Invasion: Book One of the Secret World Chronicle-ARC

by Mercedes Lackey

  Ramona swallowed. The man had a powerful presence. She cleared her throat. “Detective Ramona Ferrari. This here’s Yankee Pride.”

  Eisenfaust nodded to the OpOne. “We’ve met. A pleasure to see you again, young man.”

  “Hrumph.” Yankee Pride looked down his nose at the Nazi.

  “And Doc Bootstrap, our psychiatrist.”

  Eisenfaust furrowed his brow. “You think I’m insane?”

  “No, we think you’re a time traveler. We brought the shrink in case you had lingering issues with your mother.” She opened his file. “Don’t waste my time, buddy.”

  “Certainly not.” Eisenfaust indicated the bunk with a sweep of his hand. “Would the fräulein care to sit?”

  Everything about the man’s body language seemed to come from another time. This interview would take a while. “Sure, why not?” She and Yankee Pride entered the cell. He leaned against the wall as she arranged herself on the stiff mattress.

  Doc Bootstrap edged into the cell, never taking his eyes off Eisenfaust.

  Ramona looked from the Doc to Yankee Pride, who raised his eyebrows. “Your lead,” he said.

  “All right.” She fastened her gaze on Eisenfaust and his blue, unblinking eyes. “We all know why you’re here—”

  “Forgive me, but you don’t have the first clue why I am truly here. And I won’t tell you everything. My story is for Alex Tesla’s ears alone.”

  Yankee Pride guffawed. “Listen to this guy. You’re not so eager to get out of jail, are you?”

  Eisenfaust paused. “I’ll tell you enough to confirm my identity. Then you will convey my request to speak to Mr. Tesla in person, ja? You may take any precautions you wish to protect your commander.”

  “Our boss doesn’t make a habit of chatting with prisoners.” Ramona pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fine, fine. Make your pitch.”

  Eisenfaust cleared his throat. “We knew it was the final days of the Reich; our forces had been spread too thin over too many theaters. My Uberluftwaffe had engaged the Allied Aces over the Atlantic Ocean, in the region near die Bermudas. My best pilots were dead. My—” A look of pain crossed his face. “My second-in-command and I fled the battle with the Aces in hot pursuit.”

  Ramona knew all this from Yankee Pride’s printouts. The prisoner’s story could have come from any history book. Yet she registered his unconscious movements as he spoke: the twitching of his hand as though it still held a yoke, the alert posture. Whoever he was, he was military, possibly a pilot.

  Yankee Pride opened his mouth to speak but Ramona silenced him with a raised hand. “Go on,” she said.

  “We commenced evasive maneuvers, Effi and I, but the Aces smelled blood. Corsair, the American, and La Faucon Blanc, the Frenchwoman, took turns shooting holes in my tail. Brumby and Gyrefalcon closed in on Effi’s plane. I veered into their path to take the bullets intended for her. A fuel line was punctured. I would have to bail out over the open sea. I would not be a prisoner of the damned Allies. Eisenfaust would die a hero, and perhaps Effi would live on. I saw my chance and steered for Gyrefalcon’s fuselage. Even a skilled pilot such as he could not evade so suicidal a charge.

  “But he surprised me. Instead of turning away, he turned towards me. Our wings clipped and sheared off, but we were both alive—albeit in planes spiraling towards the ocean. I fought against the acceleration to eject. Then a green light suffused the cockpit. I thought I had hit a green flare, but the light intensified. I hit eject and pulled the ripcord at once. Outside the plane, all was green. I could no longer see the water, the clouds, or Gyrefalcon. The parachute deployed badly. I braced myself.

  “Moments before I hit, I saw in the thick green light that the water was gone. I was over land! My reflexes allowed me to adjust my position in hopes of cushioning the impact somewhat, but when I crashed through the canopy and hit the ground, the pain was immense. I blacked out.”

  “That’s where you broke your arm, then?” Ramona pointed to his cast with her pen.

  “Nein. That comes later, a story for your commander. I awoke to horrible bruises and a headache, but I was alive. I lay on the ground, struggling to breathe, for an eternity. When I opened my eyes, the green light had gone. In its place were a devilish red sky and the stench of rotting foliage.

  “I had never seen so sinister a jungle as this. All red and black trees and vines, like the exposed intestines of a giant. I heard a groan nearby. When I found the source, I wanted to believe I was hallucinating.

  “Gyrefalcon’s parachute had caught in the drooping branches of the trees. The vines…” He shuddered. “They moved! Like the tentacles of an octopus. One had laid open his leg. The tree was consuming him. He was too weak to fight it.

  “The man had tried to kill me, yet I could not let a good soldier die like that. I used my knife to hack him free from the vines.”

  Eisenfaust paused for a breath. Ramona and Yankee Pride exchanged looks. She was surprised to see the veneer of skepticism had peeled away from the meta’s face. In its place was a deep seriousness.

  “Interesting,” he said, still bluff. “Keep going.”

  “Gyrefalcon faded in and out of consciousness. As slow as the vines were, I felt threatened by the jungle itself, and I had the growing sense that we did not belong there. Then I heard an engine roar above: Corsair’s Hellcat, trailing smoke. Pursuing it was a craft unlike any I’d ever seen—”

  Doc Bootstrap stepped forward with a syringe dripping blue liquid in hand. “I’ve heard enough.”

  “Nein, Doktor. Hear me out.”

  Doc Bootstrap swung his fist at the German’s face. In spite of his metahuman reflexes, Eisenfaust was too surprised to duck. He staggered back from the force of the blow. The doctor lunged at him with the syringe brandished like a dagger.

  “Whoa! Whoa! Doc, fer crissakes…” Ramona interposed herself between the doctor and the German. She tried to intercept the arm holding the syringe, but the doctor fended her off with his free hand. Yankee Pride wrapped his arms around the doctor from behind.

  Eisenfaust stood stock-still, face upraised to the ceiling. “Something is wrong,” he said.

  In one fluid motion, Doc Bootstrap elbowed Yankee Pride in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him, and then punched Ramona in the face. She saw stars.

  The syringe darted towards Eisenfaust. He took his eyes off the ceiling for a moment. Without changing his posture, he stepped nimbly out of the way of the oncoming needle. “Too slow, Herr Doktor,” he said. His hand snaked out, seized the syringe, and stuck it into Doc Bootstrap’s chest. The doctor’s eyes bulged.

  Ramona and Yankee Pride gaped at their impaled colleague.

  “You are not who you claim to be,” Eisenfaust said in German. “They have come for me, haven’t they?”

  “Ja, traitor.” Doppelgaenger answered in equally fluent German. His face twisted in contempt. “If it weren’t for your boundless ego, Echo would have learned everything by now.”

  “Doc speaks awful good German all of a sudden.” Ramona held her bloody nose.

  Yankee Pride flipped a switch on his gauntlet. Energy coursed through the circuitry. “Too good, if you ask me.” He aimed at Doppelgaenger, who had gone limp on his feet. “You gonna stay awake long enough to enlighten us as to who the hell you are?”

  The doctor’s face relaxed. His expression softened…then his face softened, as if the bones themselves flowed like putty. His coarse features became flat and masklike.

  “Oh, ja,” he said in a wet voice. “I would not want to miss your deaths.” His inhuman countenance tightened for a moment. Blue moisture colored the front of his jacket around the syringe.

  “Call Security,” Yankee Pride ordered the guard.

  “I’ve been trying, sir. Nothing but static.”

  The shapeshifter laughed as they checked their comm units. No one could get a signal.

  “What about the sonics?” Ramona edged away from the doctor. “Hello? Anyone? The fail-safe contai
nment system?”

  “Offline for hours,” Doppelgaenger said. He spread his hands in triumph. “I have brought the end of your precious Echo.”

  “You and what army?” Ramona said. A deep explosion shook the building. The shock wave of the blast shivered through her legs. “Don’t answer that.”

  The prisoners erupted in a chorus of fear, followed by the whoops of the alarm system. Yankee Pride bit his lip. His gauntlet wavered.

  “Damn it. I should be out there.”

  “Then clobber this guy first, for pete’s sake.” At that moment, Ramona craved her sidearm more than nicotine, sex or money. “Don’t leave us here with him.”

  “Oh, right.” The gauntlet flashed and a burst of energy threw Doppelgaenger against the concrete walls. He collapsed in a smoking heap. “That should keep him. Kick him if he wakes up. Hell, kick him now.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Ramona said. “Eisenfaust is the least of our worries right now.”

  Yankee Pride paused to study the German. He tilted his head to one side. “You’re a tough one to read, mister. I had you pegged as a nutcase. Now I almost believe your crackpot story.”

  “I wish to my heart it was fabrication. Now I have brought the wrath of the Thule Society down on you. I hope you can withstand them, or my story will come to an abrupt end.”

  The distant groan of concrete crumbling interrupted them. “A breach,” Ramona said. “Whatever they’re using, they broke through the perimeter.”

  “The armory isn’t far,” the guard said.

  “Go,” Yankee Pride said. He turned to Eisenfaust. “Stay put. You’ll be safest right here. Remember, you’re still our prisoner.”

  “I hope to remain so,” Eisenfaust said, bowing. “Good luck, mein freunden.”

  Ramona and Yankee Pride followed the guard back down the corridor. The prisoners shouted questions as they passed their doors.

  “Stay calm,” the guard answered. “The situation is under control.”

  Whose control? Ramona wondered. Ours, I hope.

  The guard reached the cellblock door first. As he reached out to tap in the security code, a blue glow shone through the peephole.

  “Down!” Yankee Pride lunged at the man. The door disintegrated into pieces under a barrage of azure energy beams. The concussion was terrific; it shredded the clothing and skin off the guard, who died instantly. It threw Yankee Pride into Ramona. They tumbled back down the corridor in a heap. Ramona’s ears rang.

  “You should buy me a drink first,” she said, trying to push him off her. He shook his head to clear it. “Get up, YP, damn it. They’re coming.”

  They were kicking out the remaining chunks of steel-reinforced concrete with metal-shod boots. Any doubts she had about Eisenfaust vanished.

  A dozen armored troopers stepped into the cellblock. The chorus of howls from the prisoners was that of trapped animals. Yankee Pride rolled to a crouch and aimed his gauntlet. Energy lashed out at the lead trooper, toppling him. One trooper stopped his advance to lift his comrade back to his feet, seemingly unharmed. The rest moved towards them.

  Ramona decided to obey her urge to run for it. She levered herself to her feet. Ahead of her, Eisenfaust had come out of his cell. He had pressed his face against the grill of the cell door across from his and was whispering fiercely. Despite her fear, the detective inside her wanted to know what he was saying.

  “We have come for Eisenfaust,” a voice boomed. “Ah, there he is now.”

  The voice summoned images of evil, cruelty, and a weary, jaded impatience with the uncooperative world. The man possessing it wore jet-black armor with no blast helmet. Long blond hair cascaded down to his shoulders, like an Aryan warrior of old.

  “He’s made new friends, I see.” The tall woman who stepped forward was dwarfed by the armored giants around her. Her black leather outfit evoked a fetishist’s version of a Nazi uniform, complete with cape and fishnets. “Heinrich,” she cooed in a mocking singsong.

  Yankee Pride dodged back as the troopers grabbed for him. Their long strides carried them past him. Surrounded, he yelled and struck out with his gauntlet. Their own metal fists rose and fell with wet impacts until he stopped moving.

  Ramona, alone, stood between the Nazis and their quarry.

  The troopers raised their weapons. I deserve one last cigarette, she thought wildly.

  “Allow me,” the Nazi woman said, drawing a wicked-looking pistol. A classic pistol: a Luger, in fact.

  “Effi, nein!” Eisenfaust shouted.

  Valkyria fired at Ramona’s heart with deadly accuracy. Ramona crumpled. She lay still as the metahuman woman stood over her to gloat. “America has grown fat and complacent,” Valkyria said. “You should have chosen your allies more carefully, darling.”

  The nanoweave vest Ramona wore under her blouse had absorbed most of the bullet’s force. Her rib cage had taken the rest, and from the shards of pain when she took a shallow breath, she guessed she had a cracked rib.

  Eisenfaust turned again to the cell door. Ramona thought she heard him say, “You must tell them.” Valkyria and the Commandant bellowed at him in harsh German, calling his name. He ignored them and spoke rapidly to the occupant of the cell.

  The Commandant barked a command. The troopers directed their cannons at Eisenfaust and powered up with a cacophony of whines. As one, a dozen energy beams filled the air.

  The blue beams tore up the walls, the cell door and the floor around Eisenfaust. Several hit him straight on; he made no effort to dodge. The force sent his broken form skittering across the floor. Ramona had a vision of his striking blue eyes and earnestness.

  Valkyria cursed in German. Then the Commandant laid a familiar hand around her shoulders and pulled her close. She folded into him, leaving no question about her new choice of man.

  The stray beams had destroyed a few cell doors. The prisoners peeped out, unsure whether they had a chance at escape. The troopers opened fire on the prisoners. One was too slow; his head vanished in a blue cloud. On the Commandant’s orders, the troopers went from cell to cell, blasting down the doors and shooting or pummeling the occupants.

  The Commandant led a detachment of troopers to the cell of the prisoner to which Eisenfaust uttered his last words. Ramona tensed as the armored giants stepped over her still form.

  “Come out,” the Commandant ordered the prisoner.

  “The hell with that,” the man said. “You come in here and get me, sucker.”

  Valkyria had reached the pulverized cell door. “Ach! Disgusting. What is that thing?”

  A black, shadowy form slipped through them with a strangely casual motion, as if excusing himself from a crowd. Ramona recognized the prisoner, a petty thief who called himself Slycke.

  He had chosen his nickname well; the troopers grasped at his frictionless, inky black skin without success. He paused before the Commandant, who goggled at him in surprise.

  “Ain’t it funny that I get sprung from Echo by punk-ass Nazis?” He laughed in the Commandant’s face. “Echo’s gonna slap you sideways for this crap. Me, I’m outta here!” He spun on a heel and slid down the corridor like an ice skater. Within seconds he was gone.

  “Stop him!” the Commandant bellowed. Blue beams followed the jet-black metahuman out the door.

  Ramona kept still and prayed they wouldn’t check their handiwork. If I get out of this alive, she swore, I’m going to find that Slycke and have a nice long conversation with him.

  Chapter Three:

  A Nightmare On Main Street

  Mercedes Lackey, Steve Libbey, Cody Martin, Dennis Lee

  We know now that the Nazis figured their “Neue Blitzkrieg” was going to paralyze us and let them roll over the top of us.

  They completely forgot to plan for one simple thing.

  Being wrong.

  Las Vegas, Nevada: Callsign Belladonna Blue

  Bella crouched in the shelter of a blast door, fear putting a metallic taste in her mouth. The door was of Col
d War–era vintage, as thick as her arm was long, and it was hanging askew, blown partly out of its track by something. Were the arm cannons on those Nazi monstrosities powerful enough to do that?

  Or was there something worse in there now?

  She glanced over at Iron Hawk, the Navaho meta who’d been the code-talker for the Air Force metas on the German front. He was the leader for their ill-assorted bunch of babies and retirees.

  He could not have been young when he’d signed up for the job back in the day, and he was old now. When her grandfather had been working alongside Oppie, he had been driving the Nazis nuts, trying to figure out what he was saying. No wonder he was here. He remembered the first go-around against them.

  “This is not the time for subtle,” he was saying, looking over them all. “You all got the briefing. The weak points on that armor are the joints, the visor if they haven’t got the blast shield down, and that spot here—” He pointed at the same place in his throat where Bella would do a trach, if she had to. “The rest of the armor is too tough for anything but plasma-hot fire. So tell me, what you got? Left to right.”

  Farthest left was Bella’s own high-school classmate, Fred Saltzberger. “I’ve got a pretty blast-proof hide; I’m strong and tough,” he said, the red of his blush mostly hidden by his red complexion. “I can bench-press a car easy enough. Not strong or tough enough to punch through them though—”

  Iron Hawk shook his head. “Not necessary. Just throw things, the bigger, the better. Aim for the knee. I need a name for you; I won’t remember Fred.”

  “Red Rock,” Fred replied instantly.

  Iron Hawk nodded brusquely. “Next.”

  “Top Gun. I got your plasma cannon right here.” This was the young guy who was half jump jet that had pulled Bella off her Fire Department crew. He patted one forearm. “Well, lasers, but they get plasma-hot.”

  “How long a burn?” Iron Hawk demanded.

  “Ten seconds. Computer-assisted targeting.”