Revolution: Book Three of the Secret World Chronicle - eARC

by Mercedes Lackey

  It had been Bulwark, of course, who had agreed to take him on. Bull had seen something in him that no one else had, that no one else seemed to value in a time of crisis. Dusty was an eternal optimist. He was an earnest young man who tried his best at everything he did, and did it with such cheer and warmth that those around him were often caught up in his infectious desire to do a good job. At that moment, Dusty was doing his absolute best to roll out a soft, red velvet carpet from the passenger cars to the escalators leading down from the main landing. He whistled a happy tune while he worked, doing his utmost to keep the carpet straight and tidy.

  “Ooooh,” a shrill voice squealed. “That’s just perfect!”

  Dusty turned, and smiled at the giddy and attractive girl.

  “Thanks, Tammy!” he said. “There you go, just like you asked for. Anything else I can do for you?”

  Tammy favored him with an appreciative look. “You’re such a dear! Yes, my good little soldier, you can help me set-up the champagne bar in the Veteran’s car! I’ve got a few boxes of the bubbly stashed in the storage room and I’m sure a strong fellow like you can help me cart them out.”

  Dusty chuckled. “It would be a pleasure, my lady.”

  Tammy linked her arm in his and led him away, chuckling and flattering him outrageously as they made their way to storage. As they entered the dimly lit corridor, Dusty was immediately struck by how dirty these maintenance halls were. Harsh fluorescent tubes glared nakedly from the cheapest of overhead fixtures, flickering and sputtering as they passed underneath. The clicks from Tammy’s high heels echoed around them, and Dusty felt a momentary chill.

  “Kinda spooky,” he said with a nervous laugh. “Like in a scary movie.”

  Tammy giggled and patted his arm. “I’m not worried, I have you here to protect me!”

  He grinned at her, then flinched. He pulled away and stared at her, just as the overhead light flickered off.

  “Why Dusty,” Tammy said, puzzled. “Whatever is the matter?”

  “I…I thought…” Dusty started, then laughed. “I thought I saw something. Must have been the light, but you looked like…”

  The tube flashed back on, and Dusty’s eyes went wide in fright.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have skipped breakfast this morning,” Tammy sighed.

  She lunged for him, grabbing him by the throat and hoisting him off the ground. Dusty tried to scream but she clamped down on his windpipe and hissed. Her skin had turned scaly. Dusty felt her claws dig into him, and he stared helplessly into her black, snake-like eyes.

  “I guess I’ll just have to settle for brunch,” she said. She slammed him against the wall, covered his face with her free hand, and stole his life-force in great, ravenous draughts, her eyes narrowed in bliss. At last, she let out a sigh of contentment. She continued down the hall, carrying Dusty’s lifeless husk by the throat, until she came to a trash bin. She raised the lid, appraised the frozen look of terror on his face with a smirk, and dropped him in.

  “Thank you, my good little soldier,” she purred, and slammed the lid closed. She drew a small compact from her pocket, opened it, and shook her head in dismay at the reflection.

  “Well that just won’t do.”

  Harmony squinted at herself as she rubbed the skin around her eyes and played with the tip of her nose. The scales were gone, at least, but the disguise had fallen away, reverting to her original bone and muscle structure. She took a breath, concentrated, and watched herself in the mirror as she willed Tammy to return. Her cheekbones dropped, her nose flattened, and the fullness of her lips blossomed to exaggerated proportions.

  “There!” she said, her voice resuming a high-pitched, chipper tone. “Much better! Now then, let’s go kidnap us some veterans before the strain of keeping this face on forces me to have an early dinner as well!”

  Humming a happy tune, she proceeded to the supply room for the champagne.

  * * *

  As the train pulled out of the station, Bulwark grunted in relief. They would be late, of that there was no question, but at their current speed they could probably arrive before the ceremony finished. Provided, of course, that there were no further delays.

  When the veterans had finally arrived at the terminal, there were a few moments of happy reunions and some oohing and aahing over the new MARTA car models, before Bulwark and his team had firmly but politely ushered them on. That, at least, had gone smoothly. They seemed eager to see the stylish interior of the rear Guests of Honor passenger cars. Bull left them with a handful of attendants and ECHO metas and led the remainder of his crew into the older, middle compartments. Unlike the opulent rear cars these were strictly utilitarian, fitted with simple seating and compartments for baggage and cameras and the “Welcome to ECHO Atlanta, Heroes” props.

  It was actually a funny thought, amusing to Bulwark in a day so far filled with frustration, thinking about how the roadies must have run to set the props up a little ahead of the procession, then run behind them to gather them up again so no one in the terminal would suffer any inconvenience.

  As his squads arranged themselves amongst the bustling group of organizers, trying not to get in their way as they continued in the preparations for their arrival, Bull opted to stand off to one side and take in the organized chaos. His lips curled slightly, his muted version of a frown, as he noted a few discrepancies. Some of the organizers were chatting loudly about body count, gear tally and checklists while others seemed engrossed in what he could only guess as busywork. They moved about, checking straps and harnesses to ensure their gear was lashed in tight, but otherwise didn’t seem to be doing much of anything. It was almost as if they were pretending to be doing something, to be doing anything.

  A shrill voice caught his attention. The main organizer, Tammy, was berating one poor girl. Something about frayed cushion seats. He supposed that explained a lot. You didn’t want to appear idle under Tammy’s watch, not unless you wished to suffer her wrath. He wondered how much of Tammy’s brittle perkiness was due to her personality, and how much to heavy medication, because running that sort of job was probably a nightmare. Still, something didn’t seem quite right.

  He jerked to attention as screams sounded from the rear. The access door leading to the fifth car flew open and people streamed out amidst heavy clouds of smoke.

  “Fire!” someone yelled. “We’ve got a fire back here!”

  “Teams 2 through 4!” Bulwark shouted. “Converge on Car Five! Investigate and put that fire out, we are not going to suffer any more hold-ups today!”

  He joined his forces as they fought the stream of people fleeing from the smoke and joined what ECHO personnel were already there. Visibility was nil, though there were plenty of confused shouts of alarm as his squads milled about the car for the source of the smoke. There didn’t seem to be anything ablaze, no source of heat, as if…

  “There’s no fire here, Bull!” he heard Frankentrain shout. “There’s just a lot of smoke!”

  “Who’s got eyes on the source?” Bull shouted back. “Where’s it coming from?”

  No one answered, and no one needed to, as the smoke dissipated. In an instant, the haze cleared and all the ECHO metas looked about in confusion.

  “That would be me,” a voice giggled behind them.

  They turned to see a girl smiling at them from Car Four. Faint wisps of smoke hung about her hands, and evaporated with a snap of her fingers. She laughed, and slammed the door shut.

  “We’ve been had!” Bull snarled and leapt for the door, but stopped as a voice boomed over the in-train P.A. system.

  “I wouldn’t do that, Mister ECHO Man!” Tammy shrieked, her shrill cry deafening over the crackling static of the P.A. “There’s an awful lot of boom rigged to blow on the last two cars, and guess who’s got her finger right over the boom button?”

  Explosives…which meant hostages…which meant whoever this was, they wanted something. Bulwark wasn’t an expert in hostage negotiation, but by necessit
y, as an ECHO op, he’d done his share over the years. Still…he had an expert negotiator on the team—

  “Dusty,” he growled quietly into his comm unit. “You’re up. Get up here so she can see your face.”

  There was no answer. Bull turned to look back at his crew. Troubadour wasn’t there.

  * * *

  Vickie didn’t like it. There was nothing she could absolutely pin down—and Bull was right, Atlanta Hartsfield didn’t exactly have the best on-time record—but was it reasonable that the baggage conveyers for the retirees—and only the retirees whose planes had come in on time—would suddenly malfunction? Was it reasonable that some kerfluffle in ground traffic control would keep planes on the tarmac when she could see there were open gates?

  Was it possible that Verd had gotten wind of trouble?

  It’s Verdigris. Of course it’s possible.

  But what possible advantage could there be for him to delay the retirees’ arrival until after the Memorial Ceremony? Delay was going to make no difference to the Charter plans. The retirees were all going to go to a party CCCP was ostensibly throwing; the old barn of a building had several rooms that used to hold manufacturing equipment that were all linked together and more than big enough to hold everyone. Once there, Vickie would activate the conference screens for every ECHO HQ on the planet. Dixie and Ramona would tell them the real reason for their assembly, Vickie would throw open the lines to Atlanta and the other ECHO HQs for remote voting and that would be that. No one at the other HQs knew the reason for the remote link; they all thought it was going to be a chance to see and maybe talk with legendary heroes of the past, and virtually everyone had signed up for the conference. The only people who knew the truth here were all those wired into Overwatch. There was no way Verd could know.

  The ceremony was well underway. By now it was obvious that the guests weren’t going to make it in time. Verd improvised something…wait…

  Vickie used a camera just behind Verdigris to zoom in on Verd’s PDA. It was meticulously outlining a second-by-second set of notes.

  That wasn’t improvising! It was right there in his notes. Regret that delays hit honored guests. Promise access later.

  The hell? He was behind it! But why?

  Before she could signal Bulwark, Bella, or Ramona, the situation blew up in her face.

  One of her monitors showed all the security camera feeds from every car in the train. It had been pathetically easy to tap into. The bulk of Bull’s team appeared clustered in the fifth car, the rest were milling about confused with the guests of honor on cars six and seven. Bull himself was rushing for the door to the fourth car. The PA system on the train came to tinny life. “I wouldn’t do that, Mister ECHO Man! There’s an awful lot of boom rigged to blow on the last two cars, and guess who’s got her finger right over the boom button? We’re the Rebs, and we’ll be your hosts during this hostage crisis. Don’t try to leave your cars, don’t try to use your powers or…poof. End of hostage crisis, and we wouldn’t want to end the fun early, would we? So…yeah…we got us some demands…”

  “Rebs my ass,” Vickie muttered, and paid no attention to the list of “demands” that were being read off, because at that moment her standalone “Magic 8-Ball” computer began flashing the full alert screen and sounding an alarm.

  MARTA Hijacking: Current. Primal Cause: Dominic Verdigris. Probability: 100%

  Vickie swore in Russian, but her hands were already moving. “Overwatch: Command: open Red Saviour comma Gamayun comma open Bella private comma Pride private. People, we have a hostage situation on the MARTA. Repeat, a hostage situation on the MARTA. Verd’s taken the old timers hostage, his people, probably Blacksnake, posing as Rebs. Armed and dangerous. Commissar, the train is still in motion and is not slowing down.” She repeated the demands that the phony Reb leader had made. “Those are probably code or trigger IDs for something else; maybe to tell Verd what stage they’re at. CCCP, you guys are the wild card; Verd won’t be planning on you doing anything. So…whatever you do, it’ll screw him over. Patching you all in full Overwatch group mode now. Those of you with the new rig, use it!”

  * * *

  John was in the break room with Pavel when the call came. Bear was expounding on the merits of Roseanne as a teaching tool for family dynamics; John had been doing his best for the past hour and a half to just nod and sip his beer without really listening. Unfortunately, he was just about out of beer; since he was technically on call, he couldn’t leave the HQ for at least another four hours. The sacrifices I make for my comrades…to protect them from my comrades.

  Just as John had finished the last of his beer, an alarm came to life briefly, followed by a burst of static on the intercom.

  “Attention, attention; all hands. Situation on the MARTA line; ECHO hostages have been taken. All on-duty personnel are to report to the briefing room immediately in full gear.” That was Gamayun; she repeated the instructions in rapid-fire Russian. Then the alarm came back on. At the same time, his Overwatch rig came to life. “People, we have a hostage situation on the MARTA. Repeat, a hostage situation on the MARTA…” Vickie repeated the list of phony “demands”—weapons, money, about half of Georgia to be ceded to them and renamed “State of Rebellion.” “Patching you all in full Overwatch group mode now. Those of you with the new rig, use it!”

  John set the empty beer bottle down, slapping one of Pavel’s metal knees with his free hand. “Time to go to work, old timer. An’ not a moment too soon.”

  He was already up and jogging away when Bear stood up, shouting, “But I was about to be getting to my treatise on John Goodman’s approach to fatherhood!”

  Five minutes later, John was running towards the briefing room while still zipping up his vest. Some of the CCCP had nanoweave gear, mixed and matched with what was already on hand; it was lucky that CCCP uniform colors were predominantly black, since nanoweave didn’t take dyes. John rounded the last corner and trotted into the briefing room, followed seconds later by the rest of the on-duty comrades. The usual suspects; Georgi, Pavel, and Mamona; they all shared shifts more often than not, with the duty roster rotating so that they all switched patrol partners some of the time. Georgi was John’s usual motorcycle patrol partner; they worked well together. The Commissar was already suited up and waiting for them. I wonder if she sleeps in the damned patrol uniform; she’s always first one here, even with no warning, an’ always suited up. She was grinning, her face down and eyes examining each of them as the team fell in.

  When everyone was settled, she leaned forward, placing her hands on the worn table in front of her. That same smile, which would have seemed conspiratorial on anyone else but was disquieting when worn by the Commissar, was still there.

  “Today, comrades,” she said, drawing out the words as if to savor them, “It is, how they say here, ‘open season’ on mercenaries. And there will be nyet anything ‘sub-lethal’ about it.”

  * * *

  “Overwatch: command. Mark Two Overwatch. Open Corbie, Knight, Leader, Sammies, Ramona, Bella, Pride, Bulwark, Djinni, Shakti, public, public group link. Add Saviour, Soviette, Unter, JM, public, public group link.” Vickie’s hands flew over the keyboard. “Heads up, this is Overwatch. CCCP dispatched. Saviour is ground command CCCP, since she’s free to move and Pride’s not. Camera feeds on your HUD from the train. All of you with the new rig are linked up now. You can access folks with the old rig with the command Open Overwatch Mark One and their name, or let me handle it.” People with the old rig were getting a recorded repeat of her original alert now, and responses were coming in as she linked them in group mode. At the ceremony, things were proceeding as if the hostage situation wasn’t occurring at all. Of course they were. This was all being orchestrated by Verd, and he’d pull the reveal only when he was good and ready. She listened with half an ear while the others began coordinating with each other. After a few—surprisingly few—moments of confusion, that was exactly what they did. The past few weeks of working out
the internal rebellion had done…wonders.

  “Nat, Bull, Ah’m ceedin’ strat as well as command to you,” Yankee Pride muttered, unbearable tension and frustration clear in his voice. “Verd’s actin’ like nothing’s happening. If Ah break away, he’ll know we’ve copped to it and we’re reactin’—oh, wait, somethin’s goin’ on.”

  Well that was clear enough. Verdigris had put one hand to an ear, frowning, then muttered something into a lapel-mic. The “something” was fully audible enough to Vickie, using Pride and Bella’s enhanced pickups. “Right. Dispatch Response Teams Gamma, Victor and Sigma. It’s only Rebs; how hard can it be to put them down? No, don’t bother scrambling ECHO Medical, these are metas, after all, even if they are retired. They won’t get hurt. This is no more than a publicity stunt and an annoyance.” Then he returned his attention to the audience, continuing his speech as though nothing had happened.

  “Patch me through to ECHO Med,” Bella ordered, turning her face away from Verd and Khanjar, her voice a thread of a whisper. Vickie complied, putting Bella not only on the Med comms, but the Med PA system. Bella’s voice might be inaudible to anyone next to her, but Vickie made sure it was at a good volume going out. “ECHO Med: this is Belladonna Blue. Red alert, full scramble. The MARTA with the retirees has been hijacked. I need the full response team up and moving. Ignore all other orders but mine. Dispatch to MARTA Five Points terminal and set up, but be prepared to move on the instant. Suit up in nanoweave. And go armed, if you don’t have offensive powers. If you have the new comms, use them. Do you copy?”