She felt the pressure of Grey rubbing against her legs. Pressure would be all she would ever feel there. Would he have understood, if she had managed to strip off a glove and show him her hand? Tell him that her entire body was like that, scarred from neck to feet? Would he have understood that the psychological scarring was worse, far worse, than the physical scarring?
And even if he had, were there any resources at Echo left to deal with someone like her? If there were, they surely had their hands full right now.
Grey’s wry comment cracked through and startled a laugh out of her. She opened her eyes to see his green ones gazing unabashedly into hers.
She scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. “So?”
She bit her lip. Yes. She could do that. In fact, most of the mages she knew were not in Echo. Mages were very good at hiding what they were.
She pushed herself off the door, and stood up. She picked up the card and went to her computer.
By its nature, Darpanet was hard to shut down. While shiny new stuff was brought online all the time, the old stuff was still out there somewhere, whirring away, forgotten in corners of servers and switchers. In these days of easy drag-and-drop interfaces, nobody remembered command-line stuff even existed, except for the very old-school and the very clever. While millions might panic over “the Internet” being gone because they couldn’t reach their favorite websites, Vickie brought up Darpanet and the slow, robust, primitive email program it supported.
Mr. Burns, she wrote. I’m sorry our meeting went so badly.…
Part Two:
The Hunt
Interlude:
So, dear audience, whoever you are out there—if there is anyone left other than cockroaches at this point—that is how, from my perspective, it all ended. The day, the week, when the world didn’t just change, it shattered. Everything was different after that day, literally everything. The old rules didn’t apply any more. Life was no longer a kind of game of cat and mouse for the metahumans of Echo, a game where everyone more or less played by the rules.
We had met the enemy, and he was so unlike us that we were left floundering.
We were going to have to play by some new rules. We were also going to have to make it up as we went along.
Governments flailed. War declarations were in order, but against whom? You could call up troops, but where to send them? You could try and enact draconian antiterrorist laws, but despite the terror, these hadn’t been terrorists per se. They had come openly, and gone—where? There wasn’t a single known terrorist organization that wanted to claim them, only a few radical neo-Nazi groups…and the minute they had, vigilantes had descended on them and stomped them into paste. And everywhere, the questions were Why had they stopped? Why weren’t they attacking again? When would they? Their actions made no sense. Even their targets were confusing. On one hand, these shock troops and war machines hit critical strategic targets. But they also hit things like paint factories, DYI stores, even car dealerships. One Cadillac dealership and one Hyundai dealership were leveled to the last hubcap, but the Honda place between them was untouched. One shock troop attacked a mountainside in Montana full force, but the missile silos twenty miles away were untouched. A war machine torched every Taco Bell in two cities, then went after a National Guard base, in that order. Why?
The world being what it was, there had always been the haves and the have-nots, but never before in America had the divide been so deep as in the aftermath of those attacks. On the side of the haves, once the initial rubble had been cleared up and their services restored, it was pretty much business as usual. On the side of the have-nots, it was living in the ruins of Kosovo, of Darfur, of Sarajevo—living in a war zone where every day was a battle for the basics.
To many of us, it felt like the end of everything. And oh how wrong we were. It was all just beginning. The assembly point was Atlanta, where Echo had begun, and where it had almost ended. We had no idea where we were going, but we knew that it was move, or die.
I hope you are out there, dear audience. I hope you are me, actually, laughing over this and getting ready to edit it down. I hope you aren’t them—laughing over this and getting ready to…
I’d rather not think about that.
If you’re not me, and you’re not them, you might be wondering why most of this was in writerly third person and some was in Red Djinni’s own words. Both are easy to answer. When I write about myself or almost anyone else, it’s easier to put myself at a kind of mental distance, third person, to write down the horrors. But his story is from files I found on my computer, and it felt wrong to change them. If you’ve read this far, you know how he studied people, and he probably knew I was going to make this record before I did. I want—I need you to hear his voice.
I’m rambling and I don’t have leisure to ramble. Better get on with it.
Oh, how I hope you’re me. I feel so out of my depth.
Chapter Six:
Red, White, and Blues
Steve Libbey and Mercedes Lackey
Stranded travelers and airport personnel alike stared at the only three figures marching out of Gate 29 of Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson Airport. The shortest of the trio, a statuesque woman with raven hair and tight red clothes bearing Russian iconography and the Cyrillic letters CCCP, nevertheless stood at over six feet tall. She surveyed the chaos of the closed airport with a haughty air. Russian military transport went anywhere it wanted to.
The two older men behind her wore crisp black business suits that failed to conceal their remarkable physiques. One man’s sharp, foxlike features resembled the woman. The other loomed over both of them with shoulders that would be the envy of professional wrestlers everywhere. All three stared at the conglomeration of knickknack shops, franchise coffee stands, and overpriced fast-food counters with faint looks of disgust.
An airport official flanked by security guards bustled up to them, waving papers. The woman shouldered her overnight bag and spat out her words: “We are here on state business. You will direct us to Echo representative for transporting.”
The official, already exhausted from dealing with thousands of furious air travelers who no longer regarded the danger of being shot out of the sky by Nazi war machines or the demolished tarmacs as a reasonable excuse for flight cancellations, sighed with resignation. He repeated the phrase that had been etched into his brain: “I’m sorry, ma’am. We have no information at this time.”
“Shto? What nonsense is being this?” Red Saviour glared at him. “Do we look like tourists to you? Fetch the Echo liaison at once.”
“Liaison? Ah…um…There’re no Echo folks here. The campus isn’t far, but it’s not open to the public right now.”
Red Saviour turned to her father, who stood by with a condescending smile, as if he were watching her learn to ride a bike. “Papa,” she said in Russian, “this cretin knows nothing and says less. Shouldn’t we have an escort?”
“Our hosts may be distracted. Remember they too have lost comrades, Wolfling.”
She scowled at him; whether or not the Americans could understand their Russian, the childhood nickname wasn’t appropriate in public. She was hardly a little girl.
“Then we will have him call and remind them they have guests,” she said, but her father touched her elbow to interrupt her.
“Excuse us, my friend,” he said with a surprisingly gentle smile to the official. “We have been confined in an airplane for too long. I am sure a taxi would suffice.”
The man’s entire body telegraphed relief. “Right this way, sir.”
Nikolai Shostakovich winked at his daughter, who puffed out her cheeks at him.
The American taxi was of astounding size: an entire minivan, typical of American excess. Natalya offered Worker’s Champion the front seat, which made the cabbie smile nervously. The big hero folded himself into the seat with a grunt.
Luggage stowed, the driver pulled away from the curb onto a strangely empty street. “Where to, folks?”
“Echo headquarters,” Red Saviour said.
Nikolai leaned forward. “By way of I-285, please.”
The cabbie shook his head. “No can do. The entire highway is closed except to rescue teams.” He shuddered. “You wouldn’t want to go there anyways. It’s one long grave right now. I don’t know if I can stand to use it again when they reopen it. Besides,” he added with relief, “it’s not on the way.”
“I have seen enough of bodies,” Red Saviour said with a pointed look at her father.
The car trip took twice as long as it would have in ordinary circumstances. Police stopped the taxi twice, and held it up several more times to allow tanks or bulldozers to pass. “City’s gone crazy. National Guard has the city under lockdown but Atlanta’s a big place. The murder rate’s gone through the roof, and you still see looters.” The cabbie nodded at the glove compartment. “You can bet I’m packing.”
“You are moving away?” she said.
“No, no. Packing. Packing heat.” He paused. “A gun.”
“Ah!” Red Saviour reached past his arm, opened the compartment and pulled out the pistol, eliciting a yelp from the cabbie. She looked it over with a practiced eye. “
Nine-millimeter Glock. You must be good shot to use toy gun.”
“Natya,” her father said.
“I am just being helpful.” She returned it to the glove compartment. “Needs cleaning and oiling,” she told the driver. The driver nodded numbly, then jerked his attention back to driving and took several long, deep breaths. If not for the fear of repercussions from what were obviously foreign metas, he’d likely have thrown them out right there and left them looking at taillights through tire smoke.
The cab reached a police line, marked off with yellow tape. Beyond the tape, a dozen gutted ShipEx trucks lined the entrance to the Echo campus. Red Saviour knew at once what had burst their sides.
“End of the line,” the cabbie said. “Can’t go further.” He unloaded their bags for them, accepted his tip and waved to them in farewell. “Welcome to Atlanta,” he shouted out the window as he rolled away.
Nikolai waved back. “Southern hospitality,” he told his dour companions. But Red Saviour paid no attention to the departing cabbie. Her attention was riveted on the devastation before her.
The Echo campus looked as though a bombing squadron had made several passes overhead. Two buildings remained standing; three more had been sheared in half or leveled entirely. The smell of smoke and dust hung in the air. Black gashes violated the lush green lawn, which was dotted with temporary trailers such as those she would see on construction sites—which, she presumed, this mess would soon become. Makeshift memorials of flowers, photos and white crosses lined the driveway.
A police officer in full combat regalia approached them, assault rifle at the ready. “Move along, please.”
“We are expected,” Red Saviour said. “We are delegation from Super-Sobratiye Sovetskikh Revolutzionerov.” The man gave her a blank look. “CCCP. From Russia.”
He shook his head slowly. “First time I’ve heard of it. You’ll have to come back later. No visitors allowed.”
Indignation welled up in her, but her father stepped between her and the officer. “Alex Tesla asked us to consult on a case. Would you notify him that we are here, at least? He can reschedule our meeting if he wishes.”
The officer muttered into his radio, glancing from Red Saviour to Nikolai and back again. His frown deepened.
“This is ridiculous,” Red Saviour said to her father in Russian. “Southern hospitality indeed. They treat us like we invaded them.”
“Be patient for once.”
“Bah.” She fished out her sole pack of Proletarskie cigarettes and lit one. “No wonder that the Nazis took so many lives here. These Americans can’t even be bothered to get off the couch.”
“Hmm. I think I will do the talking,” her father said.
“Papa!”
“Hush, child. Try to smile for our hosts.”
Red Saviour looked to Worker’s Champion for support, but he only nodded in agreement with Nikolai.
“Fine. Horosho. I am on display like a mannequin.” When the officer’s gaze fell on her again, she showed all her teeth in a smile. The man visibly winced and turned his back on her.
“Lenin’s Beard,” Worker’s Champion said. “We should have left her in Moscow.”
Nikolai chuckled. “Believe it or not, she has improved immensely. That’s enough, Natya.”
Red Saviour glared at them both and puffed on her cigarette with newfound vigor.
The officer flicked off his comm unit and approached them. “That’s a negative on the appointment. If there was a record of it”—he waved at the massive pile of rubble—“it’s buried under that. Your best bet is to call the public line tomorrow and request—”
With an exasperated snort, Red Saviour threw her cigarette on the ground and pushed the officer aside. She stomped down the driveway towards the trailers, head held high. The man regained his bearings and raised his weapon to her head, advancing and barking orders. Without looking back, Red Saviour grasped the gun barrel and shattered it with a flash of blue energy.
“Where…is…Alex…Tesla?” she bellowed into the air.
Worker’s Champion restrained Nikolai by the arm. “Nyet. Let her learn. You coddle her too much.”
Nikolai resisted the iron grip for a moment before shrugging in defeat. “You have obviously never raised a child, Boryets.”
The disarmed officer shouted into his radio. Police, Echo SupportOps, and metahumans converged on Red Saviour, who imperiously strode across the grass with folded arms, calling Tesla’s name. The police and SWAT commandos leveled their rifles at her amidst cries of “Stand down!”
Within moments, forty armed or meta-powered personnel swarmed her. Red Saviour pretended to ignore them, forcing the circle to move along with her towards the trailers.
“Alex Tesla! Is that you in the riot helmet? Nyet? Then why haven’t you fetched him, dolt?”
Two burly Samoan men in OpTwo uniforms blocked her way. “Easy there, sister. No one wants to get hurt here,” said the smaller of the two.
“Oh! You are being Alex Tesla?”
The Samoan shook his head. “Matai, Echo OpTwo. You can’t—”
“Then get out of my way, Mr. OpTwo. I have an appointment.” She resumed walking.
Matai put a hand out. “Stop right there.”
Red Saviour locked eyes with him. “Do not touch me, tovarisch, unless you wish to lose hand.”
With a grin, Matai reached for her shoulder. To an expert practitioner of Systema, this was an open invitation for a takedown. In an instant she had seized his hand and redirected him into the ground, yanking his arm back and placing her bootheel at his neck.
Dozens of rifles aimed at her throat. Grass and turf surged up onto the second Samoan’s form, doubling his size. He loomed over her with fists the size of air conditioners.
“Easy! Easy everyone!” Matai said. His eyes watered from the pain.
Red Saviour surveyed the assembly disdainfully. “Very impressive, you Echo boys. Now which of you is man enough to inform Tesla
that one single little devushka has come for tea?”
The crowd muttered amongst themselves. Motu opened and closed his fists, making a sound much like a landslide.
At last, one of the security guards made a call. A lone figure appeared at the door of the centermost trailer and approached the mob. Guns ready, the operatives parted for him.
Alex Tesla, with the solemn dignity of an exhausted leader, looked Red Saviour over curiously. At last he asked: “Can I help you?”
“That is why we are here, to help you.”
She released Matai, who flopped onto the grass. He picked himself up at once, trying to appear casual.
Red Saviour offered a hand. “Red Saviour, Commissar of CCCP, Russian Federation. You sent for us.”
Tesla hesitated a moment before shaking her hand. “Alex Tesla, Commissar of Echo, USA. I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He gestured for his people to lower their weapons.
“I spent twenty hours cramped in military transport plane with no smoking allowed. Please get idea quickly.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Tesla. My daughter lacks manners.” Nikolai stepped into the circle with a telegram. “Nikolai Shostakovich. This man is Worker’s Champion. What she means to say is that we received this message from you, and we came at once.”
With a flourish, Nikolai presented the telegram. Tesla scanned it. “I didn’t write this.”
“Then perhaps your secretary, nyet? We’ve all had a trying time these last few days. Such a small detail could easily be lost.”
Worker’s Champion spoke, his voice a commanding rumble. “This is not a matter to discuss in front of underlings. Dismiss your people.”
Tesla bit back a reply. “Very well. Back to work, folks. The situation is under control.”
The crowd dispersed. Massaging his arm, Matai shot Red Saviour a sour look as he left. Tesla led the Russians into his trailer, where papers, maps, photographs, telephones, radios and rifles covered the surfaces. He offered them metal folding chairs, which creaked under their weight.
Invasion: Book One of the Secret World Chronicle-ARC Page 21
