And while he thought of himself as a patriotic sort, the wild and erratic red, white and blue markings that enveloped each car seemed rather gauche. Even worse, the insertion of the four older-model train cars in the middle gave the whole ensemble a sloppy, patchwork effect.
“Overwatch to Bulwark.”
“Go ahead,” Bull said.
“All your charges are suffering delays. Either in the baggage handling system or ground traffic control. Does that seem odd to you?”
Bulwark hmphed. “Atlanta International’s on-time record isn’t exactly sterling.”
“Roger that. Advise that you’re not going to make it for the ceremony. Out.”
“Well, we’ll just see about that,” Bulwark rumbled. He glanced around the platform, spotted one of the on-site organizers, and made his way over to her. She was a young girl, early twenties he would have guessed, if not just by her appearance but her overwhelming sense of purpose and enthusiasm. She clutched her tablet-sized PDA with aplomb and flashed a dazzling smile as she directed her crew to ready the train for departure. She gave particular instructions regarding the special passenger cars at the rear, peppering her underlings with enthusiastic reminders concerning the comfort of the guests of honor.
“. . . and let’s not forget those special cushions those darling children at the hospital made for today! I want one on each and every seat! Let’s make sure these heroes have a safe and comfortable ride into the city! Now move, people, shoo!”
“Excuse me, miss,” Bull said, and nodded politely to her. “It would seem we’re running the risk of being late for the ceremonies. Is there anything we might do to speed things along?”
“Oh wow! You’re one of the Echo people!” the girl gushed. “I’m sorry sir, you know how these things go, scheduling never takes flight delays and such into account. I’m sure our guests will be right along and we’ll have them down to the celebration lickity-split!”
“Please, Miss . . .”
“Tammy,” she provided, helpfully.
“Please, Miss Tammy,” Bulwark said, with exaggerated patience. “I would appreciate your help in this matter. It would be a very poor showing if we arrived late.”
“Oh bother,” she scoffed with a flamboyant wave of her hand. “I’m sure they’ll wait! These are very special guests, after all!”
“Please,” Bull repeated.
“Oh fine, fine,” Tammy said, and tapped on her earpiece. “Sheila? Can you give me an update on our guests? Are they through the . . . uh huh. Uh huh. Oh, that’s simply darling, really? Well, please ask him to wrap it up. Nicely, of course. I’m sure security is simply enthralled by his D-Day stories, but he’s got a ceremony to make and we’re running late. Thanks, Sheila, you’re a peach! Love to Sammy, talk to you soon, sweetie!” She turned back to Bulwark and grinned. “They’re just coming out of security. We’ll have them on the train before you know it!”
Tammy glanced back at the train and rolled her eyes. “That is, if my people could just follow a few simple instructions!”
Bull sighed. “I appreciate your . . . attention to detail, Miss Tammy, but I have to question if all that frivolity is really necessary. I would rather the train be ready to leave as soon as the passengers are on board.”
“Frivolity?” she gasped in dismay. “Mister Hero, I would think you of all people would want these brave souls to have every bitty bit of respect we can show them! Don’t you think we owe them that, hmmm? Didn’t they serve this country and risk their lives, day in and day out, all in the name of peace and justice and all that good stuff, hmmm? I was told to get them downtown in style and that’s just what I’m going to do! And I’ll have you know that I personally worked on those lace curtains!” She sniffed. “If you want to speed things along, perhaps you and your people could lend a hand.”
Bull looked at her, helplessly, and returned to his trainees.
“We’re running behind,” he told them. “Get in there and help them . . . set up the doilies.”
He was met with incredulous looks and smirks, which disappeared once they saw he wasn’t kidding. With Bull, it was sometimes hard to tell. A few of them muttered a few choice oaths about menial tasks, but proceeded into the train to assist the prep crew all the same. Most had learned the hard way not to disobey Bull’s orders.
“You too, Rider,” Bull said.
Paperback Rider looked up from his book. “Huh? What?”
Rider was never without a book in his hands; like so many of the newest crop of metahumans, his power had triggered on the day of the Invasion, and it was an . . . odd one. Whatever he read vanished from the page as he read it, and became briefly a part of him. If there was a character with a skill or a power in what he read, he had that skill or power until he used it. But as he used it, the print of the book scrolled rapidly across his paper-white face and hands—his whole body, Bulwark presumed, though he’d never asked—and once it was gone, so was that skill. And he could never use the same book twice.
When he wasn’t in action, print still scrolled over him, but Bulwark assumed it was from one or another of the random books he had read, things that would give a man social skills, because he thought he could detect minor changes in Rider’s personality from time to time. Echo simply made sure he had a steady supply of volumes of men’s action-adventure, science fiction, fantasy, and metahuman fiction—and the occasional instructional manual for variety. They’d never given him metahuman nonfiction, however, unless the meta in question was long dead. No one wanted to find out what would happen if he absorbed a book about . . . say . . . Yankee Pride . . .
“Get in there and help them out,” Bull said, and frowned when he realized Rider was reading the operator’s manual for the new line of MARTA trains. “Where did you get that?”
“It was lying on the conductor’s seat,” Rider said with a shrug. “Thought I’d absorb something while we were just sitting around. Never know when it might come in handy.”
“Well you’re not sitting around, not anymore.” Bulwark pointed at the train. “Go, help.”
Rider sighed, but got to his feet and shuffled off with his comrades.
* * *
Dusty “Troubadour” Markelhay wasn’t your typical meta. He wasn’t gifted with highly destructive powers or a chiseled jaw or washboard abs that so many Echo Ops seemed to have. He was rather homely, actually. The standard-issue Echo nanoweave clung to his disproportionate frame and bulged in all the wrong places. He had a noticeable limp, and years of persistent skin problems had left his face pock-marked and unsightly.
Dusty did, however, possess a rather remarkable smile.
It was an odd power, but when he flashed those pearly whites he found he could talk people into doing just about anything. A wry grin could smooth over a small argument. An open smile would get him into a complete stranger’s confidence in an instant. A chuckle could bring an entire room to hysterical laughter, even without the benefit of a joke. He supposed his was an ability that could be easily abused, but the thought never crossed his mind. Fortunately, Dusty was one of those rare individuals whose entire purpose was to help his fellow man. Someone once described it as “the hunger to feed mankind,” and he had to admit that was a nice way of putting it. He enjoyed life, he enjoyed people, and when Echo had come knocking on his door, he had jumped at the chance to join and serve. The problem was, no one had really wanted him on their team. Not even Spin Doctor. His powers didn’t seem to work over video capture.
It had been Bulwark, of course, who had agreed to take him on. Bull had seen something in him that no one else had, that no one else seemed to value in a time of crisis. Dusty was an eternal optimist. He was an earnest young man who tried his best at everything he did, and did it with such cheer and warmth that those around him were often caught up in his infectious desire to do a good job. At that moment, Dusty was doing his absolute best to roll out a soft, red velvet carpet from the passenger cars to the escalators leading down from the main landin
g. He whistled a happy tune while he worked, doing his utmost to keep the carpet straight and tidy.
“Ooooh,” a shrill voice squealed. “That’s just perfect!”
Dusty turned, and smiled at the giddy and attractive girl.
“Thanks, Tammy!” he said. “There you go, just like you asked for. Anything else I can do for you?”
Tammy favored him with an appreciative look. “You’re such a dear! Yes, my good little soldier, you can help me set up the champagne bar in the veterans’ car! I’ve got a few boxes of the bubbly stashed in the storage room and I’m sure a strong fellow like you can help me cart them out.”
Dusty chuckled. “It would be a pleasure, my lady.”
Tammy linked her arm in his and led him away, chuckling and flattering him outrageously as they made their way to storage. As they entered the dimly lit corridor, Dusty was immediately struck by how dirty these maintenance halls were. Harsh fluorescent tubes glared nakedly from the cheapest of overhead fixtures, flickering and sputtering as they passed underneath. The clicks from Tammy’s high heels echoed around them, and Dusty felt a momentary chill.
“Kinda spooky,” he said with a nervous laugh. “Like in a scary movie.”
Tammy giggled and patted his arm. “I’m not worried. I have you here to protect me!”
He grinned at her, then flinched. He pulled away and stared at her, just as the overhead light flickered off.
“Why, Dusty,” Tammy said, puzzled. “Whatever is the matter?”
“I . . . I thought . . .” Dusty started, then laughed. “I thought I saw something. Must have been the light, but you looked like . . .”
The tube flashed back on, and Dusty’s eyes went wide in fright.
“I knew I shouldn’t have skipped breakfast this morning,” Tammy sighed.
She lunged for him, grabbing him by the throat and hoisting him off the ground. Dusty tried to scream but she clamped down on his windpipe and hissed. Her skin had turned scaly. Dusty felt her claws dig into him, and he stared helplessly into her black, snakelike eyes.
“I guess I’ll just have to settle for brunch,” she said. She slammed him against the wall, covered his face with her free hand, and stole his life-force in great, ravenous draughts, her eyes narrowed in bliss. At last, she let out a sigh of contentment. She continued down the hall, carrying Dusty’s lifeless husk by the throat, until she came to a trash bin. She raised the lid, appraised the frozen look of terror on his face with a smirk, and dropped him in.
“Thank you, my good little soldier,” she purred, and slammed the lid closed. She drew a small compact from her pocket, opened it, and shook her head in dismay at the reflection.
“Well that just won’t do.”
Harmony squinted at herself as she rubbed the skin around her eyes and played with the tip of her nose. The scales were gone, at least, but the disguise had fallen away, reverting to her original bone and muscle structure. She took a breath, concentrated, and watched herself in the mirror as she willed Tammy to return. Her cheekbones dropped, her nose flattened, and the fullness of her lips blossomed to exaggerated proportions.
“There!” she said, her voice resuming a high-pitched, chipper tone. “Much better! Now then, let’s go kidnap us some veterans before the strain of keeping this face on forces me to have an early dinner as well!”
Humming a happy tune, she proceeded to the supply room for the champagne.
* * *
As the train pulled out of the station, Bulwark grunted in relief. They would be late, of that there was no question, but at their current speed they could probably arrive before the ceremony finished. Provided, of course, that there were no further delays.
When the veterans finally arrived at the terminal, there were a few moments of happy reunions and some oohing and aahing over the new MARTA car models, before Bulwark and his team firmly but politely ushered them on. That, at least, had gone smoothly. They seemed eager to see the stylish interior of the rear guests-of-honor passenger cars. Bull left them with a handful of attendants and Echo metas and led the remainder of his crew into the older, middle compartments. Unlike the opulent rear cars these were strictly utilitarian, fitted with simple seating and compartments for baggage and cameras and the “Welcome to Echo Atlanta, Heroes” props.
It was actually a funny thought, amusing to Bulwark in a day so far filled with frustration, thinking about how the roadies must have run to set the props up a little ahead of the procession, then run behind them to gather them up again so no one in the terminal would suffer any inconvenience.
As his squads arranged themselves amongst the bustling group of organizers, trying not to get in their way as they continued in the preparations for their arrival, Bull opted to stand off to one side and take in the organized chaos. His lips curled slightly, his muted version of a frown, as he noted a few discrepancies. Some of the organizers were chatting loudly about body count, gear tally and checklists while others seemed engrossed in what he could only guess as busywork. They moved about, checking straps and harnesses to ensure their gear was lashed in tight, but otherwise didn’t seem to be doing much of anything. It was almost as if they were pretending to be doing something, to be doing anything.
A shrill voice caught his attention. The main organizer, Tammy, was berating one poor girl. Something about frayed cushion seats. He supposed that explained a lot. You didn’t want to appear idle under Tammy’s watch, not unless you wished to suffer her wrath. He wondered how much of Tammy’s brittle perkiness was due to her personality, and how much to heavy medication, because running that sort of job was probably a nightmare. Still, something didn’t seem quite right.
He jerked to attention as screams sounded from the rear. The access door leading to the fifth car flew open and people streamed out amidst heavy clouds of smoke.
“Fire!” someone yelled. “We’ve got a fire back here!”
“Teams two through four!” Bulwark shouted. “Converge on car five! Investigate and put that fire out; we are not going to suffer any more holdups today!”
He joined his forces as they fought the stream of people fleeing from the smoke and joined what Echo personnel were already there. Visibility was nil, though there were plenty of confused shouts of alarm as his squads milled about the car for the source of the smoke. There didn’t seem to be anything ablaze, no source of heat, as if . . .
“There’s no fire here, Bull!” he heard Frankentrain shout. “There’s just a lot of smoke!”
“Who’s got eyes on the source?” Bull shouted back. “Where’s it coming from?”
No one answered, and no one needed to, as the smoke dissipated. In an instant, the haze cleared and all the Echo metas looked about in confusion.
“That would be me,” a voice giggled behind them.
They turned to see a girl smiling at them from car four. Faint wisps of smoke hung about her hands, and evaporated with a snap of her fingers. She laughed, and slammed the door shut.
“We’ve been had!” Bull snarled and leapt for the door, but stopped as a voice boomed over the in-train PA system.
“I wouldn’t do that, Mister Echo Man!” Tammy shrieked, her shrill cry deafening over the crackling static of the PA. “There’s an awful lot of boom rigged to blow on the last two cars, and guess who’s got her finger right over the boom button?”
Explosives . . . which meant hostages . . . which meant whoever this was, they wanted something. Bulwark wasn’t an expert in hostage negotiation, but by necessity, as an Echo op, he’d done his share over the years. Still . . . he had an expert negotiator on the team—
“Dusty,” he growled quietly into his comm unit. “You’re up. Get up here so she can see your face.”
There was no answer. Bull turned to look back at his crew. Troubadour wasn’t there.
* * *
Vickie didn’t like it. There was nothing she could absolutely pin down—and Bull was right; Atlanta Hartsfield didn’t exactly have the best on-time record. But was it rea
sonable that the baggage conveyers for the retirees—and only the retirees whose planes had come in on time—would suddenly malfunction? Was it reasonable that some kerfuffle in ground traffic control would keep planes on the tarmac when she could see there were open gates?
Was it possible that Verd had gotten wind of trouble?
It’s Verdigris. Of course it’s possible.
But what possible advantage could there be for him to delay the retirees’ arrival until after the memorial ceremony? Delay was going to make no difference to the charter plans. The retirees were all going to go to a party CCCP was ostensibly throwing; the old barn of a building had several rooms that used to hold manufacturing equipment that were all linked together and more than big enough to hold everyone. Once there, Vickie would activate the conference screens for every Echo HQ on the planet. Dixie and Ramona would tell them the real reason for their assembly, Vickie would throw open the lines to Atlanta and the other Echo HQs for remote voting and that would be that. No one at the other HQs knew the reason for the remote link; they all thought it was going to be a chance to see and maybe talk with legendary heroes of the past, and virtually everyone had signed up for the conference. The only people who knew the truth here were all those wired into Overwatch. There was no way Verd could know.
Revolution: Book Three of the Secret World Chronicle Page 48
