by Mercedes Lackey; Cody Martin; Dennis Lee; Veronica Giguere
A planeload of CCCP members had arrived to media fanfare; mostly just news jackals looking to capitalize on the controversy that surrounded Atlanta’s newest “Reds.” They were a mixed lot of the very old and the young, for the most part, led by a startlingly handsome and charismatic man about the same age as Red Saviour, who announced to the female reporter who was all but swooning over him that she could call him “Molotok.”
John had learned that these were older Soviet metas from World War II and the Cold War era, and shiny new young socialists that Saviour said, enigmatically, were “unconventional” and thus did not fit into the Supernaut defense cadre. He wasn’t sure what that meant. The Supernauts seemed to be mostly armored metas under the supervision of Worker’s Champion (who Saviour called “Uncle Borets” or something like that) and Saviour’s own father. There seemed to be a lot of shouting in this relationship . . . and John got the distinct impression that the CCCPers who had arrived on this shore had been more unacceptable than unconventional, those whose powers were waning and had retired, and those whose powers were erratic and not yet under control. He had to wonder how many metas the Russians had lost. He’d heard numbers bandied about of the Echo Ops lost that ranged from a half to three-fourths. Certainly the numbers were bad if Echo was reduced to taking petty criminals now. Maybe not so petty. He’d heard things about Red Djinni, for instance, during his days on the run. . . .
If that was true, and if the Russians had lost a proportionate amount, he couldn’t imagine how any of them would be unacceptable.
Except . . . maybe . . . in their loyalty to Red Saviour. Or maybe their unwillingness to compromise their socialist ideals to Batov’s new way of doing business.
Maybe a bit of both.
Things were finally starting to shape up, though. With the increase in manpower came an increase in the amount of work that the CCCP could do. This included expanding the group’s patrol routes to include the surrounding neighborhoods, like John’s. The CCCP’s attached soup kitchen was working around the clock, serving hearty meals to anyone who came by. A free, albeit limited, medical clinic that asked no questions about where injuries came from was operated by Soviette and whatever off-duty CCCPers she could wrangle. He could have used both in his underground days. Maybe if he’d had them, he’d already be one of the comrades . . . hard to say.
Jonas’ community garden had been not quite ruthlessly taken over by the twins—a pair of sonic metas—and the strange, gothy Upyr, who had all come off a farm commune and had forgotten more about vegetable gardening than the entire neighborhood had ever known. Upyr was even a botanist, which seemed odd for someone who looked like a vampire. Chalk-white hair, skin so pale that it looked almost painted on like a China doll, proper little square-framed “socialist” glasses clearly handed out by the state—the kind that hadn’t been in fashion since John Lennon died. “BCGs” is what they would’ve been called in Basic; birth control glasses. Upyr never wore anything but shadow-gray and black, always wore gloves, and was so self-contained, except when she was working with plants, that you would scarcely know she was there. The only bit of color about her was the scarlet CCCP star with the anachronistic gold hammer and sickle in the center that she wore over her left breast.
And Perun, an engineer before his metapowers over electricity had manifested in the Siege of Stalingrad, had personally rigged some kind of electrical feed to every building in Jonas’ neighborhood, while his friend and fellow “old man” (who was a woman, though you’d hardly know it by looking at her), Rusalka, had seen to it that there was a clean source of fresh water coming into every household from across the destruction corridor.
The CCCP was truly making an impact on the surrounding area; the headlines in the newspaper and on the television had ceased to be totally hostile and were slowly becoming a shade of neutral. During the flurry of activity, John had barely any time to acquaint himself with any of his new comrades, save for a few. One, in particular, stuck out in John’s estimation like a raw turnip in the middle of a posh buffet; “the” Soviet Bear. Of course, none of the media had ever spoken to Soviet Bear. Which was . . . just as well.
John had first run into Bear while working on the CCCP’s run-down, thirdhand, and utterly ancient Soviet generators. They were supposed to be WWII surplus. He believed it. He’d run into Bear because Bear was supposed to be the only person who understood the damned things. That wasn’t strictly true, but Perun was still rigging the neighborhood electrics, and for John at least that had priority. The man looked like a steampunk enthusiast’s wet dream; except for his head, shoulders, and arms, he was almost completely mechanical. His “body,” if that term even fit anymore, was made out of blued titanium, painted over with flaking Soviet military-gray paint. Hydraulics and tubes sprouted all over his joints and torso. The “centerpiece” was off-center in his chest; a glowing crimson, gyroscope-looking “heart.” The grayed-out hair, “Ivan” mustache, and officer’s cap completed the look. The old Russian also wore an eye patch over his right eye; no doubt a souvenir from some past fight. Though given the Bear’s reputed age, which fight was up for debate.
John was trying to remove a panel in order to access the inner workings of the generator when he heard Bear. “No, no, tovarisch. Must use ‘sock it to me’ wrench for maintenance panel.” John turned to see Bear, leaning against the doorway with a very, very large clear jug in his hand. Even from several feet away, John could smell the rotgut vodka that filled it. “Had to repair these when I ran camp in Ukraine.” Bear shifted uncomfortably, coughing into a handkerchief he had in his free hand. John noticed that it had a few spots of blood on it, despite the Russian being careful to hide the handkerchief. “Where are manners? Name is Vladimir Pavlovich Polokhov, the ‘Soviet Bear.’ Sovietski Medved. You may call me Pavel; Americans have many troubles pronouncing Russian names. I assume you are our newest American comrade, da?”
“That’s right.” He extended his hand. “John Murdock; pleased t’meetcha.” Pavel shook his hand weakly; John felt the gnarled joints enveloped almost completely in his own hand. “Now, y’said somethin’ about me usin’ the wrong wrench for this job? A . . .” John let it hang in the air for Bear to finish.
“Da, ‘sock it to me’ wrench. Is how you say it, nyet?”
John thought for a few moments before it clicked. “Ah, y’mean a socket wrench. Thanks for the tip, Pavel. If’n ya wanna stick around, I could use the help gettin’ this up an’ running. It’s been mostly guesswork for me so far.”
For the next few hours, John talked with Pavel while they disassembled and repaired the antique generator. John mostly listened; Bear went on about his exploits during the Great Patriotic War, his experiences with Lenin and Stalin, and a plethora of dirty and lewd jokes. The man was a compendium of bad puns. It was a good thing Bear was not patrolling the neighborhoods alone. Though it was unlikely that any of the folks hereabouts would know what a kulak was, or be insulted by being referred to as a Ukrainian.
Today the pack consisted of John, Upyr, Bear, and Untermensch. John wasn’t entirely clear on what Upyr could actually do, but the Commissar seemed confident of her ability in a fight, so he was willing to go along with it. The four of them were riding in a pair of the CCCP’s issue Ural patrol motorcycles, sidecar attached; they were cheaper on the ever-so-scarce gas (which had gone rare in-city ever since the attacks), and would take more punishment than WWIII could throw at them. John and Untermensch were driving the bikes, with Bear and Upyr riding in the sidecars, respectively. Bear was continually griping about how it was “below him” to be riding in the sidecar; he cradled an ancient and well-used PPSh-41 in his arms, cooing to it in Russian occasionally.
This wasn’t John’s first motorcycle patrol with the CCCP, so he was fairly relaxed. He made sure to stay alert, however; falling into a routine was the easiest way to have something bad happen.
And, of course, as soon as he was done processing that thought, the routine was broken. Jadwiga’s vo
ice blurted over the comms. “Patrol Hotel-1, this is Control. Receiving report from Gamayun. Stand by.” Untermensch, who was leading the squad, signaled for everyone to come to a stop and “ruck up.” Gamayun was one of the newer Russians to come to Atlanta. Named after a mythological prophetic bird in Russian folklore, she was one of the CCCP’s trump cards. She was a true-blue remote viewer; anywhere in a ten-mile radius, she could be damn near omniscient. Not in predicting things, but in seeing what was going on there. She used an inverted shotglass over a map to narrow her focus. She was limited to one sort of “filter” at a time, though; right now she was being used as an early warning system, immediately alerting the CCCP about any wrongdoing or incoming threats in their area of responsibility. John remembered Saviour’s reaction when she came in off the plane. She had looked at the frail little blonde and grunted, “Is only favor Worker’s Champion is doing me.” That passed for high approval, apparently.
It was less than a minute before Soviette was on the comms again. “Immediate action: we have a large group of Rebs, northwest of your patrol’s position, heading South along the main thoroughfare. Traveling on motorcycles. Intel says they are very hostile, and are currently using deadly force.”
A new voice on the comms. John recognized it immediately as the Commissar’s smoke-hoarsened alto. “I am advising you that current law is no deadly force may be used by metas on non-metas unless life is in danger.” Then her tone took on a darkly wicked tenor. “So use own discretion about life being in danger.”
Untermensch drew a circle in the air with his index finger, signaling John to start his motorcycle back up. “We ride!” The two Urals roared to life, dust wafting into the air behind their mufflers. Bear laughed heartily, chambering a round into his antique submachine gun. Upyr smiled thinly, reached into the sidecar and came up with a Russian police-issue KS-23 shotgun. At John’s glance she shrugged. “Rubber bullets, comrade!” she shouted. “I am not crazy old man like Bear.” John shook his head—he didn’t believe in “less than lethal” munitions, figuring if you were forced to shoot someone, you sure as hell better kill them—then gunned the throttle, rocketing along the road behind Untermensch. It was a good thing these Urals were as sturdy as advertised; Unter was riding over piles of debris and ruined pavement with reckless abandon, bouncing Bear violently in the sidecar. Signaling with his right hand, he made a sharp turn down an alley. John followed, staggering his bike off from Unter’s path and allowing the distance to grow slightly between them; no sense in both bikes being taken out with one shot. Or grenade. I really hope they aren’t packin’ grenades. The Rebs were known for being rip-snortin’ crazy; drugs, prostitution, and guns were some of the more tame ventures that they were hooked into before the Invasion. Now, it seemed, they aimed to build themselves a little Mad Max-style kingdom.
In a flash of daylight, the patrol was out of the alley and into the street, screeching their bikes to a halt. Less than a mile to their left were the Rebs; had to be at least twenty of them. Shotguns, rifles, pistols, and firebombs; every one of them was armed, and blasting everything they could see. Luckily, they were entering the neighborhood from the direction of one of the unpopulated destruction corridors. But it wouldn’t be long until they reached areas where folks were actually living; at this time of day, the streets would have plenty of people on them, going about their lives.
The CCCPers dismounted from their motorcycles, forming a line facing the oncoming Rebs. Unter was the first to speak. “We find cover, then hold them here until backup can arrive. We need way to keep them from bypassing us.” He surveyed the area for a few very tense seconds, then focused on an abandoned building to their right. “That one. Pavel, Murdock; take it down!” The building had been previously gutted in the Nazis’ invasion; the side facing them was open to the street. Without wasting a moment, all four of the CCCPers positioned themselves between it and the Rebs. Bear moved forward, adjusting the gauntlets on his arms. John noticed that the old Russian’s mechanical heart, still suspended and spinning in his chest, sped up moments before the Bear fired. In a staggering blast of light, two coherent beams of energy lashed out from Bear’s fists, striking key load-bearing columns left in the building. It began to topple uneasily behind them; John pulled up his scarf over his mouth, and then relaxed his concentration. A heavy wave of flame jetted from his own gloved hands, engulfing the ruins just as they hit the street. Dust and smoke filled the air; it would take a bit to dissipate, and might provide them a limited amount of concealment.
The Rebs were closing in. John moved left along with Bear, taking cover behind a water tower that had fallen from a roof and landed on its side. Untermensch and Upyr were positioned ahead and to the right of John’s location, the two of them on opposite ends of a sedan that had been partially melted. The Rebs were less than one hundred yards away; the roar of their choppers and the staccato clatter of gunfire filled the air, punctuated by their cursing and whooping. John thought for a moment, then spoke into his headset. “Boss, how much did the Commissar get these bikes for?”
Unter looked back to John, an expression of puzzlement on his face. “We are on strict budget. She is getting them surplus—”
“Good to know.” While Unter was talking, John had taken a small roll of “100-mile-an-hour” tape from one of his belt pouches. Engaging the brakes on his Ural, he revved the throttle up before taping it down. Just as the Rebs were within fifty yards, he released the brakes, sending the motorcycle screeching down the center of the Rebs’ column. Their bikes scattered out of the way of the oncoming Ural, with one of the Rebs eating pavement, hard. Eyeballing the distance so that it was just at the rear of the Rebs’ formation, John ducked out from behind cover, blasting plasma at the gas tank. In a brilliant fireball, the Ural exploded, sending the sidecar tumbling like a child’s toy. The Rebs were now blocked off from both ends; debris and CCCPers in front, and a fiery wreckage behind them.
The Rebs, screaming, hollering and shouting curses, immediately returned fire. Rounds impacted all over the place as the bikers tried to provide half-hearted covering fire while they dismounted their motorcycles. One crazy pair continued to ride towards Unter’s position; the Reb riding pillion was wielding two Molotov cocktails in his hands. Upyr and Bear both peered around cover with their weapons, firing almost simultaneously; “rubber” slugs and 7.62x25mm rounds lanced towards the bikers, striking both of them and tumbling the firebug off the vehicle. Both of the Rebs and their bike skidded to a halt, dead. The passenger was on fire; between Bear’s bullets and the impact with the ground, his own Molotovs had shattered and doused him with burning fluid.
The remaining Rebs finally found cover; some behind their bikes, others among the debris. Now it was time for the real firefight. John, Bear and Upyr took shots at targets they could hit, blasting away concrete, brick, and motorcycles to reach their targets. Several bikes caught on fire, with another one exploding spectacularly while a pair of Rebs were still behind it. This was a ranged fight; Unter didn’t look very happy.
“Nasrat! Fashisti svinya . . .” There was more growling in Russian, and finally Unter’s temper reached the breaking point. “Tovarischii! Keep them pinned! I need a workout!” Without another word, Unter broke from cover and sprinted across the street to an alley, disappearing down it before the Rebs could train their weapons on him. John and Bear both immediately began to lay down a withering amount of fire; dozens of blasts of flame augmented by concussive energy bursts and submachine-gun rounds. Upyr manually chambered a round into her shotgun, peered around her cover, and then popped up over the top to fire a burst directly into the center of the Rebs’ side. The impact point exploded into a small cloud of white, powdery gas; John recognized it as a specialty “Lilac” round for the KS-23, tear gas mixed with CS agent. The Rebs closest to the burst immediately began to cough and tear up; mucus streaming from their noses and mouths as the chemicals irritated their membranes.
John speared a single Reb who was trying to advan
ce to cover with a lance of fire; the man went down without a sound, crashing to the ground as if he was a marionette whose strings had been cut. The Rebs were starting to get desperate; the fight had lasted for less than a minute, but in that minute they had lost over half of their numbers. Before John could fire at his next target he saw a dark blur drop down from a rooftop, right over the position of the largest grouping of Rebs. John almost felt it as the big Russian touched down in their midst, crying “Ura, ura, ura!” The Rebs, astounded, had no time to react before he set upon them. Hands flashing in terrible, brutal strikes, Georgi almost literally cut through them; broken bones and splashing blood resulted wherever he struck. Across the street, a smaller group of Rebs noticed what was going on, and turned, preparing to fire into the melee. John quickly tapped Bear’s shoulder, directing his attention on the alleyway’s mouth. Nodding, Bear put down his submachine gun, opting to use his energy blasts instead. Another cacophonous roar, his gauntlets discharged. The energy bolt impacted the building directly behind the Rebs, sending tons of brick and steel crashing onto their screaming forms.
And as quickly as it had started, it was over. All of the Rebs were dead, riddled with bullets, burnt or beaten to death. Untermensch strode down the street towards his comrades, a proud smirk on his face. “Threat neutralized, comrades. Let us clean them up, and report back to HQ—”
A barely visible blur rushed through the flames behind Unter, clipping his left side and sending him spinning pirouette-style. Before any of the CCCPers could register what the blur was, it had appeared at Upyr’s side. It was one of the Rebs; shirtless, wearing a sleeveless leather vest, stained blue jeans, and a beard that would’ve put Father Time to shame. “You stinkin’ commies just wrote a check your asses can’t cash. Drop your guns, or the chick gets a permanent smile.” Unter had recovered, and was circling to the biker’s left, trying to get behind him. “Not so fast, sucker. Name’s Bad Bowie; I talk fast, and I think even faster. You get right with your pals, or she bleeds. I ain’t goin’ to ask you again, chump.” To emphasize his point, he drew his knife—unsurprisingly, a Bowie almost large enough to match a machete—against Upyr’s neck. A line of blood stood out against her too-pale skin. “Last chance; drop the guns, or I drop her.”