by Steve Libbey
From the Echo Files
Exclusive eContent for The Secret World Chronicle
Gravity
Steve Libbey
Copyright 2010 Steve Libbey
Visit us online at https://www.secretworldchronicle.com
The Echo van sped over the center lane of the street, dodging the fenders of cars that didn’t make way in time.
“Bloody ‘ell. Bloody, bitter, sweaty, stinking ‘ell.” The British expatriate who called himself Corbie flexed his lush black wings. “There’s a reason I was on airborne recon, right? It’s because my wings don’t fit in these vans.”
As if to demonstrate, Corbie’s wings buffeted Handsome Devil’s head. “Ack! He’s right. He belongs in the sky where he can’t clobber me.”
“Both of you shut up.” Matai kept his eyes on the road. “When I told them we didn’t want to babysit any Mach Ones, I was referring to combat, not whining from the backseat.”
“He touched me,” Handsome Devil said with a smirk. “Make him stop.”
“Christ, shut up.”
“I just swallowed a feather. It’s unsanitary.”
“This from a bloke who looks like he crawled out of a sulfurous pit.” Corbie crossed his arms and scowled.
In the middle seats, Shahkti turned and glared at Devil and Corbie. Her dark face darkened further with approbation. No words were needed.
“Okay, okay,” Devil muttered. Corbie blew air out his cheeks and rolled his eyes.
Motu straightened his massive body from hunching over a GPS. “Our looters are two blocks away on the right.” His brother stomped on the accelerator; the engine responded with a higher pitched whine.
“Non-lethal rounds,” Matai called back. “Shoot only if necessary. No powers unless the situation demands it.”
“We aren’t schoolboys, mate. Mach Ones get riot training too, don’t they?” Metal clattered as Corbie, Devil and Shahkti loaded their pistols with the pancake rounds. Einhorn, the Damage Control Officer, sipped at her water bottle with elegant unconcern. With her white gown and flowing tresses, she appeared to be out for an evening at the symphony instead of suppressing unrest. Her serenity and calm contrasted Shahkti’s workmanlike seriousness while on the job.
It was ironic that the food riot in question raged just half a mile from Fort McPherson. A contingent of Thulians had stormed through the base on their way to attack Echo, and left a trail of flattened bunkers, overturned tanks, and toppled artillery in their wake. Soldiers died by the scores before the Nazis had moved on and the base commanders had organized a counterattack.
A column of inky smoke rose above the shopping center. The van drew close enough for the rioters at its base to become visible. Hundreds of people dashed in and out of a big box retail store whose triumphant blue sign had been shattered by thrown bricks. Cars sped away from the parking lot, wild and unconstrained, as if the act of theft had repealed traffic laws as well. Matai jerked on the wheel to avoid a Range Rover barreling towards them.
“Thank you, come again,” Handsome Devil muttered.
Today’s food riot would be the third he had been called in to disperse. At first he resented the duty, thinking it was the province of the Atlanta Police Department, but then he had seen the effect he and the other metahumans had on a rampaging crowd. The intimidation factor of a red-skinned man with a gun – or, for that matter, a four-armed woman, a man with immense black wings, or a ten foot tall giant composed of the very sidewalk itself – was a hundredfold that of mere mortals in riot gear. The previous food riot had ended in less than five minutes.
And so Echo had organized this ad hoc squad to be their riot-buster.
The van ground to a halt at the fringe of the crowd. The Springdale Shopping Center had the temporary, non-committal air of a strip of land infested by speculative retail developers. The buildings abutted a steaming hot parking lot in need of repair. Aside from the besieged PayMart, the other stores had desultory plastic signs tacked onto the faux-brick facade. The cheap, transient nature of the plaza seemed to downplay the fact that destroying the stores was, in fact, a crime.
The looters themselves seemed to be the same people who patronized the stores legally in less chaotic times. Children scampered around their parents, waving stolen toys. The adults had loaded up shopping carts with their loot; the only differences from a typical day of shopping were the furtive, hunched postures and the flames licking up the sides of the smaller stores.
Matai scanned the plaza with binoculars. “PayMart’s taking a beating. Looks like they’re burning the Wicker Store.”
“Can’t fault them for taste,” Devil said.
“The owners of the nail salon with baseball bats, making a stand. We’re going to want to concentrate --” He was interrupted by the hiss of the van’s radio and the distorted voice of the dispatcher.
“Squad Sixteen, report location.”
Matai snatched the handset. “On site, ready to move in.”
“Belay that.” White noise filled the van as the dispatcher paused. “Sending new coordinates now.”
“But we just got here!” Devil blurted out. “What’s she talking about?”
“Metahuman incursion, Atlanta Expo Center. Threat category: Mach Three. Proceed at once.” The words had an air of desperation. “Operative down.”
Matai turned to look back at the rest of the van, alarm on his face. “That’s a negative, HQ. We only have one Mach Two combatant. The rest of us are Ones, DCO, and me.”
“I said ‘operative down,’ Matai. We don’t have anyone else available. I’ll send in backup on the food riot. Out.”
Silence.
The mood in the van turned grim. A metahuman threat could rate anywhere from a mere Mach One equivalent to a full-blown Mach Three. In the last week since the invasion, Echo had encountered such incidents in record numbers. It was as if those metas who chose not to abide the law agreed that the invasion was the excuse to cut loose.
Operative down meant that the Mach Three-classed perpetrator had drawn blood. Echo blood.
“Call her back,” Corbie said. “Call her bloody back. This is mad.”
Matai set his jaw and set the van into reverse. “Orders are orders.” He flipped a switch; blue light doused the cabin as the siren began to wail.
“So much for the element of surprise,” Devil said.
“I’d rather have intimidation on our side -- Come on! Get out of the way!” Pedestrians dove for cover as the van sailed through an intersection, horn blaring.
