Revolution: Book Three of the Secret World Chronicle - eARC

by Mercedes Lackey

  Red didn’t answer.

  “I don’t know if you want to hear it. I make my living—or I did—dissecting characters and putting them back together. That makes me pretty good at analyzing…but not so good at dealing with real live people.”

  “You’re the most social, out-going hermit I know,” he assured her, and paused. She didn’t laugh, and held him with her eyes. He coughed, and nodded. “Maybe I don’t have to be so careful anymore. Maybe I was never meant to be. Maybe I’m finally living.”

  “And maybe monkeys will fly out of my butt.” She shook her head. “Color me skeptical. You’re acting like your life doesn’t mean that much anymore, like you’re trying to pay back for something and you think there’s no way you ever can.”

  “Maybe, but that’s my choice.”

  “Yeah?” She huffed out a breath she had been holding in. “Well, that would have been true right up until you started getting people actually caring about your miserable carcass. Not your choice anymore. Or not so much, anyway.”

  He drew in a breath, ready to deliver a heated reply, then stopped.

  “Be still, my heart. I’ve rendered the Djinni speechless.” She gave him back as best she could; a smart-ass answer to lighten the air a little, and now she could think. She fished one of those ECHO standard high-energy shots (trace elements and glucose so concentrated it made her teeth ache to have to choke one down) out of her own belt-pouch. “Open your mouth, dork,” she said, and dripped it in when he did. That was what he needed most; the raw material, the energy to rebuild himself. Before he could come up with some other smart-ass comment, she dripped another one in. She was about to administer a third, when everything went white, then black, as something too abrupt even to register as pain smacked her in the back of the head. She didn’t quite pass out, but she fell limply back, stunned.

  * * *

  The energy shots she shoved down his throat were enough to jolt Red back to some semblance of life, but it was the sight of her falling back, of feeling her hands falling away from him, that drove him to his feet. He was struck by a rush of blood to the head, and he gasped from the sudden vertigo as he fell back a few steps. Before him, a bloodied figure stumbled back into a spotlight, a broken two-by-four in his hands. It was the Blacksnake commander, Christian. He was favoring one leg, the other looking fairly mangled. Red imagined it had taken quite a bit to have wrenched that leg free from the fallen ceiling, and silently at that. Red’s eyes had begun to swell over, but through his obscured vision he saw the mound of debris that had once been an intact ceiling, industrial shelves, and the body parts that had belonged to at least three previously healthy Blacksnake operatives. Christian had lost his weapons somewhere in the wreckage. Red stared down at his hands. All his claws had been not-so-neatly broken off, leaving hard and ragged stubs, charred and dull and useless. He looked down at Vickie, who lay sprawled and helpless on the ground, her guns lost somewhere in the fight.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “‘The Djinni’s next to dead, I’ve taken out his only back-up and all I have to do is swing this thing enough times into his head and it’ll be done.’”

  “Pretty much,” Christian said through clenched teeth. He didn’t advance, though. Why should he? Red looked like he could barely move, much less fight. Let the Djinni try and come to him. “Of course, while you’re lurching at me like a zombie, I’ll have plenty of time to finish off the bitch.”

  He raised the two-by-four and hopped a half-step forward. Red lurched forward in response, and the two began a slow and grotesque race towards the fallen Victrix. It was like a hideous zombie-race. Time slowed to a crawl for the Djinni, making it even worse; it felt like one of those awful nightmares where he moved as if every limb was laden with chains. Each step was an exercise in torture. It took everything he had to keep moving forward, to not fall over, and through it all his body screamed at him to stop. Christian matched him, step for step, but it was clear who would win this race. As Christian took a final lunge forward and raised his make-shift club, Red dipped into his ravaged belt, drew out a small blade and smoothly hurled it at him. He saw Christian’s eyes widen and his swing falter as he dodged to avoid the incoming blade. The blade missed its target, narrowly, and instead of catching Christian full in the gut it bounced off his sturdy gun-belt and clattered off to the side. Red took the opening, drawing upon whatever strength he had left and dove forward over Vickie, catching Christian in a desperate bull-rush. The momentum drove Christian back and they both tumbled together into a disorganized heap on the rubble. Christian shrieked in pain as his leg folded under him. Red was in his own hell of burnt and smoking flesh, and screamed his own rage as he lashed out wildly, driving a solid hit into Christian’s ribs. He was screaming as much at himself as he was at his enemy, egging himself on to do the impossible. He had to keep the pressure on, to keep moving, to keep driving blows and try his luck on a feeble offense. But he was losing steam fast. He felt his arms failing him, he could barely raise them up. He settled for the pitiful expedient of wrapping himself around Christian like a spastic octopus, with limited success. Christian fought the grapple, freeing an arm which he used to lash out at Red in short, ugly jabs. Finally, he reared back and delivered a devastating elbow to Red’s midsection. Red coughed blood, spewing the frothy mess into Christian’s face, but managed to hold on.

  Christian howled. “Why…won’t…you…fall?” he demanded, hammering Red again with his elbow.

  Red coughed up more blood, and didn’t bother to answer. Instead, he held fast and waited for Christian to try for another elbow strike. The Blacksnake Op didn’t disappoint, and when he reared back Red released him, rolled left and snatched up his throwing knife. Christian, taken completely by surprise and unbalanced, rolled with the momentum of his desperate swing, and howled again as Red dove back in, double-pumping the blade into Christian’s side. Christian doubled over to clutch at the wound but stopped as his neck met the edge of the blade.

  Red held it there, almost gently, as the two broken men simply stared at each other.

  “Why don’t I fall?” Red asked, his voice ragged and hoarse. “’Cause that’s not really an option for me. Better men than you have tried to take me down. I’m still here and I’ll be damned if I finally get taken out by some two-bit Blacksnake thug. I broke a lot of my own rules tonight, all because you and yours can’t see your way to do some good when the rest of the world has gone to hell. We should be past this kinda shit, we should be working together. Instead we’re just wasting our time in some stupid, pointless arms race. You, and your greed, and your…yeah, I can see it. It’s there, it’s plain, right on your face. Your bloodlust. You’re addicted to the hunt, the kill. Well, I’ve certainly sent enough of your men to hell tonight, what’s one more? I’m willing to bet if anyone ever had it coming, it’s you…”

  He tightened his grip on the knife. Christian’s eyes began to bulge, as if daring Red to do it. Slowly, Red began to push the blade against Christian’s neck.

  “D-Djinni. Stop. He’s down, out. You broke him.”

  Though groggy, Vickie had managed to get to her hands and knees, and painfully pushed herself up.

  “It’s enough. It’s more than enough. You saved that kid from these monsters.” She shuffled a step closer. “You saved me. Please. You can stop now.”

  Red didn’t look at her. He was fixed on Christian, and the knife he held. His torn and bloodied lips curled back over his teeth as he hissed. The blade was shaking in his hand, a testament to the internal struggle that raged inside of him.

  “For godssake, Red!” she croaked. “Listen to me! You don’t have to—have to go back to what you used to be! We’ll put him away, he won’t hurt anyone ever again! You have a choice here! Take it!” She held out a shaking hand, as if that hand held his options. “If you won’t take it for yourself, take it for your friends, the people who believe in you! Me! Bella! The Misfits! For Bull!” Her voice cracked and broke, and when she resume
d speaking, it was softer, a mere whisper. “You have a choice, Red. Rise up to it.”

  The knife continued to quiver in his hand and the hiss that escaped his teeth crescendoed to a roar as Red erupted. He threw the knife aside and struck Christian with a clenched fist instead, knocking him out.

  Before either Red or Vickie could say or do anything else, the faint sound of a trickle of cascading pebbles made them both glance to the anthill of rubble Vickie had made. Poking his head and hands cautiously over the edge was the boy, Pike, eyes bulging with disbelief mingled with fear.

  “It’s okay, kid,” Vickie croaked. “Come on down.”

  At that moment, Red collapsed, and she hobbled to his side. “And I could use a hand here,” she added.

  When Red’s head was cradled on her knees, and with Pike’s help, the Djinni was as comfortable as could be under the circumstances—and with three more of those energy shots in him—she sighed. In the distance, she heard the distinct howl of ECHO sirens finally coming. Late. Quelle surprise. Verdigris had probably found some way to delay them. Her suspicion hardened to certainty; their erstwhile overlord was doing his best to cull the ranks.

  “Help’s on the way,” she said to the Djinni. “Within shouting distance, in fact.”

  Red looked down at himself and grimaced. “Bella’s gonna have a hell of time fixing me up this time.”

  Vickie opened her mouth to answer, but there was really nothing she could say to that. She felt crushed with guilt. If she hadn’t frozen—

  Instead, she simply smiled tremulously at him, when Pike cleared his throat and timidly waved his hand to get their attention.

  “Uh, sorry…but…what are you going to do to me?” the boy asked.

  Red looked up at him, his eyes swollen, his lips cracked and peeling. He managed a grotesque grin. “Nothing, kid. We’re just going to give you something those guys wouldn’t.”

  “Wh…what’s that?”

  Red exchanged a look with Vickie.

  “A choice.”

  Permitted

  Dennis Lee and Mercedes Lackey

  Bella had been avoiding Red, ever since the unexpected kiss. It had sparked something she wasn’t quite prepared to admit to herself, and she didn’t have a clue where to begin with him. There was no avoiding Red this time, though, considering he had been brought in studded with bullets and looking like a quarter cow cooked by a Neanderthal.

  “Jeebus, I need angel-juice,” she muttered, as she hooked herself up to her rig and prepared to pour everything she had into the Djinni. Good thing I’m in sickbay. There were a lot of things she could do to herself here that would keep her on her feet that she couldn’t do in the field. She had a rig re-purposed from one of the ancient hemopheresis machines that literally took blood, scrubbed it of fatigue toxins, and pumped it back into her supercharged with glucose and additives. And she had a pair of permanent ports installed so she could just plug it in. A good dose of energy from the Seraphym, however, was about a million times better, and more effective.

  “Wha—?” Red asked.

  “Nothing. You want drugs or not?” It would be a challenge to find a vein for a morphine drip, but hey, that’s what powers were for.

  “Christ,” Red muttered. “You kiss a girl, and she loses any semblance of bed-side manner.”

  “The bed-side manner you’re interested in doesn’t have anything to do with a morphine drip. And no, you cannot play ‘doctor’ with me.” She grimaced. “Unless, of course, the doctor I get to play is Dr. House.” She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have lupus. Or sarcoidosis. Or…”

  “How’s the kid?” Red asked, interrupting.

  Bella shrugged as looked him over, gauging which wounds needed her immediate attention. “He seems a bit shell-shocked. Considering you’ve been tenderized, perforated and fried crispy within an inch of your life, you should worry more about yourself. I’m amazed you’re still conscious, and not screaming in pain. This another meta ability we should know about?”

  “Trust me,” Red grunted. “I’m doing plenty of screaming, it’s just on the inside.”

  “Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” Bella said, grimly. “It’s the inside I’m worried about, if you’re suffering from any internal bleeding. Vickie said you took a good beating, even before the flame thrower came into play. Your mental functions seem intact, as obtuse and as irritating as they are. Any abdominal pain? Can you pick-up on anything past the damage on the surface?”

  Red exhaled, and motioned for her to step back. He closed his eyes in concentration, then doubled over, clenching his teeth in agony. Bella rushed forward, but he waved her off. His breaths were shallow, but after a moment they evened out.

  “What did you do?” she asked.

  “I turned the pain back on,” he gasped. “Just for a moment. And no, doesn’t feel like anything major’s going down in there.”

  “You’re sure,” Bella asked, doubtful.

  “I’m sure,” he replied. “Believe me, I know when something’s really wrong.”

  “Well, do you want drugs, or not?” she asked. “Because based on what we’ve done in the past, I’m going to be accelerating your natural ability to regenerate once I start on the burns and bullets. If I recall the last time…”

  “No, no drugs. They wouldn’t do much good, I’ve already numbed myself to most of it.” He gave her an odd look. “How is she?”

  “Who?” Bella asked.

  “Victrix.”

  “Concussed, bullet crease across the right bicep, multiple deep contusions, bone bruises…”

  “I meant how is she?”

  Bella sucked on her lower lip.

  “…PTSD and currently vomiting,” she finished. “Expressing gratitude to you for saving her life, y’know, between hurls. Nothing near as bad as you.”

  “Damn,” he said. “I shouldn’t have taken her out there. I was so sure she was ready.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up about it,” she told him, cleaning up what she could. Or rather, what mattered; when she started healing him, a lot of this wouldn’t matter anymore. Anyone else, she’d be debriding the burns; but for the Djinni, it would all just flake off. “Look, she was ready; how were you going to know someone was going to pull out a flamethrower? I mean, shit, who the hell packs a flamethrower to a warehouse?” Sucking her lower lip turned to nibbling on it, nervously.

  “You can’t prepare for that kind of thing,” he scoffed. “You have to be willing to roll with it. She froze up, it’s as simple as that.”

  She took a deep, deep breath. “I think she’s ready for the same head-stuff I did with Mel. I would have broached it today if you hadn’t kidnapped her for the job. It’s not a cure, but at least she won’t freeze up again.” She paused. “I figured she was ready for a field-job too. Or I would have overruled you. I am Head of ECHO Med, remember? Now shut up and hold on for the ride.”

  What used to take her ten to fifteen minutes to prep for, in silence, now took less than five with bedside chatter. Knowing the Djinni had “turned the pain off”—and boy, would she ever like to learn how he did that trick—she just put her hands where she wanted to. One on his forehead, one on the charred and bullet-ridden gut. Then she closed her eyes—she still needed to close her eyes—and dropped into the healing gestalt.

  The skin damage was a nightmare, and for that, she would need him to do the work while she powered him. He could do that. They’d worked it before. It was going to hurt, though. His skin seemed to be the one place he couldn’t actually control pain. If anything, it seemed amplified there.

  So work from the inside out; she didn’t actually do the healing. For Djinni, as for most metahumans, all she did was supply energy and somehow accelerate peoples’ natural healing. Hours became seconds; days, even weeks, became minutes. That was why she needed the pheresis rig, or she would pass out, working on someone as damaged as the Djinni was now.

  The few bullets that had gotten as far as the muscle got pushed back out
as she healed, falling to the table with dull metallic sounds. Bones knitted, torn nerves regenerated. Muscle tears mended. A bruised spleen became a pristine organ, a kidney tear vanished. In ten minutes, there was nothing left to do but the skin.

  “OK Red.” She didn’t open her eyes. “Turbo-charge on, powering up. Do your thing.”

  She poured in the energy. He started screaming.

  She kept her emotions out of it, her mind detached—one of the surgeons said in this mode she worked exactly the same way he did, which she considered a compliment. Later, she’d cry for putting him through so much agony. Right now, it was fascinating to “watch,” and each time he did this, she learned a little more about how to heal. Some people didn’t respond as well to mere acceleration; some she had to “tell” the cells what to do. Watching him at work taught her more than she would ever admit to him. At least for now. More bullets dropped to the table; some rolled off and fell to the floor. Should she tell him there was a betting pool on how many he’d dump every time he was brought in? It might make him laugh.

  She sensed Vix flinching, sensed the guilt in the next room, when he started screaming. As if the poor thing could possibly feel any worse. Dammitall, why do my friends all have to be emotional basket-cases? If she hadn’t had Sera to talk to, she would probably be an emotional basket-case. The angel was a wonderful listener, and entirely without judgment. It was the greatest relief in the world to be able to say the horrible things she wanted to do to some people, confess her nastiest secrets, and know that there was nothing but acceptance behind those strange eyes. Acceptance, and forgiveness. No one had any idea how much she needed forgiveness. Nor how much she might need it if things went pear-shaped.