World Divided: Book Two of the Secret World Chronicle

by Mercedes Lackey; Cody Martin; Dennis Lee; Veronica Giguere

  “Not going to happen, svinya.” Unter walked over to stand next to John and Bear. “Here is your last warning. Put down your knife and come quietly, or we carry you to base. Choice is yours, Amerikanski.” He stood nonchalantly; Bear had recovered his PPSh, and now had it trained on the Reb.

  Strangely, Upyr was smiling, a little Mona Lisa-like smile, an “I’ve got four aces” sort of smile. Bad Bowie obviously couldn’t see it. Nor did he seem to notice that instead of wringing her hands in fear she was calmly and methodically taking off her gloves.

  In fact, he had no idea anything at all was happening, until she said quietly, “I think you do not want to hurt a little pale girl, Amerikanski—” and laid both of her white hands on his wrist. “I am not telling you my name, I think. It is Upyr. Do you know what that means?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “Is meaning ‘Vampire.’”

  John blinked and shook his head hard. The moment she touched the man, it was as if all the light around them was being sucked towards them. He’d been in an eclipse once; it was like that. Not at all like sunset or twilight, for the source of light was still high in the sky—rather as if all the light in the area was swiftly being siphoned away.

  Bad Bowie went white, as white as Upyr. His eyes rolled up in his head, his knees shook, and Upyr slipped deftly away from him and ran towards John and Bear.

  The moment she let go of him the peculiar light effect stopped; as she reached John’s side, the man shook himself like a dog, and recovered, snarling. “That’s it, you damned Reds. I’m gonna make a pair of boots outta each of your hides.”

  Unter leaned to his right, speaking softly. “Take him alive, comrades. He may prove useful for . . . intelligence.”

  Upyr looked—oddly pink. Her eyes sparkled dangerously. She looked high, or drunk. Quickly she clasped one bare hand on John’s wrist, the other on Bear’s shoulder. John felt a surge of vitality . . . which “tasted” like the Reb. It was the only way John could describe it. It was nothing like the surge of wellness and aliveness he had gotten from the Seraphym. This was stolen, not gifted. The source was tainted with evil and in comparison, the source was a bucket of polluted water beside the free and primal ocean.

  Upyr lost her flush, and that dangerous beauty. She moved behind John, but did not put her gloves back on again.

  Bear was the first to move, breaking the stare-down. “I can’t believe I’m missing Matlock for this?” The Reb charged the group; they broke ranks, with John and Unter on one side opposite of Upyr and Bear. Bowie went for Upyr first, slashing the air with his knife; Upyr sidestepped him, brushing her hand along his bare arm, and Bear rushed forward, plunging both of his energy-shrouded hands at the Reb. Bowie, not as fast but still way too fast, dodged one of Bear’s fists, with the second glancing his shoulder. The Reb spun around, his vest ripped away where Bear hit him; he made a backhanded slash, scoring Bear’s titanium ribs with the huge knife. Upyr moved in again, her fingertips brushing Bad Bowie’s knife hand. He slowed fractionally as she slipped away.

  John, keeping the pressure up, darted in; he was the one closest to matching speed with the Reb. Controlling his breathing, his enhancements kicked in; he was next to the Reb, dropping down and slamming an elbow into his stomach as he completed the spin Bear had sent him into. The blow knocked all of the wind out of Bowie, but he was still in the fight; an open-palmed, lightning-fast strike to John’s shoulder pushed him away. Distance was exactly what he didn’t want in this fight; it would give the Reb room to work with his blade. John closed in again, planting a foot hard on the Reb’s instep. Down the knife came in response. John hadn’t pulled himself in close enough in time; the knife was going to get planted square in his chest.

  Another flurry of movement. I’m not dead? The knife was inches away from John’s chest . . . held in place, stabbed through Unter’s right forearm. The Russian man smiled, then chopped at Bowie’s throat; the Reb staggered backwards, choking. Time had slowed down for John; he saw the knife slide out of Georgi’s forearm, and saw the wound there begin to heal almost immediately, the bleeding slowing to a very tiny trickle. The CCCPers didn’t waste any time; Bear keyed his gauntlets, firing at the asphalt directly behind the dazed Reb. The ground erupted behind him, sending him stumbling straight back towards John and Unter. John ignited both of his fists, “getting off the X” by taking an immediate step to his right. Unter shifted his stance, allowing Bowie to pass between John and himself. Both of them hit the Reb at the same time; John igniting the man’s clothing, and Unter planting a firm kick to his midsection.

  Bowie flew backwards, landing hard on the ground. He was completely disoriented, half-heartedly rolling on the ground to extinguish the fires covering his body.

  Upyr glided towards him as if she were speed-skating. She stopped his roll with one foot planted on his chest, and didn’t so much bend down as make a motion like a striking snake with both hands outstretched. She clamped one on each ear; once again that “light falling inward” effect started, and the flames snuffed out as if he’d had a canister of fire retardant emptied on him. His eyes rolled completely up in his head this time, he went white as chalk, and passed out entirely.

  Upyr stood up, whirled with unnatural speed, and this time clamped both her hands on Georgi’s wrists. Her hands were shaking, like someone who’d had an overdose of speed.

  She kept her hands on Unter for longer than she had on John and Bear. When she let go, she wiped both of them on her black trousers with a look of disdain, and quickly put on her gloves again.

  John turned the defeated Reb over, fastening flexicuffs to his meaty hands. Hefting the large Bowie knife, Bear secured it to his belt. Untermensch surveyed the area, then keyed his headset. “CCCP Control: area is being secure. One prisoner, metahuman, calling self ‘Bad Bowie.’ Hostiles used lethal force; replied with conventional weapons with extreme prejudice. Hostiles neutralized. Request fire suppression team and city ‘wagon’ for dead.” He paused a moment. “Also be telling Commissar will be needing requisition forms for new Ural.” He clicked the comm off before anyone could reply. “Horosho work, tovarischii. Now, let us police up bodies and get to HQ. Long day of forms ahead of us, da?”

  “And excoriation by Commissar for Ural,” Upyr murmured.

  John shrugged. “What? It got the job done . . . and besides, we can say the Rebs did it.” John eyed several of the still intact motorcycles that the Rebs had rode in on; there were a few very choice Harleys.

  Upyr tilted her head to the side. “Da. And building full of bullets fell on them, nyet? Also mysterious exploding chemicals. And must have been incendiary grenades in saddlebags.”

  Bear nodded sagely. “Da, Rebs are sneaky, nyet?” He paused for a moment, realization dawning on his face. “You are to be using Amerikanski sarcasm, Upyr?”

  Her deadpan was perfect, except for the little Mona Lisa smile. “I am not knowing what you mean, Vladimir. Am making observation I shall surely repeat to Amerikanski authorities.”

  Pavel—Bear’s preferred name—guffawed in response. “Just as well, comrade. You must not have sophisticated sense of humor, like I.” As the group began to walk back towards the carnage, he piped up again. “Did this old Bear happen to tell you one about man in bar with frog?”

  * * *

  John hadn’t had much of a chance to clean up after the fight with the Rebs; his patrol had policed up the bodies, gathered the weapons, and inventoried the still-functioning vehicles before the coroner and a couple of squad cars had arrived. Unter spoke with the police officers, flashing his credentials and giving a quick summary of the events while John, Bear, and Upyr helped the coroners. When it was all said and done, the group still had to wait for another CCCPer to come with a van to transport their Reb prisoner; John and Pavel, being bikeless, rode in the back with Bowie.

  Upon arriving back at HQ, John and Bear were very quick to get Bad Bowie settled into the CCCP’s only holding cell; the sooner they could occupy themselves with paperwork, the
better chance they had of avoiding Saviour “excoriating” them about the Ural. While filling out an after-action report—the second copy, that is—Upyr, clean and sleek and as mild looking as any kitten, tapped on the wooden desk. “Chonny, you are to being report to holding cell, please.” She glided back out of the room just as quickly, not bothering to elaborate.

  Bear looked up as John stood to leave. “Being sure to ask Georgi where my ‘#1 Stud’ shirt is, comrade Murdock. I have suspicions that he has purloined it for antirevolutionary reasons!”

  “Yeah, I guess there aren’t a lotta those floatin’ around the base.”

  “Nyet! Made it myself with iron-on transfers. Iron burn on back is distinctive!” Chuckling, John left the room and made his way through the base towards the holding cell. The barracks and most of the major facilities within the base were nearing completion; the living quarters were in passable enough condition so that the contingent of CCCPers had a place to sleep and shower. There was no air conditioning yet—but there wasn’t any in his squat, either.

  Knocking at the door of the holding cell and waiting a heartbeat before entering, John was certain that this was going to be his talking to for allowing the Ural to be destroyed. As soon as he opened the door, however, he immediately knew that things were going to be much . . . less interesting. Bad Bowie, the Reb prisoner taken after the firefight, was sitting in a chair. Both of his wrists were fastened to the chair legs with built-in leather straps; the same for his ankles. Across a battered metal table sat Unter, pen and pad of paper in hand. The Commissar was in the room, cracking her knuckles; sparks of energy ignited each time she did. It was then that John noticed that Bowie was sporting some new bruises and cuts. Oh, hell. This wasn’t a session for John to get smoked by Saviour; this was an interrogation. And it didn’t look to be of any legal sort.

  Natalya was the first to speak. “Ah, Comrade Murdock. Good of you to join us. Our guest has decided to waive his right to an attorney. However, he is also refusing to talk. Since you and Georgi were leads for the patrol, it is protocol that you are both being present during ‘questionings.’”

  “Commissar?” John stood in the doorway, a growing sense of unease building up in the pit of his stomach.

  “What is it? This svinya won’t wait all day. We need to persuade him to talk before we turn him over to Amerikanski police authorities for processing.”

  John paused for a long moment. “Commissar, I need t’speak with ya privately. Immediately.”

  Red Saviour looked at him coldly, but there was fury in her eyes. She motioned to him to follow her into an adjacent office, empty save for one flickering fluorescent light. “Shto? You have objections, Comrade Murdock? I am Commissar here. I am making decisions. You are carrying them out. Is nyet democracy.”

  “Ain’t arguin’ about chain of command or nothin’, Commissar. But this is wrong. Not only that, it’s illegal. We can’t just beat the hell outta him until he spills the beans. It’s unconstitutional.” John made sure to keep his tone even; he was still a little shocked by the sudden change of mood, but he was starting to get angry, too. This was exactly the sort of thing he was trying to get away from, some of the worst excesses and abuses that hierarchical power structures engage in. “We just can’t do this.”

  “And what has capitalistic constitution to do with us?” Saviour’s teeth bared in what was not a smile. “I am needing information to save lives of workers. This is only one man. Good of many comes above coddling one. And I am not beating him. Am using sophisticated technique with electricity and water that leaves few marks.”

  John shook his head, speaking through gritted teeth. “The Constitution’s got everythin’ to do with us, Commissar. This ain’t Moscow; we gotta hold to the rule of law. There are some things that can get bent and even broken, but not when it comes to human rights, damn it!”

  “He is criminal! He has no rights!” Her glare turned icy. “Already you revolt, soft capitalist that you are, spoiled by TVs and MacBurgers! I am Commissar here! You obey, or you leave!”

  John stared back at her, his eyes meeting hers with the same sort of dead intensity. Finally, he looked to the door. “Fine, Commissar. I’ll lend my expertise, with your permission.”

  The Commissar showed the barest hint of surprise on her face, before quickly masking it with her usual air of command presence. “So. You see wisdom. There is hope for you.” With a curt nod, she opened the office door, leading John back to the holding cell. Natalya turned her attention to the sullen Reb; he met her gaze before snarling in disgust. There was still fight in him, and it was apparent that the Commissar was going to fix that. “Comrade Murdock will be assisting us in extracting what we need to know from you, svinya. Location of Reb hideouts, whereabouts of your leader, Rebel Yell, and so on. Think hard on this information while we prepare.” She moved to the corner to the right of the door; a small crate covered with a beaten-up cotton tarp caught John’s eye. Ripping off the tarp with a flourish, Natalya began to remove items from it and place them on the table. Pliers, a crank field telephone, a jug of rubbing alcohol. Bowie eyed each item as the Commissar set them down.

  “You can’t fake me out, bitch. I got rights, and you can’t—”

  “Can’t, comrade? I seem to remember reading report; you died in fight with CCCP patrol. Shame, being burnt and blown to racist pieces. Don’t remember corpses having rights.” Natalya picked up the pliers in one hand, moving towards the Reb. She backhanded him hard; with her strength, it was more than enough to daze him. The Commissar began to angle the pliers towards the Reb’s mouth before being interrupted by John.

  “Commissar?” Saviour stopped right before the pliers were going to clamp around one of the Reb’s teeth; Untermensch looked up from his writing pad. “That’s messy. If he starts swallowing blood, he’ll just vomit everywhere after a while, too.” John paced around the edge of the table, occasionally glancing at Bowie; the biker’s attention alternated between the dangerously close pliers and John. “I’ve got a couple of suggestions, if’n ya don’t mind.”

  “Please, comrade.” Natalya waved him on.

  “Well, easiest is waterboarding. Y’tie him up on a board, with his feet elevated. Stuff a rag in his mouth or cover his head in a plastic bag with a small hole over the mouth. Pour water down on his head; it’s supposed t’be simulated drowning. Pretty harsh stuff, but it doesn’t leave any marks. Supposed to knock over even CIA agents, averagin’ around fourteen seconds before the person cracks.” Saviour nodded, considering it. “Then there’s ‘the Vietnam.’ With that field telephone, a couple of trashbags, and a cinderblock, we could hook him up but good. Electrocution sucks; hell, even do away with the crank phone and get one of our people with the right powers in here. Practice, and whatnot.”

  The Reb was starting to shake, sweat flecking off of his brow with each convulsion. John pressed on. “If y’wanna get messy, though, we can just lay some plastic down and get an icepick. Precise, but he’ll bleed out pretty quick. Knives an’ shivs are better than guns for scaring folks; not everyone knows what it’s like to be shot, but everyone knows how it feels to get cut. We can even get that knife he was totin’, his namesake, for extra kicks—”

  “All right, you damn Reds, all right!” Bowie exploded, on the verge of breaking down into uncontrollable sobs. “I’ll spill, damn it! Just don’t touch me! I’ll talk!” Georgi began to write, apparently impassive to the goings-on.

  Saviour’s lips stretched in a wolfish smile. “So, you see reason. Begin talking.”

  John didn’t waste any more time. He unfolded his arms, walking out of the room and shutting the door behind him. And found himself grabbed by the shoulder, whipped around and forced into the wall by one very angry blue woman. “What in the hell is going on here?” Belladonna hissed at him. “And how dare you be part of it?”

  “Bella—”

  “Don’t ‘Bella’ me! What gives a torturer the right to use my name as if we were friends?”


  John sighed impatiently. “But, Bella—”

  He felt a mental smack inside his head as if she was slapping him.

  “Bella!” John snarled, walking two steps towards her, forcing her to step back to avoid being run into. “Wouldja get offa your righteous rage an’ listen to me? Or d’ya wanna beat me up? The first would save a lotta time, though the second would probably leave ya feelin’ better.”

  “You’re either an idiot or a thug, Mister Murdock,” she snarled. But she backed off just a hair, and took her hands off him. “I know Red Saviour is a thug. I thought better of you. And you two have got to be idiots when you know I can pry anything you need out of that creep’s skull without resorting to—”

  John interrupted her, clamping a hand on her shoulder and another over her mouth. “Bella, listen. Y’hear any screamin’? Y’hear any dull thuds? How about smell? Burnt hair or barbequed skin?” He waited until she stopped wriggling in his hands, then lifted them up. “Well?”

  “—No—”

  “No. Y’don’t. ’Cause I didn’t torture him. More importantly, I didn’t let the Commissar have at him, either. But he’s in there, singin’ like a canary.” He took a step back, placing his fists on his hips. “An’ the Commissar is happy without gettin’ blood all over the place. Y’want me to explain, now?”

  She glowered, and nodded curtly. “I’m listening.”

  “Good. I really wasn’t lookin’ forward to bonkin’ ya on the head. It’d ruin my ‘cool image,’ or whatever the hell the kids say.” He shook his head. “We ain’t gonna torture him, though Nat was pretty set on that when I walked in. Torture just don’t work, kiddo, though Nat might like to think, because it’s visceral and she can effect it, that it does. Torture an’ interrogations under physical duress don’t produce good intel; just ’bout anyone worth their salt in the security agencies knows that.” John took a moment to let that sink in, taking another step back to lean against the wall opposite Bella, hooking his thumbs into his pants pockets. “When y’put somebody in pain, it’s their natural response to make it stop, ASAFP. They’ll admit to anythin’, and feed ya any story ya want. People will admit to killin’ Hitler and Jesus Christ, just to stop the hurt.”