“I’ve already done it for ECHO. Once I tie Eight-Ball into the CCCP version of Overwatch Two, no matter what happens to me, Overwatch Two will work for the CCCP with either Eight or me at the helm. Forever, I think. And Eight-Ball is now made of the same magical memory matrix in m-space that I built for Tesla and Marconi, so there’s no way that physical destruction of my place or this place is going to touch him.”
How can she do those equations and type at the same time? Nat had finally reconciled herself to Vickie’s magic, in no small part because the witch had proven it was logical and depended on complex equations. It wasn’t fuzzy; it had rules, and rules were a thing she could understand. But watching her flying fingers and listening to her talk at the same time…was disconcerting. As if she had read Nat’s mind, the witch turned her gaze momentarily to the Commissar. The dark circles, like old bruises, under them made her look disturbingly as if someone had blackened both eyes. “I just need to type the equations I already worked out into the interface. I’ve done it three times already.” She tapped her forehead with her thumb. “They’re in here and I can do this in my sleep.”
“You should be getting some of that,” Nat said…reluctantly. Because although she did approve of Victrix’s method of handling grief, she did not want the witch to pass out over the keyboard. She was of no use to the CCCP if she was a casualty, self-induced or otherwise.
“That’s what I keep saying.” Bella called in on Overwatch Two.
* * *
Downstairs, in the secure room that held the desk—Alex Tesla’s former interface with the Metisians and, most particularly, the electronic “spirits” of Tesla and Marconi—the holographic images of the two in question were watching an equally holographic terminal respond to their thoughts. “This is a clumsy interface,” Tesla complained.
“I am begging your pardon,” Pavel called from the corner of the room, uncrossing his arms. “Just polished chassis this morning, and is finest that Soviet science produced…at the time. Not clumsy,” he finished, puffing his metallic chest out as much as he could. If two electronic ghosts, accustomed to decades of existing solely as data and having shed many of their human mannerisms, could seem momentarily dumbfounded…
“The computer interface, signore,” Marconi replied slowly. “The one we are attempting to use.”
“Oh, computer,” Pavel said dismissively, waving his hand. “Never mind. Not Soviet.” He watched for a few moments more before speaking again. “What are two ghosts doing on computer anyway? Cat videos? Kompot recipes?”
“Did your Commissar not inform you about our task?”
“Nyet. Commissar told Bear to report to small musty room and watch, so here is being Bear.” He peered at the holographic display, then leaned in closer with his robotic hand outstretched. “Is very interesting…”
“Please!” Marconi wasn’t quite strident in his tone, but he wasn’t far from it. “Do not interfere with the equipment. The results would be…less than optimal for what we wish to accomplish.”
Pavel grunted, and pulled back his hand. Tesla returned his attention to the ghostly computer. “I will be pleased when Miss Nagy gives us a better way to interact with the material world than this,” he grumbled.
“Hush, Nikola,” Marconi chided. “We are truly immortal and invulnerable now, thanks to her. Nothing in the material world can harm us. And we owe her much. The least we can do is verify her information.”
“Yes, and until she gives us a better interface, if this”—Tesla waved his hand at the desk, the interocitor, and the ghostly computer that tied m-space to realspace via both—“is destroyed, we will be immortal, invulnerable creatures with nothing but a giant empty computer to inhabit. But you are correct. We owe her much.”
“Sounds like could being good place to catch up on beauty rest. Do ghost men need beauty rest? Ah, is question for Eggheads like witch woman.” Pavel shook his head, sighing. “What was task again? Can I assist? Am being very good with engineering and applications for plasma chambers,” he chuffed.
“No, no,” Marconi said hastily. “We’re just seeing if we can intercept some signals from here. Radio is my specialty, after all.”
* * *
“Sleep is for the weak,” Vickie muttered, her eyes back on the monitors. “There. Done.”
A voice emerged from the speakers. “Privyet, Natalya Shostakovaya. Kak dela?”
“Blin, it talks back?” Despite Overwatch and Overwatch Two, despite being host to the Eggheads and their apparatus, despite having the benefit of as much ECHO tech as Bella could funnel to CCCP, Natalya was used to her technology being out of date, defective, or cantankerous. Much like Pavel. I am relying too much on that Old Bear, fool that he can be. Will he be the next one to die, fighting for me? Die again, that is.
“Of course I do,” the…entity?…replied in not just Russian, but Russian with that subtle Moskovy accent that sounded like home to Nat. “You can’t always have your hands on a keyboard and your eyes on a scroll or monitor. I am very pleased to be interfaced with your system. I have already met Gamayun, and we are quite compatible.”
The Commissar paused for a moment, then fetched another cigarette from her nearly empty pack and lit it. “Da, da, good.” She thrust her chin out at Vickie, quickly taking a drag from the cigarette and blowing it out. “What is being next step, now that ghost in machine is working?”
Vickie shrugged. “Nothing until—” something caught her eye, and she whirled to face the monitors again, and the new and odd voice called out…in strangely calm tones…and in Russian…“Red Alert. Red Alert. Incoming Thulian dropship. Vector appears to be CCCP HQ. Red Alert. Red Alert…”
And all the alarms, which formerly had been only triggered by Gamayun or Saviour herself, went off.
“Eight’s already alerted ECHO!” Vickie shouted over the cacophony. “But the Colts are telling me they’ve already got everybody deployed or too far away to help!”
“Murdocks are currently deployed at a hotspot. Air support is already on mission, but won’t be able to retask for ten minutes,” Gamayun added. “Recalling all comrades currently on patrol to HQ.”
Natalya slapped an intercom for the base. “Battle stations: get to the armories, retrieve munitions, and then take position. Chug, Bear, Rusalka, and Supernaut Units Odin, Dva and Tree! On the street and form on me!” She unholstered her pistol, checked to make sure that a round was chambered, and then reholstered the sidearm before turning to Vickie. “ETA on fascista?”
It was Eight-Ball that answered. “Three minutes, twenty-nine seconds. Proletariat has replicated and the first three Supernaut Units are manned. Vickie is deploying spy-eyes now.”
Bozhe moi! Computer ghost is even faster than witch! Natalya thought in amazement, as Vickie’s hands flew over keyboards and she muttered into her microphone.
No time to waste. I need to be with my men on the street, now.
Natalya ran for the door, sprinting through the narrow hallways of the base. Occasionally she would pass some of her comrades, readying themselves for the coming fight: little Thea retrieving an RPG launcher from a weapons locker, the ever grim-looking Stribog loading an AK-74 and handing it to Vila, who looked decidedly uneasy. Alkonost and Sirin ran past her in the opposite direction, on their way to guard the rear of the structure; they were paired up as an RPG team, the first carrying the launcher and the other carrying spare munitions. Everyone moved quickly, and it wasn’t long before Natalya was through the front entrance and practically flying down the steps onto the street. Chug was already there, standing in the center of the road with his fists balled and dark cavities of eyes looking about warily. Bear came out moments after Natalya, clanking to take his place beside her; he had his PPSh in his left hand, and his right gauntlet was already charged with plasma.
There was a mechanical rumble as the garage door for the CCCP’s motor pool opened. The sound of heavy footsteps on asphalt followed, not unlike those of the Krieger troopers when they m
arched to war. Instead of Nazis, three suits of Supernaut armor emerged, one at a time, each one manned by one of Kirill Zuykov’s—or “Proletariat” as the Americans called him—duplicates.
Kirill was one of the comrades that had been left in Russia when the CCCP had been exiled, after the First Invasion. Before being recruited by the bureaucrats in Moscow, he had led a quiet life as a magician and circus performer; his power kept him fed until he was discovered by a police officer, trying to fend off a group of gopniki ruffians from a mother they had been trying to rob. There had been six of them…and seven of Kirill. Though trained after being inducted into the CCCP, he had never been a major asset; his duplicates were exact copies of him, weren’t imbued with any greater strength or resilience, and he could only duplicate himself nineteen times at most. The duplicates did not last, especially when there were many of them, and he was not a skilled fighter; passable at best, Untermensch had called him “uninspired.” Still, Natalya had always had hope for the man, and when he put in a transfer request to come to America, she had fought hard to make sure it happened. After being stuck doing paperwork and cleaning floors in state official buildings, I cannot blame him for wanting to come here, despite the danger.
But when Boryets betrayed them all, every Supernaut pilot he had recruited had come under suspicion. That left Russia with a surplus—a rather large surplus—of Supernaut suits. Untermensch had applied to get some, not expecting that they would, but to everyone’s surprise a cargo plane had arrived full of crates to Hartsfield, the crates marked to go to CCCP. Supernaut suits. And, after some additional training and a few…mishaps, one involving a park bench and a rather unfortunate rat…Kirill had proven to be an excellent pilot.
Then again, given good design, a monkey could pilot suit, and most of Boryets’ recruits were not recruited for brains, Natalya thought, as the three suits fell in line with the rest, one behind her and the other two flanking the ends of the line. Vassily Georgiyevich, you may have been a power-hungry bastard, but you were also a genius. If for nothing else, I’m grateful for these suits of yours.
Trailing behind the suits was the matronly Rusalka, holding an AK of her own. She had been walking on eggshells after her betrayal had been revealed at the Fall of Metis, and the Commissar had kept a wary eye on her. If things had been different, Natalya would have excoriated the woman, driven her from the CCCP, and made sure that she was brought up on charges. As things were, she needed every warm body she could get. She hoped that she would not regret her decision to be lenient.
“All comrades in position, Commissar. ETA on bogey twenty-seven seconds, mark.”
Shto? Only one Death Sphere? Another suicide cell, trying to catch us off guard? Why attack us, right now?
Natalya wiped the questions from her mind. She saw the metallic gleam of the Death Sphere in the distance; her HUD highlighted and tracked the craft a moment later, vector lines plotting out its path of travel.
“Supernaut Units, Rusalka, engage any troopers that land. We shall cover you and provide support. Roof teams, Sphere is your primary target, with ground troops as secondary targets; take out their escape, then help Kirill and Rusalka.”
Many of her comrades sounded off in the affirmative on the comm channel. The Death Sphere loomed larger, flying towards the base at incredible speeds, and there was no more time for talk.
“Object detaching from Death Sphere,” she heard Eight-Ball say in her ear as the Death Sphere zoomed overhead, rattling windows and setting off car alarms for blocks around. Instead of staying in the area to attack, it sped off into the sky. A quick survey of her HUD’s radar showed that it was flying in a holding pattern. Something was wrong; only a single suit of trooper armor had been on it. Why wouldn’t they bring a full complement of soldiers? Her question was answered a second later, when the suit slammed into the ground at the end of the street. It wasn’t trooper armor. It was much, much bigger, easily standing twice as tall as Ubermensch or the Command armor. It was still definitely armor of some sort, but this wasn’t a mass-produced, art deco piece of military equipment, like the Krieger suits were. This was ornamented and unique, with segmented bronze bands that moved over each other like liquid; it gave the unsettling appearance that the armor itself was a living thing, someone’s nightmare of a metal crustacean come to life. The decorative crests and ridges were organic and horribly alien-looking, blended as part of each piece of the armor. The hands ended in long, serrated-looking claws; again, they appeared as if they had grown out of the tips of the fingers, a natural extension.
The most frightening feature of the armor was the helmet. A central ridge on the crest—still in that organic-metal style—melded with the rest of the helmet, ending in a T-shaped slit that glowed a baleful dark orange, the same color that all Thulian tech displayed. No way to tell what was in there. The armor’s knees hadn’t even buckled when it had hit the road. It raised its head, and Natalya could feel its gaze and unbridled malevolence focused on her. Not even Ubermensch had looked on her with this much malignant hate. For a moment, when the thing had first appeared, Natalya had wondered if this was some new and improved armored suit for Ubermensch. After that look, however, along with the odd fluid way it moved, she rejected that notion. This was something different. Something—worse.
“Rusalka, Kirill! Davay davay davay!”
Without a word, the three Supernaut suits attacked the Thulian. There was a sonic whine of pressurized specialty napalm being released before the Thulian was completely engulfed in a cloud of flame. The three Supernaut suits marched forward, crunching asphalt with each step, their arms outstretched and shooting jets of fire. For a moment, Natalya was overcome with a memory, of her comrades and the original Supernaut, fighting the Thulians in Red Square. Rusalka circled to the right, flanking their enemy. It also positioned her right next to a special fire hydrant that the CCCP had set up after the Second Invasion; only accessible to authorized personnel via some of the witch’s magic, with one positioned on every corner of the city block the HQ was centered in. Rusalka waited for a moment, then activated the fire hydrant; a torrent of water flooded out of it, wetting down the street in front of her. She stared in concentration for a second, and then the water collected itself in the air in front of the hydrant. The ball of water quickly grew until it was twice as large as the CCCP van; Rusalka twitched her right hand, and a jet of water violently erupted from the middle of the liquid sphere. Water is nearly incompressible, but when put under pressure…it moves fast. The blast of water hit the Thulian—nearly invisible in the center of the miniature firestorm that Kirill had created—squarely in its side. A plume of superheated steam competed with the fire to obscure the Thulian; Natalya broke into a sweat as hot steam wafted her way.
We’ll see how tough the svinya is after that. Heat their metal shells up, and then cool them down quickly…they explode like overcooked sausages. Even these fascista bastards are not immune to simple physics!
Natalya listened for the satisfying scream of metal shearing away from metal…yet it never came. The Thulian walked through the flames; the Kirills were visibly startled in their suits and took a moment to recover. Rusalka, determination clear on her sweat-soaked face, continued to blast the Thulian with water, increasing the pressure in an attempt to knock it over. The armored suit didn’t seem to notice. It reached the three Supernaut suits in six unhurried strides. Faster than the Commissar’s eyes could track, it slashed at the suits with nothing more than the claws on the ends of its gloves. The first strike took the leftmost suit in the shoulder, carving through the armor like clay, until it exited through the suit’s hip. There was a brief flash of bright red blood and yellow bone before the duplicate flashed out of existence. The other two had no time to react; to Kirill’s credit, they kept firing until they were killed. One of the suits exploded, causing Natalya to flinch and cover her eyes; one of the pressurized tanks of napalm must have been breached.
Natalya blinked, and her jaw dropped. Rusalka…she
was right next to that! Oh, ahuet’, no no no—
There was no sign of her comrade. The Thulian continued to walk forward, stomping through the flaming wreckage of the Supernaut suits. Natalya swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly very dry. “Kirill, warm up suits Chetyre, Pyat’, and Shest’!”
“New development, Commissar,” Vickie said crisply. “Suit is heat resistant, and I’m not finding the top end yet. I’ve got Eight running diagnostics. Magic help incoming in ten…”
“Da, da! All comrades, keep it from the base! Fire!”
“…eight…”
The roof teams, denied any Death Spheres to shoot, switched targets to the lone suit of armor. RPG warheads detonated on or around it, and hundreds of rounds of rifle bullets pinged and whizzed off of it. Nothing penetrated, and even the ECHO and CCCP-engineered napalm mix was sliding off. It should have stuck to the suit, helped superheat it so that the conventional arms would have a chance.
“…five…”
“Pavel! Together!” The older metahuman nodded, planted his feet wide, and thrust out his right arm. Natalya’s fist shot forward at the same time; his plasma and her energy blast slashed through the air, hitting the Thulian almost simultaneously. Natalya gritted her teeth, pouring more and more energy into the blast. The armored suit, inexorable, continued to walk through the hail of explosives, bullets, plasma, and her energy.
“…three, two, one!”
Saviour had braced herself, but the ground wave, not unlike a wave on the ocean, started at her feet and rolled towards this new menace as fast as a car could accelerate. It hit the thing’s feet, and rocked it back for a moment, but it flailed its arms and kept its balance.
“More, Victrix! Hit it again!”
Another wave started at Saviour’s feet, larger this time, but a little slower. It was almost a meter tall, and threw off bits of asphalt and rocks as it rolled forward.
Avalanche: Book Five in the Secret World Chronicle Page 55
