“Christine?”
The gravelly voice made her jump like a goosed cat. Her father was leaning against a wall, dressed in the same ratty suit he always wore. He looked the same as the last time – or for that matter, the first one: old, sad and tired. And short: Christine was five three but if she was wearing heels she’d be able to see the top of his head.
“Dad? How the frell did you get here?” He wasn’t wearing a visitor’s badge, and George Washington Carver High School frowned (as in call the cops frowned) on unsupervised visitors roaming around its hallowed halls of learning.
“I have my ways,” he said by way of explanation, which wasn’t much, but typical of dear old Daddy. “You’re crying.”
“Nothing gets by you, Dad. Sorry, that was rude. I’m not having a good day, today. Or a good week, not really. Definitely a sucky month, since it’s almost over. Next month will probably suck, too. Speaking of next month, are you going to come over for Thanksgiving?” she asked, hoping to change the subject.
“No.” That was also pure Dad, Christine had discovered in the dozen or so hours she had spent with him over the years. He said what he meant, meant what he said, and if you didn’t like it you could go pound sand. He also didn’t let other people change the subject, although he himself did it all the time. “Why do you let those girls bother you? They are nothing. Tramps.”
“How did you know about the cheerleaders?” Christine said. Had he been spying on her? In the bathroom? Frelling creepy, Dad.
“I saw them leaving the bathroom, and I saw you leaving afterward. Nothing gets by me,” he said, the closest thing to a joke he’d ever uttered, and she thought he was smiling. It was hard to tell; Dad seemed to have only two expressions and both of them would make a Marine drill sergeant look like Mary Sunshine.
How come I didn’t see you in the hallway? Christine thought. Granted, she was upset and mostly looking at the floor, but it was strange she hadn’t noticed him.
“You shouldn’t let them scare you,” he went on.
“I know: fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering, yadda Yoda.”
“That’s one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard,” Dad said, starling her into a burst of laughter.
“You know what? You’re right.” She gave him a weak smile. “See? All better now. Thank you, Dad.”
“I wish I had been around more. I would have taught you how to fight,” he said.
“That would have been cool. Like that line from The Stand: 'Give me kung-fu in the face of my enemies.' I could use some kung-fu lessons.”
“Oriental fighting styles are fine, but you don’t need them,” Dad said, and went on before Christine could mention that ‘Asian’ was the preferred term this century. “Attitude is essential. And ruthlessness. You need to be willing to do whatever it takes to win, and show it.”
“And if the other girl or guy has attitude and ruthlessness, and is bigger and stronger?”
“Then you will lose, of course. But at least they’ll know they were in a fight.”
Christine snorted. “Dad, you don’t just not sugarcoat things, you don’t even Splenda-coat things. And why did you sneak into my school? You know Mom doesn’t like surprise visits, or unsupervised visits.” Even now that she was a couple years away from voting or serving in the military, Christine’s mother didn’t want her to be alone with Dad.
“I wanted to show you this.” ‘This’ was a cube he held out in his hand. It was made of some sort of brightly polished red stone, and was covered in little carvings, weird symbols she’d never seen before. “Here.” He handed it to her.
It felt heavy, like lead or gold, and it was warm. Her fingers tingled where they touched the stone. The symbols were pretty interesting. They were important, she was certain of that, although she had no idea why. She thought she could figure them out if she just looked at them long enough…
Dad took the cube away, and Christine felt like she’d just woken up from a nap. “What was that?”
“Something I made. I wanted to see what impression it made on you.”
“Well, it kind of hypnotized me, I think. It…” Something had happened between the moment she’d started looking at the symbols and when Dad had removed the cube from her hand, but she couldn’t remember it, just the way sometimes she would wake up knowing she’d had an intense dream but was unable to remember it. “You made a cube that plays Jedi mind tricks?” Or you made a cube and coated it with some really good drugs? Christine wanted to trust Dad – yes, he never was around but he’d sent money to her mother every month, and he seemed to give a crap about her in his own curt non-people person way – but let’s face it, she didn’t know Dad.
“Something like that.” He seemed disappointed in her somehow. “It was nothing. Forget about it.”
And she did. The memory would only come back five years later, floating forty thousand feet above the Earth while held in the arms of the Invincible Man.
“So no Thanksgiving,” Christine said. “Maybe next year?”
“I won’t be here next year,” he said.
Christine did not ask about the year after that. She had the feeling she wouldn’t like that answer, either.
The school bell rang. Her free period was over. Weird. Even counting her little encounter with the Cheerleader Death Squad and her chat with dad, it had only been like ten or fifteen minutes, hadn’t it? She looked at the time on her cell phone. Nope, an hour had come and gone. Time flies when you’re spending quality time with Dad.
“I have to go,” she said. “Or I could commit some truancy and we could go out for ice cream.” She’d never been absent without leave, but there’s a first time for everything.
Dad shook his head. “I have to go as well.” He did something very unlike him next: he hugged her tightly. “You will be all right now,” he said cryptically. “Take care, Christine.”
“You too, Dad.” This didn’t sound good. It sounded like goodbye. She felt tears gathering behind her eyes. She’d thought she’d cried herself out, but here was Dad sounding like he wasn’t coming back. Like ever.
He stepped away, and his eyes looked a little moist, too. Without another word, he left.
She didn’t go to the Halloween Dance, much to Harry Yang’s disappointment. The Princess Giselle Has an Alien Baby costume never got worn. Just as well, because the dance turned into a real-life horror story. Ellen, the rest of the Cheerleader Death Squad and their boyfriends had all gotten killed in a freak car accident on their way to the dance. The deaths were blamed on drugs, and the rest of the school year was a mess, between grief counselors and D.A.R.E. speakers and all that happy crappy. Christine felt sad and guilty for months. She’d often fantasized about Ellen meeting an untimely end, and that was a fantasy she now wished she’d never had. She never connected the deaths with her father, not until years later at forty-thousand feet yadda yadda.
Christine didn’t see her father again. Not on that world, at least.
* * *
“Dad?”
Maybe Porta Potty Man wouldn’t have been so bad.
The emotional Space Mountain ride was really getting to her. She’d been dealing with Ultimate’s feelings in the dream world, massive grief followed by massive anger; thank God he’d calmed down a little after beating the living crap out of the Dreamer. Then she’d had this little moment with him when they’d woken up, and her heart was still doing a little hippity hoppity thing. She didn’t go for jocks at all, but Holy Crap! Something about him just made her blush like a schoolgirl. And now, this:
“Last chance, Ultimate, or whoever is controlling him,” Dad said. His voice sounded kind of like she remembered, if you hired a sound FX team that loved to use reverb and had read the complete works of H.P. Lovecraft and put it to work jazzing it up. It was the scariest voice she’d ever heard. It made Darth Vader sound like Jessica Rabbit. Then Dad laughed, and that was the scariest laugh she’d ever heard. She didn’t want to even imagine
what his yodeling would sound like.
“Dad!” she called to him, and he stopped laughing, for which she felt immensely grateful. “It’s okay. He was being controlled, but I helped him break free. He’s fine now.”
“She’s telling you the truth, Lurker,” Ultimate – John, that’s his name, use it – said. He didn’t sound overly impressed by the Lurker’s – by Dad’s, that’s his name, use it – scary special effects.
Dad considered this for a few seconds. When he spoke next, his voice sounded a bit less scary, almost the way he sounded during his visits back on Planet Normalcy, a long time ago in a galaxy far away. Christine desperately wished she was back there.
“Very well,” he said. “She must come with me.”
“Fine,” John said. “But I’ll be coming along.”
“Wait!” Christine said, intruding into the superhero equivalent of dogs sniffing each other’s butts. “My friends. Face-Off and Condor.” And Kestrel, she guessed. “They got captured by the bad guys. Russians with weird ray guns. We have to find them!”
“Already taken care of,” Dad said. “I’ll take you to them.”
He floated closer, and she felt John tensing up, but he let Dad get to within arm’s reach. Lurker-Dad did some weird trick with his cloak, and things went dark and cold for a very disturbing second or two. Christine most definitely did not try to use her super-senses inside that darkness, and even without them she got the feeling there were things there, things she most definitely did not want to see. The darkness thankfully went away quickly and Christine, still in John’s arms, found herself in the now fairly crowded passenger compartment of the Condor Jet. Condor was leaning over Mark, who was slumped on a chair. Kestrel was looking away. Nobody looked happy.
Mark… Christine broke free from John and rushed to him. Mark’s pain was as bad as what John had experienced in Dreamland, and it hit Christine even harder. When he saw her, he hugged her convulsively, like a drowning man reaching for life preserver. “What happened?” she whispered as he squeezed her hard.
“Cassandra’s dead,” he said. The tone was flat. He was trying to bury the grief away. Christine let him do it for now. He wanted to be cool in front of everybody, and she could understand that. “I’m glad to see you in one piece,” he added.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. Cassandra had been so nice. Christine wanted to cry but this wasn’t the right place or time. “And I’m glad to see you in one piece too. I feel like crap for running away. That was not heroic at all.”
“No, that was the smart thing to do. Those assholes want you for some reason. You never give assholes what they want.”
“Too many words to put on a t-shirt, but I approve of the sentiment,” she said, and felt him smile a little. But then he saw John and the invisible smile disappeared.
Crap. She’d forgotten that Mark was an unlicensed vigilante. If John decided to arrest him, things might get messy.
“John, this is Face-Off. He saved my life. Face, this is John. He was being mind-controlled, but he's all better now.” She disentangled herself from Face-Off, who went over to John and shook his hand. Condor and Kestrel also exchanged greetings. Condor and John had already met, of course, although the vibes she got off them weren’t all warm and fuzzy. Kestrel was looking at John like a cat looking at a Red Lobster special. Was there anybody on Earth Kestrel didn’t want to screw? She was like a man with a vaj.
After greeting time was over, there was an awkward silence. Dad had put his gas mask back on, the one covered in symbols that hurt her head if she glanced at them for a few seconds – and which looked much like the ones in that cube he had shown her the last time she’d seen him. She was picking no vibes off him. Either he didn't have any emotions or he knew how to block her senses. Probably just as well. She was pretty sure she didn't want to know what was going on inside Dad's head. She still needed to know what was going on, however.
“So, Dad,” she said casually. “What’s new?”
Chapter Nineteen
Hunters and Hunted
New York City, New York, March 14, 2013/Kiev, Dominion of the Ukraine, February 28, 2013
“… and we returned to the safe house to await instructions,” Archangel said. On the phone’s view screen, Mr. Night’s expression did not change, his asymmetrical smirk seemingly frozen in place. “I have Medved and Lady Shi standing by, and the remnants of my team. Should we proceed to Chicago?”
“Things are moving fast, my dear cherubim.” Archangel’s jaw clenched at the mocking tone but he remained silent. “I’ll be there shortly.” The connection went dead.
Archangel started at the desk phone’s blank screen for several moments. Mr. Night was the middleman for his superior’s American partner, and in overall charge of the operation. Even on short acquaintance, he had come to intensely despise the old man with the uneven features and grating voice. To have to answer to him was nearly unbearable, and yet...
“And yet one does what one must,” Mr. Night completed Archangel’s unspoken thoughts. Archangel whirled on his chair and saw the man who had been in Chicago moments ago standing behind him.
“I decided it would be best for me to fetch you,” Mr. Night explained. “Things are not going well, dear boy, not well at all. We lost the girl, we lost Ultimate, who could have made such a great puppet, and I must presume that the Lurker and the girl have been reunited by now.”
“Is all lost, then?” Archangel asked cautiously. He would have to strike swiftly and with all his strength if he had any hopes of overcoming Mr. Night. If failure was total, there was no point in waiting for the inevitable punitive measures that would follow. He'd tried to intimidate Mr. Night once before, and that had ended up badly. This time he would not be posturing but fighting for his life, however. It was probably futile; the man in the black suit could read his thoughts and would be ready for his attack, but it was better to go down fighting than to meekly await his fate.
“Lost? Not at all, my murderous cherubim,” Mr. Night replied before Archangel could act. The words stilled any thought of action, for the time being, at least. “My adversary is sure to try to induct his precious little girl into the mysteries of the Source,” the strange man in black continued. “He will take her somewhere he deems safe, of course, but the process will create a very powerful energy signature. I will be able to locate it and take us to them. Then you will have your chance to redeem yourself, dear boy. You may even have a go at the faceless freak you want to slaughter so badly.”
Archangel had learned that his deepest thoughts and emotions were like an open book to Mr. Night, for all of his training in countering such forms of mental intrusion. This time he didn’t care. The chance to fulfill his promise to the dead witch made him surprisingly eager to do Mr. Night’s bidding. “What do I need to do?”
“The very words I wanted to hear. Splendid! Let me go gather our lovelorn couple: the Bear and the deadly lady have just completed renewing their carnal acquaintance and are cleaning up. Their experience at the hands of Cassandra was a bit harrowing for them, the poor things.” Mr. Night’s smile didn’t change, but something seemed to shift behind his sunglasses. “Ah, Cassandra. If I only I’d dealt with you when we first met.” Mr. Night left the room, leaving Archangel alone with his thoughts.
Two weeks days ago he had been in the court of the Iron Tsar, as content as one can be in a den of snakes where courtiers and favorites jockeyed for position and despised him for being a Russian parvenu. He had made his place there by strength and cunning, and he had no further ambitions beyond enjoying himself as much as he could while safeguarding his position. This assignment had changed everything.
* * *
Archangel answered the summons and arrived promptly to the Golden Spire, the 850-meter tall structure that dominated Kiev’s skyline and served as the Tsar’s home. On the lengthy lift ride up, flanked by two motionless Automaton guards, he forced himself not to think about what awaited him above. The Tsar rarely gave personal
audiences. Most of his interactions with the Dominion’s monarch had been ceremonial: state dinners, parades, and special celebrations. Archangel was not a member of the court’s inner circle, and he never expected that to change. An ethnic Russian – or a German, Pole, Rumanian or Jew for that matter, for all that they made up a large proportion of the Dominion's population – could only advance so far at court, with very few exceptions. This meeting was an unusual event.
Archangel retained his impassive demeanor and spent some time looking at himself in the gold-framed mirror on one of the lift’s walls. Not a hair out of place, his ghostly-pale persona intact. Good. Style was substance in the world of living legends and demigods. Whether this unusual meeting presented a danger or an opportunity, he would face it looking his best.
The lift’s doors opened, revealing the Wall of Enemies, a honeycomb of glass-covered cases containing thirteen severed heads in a pyramidal arrangement. Pride of place was given to two heads: Nikita Khrushchev’s and Stepan Bandera’s. Khrushchev, the Ukrainian Communist Party leader, had been killed by the Iron Tsar’s own hand in 1940, an act of open defiance to Stalin and part of the campaign to avenge Russian crimes against the Ukrainian people, a campaign that continued to this day. Stepan Bandera, the former leader of the largest Ukrainian nationalist group on the eve of the Great Patriotic War, had died for the crime of being in the way of the Iron Tsar’s ambitions.
The other eleven heads changed from one year to the next, as new enemies were executed and put on display. The replaced trophies were in a museum-like room a lower level; the last time Archangel had bothered to check the Gallery of Enemies had contained ninety-seven heads. He noticed a couple of new faces at the bottom of the triangle: a Russian general caught plotting against the Dominion and a young woman, the former leader of a pro-democracy movement. She was fairly attractive. It was a pity she had chosen to become an enemy of the Throne.
Other, less gruesome trophies lined the walls of the crimson-carpeted corridors leading to the audience chamber. He walked past several historical art pieces, including portraits and busts of Vladimir the Great, Saint Olga, Yaroslav the Wise and many other rulers and heroes of Ukraine’s past. A modern painting depiced the Iron Tsar accepting the surrender of Soviet general Zhukov in 1944. The look on Zhukov’s face was that of a man trying to wake up from a terrible nightmare. Archangel could sympathize. The world had been living in a terrible nightmare since the New Olympians had become the masters of the planet. In such a state of affairs, of course, it paid to be one of the nightmarish beings rather than their victims.
New Olympus Saga (Book 1): Armageddon Girl Page 33
