They tried to warn us. The scientists, I mean. Oh, not the ones who worked for the government, or survived on government grants. It was the independents, the ones who really cared about science instead of fame. They told us about the meteors, about the destruction that would result when those rocks hit the earth. But no one listened. Unsubstantiated, the universities claimed. Impossible, the government said. Crackpots, the press labeled them.

No one listened. No one wanted to believe that we only had 14 months left. And after two weeks, the warnings stopped. Uncle Sam told us everything would be okay.

Then, one night, about a year later, you could see them. Not just with a telescope, but with the naked eye. It was beautiful. Now everyone believed that the meteors were coming. But no one believed they would actually hit our planet. The "real" scientists, the ones backed by governments and big business, started talking about gravitational effects, and how the pull of the sun would divert the meteors. The independents said nothing.

Then, one day, you could see them. In the daylight. Fiery streams of light that filled just a small part of the sky. People started to believe that maybe the end was near. And they started to panic. Riots, mass hysteria, the people went mad. The smart ones had already started leaving the big cities, fleeing to rural areas where there were no gang wars, no armies of police barely able to protect themselves. But there was not enough time.

You see, the REAL scientists were wrong, too. Not about what would happen, but about when.

In a way, it was fitting. June 21, 2000. The longest day of the last year of the twentieth century. At exactly noon, Greenwich Mean Time. That's when it happened. That's when the meteors finally entered the atmosphere and remade our world.

They were three weeks early.

Imagine the aftermath of nuclear war. Think back on the books you read, the movies you saw, about post-nuclear holocaust. Now take away the effects of the radiation, but leave the devastation, the wastelands, the ruins. Welcome to New Earth.

From out of the ashes many legends arose. People who not only survived but helped others to do the same, and people who saw this rebirth as a chance to conquer the world, or at least a small part of it. Heroes and villains alike, their names became legendary. I saw two of the greatest heroes that ever lived, in this time or any other. When our area was threatened by evil incarnate, they saved us. From out of nowhere they rode to the rescue, saved our lives, saved our town. But that was not enough. They did the impossible– they saved the soul of the demon who had threatened our very existence. And when they left us, three heroes rode away.

It was not until years later that I saw any of them again. By that time they were four together, still traveling the countryside helping others. They stopped at my hotel, wounded and weary, and stayed for almost a month. The storyteller did not want to tell their tale, at first, but something made her change her mind.

This is their story.

AUGUST 15, 1991

INTRODUCING CASSANDRA ALEXANDRA THORNWELL, A.K.A. "CAT"

The target lived in a high-security apartment building in the heart of Manhattan. Police records showed only three incidents at the building in the last seven years, none of them violent crimes. People lived here because it was safe, a secure haven in the middle of one of the most dangerous cities in America.

Today Cassandra Thornwell was going to rock their world.

Three weeks it had taken the young enforcer to set up the job, but the effort had finally paid off, and now she was going to walk right in the front door and right out again. The blonde wig was dark enough to look realistic with her skin tones, and the glasses were tinted just enough to hide her eye color. Hiyori-sama had been pleased with her choice of disguises. The oyabun had been quite clear with his instructions. Someone had been foolish enough to place large bets with Yakuza bookies, bets he had no available funds to pay off. And when the collectors had gone to him to arrange an alternative form of payment, he had refused to cooperate, threatening to go to the police with information he had about Yakuza operations.

Hiyori-sama had spoken. The man must die. He sent the only person he trusted completely to do the job, even though she had never done this type of work before—his foster daughter, Cassandra, who had been known as Cat since the day two years ago when she took charge of the largest Yakuza-backed gang in New York.

The eighteen-year-old assassin walked calmly into the lobby, stopping to check in at the security desk. The guard was polite, informing "Miss Petrie" that Mr. Riley was expecting her and offering to escort her to the elevators. She declined, of course, telling the eager young man that she knew the way. A few minutes later she was walking down a hallway on the 17th floor, silently reviewing her plan. Step one, getting into the building, had been accomplished. Step two, getting into Riley's apartment, was in progress. As long as her information was accurate, everything should go smoothly. Riley was expecting "Miss Petrie," a young paralegal working on a minor lawsuit his company was involved in. He had never met the real Miss Petrie; the woman had only been with his company for a few months. Cat had easily gotten into the company offices as a data processing temp, learning about the employees and the lawsuit. She arranged to bump into Mr. Riley in the elevator, and introduced herself, pretending to be slightly overwhelmed by his masculine charms. By the time they reached the lobby she had been asked to bring the files to his home the next day.

According to break-room gossip, Riley was an incorrigible Romeo, seducing every willing female who came into the office. He lived alone except for his housekeeper, an older Hispanic woman, and his driver, a muscle-bound young man who Riley was said to occasionally invite to help entertain the ladies. The housekeeper was always sent out when Riley was expecting someone. That left Riley and the driver.

Cat took a deep breath and rang the bell. A few moments later the door opened, and she saw Riley's driver grinning at her. He ushered her in as Riley himself came out of another room. Cat smiled and set her briefcase down on the table next to the door. Time to move.

As soon as the door closed Cat whipped around, grabbing the driver by the hair and slamming his head into the doorframe. Before his body hit the floor she had spun back around and had a specially modified and silenced Walther P-5 9mm handgun pointed at Riley's head. The businessman went pale, and started backing away, begging for his life.

Coward.

"Shut up and sit down," Cat ordered, pointing toward a comfortable-looking armchair.

Riley obeyed instantly, his eyes wide with fear. Cat opened her briefcase and pulled out two pairs of handcuffs, her eyes never leaving Riley's. He trembled as she secured his wrists to the arms of the chair, and stared silently as she put down the gun and removed her glasses and wig. When she took off her jacket, however, he started crying.

Cat wore a sleeveless T-shirt that left her shoulders bare. Riley could see the fringes of a colorful tattoo on her left shoulder– a Yakuza tattoo. And Riley knew this woman— no, this GIRL— would be the last person he ever saw.

He was right.

INTRODUCING ANGELA MICHELLE CARTWRIGHT, CALLED "ANGIE"

Angela Cartwright looked up from the book she was reading and glanced at the clock on the wall. Oh-three-forty— three forty in the morning to civilians. Only one hour and twenty minutes until her father would be home. She took a moment to look around the living room of the small house she and her father shared. It wasn't much, but then what did you expect from military on-base housing? Angela had just returned to her book when she heard a car pull up in front of the house.

She opened the door to see not her father, but his best friend, Colonel Frank McAllen. Behind "Uncle Frank" stood two other officers, the base commander and one of the chaplains. All three men wore dress uniforms and solemn expressions. The teenager knew that could only mean one thing.

"He's dead, isn't he?" she asked as tears started to fall from her eyes.

"Miss Cartwright," General Travers began, "it is my sad duty to inform you that at oh-two-thirty-seven hours this morning Lieutenant Colonel Robert James Cartwright was killed while in the execution of duties required of him by his country."

"Please, sir, skip the formal bullshit and tell me what happened to my father."

All three officers stared at the fifteen-year-old in amazement.

"Angela . . . " The chaplain reached out a hand to comfort the girl.

"It's Angie." She turned and walked back into the living room.

"Sir, if I may, I think it might be best if I talked to her." Frank looked at the chaplain. "Jeff, thanks for coming."

"Not a problem, Frank." The chaplain actually looked a little relieved. "General, I think Frank is right— let him take it from here."

"No arguments from me." The general looked grim. "I still have a ton of paperwork for my aide to do."

"I'll probably stay here tonight." Frank turned to the general. "Sir, I'd like to request a short leave."

"Of course, Frank. Will ten days be sufficient?"

"More than sufficient, sir. Thank you."

Frank stepped into the house and closed the door as the other men walked back to the car. When he turned, he saw Angie standing across the room, just hanging up the phone.

"What happened, Uncle Frank?" Angie walked across the room and sat on the sofa. "How did my father die? And don't tell me it was a training accident or something like that, because I know he was on an escort detail tonight."

"I'm not going to lie to you, Angie." Frank sat next to the girl. "I wouldn't, even if Rob had been on a classified assignment. But tonight was an open, publicly acknowledged detail, and what happened will be in the papers in the morning." Frank paused a moment, taking a deep breath. "It was an accident, Angie, a damned drunk driver in a panel truck. Broadsided the car and rammed it into the side of a building. They told us Rob died on impact."

"Oh, Uncle Frank!!" Angie threw her arms around the colonel, crying openly.

Frank just held his crying goddaughter, stroking her hair and murmuring words of comfort, for several minutes. What do you say to a fifteen-year-old girl who just lost her only parent? Rob Cartwright had been both father and mother to Angie since his wife died ten years ago. Now the girl had no family left, except a crackpot uncle, her mother's brother, an archeologist or anthropologist or something like that. Frank did not even know how to contact the man to let him know what happened.

When the phone rang a few minutes later, it startled the colonel out of his ponderings. But Angie seemed to be expecting the call. She wiped her face and walked calmly over to the phone.

"Hello? . . .Hi, Uncle Mike. Thanks for calling back so soon . . . Daddy's dead, Uncle Mike. A drunk driver killed him . . . Tonight, an hour and a half ago . . . I'll be okay, Uncle Frank is here with me . . . Daddy told me to call you if anything happened to him . . . Because he promised mother that if anything happened he would . . . Well, surprise, Uncle Mike, I get to come live with you."

Frank was surprised by the bitter tone in Angie's voice, and by what she was saying. He had always assumed that he would become Angie's guardian if anything happened to Rob. How could his best friend have agreed to let her go live in the middle of nowhere with his crackpot brother-in-law?

"I don't like it any more than you do, Uncle Mike, but that is what mother wanted, and that is what father put in his will. I know, he showed it to me the last summer when he made some changes. Uncle Frank is the executor, and you are my guardian. So get on the first plane back here, because they will only let me stay on the base until the day after the funeral."

She hung up without even saying good-bye.

INTRODUCING BARBARA ANN EVANS, DON'T CALL HER "BARBIE"

"Are we home yet, Daddy?" a sleepy voice asked as Jim Evans turned into a gas station on the outskirts of Boston. Cathy turned around at the sound of her youngest daughter's voice. Five-year-old Julie looked more awake than her mother felt at four o'clock in the morning, sitting in the back seat between her older brother and sister.

"Not yet, pumpkin." Jim turned off the engine. "Do you have to go potty?"

"Uh-huh." Julie nodded her head.

"Bobby, Barbara, wake up." Cathy reached back to shake her sleeping children to wakefulness. "Bathroom break."

"Okay, mom." Fourteen-year-old Bobby stretched as best he could in the confined area. "Can I get something to eat? I'm starving!"

"You're always hungry, Tiger." Cathy turned to get out of the car. "Barbara, take your sister to the bathroom—and bring her back this time!"

"Aw, mom, why do I always have to take the baby?" Twelve-year-old Barbara glared at her younger sister.

"Enough of that, young lady," Jim scolded.

"That's all right, honey, she's tired." Cathy reached down for Julie's hand. "Come on, sweetie, Mommy will take you to the potty."

"Bobby, go to the window and tell them I'm gonna fill 'er up." Jim handed some money to his son. "Here's twenty-five; get some chips for you and your sisters while you're up there."

"Okay, dad." The boy trotted off to the cashier's window.

Five minutes later the Evans family started loading back into their car, ready for the final leg of their journey. New York City was nice, but it wasn't Boston. The family had enjoyed their vacation in New York, but all were eager to get home to their comfortable house in Chelsea.

Just then the quiet of the night was shattered by the sound of squealing tires. A battered Dodge pick-up truck roared into the gas station parking lot, headed for the other driveway. A tire blew out, and the truck screeched to a halt. A black van pulled in behind the truck, its side door open. Time stopped as Jim noticed the two gun barrels gleaming in the open doorway, and realized that his vehicle– his family– was right in the line of fire.

"Everybody get down!" he yelled, lunging for his youngest. But he was too late. A barrage of bullets from handguns, shotguns and assault weapons came from both directions, some passing over the Evans vehicle, some hitting the family car and the family beside it. The last thing Jim Evans saw was the body of his son hitting the ground, blood pouring out of multiple holes in his chest and abdomen.

It was over in less that a minute.

The cashier reached for the phone as the van sped out of the parking lot. He told the police dispatcher about the truck, the van, the shooting, and the family that had been caught in the middle of it all. The last thing he told them was about the young blonde-haired girl who sat cradling the body of her younger sister in her arms, crying silently in the night.

JULY 23, 1994

ANGIE

The young woman stood alone at the top of the cliff, looking out over the sea. The sun was setting behind a neighboring island, turning the sky into a masterpiece in shades of red. Angie wiped away the single tear rolling down her cheek as she watched the sunset. Tomorrow she would leave this place, the place she had lived for almost three years, the place that had become her home.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" A familiar arm wrapped itself around Angie's shoulders. "I've been working in this area for almost nine years, and I still love to watch the sunsets."

"I don't want to leave here, Uncle Mike." Angie turned and threw her arms around her only living relative. "Greece, the islands, I feel like I belong here."

"I know, Angel, so do I. But scholarships in our field are hard to find and even harder to get."

Angie smiled at the nickname, and at the "our" field. In the time she had lived with her uncle, moving around the Mediterranean area studying the remains of ancient civilizations, she had come to love the work he did. She had shown a talent for ancient languages; for the last year she had been helping with translations. And, more importantly, she had come to love her uncle.

"All packed?"

"I've been packed for two days— all that's left is my small suitcase with the rest of my clothes. I'll pack that in the morning." Angie turned to look at the dying sunset. "And I called Uncle Frank this morning; he promised he'd meet me at the airport even if he had to go AWOL."

"You're sure there won't be any problems with you staying with him on the base?"

"He's in family quarters, now, remember? He already warned me that I'd better learn how to change diapers and heat bottles!"

They both laughed as the last of the red sunlight faded from the sky, leaving only the dusty purples of impending night. Angie looked out over the islands she loved, and swore that she would return. Somehow she knew, that her destiny lied in these ruins of a time long gone, a time of kings, a time of gods, a time of heroes.

CAT

Tom Hidachi looked on in resignation as the three men strolled around his shop, methodically destroyed the display cases. He sent a silent prayer to the heavens; his daughter had just arrived that morning for her annual summer visit, and he did not want to think about what these animals would do to her. Tom glanced at the woman leaning casually against the wall watching the destruction. He had heard about her— everyone in the area knew about Cat-sama— but he had never seen her before.

A noise from the back of the shop attracted everyone's attention, and Tom's heart sank. His sixteen-year-old daughter came thru the doorway, wearing nothing but a long T-shirt, holding a fireplace poker in her hands.

"Dad? What's going on?" The girl stopped as she saw the men and the damage.

"Tammy, go back to bed," Tom pleaded. "Forget what you saw and go back to bed."

"Too late for that, Mr. Hidachi." The oldest of the thugs, a young man in his mid-twenties, grinned as he walked toward the girl. "She's already seen us. Looks like we get to have some fun. You boys take care of papa."

"Save us a piece, Ryu!" The other men grinned.

The girls clumsily swung the poker at Ryu's head, a strike he easily avoided before jerking the weapon out of her hands.

"You need to learn a little respect, girl." Ryu delivered a fierce backhanded slap to the girl's face, sending her to the floor.

"That's enough, Ryu."

Five pairs of eyes stared at Cat as she stared at her associate. In all the years she had been working for the Yakuza, no victim had ever heard her speak and lived to tell about it. Tom fervently hoped that he would be the first.

"Just having a little fun, Cat." Ryu reached down and grabbed the girl's arm dragging her to her feet. "Can't hurt to mix a little pleasure with business."

"I said that's enough. Let the girl go."

"Going soft in your old age?" A challenging look came into Ryu's eyes and he pushed the girl back down to the floor.

Moving quicker than eyes could follow Cat spun, sending two small shuriken in Ryu's direction. The throwing stars found their marks, slicing thru Ryu's ears before imbedding themselves in the wall behind him. The other two men exchanged a quick look, the moved to stand behind Cat.

"Be at the office at ten tomorrow. Now go."

Ryu hesitated for a moment, until the look in Cat's eyes convinced him that he had better follow her instructions. Ignoring the blood flowing from his ears her slowly walked out the door. With a sharp head gesture Cat sent the other two men after him.

"You have until the end of the month, Mr. Hidachi. If the money has not been repaid by the first, your daughter will inherit a fine business."

Tom nodded mutely as the raven-haired enforcer exited his shop.

As she stepped outside Cat looked around, spotting her three associates driving off in their car. Ryu would be at the office tomorrow, would accept whatever punishment was deemed necessary for his insubordination. But this wasn't over. Somehow she knew, trouble with Ryu was just beginning.

BARBARA

The courtroom was mostly empty; juvenile cases never attracted much attention, unless the case was well-publicized or controversial. A fifteen-year-old girl charged with assault and habitual delinquency was a frequent occurrence in Boston. In short, no one really cared about another kid gone bad.

Not even her court-appointed attorney. The frazzled young lawyer from the public defender's office had taken one look at the case file and advised Barbara Evans to plead guilty and save everyone some time.

"I am guilty," Barbara told him. "So what?"

So no trial was held, only a hearing to determine her punishment. Judge Lindy Gilchrist was not impressed by Barbara's record, and was even less impressed by her attitude.

"Miss Evans, you are, without doubt, the most disturbing young woman to come before this bench in my entire tenure as judge. I understand that you were severely traumatized by your family's death, but that is no excuse for the attitude you are displaying today. I have seen no signs of remorse, no desire to make amends for your actions. Your record paints an even darker picture: nine foster homes in less than three years; two prior sentences to juvenile hall for assault; expelled from five schools, despite excellent scholastic records. And now this— attacking another young woman in the waiting room at the probation office. According to this medical report, you broke her left arm in two places, shattered her right ankle, and broke four ribs, one of which almost pierced her heart . . . "

The look of wry amusement on Barbara's face caused Judge Gilchrist to hesitate in her lecture. Looking the girl straight in the eye, the judge froze for a moment. The amused expression did not extend to those ice-blue eyes. Never in her life had the judge seen eyes so cold, so devoid of emotion. It took all her willpower to continue.

"Three state-designated psychiatrists have independently determined that you are mentally fit to take responsibility for your actions. Therefore I have no alternative but to remand you to the custody of the state juvenile authorities, where you will remain until your eighteenth birthday. And may God have mercy on your soul."

Oh, I'm sure one of the gods will look after me, Barbara thought as the matron led her away. Question is— which one?

JUNE 21, 2000

5:00 A.M.
ANGIE

Unable to sleep, Angie turned on the TV and found it tuned in to the morning news. The reporter was talking about a trial that had just ended, some sort of organized crime hit man or something who had been convicted of murder and was awaiting sentencing. She started to change the channel, but stopped as a picture of the defendant came on the screen. Something about the dark-haired woman seemed familiar, but Angie couldn't quite place where she had seen her before. She turned up the volume just as the news was interrupted with a special report.

The asteroids were coming down.

Angie dashed to the window and gasped. The sky was filled with shooting stars, hundreds of them. The reporter was urging people to stay calm, stay in their homes.

Home? Angie thought. Home is thousands of miles away.

She looked at the sky for another moment then came to a decision. Whatever happened, she did not want to be stuck in Manhattan when it did. She had to get out. Within moments she had thrown everything she considered essential into her backpack and gotten dressed in comfortable clothes and hiking boots. Ten minutes later she gave a cabbie two hundred dollars and instructions to take her to Syracuse, with a promise of more money when they got there.

They never got there.

7:00 A.M.
BARBARA

“Look at it, Leroy–isn’t it magnificent?”

Leroy Jackson snarled at his former enforcer, jerking at the ropes that bound him to the balcony railing. All around them the city was in flames, destroyed by the meteors. Only a few buildings remained standing, none within twenty blocks of his.

“I told you, Leroy, the gods have returned from Mount Olympus, and they are NOT happy.”

Barbara turned and examined Leroy’s restraints. For three and a half years she had worked for the drug dealer, first as a runner, later as his primary enforcer. She had escaped from Juvenile Detention on her seventeenth birthday, and met Leroy six months later. He had taught her everything he knew about drugs, guns, and self-defense.

But it was Ares, god of war, who taught her about power.

“You didn’t believe me when I told you about Ares. You laughed at the very idea of his existence. Well, look! See his power!”

Barbara picked up an odd-shaped bundle from the table next to Leroy and carefully unwrapped it. Leroy’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the obviously ancient sword the blonde held.

“What, no comment? Oh, that’s right, you CAN’T, I paralyzed your vocal cords” Barbara grinned wickedly and thrust the sword up into the air.

“ARES! Welcome back!”

In one smooth motion she reversed the blade and thrust it into Leroy’s heart. Leaving the sword sheathed in Leroy’s body she turned and walked back into the apartment. Seven men and women waited patiently for her orders– seven people, once part of Leroy’s extensive organization, who had heard the truth in Barbara’s prophesies.

“Spread the word– I’m in charge now. Everyone meets at the warehouse at dawn. By tomorrow night we will control all of Boston and the surrounding area. Let everyone know there’s a new boss in town, and her name is . . . Callisto!”

11:30 A.M.
CAT

Cat solemnly surveyed her surroundings as she climbed free of the ruins that were once the country’s most secure temporary holding facility for accused and convicted felons. She had spent almost four hours extracting herself from the rubble; she appeared to be the only survivor out of over a hundred prisoners and guards. That did not bother her; she had been able to pick and choose from among the weapons kept in the armory, and considered herself more that adequately armed. No, what bothered her was the dreams she had been having: dreams of a man wearing ancient armor offering her power, asking her to lead his army; dreams of a young woman telling her to believe in her own ability to do good; and dreams of this, the meteors raining down from the sky, the destruction they brought, the struggle for survival to follow.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a woman’s scream and the sound of gunfire. Without hesitation Cat ran in the direction of the disturbance. Three blocks away she came across a small gang of bikers surrounding young couple. The thugs were shooting into the ground at their victims’ feet, demanding the keys to their vehicle. No one noticed Cat’s arrival.

Without slowing Cat launched herself into a flip and landed in front of the couple. Realizing that a gunfight would probably kill the people she was trying to protect, she quickly sprang forward and began disarming the bikers. Of course, this resulted in numerous broken arms, shattered wrists, and dislocated shoulders. Within seconds nine guns lay on the ground, and nine men tried to continue the fight.

They lost.

Cat turned to check on the young couple, only to find them already in their car and driving away.

“You’re welcome.”

With a shrug and a sigh Cat quickly searched the bodies for anything useful, then set off down the road. A lot of people were going to need help– protection from scavengers, assistance rebuilding– and she had a lifetime of wrongdoing to make up for.