Invasion: Book One of the Secret World Chronicle-ARC

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Something—” A smattering of voice in a surge of static came from it. “Something’s come back. One of those flying things. It’s—” Another babble of voices, more static. “—they say it’s not firing, but the metatroopers that they cornered upstairs and all the bodies are, like, flying towards it—”

  “Shut the vault!” The imperious order rang out over some hidden PA system, and the door of the refrigerated vault swung ponderously closed. With a dull, booming sound, it came to rest, and the clank of what must have been huge bolts shooting home signaled that it was locked.

  And that was when the bodies still on the cart began to glow.

  “Take cover!” screamed one of the soldiers that had been moving the bodies into the vault a moment before. Instinctively, Bella and her helper ducked behind a forklift, as the bodies glowed red-hot, then yellow, then white, then too bright to look at, and the metal cart they had been lying on slagged and sagged to the floor, the rubber tires going up in flames, triggering the overhead fire-suppression system. Not sprinklers, no. A dozen nozzles protruded from the ceiling and doused just that spot with foam and a cooling mist which never even reached the injured.

  Within minutes, the fire was out, and the metal cooling down through red…but there was nothing left of the Nazi metatroopers but slagged metal indistinguishable from what was left of the flatbed and the little electric cart that had pulled it. The air was full of the smell of hot metal and burned plastic, although the ventilation system was quickly pulling all of the smoke and stench up towards the ceiling.

  “What the hell—” she gaped at the remains.

  “I guess they didn’t want us looking at their suits,” her helper said, and handed her a bottle of glucose.

  With that reminder, she gulped it down, and moved on to the next victim.

  It got to the point where not even pure glucose was making up for all the energy she was putting out. She felt feverish, light-headed, and oddly thinned out. Next to her, the vault door had been opened again, and from the activity inside apparently whatever had caused the Nazi armor to melt down out here had not gotten through the vault shielding. At least three people were in there now, and they sounded busy. Her helper had been looking concerned about her for the last three victims, and now he put his hand on her shoulder.

  “You need to stop now, ma’am,” he said quietly. “You’re about to fall clean over.”

  But the last of the black-tags had been pulled back from the brink, and she was halfway through the red-tags—

  “Ma’am, the doctors from Nellis are here now. You can stop. And you better.” The hand on her shoulder got heavier. “I got my orders, ma’am. Nothin’ is supposed to happen to you. Echo says.”

  Only now did she look at the logos on his fatigues, and realized that this was no GI, this was an Echo OpOne. She felt herself flush. “Can’t let the prize cow drop, huh?” she drawled, thinking angrily of how she had been pulled away from her station, her crew, when they needed her the most. Of course, she had been needed here too, but—those were her guys…and some of them had been missing.…

  “Ma’am, I have my orders,” he repeated. “You do what you can here, and I keep you in good shape while you’re doing it, I make sure you’re fit when you’re done, then we go to Atlanta—”

  “Atlanta!” she shouted. “Like hell I’m going to Atlanta! When this is over, I am going back to my crew, back to my station, and—”

  The sound of someone shouting louder than she was interrupted them both, as three men came stumbling out of the vault, two of the three looking green and the third looking white.

  “Get the general!” shouted the white-faced one to one of the nearest soldiers. “Get the Echo re—there you are!” He pointed at Bella’s helper. “Get in here! You have to see this!”

  “I’m keeping tabs on our newest OpTwo,” the man began, his demeanor changing in an instant from subservient to commanding. “There can’t be anything in a pile of powered armor more important than that.”

  The white-faced man began to laugh hysterically. “Oh god,” he gasped. “Oh god, if only you knew! That’s just it. It’s what’s in the armor!”

  The white-faced man sat abruptly down on the floor and began to cry. Bella got up, took one of the glucose bottles and handed it to him, and began to soothe him. It felt like she was sending out waves of quietude somehow…like the mental blasts, like the vastly increased healing powers, this was just…coming out of nowhere for her. At this point, she wasn’t going to question it. She just used it.

  Her helper stood there uncertainly for a moment, then his expression turned decisive. “Don’t let her get herself into trouble. I need to make a call.”

  “The President?” asked one of the green-faced men, with a gulp.

  “No,” the answer came back as the man sprinted up the tunnel, heading for the surface. “Tesla.”

  Chapter Five:

  The Seventh Circle

  Mercedes Lackey, Steve Libbey, Cody Martin, Dennis Lee

  So, there we were. Civilization as we knew it had just had its ass handed to it. Turned out that most of the communications satellites were out for civilian media—cell phones, and so on. Military still worked, and so did landline. And nearly every city had what came to be called “destruction corridors”—paths of complete devastation leading to wherever in that city the Echo HQ had been. It was clear, very early, that the Nazis had meant to take out Echo entirely, and any other enclave of metas, but when they couldn’t, they pulled out, falling back to some contingency plan. And initially, that made people angry, as if some serial killer was going around sniping firemen. That worked in Echo’s favor, and Echo was going to need all the favors it could get.

  Little did we know there was a favor out there that was as big as anything that had happened to us already.

  Atlanta, Georgia, USA: Callsign Seraphym

  As the smoke rose and the flames died, Seraphym remained, an unmoving, ever-watchful icon atop the Suntrust Plaza Building, taking only sporadic part in what lay below her. She knew everything that was going on, of course. Her connection to the Infinite allowed her, if not omniscience, then certainly broad and deep knowledge within a limited sphere. The futures were still settling; out there, metahumans whose powers had been awakened during the worldwide battle, or those who had finally acknowledged those powers and the need to use them for good, were deciding to come to Atlanta—or not. And as for Seraphym herself…

  The multiple futures would drive a mortal mad. All those possibilities—most of them ending in blood, terror and death, with the Thulians ruling as despots over a world enslaved—and beyond that, the terrible swath of destruction across the entire Universe that had been the reason why she and her Siblings had been sent here. It was hard, so hard, to thread the way through the futures. Most of the ones that ended in a free world had a maddening blank spot in the middle: futures that she could not see her way to, even with her connection to the Infinite. She could only steer her way by avoiding the worst, finding the abyss by avoiding the edges of it as best she could.

  She could not be everywhere, but she did not act nearly as often as mortals thought she should. There were those who saw her for what she was and did not understand why their faith was not rewarded by her presence in their moment of peril. But she had to choose, and she had to make her choices by the paths of the future. Some people were crucial to it; those she had to save. She heard, in her heart, the wail of “Why? Why him and not me?” and she could have answered it, but the answer would have shattered them.

  In some hearts and minds, she watched as long-buried fires broke through the insulating cover of the ashes of the past and began to reawaken. She watched as new possible futures spun off from their decisions and began to sort and categorize those futures: this, desirable; that, not. It was not yet time to act, however. Though the Thulians had placed their counters on the board, the resistance had been greater than they had anticipated, and they were still sorting through their poss
ible options. And behind them…the others…

  And then…she felt it. A mind, a mortal mind, in unimaginable torment. A mind that, like hers, saw the futures. It was far away in mortal terms, but not far for her. And this could not, should not be. Mortals were not meant to know the futures. Not as she did. Not as this mind did.

  And this mind…did not want to. It cried out in pain and fear.

  She opened her heart to the Infinite. Is this permitted? she asked.

  Instantly came the response. It is.

  * * *

  They called Matthew March “autistic” as a child. What no one had known was that he was not closed into a world of his own, he was far, far too open to the real one. From the time he was eight, he had seen things, seen what would happen to people around him, but more than that, seen what might happen to the people around him. The older he got, the more maybes he saw, until he was surrounded by them, choked by them. And he became paralyzed, not by confusion, but by his inability to choose. This one, and not that one—help a friend, who would later kill a child in a hit-and-run accident while drunk. Keep a girl from heartbreak only to have her grow into a lawyer who successfully defended known criminals.

  He could not choose. He could not. His inability to act confined him to a bed, his muscles atrophied, and only a few psychics could fish out his most powerful visions from his mind.

  And that had been bad enough. Until today. Until now. When the attack began, and all he saw was the beginning, and people dying everywhere, and the end, in the future, far but not far enough. Slaughter. Terror. Horror. Everywhere he “looked” the end was the same. He felt himself screaming inside, helpless, hopeless—

  And then she came.

  She was in his mind, but so much clearer than the psychics he was used to working with. And then, she embraced him somehow, sheltered him from his terrible visions, and held him while he cried. Was she only in his mind? He so seldom opened his eyes anymore…but this time, he did.

  She was real. And she was beautiful. And she was…must be…an angel. Nothing else could look like that, so powerful, so strange, so otherworldly. She was wrapped in flame, and her wings were of fire, furled closely against her back. Her eyes…her eyes were red-gold, and had no pupils. They looked on him, and he sensed she was seeing in too many ways for him to comprehend.

  How did you—?

  She only smiled, sadly. None will disturb us while I am here. I hold us out of time.

  He began to tremble. What I see—is that what is going to happen?

  She hesitated. It is the most probable.

  He began to cry. He couldn’t stand this. This time, it wasn’t inability to act that paralyzed him, it was that there was no way for him to make a difference. It was the end of everything good, everything worth living for.

  I don’t want to see it!

  Then you need not.

  He went very still, taken aback. I—how?

  I can take you with me, to the Heart of All Time, where you may rest. It is permitted.

  She stretched out her arms to him.

  Wait! he said, seeing a tiny, tiny glimmer of hope in the mad tangle of death and destruction. I need to warn them!

  She nodded gravely. He scrabbled for the pen and pad of paper kept at his bedside for the psychics that ventured into his brain. Hastily, he scrawled everything he could, then pitched the pad as far away from his bed as his weak and uncoordinated arms could manage. Now. Now I’m ready.

  Come to me, child, she whispered, her power shielding him from the pain, as the Light opened up before him. I will take you Home.

  Echo Headquarters, Atlanta, Georgia, USA

  Ramona sipped her coffee noisily, letting the warmth dull the pain in her ribs. She had refused a trip to the hospital; there was too much to do. She scanned the sky for her scout.

  Ten feet up, Mercurye sped across the ravaged lawn and slowed to a halt before her. He stepped down onto the ground. His expression was easy to read.

  “No luck?” she guessed.

  “Nothing. No sign of the Commandant or his lady, or your shape-changing friend—assuming I would even recognize him. I retraced your path through detention.” He took a deep breath. “It’s a charnel house. I doubt there’s a prisoner left alive.”

  Ramona perked up. “Hey…there’s one! I forgot about him in all the noise.” She scratched a name down on a pad. “Get this to Sheryl. She can look up his file.”

  Mercurye’s shoulders sagged. He shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry. They found her body an hour ago.”

  “Oh.” Cold gripped her stomach. “Well, then, I guess I have to do my own legwork, huh?” Her eyes drifted to the ground. Suddenly Sheryl’s face became indistinct in her mind. “Yeah. Part of my job, you know?” Her throat closed. Words stopped coming.

  Mercurye enclosed Ramona in his arms. Grief hit her like a freight train.

  “Go ahead, it’s fine,” he said.

  “Jesus Christ,” she said, between sobs. “And I was holding it together all this time. I was doing so well.” Ramona’s tears smeared on his bare, dust-encrusted chest. Mercurye stroked her hair for minutes while she bawled like a baby.

  Her breath returned in gasps. “Okay, I just have to tell you, I don’t normally cry like this. Crime scenes, mangled corpses, beheaded cheerleaders…I’m a pro.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first person to lose it today.”

  “Oh yeah? I thought metas don’t cry.”

  “We do,” he said. “But we can also find a cloud bank to hide in.”

  A chuckle escaped through the sobs. She gave him a squeeze. “Thanks, handsome. Back to work, I suppose. We need Slycke’s dossier from the database.”

  Mercurye shook his head. “Totaled. Alex took a team of programmers to rescue what data he could.”

  “Damn.” The Echo metahuman database had been fed by virtually every law enforcement agency in the world; algorithms so elaborate as to approach artificial intelligence sifted that data into categories of relevance. It was the greatest tool a detective could have for tracking a powered fugitive. There was only one copy, though, the idea being that a lack of copies meant fewer security risks. Didn’t anyone see the Star Wars movies and learn about the dangers of single-point-of-failure systems?

  “Eisenfaust was our key, Merc. That Bermuda Triangle story sounded like a weak TV plot until his former comrades-in-arms came knocking on the door to shut him up. What he told Slycke was important enough that he didn’t even try to fight for his life. I have to find that perp.” The details of the incident were becoming hazy in her mind, just like every witness she interviewed. Certain details outshine the others; soon all that’s left is a snapshot. She needed to write it all down.

  “At least he’s ugly,” Mercurye said. “Hard to conceal that.”

  “That makes it worse,” she said. “He’ll avoid contact entirely. Fewer witnesses. If he has any sense, he’ll head for the swamp. God! If only Eisenfaust would have given a proper statement, we’d have been ready for this attack.”

  Mercurye snapped his fingers in realization, a gesture so corny that Ramona found it immediately endearing. “That reminds me. Alex wants me to transport Eisenfaust’s body to a secure location.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Really? That’s odd. Plenty of ambulances here.”

  “Orders are orders.” He grimaced at the makeshift morgue across the lawn, where hundreds of body bags had been lined up for identification and tagging. “Let me know if you need help with Slycke. Things will be chaotic here for a while.”

  “I’ll call you when I find out something worth sharing.”

  “Call anyway. Keep me in the loop.” He flashed her a smile. “Okay?”

  Her cheeks warmed. “Okay. Now scoot.”

  Mercurye tipped his helmet to her. “Off to the underworld,” he said before leaving. Ramona watched him approach the grim black line of corpses, a man given the duties of a god.

  * * *

  The Omega Airlines official scribbled
the food order on a pad of paper. “Got it. I’ll head out now. Is there anything else you need?”

  A time machine, Alex thought. A way to go back and save every employee of mine who died today. “Nothing else. Thanks. We appreciate it.”

  “Our pleasure, sir.” The official pushed his glasses up his nose and hurried off to Alex’s favorite Waffle House to bring back food for the crew.

  A guard stopped them as they approached a checkpoint in the underground tunnel leading to Omega Airlines’ Secure Computer Center. The man was apologetic but firm as he indicated an aging retinal scanner. “Just a formality, folks.”

  “Of course.” Alex wondered how his eyes must look to the machine: bloodshot, exhausted. The machine dazzled him with a bright flash. A somber and respectful guard handed him a visitor badge.

  The others took their place at the scanner: Shahkti, each one of her four hands holding a bag of equipment; Ihsan Muhammed, Echo’s lead programmer, whose broken leg had bound him to a wheelchair, though he had refused painkillers; and Jules and Lauren Kaivers, fresh from the Belgian office and sightseeing at the time of the attack.

  The Thule Society’s Blitzkrieg attack on the Echo campus—ending abruptly with an improbable magnetic evacuation by the war machines—had taken a dreadful toll: early estimates ranged from half to two-thirds of the Echo meta population, and possibly more of nonpowered personnel.

  This loss demolished him. He was a shell of a man, yet his intellect issued him orders to carry on: a heartless to-do list for a man who had lost his heart.

  Echo owned its own communication satellite for the comm system, yet from the moment of the attack, the comm system had gone dead. Techs worked to reroute it to local cell towers. The computer network, physically damaged from the collapse of the administration building, had suffered an attack of its own: a malignant virus ripped through the system and destroyed all data by changing binary code to strings of zeros, moving on to Echo servers around the world. Jules Kaivers had dubbed it Lebensraum; it had become the second, ruthless digital wave of the invasion.