Revolution: Book Three of the Secret World Chronicle

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Red,” Vickie said, her voice rising with alarm. “What are you—”

  “You were right, this isn’t a standard arms deal. They’re trafficking in people, Victrix. I don’t think we can really let that go on, do you?”

  “So I call for backup!” She held her hand up to her ear, shielding her implanted rig. “Echo Dispatch, this is One Dog Victor. We need backup yesterday. Double trouble and human trafficking, A and D.”

  The reply was prompt, but not what they needed. “Roger that, One Dog Victor. Backup in fifteen.”

  She switched to rapid-fire Russian—Red figured she must have switched frequencies to her special Overwatch setup. He didn’t understand all of it, but nyet, tovarisch in tones of sympathy were clear enough. He turned away, straining as he listened to the deal unfold. Finally, he shook his head. “Forget it, Victrix. Backup won’t be here soon enough. They’re about to wrap it up. We need to buy some time.”

  “How—?” she gulped, standing up and bracing herself against the wall, as if taking some scant comfort from having it at her back.

  “We’re going in,” he said. “We’re going to give this kid another option.”

  He expected her to protest. She didn’t. Though she was visibly shaking, she didn’t. Instead, with what looked like extraordinary effort, she pushed herself away from the wall, and managed the couple of steps to his side.

  “I’m . . . not packing,” she squeaked. “Just . . . armored.” She was wearing standard Echo nanoweave; so armored, but not armed. Except for magic. Would that be enough? It would have to be. And the Djinni, sometimes it felt like he could read her mind.

  “You’re never unarmed,” he said. “You can do this. C’mon.”

  He favored her with a long look of encouragement. Finally, she nodded. Drawing a short crossbow, Red took aim and fired a zip line across the street. He turned and fired the anchor at his feet.

  “After you,” he said, gesturing.

  You picked a fine time to go all heroic on me, Red Djinni.

  * * *

  It had taken the better part of a month, but Christian was finally going to make his quota. Pickings were getting slim, what with Echo ramping up their efforts to recruit every last meta they could get their hands on. As far as he could tell, Blacksnake and Echo were neck and neck in the meta arms race. He almost grimaced as he haggled with the Reb over the price of this reptile boy, but managed to keep his poker face on. It was a formality, really. He would have paid ten times the going rate for this find, just to put this all to bed. This Pike boy would make his ten, and he could go back to doing his real job at Blacksnake—shadow ops, assassinations, all the good, meaty, wetwork stuff. Not crap that any two-bit pencil pusher could do. He would haul this boy back to the barracks, drop him off with personnel to mind-wipe and reprogram into something useful, and get back to work. He was very much looking forward to it. Hey, who knew? Maybe he and the kid would be working together someday. Once reprogrammed, the kid could be a great asset.

  The Reb was grinning, enjoying the haggling a little too much. Christian fought down an urge to pop him with a solid right, or better yet, gut him where he stood. He restrained himself, although, personally, this was not to his taste. From his own perspective, that would throw them all into a bit of welcome violence. He could have used the exercise, and he suspected his boys felt the same.

  But that was counter to his orders. Giving in to his own impulse would end any future dealings with the Rebs, and he really wasn’t in the mood to deal with the higher-ups on that score. Best to play the game, come to fair terms and leave. He hated Atlanta anyway.

  “So, fifty thou, ten cases of RPGs, thirty pounds of plastic explosive . . . I think y’all oughta throw in five’r six bikes too. Ain’t like y’all cain’t afford ’em.” Christian really, really was beginning to hate Mullethead, with his beginnings of a beer gut, his sense of entitlement, and his foul breath. “Mistuh Christian, if y’all come t’negotiate, better bring some serious shit.”

  “Look, if you’re not going to take this seriously, we can always walk,” Christian said. “The deal was for twenty even. And don’t even bring up the bikes again. They’re too easily traced back to us.”

  “Hey Christian,” Mullethead said, spreading his hands wide. “You came to us, remember? The fifty’s negotiable, but you gotta throw in dem bikes! They’re too cherry. We can paint ’em, grind off the numbers, no one’ll ever know they’re Blacksnake!”

  Christian rolled his eyes. “Paint them . . . you think some cheap paint job is going to hide the fact that you have hoverbikes?”

  “Hoverbikes aren’t their speed, anyway,” a new voice said. “Give ’em a short bus.”

  “Who the hell—” Christian began, and did a double take. “George Clooney?”

  “Evening, boys,” Red said amiably, looking rather at ease as he emerged from the shadows. “Tell me . . . can someone direct me to the nearest Waffle House? It’s late, I know, but don’t you ever get that hankering for a big plate of fat-soaked carbs and bacon by the pound?”

  Christian was still staring at him. Evidently the sight of a bare-chested George Clooney ambling up out of the darkness had put him into some sort of fugue state. He managed to shake himself out of it. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded, realizing that, of course, it could not possibly be the world famous actor . . .

  For one thing, the Cloon wasn’t quite so tall.

  For another, he might be shirtless, but those were Echo nanoweave pants. Something jostled in Christian’s memory, something recent. Echo had managed to find themselves a shifter, none other than . . .

  “The Djinni!” he shouted, unslinging the M4 from his back and pointing it at Red.

  “Hey, hey,” Red cautioned, holding up his hands. “No need for that, Chuckles. We’re just talking here. Why don’t we keep it that way?”

  “Nobody invited y’all,” growled the Reb, wrapping a bike chain around one fist.

  Red raised an eyebrow. “I needed an invite? I’m sorry, I thought this was an open market. Or do you have a problem with money?”

  The Reb just stared at him, confused.

  It was Red’s turn to roll his eyes. “Money,” he repeated, slowly. “Whatever Mr. Wonderful here is offering, I’m betting I could do you one better. Maybe you’ve heard, but Echo’s in the market for metas too.” He craned his neck, and looked at the boy. “I’d also bet the kid would rather come with us. Wouldn’t you . . . ?”

  “Pike,” the boy stammered. “I don’t really know what’s . . .”

  “All right, that’s enough!” Christian barked. “I have had it with this shit!” He pointed at Pike. “You are coming with us!” He pointed at Mullethead. “You are taking this briefcase!” He pointed his gun at Red. “And you can piss right up a rope and bugger off!”

  “Well that’s damn rude,” Red scoffed. “You tongue-tango your boyfriend with that mouth?”

  Christian snarled, and answered by shooting.

  Instead of hitting the shirtless meta, the bullets struck a wall of dirt and broken concrete that somehow erupted between them.

  “Goddammit,” Red yelped, as he took shelter behind the rampart Vickie had thrown up. “Shooting again! What the hell? I’ve gone almost a month without being shot at!”

  “You were overdue!” Vickie shouted back, emerging from her hiding spot and flinging herself into the shelter.

  “I was just trying to be friendly! Maybe this wasn’t the best approach . . .” They both winced as rounds ricocheted off the concrete.

  “You think?” Vickie covered her head with her hands. “Now what’s your plan? Aside from catching bullets with your teeth?”

  “I am planless,” Red replied. “This is more or less diversion until the cavalry arrive. What we need here is less Butch and Sundance, and more Reservoir Dogs.” He raised his voice to shout to the Rebs. “Yo! I’m serious about upping the offer! Tell you what, we’ll throw in a little extra for helping us nab these Blacksnake goons!�
��

  The gunfire came to a halt.

  “Don’t even think about it!” Red heard Christian snarl. “You think Echo’s going to let you boys walk away from this? Double the twenty if you perforate this idiot and his girlfriend.”

  “I’m not his girlfriend!” Vickie yelped, her voice shrill and Chihuahua-like.

  “From the diaphragm,” Red said, dryly. “Your voice will carry more indignation that way.”

  On the other side of Vickie’s shield, there came heated whispers and threats. Finally, there was a grunt of agreement, and the shooting recommenced.

  “Well, so much for that idea,” Red winced as the concentrated gunfire began to eat away at the barrier. The ground under them trembled, and another layer shoved up, thicker and higher. Red drew two pistols from his holsters, and fired blindly around the edge. The assault faltered as their would-be killers dove for cover. Red flipped one of his guns to Vickie, who caught it with deft, if shaking, hands.

  “They’re going to try to flank us in a moment,” he whispered. “Ideas?”

  “I—I—could bury us, maybe tunnel us out.” The idea was exhausting just to think about, but they didn’t seem to have much choice. Without the suite in the Overwatch room, she didn’t know where the storm sewer lines were. She’d have to build everything herself. Then again, if they weren’t ducking bullets, she could take her time.

  “Can you grab the kid too?”

  She groaned. “I’m a geomancer first, techno-mage second, and unless you’ve got a piece of him, I can’t apport him to us.”

  “So I just need to get to him,” he confirmed. “And you need a piece of me.”

  “Yes,” she said automatically, then did a double take. “Are you insane?”

  “I swear,” he muttered. “That should be the Misfits’ battle cry.” He handed her his remaining gun, took a breath and grunted as claws sprang from his hands. To his surprise, Vickie took that moment to pop over the top of the barrier and return fire before ducking back down.

  “I don’t suppose you brought extra magazines?” she asked, her voice shaking and high-pitched.

  “In my belt,” he said through clenched teeth. He had wrapped his hand around one of his claws, and with a groan he brought it down and snapped it off. Vickie paused briefly before tucking one gun in her armpit. She snatched the broken claw, stuck it between her teeth and dipped into his belt pouch for ammo magazines. Her hands still shaking, she dropped the partial mags from the pistols and performed an admin reload, saving the partial mags for later.

  He nodded in encouragement. “On your count, I go, you cover.”

  She shoved the broken claw down her shirt, checked the chambers on the pistols, and got ready. Turning to him, she mouthed it silently.

  One . . . two . . . GO!

  She flew up and onto the top of the barrier, flinging herself flat on the dirt and broken concrete, and began to lay down cover fire. Red sprang from the safety of her stone wall and sprinted for the shadows. Both her volley and his appearance were met with shouts of alarm.

  She laid down general fire for effect until she ran out of ammo, then dropped back down. With the same gut-wrenching effort it would take to bench-press her current maximum weight, she reached into the earth around her and heaved up more into a cone-shaped protection, not unlike an anthill with her safe in the middle.

  With shaking hands, she ejected the empty mags and slammed in fresh ones, just in case. Outside, muffled by the earthen barrier, she heard Rebs and Blacksnake shouting at each other.

  “Where’d he go?”

  “How’n hell do I know?”

  “Well, get the goddamn girl!”

  “How?”

  Any more of this interesting dialogue was suddenly cut off by the eruption of gunfire. A few shots pinged off the top of the cone, but so few that it was obvious they weren’t actually shooting at her.

  She turned her attention to the ground at her feet, which, fortunately, was already broken up by her early efforts. Like a kid compacting wet sand, she shoved magic force into the churned-up dirt, pushing it to either side, making a hole, and kept repeating the action, driving downwards.

  Outside, there was more gunfire, and now, screaming. She continued to work; she was about six feet down when there was sudden silence.

  That brought her head up like an alarmed deer. She turned, and started to scramble up to the top of her cone, when the screaming started again. Fueled by adrenaline she returned her attention to the hole, and at ten feet, suddenly punched through cement.

  A storm sewer! Oh, thank you, Mother . . .

  And just in time, it seemed.

  “Now, Victrix!”

  She clapped both hands, guns and all, over the claw in her shirt, ran through the equations in her head at light-speed, found the mass, and pulled.

  She had them, she felt them. Red had managed to grab the boy, by a fistful of hair from the feel of it. She willed her power to engulf them, through the earth, to her. And just when she was sure of her grip, she hit a snag. There was something wrong . . . the mass separated, and the Red part was engulfed by a much greater mass. Too much she couldn’t ID . . . too much to pull without an ID . . . she didn’t have a choice, she dropped Red and hauled on the other piece, which still bore his faint trace, just enough to use the Law of Contagion. She pulled.

  The boy dropped into a shivering heap at her feet, and she sagged back against the dirt, panting.

  “You!” she snapped at him, voice more of a squeak than a bark. “Down! Go!”

  Somehow he understood, and dropped down into the storm sewer. No longer her problem.

  She scrambled back up over the top of the cone and out. The sense of “Red-ness” still told her where he was. Firing to give herself cover, she scrambled down the slope of the cone, into the shadows, following that tug of direction.

  There! Shouts and a mass of bodies, chaotic in light from a night lamp swinging wildly overhead. She made a quick estimate of where he was in there, and shot high. Shouts turned to screams. The screaming multiplied, and Red erupted from the crowd, claws slashing. Vickie gasped. Only minutes had passed, but the Djinni was in tatters. His bare torso was riddled with bullets, embedded in new layers of thick and now broken skin. His face and arms bore fresh cuts, and slabs of epidermis even hung in torn places. His victims were screaming, but Red didn’t make a sound. His face was cold, his lips a thin slit as he lay into them, his hands moving with surgical precision. It was doing a number on the Blacksnake agents and the Rebs, but it had left him open. While the Rebs pressed the attack, the remaining Blacksnake ops had fallen back to regroup.

  Her shots drew their attention, and they turned to focus on her.

  That was when she saw it.

  The Blacksnake with the flamethrower, the little ignition flame flickering ominously at the mouth of the muzzle.

  Pointed at her.

  Fire . . .

  Her mind went blank with black terror. The guns drooped in her nerveless hands, as she froze, unable to think, move, or even breathe. No, not true, there was one single thought overwhelming her mind.

  Fire . . . as she saw herself blazing, felt the flames even though they hadn’t reached her yet, felt every nerve screaming with agony.

  Again.

  * * *

  . . . feint . . . there, exposed armpit, drive in, opponent down . . . next target . . . disarm Mullethead, he’s watching the claws, do a sweep, he’s open, spin, get his throat . . .

  Red was fighting for his life. He didn’t have the luxury to feel anything resembling remorse for his victims; he didn’t have the luxury to do anything but survive. They were out to kill him, they were many, and they were armed to the teeth. The years spent as the underdog, the thief in the shadows, had taught him many things. One of the most important was just how dangerous these sorts of fights were. You avoided them whenever possible. Even a complete amateur could get in a lucky strike. It helped to have fingers with razor-sharp edges, just as it helped to
have the ability to grow an instant bulletproof vest. To have meta-strength, speed and endurability were all assets, but he wasn’t invulnerable. He had faced odds like this before, and he had managed to survive, even if sometimes survival meant he had been the last one to crawl away. Still, all it took was one well-placed bullet in the brainpan, just one blade to find his jugular.

  His skin was screaming. Not just from the pain of being shredded pretty badly in places, but with other, more useful, information. Even around corners, he could “see” them, sense their number and movement. He had gone for the gun-toters first. His hit-and-run attacks had kept him from getting shot up too badly, but a fair number of rounds had found their mark in him. They had swarmed him in the end, just as he had managed to work his way to the kid, and had resorted to pummeling him with their bare hands. He had felt the boy slip away, his odd musky aroma, akin to a ferret, wild and pungent, fading away into the very floor. That’s when the insults began, and the Rebs began reveling in taking turns delivering deadly kicks and darting in to hold him down while others landed on top of him with pointed elbows and harsh laughter. In the seconds that Victrix was away they had almost knocked him out, when he sensed her return. Through the crowd of bodies that stank of sweat, grime and god knows what other filth, her amber scent blazed into the room like a beacon, like a ray of hope. He heard the shots ring out, and sensed a sudden opening. Delirious, he managed to get to one knee and with a jolt fueled by desperation, he lashed out. The ones on top of him were thrown off, colliding into others, and back on his feet he returned to his task. The boy, presumably, was safe. There was still the matter of battle-hardened thugs who were bent on killing him. He had only one focus now. Get rid of them. The icy clarity of it would have shocked his newly found sensibilities, an old voice trumping more recent revelations of morality. Any such inclinations were drowned under a tidal wave of cold detachment.

  As he came out of his spin, neatly slashing through Mullethead’s throat, he saw the remaining Blacksnake ops, their backs to him, trained on . . .