New Olympus Saga (Book 1): Armageddon Girl (29 page)

Face-Off

Chicago, Illinois, March 14, 2013

I woke up to pain.

I was lying on damp concrete. My hands
and feet were shackled and tingling painfully. Class III restraints fired
electrical impulses to disrupt motor control and make concentration all but
impossible. The electrical pulses felt like the proverbial pins and needles you
get when your arm falls asleep, except the pins and needles were industrial
size. They were expensive as hell and illegal as shit. And they would keep
almost any Neo from moving their limbs at all or gather their minds enough to activate
non-physical powers. These guys weren’t fucking around.

Condor and Kestrel were lying next to me,
also chained up, still unconscious. Lester Harris was bound with cheap and
mundane duct tape. He was awake. “Face-Off! Are you all right?” he whispered.

“I’m just dandy,” I growled, and tried to
sit up. It wasn’t easy, with my arms dead from the shoulders down, and legs
likewise from the knees down, but I managed by crawling up to a wall and
leaning on it. “Thanks for the set-up, by the way.”

“I didn’t know they were following me!”
Harris pleaded. “I followed all the counter-surveillance procedures I knew.”

I sighed. “These guys clearly have the
best toys. You probably were being tracked six different ways. Not your fault.
Sorry.” No sense making Harris feel bad, considering he wasn’t going to live to
see the next sunrise. None of us were.

“I’m sorry too. I didn’t think they were
going to do something this blatant.”

“Did they get Christine?” I asked Harris.
The thought of her enduring the tender ministrations of the Russian mob made me
sick with fury.

“No. She managed to get away. She flew
right through the warehouse roof.”

Christine could fly? She really was full
of surprises. And she had gotten away, that was the important thing. Except she
would be alone and without any resources in a strange city in an alien world.
Still, maybe she would make it. Her chances were better than ours.

We were fucked.

Kestrel was stirring. She looked at me,
then at Condor. “Condor! Kyle!” she called to him. They had taken their helmets
off, so I could see her face clearly. I’d never seen that expression on her
before. She was afraid and concerned. She usually acted as if she didn’t give a
shit for anybody but herself and her little pleasures, and it mostly wasn’t an
act.

“He should be all right,” I told her.
“Whatever they zapped us with doesn’t seem to last very long.” My featureless
head was back to normal, for one, which made me feel a little better despite
the situation. I had felt naked and defenseless without it.

“He’d better be.” She turned to me. Her
eyes filled with rage, a more familiar sight; she glared at me. “This is all
your fault, dragging us into this mess.”

“Nobody held a gun to your heads, baby.
You should be thanking me; you’re in for a full night of all the bondage and
sadomasochism you can take, and more.”

“I’m not into snuff,” she replied. “At
least not with me on the receiving end.”

Yeah, Condor was a lucky guy. “We’re not
dead yet,” I said.

“No thanks to you.”

“Has anybody told you you’re beautiful
when you get bitchy? Because if they did they were lying their ass off.”

“Can you two shut up and let me suffer in
peace?” Condor said.

“Kyle!” Kestrel dragged herself over to
her boyfriend and cuddled next to him as best she could. I guess she’d found
her mate, and harpies mated for life.

“Hey, Mel,” Condor said, looking around.
“Guess this time the bear ate us.”

“So much negative thinking,” I said,
despite the fact I felt the same way. I’d rather fake some optimism than admit
defeat, just to be contrary. “We just got hit with a new hyper-gadget. We’ll
figure something out. What would your buddy Ultimate do?”

“He’s not my buddy, and he’d have wiped
out those mooks in three seconds or so. Captured them alive to boot.”

“I’m not so sure. Those backpack blasters
disrupted our powers somehow. They might have done a number even on a Type
Three.”

“There’s that. I hadn’t even heard that
was possible. Did they actually disrupt our powers, though? I know they knocked
me out, but plenty of things can do that.”

“Trust me,” I told Condor. “For a few
seconds before I went down, I got my old face back. That’s never happened
before.”

“Shit.”

“The question is, where the fuck did the
Russian mob get a Neo power disruptor?”

“Where else? They get all their high-tech
toys from the Doms,” Condor replied, using the slang word for agents of the
Dominion of the Ukraine.

Shit. Well, at least we had a clue who
was behind the manhunt for the Lurker – and the hunt for Christine, for that
matter. With the Russian and Ukrainian mobs, you never know if they are just
trying to make money like any other criminal or if they are running a caper for
the Dominion. But if they had that kind of firepower that meant their
metal-headed overlord or one of his lieutenants was involved. In other words,
it was safe to say that we were well and truly fucked. You can try to make a
deal with criminals, but you need more cards than we had to make a deal with
the Doms.

The only feature in the concrete box we
were in was a reinforced steel door. It opened noisily and a man entered, not
tall but athletic, with blonde hair and a mean-looking Slavic face. He was
followed by a big bull-necked badass type, his head shaved, prison tattoos
sneaking out from under his black turtleneck’s collar and sleeves. He’d been
the Neo swinging that ball and chain at us during the attack at the warehouse,
and he looked like he’d bounced back from the beating I gave him. Behind him
two other thugs stood at the ready, one with an A-75 blaster, the other with
one of the backpack guns that had ruined our day.

The thug-in-chief moved warily through
the room. We might be chained up and helpless, but people have learned to worry
about being in an enclosed space with hostile Neos even when we’re supposed to
be under control. We’re like tigers that way. He quickly placed himself so his
henchmen had a clear field of fire from the doorway, and then knelt in front of
me, staying at a safe distance in case I tried to go for a head-butt. In the
mood I was I in, I might just have tried it.

Blondie went right to the point. “Where
is the Lurker?”

Ask a stupid question… “Have you checked
with your mother? Last I heard he was giving it to her pretty good.”

Blondie stepped away and Prison Tattoos
kicked me in the face hard enough to send me spinning away. I felt my face bone
crack under the impact. Blondie grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and
dragged me back against the wall with one hand, demonstrating he also was Neo
strong. A couple of Type Ones with delusions of grandeur, I figured, not that
they weren’t plenty dangerous when dealing with three shackled Type Twos. The
Russian gestured towards the door. His flunkies briefly moved aside and another
guy came in with an acetylene torch. Just the thing to mutilate Neos past the
limits of their regeneration abilities.

When you make it your business to hunt
down murderous sociopaths, there’s a damn good chance you’ll meet a gruesome
end sooner or later. One of the worst things that can happen to you is to get
tortured for information you actually don’t have, because there is nothing you
can say that will stop the pain. All you can do is wait for a chance that will
likely never come while praying the interrogators fuck up and manage to kill
you sooner rather than later.

I tried to change my face to mirror
Blondie’s. Some guys get creeped out when torturing someone who looks exactly
like them. I wasn’t expecting that would stop him, but maybe it’d give him
nightmares afterward. It’s the little things that mean so much. I couldn’t
quite make it, thanks to the shackles. My face rippled and Blondie’s face
emerged for a second or two before my concentration broke and I went back to
being me.

Blondie smiled and punched me a couple of
times to make me mind my manners. “I will ask you again. Where is Lurker?” His
Russian accent got thicker, either because he was getting pissed off or excited
by what was going to happen. Probably the latter. You don’t have to be a sadist
to work with the
Mafiya,
but it sure helps. He smiled at me and waited
for an answer.

“He’s touring Vegas with Don Rickles. And
your mother.” I know, not the best crack. I needed better writers.

The grin on Blondie’s face got bigger. He
gestured to Prison Tattoos, who leaned over and grabbed Kestrel.

“You touch her and you’re a dead man,”
Condor said in his most threatening growl. Prison Tattoos ignored him and
forced Kestrel face down on the floor. She didn’t struggle or say anything. I
caught her eyes; they had gone flat and distant. Blondie walked over, produced
a switchblade and used it to saw through the back of Kestrel’s costume. It took
some effort – the flexible material was both bullet- and knife- resistant – but
he managed to cut through it and the skin beneath it as well. The shallow
slashes on her back bled for a few seconds after he was done, then closed up
and disappeared, leaving nothing but bloody smears behind. Her regen was better
than Condor’s or mine, which under the circumstances was a mixed blessing at
best. Kestrel’s breathing accelerated minutely while she was getting cut up,
but other than that she elicited no reaction. Boris grabbed the blowtorch and
started fiddling with it.

She was tough, she got off on pain, and
she was brave. But when the metal-melting jet of flame started doing its thing,
she would break eventually. We all would.

“Stop,” I said.

Blondie turned to me.

“You got me. I don’t know where the
Lurker is right now, but I know where he will be later tonight. We were
supposed to meet with him.” All pure BS, of course, but when in doubt, lie your
ass off. Buy some time, hope the camel learns how to sing. “I’ll tell you where
and when if you leave her alone.”

“Shut up, Face!” That was Condor, backing
my play. “They’ll kill us when you tell him.”

“
Da
,” Blondie said. “You are all
dead. You should be smart enough to know death is the thing you should be
hoping for.” He nodded to the guy with the torch. “Mind the spine, Boris. We
want to keep her alive.”

Prison Tattoos – Boris – nodded. He was
the happiest guy I’d seen in a while, except for Blondie, who also looked like
a kid at a birthday party. Boris leaned over Kestrel with his torch, and there
was a clearly visible bulge in his pants. “I’ll be careful, Vladimir. All meat,
no bone. Yes.”

“Wait! I said I’d talk, motherfucker!”

“
Da.
You will. This is just a
demonstration.”

Skin and flesh sizzled, a sickening
sound. It lasted for fifteen seconds before the screaming began.

Chapter Sixteen

The Invincible Man

Somewhere Not Quite Real

“If you had been serious about keeping
your identity a secret, you would have worn a mask,” Linda Lamar said as she
lit a cigarette. She considerately blew the smoke away from his face. “Take the
Lurker and his gas mask. Nobody has any idea who the man really is. Or the
Dreamer and his Greek Theater face mask, ditto. If you don’t want your name to
be in the papers, you need to cover up your mug. Dummy.” Her smile took the
sting out of the words.

“I didn’t think – “ John Clarke began to
say.

“That’s right, you didn’t. Did you really
believe that silly fake mustache and changing the way you part your hair were
going to fool me for a second after I got a good look at you? Darling, you had
your picture on the front page of the
Post
wearing that ridiculous
circus acrobat costume with the cape and the boots. Half the bullpen knew you
were Ultimate the second they saw that picture, and they told the other half
lickety-split.”

“So that’s why everyone has been staring
at me all week. I kept wondering about that.”

“Yes, everyone knows your big secret. It
wasn’t because I told them,” Linda said. “I’ve known for over a month but I sat
on the story, and it wasn’t easy, let me tell you. The story of the year, it
would have been.”

“I think the European war is going to be
the story of the year,” John said sadly. “The identity of yet another mystery
man isn’t such big news anymore, is it?” John glanced around the eatery,
wondering if their conversation had attracted eavesdroppers. People at Gino’s
Diner were good at minding their own business, which was why a lot of the
reporters from the
World Journal
used the place to conduct discreet
interviews. At the moment no other reporters were in sight, but John was
beginning to think having his first date with Linda there had not been the best
idea.

“Damn the war, and damn Hitler, too,”
Linda replied hotly. “That overstuffed chimpanzee and his Aryan Supersoldiers!
Did you hear about those poor Polish lancers and the Teutonic Knight?”

John nodded. They both read the same wire
reports, after all. The Knight, a hulking brute going by the name Panzerfaust,
had faced an entire regiment of Polish cavalry and destroyed it
single-handedly, killing the helpless soldiers almost to the last man while laughing
at rifle and machine-gun fire, as well as a heroic but futile mounted lance
charge. Panzerfaust had been such a hit with the Nazis that a couple years
later they would name their version of bazookas after him. A part of him wanted
nothing more than to wipe the arrogant smile off that Hun’s face.

And he had done just that a bit over four
years from now. An image of Panzerfaust collapsing lifelessly at his feet
somewhere in France flashed through his mind.

He shook his head.
France? Why would I
be fighting Nazis in France? And a bazooka is a musical instrument, not any
kind of weapon. Bob Burns plays it.

“Are you all right, darling?” Linda
asked.

“Just a stray thought,” John said,
dismissing the weird images from his mind. Here he was, with the girl of his
dreams, the girl who not only had agreed to go on this date but who had
protected his secret identity even though her life’s work was to reveal such
secrets. He should be lost in blissful happiness. Instead he was experiencing
false memories from the future. What was the matter with him?

“Thinking about how to reveal Ultimate’s
identity to the world?” Linda continued. “I think I should get the byline for
that one.”

“I think you should too,” he said, and
watched her face light up like a Christmas tree. “I couldn’t think of anybody
better suited to write that story, sweetheart.”

“It may not be the story of the year, but
it will be on the front page, unless the Nazis pick that day to do something
especially heinous.” Linda gave him a mischievous look. “I’ll have to try and
get a quote from Edgar J. Hoover, now that he’s finally stopped telling
everybody that Neolympians are nothing more than tall tales and Nazi and
Communist propaganda. And as soon as it’s official, you can hit those clowns at
Buck Comics with a lawsuit for back royalties.”

John smiled. Buck Comics had been
‘chronicling’ his exploits – making up most of those exploits and grossly
distorting the rest – for over a year. “I’m not in it for the money, my dear. I
might ask them to give some of it to charity, though.”

“How about when Hollywood comes knocking?
I’ve heard rumors Universal might be interested in doing a feature about you.”

“Maybe I can get them to have Cary Grant
play my part.”

“No dice, darling. Cary Grant is with
Paramount.”

“Too bad. Hepburn could have played you.”

Linda snorted. “That’d be a hoot. Or
maybe Rosalind Russell, except she’s already played a brassy reporter.”

“I still think they based
His Girl
Friday
on you,” John teased. “Maybe you should sue
those
clowns.”

“I didn’t marry the editor of my paper,”
she said. “Can you picture me saying my I-dos to Mr. Wilkins?”

John had to laugh at that. Mr. Wilkins –
he could not imagine using his Christian name even at this remove – was a
heavyset, profane and bulldog-faced Great War veteran with as much charm as the
set of brass knuckles he kept on his desk as a paperweight. If Cary Grant’s
role in
His Girl Friday
had been based on Mr. Wilkins, the writers had
taken poetic license to dramatic extremes. He said as much to Linda and got a
good laugh in return.

“Well, if I do end up in a serial or, God
forbid, a serious movie, I’ll try to see if they can set a little something
aside for charity, too.”

“So you won’t take a dime for risking
your life to save people?” Linda asked, somewhat incredulously.

“For one, I’m not risking as much as all
that,” he said, faintly embarrassed. The first time he had been shot, he had
flinched, expecting the worst, and been as shocked as the shooter – a bank
robber with a Chicago typewriter and an itchy trigger finger – when they both
realized the bullets had bounced clean off his skin. One of the .45 rounds had
ricocheted right into the shooter’s shoulder, too, which took care of him until
the cops showed up. Since then people had used knives, billy clubs, speeding
cars and every type of gun on him, to no visible effect. He wasn’t risking his
life, not really.

During the war, the Nazis had tried
everything from 88s to an assortment of super-weapons. He'd been hurt a few
times, but not very often.

He shook his head again. What Nazis? He
hadn't fought any Nazis. The European war was none of his business, or
America’s either. More phantom memories of things that hadn’t happened. Or
things that hadn’t happened yet? Was he catching glimpses from the future, like
that Gypsy fortune teller he’d once met? That was worrisome.

“And for another?” Linda said after
several seconds of silence.

“Uh, yes. For another, I wouldn’t feel
right taking money for that kind of thing. I try to help people. That’s all.”

“You’re a swell fella, John Clarke,”
Linda said drily. “A little too swell, if you ask me. You don’t see Doc
Slaughter stinting on himself. He owns an entire building right downtown!”

“Only the eighty-fifth floor,” John
corrected. “Okay, and the eighty-third and eighty-fourth, too. But he’s earned
his money honestly. The man has patents on half the gizmos of the last decade.
The Garand-Slaughter automatic rifle the Army is looking into buying, just to
name one.”

“Yeah, a neat invention, except how’s
Roosevelt going to pay for all the ammo those guns burn through? Twenty-round
magazines – it’s like giving a Thompson to every grunt. Uncle Willis was livid
at the very idea, let me tell you.” Linda’s uncle was a retired Marine general,
a man not disinclined to voicing his opinions on a plethora of subjects. “Not
that the jarheads ever get the latest toys, but for him it’s the principle of
the thing. But you digress, mister,” she told John accusingly. “I didn’t think
you were in it for the money, either, or the glory. Although you could have
fooled me when you started busting heads wearing that circus outfit. Whatever
possessed you to do that?”

“I hate to say it, but it first occurred
to me watching the Olympics: Hitler’s Knights in their gaudy costumes. They
became an inspiration to Nazis everywhere. I thought maybe I should try to
create our own symbols. And that’s also why I didn’t wear a mask. I didn’t want
to look like I had something to hide.”

“So you ended up wearing a mask – a fake
mustache, anyhow – when you were playing at being an average Joe. I don’t know
if that’s funny or sad or just a bit bonkers.”

“Well, that’s all over. John Clarke,
reporter, is going to be dead and gone as soon as the story goes public.”

“John Clarke, a.k.a. Ultimate the
Invincible Man will still be here. Who stuck you with that moniker, by the way?
Ultimate? Sounds like a new car model, a Ford Ultimate, or something like
that.”

“That was one of the Buck Comics kids,
Joe or Jerry, I forget which one. They had a couple of other ideas but they
sounded too much like the
ubermensch
stuff Hitler loves.”

Linda said something in return, but her
words were drowned out by strange music blaring throughout the restaurant.
John’s enhanced hearing would normally have pinpointed the source instantly,
but the sound seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. It lasted for
several seconds before stopping, replaced by the ordinary sounds of the diner.
For some reason, the music made John think of a telephone, even though it
sounded nothing like a telephone’s normal ringing.

“ – at least have them spring for a
fancier costume,” Linda finished.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That music…” John began to say, but
realized from Linda’s expression that she hadn’t heard a thing. He was hearing
stuff that wasn’t there, having visions of things that hadn’t happened. His
mind – or something else – was playing tricks on him.

A man’s voice echoed through the diner,
once again drowning out all other sounds. “Yes.” A pause. “It is working. He’s
wholly unaware.” Another pause. “Yes, I could do it if necessary.” The voice
was familiar somehow, but John couldn’t place it.

“John, you look like you’ve seen a
ghost,” Linda said, a concerned look in her face. “What is wrong?”

“This is wrong,” John heard himself say.
“All wrong.”

The overwhelming voice came back. “She’s
here? And I should take care of this? How? Oh, you mean use him. Yes, I can
keep control for at least several hours. There are risks, however.”

This was all wrong. This wasn’t real.

The omnipresent voice returned. “Go back
to sleep, you stupid oaf.”

The world shifted. John’s doubts
dissolved away.

Linda touched his hand. He looked at her,
and saw her smiling at him, radiant in her wedding dress.

“You may kiss the bride,” the priest
said, beaming from ear to ear.

“Not if the bride kisses him first,”
Linda said, and did. John found himself standing up in a tuxedo by the altar in
St. Patrick’s Cathedral, being kissed by the woman of his dreams. Hadn’t he
just been in a diner on his first date with her? Memory could play funny tricks
when you were fighting wedding jitters, he told himself, forgetting the weird
feelings and giving in to happiness.