Repercussions (Wearing the Cape Book 8)

by Marion G. Harmon

  Leiman didn’t stand this time, though he did sit up and straighten his tie. “I’ve communicated with our opposites in the EU, and confirmed the nature of the strikes. The EU maintained a secret arsenal of Kinetic Energy Weapons, KEWs, in Low Earth Orbit. The operation’s designation was Apollo’s Quiver.” He cleared his throat. “As you know, the EU maintained no nuclear arsenal. Apollo’s Quiver was meant to partly address that strategic void. Because the quiver wasn’t large, less than twenty ‘arrows,’ it was kept secret rather than being announced as a deterrent—”

  Shelly raised her hand and he stopped. “Ms. Hardt?”

  “Shell uncovered an EU protocol related to Apollo’s Quiver. Don’t ask how. Although its operators were told it was primarily a ‘finisher’ if the EU were suddenly confronted by an overwhelming conventional attack, it’s main purpose was as a secret Omega Event counter-weapon.”

  That sank into the room. Omega Event: the emergence of an Omega Class threat to civilization. Beyond A Class, beyond Ultra Class, nothing conventional weapons or even A Class breakthroughs could hope to deal with. A scorch-the-earth-and-sky response, one where whole cities might be acceptable collateral damage.

  The Gungnirs could have been used for the same purpose—one reason they’d been refined after their space-test. There hadn’t been an official operation designation for that, but the US military had had a doctrine for it and both options had been better than nukes.

  Leiman sighed. “Thank you, Ms. Hardt. The attack used up the entire quiver, and the EU has only a handful on the ground in reserve. Now that the world knows what they are, there’s no way to quietly refill the quiver in orbit. So then we’re agreed that someone is removing major powers’ ability to respond to Omega Class threats with less than nuclear fire? Splendid. Next?”

  “Thank you, Leiman,” Arun said. “Dr. Ash?”

  Vivian stayed in her chair as well. “I’ve continued tracking of analysis on what’s been dubbed the GZSs. Ongoing autopsy and biopsy of GZSs shows that they don’t possess normal organ functions. They have no respiration or circulatory functions, the plant-musculature providing motivating force. They ‘die’ only with massive disruption to their nervous systems, which seems to cut their connection to the Green Man, or when so severely damaged that he withdraws his connection with them from his end. What that connection is, is anybody’s guess but current theory is a form of vegetative telepathy and telekinesis.”

  The general stroked his mustache. “So they’re a kind of puppet?”

  “That seems to be the consensus. What isn’t a guess is where they’re coming from. Examination of enough of the bodies has turned up some disturbing facts. The vast majority of the colonized bodies are male, most of them show fatal pre-conversion wounds indicating violent death, and genetic analysis of unconverted organ tissue shows most of them to be Turkic, probably Kazakh, although many of them are also genetically Slavic, almost certainly Russian.”

  Kelly swore. “So it’s the Russians?”

  “Do we need to have the ‘Sometimes stereotypes are there for a reason,’ talk?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Rolling blackouts continue and half of Europe is dark tonight. General Ependu, EU Chief of Military Operations, has declared temporary leadership of the EU under martial law, as the Brussels Attack has been confirmed to have caught the European Council meeting in extraordinary session as well as the full European Commission, decapitating the EU executive branch. Of the EU’s national heads of state, only the Federal Chancellor of Austria and Prime Minister of Sicily were not present in the EC session, and tonight across the EU member governments are meeting to replace their fallen leaders.

  “The Brussels Strike killed all but two of the city’s Continental Guard members, and those two remained trapped in the collapsed Europa Building until after combat activities had ceased. Subsequently the Rotterdam Guard was deployed to the defense of the city and now directs Continental Guard operations on the ground. Additionally, Finland’s national hero Kukkuu, Irish hero Morrigan, and the elusive superhuman Malmstrum joined in the city’s defense. Finally, reports state that members of the Chicago Sentinels, led by Astra, were the first to respond to the attack. How elements of the American team came to be in Brussels has not yet been explained.

  “Casualty estimates for the Brussels Attack are now estimated to exceed one hundred thousand and estimates for all the attacks now exceed one million, death-tolls not seen since the PRC’s nuclear strikes on rebellious provinces during the Chinese Civil War.”

  Euronews Live Report.

  “Being a famous cape sucks.”

  “The income’s not bad.”

  “They’re writing fiction about me and I’m not even dead yet. It’s not right.”

  “They’ll keep writing it after.”

  “And the fanfiction. Ugh. Shipping with Seven and femslash with Jacky.” Hope giggled and tried the line again. It almost rolled poetically. “And then there’s the ones who’ve never forgiven me for the whole Atlas thing.”

  “If you’ve never done something stupid, you haven’t lived.” Nike’d walked her to that café and she’d told the truth that it wasn’t far from the impact crater. In the shadow of larger structures, it had escaped with only shattered windows but it was officially in the target zone. It sat abandoned with every other business on the street, and they drank alone.

  “It wasn’t stupid.” Hope stopped, frowned. “Okay, a bit. But I’d almost died. Again. He thought he was going to die. Not in two hundred years in a fight off the shoulder of Orion, either. Soon. Never let a time-traveler show you your Bad Futures. And I loved him so I carpe’d the diem. Well, we were going to. He died too soon. Big shock. Carpe diem!” She tapped her glass on the booth table, raised it, and threw the clear stuff back.

  Nike refilled her narrow glass. “When I said we could talk about anything but Brussels, this wasn’t what I had in mind. But commiserating about life over tsikoudia is traditional.” She wasn’t drinking—she’d declared that one of them had to fly sober and anyway she was still on call.

  “He’d know what to do, about Brussels. You do what you can. Day of the Event? Planes falling out of the sky on Chicago, he could only catch a couple of them. The rest cratered, didn’t stop him. Did what he could, saved as many as he could. Carpe diem.” Tap, raise, throw it down. It didn’t taste any better, but that wasn’t the point, right? “Sorry, no Brussels. What do you want to commiserate?”

  Nike snorted. “Bureaucrats. I’d like to carpe a few of them. I’m trying very hard to not think of Dead Bureaucrat jokes right now.”

  “Noooo, much too soon. Also, Brussels. And somebody’d get you on video. Happened to me. You sure this is okay?”

  Nike opened another bottle, poured. “Nobody fragile around to hurt if you get a little loose. Nobody to hear you . . . say something stupid. Enough tsikoudia, extreme fatigue, your brain can rest for a little while. Won’t even have a hangover in the morning. Completely unfair.”

  “But you can’t stay around to nursemaid me . . .” Hope frowned again, fresh glass halfway to her lips. “But you are. And you haven’t been getting anything through your coms, I’d have heard. But you’re me here—the cape-in-charge on a scene when it’s my team.”

  Nike watched her.

  “You walked me here,” Hope went on. “Don’t care how tired we are, it would’ve been as easier—easy—to fly. And you haven’t drunk even a little. You could, we burn just a little off fast, it’s what we do.” She put down her glass and slowly reached over the table, carefully wrapping a hand around Nike’s wrist and forcing her to set down the bottle. “Shell isn’t in my ear either, and she’d love all this. Shell?”

  “Privacy mode, tell you later.”

  Hope nodded. “Shell wouldn’t go private for Nike.” She sniffed the air, wrinkled her nose. “You’re not using any of your physical or olfactory tells. Not fair.”

  The woman turned into Rei, green eyes still watching her. “You
don’t need to talk to me right now,” she said.

  Hope let her go and sat back. “Caught you. Sloppy.” She saluted with her glass, drained it.

  Kitsune-Rei smiled. “I had to improvise.”

  “You shot the Big Bad in the face! What was that?”

  Hope’s shapeshifting ex pulled out a tiny gun. It looked like a woman’s purse-pistol. “I call it the Chirping Cricket, for reasons. It’s only got one shot and then you have to change the capacitor magazine, but it does the job.”

  “Thank you. Why did you follow me?”

  “That’s what we don’t need to talk about now.”

  “I did it because I love you.” Hope squinted. “That didn’t make sense. No context.”

  “I know what you meant, and I know you do. Say it again when you’re sober.” Rei—Kitsune—stood up and came around the table. Taking away Hope’s empty glass, she took off her mask, unclipped her cape, and gave her a push. Hope nodded and scooted along on the booth seat, pulling her feet up to lay down. “I will if you stay.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” Kitsune laid her cape over her, tucking her in as she closed her eyes. Drifting off, Hope felt lips on her forehead and then smelled fox fur. She half-opened an eye to look before closing it again, drifting off as Kitsune curled up on her breastplate.

  Hope awoke alone, but before she could panic a crinkling in her glove grabbed her attention. Kitsune had written a two-word note: I’m here.

  And that was a different reason for panic. She’d drunkenly told her ex that she loved him. Why can’t I do anything in the right order? At least it matched her past drinking experiences; no hangover, but what-did-I-say regrets.

  Sitting up, she saw the street outside was dark, obviously power hadn’t been restored yet. Kitsune had cleared their table of bottles, leaving a glass of water. That forced a smile; super-duper recovery didn’t rehydrate a body. “Shell, you can reach out and touch a furry varmint?” Not that she knew what she would say.

  That brought Shell out of privacy mode. “I can reach him, yeah. You need him?”

  “No, just checking. I’m fine. Status?” Hope reattached her cape and settled her helmet-mask in place, drank the water.

  “You’re forbidden from doing anything at all for at least six more hours.”

  “I’m not kidding, Shell.”

  “Me neither. Quin and your dad are both down for rest, and they didn’t get KO’d in the fight. I’m under Blackstone’s orders and he says he’ll call if anything new develops that affects you. That’s all you get, and until your R&R’s done, I’m not even telling you where anybody is.”

  “Fine. I’m going for a walk.”

  “Knock yourself out.” Now that she’d won, Shell was laughing.

  The street alternated between clear and trashed, but Hope passed regularly posted Contamination Warning signs. So they’d got the viral attack here. And how many killer breakthroughs would Brussels see from Berserker Virus victims if they didn’t get a handle on it? Maybe we can get Jack Frost over here to help. . . . No thinking.

  She passed the thought to Shell and tried to do just that.

  At least she had the night to herself—Brusselites were taking the warnings seriously and the streets around her were dead. She winced at the association and found herself turning off the street into a church. Eastern Orthodox, and fairly new. Part of the city’s Post-Event rebuild? It wasn’t very large, and close enough to the European Quarter it might have been built to accommodate Greek officials and diplomats and their families. And someone had left the main street-door open.

  In the narthex, Hope crossed herself before the holy icons and lit a candle with a prayer, lit a second one to take with her, and continued. The dome over the nave held enough stained glass that the light of the candle and the moonlight filtering through cast the inside of the church in twilight to her superhuman vision. Golden icons glittered in the dim light, covering the walls from floor to ceiling, a pattern that continued at the front of the nave, filling the wall-to-wall screen that separated it from the holy sanctuary behind. The middle door in the screen, the Beautiful Gate that opened to reveal the altar of the Eucharist only during church services, glowed like the gates of Heaven. The Christos, the Son of God, stood watch to the right of the gate, the Holy Mother opposite him, both flanked by icons of the saints. All silent, solemn, and watching.

  Hope took a pew, careful of her candle, and said the Prayer for Heroes, then a prayer of remembrance for the fallen and a prayer of intercession. She’d been doing that a lot, the past few days.

  When someone sat beside her in the pew, Hope didn’t turn right away. It wasn’t Kitsune—he didn’t need to sneak around her now, he’d have used his olfactory tell. Whoever it was moved only enough to sit and then was still, allowing her to finish her prayer and cross herself a final time before turning away from the holy icons.

  She almost dropped her candle. The Teatime Anarchist sat beside her in the pew.

  “Hello, Hope.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “And the angel’s body became manifest, and he was clad with light so bright that eyes could not endure to look upon him, and he spoke in clearer accents, as if the voice proceeded not from him, but came from Heaven.

  “And the angel said: ‘I have learned that every man lives, not through care of himself, but by love.”

  Leo Tolstoy, What Men Live By.

  Hope didn’t scream in shock. She knew that New England accent and would recognize the close dark curls and gray eyes in a face that needed sleep and a shave anywhere, and it had been three years and he was dead, but she felt an instant and deep peace, like the aura of peace she’d felt in Littleton in the presence of Ibrahim Darvish. His breakthrough gift, what he’d called the Peace of God.

  He wasn’t the Anarchist. Either of them. “Hello.”

  The man’s weary smile quirked up. “That’s it? Hello?”

  “Well,” Hope sighed. “You can’t be who you look like. You can introduce yourself, I suppose, and tell me what you want.”

  “I want to help. You were asking for some, just now. From me, specifically.”

  “I’m pretty sure I wasn’t.”

  He smiled beatifically. “Be careful whom you direct prayers to in this world, Hope. ‘St. Michael, defender of man . . .’” He pointed to one of the icons on the screen to the right of the Beautiful Gate, an image of an angel in armor carrying a sword. “I’m right there, the Archistrategos, chief commander of the bodiless powers. Don’t freak out.”

  Hope dissolved into a fit of giggles. “Don’t freak out? How traditional can you get? Announcing yourself and then saying ‘Fear not!’”

  “I usually look much more impressive, so reassurance is generally the first order of business. You’re taking it well.”

  “I’m tired. I almost died again. I can’t do anything right. I love my ex. I’ve got a lot on my mind and I don’t believe you.”

  His smile widened even further. “Really? In your adventures you’ve met a hermetic magician who believes he gained words of power from a face to face encounter with The Source of Reality. You know a self-professed goddess and rather like her. No surprise, everybody does. You’ve never had trouble with claims of sacredness and divinity before, but meeting an archangel is giving you trouble?”

  Hope looked up at the screen and the winged Michael and looked for words. He had a point, but— “I don’t worship or venerate Quan Yin. I respect her power and honor her good intentions. I’ve met the Servitor of Ganymede, too, and he’s . . . cool, but I don’t need to believe he’s really a messenger sent by benevolent extraterrestrial savants. So are you really Michael? I’m pretty sure if I didn’t feel so good right now I’d be spinning out in an existential crisis. Thanks for that.”

  “Fair enough.” The man laughed and Hope’s breath caught at the beauty of his mirth. “Very well, Hope. Gideon tested God’s messenger, so I suppose it’s only fair. What have you got for me?”

  Her heart ne
arly stopped. Whose wouldn’t? A man who looked like a dead time-traveler and radiated a joyful peace, who claimed to be Michael the Archangel, was asking her to test him and . . .

  Her expression must have been priceless, or maybe he was seeing deeper than that—Gee, Hope, do you think?—because his humor faded a bit.

  “It’s a bit of a problem, isn’t it?”

  Her hands shook and she put down the candle, carefully resting it on the pew in front of them. “I can’t—there’s nothing that—”

  “There’s no immediate miracle I can perform that can’t be matched by some breakthrough power, somewhere, or that you could imagine being matched by a sufficiently powerful one. You’ve met several who can do just that.”

  He’d put his finger right on it. He looked like someone dead, but Kitsune could do that. And if Hope didn’t acknowledge Quan Yin as an actual divinity because of the way her mere presence made her feel, then it didn’t count for Michael either.

  He helpfully spelled it out. “The Catholic magisterium’s definition of a miracle excludes events that have unknown but natural causes, whether a not-understood force of nature or a force of nature applied by mere mortal man, or—”

  “Or even other spiritual beings acting through natural forces,” Hope finished with a tremulous sigh. She considered that the most wildly unlikely possibility of all, but why not be complete? Father Nolan would be happy she’d listened in Sunday School.

  Michael didn’t look at all insulted, in fact his eyes practically twinkled. “So I could be a deluded breakthrough, or even a malignant spirit trying to deceive you. Oh, the dilemma.”

  Apparently archangels could do gentle mockery. Sometime or other her heart had started up again, and the idea that she actually amused him a little was surprisingly irritating under the peace. “So you’re the Archangel Michael. Saint Michael, Ambassador of Paradise, Leader of The Angelic Host, the Strength of God.”