World Divided: Book Two of the Secret World Chronicle

by Mercedes Lackey; Cody Martin; Dennis Lee; Veronica Giguere

  With the cannon inoperative, the controllers for the war machine activated the mechanical tentacles, snatching and stabbing towards John and Saviour. John immediately put on a burst of speed, running faster than any Olympic athlete could hope to. He vaulted over an air conditioning unit, catching a glimpse of it being speared by a tentacle. He pivoted, feinted, and then spun off in the other direction, a trio of tentacles jutting into the roof behind him. He slowed for a moment to focus, sending a blast of flame at the war machine; his fires weren’t nearly as strong as he had hoped, merely reddening the hull instead of blasting through it with concentrated plasma. His Russian counterpart was flying out of reach of the beast’s tentacles, sending concussive blasts directly at the cockpit’s viewscreen and at any tentacles that threatened too closely.

  Another abandoned car fractured against the side of the war machine, this one hitting so hard it actually clogged the muzzle of the energy cannon. From below came a whoop of triumph in a familiar female voice. “Good one, Chuggie! Keep it up!” John darted towards the corner of the roof; out of the corner of his eye John caught a glimpse of blue that quickly ducked under cover as the craggy creature called Chug dodged a tentacle, bellowed again, and picked up the remains of a set of cement stairs and flung it at another cannon muzzle. Was Bella managing to direct the creature? John didn’t have time to contemplate it; another set of automated tentacles flew towards him, too fast; he barely managed to duck under them, one of the tentacles scoring flesh from his back.

  Saviour’s face was a mask of mingled fury and calculation, and—joy? She was enjoying this? Chug’s assault had given her the space to think, and she turned blazing eyes towards John. “Fire kills these things!” she shouted. “Can you fly?”

  “Hell no!” John rolled behind the roof access, two tentacles embedding themselves into it inches away from his head. “But I can jump pretty damn well!”

  “Nasrat!” she spat. Before he could move, she had swooped down and seized him by the back of his jacket. The next thing he knew, he was twenty feet above the roof and accelerating towards the Nazi contraption, dangling from her hands. She didn’t take her eyes off the thing, but shouted at him. “I am heading to the top!” she screamed over the cacophony of combat. “Being ready when I drop you!”

  He didn’t have much warning, just the sight of the top of the curve of the hull. She let go, and he dropped like a rock; John barely managed to roll into a crouch, still landing harder than he wanted to on the unforgiving hull. She dropped down beside him and began punching at what looked like a seam—a hatch maybe?—her fists glowing blue-white. Five punches and she was through, the remains of the hatch clattering inwards, swinging on what was left of a hinge. Below them, John could make out, through the smoke and sparking electrical systems, crewmen looking up, mouths agape with shock, and hear someone shouting in German over some sort of intercom.

  “Fire, tovarisch!” Saviour screamed. “Davay!” She matched her words to a barrage of energy from her fists. John thrust his right hand into the opening she had created, relaxing his concentration ever so slightly. A plume of flame sprung forth, filling the interior of the war machine with brilliant fire. Unintelligible screaming followed, and then a jet of backdraft. Saviour grabbed his collar and kicked off as the machine began to tilt radically to one side. She only got a one-handed grip this time, and it canted her off-balance. They spiraled down to the roof and landed heavily. Not wasting a moment, both of them sprinted to the edge facing the street; the Nazi war machine had canted wildly, spinning down to the street below. Breathing a half sigh of relief, John watched it come to an almost-controlled landing. It didn’t tear at the roof of the HQ or crash into any buildings. With a tremendous boom, it came to a rest, skidding along the asphalt before ending up against an abandoned warehouse.

  In the half second after the war machine had stopped moving, both John and the Commissar had assessed the situation. To the right of the machine, Bella and Chug were fighting off six Nazi armored troopers; Chug had resorted to wading in to deal with them hand-to-hand, while Bella stood back with a terrible scowl of concentration on her face. Since the shots from the troopers’ arm cannons were going wild, John could only assume she was interfering with them somehow. On the left, a group of five Nazis were standing in a circle, blasting away at the surrounding neighborhood.

  “You! Take those five! I go right!” Saviour slapped something on her belt and sirens blared inside the CCCP HQ, though how anyone could have missed the sounds of the combat going on escaped John. It occurred to John that only a few minutes, two at most, had passed from the time the war machine had attacked till now. That might not have been enough time for people inside to react—and was there a plan in place if an attack came here? But the sirens would at least tell them that their leader was alive and outside and that was where they should be.

  In a flash of red, black and gold, Saviour was already over the edge and flying towards Bella and Chug. Not even half a second behind her, John bounded over the lip of the roof, heading down to the group of Nazis on the left. In a flash of bizarre humor, he remembered a quote from the Blues Brothers. Illinois Nazis. I hate those guys.

  The front door burst open—literally burst; it had been jammed shut by pieces of shattered car and concrete—and the mustached man who had been at the desk when John came in hurtled through the door and charged straight at John’s targets. John touched down—again, harder than he had intended—on the now smoking hull of the war machine. One of the Nazi troopers noticed the CCCPer rushing at him, screaming unintelligible Russian curses; about the only thing that John could make out sounded like “Fascists!”

  The man did a baseman’s slide under the legs of the Nazi trooper, springing to half his height in a fighting stance in the middle of their circle. In an instant, he was striking them; mainly at their joints, with open-handed and closed-fist strikes that made John queasy just watching. The Nazis’ armor rang with the impacts, but didn’t give. They took notice of a threat in their midst, turning around to face it. In moments, the mustached CCCPer adjusted his tactics; he was now focusing on dodging and deflecting attacks directed at him. He swatted aside energy cannons an instant before they fired, ducking under swung mechanical arms with air whooshing along their passage.

  It was amazing for John to witness; he didn’t waste any time, though. This ballet of destruction could only last a few moments longer before the troopers got organized and destroyed their adversary. Just as the Russian redirected a discharging energy cannon into one of the adjacent Nazis, John fired off the strongest blast of flame he could manage. It splattered against the closest trooper’s helmet, sending the armored hulk stumbling forward several steps. The Russian man immediately withdrew from the troopers’ circle. Immediately, the air was filled with energy blasts, splitting concrete and walls all around John. The rank scent of burnt ozone filled his nostrils as he darted back behind a section of the downed war machine’s hull.

  Startling him, the CCCPer who had been fighting the troopers rolled behind the same cover, breathing hard. They both shared a look for the space of a second. “Privyet, Amerikanski. You are not bad fighter. For a kulak.”

  “You’re not too bad for a Commie. Ready to give these bastards what-for?”

  “Davay!” came the grim reply. John sprinted from cover, his enhanced legs pumping furiously against the street. He blasted gouts of flame at the group of troopers, but without tangible result; his fire wasn’t as strong as he wanted it to be. Coruscating energy blasts rocked the ground around him, rippling through the air. John kept firing, covering each of the remaining Nazis in fire until they were glowing red-hot. From the corner of his eye, John noticed his Russian compatriot burst from cover, screaming curses again. The man launched himself towards the nearest trooper, hurtling into its right thigh. The Nazi lurched forward, hitting the street face first. In moments, the Russian was striking at the troopers in the rear; with their armor and defenses weakened by John’s flames, the CCCPer wa
s somehow able to cause much more damage to them. His fists deeply dented metal, even cutting through joints.

  John fired off more blasts, focusing on the death’s-head helmets of the Nazi troopers; they weren’t able to coordinate an effective defense on two fronts and were firing their arm cannons wildly into the ground and air. The Russian pounded them relentlessly, twisting limbs at the right time and beating in vital parts. Soon, three of the armored behemoths were incapacitated; dead or on their way to death’s door. John had run himself out; he couldn’t move anymore and was using all of his energy to stay conscious. Slumped against a wall of what he vaguely recognized as a bookstore, he gathered his remaining reserves. Concentrating every single bit of willpower he had, he focused and then released everything; a concentrated stream of plasma burst from the palms of his hands before he went limp. The stream took off the head of a Nazi trooper poised to club the Russian man, toppling the fascist backwards. John slumped back, useless and utterly spent.

  That was when salvation in the unlikely form of the CCCP doctor, Soviette, appeared, sprinting to John’s side from the remains of the door. And scrambling over the top of the wrecked machine came the rockman, Chug, flanked by the Commissar and Belladonna Blue. John’s vision was beginning to blur, going dark at the edges.

  The Commissar let loose with a barrage of concussive energy blasts that looked to John as if her strength was fading, too. The blasts flew over the Russian man’s head, impacting squarely with the remaining Nazi’s armored chest. It was enough to drive the trooper back against the wall behind him. In a flash, Chug had ripped a plate free from the war machine that he was standing on, and heaved it with incredible strength at the dazzled trooper. The hull plate bisected the Nazi, cleaving his torso cleanly from his hips. With a shower of sparks and spurt of hydraulics, the invader was dead. It was over.

  And now, with a howl of sirens, an Echo team appeared.

  Enough strength washed into John to allow him to stand, propped up with the help of Soviette as the Echo team looked for something to fight and found nothing left. Red Saviour tossed her head a little, jumped down from the ruined hull of the war machine, and strode towards them.

  “I am Commissar Red Saviour of CCCP, and we have the area secure, comrades,” she said, not bothering to hide her smugness. “We will be wanting some of this technology for study, of course.” She glanced around. “These are my team. Chug; our physician, Jadwiga, known as Soviette; Georgi Vlasov, known as Untermensch; and our newest comrade, John Murdock.” Even as out of it as he was, John could only cringe at hearing his name pronounced in front of strangers. So much for low-profile.

  Belladonna seemed to have disappeared. Then again, Belladonna was supposed to be Echo . . . it was probably less than politic for her to be here.

  Hot on the heels of the Echo team had come a pair of reporters; Saviour consciously turned towards them. They had already caught her introductions on camera. “As you can see, the allies of the CCCP are on the job, protecting the workers of the city,” the Russian said proudly. “And that is with but a handful of our comrades. When we are at full strength, we shall show you what we can really do.”

  * * *

  The barracks weren’t quite done yet; John staggered back to his squat, bearing—with Untermensch’s help—several sets of the CCCP uniform. After working the numerous locks and getting inside, John flopped into his bed, breathing hard. It took him a few minutes to regain his composure; thankfully, his new Russian compatriot waited.

  “That was being quite a first day, tovarisch,” the man finally said, without cracking a smile. “But was a good interview. Even the Commissar said as much.”

  John climbed painfully to his feet, trudging towards the ancient refrigerator in the corner of the room. “Yeah, it was a decent scuffle. Suckers were lucky I wasn’t at my best, though.” He retrieved two bottles from the refrigerator, tossing one to the Russian as he stumbled back to the mattress. “So, what’s your name again? I’ve got a mind for details, but I was way outta it by the time we’d finished with those goose-steppers.”

  “Georgi. My”—he made an expression of distaste, searching for the proper word—“callsign was not my choice. It is a long story for another time. I am older than I look.” He grimaced. “I was the guest of such a very long time ago.”

  John took a long pull on his bottle of Guinness. “Well, pleased t’meetcha, Georgi. Name’s John. John Murdock.”

  “Budem zdorovy.” The Russian tilted the bottle towards him before downing about half of it. “I suppose,” he continued, his voice heavy with irony, “I should be grateful to them. I should not have been able to fight this lot if the first of them had not decided to use me to test some of their little theories.” He held up his hand. “For all intents and purposes, these are invulnerable. There were some difficulties in getting the serum to work on the entire body. Their invulnerable soldiers were invariably dead within a day of injection. My healing powers were supposed to counter that.” Another smirk. “Luckily, some of my comrades came to my rescue before the fashista could finish the procedure and learn from it. As such, I am a relic to that era.” He stretched, cracking his neck. “There is a certain satisfaction in breaking their skulls again.”

  “Won’t argue ’bout that, comrade.” John finished his drink, setting the bottle down beside the mattress.

  The Russian didn’t seem much inclined for small talk, so after a little more conversation, he left. The room got uncomfortably warm after a while, so John managed to drag himself off the mattress and head to the roof hoping for a breeze. Unfortunately, the Russian had drunk his last beer.

  He leaned wearily over the concrete parapet and looked down on his neighborhood. Even the small walk up here had caused him to breathe heavily; his wounds were giving him more trouble than they should have. Maybe I’m growin’ old.

  The breeze finally came from behind him, a breeze with a hint of cinnamon and vanilla to it. He knew what it was, even before he realized that it was coming from the wrong direction for it to be natural. “I thought you might appreciate these, John Murdock,” the angel murmured quietly, as she stepped to the parapet beside him and held out a cold beer and a newspaper.

  “And where were you this afternoon?” he asked.

  “Tending something. Why? Did you need me?” She patted the paper, where the headline screamed Echo Ops Trumped By Russkies.

  John chuckled raggedly. “Wouldn’t say ‘need,’ Angel. But . . . it would’ve been nice. Still tryin’ to heal up from gettin’ skewered by a sword.” He pondered for a moment. “The Commissar figured that the Nazis were part of a suicide squad; sleeper cell designed to stir up trouble, keep everyone on their toes after the Invasion. Pain in the ass, for a broken-down jerk like me.”

  She tilted her head to the side, regarding him for a moment. “That . . . the wound . . . I can help with. A little. If you would like. It is permitted.” John shrugged, trying his best to hide the pain that the movement gave him.

  “Is that a yes, a no, or a ‘just go away’?”

  “Forgot that y’can’t read my mind that easy, Angel. Have at it.”

  “Then give me your hand, if you would.” She held out hers. John paused for a moment. He tentatively removed the fingerless glove from his right hand, the tattoo of a snake eating its tail was visible again, and he hoped that the way it unsettled him wasn’t visible to her. She looked at it a moment, and blinked once.

  “That explains a good deal,” she said, then took his hand in both of hers, covering the tattoo with her right. For a moment, she went so still she seemed to be frozen in space as well as time. And then a sudden rush of strength engulfed him, as if fire ran into all his veins and nerves; his senses flared, and he felt completely awake and aware to all the world in a way he had never been before. She released his hand.

  “Y’know, if y’could bottle that, you’d make a fortune, Angel.”

  She looked at him for a moment, and there was something in her face that disco
ncerted him . . . and also tore down something guarded in him. “There are few who could bear it, John Murdock,” she said. And then she looked away for a moment. “Sometimes . . . even I cannot bear it.”

  And with that, she spread her wings and lifted into the sky, vanishing in a flash of feathers and flame; flying with a speed that should have been impossible. The feeling quickly dissipated from John; he was still invigorated, but now more puzzled than ever. Just another night in Atlanta, Johnny. Just another night.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  __________

  Cold-Hearted Snake

  MERCEDES LACKEY AND CODY MARTIN

  With so many resources tied up, it was a free-for-all among the criminally inclined. And no one did—or could—take advantage of that like Verdigris. No one else had his resources, his organization or his intellect. And no one else was quite so willing to feed off the misery of others.

  From this high up, the destruction corridors through Mumbai—or Bombay, according to the old maps—were very clearly visible. The Thulians hadn’t wasted too much effort on Mumbai, just two ships and attendant troopers, and they had gone straight for the one thing in the entire city that would cause the most damage if lost. Half the population was used to doing without electricity, without food, without adequate shelter—there were some families that lived on plots of sidewalk no bigger than a queen-sized bed—but nobody could do without water. The Bhandup water treatment plant was in ruins because of the Nazis, and people were dying. People were always dying in Mumbai, but until the aftermath of the Invasion it had not been at a rate so fast the corpse wagons couldn’t keep up.