’s done is done.”
“So do you forgive me?”
“I don’t think you are telling me everything.”
“I’m probably telling you too much. If you blab to Doc Slaughter about this, I’ll never hear the end of it. His own attempts to find the Source went spectacularly wrong, and now he thinks it’s too dangerous to even try to do it. He can be such an old woman about this stuff.”
“He’s probably right,” Chastity said, opening and closing the fingers of her marked hand. She seemed to have full mobility there, but she could feel every contour of the mark on her palm, along with an echo of the pain that had preceded its creation. “What happened with the Celestial… It was wrong, Daedalus. I have killed many times, but what that dagger did to him was much worse than death. I think a part of him is trapped inside the dagger.” Or inside me, she thought but did not say out loud.
“You’re still alive, aren’t you? Would you rather have let him kill you, probably after a little rape as an appetizer? Why are you giving your gift horse a full dental checkup, Chaz? Let it go. If you don’t want the dagger, I’ll be happy to take it off your hands.”
“I’d rather hold on to it,” she replied, surprising herself. She had gone to Daedalus’ apartment resolved to throw the dagger at his feet. Now that she knew he wanted it back, she felt reluctant to part with it.
“No problem. You survived using it once, it’ll probably be easier to use it again. We’ll be calling you Chastity the God-Slayer in no time.”
“Sounds rather pretentious to me.”
Daedalus chuckled. “You are one of a kind, Chaz. Why did we ever break up?”
“You wanted more than I wanted to give and far more than you were prepared to give in return. You were a patronizing bastard. And you wouldn’t stop calling me Chaz.”
“And you were a bit of a bitch, now that I think about it.”
She smiled at him. “Always.”
“If we are done, I’ll get back to schtupping Linda, if you don’t mind. The invitation to join us still stands.”
“The rejection of the invitation still stands, too. And you said her name was Lydia.”
“Close enough.”
* * *
Daedalus Smith closed the door after Chastity left and considered things for a few seconds. He probably should have insisted on getting the dagger back from her, but the damage was done. She was Marked and irrevocably linked to the weapon. He shrugged. Giving her that little present had been stupid, but he was somewhat fond of her. He’d given her the dagger in the off-chance she might be one of the few people able to survive its use, and also as an experiment of sorts. The fact that the weapon had worked and hadn’t killed her outright was valuable information. As long as she didn’t figure things out, everything would be well.
It didn’t really matter. Things were already in motion and they would be over one way or another long before Chastity and the dagger became an issue.
Things would have been already over if the fucking girl hadn’t escaped.
If Mr. Night and the damn Ukrainians didn't find her soon, he would have to go with Plan B, and that scheme had a much lower chance of success. He was hopeful they would succeed. The target was little more than a child, and wholly ignorant of her abilities and the way this universe worked. She should be easy prey. If she wasn’t, he’d go with Plan B and roll the dice. The stakes were well worth the gamble.
Taking over the world wasn't for the faint of heart.
Daedalus forced his customary smirk back into place and strode into the bedroom.
Hunters and Hunted
Chicago, Illinois, March 14, 2013
God is in the details. Take care of enough details, and you could kill God.
Mr. Night tittered at his own witticism. On the next street over, a wino sleeping off his last binge heard the laughter, went into convulsions and choked to death on his own tongue. Mr. Night noted the man’s passing with a smile. Another little detail ironed out. Seven billion to g
o.
He walked the dark streets of Chicago and the few people he passed by got the hell out of his way. The walk was inconvenient, but the same protections he had set around his place of business to prevent pesky interlopers – like one Mr. Damon Trent, a.k.a. the Lurker – from interfering with his business also made teleportation there impossible. He had instead arrived to Chicago in a blind alley a few blocks away. The exertions of this evening’s travels had left him feeling a bit peaked, but he managed the walk nonetheless.
The third-floor office in the low-rent building beckoned him. The building was empty at this time of night and most of it was vacant anyway. Although he never misbehaved there – don’t shit were you eat was good advice as well as a delightful expression – most people didn’t find him an agreeable neighbor. Only one fellow tenant had remained in the building for more than six months after Mr. Night moved into the neighborhood, and he was a sour old accountant, a secret serial killer with a soul as black as coal, just the kind of fellow who would feel warm and cozy in the vicinity of Mr. Night and all his works. One of these days Mr. Night must pay him a friendly visit to get acquainted and exchange stories. The murderous accountant would not survive the experience, but in the end he was yet another detail to iron out.
The receptionist was at her desk when he entered the office. Wanda never left her desk, and would never leave it until he finally released her into that good night. He had recruited her from a local morgue, a nice young woman who had run into a mugger with a sharp knife and a taste for death. Wanda’s corpse had been fresh when Mr. Night appropriated it, and she still looked rather nice, if perhaps a teensy bit gray around the edges.
Wanda looked up when he walked in: her eyes were devoid of emotion or personality. The dead woman’s soul and consciousness were trapped inside a very special place of Mr. Night’s creation, screaming her notional lungs off in utter agony and despair, along with a select few others. The poor girl must be quite insane by now. The thought warmed the cockles of his heart, darn him if it didn’t.
“Any messages, my dear?” he asked her politely.
Wanda's dead eyes glanced at the computer on her desk, then back at him. “Mr. Twist left instructions to call him tonight,” she said in a pleasant voice.
“Thank you, Wanda. Carry on.”
Mr. Night entered his inner sanctum, a small office with no decorations except for hundreds of complex geometric figures only he could see. His energies were at a dangerously low ebb, but here he would replenish them. He sat on an old rolling chair, put his feet up on the desk and enjoyed a moment of peace. Mr. Night nominally worked as the troubleshooter for two different conspiracies. Even for a man of his skills it was akin to juggling a dozen knives while blindfolded. The current situation wouldn’t last much longer, however. The girl’s arrival had seen to that.
Her escape from the grasp of one of the conspiracies was troublesome, but he hadn’t been surprised. She was a creature of Mr. Night’s worst enemy. The girl was a tool designed to destroy everything he had worked so hard to achieve. Unfortunately she was also an indispensable element for the plans of Mr. Night’s true superiors. If you juggled knives blindfolded, you’d inevitably get cut. His great adversary had the advantage of having access to both the Source and the Outside. Mr. Night only served the Outside, and his grasp over It was weaker than he wanted to admit, even to himself. Direct action was luckily not his purview. He was much better at pulling strings and letting useful idiots do most of the heavy lifting.
Speaking of useful idiots, he had a call to make. Thaddeus Twist owned the Global News Network, several movie studios and controlling interests in dozens of other corporations around the world. All the wealth and power the man wielded were secretly dedicated to one end: the eradication of Neolympians from the world. Mr. Night had been working for Twist for several years. The billionaire trusted him, and thought he was a loyal human agent. He was wrong on all accounts.
The media magnate wasn’t used to be kept waiting, and it was getting late. Mr. Night dialed a very exclusive number, one that led directly to Twist’s personal wrist-comm. A few seconds’ later, the billionaire’s face appeared on the screen.
“Night. Took you long enough. I’ve been trying to reach you for hours!”
“My apologies, Mr. Twist,” he said meekly. It was best to let certain people think they were in charge. “What can I do for you?”
“You could start by telling me you have located Smith’s facility.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have the exact location just yet,” Mr. Night lied with great conviction, since he had just returned from said facility. “I am certain it is somewhere in the vicinity of New York City, however.”
“New York… Are you sure? If we have to strike there…”
“Some collateral damage is going to be unavoidable, sir,” Mr. Night said. “We are talking about saving seven billion humans from the tyranny of five thousand freaks.” Twist didn’t say anything for several seconds. Mr. Night kept his peace, letting the billionaire convince himself without any further prompting. The man thought he was saving humanity from the Neolympian plague. His intentions were good through and through, and nothing was deadlier than a human convinced he was doing the right thing.
Twist shrugged. “Keep at it, Night. We are going to need that location as soon as possible so we can make arrangements to take it out. Meanwhile we have a war to arrange.”
“I will keep in touch, sir.”
Twist hung up.
Twist and his followers wanted to save humanity. The second conspiracy he pretended to serve sought absolute power. Both groups were unwittingly doing his bidding and moving closer towards his own goal: a lifeless planet stripped of life and sentience once and for all.
Mr. Night sat back and let the darkness feed him. The dance was on, and he was calling the tune.
Chapter Eleven
Christine Dark
New York City, New York, March 14, 2013
It was late, but Christine was too wired to sleep.
Mark had shown her to a guest bedroom, which was bigger than the dorm room she shared with Sophie back on Earth Prime. The room had a thirty-inch TV-slash-computer computer screen on a big desk with a comfy rolling chair, a king-sized bed, a personal bathroom, and all the amenities of a five-star hotel. Lying on the bed were fresh towels and a very plush bathrobe. He’d wished her a good night and left.
Christine was tired, but there was no way she was going to sleep without checking out Earth Alpha’s interwebbies.
The differences and similarities had her head spinning fairly quickly. First of all, this wasn’t a home computer but a terminal tied to a bigger system. She wasn’t sure if that was the case for all home systems or just Condor’s; something else to go on the Giant List o’ Questions. Mouse, check, screen, check, keyboard, check, no surprises there. A retina scanner, interesting. When she fired off the computer, the Microsoft logo greeted her and she burst into laughter. The power of the Gated One was truly great!
The graphic user interface wasn’t exactly like any she had ever used before, but it was close enough for her to figure it out. She fired off Hypernet Explorer and went surfing. More differences to add to the pile. Not Internet but Hypernet. Not World Wide Web but XanaWeb, which was apparently short for Xanadu Web. On Earth Prime, Xanadu had been a crappy ‘70s movie, as far as she could remember. In this universe web pages were labeled xw.whatever.something instead of www.whatever.something. She tried to open Wikipedia, but instead found Hyperpedia, which was like Wikipedia and the Encyclopedia Britannica combined; Britannica had been absorbed into Hyperpedia back in the 1990s; they had stopped releasing it in printed format in 1996 (she found that out by doing a Hyperperdia search on the origins of Hyperpedia, of course).
Christine grinned like a Cheshire cat on loco weed. This was her chance to pare down the Giant List o’ Questions! Wiki, er, Hyper away, oh cyber-explorer!
A few seconds later, she backed away in frustration. To get to
the full articles in Hyperpedia, she needed to log on with her XID, whatever that was. She Googled it (yay Google!), and found it was short for Xanadu Identification. Again with freaking Xanadu. Okay, how do I get one of those, and is it a good idea? she asked herself.
Well, you could ask the big talking computer Condor uses, her brain answered. Easier than Google.
Well done, brain. I will recommend you to all my friends. Out loud: “Computer?”
“Good evening, Christine,” the computer said. “You have guest privileges in the Lair. How may I help you?”
Beam me the frak up, Scotty! The computer made Siri sound like a half-wit. “Er, I wanted to know how to get an XID, Also, if I get an XID, will I be risking detection by the bad guys looking for me?”
“Getting an XID requires you to register a username and a biometric signature. It is done at no cost, and is nearly impossible to track, as long as you restrict yourself to passive observation.”
“Okay, so I won’t start a blog or open a Facebook page,” Christine told herself. “Thank you, Computer. You can go away now.”
“You are welcome. Good night.”
She registered as Nonl33td00d92, which surprisingly wasn’t taken. The retina scanner took a picture of her eyeball, and now she had an ID which apparently was good for just about everything in the XanaWeb. And no need to remember a password, since your password was your retinal pattern, which you pretty much carried inside your eye sockets everywhere you went. Neat and neater.
Back to Hyperpedia. Full access granted, I am your Queen and mistress, bow to me and kiss my l33t feet. Okay, she admitted to herself, getting an ID wasn’t exactly a hax0r achievement, but still. She wondered how well hackers did in this world. Probably not very, if people with super powers could track them down to their parental-basement hideouts. Having an ID permanently tied to you would also not be helpful to maintaining anonymity. Lots less a-holes with Internet balls throwing virtual feces around, too. Spammers would be on the same boat. A world without spammers and trolls? Talk about paradise!
New Olympus Saga (Book 1): Armageddon Girl Page 20
