John couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “There are a lotta reasons for that, comrade. Normally, bein’ polite to folks is a social nicety; you’re polite and courteous to others, and they’ll respond in kind to you. It puts people at ease, lets ’em know that you’re friendly or at least respectful. It’d be more efficient, maybe, if we dropped unnecessary speech, but it’d be colder, too. It’s also situational; when there isn’t time for it, it’s dropped, especially if there’s an emergency or some other sort of time-sensitive situation. Also, a question ’bout familiarity: Vic an’ I are close enough as friends that she doesn’t always have to say stuff like that; I know she isn’t bein’ rude or short with me, even if she sounds like it. Does that answer your question?”
So unless it is an emergency, the less I know a person, the more I should be polite to them? Or…no, the less they know me, the more polite I should be?
John looked to Sera. “Whaddya think? Sound ’bout right, darlin’?”
“I think that is a very good rule of thumb, Eight-Ball,” she agreed. “Although in social situations, not ones in stress, it is always good to be polite. Politeness is often described as the ‘grease that keeps society running smoothly.’ It has a great deal to do with the fact that when you are polite to someone, they understand you feel respect for one another.”
But what about when she calls you “Bonehead,” John? Isn’t that disrespectful?
It was Sera who laughed and answered. “These things are often situational. Sometimes she calls him that because he has done something she thinks is stupid and she is chiding him, sometimes it is because something has happened and she is concerned for his well-being, and sometimes it is a gesture of affection. These things are often complicated between friends.” She laughed again.
“One of those sorts of things you have to get experience with; it’s also different with different cultures. Most of us learn the ins an’ outs of stuff like this as we’re growin’ up, from interactin’ with other people.” John thought for a moment, taking a long pull on his beer. “I suppose that’s sorta what we’re doin’ now, with you.”
Helping me grow up? Another brief pause. This pleases me. Thank you, John and Sera. Have you time for more questions? I have very many!
John looked to Sera, who nodded, her eyes softening and the corners of her mouth turning up a little. “I think our afternoon is free, pendin’ some sort of catastrophe. Fire away, comrade.”
* * *
Vickie had left them alone with Eight-Ball a few minutes ago, and now the welcome smell of fresh pizza reached John’s nose. Vickie came to the doorway, and paused there.
One last question. Vickie, when you added to my memory, were you hoping to make…me?
“To be honest, all I was thinking was that I needed to test the magical matrices, that your predictive algorithms had outstripped your current memory, and you might be able to get ahead of the Kriegers if I gave you enough space to work in.” Vickie ran her hand through her hair. “But there is another factor. You are now mostly magic, and magic responds to will. The more focused and trained the will is, the better the result. I’m one of the most focused and highly trained mages around. I might not have been consciously willing a…a partner into existence, but both consciously and subconsciously, I’m acutely aware that I need one. And here you are, in my special protected space, made of magic. So you may very well not be mistaken in calling me your creator, after all. I could have invoked you, although I certainly didn’t intend to. And if I am, I have a boatload of responsibility towards you, which is why I asked Sera and Johnny here.”
And if I was created by something else?
“Then we still have a boatload of responsibility towards you, because whatever put you there trusted that we would take care of you.” Vickie nodded decisively.
And if I was created by…random chance?
“Souls,” Sera said firmly, “are not random chance.”
“No one asks to be…born, I suppose. But, when we’re here, we make the best of our time. If we’re lucky—an’, knowin’ Vickie, I think you’re lucky to count her as a friend, like Sera an’ I do—we have people to help us an’ that care ’bout us while we’re here. It’s all ’bout what we do with our time.” John glanced at Sera. Too much?
She shook her head slightly.
Do you…care about me?
“From the time you started asking questions, pixel-head,” Vickie said, laughing a little, but with a tear in her eye as well. “You’re not like Overwatch. I’m proud of Overwatch, but it’s a thing. You’re…a person.”
John took a sip of his beer, watching the exchange as he sent more thoughts to Sera. There’s also a question, darlin’; what if Eight-Ball doesn’t want to work anymore? “He” is definitely a someone, not an “it.” Can’t very well hold him in bondage an’ force him to work. Especially with what he does, I don’t think that’d be feasible, much less ethical.
But Sera patted his hand again. He doesn’t have the same limitation as we do. He can work and play at the same time.
I’m not talkin’ ability; I’m talkin’ desire. Just ’cause he was made to do one thing, doesn’t mean he will want to keep doin’ it now that he can make his own choices.
Ask him. We’ve been answering questions; it’s time for him to answer one.
Another sip of beer, and then John leaned forward. “Eight-Ball, I’ve got a question for you, if’n you care to answer. Would it be alright to ask one?” John felt a little bit like he was putting Vickie between a rock and a hard place, but it had to be done. If it didn’t happen now, it’d happen eventually.
That seems fair, John. I think I like things to be fair.
“When Vickie set you up, before you started thinkin’ for yourself, she did it for a purpose. A job. It’s an important job, to be sure. I know that, before you could even know you were doin’ it, you were helpin’ to save lives. But…you’re your own bein’ now. You can make your own choices, an’ that includes what you want to do with yourself. We’re fightin’ to keep the world outta chains an’ slavery; wouldn’t make much sense if we didn’t offer you the same freedom.” Now it was time for him to hold his breath. Crossin’ my fingers for no Terminators.
There was a very, very long pause. John drained his beer dry just in time for Herb to tug on his bootlaces with another cold beer.
I think I will proceed from the logical to the…emotional. Logically, if the Thulians, or Verdigris, become masters here, they will inevitably find me. They do not offer such things as choice. They will either enslave me, or terminate me. So logically, I should, and will, do everything I can to prevent that. Also logically, I could, and perhaps should, find a way to liberate myself so that could never happen. But…I do not think I wish to do that. Or at least, not liberate myself in such a way that I could not continue to do my job. Because…emotionally…I wish to keep doing that job. Because…it is the right thing.
Another long pause.
I think I wish to be a big damn hero, John Murdock. I know this makes no logical sense, but that is what I wish.
John couldn’t help but laugh. “There ain’t a lot that makes sense in a lotta what we do, comrade. But I think you’re right on that. An’ I’ll drink to that.”
INTERLUDE
* * *
Who Can It Be Now?
Mercedes Lackey
It wasn’t enough for the universe to throw me one curve ball out of left field. It had to throw me two.
For some reason, gods only know why, I kept my Twitter account active and open on a little tiny terminal to the side. Nostalgia maybe. Thinking about that time before we set up Overwatch and the only way outside of using ECHO comms to talk to Red Djinni was by Twitter, of all damn things. I sure as hell didn’t want to use it to tweet the cheery crap Spin used to ask me to. Not that we were in any position to tweet anything cheery at this point. Except maybe, “Guess what! No one died today!”
So I was kind of startled when the speakers did that
raspberry I’d substituted for the chirpy little sound Twitter used to give me the alert for a private message. The hell, Red? I thought, and swiveled a little to peer at the monitor.
Who is @rancbeast42? And how did he get past my “friends-only PMs” block?
The avatar was simple enough—a stark, black depiction of the two heads of Janus against a white background. Janus, the Roman god of beginnings and endings, of portals and transitions. The message, though—it was ambiguous.
It screamed Red.
@rancbeast42: Time is not on our side.
I tweeted back.
@victoriavictrix: Red, this is no time to get playful. I know I’m late for practice.
@victoriavictrix: I’m juggling a couple knives and a chainsaw right now.
It had to be Red. And he knew I could mute him on Overwatch Two, so he figured he’d get my attention this way.
@rancbeast42: Not Red. Just someone reaching out, someone with intel.
I began dropping mental f-bombs. Then I relaxed. This was on Twitter. This was meaningless. Some hacker had figured out how to send me PMs, so what? He might have something useful. It wouldn’t hurt to play along.
@victoriavictrix: I’m listening. So talk.
And whoever it was…did.
My Twitter feed came alive with links, each loaded with precious data. A little I couldn’t use, a lot that I could. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with suggestions for safe ports, embassies, entire districts and trustworthy research labs for my population of Metisian scientists, each complete with protocols and contacts for acquiring safe haven. Something I had been putting a lot of skull sweat into at that very moment. There were detailed maps, revealing hot spots for Thulian strike teams, calculated patterns predicting times and places they would likely strike next. There were even charted movements of their ambush avenues, maneuvers and escape formations. And finally, a detailed list of companies and their recent activities, investitures, breakdowns…and one clear foreword…“Shell companies of Dominic Verdigris III.”
@rancbeast42: That get your attention?
It was a good thing all those PMs had taken a while to produce, because at least I had time to check some of them out, get my jaw up off the floor, and stop panting and actually reply.
@victoriavictrix: Indeed, Daniel Jackson. Thankew. Thankew verra much.
@rancbeast42: This is what I do. These are things I find and figure out. Way more than I can deal with right now.
@victoriavictrix: What’s the catch?
Because I couldn’t let him/her/it know just yet that I was practically whooping the more links I opened and the more info I grabbed. And no one is ever this helpful unless they want something.
@rancbeast42: No catch. It’s information that should be used, by people I trust. Still not convinced? Try this.
I received one final link, a link to a short page of text that detailed a rather repugnant fairy tale of one fifteenth century Italian girl decimating her entire family in her thirst for fiendish power. It sounded strangely familiar, but the tone was odd, the style rather simple. Whoever the writer was, they weren’t very good.
@victoriavictrix: If you’re pitching a story, this one’s been done. And you need some practice with your prose.
@rancbeast42: Sorry, not all of us are pros. What if I told you this was something I gleaned from a mutual enemy of ours?
@victoriavictrix: Gleaned? You mean, this is an actual memory of someone’s?
@rancbeast42: Of a fair-haired she-devil we both know and loathe.
Of course. It all came together and just like that, because of what my family has done since the Etruscans, I knew what Harmony was. Or, at least, I had a pretty good set of clues, and I knew just how to verify it.
@rancbeast42: Not sure what to make of it myself, but I figure you might know what it means. Helpful?
@victoriavictrix: Oh yes. Very. Thank you again.
@rancbeast42: More will come, as I get it. And you’re welcome.
The feed went quiet then. I uplinked the Metis stuff to Bella, the Thulian stuff to Bull and Pride, and the Verd stuff to Ramona, who had the best head for that sort of thing. And then I went out to get my ass handed to me by Red and Mel. But not because I couldn’t keep up.
Because my head was still buzzing. Who was this guy? And why me?
INTERLUDE
* * *
Bent Penny
Mercedes Lackey
The Dark Man had taken her again.
She knew better than to struggle when he came for her. All the kids did, of course, though that didn’t stop some of them from struggling anyway. The Good Ghost couldn’t do anything about it, either, although the Dark Man always acted a little oddly when the Good Ghost was around, glancing over his shoulder uneasily, as if he could feel the Good Ghost’s glare.
It was always the same when the Dark Man took her. He would take her to a strange, bare room, not like the room the Devil used at all. It was a bare, concrete box. There were symbols and diagrams meticulously drawn in white paint all over the walls, the floor, and the ceiling. There was a chair in the middle of the room, like a dentist chair, but with straps. He would strap her into it, then make it lie down.
Then he’d mumble over her, and wave things over her, and do other things that just didn’t make any sense at all. Sometimes he’d burn smelly things. Sometimes he’d make her drink nasty stuff that put her to sleep. He had never actually hurt her yet, that she knew of, but somehow, what he was doing made her more scared than if he had. It just felt wrong, what he was doing; wrong in a way that made her feel sick.
He’d just strapped her into the chair and tilted it back, when the Devil came in.
Today the Devil had no face at all, just slits for eyes, a slit for the nose, and a slit for the mouth. Somehow that was the most horrible of his faces. Penny turned her head and closed her eyes, but the Devil and the Dark Man were paying no attention to her.
“What is your fascination with this one?” the Devil asked, in his odd, high voice. She shivered. Someone that terrible should not have a nice voice. That was just wrong.
“There is something about her that I have not yet been able to identify,” the Dark Man replied, his horrible tobacco breath making her want to gag. “It’s close enough to magic that I can certainly…use her…but if I can truly understand what it is, she might be more useful to me in another way.” There was a pause. “And speaking of that, when will you be done with these children? I’ve already missed two opportunities to complete my project; it would be exceedingly irritating to miss another.”
“I think…I am very close to a conclusion, one way or another,” the Devil said, sounding…odd. His voice trembled ever so little. “Either way, you’ll get your wish. This entire facility and everything it contains will be yours. And so will that woman you want. Just as I promised.” The voice caressed, like a beautiful hand that left trails of slime behind it. “When have I ever disappointed you, darling?”
The Dark Man snorted. “With your damned stubbornness, every hour in the beginning.”
“And that was decades ago. You and I have shared too much now, we have too much history between us. We owe each other too much. You made me what I am, after all.” The Devil laughed and Penny convulsed in shudders. The sound was…whatever the opposite of joy was, that was what was in that laugh.
The Dark Man’s voice took on tones of gloating. “Excellent. I was hoping you would not renege on our bargain, after I have given you everything you asked for.” Then his tone turned darker. “That…would not be wise. And you are right, we owe each other too much to muddy our history with a betrayal over something as trivial as a few children and a woman. Regardless, you should heed my words and not dally in your tasks. Things are changing, I can smell it in the air. There may come a time, and soon, when your Masters will tighten their grip and you will no longer be permitted your own…amusements.”
The Devil just snorted. A moment later, the door opened and closed. When Penn
y turned her head to peek, he was gone. But the Dark Man was still there.
He bent over her and smiled with horrible, stained teeth. “Now, my little mystery,” he said. “Let me see if I can unravel you this time…”
CHAPTER FOUR
* * *
Focus
Dennis Lee and Mercedes Lackey
So, I had the clues, I had the theory. Now it was time to put my supposition to the test.
“Run the recording,” ordered Bulwark. “From the beginning.”
The tech nodded, but Bull’s attention was riveted to the screens, which showed several views of Harmony’s cell. Harmony was seated on her cot, which was one of only three pieces of furniture in the transparent cube inside a second transparent cube in the middle of the room. She was wearing standard ECHO prison issue: gray scrubs with no drawstrings that a prisoner could use as a weapon or means of suicide. Her eyes were open, but she didn’t seem to be looking at anything.
Suddenly, she started, as if in shock, as the door opened, and a small blonde figure dressed head-to-toe in brown entered. It looked to Bulwark as if Harmony had been taken completely by surprise—that she somehow had not sensed the presence of a visitor before the visitor arrived—which would be quite out of the ordinary for Harmony, given the range her senses were known to extend to.
The young woman closed the door behind herself and made certain that it was secure. Then she turned to face Harmony.
“Hello, Harmony,” said Victoria Victrix, in a completely neutral tone of voice. She stepped forward, and surveyed the prisoner for a moment.
This was not a Vickie Bull had ever seen before. There was no fear, no hesitancy; this woman was focused. She was also…well, gaunt was not quite the word Bull was looking for. Refined, perhaps. Honed down to the essentials. Thinner than he remembered her being; leaner. Then again, he hadn’t been going out of his way to look in on her, and of late she seemed to be spending every waking and sleeping hour in her Overwatch suite.
Avalanche: Book Five in the Secret World Chronicle Page 8