Overdrive (45 page)

“Well then, try
again," said Logan. “Perhaps its broken. As you said, its been years since
anyone opened it."

Asel nodded. He
closed his eyes, obviously trying mightily, veins popping out in his neck as he
extended his field in an effort to open the lock. After another minute, he opened
his eyes again. Sweat beaded his forehead.

“It won’t budge.”

“Well, its going
to have to," hissed Walter urgently, looking around and peering between
the trees. “Some guards are coming this way and I doubt whether they’ll give us
a warning for loitering if they find us here.”

“Why don’t we try
together Asel?," suggested a small voice at Asel’s feet.

“What?," said
the Watcher, looking down at the diminutive four legged creature below him.

“If we try
together, we have a much better chance of opening the door," repeated Ram
Terry.

A part of Asel
wanted to laugh. How could this sheep help him? However, he had underestimated
Ram Terry before to his cost. He shrugged.

“Why not? Its
worth a shot. But I warn you," he said, holding up a cautionary finger,
“follow my lead and do not try and interfere with any other systems. There are
other security measures in place here than just the lock.”

Ram Terry nodded
his assent and the two unlikely allies closed their eyes. Moments later an
audible click was heard, accompanied by sounds of satisfaction by both sheep
and Watcher.

Hurriedly
gesturing towards the others, Asel ushered them into the pitch black opening.
The guards in the park lands beyond walked over to investigate the noise and
arrived in time to see Bruce disappearing and the door closing behind him.

Inside, it was
darker than night.

“Stay here,” said
Asel. “And do not move. There’s meant to be a light around here somewhere,"
he muttered.

The others could
hear him rustling around and then a muffled curse as he crashed into something.
Bruce unsuccessfully suppressed a throaty chuckle as Asel uttered a further
string of curses. Moments later the lights came on revealing a wide rock
corridor stacked with crates covered with cobwebs. Dark alcoves periodically
broke the monotony of the rock walls on either side; dark silhouettes only
hinting at their contents.

“You’re not wrong,”
said Logan. “This place hasn’t been used in decades.”

Asel, standing at
a recessed panel beside the door and surrounded by overturned crates glanced in
Logan’s direction.

“Yes,” he said.
“The last time was when my father made his hasty exit." As he talked, he
typed in a series of codes into the primitive keypad. “There," he said
with a satisfied nod. “I’ve disabled all the security precautions in the
corridor. It should be safe to continue now.”

“You better hope
so,” growled Tarquin. “Any sign of betrayal and this Afer gets emptied in your
arse.” He patted his weapon and gave Asel a significant look.

Asel sneered at
him by way of reply and then pointedly ignoring him, began walking down the
corridor.

The others
followed, looking around warily.

“What’s in these
alcoves?," asked Logan as they passed one of the openings.

“In my father’s
day," began Asel conversationally, “they were used as tombs. Some of my
ancestors probably lie here although I think Gabriella has probably
discontinued the practice.”

“Figures,"
said Tarquin. “The only person dead or alive that Gabriella cares about is
Gabriella.”

They continued in
silence for some time, the journey uneventful until Walter disturbed a group of
bat analogs when he overturned a crate. Caught off guard and uttering a less
than manly squeak, he fired a shot, the noise reverberating throughout the
entire length of the corridor. The others turned and glared at him.

Looking guilty,
Walter averted his eyes, muttering an apology.

Finally, after
what seemed to be hours, but which, according to their AI’s was less than one,
the corridor widened into a massive rock chamber. At the far end, a small light
glowed, revealing an AG lift below it.

Nearby on crates
illuminated by the light lounged a group of Templars. They looked up as the
small group made its noisy entrance into the echoing chamber.

The Templars
jumped to their feet. “Stay where you are," ordered the commander, his
yell bouncing off the walls. Around him his men gathered their weapons and
began striding purposefully towards them.

“Looks like we
were expected," whispered Asel to the others. “Stay here. I’ll handle
this.” Without waiting for a reply and surrounded by a glowing blue field, he
extended his wings and launched himself in the direction of the Templars, sword
drawn and held ready.

The Templars,
unprepared for an Angelic assault and lacking Afers, fired their plasma cannons
desperately as Asel rapidly closed the 100 meter gap between them. Landing, he
beheaded two in one smooth stroke, the return cut disemboweling a third. The
remaining 5, including their commander, turned and ran, not even getting to the
lift before Asel cut them down. By the time the others caught up with him, Asel
was sitting on a crate, cleaning his sword with a piece of cloth torn from one
of the Templars tunics and smiling happily.

As they reached
him, the AG lift chimed and opened. Three Angelic figures in red and black
robes stepped out.

◊

Widely intolerant
towards genetic manipulation in others, the Areopagites did not apply the same
standards to themselves. Outside observers acknowledged that the hypocrisy
observed in Areopagite society was, ironically, probably genetically inbred.

The practice of
eugenics was commonplace as was outright genetic tinkering, resulting in the
long lived, statuesque and winged aristocracy. The commingling of Shiva DNA
with humans, one of the Areopagites best kept secrets, had resulted in
physically superior humans possessed of godlike powers. Homo Superior never
looked so good.

The highest
hierarchies of Areopagite society - the Cherubim and Seraphim - were created by
a highly planned and coordinated eugenics programme. Those Angels produced were
used as breeding stock for yet more powerful creations, regardless of the
sexual predilections possessed by their donors. The Archangel Michael was a
fine example; he’d already engendered some 130 sons and daughters despite or
perhaps in spite of his lust for boy’s bottoms.

While all this
procreating was going on, Areopagite technicians continued to further develop
and refine their practices, stealing DNA when they could not procure it by more
socially acceptable means. In an effort to compete with such underhanded techniques,
the Shepherds had resorted to the same tactics, stealing a fertilized ovum from
the Areopagites when the project was in its infancy.

This fertilized
ovum, brought to term in an exowomb, was raised and nurtured by the Shepherds.
The child grew into a beautiful woman possessed of powers at least equal to
those of the first hierarchy: Crystal.

Unbeknownst to the
Shepherds, the Areopagites had replicated the same ovum, bringing their version
of Crystal up in somewhat different circumstances. Her body had been grown in a
sensory deprived regrowth tank, designed so the body developed in a normal way
while leaving the mind a blank slate. Using the transplanter techniques, the
brain from a suitable willing and pliable candidate would be inserted into the mindless
body, integrating with those higher brain functions of the host body. What the
Areopagites hoped to achieve was total integration, enabling the inserted brain
to inherit the latent field generative and Shiva controlling abilities
possessed by the host.

Gabriella had
intended to use this body as a prototype, testing and refining the technique
for later use on herself. Even though she still had at least another 100 years
of life, Gabriella had seen fit to put plans in place for her eventual demise. If
the process worked; enabling the mind to use all the powers possessed by the
host’s mind, Gabriella would transplant her brain into a clone of herself and
achieve immortality. Every time one body grew old, she would simply replace it.

That had been the plan.
Now that Felix had arrived, the mindless body of what appeared to be Crystal
could be used as leverage to gain the Overdrive. Felix didn’t need to know that
it wasn’t the Crystal he knew and loved. That Crystal was dead according to
Sammael. Her death, it would seem, had served a greater purpose than just
satisfying Sammael’s need to salve his already grossly inflated ego.

Gabriella
considered such things while watching a number of emotions flutter over the
face of Felix. A combination of joy and remorse were the more prominent ones as
he stood, motionless, before the tank containing the body of Crystal.

“Why is she in
there?” he murmured, gazing into the murky depths at the face he knew so well.

Gabriella took a
breath and began the charade that would eventually give her the Overdrive.
“When we captured her, she proved to be, shall we say, less than willing to
co-operate. In fact, so great is her power that we struggled to contain her.
Eventually she was subdued and we placed her in this tank.”

Felix looked up,
an unspoken question on his face. Gabriella nodded and smiled. “Yes, she is
unquestionably alive. The tank keeps her in stasis, enabling her body to
function while her mind is quiescent.” She moved closer to Felix and reached
out a hand to place gently on his shoulder, slowly moving it down to rest
against his chest. He shuddered but did not resist.

“Its a simple
matter to revive her," she said soothingly, whispering in a seductive
voice that had captivated so many. “In return, I only want one little thing
from you. Give me this and she will be yours again. Can you guess what it is?”
While she spoke, she moved gradually closer until her lips were almost pressed
up against his ear.

Felix nodded
blankly. “The Overdrive," he said numbly.

“Yes,” whispered
Gabriella huskily. “Can you imagine having Crystal back? To hold her in your
arms again? To kiss her? To make love?” She drew back slightly to observe the
man’s reaction. His eyes were fluttering and she could feel his heartbeat race
against her hand.

“I’ll do it,” he
said, his eyes never leaving the tank. “Get her out of there and its yours."

◊

“Sathariel,
Thaumiel, and Togarini. To what do we owe this pleasure?," asked Asel
pleasantly, facing the three Unholy Sefiroth.

How Asel managed
to identify them personally was anyone’s guess considering all three wore
masks. Two of them stepped towards Asel while the other placed himself in front
of Asel’s more mortal companions.

“Your death,"
answered one of the two facing Asel.

In a movement that
was so synchronized as to appear almost laughably rehearsed, the three drew
their swords, engaging their fields so that the large chamber was dimly lit by
three human sized blue suns. The action would have almost been funny were it
not for their obvious intent. Two advanced on Asel, forcing him to activate his
own fields and bring his sword up to parry the vicious blows they rained upon
him.

To the others
watching, the blades were almost too quick to follow as the three leaped and
twirled, striking and counter striking in a bewildering and dazzling display of
swordsmanship. Finally, after what was only seconds, Asel stepped back out of
sword range with a satisfied grin. The two Sefiroth looked down. Both were
leaking blood from minor cuts to legs and arms.

Thaumiel, the
third Sefiroth, had watched the fight with some interest, all the while keeping
a cautious eye on Asel’s companions. He turned his full attention back to the
two humans and their pets just in time to catch a plasma blast on the chest.
The blast splashed harmlessly against his blue aurora, the run off creating
droplets of molten plasma which started to eat away at the rock beneath his
feet. He laughed and advanced towards them, enjoying the look of fear on their
stupid faces. Something niggled in the back of his mind.

Wasn’t there
four of them?
He paused, a
look of uncertainty hidden under his mask as he turned around.

“Looking for me?”
asked Tarquin as he fired his Afer directly at Thaumiel’s head. The glowing
bolt surrounded the Angel, blazing for a second before dying out just as
quickly. Thaumiel emerged unscathed but minus a protective blue shield. He
stood bewildered and subdued for a moment, quickly regaining his composure to
charge Tarquin, brandishing his sword and roaring in what he hoped was an
intimidating fashion. Three plasma cannons cut him down, reducing him to large
globules of smoking flesh. Feathers from his wings floated down to sizzle upon
the glowing floor.

One of the two
Sefiroth tackling Asel turned at his brother’s outcry. Not above taking
advantage of the situation and capitalizing on his opponents momentary
distraction, Asel chopped the Sefiroth’s arm off, where it clattered, sword and
all, to the rock floor. The other, seeing an opening in Asel’s defenses, moved
to strike. As he did so, he was struck by another Afer bolt, upsetting his aim.