“Your eye will grow back,” Mark said. “Eyes heal very fast even in normal humans, let alone Neos; your average Neo can grow an eyeball in a matter of days. You’ll probably get it back in a few hours, provided they don’t keep zapping you with disruptors. It’s going to hurt like blazes, though, or so I’m told.”
“Oh, thank God. Not about the hurting part, but…”
“I know. I love your eyes, too. But I’d love you with an eye-patch or no eyes at all.”
“You say the sweetest things, Marky.”
“In dismemberment and in health and all that.”
“You’d better not be proposing. Not in Dreamland and not while I’m wearing Hello Kitty pajamas.”
Mark grinned and shook his head. “That’d be a little premature, not to mention inappropriate. We need to get out before you find out exactly how many body parts you can grow back.”
“Again, sweetest things.”
“Just keeping an eye on the ball.”
She actually laughed at that, despite the pain. “You dick!”
“Sorry, couldn’t resist.” There was pain behind the gallows humor, seeping past his emotion blocks. Her suffering was hurting him almost as much as her.
“The Iron Tsar himself is coming down to see me, by the way.”
“Don’t forget to curtsy and call him His Highness, then.”
“I also learned a couple more things from the Codex, including conversational Ukrainian. I think they might help us escape.”
“Whenever you think you’re ready, say the word and we’ll make our move.”
Christine almost suggested they did it right now, but quickly reconsidered. The disruptors had done a number on her, she was blind in one eye and the Iron Tsar, who had once fought Ultimate to a standstill, was heading her way. It was about the worst time to do anything.
“Not now, but soon,” she said.
Mark nodded. “Soon.” He made the word sound like a death sentence.
She hoped it wouldn’t be their own.
* * *
Christine couldn’t stay in Dreamland forever, much as she wanted to. For one, the Big Bads might notice she wasn’t all there, and for another she sensed that if she spent too much time away from reality, her body would start to deteriorate. She’d almost died once before, courtesy of a mind-trip alongside a miserable little d-bag who called himself the First.
So, she’d said see-ya-later to Mark and returned to the Real Crappy World.
The pain in her gouged eye was a dull throb by now, but under it was a steady itching that made her want to claw at her eye socket. Luckily for her, she didn’t have to resist the urge, because she couldn’t reach anything with her hands. At some point while she was astral-traveling, they had strapped her to an x-shaped contraption. Her arms and legs were extended up and shackled with multiple disruptor restraints, their Outsider energy crackling and making the skin around her wrists and ankles tingle painfully just by their proximity. The rest of her body was bruised and battered. Back when she’d been human, Christine had bruised like a peach; she couldn’t imagine what colors she’d be turning about now.
She’d never been in this much pain and discomfort, even counting her time as a sorta-superhero. So far, her stay on Earth Alpha had consisted on lots of ups and downs, with the downs outnumbering the ups by a considerable margin. Would things get better or would she just die in torment?
Worrying about it is just going to add to the torment, her brain whispered in her head, surprisingly helpfully for a change.
She didn’t get a chance to explain. The door to her cell slid open and the Iron Tsar his own darn self walked in. He came in alone, no guards or anything, although she was sure a reaction squad was waiting nearby in case she decided to get fresh with their king.
The ruler of the Dominion was tall, about as tall as John Clarke, and similar in build, broad of shoulder, narrow of hip, filling out his green-and-gold military uniform quite nicely. His head was covered by a metal helmet, a medieval-looking thing with a narrow viewing slit which was glowing with an internal source of light.
There’s no head inside that helmet, Christine realized. His head is made of pure energy! How the eff did that happen?
She figured it would be rude to ask, so she stayed quiet while the Iron Tsar walked over to her. He moved a bit like a tiger, relaxed but clearly able to pounce at a moment’s notice. It was obvious this was one tough, scary dude, the kind of guy even Mark would regard with wary respect. But what really disturbed her was that she couldn’t get a good emotional read from him. His emotions were muted, hidden under multiple layers of energy and psychic defenses, some natural, others generated by a collection of miniature devices sewn into his uniform or implanted under his skin. Some of the protections came from Words inscribed into his body, Words like the ones her father had used, like the one Word she’d picked up less than an hour ago. If things got nasty, this could become the Spelling Bee competition from Hell.
“Christine Dark,” the Iron Tsar said. His voice sounded strangely normal, coming from a guy with no head, but then again, so did Mark’s. His English had a faint accent but was otherwise flawless. “Age twenty-two. Daughter of Damon Trent, better-known as the Lurker, and Patricia Dark. Born on an alternate reality, one where superhuman powers never developed. You have proven to be an elusive quarry, but you are finally here, where you belong.”
She tried to think of something witty to say but came up with zip, so she stayed quiet.
“You have greatly angered my consort,” he went on. “She wishes to finish what she started, to take the rest of your face and then your life.”
“I didn’t mean to scare her so much,” Christine said sweetly.
“Scare her? Yes, I believe you did, although I wouldn’t be so bold as to say that to her face. She might react harshly.”
She already reacted pretty effing harshly, Christine thought. Good thing there were no mirrors in the cell. She didn’t want to see what that uber-bitch had done to her face. Only knowing she would heal eventually had prevented her from completely losing it.
The Tsar looked at her quietly for several seconds. Maybe he was expecting her to say something to fill the awkward silence. Sorry, dude, I’m not going to beg or ask questions you aren’t going to answer.
“You may be curious to know what is in store for you,” he finally said. “You obviously can’t be trusted in your current mental state. We will need to change it, make you into a more pliable subject. The methods involved will be severely unpleasant.” He paused again to give her a chance to respond. She spent the quiet time doing some math in her head. “There is an alternative, however.” Another pause.
Fine. “Such as?”
“You could cooperate willingly. We would have to establish certain safeguards, of course. For instance, the moment we suspected you of any deceit or trickery, we would execute your companion. It is my hope, however, that once you understand the stakes involved, you will agree that helping our cause is the best course of action.”
Well, that was different. None of the previous Big Bads had tried to reason with her. She was pretty sure the Iron Tsar was playing Good Cop, just like Mark had warned her, but it couldn’t hurt to hear him out, and it could well hurt a lot to not hear him out. “All right, your imperious majesty Mr. Tsar, sir. I’m listening.”
“Ah. I’m very pleased to hear that, Miss Dark. I will try to be brief.”
Christine opened a channel to her faceless boyfriend and listened to the Tsar’s spiel.
Chapter Five
Face-Off
Kiev, Dominion of the Ukraine, March
28, 2013
The Tsar’s words came through loud and clear; my mind-link with Christine was getting stronger.
“I believe you have been made aware of the conflict between two powerful factions in the larger universe,” the bucket-headed asshole began, sounding just as pompous and self-important as the comics portrayed him.
“Yes,” Christine replied. “The Cosmic Nerds in the center of our galaxy, among many others, and the Outsiders.”
“Indeed. Your father and I, among some others, were deceived by an agent of those Outsiders, by a man you know as Mr. Night.”
The Tsar continued his lecture: “Mr. Night and others of his ilk sabotaged the Source from the beginning, you see. We believe the civilization that sent the Source to us intended to select a small group of worthy men, people with the moral fortitude to act as guides and teachers for our species. The Outsider agents somehow interfered with the process, forcing the Source to bestow its gifts at random, blessing the unworthy and the worthy by sheer chance. Weaklings, the mentally defective, and other lesser men and women were given far more power than they could safely handle. The results plague us to this day, and the situation is growing worse.
“I was already growing concerned when Daedalus Smith contacted me. His access to the world’s demographic data was better than mine. He confirmed my fears: the number of Neolympians is growing at an increasing pace, even more so in terms of sheer power. More so-called Type Threes like you and I are being created with every passing year. The destruction these new, often insane superhumans can cause is incalculable. Mr. Smith predicted that in less than a decade from now, human civilization will collapse under the stress. Perhaps sooner. An insane Neolympian wielding enough power to defeat all comers and commit genocide on a planetary scale could rise up at any second.”
“… be happy to show you the charts and graphs if you would like,” the Iron Tsar was saying. I shut up so I could listen in.
“No, I believe you. So what’s your plan?”
“We need to gain access to the Source and stop this insane random process wherein anybody can one day wake up with the power of a god. Daedalus Smith is ready to arrange a war between Neolympians, and eventually between Neolympians and all of humanity, in an effort to curb the number of super-beings in the planet, by the simple expedient of killing them in job lots; that plan is no more than a stopgap at best, however. If need be, I was prepared to use the Outsider’s energies to contain the Source before it destroyed us all. Your father had a better plan, one that has a much greater chance of success.”
“Me. I’m the plan, right? I can link to the Source and stop it from giving superpowers to random peeps.”
“Yes. However, you have the capability, but neither the maturity nor the experience to avoid being corrupted by the process. Therefore, you must grant that access to someone other than yourself.”
“Let me guess. You nominate yourself for job. And I guess Daedalus nominates himself. Were you guys going to share the grand prize?”
“That was our arrangement, although I don’t think Smith has the inner strength needed for the job. The man is too treacherous, and he is too fond of making deals with the Outsiders. He has even tried to make use of Mr. Night, knowing full well the loathsome creature’s designs for our species. Still, better the two of us take over the Source than to have its power spread around until we are at the mercy of the least stable among us. Daedalus is due to arrive in a day. He has a number of devices designed to break your will, to turn you into a mindless husk that will do anything we ask. I’d rather you willingly surrender your burden to me. It will spare you from a great deal of suffering and a fate worse than death.”
“What do you have to say for yourself, Miss Dark?” the Tsar asked, clearly growing impatient.
“I need some time to think about it, okay? For one, how do I know that the second you have access to the Source you won’t just kill me?”
“I give you my word. Oh, I will strip you of most of your powers, although in recognition for your sacrifice I will let you keep your longevity and most of your relatively paltry but still superhuman physical attributes. I will even return you to your reality, should you wish so. There you can live out your days in peace, and enjoy the privileges of your nature in a world where you will be unique. I will also spare your friend; he can join you in exile once I diminish his power. The two of you could easily become the rulers of your planet.”
She spoke before Bucket-Head got antsy. “Can I sleep on it?”
“Of course. Daedalus Smith will arrive sometime after noon tomorrow. At that point the process of reducing your will to resist us shall commence in earnest. You have until then to decide.”
I got back a mental nod from her, a very emphatic one.
I would just have to pull my weight or get killed quickly along the way. I figured I could manage at least one of the two.
The Freedom Legion
Kiev, Dominion of the Ukraine, March 28, 2013
After surviving the grueling selection process, where half of the participants had died or suffered crippling injuries, as often as not inflicted by their fellow candidates, he and the rest of the winners had undergone four years of intense training. Each student had been assigned two servants, one male, one female, a year or two younger than themselves. Those servants had served the students’ every need, from fixing meals to satisfying them sexually. They had been the only human contact he’d enjoyed, outside the other students and their taciturn and brutal instructors.
The servants had become friends, confidants, lovers.
On the final day of training, just before being granted the Sigils of Power that would turn the students into Celestial Warriors, he had been handed a long knife and given a final order: kill his servants. Some students had hesitated, and in doing so, failed the ultimate test. He had taken the knife and followed his orders. The last remnants of humanity and compassion had been bled out of him on that day, had died along with his dear companions.
Chastity Baal woke up, the images of a life she’d never lived still flashing before her eyes.
Sleep had become a chore this last fortnight. She’d unwillingly fallen asleep on the bullet train connecting Lutsk and Kiev; the false memories had ensured she gained precious little rest from it.
New Olympus Saga (Book 3): Apocalypse Dance Page 6
