Avalanche: Book Five in the Secret World Chronicle

by Lackey, Mercedes

  “I could not agree more. You have both been unique hosts, but…” Tesla trailed off, apparently unable to find something both polite and complimentary about the prolonged shared consciousness. “Proceed, Ms. Victrix.”

  The ritual—for lack of a better term—happened exactly the same way as it had the last time Vickie had put Tesla and Marconi back where they belonged. Same diagrams on the floor, same scribbling in the air—except this time it went a little faster. The entire time, Ramona was torn—on the one hand, Vickie was very confident. On the other—it was magic, and as Vickie had pointed out, in magic there is always the chance for something to go wrong.

  Wrong and strange felt surprisingly similar. When the odd resonance between her ears and over the surface of her skin subsided, Ramona expected some sense of emptiness or relief. Instead, she felt a mounting pressure behind her eyes and a ringing that started at the base of her skull and crept over the back of her head. As her vision began to narrow, she glanced at Rick to see if he was experiencing any of the same symptoms.

  And then she heard them. Both of them.

  “Ah, Nikola. I do not believe that this is the final iteration of the equation.” Marconi’s words echoed too close, a grating wet whisper that made her teeth itch. “One moment more.”

  The other consciousness did not share his new companion’s calm. “This is why scientific principles are infinitely more reliable than magic. While I do not discount the effectiveness of the young mage’s tactics, I question whether or not this is truly the best course of action, given the delicate nature of the host and the conduit.” The last few words cracked like a whip in Ramona’s mind. She sucked in a lungful of air and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes.

  “I’m thinking the crazy train needs to make one more stop,” she croaked out. “Too much physics.”

  “There is no such thing,” Tesla objected.

  “There is right now,” Ramona ground out between clenched teeth. “So, please, for the love of what’s left of my sanity, don’t say anything else. I’m sure Vickie has a solution.” She dared to move her head to catch the mage’s expression. “Right?”

  Vickie leveled an accusing gaze at Ramona, although Ramona had the sense that she wasn’t looking at Ramona, but at the two entities that were warring inside her for headspace. “Merc? Out. Gents, I warned you before, your intentions have immense Schrödinger power in magic. You didn’t want to move into your new home badly enough. What you wanted was something familiar. So you both ended up in Ramona, the path of least resistance. We are not amused.”

  “No, we are not. And while I want you out pretty badly, you have to want to be in the best place possible. You both need to trust her. Please,” Ramona added.

  Mercurye lingered in the doorway. Vickie leveled her laserlike gaze on him. “Out! Or do you want to end up with both of them in your head? Because depending on how chicken they are, we could play musical heads for the rest of the day.”

  His eyes widened and he disappeared down another hallway. Clearly, he didn’t want to repeat the experience.

  Vickie turned back to Ramona, her eyes narrowed. “So, gentlemen—beginning to feel a little cramped in there? Maybe you are briefly losing track of a thought you had? Let me confirm that is exactly what is happening. And the longer you are both squeezed into Ramona’s skull, the more often that will happen, and the more likely it will be that the thought or memory is lost permanently. Over the short term, it’s unlikely you’ll lose anything…important. But the longer you put off the transfer, the more likely this becomes. You’re experiencing a form of Alzheimer’s. Your only hope of avoiding it is to jump when I say ‘frog.’ Have I made myself perfectly clear?”

  “Absolutely, Signorina.” Ramona had the image of Marconi twisting the other man’s ear in an act of academic reprimand. “Speak the frog, and we will both jump. Yes, Nikola?”

  “Yes.”

  Men, Ramona mouthed. Vickie shrugged, and nodded. Wusses, she mouthed back. Then she began the ritual all over again.

  * * *

  It took longer this time, and not because Vickie was going slower. Ramona had absolutely no doubt that Vickie was adding things she hadn’t done before, presumably to add a magical boot to the metaphorical asses of Ramona’s tenants to enforce the eviction.

  Finally Vickie put the last flourish and a spoken “Fiat!” to the performance, and waited.

  Shadows of the massive headache remained, but the constant hiss and whisper of conversation and thought had disappeared. Ramona chanced a thought about something related to Rick and waited for Marconi’s inevitable commentary. This time, silence replied and it had no opinion whatsoever. “Finally,” she breathed. “And how do the old guys like their new digs?”

  “Gentlemen,” Vickie announced. “Just fire up the interface like you used to. It’ll work. I tested it five times before you got here.”

  The fusion of magic and technology leapt to life, and two figures materialized in close proximity to the device. Unlike the Metisian wireframe heads, Vickie’s synthesis allowed them full bodies in remarkable detail and corporeality. Marconi strolled around the room to stand next to Vickie while Tesla smoothed the front of his jacket and straightened his vest. Ramona had to lift her head to look them both in the eye. As she watched, both men became less blue and more true to pigment and color.

  “This is magnificent,” breathed Marconi. “Nikola, tell her. It’s magnificent. Never in our wildest imaginings could we have foreseen these sorts of things.”

  Tesla pursed his lips and inclined his head toward the little blonde witch. “I should not have doubted your methods, in spite of their unique conventions. As one very familiar with Metisian science, I can assure you that this solution is somewhat superior.”

  Marconi winked in Vickie’s direction. “He’s quite pleased. As am I, dear lady.”

  Vickie smirked. “Congratulations. You guys are literally ghosts. Instead of holograms, those are ectoplasmic bodies. And you won’t need this interface, once I get done cooking up the pocket models. Anyone who has one will be able to dial you up so you can have a look at things in person. I’ll send a few of the pocket jobs off to people I trust so even if all hell breaks loose and ECHO and CCCP and all of Atlanta gets trashed, you’ll still be able to do whatever you can. Suits?”

  “Certainly. I trust that Signorina Ferrari will be one of those people?” Marconi motioned to Ramona, who leaned against the wall of the small room. She cracked one eye open and gave him a wry smile.

  “Sure, but not quite yet. I think we need to see other people, but I won’t object to a pocket genius now and again.” Her gaze turned to Vickie. “So, what next? I ask Sovie for a checkup to get cleared for duty? Prepare for more paperwork?”

  “All of the above,” Vickie sighed, sagging back against the wall. “Gents, explore your new home. There’s another interface over in the sci-labs at ECHO, with some nanocreation thingies hooked up. Stuff from plans you sent us back when you were still in Metis, so it should be familiar to you. Knock yourselves out. Scare the crap out of people, if that floats your boats.”

  “Start with the old guy upstairs who watches reruns and eats pasta out of a can,” Ramona suggested. “He’ll either run screaming or you’ll get to swap stories from when you were all little. You won’t be bored here, that’s for sure. For my part, I am going to find Thea and get food for both of us.” She crooked a finger at Vickie. “You did a lot, and Bella will have my butt if she finds out I didn’t get you to eat something after that exercise. No Chef Boyardee, I promise.”

  “Borscht,” Vickie said, with longing. “Thea makes the most heavenly borscht…”

  CHAPTER SIX

  * * *

  Deep Rapture

  Mercedes Lackey

  So, there are things in this chronicle that it’s obvious I would have had no way of knowing about. That’ll be Eight-Ball. I’m not sure how much he’s going to put in, or where it will be, but there is one entity on this planet t
hat’s better at that part of my job than I am—and that’s him. Oh, Reader, I hope you are actually around to enjoy it.

  There was no Poseidon. Amphitrite ruled the oceans alone which, given Poseidon’s constant tantrums, frequent illicit affairs and the fact that he had the general emotional maturity of a toddler, was exactly as she preferred things. Thus she had done for decades. There had been a life before she became a goddess…but she preferred not to remember any of it.

  It was a peaceful life, for the most part. She did not trouble mortals unless they took too much of the ocean’s bounty, or poisoned it. Then she made herself known, and generally that was enough. The sight of a woman nearly a thousand feet tall rising up out of the depths, surrounded by her creatures, with a frown that reminded them that she, and not they, ruled the waters, was generally enough to elicit an “OhGodPleaseDon’tKillUs!” and better behavior.

  Though…she would have preferred them to scream “OhGODDESS” rather than “God,” but then, perhaps they weren’t referring to her. She generally let them off with a warning, because she was a benevolent goddess, and retreated back to the waters without even demanding that any temples be built to her.

  After all, it wasn’t as if she needed worship to be what she was. The creatures of the sea, the water itself, obeyed her without the need for worship.

  When it came right down to it, did she really want to be worshipped? No. Worshippers wanted things from you. Miracles. Blessings. Special favors. I would rather be feared than worshipped. People who feared you demanded nothing from you, and mostly hoped not to attract your attention.

  She was content, really. Or at least…she had been.

  * * *

  She was, of course, aware of everything that happened in all of the oceans of the world. What happened on land mattered to her not at all. That is, until recently.

  Because there was an interloper in her waters. Now…there were interlopers all the time, of course, in the form of underwater craft, but these came and went, and as long as they left her and her creatures in peace, she allowed them to travel unmolested. But this interloper came…and sank into the depths…and stayed. Stayed, radiating such emotional anguish that the great whales came to her and complained that he was “harshing their mellow.”

  Where do they get these phrases?

  So, when he had stayed, and stayed, and stayed, and showed no signs of leaving, she went to him, where he was sunk, in the dark, quiet depths off the place called Tybee Island. She sank down effortlessly to rest beside him, and contemplated him. A man of stone, a little taller than she, radiating emotional pain. After a while she grew tired of contemplating him, since he showed no signs of noticing her, and was she not a goddess?

  So she prodded him, sending her thoughts forcefully into his mind. Who are you, and what are you doing here? she demanded.

  The seabed roiled a little as he started. Eyes which had been squeezed shut, opened and looked around, finally settling on her. The mouth came open in a gape of surprise, and thankfully the emotional anguish stopped.

  You—the thoughts came deep and a little slow, as if it had been a long time since he had thought of anything but his own pain. You’re—underwater—you’re beautiful—

  Of course I’m beautiful, she thought, irritated, and yet irrationally pleased. I am a goddess. I am Amphitrite, Queen of the Seas. You are in my realm. You are troubling my creatures! Who are you, and what are you doing here?

  To her dismay, the being hung its head and sagged with despair. Trying…to die, she heard with disbelief. And I can’t even do that right…

  Irritation warred with compassion. Compassion won, and gave way to determination. This will never do, she thought. I am a goddess. I shall put this right.

  * * *

  Arthur Pense, PhD, MD, formerly chief psychologist to the Atlanta Stress Therapy Center and currently hoping his plan of escaping the Thulian Menace by hiding on a converted fishing boat was going to work, was congratulating himself on the effectiveness of his plan and celebrating by trying to catch dinner. Was being the operative word. Because just as he thought he had a bite, the upper half of a thousand-foot-tall woman erupted out of the water next to the Rusty Hope, sending seawater over his deck and scaring the crap out of him almost literally.

  He knew what it was immediately. There were just not that many thousand-foot-tall women around, especially stark naked thousand-foot-tall women wearing a shell crown and holding a thousand-foot-tall trident.

  “OhGodPleaseDon’tKillMe!” he screamed, throwing himself down on the wet deck. Somewhere in the back of his mind, his analytical side was noting that after having two naked breasts each twice the size of his whole boat looming over him was certainly going to trigger some sort of neurosis. And that same analytical side was just relieved she was submerged from the waist down.

  The boat stopped moving. He peeked through his hands and saw she’d caught the stern in her left, her right still holding the trident. He looked up, past nipples the size of tractor tires, and saw her gazing down at him enigmatically.

  He couldn’t imagine what he could have done to offend her, but then, she was the highest level metahuman there was, OpFour or Five, and everyone knew they weren’t sane. Look what had happened with the Mountain!

  So he was taken completely aback when a pleasant, calm, quiet voice spoke in his mind.

  I have no intention of harming you, follower of Asclepius. I wish to know how to cure Melancholia.

  He took his hands away from his face and got himself to his knees. But no further. This woman thought she was a goddess, after all, and she was powerful enough to enforce that perception, by all accounts. “Uh—depression?” he hazarded. “That’s…that’s a tall order. No insult intended.”

  None taken. You are saying this is a complex problem?

  “Well, yes, depression can come from many causes, and it takes—”

  Never mind. I shall see what is in your thoughts.

  Arthur then had the curious experience of having his own mind gone through the way his housekeeper tore through the kitchen. Every memory, however small, was picked up, examined, turned inside out, scrubbed off, and set back in its proper place, even if that place wasn’t where it had been left lying around. The contents of his metaphorical refrigerator were examined, cleaned, restored to their proper shelves and lined up according to size, tallest in the back. All the canisters were aligned, all the silverware nested in the silverware drawer, all the breakfast cereal was alphabetized, and she gave it all a final polish before letting him go again.

  Irritating, she commented.

  He cringed. “Me?” he squeaked.

  No. Melancholia. I shall have to try everything. The trident came down, and he yelped and ducked, until he saw there was a fishnet with something in it impaled on the middle prong. It slid down the prong and landed on the deck beside him with a heavy thud.

  I am given to understand there should be a consultation fee, she said, So there you are. Thank you, follower of Asclepius. And then she vanished under the water, rocking the boat violently as she submerged. He scrambled to his feet and grabbed the gunnels, peering after her, but all he saw was an enormous white shape just below the surface, speeding away, and soon gone.

  He turned and looked doubtfully at the fishnet. A swordfish would have been nice, he thought unhappily. I don’t suppose those are abalone…

  He poked one of the shapes in the net with a toe. It felt like a rock. He sighed. Not abalone…just rocks. Why she thought that would constitute payment…but who could tell how these crazy mega-metas thought? He bent down to pick up one of the rocks, and grunted in surprise at its weight. And a wild thought occurred to him.

  It was a matter of moments to confirm his supposition. One blow with a hammer chipped off a crust of barnacles, rotten leather, and hardened sea muck, and the “rock” split in half, revealing that it wasn’t a rock at all, but a sack of gold coins. And there were a dozen more such “rocks” in the net.

 
He stared out to sea in the direction Amphitrite had vanished.

  “I solemnly swear,” he said to the ocean, “I will never eat fish again.”

  * * *

  Amphitrite was a goddess, and she had godlike patience. The mortal’s impressive learning on the subject of Melancholia had suggested it had many causes—she tackled all of them. She altered the chemistry of the water around him, to tackle possible imbalances. She brought luminescent fish to lighten his darkness. She brought the humpback whales to sing to him, and the dolphins to scan him with their sonar, since those vibrations seemed to have an anecdotal effect, according to the mortal’s memories of a journal article.

  But most of all, she talked to him until he finally began to talk back. And then, she listened.

  Although it was very likely the things she said back to him would not have passed muster with the APA.

  When he spoke with longing of his previous life, she snorted. You arose. You ate indifferent food that was largely not good for you. You traveled in an uncomfortable vehicle among many more such, inhaling large quantities of poisonous fumes. You arrived at a building full of dull mortals with dull little lives for whom the antics of actors were of more interest than what was going on around them, and who counted their “friendships” by the number of faceless strangers who “liked” them on an electronic wall, but who had no notion of who or what their neighbors were. There you were in an alternating state of terror or elation, depending on the mood of the petty tyrant you called your overseer. You went home, exhausted, by a drive that made you more exhausted, where you ate indifferent food that mostly was bad for you, and settled beside a wife who barely spoke three sentences to you all evening. Then, twice a week, you participated in joyless sex that was little more than a relief valve. Then you slept, and did it all the next day, often even on weekends when the tyrant decreed you must work overtime. And you called this a life? Slow dying, I would call it.