Invasion: Book One of the Secret World Chronicle-ARC

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Like I said, his comm has been off for days.” The dispatcher lowered his voice. “There are rumors, though…”

  And thus Ramona strode up to the burly, shirtless bouncer at Menergy, the all-hours club. “Looking for Southwind. You can’t miss him: eight feet tall, bald, looks like he double-parked his flying saucer.”

  “Not here.” The bouncer had to raise his voice to be heard over the pumping Euro-disco music. He wore leather pants and suspenders that didn’t conceal his nipple rings. “I can’t let you in.”

  “What?”

  “We’re at capacity. You’ll have to wait.”

  She blinked. The dimly-lit dance floor could have fit a bulldozer in between dancing couples. Ramona drew herself up. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Don’t care, sister.”

  “Oh, you will. Because either I pull out my Echo ID and pull rank, or I pull out my Echo sidearm, drop you like a frickin’ roach, and write a report about how you interfered with a peace officer in the course of performing her duty.” She gave him a steely glare. “The first choice hurts less and involves no paperwork, but I guaran-damn-tee you I like the second one better.”

  His jaw twitched.

  “Well?”

  “I promised Rey he would be left alone.” The man’s face softened. “He’s in mourning. We all are.”

  “Then he’ll want to hear what I have for him—a little chance for revenge.”

  The bouncer’s eyes narrowed, then he stood aside. “Second red door on the right. Knock first.”

  Ramona passed through the barroom quickly. She was the only female in the room. Menergy appeared to cater to the macho gay crowd: black leather and facial hair abounded, though there was a selection of young men decidedly more effeminate than the bouncer and his ilk. Nevertheless, the bright desperation here was the same you’d find at happy hour at any bar.

  She pounded on the second red door.

  “Occupied!” The voice was familiar.

  “Rey! It’s Ramona Ferrari. We have a situation and you’re needed.”

  The voice was slurred in a comic parody of intoxication. “Who—oh, Christ. Get lost.”

  Ramona tried the handle. Someone—or something—held it firm. “Either come out or let me in, Rey.”

  The metahuman barked harsh laughter. “I came out a long time ago, before I turned into a freak. Leave me alone.”

  She glanced at her watch. Ten minutes had already been lost with this unsavory detour. The amusement in the copter pilot’s voice when she told him to rendezvous with her at Menergy was bad enough. Now she had yet another self-pitying metahuman to deal with.

  “I am going to count to three…Oh, the hell with it.” She drew her pistol and fired five swift shots around the doorknob, angled towards the jamb. The wood holding the bolt shredded. Ramona gave the door a kick before Southwind could force it shut.

  A leather modular couch took up most of the room, which stank of sweat, smoke, and booze. Southwind reclined across the entire length of the couch, wearing nothing more than a thong. Two pale and similarly underdressed young men had cast themselves under his arms in fear.

  Southwind rolled his giant, bulbous eyes at her. “Rah rah, very exciting. You scared my friends, mean lady.” He patted their heads. “You’re not going to use that big bad gun on little old me, are you?”

  “Cut the crap. I need a TK for a mission right now.”

  “So what? I quit. Or I will when Echo finds me.” He considered. “Which, I guess, it has now, right?”

  “No. We’re at war, soldier, and you have marching orders.”

  “Forget it. Echo let Kevin die in their stupid war. They don’t deserve me.”

  Ramona locked eyes with him—a feat considering that his were the size of her hands. His transformed features did not express emotions as a normal human’s face might, instead seeming to switch between serene and evil. What he truly felt was unreadable, but she could guess: grief, rage, loneliness, resentment.

  “Listen, mister. Echo didn’t ‘let’ Kevin die. And we’re doing a snatch-and-grab on a meta that has intel on the Nazis—the people who actually killed your boyfriend. You want revenge, this is the place to start.” She holstered the gun. “You in or not?”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Helicopter will be here in minutes. Only a TK can catch this guy. Without you I’ll just send the chopper home and call it a night. So?” Ramona put out a hand to him.

  Southwind took her proffered hand and stood, nearly smacking his head on the ceiling. His boytoys fell to the floor with yelps.

  “Yes, ma’am!” he said with a crispness that betrayed his military past. A pile of clothes floated past her head and unfolded. Ramona had never seen clothes put themselves on before. In seconds he was dressed in a spindly Echo uniform and giving her a snappy salute. “Ready for deployment.”

  * * *

  Interstate 75 cut through the verdant Georgian landscape that blurred underneath them as the Echo copter carried them to their destination on spinning blades and roaring jets.

  “This is where we get off,” Ramona shouted over the headset.

  “We’re ten clicks from the target, ma’am!” The pilot jabbed a finger at the heads-up display. “I can put you right on their roof.”

  “That’s a negative. One perp has metahuman hearing. Southwind will take us in.” She tilted her head at the giant meta hunching over in the cabin. He nodded. “Head over the highway and circle it until you hear from us. With luck, Easy Listener will mistake you for a traffic helicopter.”

  “I’ll lay off the jets, too.”

  “Good boy.” She turned to the team. “All right, folks. With the exception of Flak, none of you have worked with me before. Flak is the squad leader but he’ll be executing my orders. This is a snatch and grab against meta Ones. These guys are not known for excessive force but are known for skilled escapes. They will be frightened, so be prepared. Our target, Slycke, is carrying critical intel. He must be taken alive at all costs. Pensive will make the read on the scene, which makes him mission critical as well.”

  “Another point,” Pensive said. His wild eyebrows and graying hair gave him the air of an art-film director. “Should we not have more combat operatives for this mission?”

  “That’s what Silent’s for.” And, she added to herself, the best she could do given the dubious response she’d gotten from Tesla when she described her hunch about Slycke. She had to call in favors to get Flak and Silent Knight.

  Southwind crouched at the helicopter door. With a flick of a finger he opened the latch and slid the door open. The roar of the blades swelled.

  “Form up, close as you can, and I’ll grab you. Close your eyes if you feel dizzy.” He removed his headset and rolled out of the hatch, looking for a scary moment as though he were committing suicide—and then he floated alongside the helicopter, utterly relaxed. One spidery hand urged them forward.

  “I hate this part,” Flak muttered before he pulled his headset off. The five clustered together, Silent Knight hulking behind them like a pet truck.

  Southwind raised both hands. A million miniature hurricane winds wrapped their bodies and dragged them out of the helicopter. Ramona shut her eyes to the vertigo overwhelming her. Over the sound of the blades she could hear Flak swearing loudly, using curses that would make a sailor envious.

  In seconds the helicopter peeled away from them. Southwind kept them hovering in the air until the helicopter had become a speck in the distance. Aside from the susurrus of the prevailing winds, silence enveloped them.

  Southwind chuckled. “That’s better, isn’t it? You should see yourselves with your faces all screwed up.”

  Ramona opened her eyes. The unincorporated landscape of Irwin County stretched out beneath her like a verdant woven blanket. Floating in the sky, she was reminded of the time as a child when she had taken a hot air balloon ride at a state fair, and the world had seemed vast beyond comprehension.

  Silent Knigh
t, who, true to his moniker, had been virtually silent for the entire trip, surprised her by speaking first, though the words seemed out of place in his computerized voice: “A lovely sight.”

  Flak pointed towards the destination. “They may have spotters. Can you take us in low?”

  “You got it. The view won’t be as pretty. Ah, close your eyes again. Trust me on this one.” He dropped from view. Ramona squeezed her eyes shut as they began a free-fall. Her stomach lurched and panic rose inside her.

  As quickly as it started, the descent ended in a gentle slope. The ground was a mere five feet below.

  “Sorry,” Southwind said. “But we’re under the radar now.” Force built up behind them.

  Once they began a horizontal vector, genuine metahuman flight was actually rather relaxing. Southwind deliberately steered them towards the tree line to take advantage of cover. Ramona forced herself to gather her thoughts about the mission. She checked her watch: 5:45 p.m.. Slycke would be on site for another fifteen minutes. She asked Southwind for an ETA.

  “Five minutes, ma’am.” His exaggerated features were screwed up in concentration. Given that he was working hard to keep from slamming them into obstructions, she decided not to pester him.

  She addressed the others. “We’re going to deploy without any chatter, so listen up. Slycke is going to bolt when he gets wind of us. Southwind’s job will be to lock him down—he’s the only one who can hold onto him. Flak and Knight will run interference. Pensive will remain outside until the area is secure. I’ll do the talking.”

  “What about me?” Belladonna asked.

  “You’re the DCO.” Ramona frowned. “Listen, Blue, no trouble from you, please. Just watch our backs.”

  “She’ll keep it tight,” Flak said. “We’ve been over this already, believe me.”

  They emerged from the grove of trees. A tattered Texaco sign stood sentry over a concrete box labeled country store. A flickering fluorescent light proved the power was on, in spite of the store’s ramshackle appearance. Ramona held up a hand for Southwind to reduce their velocity.

  Good old reliable Georgia mud, Ramona thought. Parallel tracks led away from the door. She pointed them out, and Southwind followed them at a slower pace along the overgrown gravel road. The country store was still in sporadic use, it appeared. Ramona had a guess who was the primary customer.

  Abruptly, Southwind halted them. A wing of a dilapidated antebellum mansion peeked out from behind looming stands of hydrangea. Time had weathered the walls and columns, leaving only a few dirty shreds of white paint to mottle the gray, water-stained wood. A rusting tractor stood watch by the driveway.

  Ramona waved them on. Silent but for the air they displaced, they entered the yard.

  At once, a raucous sound of shrieking and scrabbling startled them. Guns swung around to find a target in…a chicken, loose in the yard and surprised by the floating visitors.

  Pensive pointed to the house and held up four fingers. He folded all but one and nodded meaningfully. Southwind let him down in the yard.

  Her watch read 5:55 p.m. Ramona put a finger to her lips and gave a single nod.

  Southwind guided them towards the double doors of the front porch. They glided like ghosts over the stairs and a makeshift ramp. Inside, angry voices volleyed back and forth. Invisible hands swung the doors open before them with a woody groan.

  The interior of the house, while not restored, had been cleaned of dirt and grime. The voices echoed out from the dining room. Southwind floated them over the buckling hardwood floorboards to a clear view of the occupants seated at a table.

  Ramona’s heart raced. Walter Slycke stood with his back to them, hands gesticulating wildly. An elderly, gaunt man in a jacket and tie sat across the table in a wheelchair and winced at the volume of Slycke’s voice. A slender, blond man in a dirty hooded sweatshirt ignored them both and picked at his food, but the thick-armed, bare-chested man in overalls glared in anger at Slycke.

  Twinkletoes and Musclehead, she realized. And Easy Listener was in worse shape than she had expected.

  Ramona cleared her throat. “Excuse me, folks. Need a word with your slippery friend here.”

  Slycke whirled around. His skin oil had been flowing freely over his face and neck, as if he were a mechanic bungling an oil change.

  “Oh, hell no,” he said.

  Her feet touched the floor, making it easier to aim her sidearm. “Oh, yes. Thanks for distracting your host for us, Mr. Slycke. I trust you can guess who we are.”

  Body tensing, Slycke scanned the room for a bolt-hole. Southwind raised a hand and the shutters of the windows clattered shut.

  “Area secure, ma’am.” His smirk twisted his thin features disturbingly.

  The old man scooted back his wheelchair. “Miss, please. Lower your gun. No one wants any violence here. Walter was just leaving.”

  “Damn right,” Slycke said. “And you ain’t gonna stop me.”

  Ramona grinned at him. “Not me, Walter. Meet my friend Southwind here.”

  With a howl, Musclehead launched the entire table at them—at her. She reflexively threw up her arms.

  Silent Knight stepped in front of her, palms outstretched. Musclehead’s howl—and every voice heard in the last two minutes—played back as a tight-beam, amplified and focused sonic burst. She had never been so close to Silent Knight in action; it was tantamount to unleashing a hundred thunderstorms in a small room, and she blanked out momentarily. The table exploded into splinters.

  Easy Listener fell out of his wheelchair, covering his ears and wailing. Twinkletoes appeared over Ramona in a blur, her sidearm now in his hand. As rapid as a machine gun, he emptied the clip into Silent Knight. Most of the caseless rounds ricocheted off the metal and nanoweave—she had not loaded armor-piercing bullets. Still, the impact staggered Silent Knight and blood sprayed out from his stomach.

  Twinkletoes stared at the crumbling giant in shock; it was obvious that he hadn’t been in a fight for years. Ramona, on the other hand, had been so keyed up in anticipation of this confrontation that she was ready to act. She wrapped her arms around the metahuman’s legs and put all her weight against his knees. He tumbled to the floor with a yelp.

  “Stop, please!” Easy Listener’s anguished plea went unheeded. Flak had pinned Musclehead’s arms behind him and held tight as the strongman bucked like a bronco.

  Twinkletoes raised the empty gun to pistol-whip Ramona. In his hands, even an unloaded gun became a deadly weapon. Ramona blanched. Yet the gun leapt out of his hands and bounced off the ceiling. Southwind had nearly dropped Slycke from midair so that he could turn his attention to protecting Ramona.

  She pulled handcuffs from her jacket and slapped one on Twinkletoes’ ankle. “Hey!” he protested, but before he could squirm out from her weight, she cuffed his other ankle. She rolled off his legs and caught her breath, half crawling to retrieve her pistol.

  Her cell phone vibrated.

  What lousy timing, Ramona thought. She struggled to her feet, ears ringing, and scanned the room. Slycke floated in the middle of the room under Southwind’s control; Flak had Musclehead in a half nelson and grunted under the strain of keeping him still; Easy Listener had curled up into a ball, blood seeping from his ears and crying. Twinkletoes clawed at the handcuffs preventing him from using his speed to escape.

  Belladonna crouched by Silent Knight’s prone form. Her hands moved over the ragged, bloody holes in his nanoweave shirt. Ramona leaned in. “How is he?”

  “I can handle it,” the blue girl snapped without taking her eyes from Knight.

  Ramona exhaled in relief. The moment of terror and violence had ended in relative success. Her desperate curiosity about Eisenfaust’s final words came back in delicious anticipation of gratification. She even smiled.

  “Hot damn. Now we can get started.”

  Slycke flailed his arms as Southwind held him fast, three feet above the floor. He glared at Ramona with undisguised hatred. A faint scen
t of oil wafted off him, spread by the displaced air from Southwind’s telekinesis.

  “Walter, Walter, Walter.” Ramona tapped her cheek with her gun. “Whatever are we going to do with you?”

  “I ain’t going back to lockup,” he said.

  “That’s up to Southwind, honey, and his magic fingers. But if you cooperate with us, I can ask for your sentence to be reduced.”

  “Bull.”

  “Hey. I’m not the criminal here. You make me an offer. Why shouldn’t we throw you back in a hole?”

  Oily liquid formed patterns over Slycke’s blunt features. His eyes narrowed. “What do you want from me?”

  “Information, Walter. You’re a witness to the murder of Heinrich Eisenhauer—Eisenfaust. His last words were addressed to you.”

  “Yeah. So? Lots of killin’ that day. Hell, I thought they killed you.”

  “Which explains why you’re so happy to see me again. Walter, what did Eisenfaust say?”

  “Let me down first. I ain’t no animal.”

  Ramona snorted. “Not according to your dossier. Spill the beans. Now. Or I get the psion to scrape out your skull, and believe me, that is unpleasant.”

  Walter Slycke glanced around nervously. A long moment passed…then her phone rang. Again. She hit the Ignore key.

  “I’m a popular girl, Walter. Start talking while I still feel generous.”

  “See, the thing is…” He sighed. “I kinda forgot what he said.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You…forgot?”

  “There was a lot going on, lady. I was sure them Nazis was fittin’ to kill me. All I could think about was how I was going to get out of there alive.”

  Flak coughed. “Doesn’t that just figure? Knight’s down and it’s all for nothing.”

  Ramona rubbed her scalp. “Not for nothing. Pensive can dig through and get those memories. Just takes time.”

  Slycke cringed. “I’m gonna get scraped?”

  “Yep. If you ask nice, he’ll cuddle you afterwards.” The phone rang again. She ignored it and instead flicked on her Echo comm unit. “Pensive, we’re ready for you.”