Collision: Book Four in the Secret World Chronicle - eARC

by Mercedes Lackey

  John figured enough time had passed that he ought to start in. “Hey Vix, switch off eyes and ears on Overwatch for me, okay? Keep the loc data going on, just need some quiet time. Roger that?”

  “That’s a Roger. I’ll turn off Sera’s headset. Since you don’t remember it, the command you programmed in is Overwatch: Override: Eyes and Ears off.”

  “Thanks for the update. Alright, switchin’ off.” He spoke the command, and walked several more paces, thumbs hooked into his duty belt. “Helluva fight, wasn’t it?”

  “It was very taxing,” Sera said, carefully. “You finally have pushed your abilities. You must continue to do so. They will become greater, the more you push at the limits. The next time, you likely will not require my aid.”

  “I don’t know ’bout that.” He shrugged. “I understand always pushin’ the envelope, keepin’ sharp an’ lookin’ for an edge. But I’ve almost always worked with a team; y’cant be awake all the time, an’ y’can’t see everywhere at once. Havin’ teammates pushes you further, an’ multiplies your effectiveness. Besides,” he said, grinning as he looked at her. “We seemed to work pretty damned well together back there. I mean, really well. Didn’t y’notice that?”

  She turned to finally look him in the face, her brilliant blue eyes puzzled. “I had not noticed…” she let her voice trail off. “I suppose we did.”

  “I’ve been through a lot of shit in my time, Sera. An’ I’ve worked with the best of the best. That fight was somethin’ else. I mean, we took out twelve armored suits an’ a wolf, with nary a scratch on either of us. I can’t think of many other folks that could’ve done that with just the pair of ’em, no support.”

  She looked for a moment as if she might say something, but the moment passed, as a group of preschool kids caught sight of her from a playground made of wood and metal salvaged out of the destruction, and swarmed her. For the first time, at least in John’s memory, she brightened, and stopped to give every single one of them a moment of attention; a hug at least, a whispered word, a soft kiss on the top of the head. It didn’t take long, but when they ran off again to their improvised playground, they were all smiling.

  She looked after them for a moment, then back at him. “I am sorry. I let them interrupt what you were saying.…”

  “No worries, none at all. That was sweet of you t’do. It seems you’ve got some fans ’round here yourself.”

  “They should have come to you. You were the one that planned the playground, and did the metal work.” She sighed. “But of course, that was not you…was it?”

  “I suppose it depends on how y’look at it, Sera. Am I better or worse than I was? Do I fight for the same things? Do I help people for the same reasons?” He sighed, looking down. “I don’t really think it matters, s’far as that. These folks need us, as much as we need them. The little things, the troubling things that we deal with…we just gotta deal with ’em. Gettin’ the job done is what’s important. That’s how I’ve always looked at it. When you’re on the mission, that’s what you focus on. Y’know?”

  “Yes…the mission. And when the mission is done…” She shrugged. “I, too, am a creature of duty.”

  John knew better by now than to have much physical contact with her; even with his “orders,” he figured that she would bolt if he even came close to touching her. So instead of playfully bumping her elbow or anything like that, he just stopped walking.

  “Y’wanna know the secret, Sera?”

  She gave him a peculiar, puzzled look. “The secret of what?”

  “What we do. It’s that it’s never going to be over. There’s always another mission, another job, another gig. More people to help, more people to save, somethin’ else to fight for.” He looked around at the neighborhood for several long moments, taking it all in. “An’ y’know what? I wouldn’t want it any other way. It’s a good thing that we can always find somethin’ in this world to fight for, somethin’ that’s worth it.” He hooked a thumb back at the playground. “I guarantee you that for the rest of their lives, those kids’ll remember you, for instance. An’ they’re not the only ones.”

  She didn’t say anything; just thinned her lips a little, as if he had struck some kind of nerve.

  Oh hell, did I just screw this up?

  “Let’s keep walkin’; it’s good for thinkin’, almost as good as cleanin’ guns, drinkin’, or sharpenin’ knives.”

  He got moving; obediently, she fell in beside him. The sky had grown overcast while they had been policing up the site of the battle; now thunder growled in the far distance—not unlike the hunger rumbling in John’s belly. “It will rain soon, I think,” she said carefully. “We should make certain we are back at CCCP before it does.”

  They turned a corner, and there, as if in answer to both his hunger and his wish to have some way to get something out of the “angel” other than pain or flight, was a line of three food trucks.

  Their arrival seemed to be the occasion for a little street party among the residents. Someone had brought out an old-fashioned, gigantic boombox—well, old-fashioned to people around him, he supposed; by his recollection, boomboxes were as common as smartphones were now. Though it had been an age since he’d seen a fully tricked out ghetto-blaster like the one on display. People had dragged out folding chairs, and with a wary eye on the sky, were buying foil-wrapped packages, setting up little groups to gossip and laugh, or dancing to the music.

  These weren’t some of the really high-end food trucks, like he’d seen once or twice down by the ECHO campus. One was a taco truck, one featured Cuban pressed sandwiches, and one was a Vietnamese bahn-mi truck. But their prices must have been reasonable, since all three were doing a brisk business.

  The cloud cover—and maybe a cooler front coming in ahead of the storm—had dropped the temperature down to something pleasant. And the smells coming from the three trucks were good enough to raise the dead. It took him a good twenty minutes to get to the trucks and actually get enough food for him and Sera, between people coming up to talk, slap him on the back, offer him drinks, or just to BS about the ’hood. When he was done, John had managed to get something from each of the trucks; they had all tried to refuse his money, but he had insisted and eventually had his way in the end. When he was walking back through the impromptu block party he saw that Sera had been similarly mobbed. He stopped a moment to just watch.

  It was the children, mostly, who were occupying her. She had dropped down to sit on her heels in order not to tower over them. She had her wings cupped around four, who seemed too shy to talk, but were happy to be under the shelter of those feathers. When he first spotted her, she was listening with the grave intensity of someone listening to an epic poem while a little boy narrated—something—at the top of his lungs and the rest nodded at appropriate parts. At first, John thought it was real, until the kid got to “—and then—the dragon—jumped down on top of the car—and we all ran—” and he realized it was something they had all been playing at. Finally the kid came to the end, and Sera applauded.

  “That was a wonderful story!” she said, actually smiling. “And you all made it up together?”

  “Uh-huh!” the little boy said, beaming.

  “I think you should all get together and make a book out of it,” she said firmly. “You can go to the study center in CCCP and tell it to Miss Vickie or Miss Thea, and one of them will help you. And when you are all done, she can make real books of it for all of you to take home.”

  “And now ya’all can stop botherin’ Miss Sera so’s she kin eat,” called one of the mothers firmly from the sidelines. “And you kids need t’eat too. Right now.” Obediently, if reluctantly, the kids separated from Sera and piled onto a clean but ratty old blanket spread out half on the ground, and half on the sidewalk, and tucked into the food that was waiting there for them.

  John strode up to Sera, arms full of bags with food. “Got some vittles, now that your adoring fans have to have dinner themselves.”

&
nbsp; “I am sure you are hungry,” she said carefully, sitting down on a handy piece of concrete that looked as if it had once been part of a road-barrier.

  John sat down next to her, a respectful distance away. He opened up the bags and started laying out the food between the two of them, plastic forks and napkins enough for both. “Got enough for both of us. Dig in, ’fore it gets cold.”

  John ate ravenously. With his metabolism, not to mention the exertions of the day, he felt like he was starving. Even before he had become what he was now, he had always been a hearty eater; working out, running, fighting and such meant you went through a lot of calories. Occasionally some of the people from the party would approach them, usually with small talk or thanks or the like, but for the most part folks let them alone with their meal. John dug the vibe; this was a community, where everyone supported everyone else. He normally hated cities, since everything was disconnected and spread out, or horribly crowded and piled on top of itself. But he was starting to take a real shine to Atlanta, or at least this part of it.

  Sera nibbled cautiously at a bahn-mi, then bit into it with more enthusiasm. “This is very satisfying,” she said. “Vickie and I usually drink meals. Or sometimes Bella or Mel bring things, but they are often cold.”

  “I ought t’have lil’ Thea bring ya some of her cookin’. It’s great, if only ‘cause it’s fillin’ an’ it keeps forever.”

  “I…do not often go into headquarters,” she confessed. “Red Saviour does not approve of me.”

  “Heh. She don’t much approve of anyone that ain’t a ‘sturdy Russian.’ Especially us sorts that keep on destroyin’ Urals, I’m told. I wouldn’t think on it much. I’ve met her type plenty; she’s got a rock hard exterior, but she cares for her people way more than she’ll ever show. Just ain’t her style.” John devoured two tacos, chasing them with an imported beer. “Y’ought to come by the soup kitchen that we run, too. Thea does a lot of work there, an’ the grub ain’t bad, at least s’far as Russian stuff goes.”

  “I do not think any of the comrades approve of me,” she said, carefully, between bites. “I am not what they want in their ranks. I am not—I do not think correctly.” She finished the sandwich and blinked at the other packets. “What is this?” She carefully put a finger on a stuffed burrito.

  “That, ma’am, is what is commonly known as a burrito. I call it ‘wonderful hangover food.’”

  She examined it doubtfully. “I do not have a hangover.”

  John almost spewed his current mouthful of food out; he didn’t know why what she had said was so funny to him. Choking down the last gulp, he gasped out, “S’alright, it’s not required to be hungover.”

  She picked up the plump, foil-wrapped package and unwrapped it, then took a tentative bite. Then a not-so-tentative bite. “This is very healthy. You surprise me. I expect you to eat things that are not. But you have chosen two things that are very healthy.”

  “Doesn’t hurt that they taste friggin’ great, especially after a day like the one we had. Honestly, I’ll eat pretty much anythin’ if it stays still too long.” He paused for a moment, eyed a cat that crossed in front of them, then looked at her soberly. “Not literally.”

  That surprised a little laugh from her, and a fleeting, tentative smile.

  They ate the rest of their food in contented silence. The block party continued around them, but they were able to slip away easily enough when they were finished. She looks better, healthier and happier, now. It was a happy coincidence that they’d found the block party—or rather that it had found them. Being there had certainly seemed to have done Sera some good.

  John waited until they had been walking and digesting for awhile, well away from the noise of the party, before he spoke again. “There’s somethin’ I’ve been wantin’ to talk to you ’bout, Sera. Something I’ve been dealin’ with for awhile, but didn’t know how to bring up.”

  “I do not know how I could help you, John Murdock,” she said hesitantly. “I am…not very good at being a person. You should ask Vickie, if you need some sort of advice.”

  “It ain’t like that. For one, I think you’re doin’ a damn sight better’n a lot of folks at being a person. If’n you need an example, I refer y’back to those kids. You’re really good with them,” he said with a grin. “Two, it…well, it directly concerns you. I know this isn’t goin’ t’be easy for you to hear or deal with, but I need you to promise me you’re not gonna fly off. Okay?”

  She looked visibly disturbed. “If…that is your wish. I will promise.”

  John sighed heavily, looking her in the eyes as they walked. “I know it ain’t easy for you. Any of this, since…well, you know.” She needs to know, goddamnit. Just get it over with. “It hasn’t been easy for me, either. It’s not the same, an’ I’m not tryin’ to say that it is. But I need to talk with you ’bout this. You’re the only one that I figure has any sort of way of helpin’ me to figure it out.”

  “But I am as blind as you,” she protested. “I only know that you must keep pushing your limits. Each time that you do, your abilities will become stronger. I have no other advice than that. I am not what I was. I no longer have the resources I had.” From relaxed and even a little happy, she had gone to tense and pained again. “You were better off to ask Vickie.”

  “No.” He stopped again, turning towards her. Spit it out already, Murdock. “It’s not somethin’ in her lane, as it were. I’ve been hearin’ music, Sera. Like, when there’s no music playin’ or anythin’.”

  She stopped in her tracks, and went absolutely white. “Singing?” she whispered.

  John felt his body go cold and he felt excited at the same time. “Yeah, but…it ain’t like any sort of singin’ I’ve ever heard before. It’s more than singin’. It’s…I don’t have the words, Sera.” He looked around, as if he was trying to find them. “It’s intense, always on the edge of things. But it picks up sometimes, I can hear it more clearly.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, and went completely still. It was as if she was fighting something inside herself.

  But when she opened her eyes again…something had changed. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but something had changed.

  “Listen to me, John Murdock,” she said, her voice charged with intensity. “You must listen for that music. It is very, very important to you. You are not going mad, nor…nor is it going to harm you. On the contrary, it will help you. The more you push yourself, the more you will hear it. The more you listen for it, the more you will hear it. Eventually it will always be with you, and you…you will know things. Without being told. Things that will be important, important for this great battle. Do you understand me?”

  John took a long time responding. “I think I do. But, y’gotta understand somethin’, Sera. I only hear it really strong durin’ certain times—”

  “Then you must listen for it during all times,” she said interrupting him. “There is nothing more important. Not the CCCP, not your comrades, not anything. This music is the key for you, the key to everything. Without it…without it, you will fail. And if you fail—”

  She shook her head.

  “You must not fail,” she said, flatly.

  And at the moment, the storm, which had held off this long, broke over them. She reacted by spreading her wings and taking to the sky.

  John sighed heavily. “I hate it when she does that. I hadn’t even gotten to the most important part yet.” He kept walking towards HQ, mulling over everything. He’d made some progress with Sera; incremental, with levels of frustration that equated to pulling a croc’s teeth. But, still, progress. He knew that it wasn’t enough; she was still in a bad place, and would stay there unless he did something. And it had to be him, didn’t it? It started and ended with him, at least where she was concerned. He owed it to her.

  * * *

  Sera curled up in a ball of misery up in the rooftop “temple,” and let the rain pound down on her. She had not allowed herself to wee
p, much, but now she was alone, and…

  Oh, so very alone. Why? Why was the voice of the Infinite taken from her, and given to him? Why was that one source of comfort denied her?

  Yes, he needed it, of course, but why wasn’t she allowed to hear it too?

  Thunder rolled, drowning her sobs, as the rain drowned her tears.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Cover Girl

  Mercedes Lackey and Veronica Giguere

  There were times when Bella was convinced she was running two separate ECHOs; hers and Spin Doctor’s.

  Spin had ambushed her just before she managed to escape the office to head to the CCCP and a visit to the quantator to have another little circular-argument-fest with Marconi and Tesla…she wondered if being ensconced as “machine intelligences” for so long meant that they had an established sub-routine they had to run, like obsessive-compulsives, before they could divert to anything useful. In this case, it was always the argument about why Metis couldn’t be persuaded to offer any material help, only what Marconi and Tesla themselves could give, surreptitiously.

  “We need another sexy-spread,” Spin had said, without any buildup at all. Then again, he knew she was immune to whatever power it was—some form of projective empathy?—he employed, so as often as not he cut straight to the chase with her. “Harpers wants a story, same format as before, an interview with the Head of ECHO—that’d be you—and two double-page photos, one with the models in whatever passes for a uniform or armor or something, and one in—”

  “Not bikinis,” she said flatly. “Never again. I swear to God every time I take a shower I feel fanbois eyes all over me.”

  “Fine, it’s Harpers, it doesn’t have to be bikinis. Anything not a uniform and reasonably sexy—”

  “And not just women,” Bella interrupted again. “Mixed sexes. This isn’t a calendar shoot, right? This time we show that ECHO includes everyone.”

  That had stopped him with his mouth open, and he closed it with an audible snap. “Not bad,” he had said, finally. “Not bad. I can work with that. I’ll ping you via Victrix when I get a lineup.”