Revolution: Book Three of the Secret World Chronicle - eARC

by Mercedes Lackey

The theme of the party was “Post-Apocalypse,” and like all of Dominic Verdigris’s parties, it was epic in scale. Costume was required, but these people didn’t have to worry about trivialities like coming up with costumes. Their Personal Assistants took care of that.

  There were four bands, more refreshment tables than Verd cared to count, and a nice sprinkling of ECHO metahumans dragooned into providing “glamor.” And “entertainment.” Verd stood on the bridge of the ship and looked down on his tiny kingdom. Directly below him was…what was his name? “Aqua-marine?” Jeezus, what a stupid name. The dweeb had some sort of telekinetic water control. It actually had some practical application, since he could become a metahuman water-cannon, but right now he was making impossible shapes in mid-air, like some sort of magic fountain. Fractals made of water astounded the oohing and aahing crowd of socialites that had paused in front of the ECHO Op. Verd tapped a command to his party staff on his comm, and almost instantly the onboard lighting crew had the watersculptures lit up with lasers and colored lights.

  Khanji, as always, was at his side. Her costume was pretty amusing, really. It was actual ECHOTech body-armor, carefully made up with little shreds of net, bits of leather, and splotches of paint. Not that she really needed body armor, but it was the only thing he could coax her into. She’d been very sullen of late, jealous of the attention he was paying to People’s Blade, no doubt. Maybe tonight would sweeten her temper a little, with the Chinese girl nowhere in sight.

  “These rich yuppies just can’t seem to wait to rip their expensive suits and dresses up and cover them in dirt and charcoal. It’s actually kind of funny.”

  “You’re not in costume,” Khanji observed.

  Of course he wasn’t. He was in a completely immaculate white silk suit. “I’m king of the apocalypse, of course I’m clean; I own all the soap. Besides, it’s rather appropriate, don’t you think? All of these sots in rags?”

  “And why would that be, Dom?” Khanji replied coolly. “If you are making some sort of ironic observation based on media memes, you forget I spent most of my childhood in a Pakistani slum, so I didn’t get a lot of exposure to that sort of thing.”

  “Never mind, darling. How are things coming for our plans in Hong Kong?” He hoped that would distract her, sweeten that sour temper. After all, ordinarily he would have overseen everything, but this time he had put her in complete charge. “After turning the Bombay fiasco into a win, you deserve some more authority,” he’d said. He’d meant it as a compliment to smooth over her increasingly prickly disposition, but in a rare miscalculation it’d only made her colder. Women. Can’t live with ’em, can’t sell ’em for parts. Well, actually, there are those Triads that keep on bugging me…

  “On schedule and running smoothly.” Her tone was completely dismissive. So much for that attempt.

  “Well, good, good work.” He fidgeted with his drink, looking at his shoes; maybe feigning embarrassment at his earlier gaffs would bring her out of the rocky shell she was in. “I guess we’d better go mingle, huh? I mean, it’s my party, the host has to put in an appearance.”

  She snorted. “Half of them are already so drunk or high they’ll swear they’ve been talking to you half the night.”

  “Oh, that reminds me, the surveillance cameras are running on every corner of the ship, right?” Parties like this served multiple functions for a man like Dominic Verdigris. There were chances to take people aside to slip them a bribe, to have sequestered meetings that wouldn’t be noticed, even to have people murdered. His absolute favorite thing about these sorts of parties were the opportunities for blackmail; when intoxicated with their favorite poison—and sometimes drugs that they never even knew they had taken—people would do the darndest things. And sometimes, just for the hell of it, even if there was no advantage to it, really embarrassing stuff could mysteriously end up on an internet video site. He always loved it when one of his leaks went viral. Sometimes it took a little bit more help than others, but that was part of the fun, too. Like that Congressman that had turned into a squealing little heart-eyed fangirl over one of his pet metas at the last gig. One of those skinny, freaky Winds. Closeted, much? “We’ll wanna double check the audio pick ups; I’ll have my computer run all the recordings through a few filters, see what delicious dirt we get.”

  Khanji didn’t even bother to reply to that. She had very little to do with the electronic end of things; her expertise was at the physical side. She turned on her heel and left him alone on the balcony. It wasn’t as if he needed a bodyguard tonight. He was on his own ship, triple checked by his own security, and staffed by his own security. And under the silk suit was a nanoweave bodysuit. Why, the automatic deterrents alone would take out an assassin before he even finished aiming. There was truly innovative research going on in predictive threat algorithms as well, something he had taken a keen interest in lately.

  Still, it felt pretty odd to head down to the party without her. It wasn’t attachment, per se; Verdigris had never been terribly attached to much of anything, other than power; wealth was just a byproduct of that, and only an ancillary concern of his. He was simply used to always having Khanjar there with him. And this was their first real row. She’d voiced her disapproval of things before this, before, but she’d never taken his decisions so personally.

  Verdigris knew where her real hostility was coming from, of course; The General. Ever since that first night, something had been off. At first he thought that it might simply be rivalry; one lioness sizing up the other. He hadn’t favored one over the other, so far as he had seen. In fact, the General’s “initiation test” was almost designed to fail; he had been pleasantly surprised when she had come back, whole and victorious. So, he had set her to tasks that suited her abilities, just as he had always done with Khanjar. All of this taken together suggested something deeper…but what?

  Could Khanjar have sensed he was considering making the General his second in command? But why would she be jealous about that? It wasn’t as if she had ever shown any interest in the position. Verdigris made his way down a set of metal stairs to the main floor, taking his time and contemplating the recent troubles he was having with Khanjar. It didn’t take long for someone to spot him and come stumbling over.

  “Senator! Lovely to see you and your darling wife able to make it tonight. I trust you’re enjoying this quaint little gathering of mine?”

  “Mr. Verdigris, you sell yourself short! I haven’t had this much fun since my frat days at Texas Tech! Ain’t that right, honey?”

  The trophy wife smile vacuously. She was number three, if Verd recalled correctly. Former Miss Texas. Literally a trophy wife. Though it looked like she’d gone from blue to red ribbon quality in recent years; having a senator for a husband could be quite trying. “Yes, dear.”

  The Senator and his wife were both dressed in completely white western suits, complete with an expensive ten gallon hat. What completed the picture, however, was that both of them were covered from head to toe in crude oil. Or at least, what looked like crude oil. It didn’t smell like crude oil, it didn’t have that sulfur stink, which could be eye-watering. It smelled like designer fragrance from Chanel.

  His thoughts drifted back to People’s Blade and Khanjar as he politely tore himself away from the Texas couple. She was a superb tactician; she was already making her presence felt on whatever tactical teams he paired her with. He’d originally had his doubts, though he was careful never to betray them; someone claiming to have the soul of a general, thousands of years dead, does tend to make for skepticism at best, and the conviction of outright lunacy at worst. Despite that, she tended to get the job done, whatever that job might be. She always seemed impatient, however; she wanted more and knew that Verdigris sensed it.

  Another one of Verd’s guests leapt out from behind the shelter of one of the cargo containers—this one hid a luxurious little lounge behind the layers of camo-net shrouding its open end. He pretended to hose down the whole area with the scrap-y
ard chain-gun he had slung at hip-level. It was a pretty piece of FX work, it produced very realistic sound and a lot of spark and flash as it “fired.” The man himself was dressed like an extra out of Mad Max, complete with assless chaps and football shoulder pads, all studded with spikes and spray painted. The one off detail was that the man’s vanity prevented him from turning what had to have been a five hundred dollar haircut into anything but a faux-hawk.

  “Whoa! Sorry there, your Royal Highness!” the man giggled. “Didn’t realize the King of the Apocalypse was with us. Hope I didn’t smudge the suit!” Verdigris peeked behind him; judging by the mini pharmacy that had been set out on the lounge table, the man was seeing everything in rainbow.

  “Not to worry,” Verd replied, making a little brushing-off motion, and going along with the fantasy. “Force field, don’t you know. No blood, no foul.” What he didn’t say was that he’d had to switch off one of his security systems with a discreet hand gesture to keep it from turning the man into a red splotch against the wall behind him.

  “Seriously, Dom, this is a kick-ass party. Haven’t had this much fun since me and some of the boys from the office went out paintballing bums from the Beemer.” Dom didn’t actually recognize the man behind all the fake grunge and paint, it had taken that clue to ID him. Trent Perry, Wall Street investor. “And thanks for that tipoff on those water treatment hedge funds. I took out a derivative investment on them going bad. You made me a bundle.” Verdigris smiled and nodded as he walked away. It would certainly come as a shock to ol’ Trent when evidence was found that implicated him in a conspiracy to make sure that water treatment deal went bad. You win some, you lose some more. Now, where was I?

  What was Khanjar to him? Bodyguard first, lover a distant second. And growing more distant with each passing second, damnit. In the beginning when he’d hired her, it was only for her efficient deadliness and mercenary attitude, two things he could appreciate. In time, it had become economical and appropriate for him to tell her more and more about his plans and operations. Not everything, of course; he would have rather eaten his own tie than reveal everything to even someone as trusted as Khanjar. Then their sleeping arrangements had become coterminous. It occurred to him that The General’s rise was mirroring Khanjar’s, though he knew that even the mere suggestion of bedding her would likely result in the loss of some of his more important body parts.

  Right now, it was best to play the wait and see strategy; set up People’s Blade with a full access pass, same as Khanjar’s, and watch them both. In the end, it only mattered who was the more useful of the two, anyways. That, and who was least likely to plant a knife in his back or a bullet in his forehead.

  He strolled along the deck, vaguely aware that he was…bored. Just then, movement off to one side caught his attention. It was a group of his guests, but the group was utterly atypical. Instead of taking advantage of one of the cozy lounges, they had pulled up bits of the “stage dressing” to sit on—boxes, burlap bags full of kapok, overturned buckets. They were clustered around one of his metahumans, who was also sitting on a bucket. Big black wings, black nanoweave uniform.…Corbie, that was it. One of the minor talents. Verd remembered why he’d recruited the Brit—he could fly, and Verd had thought vaguely that he might do some sort of aerobatic nonsense.

  But no, he was just sitting here, talking to these people. No, he was doing all the talking. They were listening, and only occasionally asking questions.

  “…so busy tracking the dogs and Johnny M and Motu they weren’t payin’ attention to me, plus it was dark, so I zipped in and planted those limpet bombs on top of them and zipped out again.”

  “But you don’t wear armor do you?” gasped one socialite. “That was incredibly brave!”

  Corbie made a “pishing” sound. “Lot less brave than those National Guard blokes. No armor, no powers, and what they had was like carrying a popgun against a tank.”

  Verdigris stood there in the shadow of one of the containers, watching and listening. They’re eating right out of his hand. He’s not that good of a storyteller, either. But right now, I’d bet donuts to dinars that he could sell them anything in the world, and they’d lap it up.

  But there was more to it than that. He watched the Brit’s face. There was no trace of boredom, no guile, no sense that he had told this story a million times over—and he probably had. It wasn’t macho-bravado glory-hounding either, relishing the awe of his audience, reveling in the sense of “I-am-so-wonderful.” The ego-boost. No, it wasn’t that. Verd, who was an astute observer of humanity, knew exactly what it was. Corbie was a hero. Whether he was born to be one, or circumstances had made him into one, that was what he was. He constitutionally would not be able to stand aside when something needed doing, and it wasn’t that it he was reckless or thought he was immortal, it was that at that moment, the risks were not relevant to him, because other people were far more important to him than his own survival.

  They saw him as a hero, too. They believed in him as such. That was why he held them spellbound. He was, at one and the same time, Everyman and Larger Than Life. He was one of them, and their potential savior. And not one of them, picturing him or herself in danger, had the slightest doubt that if Corbie was there, he’d risk everything to get them out.

  Was he doing something right? Was there something to really playing it for the team, not just pretending to?

  “…and besides,” Corbie was continuing. “That frikkin’ bastard owed me a beer!”

  They all laughed. “Corbie, what about that business last week, with the Djinni?” asked someone else, and Corbie was off on another story.

  “Ah, now, the Djinni…now there is one weird bloke…”

  The waiter had to call his name three times before Verdigris knew he was there. “Sir? Mr. Verdigris?”

  Dominic almost allowed his annoyance to show as he turned away from Corbie and his audience. “Yes? What is it?”

  “Champagne, sir?” The waiter was new to the job, that much was plain; most of the staff that he hired knew that when Verdigris wanted something, he’d damned well ask for it instead of being pestered every five seconds.

  “No, that’s fine, thank you.” He waved his free hand to make the dismissal that much more obvious. The waiter wandered away meekly as Verdigris turned his attention back to Corbie.

  So, where was I? Verdigris hated losing his train of thought; his mind often took him to strange and unexpected places, and it was particularly vexing when that journey was interrupted. Right. Him. He’s happy. He’s not rich, he’s not really famous, and all he’s got is a pair of wings, so he’s kind of a flying target. And he’s still happy. If he got a call right now to go throw himself after some Thulian or something, he’d leave this party without even thinking about it and do it.

  Verd frowned a little. He’s happy. He did something he rarely did. He took his own emotional temperature. He had accomplished the impossible. He was incredibly rich. It was trivial to make more money. He commanded both ECHO and Blacksnake, not to mention all of his different proxies throughout the world. He was in the position now to do something about the Thulians.

  He wasn’t happy. But what more could he possibly acquire? What could he control that would make him happy?

  Well, not ending up as a brain in a box would be a damn good start. His frown deepened a little. That was the missing part of the equation; he still had that sword hanging above his head. Did anything else really matter while that possibility was still open?

  No. That’s what’s standing between me and everything else. I mean, no point even in going for world domination if that’s at the end of it. All of the doubt and anxiety melted away. Pleased that he had identified the cause of his lack-of-happiness, now he just had to go for the cure. And he knew the shortest cut to that cure.

  So, full speed ahead with the Project. Get the Chinese chick up to speed; she’s made for this sort of job. Appease Khanji somehow, since I still need her. Trap angel, interrogate an
gel, implement whatever I need to get myself off the list of “to be boxed.” He pondered a little more. Would it be worth negotiating with the Thulians once he was in a better position to do so? Probably. Very probably. Always have to leave as many options and plays open as possible, of course.

  And meanwhile, in the shortest of short terms, work the party. Verdigris was fairly confident that he’d have quite a bit of fun reviewing all of the surveillance tapes later.

  I wonder if finding someone for Khanji to kill to work off her aggression might help. He lifted a finger and a waiter—one of the old ones, who knew his signals—was instantly at his side with champagne. There’s that…oh wait. I think I’ve got it. I get rid of dead weight, potential trouble, and Khanji’s mad, all at the same time. Brilliant, as always, Dom. Heh.

  This party just might turn out to be fun after all.

  In One Ear

  Mercedes Lackey

  Bella, if you are reading this, this is going to embarrass the hell out of you.

  I don’t know how Bella did this.

  Of all of us, she never lost hope, never lost focus. When something went pear-shaped, she was always the first one to pick herself up off the ground. No matter what she might have thought herself, she was the only one fit to lead the revolution. I’d be sitting there in the Overwatch suite, paralyzed, trying to make my brain work, and she’d be on the wire going “Vix? What about—” and kickstart my brain again.

  Like this. None of us, none, saw this coming. It blindsided us all.

  And she grabbed the ball and ran with it.

  This has to be a joke.

  Bella stared at the email. It didn’t make any sense. True, she was acting as defacto head of ECHO Med, but Verdigris didn’t know that. She was being very, very careful to make sure he didn’t know that. Almost everything was running through Doctor Luke Sanders, aka Doc Fluke (his strange little metahuman power was to be able to diagnose really weird stuff instantly, while missing the common things completely, which made him incredibly useful to ECHO Med). What wasn’t running through him was going through Ramona. Maybe by now Verdigris knew she was the only one able to calm Einhorn down, but surely that was all he knew.…