Avalanche: Book Five in the Secret World Chronicle

by Lackey, Mercedes

  On the first day, the couple took one of the CCCP’s vans from the motorpool in order to get to the coast. They could have flown and been over the ocean in an hour or two, but John was adamant. His reasoning was that, for starters, taking the van would be less conspicuous than launching from the city; there were undoubtedly eyes on them at all times, especially when they took to the air, and John didn’t want to make things any easier for the government snoops—or the Thulians—or Verdigris—than necessary. Also, neither he nor Sera knew how much practice would wear them out. It’d be a pain in the ass to fly out there, rocket around all day, and then not have enough energy to fly back to Atlanta under their own power. It took a little bit of work to figure out how to comfortably get Sera a seat in the van. In the end, they decided on putting a thick wool blanket over one of the several ammo boxes that were bolted to the floor and walls of the van; if she straddled it like a saddle, she could lean back semicomfortably without her wings getting crushed. Bear, who had watched the pair while they fiddled around with the arrangement in the van, said that he would figure out something more permanent for them by the time they got back. John didn’t quite know whether to be grateful or fearful for Pavel’s help. Ever since Ultima Thule, he had been a little bit kinder and more generous with the couple.

  “Fret not, Ural Smasher,” Vickie said, as Sera tried out various ways of sitting on the box. “He just bought a used saddle on eBay from someone south of town, and took a Ural with a sidecar out to pick it up in person.”

  “Where there’s a Bear involved, there’s always cause for concern, Vic. Either for us or whoever the hell we’re fightin’.”

  “I’m keeping an eye on him, but the seller is a WWII vet about as old as he is, and so as long as he doesn’t break any traffic laws, he should be fine. They’ll probably get snockered over traded stories, but that’s never affected his driving…meanwhile, follow your HUD. I’m directing you to a safe-ish stretch of what passes for beach in Georgia. It’s more mud and rocks than beach, but that will keep the swimmers away.”

  “Sounds good to me. Let’s get rollin’.”

  As beat-up as the van looked, it started immediately for John. He pulled out of the CCCP HQ garage and followed Vickie’s HUD directions out of the city; the route was a little circuitous, but it kept them off of as many of the more populated roads as possible. Once they were out of the city proper and headed towards Savannah, John rolled down the windows—the A/C was still on the fritz—and turned up the secondhand tape player that he’d helped install. Creedence and other classic rock greats played, competing with the wind to be heard. Since it was still relatively early morning, the temperature wasn’t too high, and the day was fairly pleasant for the moment. John realized that, despite everything else, he felt good.

  He glanced back at Sera, who smiled at him. We are very fortunate, beloved. We do not need to shout at each other over the wind noise. We must treasure such small pleasures. They are our armor against despair.

  Right you are, darlin’.

  Even though they could converse quite easily through their connection, John and Sera were mostly “quiet” for the trip, simply enjoying the drive and each other’s company. Outside of the city and away from the remnants of devastation, it was almost possible to forget about the war for a little while. The Georgia countryside was virtually untouched by the fighting—the Thulians stuck to population centers and strategic targets—and the swamps and farmlands between Atlanta and the coast looked…well, normal. There were still cars on the roads (though a lot fewer than there would have been a few years ago) and roadside stands every now and then selling produce or plants or fresh eggs. John had seen the worst side of the world between his time in the military, the Program, and while on the run. Early in the war, he found himself questioning exactly what he had been fighting to preserve. Days like today reminded him. He wasn’t fighting to keep things the same, to protect the same status quo of violence and resignation. It was to let people just be.

  They were almost to Nevils—a relatively small town—when John’s stomach complained loudly and vociferously that breakfast had been Too Damn Long Ago.

  “Darlin’, I’m thinkin’ that an early lunch is in order,” he said as he signaled and turned onto an off-ramp for the town. When he got no response, he looked over his shoulder and saw she was smothering giggles in both hands. “An’ what’s so funny, if I might ask?” She just shook her head and giggled harder. “Suit yourself. You’ve officially lost your vote for where to eat. I have a mighty hunger.”

  After cueing up Vickie on Overwatch and having her do a little digging on the area, John decided that they would stop at a chicken and waffle place called Gator Bay. Apparently, the locals loved it, even though it was small (even by the standards of Nevils) and tucked out of the way. Located next to a church, it was an unassuming building; the CCCP’s briefing room was probably just a shade smaller than the building’s total footprint. As such, there wasn’t more than a couple of tables inside, with most of the space being taken up by the kitchen and service counter. There were wooden tables and benches on the outside with faded umbrellas to give shade and, for some unknown reason, giant plastic bags full of water hung around the eaves, along with fly and wasp traps, well away from the door. Most notable was the line stretching out the door. John took it as a good sign. John got out of the van, stretched, and then opened the side panel door for Sera. When she got out, the crowd definitely took notice. They were wearing civilian attire, having opted to leave their uniforms in the van until they got to the beach. But there was no missing Sera’s wings, and a number of the patrons openly gawked at her.

  They probably don’t get a lotta contact with metas out there in the sticks. Closest most of ’em have come is probably seein’ one on television. He waved to them. “Howdy, folks,” he said as genially as possible. “Mind if’n we get in line?”

  There were a few mumbles among some of the older patrons, but no one objected. John and Sera made their way to the back of the line, Sera careful of her wings. Only a few people continued to stare, while most went back to their conversations. The line was moving briskly, as some of the food was dished out cafeteria-style. The menu on a chalkboard included “Handmade Burgers” and “Bacon-Wrapped Dogs,” but from the look of things, what most people were ordering was “Chick’n’N’Waffles.” John saw no reason to buck the trend; he ordered two plates of the Chick’n’N’Waffles, with sides of collards, black-eyed peas, and a large cup of banana pudding with vanilla wafers for the two of them to share. The only drinks were water and true Southern sweet tea; John opted for the tea. After paying, they made their way outside and took their seats at a far table; a runner came a few minutes later with their food and drinks.

  John didn’t stand on parade. Once the food arrived, he immediately dug in. “So, whatcha think, love?” he said around a mouthful of food, taking a sip of his sweet tea to wash it down.

  “I would not have paired these foods,” she said, with a sudden smile that lit up the overcast day, “But they are delicious!”

  “Hard to beat good Southern cuisine, darlin’.” John was about to take another bite of food when he noticed two small children, both boys, standing politely by the side of the table.

  “Can we help you kids?” he asked gravely, hiding a smile, because he knew damn well why they were there. After all, his ’hood was full of kids, all of whom were familiar with Sera.

  “Are y’all a hero? Do y’all shoot fire outen y’all’s eyes?” said one, at the same time as the other said to Sera, “Are y’all a angel, miss?”

  “Well, I can shoot fire, sure enough, just not outta my eyes.” John held up a hand and snapped his fingers, producing a lighter-sized flame from his thumb. Both of the kids went wide-eyed; John winked, then blew out the flame. “As for my wife here, she’s definitely a hero to me. But I’ll let her answer for herself. Darlin’?”

  “I am a metahuman,” she said carefully. “Just like John.” He smiled to hims
elf at how carefully she had picked her phrases. In every sense, since they now shared most of her old powers, she was just like him…

  Now Sera had the attention of both of them. “Are them wings real?” they chorused.

  She graced them with one of her dazzling smiles. “Yes, they are,” she said, and answered the impolite and unspoken longing in their eyes. “Go ahead and touch them.” She stretched out one of them enough so they could get a sense of how big the wings were. Gingerly, they both reached to touch, then stroked the soft feathers more boldly as she nodded and continued to smile.

  “They is real!” one of them breathed. She laughed.

  “Back up a little,” she said, and stood up, stretching them out completely, then shaking them hard until two of the soft, covert feathers fell out. “Those are for you,” she said, sitting down again, as they stared covetously at the scarlet feathers lying on the ground. They dived to snatch the feathers up, then remembered their manners.

  “Thankee, miss!” they chorused, just as their embarrassed parents summoned them back to the family tables. They evidently got a halfhearted “talking to” (halfhearted, as the parents seemed as fascinated by the shed feathers as the children were) and sent off to play with the rest of the kids who had finished their meals.

  John grinned lopsidedly as he watched the kids for a moment. “If’n only the rest of the world saw us the way those two do. It’d make our jobs a helluva lot easier.”

  She sighed. “Children believe so easily. But adults, who have felt the sting of betrayal, always look to be betrayed again.”

  “Guess we’ll have to prove that we’re better’n they’re expectin’,” John said as he pierced another bite of food with his fork. “Or say to hell with all of ’em when this war is over an’ settle down somewhere.”

  A look of sadness came over her. “I try not to think too far ahead. It is hard…not seeing the Futures. And not knowing what to do is a fearful thing. One of the hardest to adjust to.”

  John set his fork down, and reached out with his right hand to cover her left. “You’re not wrong, love. But the rest of humanity has been gettin’ by without seein’ the future for a long time. I figure we’ll get along well enough. We’ve got each other, after all.” He poured reassurance and his love for her through their connection and his confidence in his own words.

  Her expression lightened again. “And always shall.”

  He squeezed her hand, then picked up his fork again. “Eat up. We’ve still got some miles ahead of us, an’ I’ve got a sneakin’ suspicion that we’re goin’ to need all the energy we can get.”

  * * *

  That statement turned out to be the understatement of the week.

  The first attempt they made—flying side by side with John holding Sera’s hand and “towing” her when the speed reached a point where she couldn’t keep up—was an unmitigated disaster. Even with their enhanced strength, they couldn’t keep a grip on each other’s wrists. After three tries and three failures, they gave up.

  “Worked on Superman,” John grumbled, as they stood together on the mud-and-sand strip at the edge of the ocean. “I really don’t want to think what would happen if we tried to lash ourselves together.”

  Sera was rubbing her arm and shoulder as if they hurt. “I am difficult to injure, not invulnerable,” she said. “Well, the ‘fireman carry’ is not possible, you could not see past my wings. I think the ‘honeymoon carry’ is inadvisable. What does that leave?”

  He thought for a few moments. “What’s really propellin’ me is the fire. It’s also what makes that protective sheath. We gotta think of some way to transfer it from me to you. With that, y’ought to be able to go just as fast as me.”

  There were several more abortive experiments, each ending the same; as soon as John stopped being in direct physical contact with Sera, the protective shield of Celestial fire disappeared from her. Even at slower speeds, the wind shear alone was dangerous, never mind what would happen if she were to hit anything.

  “Hey, don’t appeal to me as Wikipedia, hotshot,” Vickie said, before he could ask. “I can man the battlements for Kriegers or I can research aerodynamics. I can’t do both, and I don’t have any rocket scientists on speed-dial. Well, I have two geniuses, but they’re busy right now.”

  Gamayun, who was listening in, added sadly, “Da, tovarisch, the one who could have helped you was poor Petrograd. We have nyet in CCCP now who can.”

  They wrapped up the day as the sun was setting, battered and bruised. Still, it was a pleasant trip back to Atlanta for the pair of them. There was dinner waiting for them when they returned to CCCP HQ; while John would have preferred staying at his squat, the Commissar’s orders were to keep everyone at base when they weren’t deployed. It made sense for security and to be able to muster as many people as quickly as possible in the case of an attack, but John chafed at the requirement all the same. The one concession that Natalya had made was to allot a private room for John and Sera, instead of living in the barracks with the others. They were the only married couple, and Sera’s wings didn’t lend themselves well to the close confines of bunks.

  By the time the couple were ready to leave the next morning, they found that Bear had already installed the saddle-seat in the van for Sera. It had definitely seen some miles, judging from the worn leather, but it had been cared for, and was much more comfortable for Sera to sit in. John promised to pick up a bottle of Pavel’s favorite tipple on the way back to town; the old man’s eyes lit up, but he only allowed himself a stiff nod before wishing them a safe drive. The cagey old man had even managed to rig what looked like a seat belt that would actually hold against a sudden stop. John thought for a moment about asking his advice on their flying issue, but then thought better of it. They didn’t have the rest of the day to waste listening to stories of the Great Patriotic War, which would invariably be peppered with off-color jokes. Normally, neither John nor Sera would mind; it seemed to do Pavel good to talk to people. But time was not a luxury that they had, especially with the inevitability of another attack looming over them.

  The pair decided to stop by Gator Bay for an early lunch again, though only to pick up food to go this time. Since chicken and waffles wasn’t an ideal roadtrip food, John opted to get them a double order of burgers and bacon-wrapped hot dogs, with french fries and travel cups of sweet tea. When John tried to pay, one of the cooks—a young black man, early twenties and wearing his hair in a short afro—stepped out from the kitchen and said, “Their money ain’t good here.” John was about to object when the young man held his hand up. “Your meal, I got it. I got an older brother in Atlanta. If y’all weren’t around, I’d be an only child. Y’all do good, and we need that.”

  Sera looked surprised, then pleased, then embarrassed, then smiled shyly. “Thank you,” she said softly. “We will strive to deserve your favor.”

  The young man nodded once, then went back to the kitchen. John dropped the cost of their meal twice over in the tip jar; he’d probably get hell from the Commissar for the expense, but he didn’t really give a damn.

  “Tell Natalya we were supporting sturdy independent workers in their own business, not nekulturny franchise,” Sera advised aloud, answering the unspoken thought.

  John couldn’t help but chuckle at that, as they walked back to the van. “Darlin’, I’d be absolutely lost without you.” They ate on the road, and weren’t disappointed; the hamburgers, though simple, were imminently satisfying, and the bacon-wrapped hot dogs were more of the same. “If’n we’re ever back this way, we’ve gotta stop by there again. My appetite will rebel, otherwise.”

  When they arrived at the beach, the sky was starting to become overcast. It suited John just fine; any reprieve from the sun beating down on them was welcome. The next two hours were filled with more experiments, and more failures. John attempted to carry Sera by pulling her close to his chest when they were face to face. This only ended up sending them crashing into the ocean, as the air wa
s caught in her wings; she couldn’t pull them in close enough since he was hugging her, essentially, and anything else she tried with her wings obscured his vision. They tried it backwards, with John hugging her from behind, and met with similar results. Sera’s wings were too bulky, and John lost his grip on her; at the last second, he turned himself over and flung her into the air to save her from hitting the water. Much to his chagrin and Sera’s amusement, John was sent skipping along the water like a stone before coming to a stop in a crash of water and steam from the Celestial fire. The Celestial energy and his nanoweave suit saved him from getting too beaten up, but it was still an uncomfortable experience, to say the least.

  He swam, and she flew, in to shore. Once there, he turned on the fire again to dry himself off, while she fanned him with her wings to speed the process. “This may not be po—” she began, when the Overwatch Two alarm went off in both their heads.

  “Kriegers incoming at Port of Savannah,” Vickie said, over the now-muted sound of the alarm. “Everyone else is deployed or too far. Tag, you’re it.” John’s HUD lit up with the map and the three Krieger Death Spheres—hulls studded with three dozen suits of trooper armor—speeding towards the docks from the open ocean.