Revolution: Book Three of the Secret World Chronicle - eARC

by Mercedes Lackey

  “I don’t know, Frank,” drawled Paperback Rider, from the corner where he was (as always) half-immersed in a book, print scrolling over his paper-white face as he read. “Bulwark just doesn’t seem like the type. Really doesn’t seem like the type. If I were making bets, it would be on…chess matches, maybe.”

  Frankentrain guffawed. “You have got to be kidding me. Her? I’d say more like chest matches, if ya know what I mean. I bet her chest size just about matches her IQ. But ya don’t date a chick like that for intellectual talk. More like the other four-letter word, right?”

  Frank had not noticed that the rest of the room had gone oddly quiet.

  “Man, I envy him. What’s he got that’s so special anyway? He’s got about the same amount of expression as a brick. If he’s not all over her, he’d had to have the same IQ as a block of linoleum, and hell, we all know he’s not that dumb. No, he is totally doing her. Absolutely. I am so sure I would bet on it. I…” Frank felt a chill as an enormous shadow fell over him. “…he’s right behind me, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, Frankentrain, I am,” Bulwark rumbled. “Don’t you think you should be armored up by now?”

  * * *

  Bella smiled for the cameras. There were hundreds of them, and that didn’t count the cell-phones and so on in the hands of the audience. She smiled and stayed one careful step behind Verdigris, but kept the artful, hip-shot, swimsuit-model poses that the cameras wanted. Verdigris had ordered a special uniform for her just for this occasion; in her personal opinion, it looked like something a very high-class, role-playing hooker would wear for a client, but based on a doctor’s smock rather than a nurse’s uniform. It was just that tiny bit too form-fitting, showed just a little too much cleavage, for anyone to take her seriously. Which was the point, probably. It had the ECHO logo superimposed on the standard red medical cross just over her right breast.

  I hate this, she thought resentfully. She wasn’t even sure why she was here. She hadn’t been on the ECHO campus on the day of the Invasion. It would make more sense to have someone who had been there standing here now.

  On the other hand…this might be her one, best shot to get at Verd and give him that stroke…she’d been completely unable to get anywhere near him until now. Her requests to make reports in person had been sloughed off, and anywhere he went in public, Khanjar was right at his elbow. Now…she wasn’t. She was directly behind him, but standing behind Bella, and her attention was directed more at the audience than at the people on the podium.

  I bet at some point he’s gonna grab me around the waist for some sort of photo op. That would be the time to do it. Ramona and the others were confident that the charter plot was going to work, but she wasn’t so sure. After all, this was Verdigris they were dealing with. He had a history of being one step ahead of his enemies. So what should it be? Should it be something minor, in the cerebral cortex, something that would just hamper him? While that was the option that gave her the fewest ethical heebie-jeebies, and it was the safest for her since it was unlikely Khanjar would even notice she had done anything, it wasn’t one she particularly favored. Because…this was Verdigris. For all she knew, his brain could rewire itself in a situation like that. So the only other options were a psionic lobotomy, something massive to turn him into a vegetable, or something fatal.

  Which might very well turn fatal for her if Khanjar decided correctly that Bella was the cause when Verd collapsed. Bella reckoned the odds were about 50/50 that Khanjar would do just that. Higher than that if Khanjar remembered how Bella had taken out that gang-banger back when she was just a DCO.

  She glanced over to Verdigris’ other side, where Yankee Pride stood, looking entirely comfortable with the attention, yet appropriately solemn. Would Pride notice in time to intervene, if Khanjar attacked? Could he hold the assassin off if he did? Did she want him to try?

  Well…no. Because tough as he was, he wasn’t ready to take on an assassin in hand-to-hand combat.

  Which of us is more important to ECHO, him or me? Him, of course.

  Behind them was the Monument. It was elevated on a Carrera marble pedestal that had bronze plaques with the names of all the ECHO metas that had died in the Invasion. It was a very tall pedestal; they were on a platform in front of it, and the pedestal top ended about six feet from the top of the platform. There would be no climbing up on it to view parades and tag the extremely expensive sculpture itself with graffiti. Bella had no idea what the sculpture looked like. No one did. Right now it was swathed in a huge blanket of canvas, banked by two Jumbotrons so that everyone could see Verdigris as if they were in their own living room. She was pretty sure it cost enough to keep every school in Atlanta funded for the next ten years, it had been created by a computer rather than an artist, and it would be devoid of meaning. Well, except as a monument to just how rich Verdigris was, since he’d been making the point he’d funded this out of his own personal fortune.

  * * *

  Everyone had begun to line up just right. The news vans had already disgorged their news teams, who had all set up their cameras and lights, jockeying for position to get the best shot of the unveiling of the “ECHO Memorial for the Invasion.” Verdigris was busy making small-talk with all of the luminaries that he had invited or who had invited themselves; no one wanted to be left out of this event. There was still a lot of unrest, especially among the journalists, about ECHO; why weren’t they doing more, why were there still Thulian attacks, when would everyone be safe and how it was all ECHO’s fault. He’d been carefully manipulating opinions for the last month to be more favorable toward ECHO; nothing too overt, but just enough so that today’s events would serve as a catalyst for a wave of overwhelming support. That support would help him get done what needed to be done, what had to be done. Sometimes Verdigris wanted to just sit down in front of the cameras and outline for the whole world how if they just did what he said, then everything would make sense and go so much smoother and more efficiently. All they had to do was follow his directions completely and without question. After all, wasn’t he arguably the smartest man in the world? Shouldn’t they just quit jockeying with each other and listen to him for a change?

  Verdigris flashed another perfect and perfectly fake smile as he shook hands with the mayor. The world didn’t work that way, unfortunately; nothing would be so simple that he could just lay everything out for everyone and have it happen. Today, however, would work; another thing that needed to happen, for the good of everyone. Even if they didn’t know it or agree with it.

  He was aware of Bella Dawn Parker behind him, and Khanjar behind her. Bella was performing exactly as expected; eye candy for the cameras, with an outfit he had strategically picked out. She posed as if she had been born to model. Sex sells, no matter what anyone will tell you; he needed to sell her right now not only as the brainless bimbo but also as the calendar fodder. Both images served his purposes. After today, she would become irrelevant, anyway; all of ECHO Medical would be replaced by his own people, people he was completely in control of. Without Ramona Ferrari around to issue orders, they’d flounder in the crisis he was about to manufacture, and he’d have all the excuse he could ask for to shut them down and replace them with medics who would be sure to follow his orders. Just a little longer, that’s all he needed…

  There’s that word, again. Need. Verdigris wasn’t used to it; he’d never had needs, outside of the basic ones. He’d had desires, all of which he was able to fulfill with relative ease, either through his immense wealth or his intellect, or both. But today, he needed everything to go right. His life, his future depended upon it. It was an uncomfortable feeling, at best; he did his best to push it away as he moved on to the next city politician that had come to make an appearance and use the valuable photo opportunity; for all of the ire that ECHO and metahumans had received for not doing enough during and since the Invasion, no one could afford to be seen as being anything but supportive of the metahumans that were really all that stood between the
m and the Kriegers.

  Verdigris noticed Khanjar out of the corner of his eye; she caught his attention, subtly motioning that it was time to begin. Good. The sooner this is over with, the sooner I can move forward with far more enjoyable things. He checked his PDA; excellent. All the flights had been delayed just enough that the ECHO Retirees were all still waiting for the baggage, or slowly tottering up to the waiting point for the special ECHO MARTA express downtown. They’d be delayed just enough to miss the ceremony, and as he had planned, they’d be sitting on the shuttle when he was about halfway through his planned address.

  He graciously disengaged from the crowd of VIPs on the stage, waiting for everyone to take their positions before he approached the podium. Once he saw that everyone was ready, he turned to the news cameras and the gathered crowd, smiling, before composing his face in an appropriately solemn expression. The cameras got their cue from Khanji, who was supposed to be his executive assistant; they all focused on him. The Jumbotrons above his head filled with his face, and the speakers up and down the Plaza went live. Flawlessly, of course. No squeals of feedback for Verdigris Electronics.

  “Ladies and gentleman. I’d like to thank all of you for joining us here today, on the anniversary of the Invasion…”

  * * *

  Bulwark looked over the specially modded MARTA trains for the ECHO veterans and winced inwardly. As part of the festivities, the mayor had seized upon the opportunity to showcase the next generation of transit cars that had been sped up through production to replace those that had been destroyed during the invasion. Only three of the seven train cars were actually new, having just been finished that week, the first car at the front and the two luxury passenger cars at the rear reserved for the veterans. In theory, every car could be the engine; they all had control booths and were automatically slaved to the car in the lead, but the lead today didn’t even necessarily need a driver, though it had one. They certainly looked sleeker, he had to admit, but certain features had been lost in the rush for development. For one thing, the old models had allowed for easy access between cars. These new cars were sealed, each car separated from the rest. He didn’t like it. Too many holes in their security, too many ways for their defences to be compromised. Not that he really expected anything to go awry, but still, he had been tasked with escorting their honored guests, and he always took his tasks seriously.

  And while he thought of himself as a patriotic sort, the wild and erratic red, white and blue markings that enveloped each car seemed rather gauche. Even worse, the insertion of the four older model train cars in the middle gave the whole ensemble a sloppy, patchwork effect.

  “Overwatch to Bullwark.”

  “Go ahead,” Bull said.

  “All your charges are suffering delays. Either in the baggage handling system or ground traffic control. Does that seem odd to you?”

  Bulwark hmphed. “It’s ATL, Overwatch. Their on-time record isn’t exactly sterling.”

  “Roger that. Advise that you’re not going to make it for the ceremony. Out.”

  “Well, we’ll just see about that,” Bulwark rumbled. He glanced around the platform, spotted one of the on-site organizers, and made his way over to her. She was a young girl, early twenties he would have guessed, if not just by her appearance but her overwhelming sense of purpose and enthusiasm. She clutched her tablet-sized PDA with aplomb and flashed a dazzling smile as she directed her crew to ready the train for departure. She gave particular instructions regarding the special passenger cars at the rear, peppering her underlings with enthusiastic reminders concerning the comfort of the guests of honor.

  “…and let’s not forget those special cushions those darling children at the hospital made for today! I want one on each and every seat! Let’s make sure these heroes have a safe and comfortable ride into the city! Now move, people, shoo!”

  “Excuse me, Miss,” Bull said, and nodded politely to her. “It would seem we’re running the risk of being late for the ceremonies. Is there anything we might do to speed things along?”

  “Oh wow! You’re one of the ECHO people!” the girl gushed. “I’m sorry sir, you know how these things go, scheduling NEVER takes flight delays and such into account. I’m sure our guests will be right along and we’ll have them down to the celebration lickity-split!”

  “Please, Miss…”

  “Tammy,” she provided, helpfully.

  “Please Miss Tammy,” Bulwark said, with exaggerated patience. “I would appreciate your help in this matter. It would be a very poor showing if we arrived late.”

  “Oh bother,” she scoffed with a flamboyant wave of her hand. “I’m sure they’ll wait! These are very special guests, after all!”

  “Please,” Bull repeated.

  “Oh fine, fine,” Tammy said, and tapped on her ear piece. “Sheila? Can you give me an update on our guests? Are they through the…uh huh. Uh huh. Oh, that’s simply darling, really? Well, please ask him to wrap it up. Nicely, of course. I’m sure security is simply en-thralled by his D-Day stories, but he’s got a ceremony to make and we’re running late. Thanks, Sheila, you’re a peach! Love to Sammy, talk to you soon sweetie!” She turned back to Bulwark and grinned. “They’re just coming out of security. We’ll have them on the train before you know it!”

  Tammy glanced back at the train and rolled her eyes. “That is, if my people could just follow a few simple in-structions!”

  Bull sighed. “I appreciate your…attention to detail, Miss Tammy, but I have to question if all that frivolity is really necessary. I would rather the train be ready to leave as soon as the passengers are on board.”

  “Frivolity?” she gasped in dismay. “Mister Hero, I would think you of all people would want these brave souls to have every bitty bit of respect we can show them! Don’t you think we owe them that, hmmm? Didn’t they serve this country and risk their lives, day in and day out, all in the name of peace and justice and all that good stuff, hmmm? I was told to get them downtown in style and that’s just what I’m going to do! And I’ll have you know that I personally worked on those lace curtains!” She sniffed. “If you want to speed things along, perhaps you and your people could lend a hand.”

  Bull looked at her, helplessly, and returned to his trainees.

  “We’re running behind,” he told them. “Get in there and help them…set up the doilies.”

  He was met with incredulous looks and smirks, which disappeared once they saw he wasn’t kidding. With Bull, it was sometimes hard to tell. A few of them muttered a few choice oaths about menial tasks, but proceeded into the train to assist the prep crew all the same. Most had learned the hard way not to disobey Bull’s orders.

  “You too, Rider,” Bull said.

  Paperback Rider looked up from his book. “Huh? What?”

  Rider was never without a book in his hands; like so many of the newest crop of metahumans, his power had triggered on the day of the Invasion, and it was an…odd one. Whatever he read vanished from the page as he read it, and became briefly a part of him. If there was a character with a skill or a power in what he read, he had that skill or power until he used it. But as he used it, the print of the book scrolled rapidly across his paper-white face and hands—his whole body, Bulwark presumed, though he’d never asked—and once it was gone, so was that skill. And he could never use the same book twice.

  When he wasn’t in action, print still scrolled over him, but Bulwark assumed it was from one or another of the random books he had read, things that would give a man social skills, because he thought he could detect minor changes in Rider’s personality from time to time. ECHO simply made sure he had a steady supply of volumes of men’s action-adventure, science fiction, fantasy, and meta-human fiction—and the occasional instructional manual for variety. They’d never given him meta-human non-fiction, however, unless the meta in question was long dead. No one wanted to find out what would happen if he absorbed a book about…say…Yankee Pride…

  “Get in there and
help them out,” Bull said, and frowned when he realized Rider was reading the operator’s manual for the new line of MARTA trains. “Where did you get that?”

  “It was lying on the conductor’s seat,” Rider said with a shrug. “Thought I’d absorb something while we were just sitting around. Never know when it might come in handy.”

  “Well you’re not sitting around, not anymore.” Bulwark pointed at the train. “Go, help.”

  Rider sighed, but got to his feet and shuffled off with his comrades.

  * * *

  Dusty “Troubadour” Markelhay wasn’t your typical meta. He wasn’t gifted with highly destructive powers or a chiseled jaw or washboard abs that so many ECHO Ops seemed to have. He was rather homely, actually. The standard issue ECHO nanoweave clung to his disproportionate frame and bulged in all the wrong places. He had a noticeable limp, and years of persistent skin problems had left his face pock-marked and unsightly.

  Dusty did, however, possess a rather remarkable smile.

  It was an odd power, but when he flashed those pearly whites he found he could talk people into doing just about anything. A wry grin could smooth over a small argument. An open smile would get him into a complete stranger’s confidence in an instant. A chuckle could bring an entire room to hysterical laughter, even without the benefit of a joke. He supposed his was an ability that could be easily abused, but the thought never crossed his mind. Fortunately, Dusty was one of those rare individuals whose entire purpose was to help his fellow man. Someone once described it as “the hunger to feed mankind,” and he had to admit that was a nice way of putting it. He enjoyed life, he enjoyed people, and when ECHO had come knocking on his door, he had jumped at the chance to join and serve. The problem was, no one had really wanted him on their team. Not even Spin Doctor. His powers didn’t seem to work over video capture.