New Olympus Saga (Book 3): Apocalypse Dance (7 page)

Aboard the
Kamahashi Maru
, Near the Cape of Good Hope, Indian Ocean, March 28, 2013

Mitsuo Fuchida looked at the dying man with a mixture of pity and satisfaction.

“You did well, Kuo Wei-Fang,” he whispered in Cantonese to the sweating, bleeding figure lying on the cot in one of the ship’s cabins. The Chinese magnate’s condition was worsening rapidly. It appeared that Thaddeus Twist’s warnings had been accurate. The process stolen from Daedalus Smith could grant humans Neolympian-like powers, but the effect was short-lived and ultimately fatal. It was just as well. Had it been otherwise, the temptation to abandon the Cause and join the ranks of the Abominations might have been overwhelming even for the most dedicated members of the Humanity Foundation.

Kuo Wei-Fang had been a member of their organization for quite some time, and had played a vital role in the coming conflict, knowing full well that he was risking his life. He had undergone the Smith Process to pass himself off as a Celestial, one of the servants of the Dragon Empire, as a precautionary means to escape capture, and also to further implicate the Empire on the attack on Freedom Island. He had managed to perform both tasks admirably, but now he was paying the ultimate price for his success. Kuo’s body was breaking down, poisoned by the very energies that had given him godlike powers for a brief few days.

Fuchida looked at the ship’s doctor. “The damage will prove to be fatal in less than six hours,” the physician reported. “I tried overdosing him with morphine to spare him any further suffering, but, perversely enough, his enhanced physique was able to withstand the drugs easily. I don’t know what else to do.”

“You have done your duty, as has he. That is enough,” Fuchida told the physician. He stepped out of the room, leaving Kuo to die. It was a pity, but there were many things to do.

Fuchida had flown from the fateful meeting in Washington D.C. as quickly as the new orbital transports could convey him back to Asia, where he’d had to oversee the aftermath of the Hong Kong incident. Thankfully, all the pieces had fallen into place almost flawlessly. A carefully-rehearsed imperial defector’s report had led the Legion to Kuo, and Kuo had left behind mountains of evidence linking the Empire to the attack on the Legion. Fuchida’s hand-picked team, armed with wonderful new weapons that could strip a Neolympian of his powers, had helped Kuo escape and in the process had killed another Legionnaire, one of their leaders as a matter of fact. If only such devices could be mass-produced, they could rid the world of all Abominations without having to resort to the extreme measures Twist had outlined. Unfortunately, the devices were Neolympian artifacts, hand-crafted creations that required a powerful Abomination’s powers to be built.

It was God’s will. Fuchida’s revelation a lifetime ago had shown him the path to salvation would be arduous and drenched in blood. God’s grace had kept him alive and hale for a long time, but his work was almost done. Twist’s plan was audacious, but it would work. The Legion and many more of the Earth’s mightiest beings would be lured to China to do battle with the Empire, and, on the other side of the world, the source of their powers would be destroyed, rendering them helpless, vulnerable, merely human once again. Humanity would regain control of its destiny, and Fuchida would be able to move on to his greater reward. He had done terrible things in the name of the Cause, but he was confident God would forgive him. In any case, he was willing to accept His judgment.

He looked out of one of the portholes and watched the sea extending out into the horizon. Being on a maritime vessel on a fateful mission brought him back to his younger, heroic days as an officer in the mighty aircraft carrier
Akagi
, where he had fought for the glory of Nippon. He and his comrades had performed great deeds, until the Abominations had ruined everything. The memories turned sour; his mind’s eye showed him the burning deck of the
Akagi
after the black American Janus had delivered a bolt of fiery energy that had turned the powerful vessel into a gigantic funeral pyre. Fuchida had been one of the handful who survived; the rest, over sixteen hundred men, had gone down with the ship.

This time, there would be no fleeing, no survivors. He would die at the end of this trip on the
Kamahashi Maru
. It was a humble vessel, a merchant freighter of no great lineage, but it would soon pass into history as the deliverer of the weapon that struck a decisive blow against Parahumanity.

Hidden inside the bowels of the ship lay a bomb, a very special bomb, a thermonuclear device with a yield in excess of two hundred megatons. It was more than a mere explosive, however. A cunningly designed set of electro-magnetic shields would channel much of the bomb’s energy into a concentrated burst of x-ray and gamma waves, aimed directly at the heart of the Source, the alien construct that had granted the Abominations their blasphemous powers. The incredible power of the burst would tear apart the Source, likely releasing even more energy as the alien construct was destroyed.

The human costs would be both regrettable and enormous. Even if the destruction of the Source did not release any more energy, which was highly unlikely, the detonation of the bomb would level most of Manhattan and set ablaze much of the surrounding provinces. Millions would be killed instantly, and millions more would perish from the ensuing fallout. It was impossible to predict the casualties resulting from the ensuing chaos and collapse. It would be an unprecedented atrocity, but the results would be worth it. The Abominations would be rendered helpless, which would save billions of lives in the long term.

Fuchida wouldn’t live to see any of it, of course. The bomb would be emplaced in a secret facility in New York City. He would activate the device and be one of the first to die. The crew of the
Kamahashi Maru
and the ship itself would also be consumed in the ensuing holocaust.

He would die a happy man, knowing he had made the world a better place.

Freedom Island, Caribbean Sea, March 28, 2013

“And how long are you planning to stay?”

“Two weeks,” Kyle Carmichael told the officious customs agent. He was actually hoping to be off the damn island in two days at most.

“That’s nice. Welcome to Freedom Island.” The agent looked tense and harried, which was unusual. All Freedom Island employees, especially those who had to deal directly with the public, had been trained by veterans of Disneyland to present a cheerful and warm façade at all times. The Legion’s troubles were affecting everyone involved.

He and Melanie walked arm in arm, the platonic ideal of well-to-do tourists, dressed in expensive tropical-casual clothing, their robotic self-steering luggage obediently following a few steps behind. Melanie’s hair was bright red and long; her skin was several shades lighter than normal, and her facial features had been drastically altered. The implants and the nose job would only last a few weeks before her healing factor undid the changes, but the caper would be long over by then, one way or another.

The terminal was beautiful, combining functionality with artistry. The gleaming metal walls were adorned with holographic displays showing off the Legion’s most iconic characters. The Ultimate and Janus displays had been discretely turned off, of course.

Kyle made good use of his tourist persona, subtly looking around like the Canadian mid-level executive he was pretending to be; too self-conscious and polite to openly gawk at his surroundings but unobtrusively getting a good view of all the wonders around him. His sunglasses recorded everything, just like a normal tourist’s smart-goggles would, but unlike a tourist’s model his glasses also ran deep scans in a multitude of spectra, pinpointing security cameras, sensor systems, and hidden guard posts.

The scans revealed a paradox. Security had been heightened since Ultimate’s capture; heavily-armed reaction teams waited behind innocuous-looking doors, six-man squads placed every two hundred feet or so around the terminal, reinforced by three Legionnaires. Three fairly powerful Legionnaires, according to their energy signatures.

On the other hand, it was clear the security forces were stretched pretty thin. They must have sent most of the troops over to China, in preparation for the war. Most of the Legion had been redeployed to China as well. Only thirty-seven Neos had remained behind, but they included twenty-four Type 2.6s or higher. That was a lot of firepower.

They got a cab outside the terminal and made for their hotel, a four-star establishment catering to couples rather than families. Once they were alone in their room, they emptied their suitcases and started disassembling them. All their equipment had been concealed in the body of the luggage, including their costumes, weapons and several assorted devices.

Kyle made a call from his wrist-comp. “We’re in. Everything is nominal.”

“Very well,” Hades 2.0 replied. “Everything is in place on our end as well.” Their end was the Condor Jet, submerged and maintaining station some six miles from the island’s eastern coastline. “Your ship’s stealth systems are excellent, by the way. I doubt I could have matched them myself.”

“Thanks.” The three geniuses in the gang had been engaging in a quiet pissing contest over who could create the best toys. Kyle knew he was the runt of that litter, but he’d still made a good showing of himself, all things considered.

“There is a
Nevada
-Class sub and three fast-attack escorts on roving patrol around the island,” Hades continued. The Nevada was bad news; the nuclear-powered submarine had a formidable array of weaponry, including multi-spectrum lasers that could destroy targets underwater and in the air, as well as a swarm of heavily-armed drones. The subs had been deployed there by the US government as yet another layer of security to ensure Ultimate couldn’t get away.  Up overhead, a squadron of B-91 orbital fighter-bombers were also keeping watch. Getting out of the Island would require Janus to be ready and able to teleport them away, unless the Lurker’s abilities came back online in the next twenty-four hours. “Those are in addition to Freedom Island’s own coastal patrol vessels, of course,” Hades continued. “Doctor Slaughter has been monitoring the Legion’s activities, however, and he reports the local security personnel has been reduced by thirty percent, as expected, resulting from casualties from last week’s attack and redeployments to the Asian theater of operations.”

“And they have their hands full,” Kyle said, reviewing the security forces’ logs; he had full access to the Legion’s secure systems, courtesy of Doc Slaughter. “There are two ongoing demonstrations out in the designated zones, one pro-Ultimate and one against him, plus small groups are still trying to gather in front of Freedom Hall and getting arrested for their troubles. I’d say we’re a go.”

“I concur,” Hades replied. “We will commence operations at 0900 hours on the twenty-ninth. Condor Jet out.”

Kyle switched off the comp. “Well, that’s it. Tomorrow morning, we assault Freedom Hall and make history.”

Melanie smiled at him. “And tonight we play.”

* * *

Dim.

The Word clicked painfully in his mind as he forced it to take form and express its meaning. It was hard, harder than it had been even when he’d first learned it, many years ago. His Mind-Soul was the same, but it was working through a different body, and as it turned out the flesh was as important as the spirit.

It was hard, but he made it work. The still unfamiliar man in the mirror wavered and vanished from sight.

Remarkable
, Doc Slaughter said from within his head.
And all this from a word, a concept, learned from our alien benefactors. To understand their language means to master reality itself.

Damon Trent made himself visible and nodded. “That is correct,” he replied out loud. “The faction that gave us our powers called itself the Wordsmiths. I was able to learn ten Words and about a dozen ‘letters’ from their alphabet. Even the letters – sigils, actually – allow their wielder to do many impressive things.”

As our memories merge, I am beginning to learn those Words. Assimilating the knowledge is going to take some time, however.

Damon shrugged. “To gain full control over a Word one must grasp its meaning. It takes a great deal of mental effort and time. In any case, it appears I’m regaining mastery over my Words. That is…” he froze in mid-sentence and stared at his reflection in the mirror. “Are you seeing this, Slaughter?”

A brief pause followed while his fellow body-traveler looked at the image.
Yes. At some point during your display of invisibility, our eyes have changed their color and shape.

Hiram Hades’ eyes had been brown. So had been his clone’s, until now: the face in the mirror now sported blue eyes. Moreover, the coloration of each eye was different; the left one was a deep blue, the other pale, almost gray.

The left eye matched Doc Slaughter’s original color; the right was Damon’s.

“What is happening?”

I can only think of one explanation. The DNA of our host body is changing to match our own. The implications of that are… shocking and disturbing. What you call the Mind-Soul Construct must be tied to our genetic code.

“Except there are two of us.”

Indeed. I think our DNA codes will merge, just as our minds are merging. In the end, the resulting being will be related to both of us, and something different as well.

Damon laughed. “So which one of us is the mother of this bastard child?”

The process is indeed remarkably similar to regular reproduction. I wonder if our chromosome pairs will be evenly matched, or whether the final arrangement will be asymmetrical.

“And I wonder what my daughter will make of this, when we’re reunited.”

The resultant organism will be related to her, although he will be more akin to a cousin or half-brother than her father, I suppose. Fortunately for me, I have no living relatives to upset with this situation
.

“O, brave new world,” Damon muttered.

Now, if you don’t mind, I will need control of this body, so I can use my knowledge of the Legion’s computer infrastructure to prepare for tomorrow’s operation
.

“Be my guest,” Damon said. His perspective shifted, and now he was a passenger in the clone’s body. He suspected that by the time he woke up tomorrow, the merging process would be complete and Damon Trent and Kenneth Slaughter would be gone, replaced by a hybrid in body and soul.

Upon his destruction, he had fragmented into three pieces. One had sallied forth to contact Christine, and it had dissipated shortly after achieving that mission. He was the second piece, soon to be reborn as something else. The third one worried him the most. That one had retained the Enemy’s taint. Damon hoped it had been destroyed; the Enemy’s dark energies could not survive in the world for long, not without an anchor; that portion of Damon’s soul should have dissipated swiftly and irrevocably.

But what if it had not?