Avalanche: Book Five in the Secret World Chronicle

by Lackey, Mercedes

  “And how’s that going?”

  He smirked. “Her eyebrows will grow back. Creating and controlling fire are two different things, and she learned it the hard way.” He sighed and returned his attention to Mel. “But at least she’s got something to keep her occupied. It helps that she knows that Momma would be proud of her, and she holds on to that.”

  Gilead asked her next question carefully. “Good for her, but what about you? How are you managing?”

  “I’m here.” Pride rubbed his right wrist with the heel of his left hand. “Parker’s taken the lead on much of the day-to-day operations, but we’re still trying to figure out how deep this infiltration went. Who knows how much was compromised? And there’s the issue of those children they recovered at the same location. We’ll have to call in some help from other cities, see if they have resources to assist—”

  “Ben, stop.” She put her hand on his shoulder to stop the stream of consciousness that kept him from answering her question. “Stop thinking about the others and worry about yourself for once. Please. If you don’t, you’re never going to get the opportunity to really heal.”

  His jaw clenched, the sudden tension invisible static between them. Gilead kept going. “There is a difference between dealing with someone else’s loss and your own. Any caretaker, even those with the most compliant and loving charges, will stress the importance of self-care. You need to talk to someone or find a healthy means to work through and resolve what’s happened.”

  “Ma’am, with all due respect, I don’t have time for some self-indulgent psychotherapeutic dialogue. The war is still going on. I may not be at the forefront of the battle, but I am still a member of this organization and any retreat would be perceived as a weakness, even by those who we work to protect.” Shoulders back and chin up, he presented an image of defiance that spoke volumes about both his parents and their influences.

  It was both inspiring and exasperating. “Not dealing with it also creates a liability with respect to your mental health and emotional well-being.”

  He swiveled his head, eyes narrowed at her. “Is that a veiled reference to being unfit to serve, Doctor?”

  Oh, for the love of…Gilead went back to her chair, bedside manner exhausted. In her experience, it was the rare male, metahuman or otherwise, who didn’t view the mention of mental self-care as an attack on his overall abilities. Some stigmas would never disappear. “No. I’m a medical professional. Veiled references are left to reality housewives and politicians. If I was going to take you off active duty, I’d say that.”

  “And are you?”

  Gilead rubbed her face. Neither of them had enough rest or caffeine to turn this into a coherent argument, and she wasn’t about to try. “No, Ben. I’m saying that you need a healthy way to manage personal loss, and that a simple conversation focused on you rather than someone else is the best way to start. I’m suggesting that if you do choose to go that route, you find someone outside of the ECHO medical staff to fill that role. Someone you’ll actually talk to.”

  * * *

  Yankee Pride avoided the infirmary for several days after his encounter with Gilead. He put in his time at the main ECHO offices, working with Spin Doctor on the necessary correspondence following the memorial. Someone—probably Ramona, given her familiarity with the administrative side of the organization—had created new files for the most recent recruits. He had gone through them all, noted names and the initial cataloging of abilities, and added some reminders to his calendar for some follow-up calls.

  Get to know everyone, Benjamin. Not to know what they can do, but to understand who they are. Always remember they’re people first. Even after her retirement, his mother had insisted upon learning about the newest recruits. Given her affinity for history, she had likely known more about the CCCP than he did.

  After a review of the day’s memos and a walk around the perimeter of the Parkour course, Pride had found himself with an hour’s worth of time and no prior commitments. His exchange with Gilead gnawed at him. He couldn’t use his own grief to excuse his manners in her office, especially when she herself was stretched thin between the daily emergencies. Some form of apology was in order.

  Following a detour to a nearby bistro, Pride arrived at the infirmary with a small box of pastries and an insulated box of gourmet coffee. It was the sort of olive branch that could be shared with anyone else pulling the day shift, if the good doctor deemed them worthy of a cherry danish. The receptionist waved him through with a smile and pointed him back to the office suite.

  The doctor didn’t appear to have taken anyone’s advice on sleep since he had last seen her. Gilead’s hair stood out in frustrated gray and white spikes and the circles under her eyes spoke more to a fistfight in an alley than a struggle to understand the images on her screen. She gave him a stern frown when she first saw him, but her expression changed to exhausted gratitude at the sight of the coffee box.

  “You didn’t,” she said, sagging in her chair. “But you did.”

  He produced the box of danish and she looked like she might burst into tears. Pride swallowed hard and held it out awkwardly. “Ma’am, I thought about our last exchange, and I just wanted to say—”

  She accepted the box of coffee and set it on the ground, then pulled him into a tight hug. Despite her wiry frame, the embrace had a warmth to it that wrapped around his entire body. His throat tightened and his face grew hot. She rose on her toes such that her forehead touched his jawline. “You are so frustratingly polite, it’s impossible to be mad with you. Don’t worry about our chat. It’s okay.”

  Pride struggled to hold himself together, but managed a curt nod when she stepped back and rubbed his arms briskly. “As for the danish and coffee, I’m going to find some mugs. You can stay here and catch up on Gautier’s condition, if you’re so inclined.”

  He nodded his head. “I could. Where are her current files?”

  “On the desk. I was just reviewing them. Take a look.” She picked up the box of danish and cracked it open. “Oh, there’s blueberry. I might have to breach protocol and kiss you, you blessed creature. I’ll be back.”

  Gilead darted out of the office, mumbling to herself about saints and pastries. Still embarrassed by his struggle to keep his own emotion in check, Pride focused his attention on the pile of file folders. He picked up one and started to thumb through it. While he had read the official reports regarding the rescue of Victoria Victrix, the apparent loss of Red Djinni, and the secondary retrieval of several minors along with Mel Gautier, he had not had the opportunity to comb through the interviews or medical reports related to Mel’s condition.

  The photographs, taken from the Overwatch cameras of the rescuers, showed someone barely human. That she had even survived this long spoke volumes about her resilience and her captors’ intentions. He choked back the bile in his throat and set the file down. On another day, he might have been able to stomach the horror detailed in full color. Now, it was too real and too raw, and he was not prepared for the rush of emotion that washed over him. Pride walked to the one-way glass and saw the patient lying there, the bare minimum of wires keeping her tethered to the monitors.

  The vertical blinds in the room kept sunlight from entering, and the overhead fluorescents gave the room a sickly pallor. He knew that outside, the sun was shining and the sky had a particular shade of blue that spoke of afternoon barbecues and football games. Mel lay still, her eyes still closed. Pride wondered if they continued to sedate her to aid in her recovery. A metal clipboard near the bed had several pages of notes. At the very least, he could see what had been said about her recovery.

  Slowly, he moved to the door and listened for footsteps. No one came, so he crept past the threshold and angled himself to face the wall. Pride doubted that Mel had the consciousness to lash out, but he didn’t dare risk that result alongside the doctor’s inevitable wrath, should she discover him in here. The soft whirr and click of the machines coupled with Mel’s breathin
g seemed to amplify each footstep. Reaching a hand back, he fumbled for the clipboard and managed to get it off the hook.

  The cover page demonstrated Gilead’s diligent documentation of her only patient. Dates, times, neat script describing her condition and the medications administered. A purple sticker at the top of the chart tagged the patient as a psych-type metahuman—an initial warning for anyone treating her. He flipped back the page to keep reading, the number of medications increasing exponentially as they got closer to the admit date and time. Another member of the medical team had jotted down the first set of notes, including a warning regarding known metahuman abilities and their effects. Recommend physical restraints and sedation until full extent of injuries and abilities is known. Unsure if patient is ally or hostile.

  Pride reread the pages several times, piecing together the last few days’ worth of Mel’s ordeal after the rescue. Anger and regret gnawed at him. How had they not realized that the woman serving drinks, delivering lunches, and maintaining office order at ECHO wasn’t the real Reverie? Was her impersonator that good and the deception that practiced, or had they failed to get to know her the first time, making it easier for her double to create a persona that they could like and rely upon? Would a little more personal time have made the difference?

  How many others had gotten pushed aside in the name of efficiency, because getting to know them wasn’t as valuable as what they could do in a fight? And this woman had the added status of being a military veteran, battle-tested and trained in the most dangerous of situations. To know that they—he, he corrected himself—had failed her, it made him even angrier.

  “Damn it all to hell,” he muttered. “Ma’am, we owed you better. Far better. And for what it’s worth, if you can hear me, you have my full apologies and promise for whatever kind of recovery and rehabilitation you need.”

  “Could you maybe start by opening the curtains? Please?”

  Pride froze, his gaze fixed on the clipboard in his hand. How long had she been aware of him in the room? Did Gilead know that her patient was conscious and able to speak? He licked his lips and spoke, keeping his voice low. “Ma’am, for the record, I’m pretty sure the doc will have my hide if she finds me in here with you. Opening the blinds might get us both in trouble.”

  “I don’t really care about being in trouble, sir. I just don’t wanna be in the dark.” Her voice wavered. “I’m not gonna jump out of bed or set some head-devils on you. I just want to know if there’s sun or rain outside.”

  His heart sank. Such a simple request from someone who had been through so much, but security weighed heavy on his mind. If the light triggered something that resulted in injury to him, or her, or both of them, a verbal reprimand from the doctor would be the least of his concerns. Pride consulted the clipboard again for some guidance as to what could or couldn’t be done. “Do you know who I am, ma’am?”

  “Of course I do. You’re Yankee Pride,” she answered. “I ain’t deaf.”

  “And do you know why I might be reluctant to open the windows, or even turn around?” He hated himself for asking the question, but he didn’t know what else to do. Leaving would be cruel if she didn’t pose a threat and just needed a bit of company. Loneliness was something he empathized with all too much these days.

  “Yeah, but I also figure that if you’re coming in here, it’s because of some needing to see things for yourself. Nobody’s visited. Nobody that I can remember, at least,” she added. Her voice cracked and she sniffled. “Everything’s mixed up in my head.”

  “I’m not surprised,” he murmured. Pride glanced back at the chart and the medical staff’s notes. “Whatever had taken you had us pretty mixed up about you, too. We’re still not sure if you’re ready to be debriefed, although given that you’re conscious and verbal, that might be something to consider.”

  She let out a long sigh and sniffled. “Right. Bedside interrogation, ’cause they’ll need to know everything I can remember in order to find the sick freak that had me and those kids in that hellhole for all those months. And of course, they can’t just bring in a telepath or empath, due to the liability I present.” She spoke in a bitter tone, anger and disgust in her words. “So it’ll be the old-fashioned way. Lucky me.”

  A long moment passed without either of them saying anything, the hum of medical equipment suddenly loud in the sterile space. He studied the pages he held. If they planned to debrief her, it made sense to not give her too much information for fear of contaminating any information she could provide. The upper tier of ECHO had the most recent information about the circumstances surrounding Victrix’s capture and the rescue of her, Gautier, and dozens of children and teenagers, but the loss of the Djinni gave them a whole new situation to consider. They needed to know as much as possible about the individual who had done all of this, and it needed to be free of any outside influence.

  But was it fair to isolate someone who had already endured so much?

  He sighed and fumbled to place the clipboard back. “Overwatch: Privacy. Overwatch: Recording: All channels: Authorization: Pride 1945.” The tiny chirp in his ear confirmed the commands and secure confirmation code. If she wanted to talk, he could indulge that much and gather the data for analysis later. Victrix and Parker swore by the Colt boys and their prowess with multilevel data analysis. This would just be another project for them to argue about over beer and pizza.

  “Ma’am, I—”

  “Mel. I can’t take that formal ‘ma’am’ bullshit no more, especially if you got your back turned.” She coughed and made a frustrated sound in her throat. “Sir.”

  He nodded and stepped away from the clipboard, still not facing her. “All right, but if I slip, you’ll have to forgive me. Goes along with calling any kind of soda a Coke, y’know.”

  “Even if it’s clear?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She snorted. “That’s just ridiculous, but I get it.” The bed squeaked as she shifted, the hospital noise less ominous between them. “What happens if the doc finds you in here with me?”

  Pride shrugged. “Any number of things. I figure yelling, getting dragged out by one of my ears, maybe a ten-minute lecture on security threats and the like. You’re the more serious threat, in the bigger picture.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I s’pose so.”

  He fixed his eyes on the wall and relaxed his posture. Someone had painted the walls recently. He couldn’t find a single crack or discoloration for focus. “You got a favorite food, Mel? Something that you’d have brought in the minute the doc clears you for something more than Jell-O and ECHO-issue nutropuree.”

  “First thing? Bread pudding, the kind that you make from homemade bread scraps, soaked in a good caramel sauce. Warm, of course.”

  “Raisins?”

  “No, none of that. You ruin it when you add those kinds of things.” She sighed, an almost happy noise. “But sometime soon, I’m gonna find a good crawfish boil. Head down I-10 and find some little hole-in-the-wall spot in Slidell and eat until my lips burn.”

  He made a face, forgetting that she couldn’t see his reaction. “Can’t say I’ve ever found the idea of eating those things appetizing.”

  “Why not? Mel asked. “Spice, butter…if you’re fancy enough to like lobster, then you’ll have no problem with these.”

  “The eyes. Can’t eat something that’s staring at me.” He grinned, the smile carrying through to his words. “But I’ll believe you that it’s worth a drive.”

  She chuckled, but the noise was tinged with regret. He fought the urge to turn around, but it became harder as the sad laughter became quiet weeping. Keeping his back to her, a military veteran who had endured capture and torture twice while in service to ECHO, drove a nail through his heart with each soft sob. This isn’t right. Threat or no, she’s a human being and a soldier. I can’t just keep staring at the paint on the wall. He would deal with Gilead’s wrath when she returned if only to treat Mel with some bit of the dignity she had earned several
times over.

  “Don’t you move, sir.” Mel reacted the moment he began to pivot. Even through tears, she spoke with authority. “I’m still a liability and you’re a leading member of the organization. This ain’t a time to get sentimental.”

  “And I’m inclined to agree with the patient, Ben.” Gilead leaned against the doorframe with a coffee in one hand. She angled herself to stay out of Mel’s line of sight. “Compassion’s all well and good, but in this kind of situation, it could very well get you killed. As for you, ma’am, I’m going to have to notify the appropriate people now that you’re awake.”

  Mel cleared her throat. “Understood, Doc. You don’t have to apologize for protocol. I’ll do my best to keep things under control. Sir, I do appreciate your concern. For what it’s worth, I don’t think anyone with your rank ever came by when I came back the first time.”

  “An oversight on my part. If the good doctor doesn’t lock me out of her suite, I’ll be back to hear more about this crawfish boil trip you plan to take.” Pride stepped toward the exit, ducking around Gilead to avoid her stern glare. “Ma’am.”

  The petite doctor didn’t move, but he could feel her eyes on him all the way to the exit. Pride offered the subvocal command to end the recording, then sent it off to Parker and Victrix for any analysis. He anticipated a short and frustrated lecture on difficult situations, debriefing protocol, and medical liability, most likely in stereo from them. To say that he didn’t care about the consequences didn’t fully explain his reasons for sneaking into the room with the single hospital bed, but it had seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

  And, he thought as he saw his HUD alert him to an incoming Overwatch message, I would do it again if given the chance.

  * * *

  Vickie could feel Gilead’s eyes boring holes in her. She matched Gilead glare for glare. “Don’t,” she said firmly. “Not a word. Yes, I know I’m burning my candle at both ends and in the middle. No, there’s nothing you can do to stop me. Penny and I are here for another reason entirely. Penny says we need to talk to Mel, and by ‘we’ I refer to me, Penny, and Penny’s Invisible Friend.”