Avalanche: Book Five in the Secret World Chronicle

by Lackey, Mercedes

  “Of course you do.”

  A sickly-sweet odor wafted through the air and Ramona’s implants screamed in warning. Her HUD leapt to life, warning about the chemical composition and presence of a dozen unidentifiable chemical and biological agents. She swallowed hard and glanced at Pride. He still hadn’t moved from the podium.

  “At least we’ll get to learn about Verd’s bartending skills with Overwatch’s analysis of his chemical cocktail. That won’t be affected, right?” She couldn’t help the instinct to breathe a little more shallowly. “Right?”

  “Daughter of Rasputin called it magic. Something that Verdigris cannot break.” Natalya snarled through the secure communication.

  In the group of metahumans standing closest to the platform, some of them eased themselves into their chairs, heads in their hands or palms pressed tightly over their eyes. Ramona felt herself unable to support her own weight and struggled to draw a deep breath. She fell against the side of the platform, nauseous and disoriented. The added weight of modified musculature would make it nearly impossible for many of them to walk, much less run, if Verdigris chose to attack civilians in spite of his promise.

  At least some people had been able to stay behind. Would that be enough?

  * * *

  The air smelled of cinnamon and overripe bananas, a detail that Verdigris had likely chosen on purpose. Ramona sat on the ground, the small of her back pressed into the side of the stage. The other metas sitting in the chairs in front of the stage shared her fear and weariness. Corbie’s complexion had turned ashen, his feathers already drooping and beginning to fall out. Natalya and her father had nearly identical expressions of rage, although the current Commissar was the only one keeping up a stream of colorful language via Overwatch.

  “Sovie, what do you see from where you’re sitting? Are we in danger of losing anyone?” Bella sounded as exhausted as Ramona felt. “Can we tell if anyone isn’t affected from here? Overwatch, can we get anything from anybody on this?”

  “Ma’am, we’ve got a limited amount of information, but so far we do not appear to have experienced any casualties. Some vitals are a little questionable, but we’re chalking that up to the stress of the situation.”

  Ramona sighed. Breathing hurt. She scanned the crowd for Mercurye and found him huddled up in his chair, knees pulled up to his chest as he shivered. The loss of the lightning metabolism had immediate effects not related to speed. She gritted her teeth and did her best to steady her voice. “Bella, can the guys tap into the controls for the dome? Is there a way we can open the top to vent off the worst of it?”

  “We can’t do anything without finding something to trace. We need the video feed to light up the associated systems,” Bella snapped. “If we don’t get an answer soon, there are going to be geldings where we currently have Colts, do I make myself clear?”

  “Is no use making threats, sestra,” Soviette answered through tears. “I am sure they are doing what they can, but without—” She stopped suddenly.

  “Sovie? What’s wrong?”

  Ramona pushed herself forward to see more of what was happening. She could see more of the CCCP than Bella could, and Sovie wasn’t more than twenty feet away. Like Ramona, she sat on the ground, Chug’s craggy head against her shoulder. “Soviette, what’s wrong with Chug? Is he okay?”

  “That’s Ms. Ferrari, isn’t it. Of course, and the first was Doctor Parker. It’s hard to make out these voices, but I understand the lack of communication devices.” The cultured baritone came through Soviette’s channel, but the medic’s lips didn’t move. Ramona could see Soviette’s wide eyes and her lips pressed together as if to hide…a smile? What could possibly make her happy at a time like…

  “SHTO?” Natalya’s voice carried over the channel like a bullet. “Is not possible!”

  “Commissar. My gratitude for your impeccable leadership in these past months.” Chug’s voice—his real voice, not the grunts of broken speech to which they had all grown accustomed—slid through the channel. “With your permission, I would like to engage our host in a bit of dialogue.”

  “Granted.” Bella spoke first. “Engage. We’ll debrief later, once I pick my jaw off the turf and we have Verdigris swinging by his big toes from the top of the Suntrust building. Chug, is that really you?”

  “As much as I can be.” The large man stood and extended a hand to help Soviette to her feet. Ramona saw his mouth move again, but she wasn’t able to make out the words. The medic nodded and motioned to the stage. With his hands above his head, Chug made his way to the podium and bowed to Yankee Pride.

  For his part, Pride stepped aside and motioned to the microphone. “Thank you, sir. I only wanted to take a moment to speak with our host and make him aware of a potential mistake in his impressive agenda. From one scientist to another, of course.”

  The jumbotron screen flickered on to display Dominic Verdigris, brandy in one hand and cigar in the other. He used the unlit end of the cigar to gesture at the screen. “You do realize that the only mistake is your speaking out of turn, yes?”

  Chug—or at least the person whom Ramona had thought to be Chug—lowered his hands to rest against the podium. He inclined his head politely to the screen, his craggy cheeks permitting a wry smile. “Sir, I have made a wealth of mistakes in my lifetime, and several did result from speaking out of turn. At the same time, few individuals of your intellect exist on this continent, and I would welcome the opportunity to share a short conversation with a legitimate genius.”

  “Sweet mother of frogs, it’s like Spin and Sovie had a baby. A big, rocky, squirrel-loving baby.” Bella’s tone wavered between stunned and delighted. “Is that really Chug?”

  “Da. Is Chug, when Chug was more than he is now.” Red Saviour answered, but it sounded like something had caught in her throat. Ramona glanced in the direction of the CCCP delegation. Soviette had tears streaming down her cheeks, and others stared at their comrade in open disbelief.

  The man at the podium waited for the image on the screen to respond. Verdigris’ expression indicated that he was pretending to not enjoy the open flattery. “I suppose a few minutes aren’t too much to give, especially given your insight. Your accent’s a little difficult to make out, but I’ll give it a go. So,” he said, motioning with his brandy. “Enlighten me, Mister…”

  “Doctor Chugowskiv. Professor at times, but doctor is most apt.”

  “Doctor, then.” Verdigris smirked. “I gather you earned that one with more than a few evening classes at the local junior college.”

  Chug matched Verdigris’ smirk with one of his own. “I attended day classes, too. Evenings were for more applied scientific investigations, of course.”

  Bella choked back a laugh. “He’s playing him. Keeping him on the screen and stroking his ego. Boys, I hope you can pick up that feed now.”

  “Almost there, ma’am. Trying to establish a connection to the cameras first to get some better eyes on the situation.”

  Ramona glanced to Pride, who remained well behind the podium. His expression hadn’t changed, but his eyes darted between the scientist on the stage and the psychopath on the screen. She shifted her Overwatch to a private channel. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I ran a Parkour marathon in an August Atlanta afternoon,” he rumbled back. “You?”

  “About the same, but my legs don’t want to help me stand up. Can you see what’s going on in the stands?”

  Pride paused, his eyes narrowing. “Mercenaries in the aisles, some guarding the exits. I don’t know what we’re going to be able to do, even if they manage to secure the video feed. He bought off the security detail and there are seventy thousand civilian lives in danger.”

  Ramona started to answer, but Chug had started to give his analysis of the situation to his target audience of one. “Research regarding the metahuman condition has its base in several conflicting theories, and the choice of one’s theoretical grounding fuels subsequent arguments, treatments, and th
eories. I wonder, given your single-source approach, if you were perhaps a student of Fenn or Mitra. Their work and treatments suggest that a complex regimen of gene therapy might cure or, at the very least, alter certain families of metahuman traits.”

  “Fenn had his conference notes marinated in scotch. Didn’t care much for the man,” Verdigris sniffed. “Mitra, he and I got along rather well. Fussy about his laboratory protocol, but generous with patents. But no, not a single-source approach. Too simplistic, Doctor.”

  Chug bobbed his head. “Indeed. Which is why, given your expertise and seeming familiarity with the metahuman condition, I surmise that you based your approach upon the theories proposed by Brenner and Patrawalla, who suggested that the condition resembles a virus that uniquely affects the cells of the host. Such an approach would require a vaccination of sorts that would alter the host to create antibodies that would attack the offending virus, resulting in a loss of symptoms.”

  “Symptoms being the manifestation of metahuman traits.” Verdigris leaned back and studied the other man through the screen. “I must say, for an ugly little bit of sediment, you’re remarkably sharp. That must have been some night school.”

  “The candles were very bright.” Chug grinned, stone-colored teeth visible between green-gray lips.

  “Clearly. So, where’s my mistake, Doctor?” Verdigris sipped his brandy and made a show of checking a nonexistent watch. “You’re wasting precious time.”

  Chug cleared his throat and steadied himself at the podium. “The mistake lies in not considering the possibility that there could be truth in both, and that the introduction of such antibodies could result in the activation of metahuman triggers. The metahuman condition, Mister Verdigris, is not so much a simplistic condition as a complex phenomenon. Something more than a mutation yet not quite an evolution by the purists’ definition.”

  The face on the jumbotron scowled. “So, just what are you saying, Doctor?”

  “We have cameras, ma’am. Network trace complete in less than ninety seconds.”

  Chug chuckled, the familiar rumble tickling the edge of his throat. “What I am saying…what Chug is…is saying…”

  Ramona felt her heart sink. Nearby, Sovie covered her face with her hands. The man at the podium gripped the sides and stared at the screen.

  “Chug saying you are wrong. You make mistake. Big mistake.”

  * * *

  “Mistake?” Verdigris leaned forward while Chug scowled back at the screen. “What kind of mistake, exactly?”

  “Big mistake,” the stone-faced man answered. He added a grave nod to his words. “Bigger than Chug is, and Chug is big.”

  Verd sat back in his chair and snorted. “Well, so much for witty academic discourse. I was actually enjoying that little tête-à-tête. Ah, well.”

  “Ma’am, we’ve completed the trace and can locate the target. Not sure how we’re going to isolate all of these other threats, but we’ve marked him as being in a heavily guarded locker room. Sending you the information now.”

  “Good job. Start figuring out how to vent this place. Everyone on Overwatch, incoming schematics. Mark relative positions and keep taking shallow breaths,” Bella instructed. “No one does anything yet, not with three hundred mercs waiting to prove a point.”

  Ramona said nothing and noted her place on the schematic. Small black dots started to fill in the layout of the dome, outlining the aisles and corridors. The Colt boys had control of the cameras and were putting as many of Verdigris’ goons on the map as they could locate.

  “Parker, we need to get these civilians to safety, or at least remove the threat,” Pride whispered over the channel. “Just knowing where they are won’t do much good.”

  The crowd noise had gone from stunned silence at Chug’s discourse to a low murmur of fear and agitation. While the metahumans on the field could follow directions to stay calm, the seventy thousand attendees could trigger a mass casualty event if they turned on one of the goons in riot gear patrolling the stadium. Ramona struggled to think of one remotely similar situation in her years of ECHO training, but nothing came close. She tipped her head back against the side of the stage, wishing that her head didn’t feel like a bowling ball balancing on pipe cleaners.

  A private channel alert blinked in her HUD. “Rick? What’s wrong?”

  “Axel thinks he can do something.”

  She cracked one eye open and stared across the turf at Mercurye. He sat next to Spoonbender, whose mouth had twisted into a funny grin made only more cartoonish by his well-kept beard. The OpOne meta had earned his name as a joke, but his unique ability had proven useful in the strangest situations. “Okay,” she replied. “Tilt your head so we can hear the idea.”

  Mercurye obliged, and the rail-thin man started chattering at once. “The pieces of the roof are not uniform, and the exposure to extreme heat in the form of Krieger blasts has compromised their integrity. Moreover, the structure is not as load-bearing as it would appear, and thus would require far less effort to move than a similarly solid piece.”

  She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Axel, that’s great, but I don’t think we have anyone on the outside who has that particular blend of metallurgy and telekinesis. None of our flyers have that sort of strength, and even if they did—”

  “We don’t need anyone on the outside.”

  Ramona sat up a little straighter and glared at the two men across from her. “Are you telling me that you aren’t feeling any effects?”

  Axel shrugged and spread his hands. “I felt little before, but I do not feel any adverse effects. An upset stomach and an unpleasant taste of lead on my tongue, but other than that, no.”

  “Hold that thought.” Ramona opened up her Overwatch channel to Bella and Pride, relaying the conversation with a few quick commands. She could feel the glare from Bella before her words came over the channel.

  “Whatever we do, we do it fast. Spoonbender, are you sure you can do something on that scale? This isn’t a few chairs in a conference room,” she noted. “If it’s not done quickly enough, this place will turn into a slaughterhouse.”

  The young man smiled gently and nodded in Bella’s direction. “It will be swift and decisive. Given the locations of those who could do harm, we can work to isolate them once the threat is removed.”

  There was a pause. Ramona could all but feel Bella chewing over the idea. Finally, she came back on the main Overwatch channel, with the CCCP brought on to hear the decision. “All right, listen up. Chug bought us some time, and the Colt boys managed to get us some solid intel on the locations of these goons that Verd has paid off. If you’re not able to assist, move out of the way and be ready to support medical when they ask. Axel, count it down.”

  The words were lost in the growing roar of the stadium crowd, but Ramona saw the man’s palms turn up toward the dome, long fingers curling in as if to grab the enormous metal cover. She cringed at the squeal of metal and watched the supports begin to buckle. The crowd screamed and people pointed at the corner of the roof that appeared to be collapsing. Mercenaries began to move up and down the aisles, rifles at the ready.

  “Axel, abort,” Bella snapped. “We’re going to have a bloodbath on our hands—”

  “We’re on it,” came a whispered voice over the Overwatch One channel. After a moment, Ramona recognized it. Southwind.

  A rush of air took the breath from Ramona’s lungs and had her gasping. Others near her experienced the same gust and coughing fit, and a faint green cloud gathered above the field. A second burst of air pushed it toward the compromised ceiling, sending it up and out of the dome. She inhaled, feeling the heaviness of her head and neck begin to lessen. Around her, others had started to do the same.

  “Parker, what was that?” Pride asked, caution in his words. “Not that I’m complaining.”

  “That’s our cue to immobilize Verd’s thugs. Nat, how are you feeling?”

  The Commissar replied with a nasty laugh. It made Ramona
infinitely glad that she was on the woman’s good side. “Am feeling like justice. Perhaps best way to honor ECHO hero is to follow in footsteps, da?”

  Standing next to Mercurye, Spoonbender’s complexion had taken on an ashen hue as he stared across the stadium. The speedster kept up a steady stream of chatter, but Ramona couldn’t make it out. He gave Ramona a thumbs-up and nodded.

  “Spoon’s good. Bella?”

  The ECHO leader didn’t flinch. “Let’s get that rat bastard. For Dixie.”

  * * *

  The scene outside the Georgia Dome had all the makings of organized chaos. Metahumans and civilians worked to clear the stands and get people into the relative safety of the parking lot. Inside the stadium, those metas who had regained some measure of ability leapt into action to neutralize the mercenaries in the stands. On Overwatch, the Colt Brothers maintained a constant stream of information on the status of the stadium, including an ever-narrowing list of potential places where Verdigris had holed up to execute his plan.

  Ramona took another deep breath of clean air and followed Leader of the Pack down a concrete tunnel. One of his dogs stayed at her side, the rest sprinting ahead to meet up with Mercurye. She eyed the beagle as she jogged. “What’s her deal?”

  Leader didn’t look down. “She knows you’re not at full strength. Nana’s like that. Don’t worry, you can’t trip over her, she’s too fast.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” The HUD blinked at her, several more possible locations disappearing thanks to the Overwatch algorithm. Merc was still heading toward the one that showed the highest probability. “How’s the evacuation going, Pride?”

  “Little resistance. The Winds are rounding up the ones who didn’t surrender.”

  “Rounding up how?”

  The reply came after a short pause. “We’ll need to have Corbie bring them down from the metal pocket created by the roof.”

  Another trio of locations faded from the map. “We’ve got him cornered. Target should be in the southeast corner of the subterranean level.” Ramona moved through her Overwatch menus to get some more information. “There aren’t any other exits that I can see. Bella, what should we—”