Revolution: Book Three of the Secret World Chronicle
Page 66
She returned his gaze for a long moment, then brushed her lips across his forehead. “Beloved.”
“Let’s sleep on it. I figure it’ll be a nice sunrise, anyways.” And, without any further prompting, John Murdock passed out.
She held him close. She could not tell what he was thinking. She was not sure she wanted to. Tears continued to slip slowly down her face as she wrestled with yet another new emotion: anguish. It was not only for herself, it was for—well—everything. John was important, she knew only that, and not how or why. And so far, the only paths out of the disaster unfolding had him on them and at the end of them. And oh, she loved him for himself and for that alone, she would have been willing to sacrifice herself to make him live again, but the greater burden, the greater responsibility, was her duty. It was a duty not just to this world alone, but to many. Thousands. The Universe. And she knew, that as she had chosen to trust and not to Fall, if it came to a choice between him and that duty, she’d sacrifice herself and her love for the duty. Even though her heart would shatter over it, and never mend again. Wasn’t there a poem that said, “I could not love thee half so much, loved I not honor more”?
Part of that duty . . . part of that duty was upholding Free Will at the cost of her own happiness. Even if it meant groping blindly for another path to safety for the worlds.
Even if it meant her heart was broken for that as well.
In the end, all she could do was to hold him, weep, cling to each moment that passed, because this might be the last that she would have, hope the dawn took forever to arrive and know that it was coming and she could not stop it.
* * *
Atlanta seemed still, for once, when John awakened. The sun was cresting over buildings, unobstructed by smoke or dust or the machines of invaders. The sunlight filled the room, illuminating his entire squat. In the center, seeming to catch the light itself, was the Seraphym. She was as still as a statue, in a way no human could manage. Those strange eyes of hers never blinked, never looked away from his. She had probably been like this all night, holding him, watching him, never moving, never tiring. It just drove home to him again, how much she would be losing—how her life would change completely—if he took that gift of life she offered.
John, still sweating coldly, managed to crack a smile. “Mornin’.”
“Good morning, beloved,” she said, so softly her words could not have traveled to any ears but his. “It is time. Beloved . . . not choosing will be a choice, now.”
He coughed fitfully, struggling to breathe. “I was afraid of that.” He carefully craned his neck around, peering at the room. “Should we do this on the roof? Wouldn’t wanna lose my security deposit.”
She shook her head. “I dare not move you.”
“Love,” he shifted, obviously in pain, in order to stand up. “You might be the Immovable Object, but I’m gonna try to be the Unstoppable Force. Or y’could just help me stand up.”
With a sigh of resignation, she helped him stand. But before he could demand to walk to the roof, she folded wings about him and folded space itself, taking them both to the rooftop, facing the rising sun. And she still did not know what his choice would be,
John looked out over the city again. “When y’get down to it . . . it’s not that bad of a town.”
“The soul of the city is people, beloved. Where there are good people, the city is as good as it can be.”
He nodded. “I suppose . . . that you’re right. I just hope that our people . . . can make it.” He looked into her eyes; there was still the same intensity there, even with him being so close to death. “Sera?”
She freed a hand from supporting him to touch his face. “Whatever befalls . . . I will be here. I will find a way.”
“Just wanted to let you know . . . that I love ya. And I’m scared.” He collapsed into her arms. His thoughts opened to her in those very last moments, and she knew his choice instantly.
Yes, Seraphym. It is permitted. Goodbye, beloved child. Only true death will bring you Home again.
It was not just life-force she poured into him. It was all that she had, all that she was.
In all of space and time, this had never happened before. That one Immortal should give all that she had to save a mortal. This was out of all accounting, and changed . . . everything.
The few people who happened to be out at this time of the morning were the only physical witnesses to what the news later called a “meteorological phenomena,” and attributed it either to some failed Thulian ploy or an Echo experiment.
In actuality, it was, in miniature, a recreation of a moment.
Fiat lux.
“Let there be Light.”
A soundless explosion of light blossomed atop that roof. It left no trace of itself, except that when dazzled eyes cleared, there was no trace of John Murdock or the Seraphym.
But those who were attuned to the Infinite, and those who were attuned to magic, felt the Cosmos ring like a giant bell, not just in Atlanta, but all over the world. The reverberations disrupted countless calculations and conjurations, leaving them in new patterns.
For this had never happened before. One that had been mortal was reborn. And one that had been spirit was given flesh, and her powers were divided between them. To have a miracle, something miraculous had been sacrificed, and so the Laws were kept unbroken.
* * *
Vickie jumped straight up out of her bed, instantly awake. She had gone from sleeping to on her feet, jarred out of REM sleep by what had felt like about a million volts of electricity hitting her.
Something had happened. Something—huge—
Grey had also been startled awake, every hair on his body standing straight out, a giant puffball of a cat.
As she wrenched the door open, the light that had clearly been flooding the room was just starting to fade. At the center of that light, in the center of her Circle of Power, was . . . a body.
A naked body. A female naked body. With scarlet hair and scarlet and gold wings.
She stared, licked her lips, as the body began to move. “S-Seraphym?” she stammered hoarsely.
The head moved, the red hair falling away from her face. A pair of the bluest eyes that Vickie had ever seen stared up at her. The lips parted, and a soft, sad voice said—
“Not . . . anymore.”
* * *
Pavel—the once great Soviet Bear—was spending his off hours in his usual fashion; in the CCCP break room, watching soap operas and drinking vodka strong enough to degrease an engine. His clumsy mechanical feet were crossed and propped up on a wooden cabbage crate. This particular soap opera was one of his favorites, One Stoplight To Love, following the quirky and melodramatic antics of a couple of police officers and their families.
Pavel was about to take a swig from his vodka when he felt something happening. It took him a moment to realize that the plasma chamber revolving in his chest in the place of a heart had sped up by several dozen RPMs. “Shto?”
There was a flash of intense flame and a snap-boom, scattering paper waste and bottles around the room. When the spots cleared from his eyes, Pavel could see a naked figure sprawled on the carpet in front of him. He then looked to the television. An ancient TV set that had seen the moon landing, the Berlin Wall being torn down, and survived being handled by Chug, sputtered, and then died with a small puff of smoke.
“Nasrat.” Pavel pounded the set. It did not spring to life.
“Supposing I will have to be reporting to Commissar, now. Naked man in room, too. Double nasrat.”
* * *
Bella probably shouldn’t have been here, but the Echo debriefing wasn’t until noon, so—hell with it. She was, by god, going to sit in on the CCCP one, s
ince she’d taken over for Vick at the tail end of the infil op. And anyway, this way she knew that Saviour would get everything.
Unter finished his debrief right up to the point where Vick passed out. Bella picked it up from there. “. . . so when I got her conscious, she told me she’d neutralized some sort of super death machine by burying it almost a mile into the ground. I dunno, I’m not inclined to send Echo down there to look for it unless you’re in favor, Nat.”
Red Saviour shook her head. “Later maybe. Are being have enough on plate. We are having leads?”
“Da. But my people and Tesla and Marconi haven’t gotten done with what the infil team extracted yet. Cross your fingers . . . I think we’re going to have the location of their HQ when we’re done.”
Saviour let out a breath that she had clearly been holding in. “Then . . . da. Was worth ten times over, the co—”
Bella felt it. They all felt it. It wasn’t physical, but whatever it was . . . it might as well have been. Like a body blow that doesn’t hurt. Except that in Bella’s case—it did. She doubled over with the anguish of it, of something . . . vital . . . taken. And yet, it wasn’t something that had been taken from her.
“. . . borzhe moi . . .”
Bella looked up with tears in her eyes from the crippling sorrow to see Red Saviour shaking her head as if someone had just hit her with a two-by-four. “. . . what?”
She choked down the tears. “I—I don’t know but—”
The clomping of heavy feet outside Saviour’s briefing room heralded the arrival of Soviet Bear. “Commissar—comrades—” he whuffed. “Television is being broken. Also is naked man on floor. Not my doing, either of these things.”
Bella suddenly was sure, instantly sure, that this was what she had felt. Or was at least part of it. Before Bear was halfway done, she was on her feet and pushing past him, headed for the break room, impelled by a growing urgency she couldn’t even begin to explain.
* * *
The group was walking down the labyrinthine hallways of the CCCP HQ, heading for the medbay. Jadwiga, the Soviette, was leading the way, and explaining while they walked. Vickie was not even sure she should have been there. Except—except that somehow she had gotten all tied up with this. Sera had materialized in her workroom, Bella was her dearest friend—the two of them were connected somehow, Vickie’s mage-sight clearly showed the bond between them. Jadwiga was going on about trauma, transitory amnesia . . . Vickie wasn’t paying much attention to it. Sera—well, Sera wasn’t the Seraphym anymore, wings notwithstanding. She reminded Vickie of the description in the fairy tale of the Little Mermaid, how, once she got legs, she walked in pain as every step was taken, as if she walked on the blades of knives. Bella reflected that pain. But how, or why this had happened—Vickie still wasn’t sure. Sera hadn’t said more than a dozen words so far.
As for what they were going to see, in the CCCP medbay . . . Vickie wasn’t sure what that was, either, at this point.
Hope and despair flickered over Sera’s face by turns.
“. . . so . . . here,” Jadwiga said, opening the door to the medbay. “Here is being comrade patient.”
The group entered the cramped medbay. Sitting upon a gurney in the center of the room was John Murdock. But at the same time, not. This John didn’t have darkness in his eyes. The same quiet intensity, but none of the troubles that had seemed to weigh him down even before he knew of his own impending death. The scars were still there, but they seemed fainter, unimportant now. Not really a part of the man that was sitting in front of them. And he still had his same lopsided grin.
“Howdy, y’all.” He regarded the group, still smiling. “Now, who exactly are you people, an’ what the hell am I doin’ here?”