World Divided: Book Two of the Secret World Chronicle

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

  “I know that.”

  John shrugged. “Despite that, there’ll always be diehards that wanna try to mess people up anyways, just t’see if it’ll get some extra info out. I couldn’t stop Nat from torturin’ that guy, not without it comin’ down to a true-blue fight. I could’ve quit on the spot, but then she’d have gone ahead and cut him anyways. What I did, though, is redirect ’er. Y’see, the threat of pain is much more effective in gettin’ someone to crack than actual pain. I went into plenty of detail on how we could tune that Reb up, and did so where he could hear it an’ hear how much I didn’t care if it hurt him. And it was all BS. Y’dig what I’m gettin’ at?”

  She looked as if she was going to protest angrily, and then deflated. “It’s still psychological torture. All I would have had to do would be to touch him.”

  “Psychological torture? Ain’t no different than threatenin’ the guy, guilt-trippin’ him, playing ‘good cop/bad cop,’ or any other trick to get ’im to talk. An’ you weren’t here. If’n you had gone in right when you got here, you would’ve walked in on a toothless or near toothless punk with Nat bashin’ him in the face for not bein’ able to talk past bleedin’.” He sighed, standing up and stretching. “What I did worked; it kept Red Saviour from messin’ up that Reb, an’ not too many laws were broken in the process.”

  She looked away from him, and seemed to shrink in on herself. “I hate this. I hate this. It’s turning us into them.”

  John turned back to face her. “Y’gonna quit? Cowboy up.” He squared himself in front of Bella, craning his head down to bring it to her level. “You’re Nat’s friend. I’m ’er subordinate. Y’see the difference in what each of us can do in that framework?” John started to move to walk away again. “Don’t let ’er see you like that, though; put on your game face, kiddo.”

  Slowly she straightened. “You’re right. She might be a rock; I have to be the water that wears her down into another shape.”

  John tossed a carefree hand over his shoulder. “Then be the friend y’are to her, an’ do it.” He started unzipping his dirty Kevlar vest. “Me, I’m gettin’ a shower before I have to heat up the boiler again.”

  “You do that.” A pause. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it, comrade.” And with that, John disappeared around the corner at the end of the hallway.

  John had just finished his shower in the communal head that the rank and file of the CCCP shared. Even with more comrades having arrived to fill bunks, there were still so few of them that John could manage to shower alone most of the time. Cleaned up and dressed in a pair of surplus fatigues and a black shirt, he settled down in the makeshift rec area; a few milk crates, a strange assortment of very abused chairs and a couch, and a TV shoved into a corner of the barracks, with a smattering of Russian culture magazines and newspapers laying around. Maybe the biggest difference between the barracks and his squat was that the barracks were so clean the floors squeaked when you walked on them. Then again, “excoriation duty” was a lot like punishment detail in the service. You messed up and you found yourself cleaning with a toothbrush; attention to detail was everything, and it felt comfortable to John. There were exceptions; the CCCP was Russian, and where it shined with efficiency in some areas, others served to illustrate how painfully cobbled together the group was.

  Not wanting to ponder on his exchange with Natalya, then Bella afterwards, John flipped on the TV.

  “. . . and in other news, it seems that Atlanta’s Red Enclave managed to clean up a pocket of trouble today.” The news announcer was one of the same ones he’d seen blathering about the initial arrival of the CCCP in the form of Saviour, her father and Worker’s Champion. “A motorcycle gang calling themselves the ‘Rebs’ attempted to attack one of the neighborhoods cut off by a destruction corridor. A so-called ‘CCCP Patrol’ put an end to that with no civilian casualties and no property damage. Pretty remarkable, considering that last report about Blacksnake, huh, Steve?”

  The other plastic anchor laughed. “Well, Stella, boys and their toys, and Blacksnake has the best toys around! Can’t blame them for wanting to use them!”

  John muted the channel with a smile. Things were changing. They’d likely get a lot worse before they got better. With the Rebs and other gangs stepping up their activities, everyone was waiting for the other shoe to drop. But, for just this moment, things seemed a little bit brighter at the end of the tunnel.

  * * *

  Red Saviour was shouting and breaking things again. Fortunately she never broke anything that was actually useful, but that might have been because the rest of the comrades knew her moods and cleared away anything that might be wanted later, leaving things within her reach, at times like this, like the hideous Atlanta souvenirs that people would insist on giving them. “I am devastated, comrade, but Saviour was in a rage, and . . .”

  John had just entered the base to clock in for his patrol shift. He could hear her shouting in the rec room all the way from the front door.

  There was a lot of Russian, but there was some English, too. “. . . Tesla is a credulous old babushka! Some babbling from crazy man not able to leave bed for twenty years and poof! He is quaking in boots and hiding under sofa!”

  As John neared he could hear that there were at least two other people with Saviour.

  “On one hand, Commissar, some of those things March wrote about have happened . . .” Bella said cautiously.

  “On other,” grunted Unter, “is like Nostradamus. Is vague enough to fit anything.”

  John was right at the rec room door and there was no way to get into the locker and barracks room without going through it. He hesitated, trying to remember the layout of the HQ so he could find something to occupy himself with until the Commissar was finished with her “meeting.”

  “You are not to be revealing this to comrades until I say so, maybe never.” Saviour threw an ugly pottery “War of Northern Oppression” statuette against the wall and it shattered five inches from John’s head. “Are enough old babushkas among comrades to believe in nekulturny—what is good word?

  “BS,” said Bella. Firmly.

  “Da, BS. Prophecies! All world on fire, everybody dead, game over, comrade! Bah!” She threw another statue; this one of General Lee looking saintly. John remembered that one in particular; someone had drawn a felt-tip Hitleresque moustache on it. Still a little stunned by what he had just heard, he began to walk woodenly down the hallway. Apparently, he wasn’t quiet enough.

  “Who is lurking?” Untermensch’s bark froze him in place. “Show yourself!”

  Damn it.

  John stepped into the room. “Not lurkin’, just on my way to sign in on the duty roster, comrade.”

  Three pairs of eyes skewered him. “How much—” began Saviour, when Bella interrupted her.

  “Everything important, Commissar.” She grimaced. “Sorry I didn’t pick him up before he did.”

  Saviour’s glare was enough to tell him that the character mug of a Rebel soldier was about to impact on or near his forehead.

  “With all due respect, Commissar, there’s a difference ’tween listenin’ in and not being able to help hearin’.”

  Unter lost a little of his glare as he smothered a grin. Bella shrugged. “He’s got you there, Commissar. I’m surprised they didn’t hear you over at the Piggly Wiggly.”

  Saviour turned her glare on Bella, who reacted not at all. “You might as well tell him the rest.”

  John slung his jacket over a chair, leaning on the back of it. “So . . . the rest of what? Heard something ’bout someone named March, and then a whole lot of not-too-happy-soundin’ things.”

  “Comrade sorceress is uncovering idiocy that explains why Tesla is shaking like little girl in front of bear,” Saviour said sourly. “Bah. You tell, blue girl.”

  “Apparently immediately after the end of the Invasion, an autistic Echo precognitive rated between OpThree and OpFour got a head full of horrific visions, scribbled ever
ything he saw down and set himself on fire,” Bella said crisply. “Some of what he wrote down seems to have been accurate—and more to the point, could not have been ‘predicted’ by any means other than genuine precognition. The man’s name was Matthew March, so in a burst of creativity they’ve called this stuff ‘The Ides of March.’”

  John took in the flurry of information, nodding once. “All right, I’ll buy it. Now, what exactly did he predict? That’s the million-dollar question, ain’t it?”

  “That the Nazis are going to win. You die, he dies, everyone dies, and those who don’t die wish they had.”

  He chuckled, scratching his head. “You’re joshin’ me, right? This can’t be serious.”

  “It’s serious. Tesla won’t believe in magic or angels but he’ll believe in precognition, and he believes this.”

  John took a few moments to gauge Bella before speaking again. “Y’all really believe this, don’t you?” He looked to the ground, thinking. “Well, all right then. If it’s credible . . . then what’re we gonna do about it? ’Cause I’m not really the sort to take much lying down, and I don’t think y’all are, either.” He glanced to each of the three in turn.

  Bella scratched her head. “Well . . . Vickie believes it. She’s more of an expert in this sort of thing than I am.” She held up a finger to forestall his reply. “She also says that in her experience, prophets can only see things they can relate to and understand. She pointed out that there’s no mention of CCCP, for instance, and given that the Nazis tried to put a war machine tentacle through Saviour’s skull, I think you guys are not a small consideration to them. That means that maybe March didn’t see everything. Or maybe he only saw what would happen if CCCP didn’t factor in as a player here.” She shrugged again. “Don’t know, don’t care. If I go down, by God, I am going down fighting no matter what.”

  John spoke again. “Still, that doesn’t answer my question. I’ve pretty well figured on fightin’; the question I asked was what sort an’ how.”

  The three exchanged glances. “Am having thought,” Saviour said slowly. A sharp glance at Unter. “Da, da, is so rare for me, you may stop laughing behind hand. Sorceress has prophecy. Sorceress is bolshoi computer greek.”

  “Geek,” said Bella.

  “Geek, greek, whatever. She is good at getting things. So . . . let her be putting two and two together and giving us the nose-up—”

  “Heads-up.”

  A haughty glare. “My English is being perfect! Heads-up when she is seeing maybe matches. So, is best plan I can be making with no intelligence to guide.”

  “So, our only source of intel to base a course of action off of is this gal, Vickie?” He looked to Bella. “Anything else we can get outta Echo, since they’ve got a bigger logistics base to work with?”

  Saviour snorted. “Sorceress is getting into Tesla’s own files without him knowing.”

  “All right, so we’ve got info comin’ fairly much straight from Echo, but not exactly on the most friendly terms. Once we have somethin’ more to go on . . . what do we do? The CCCP isn’t at full strength by any means, and from what I understand our backin’ from Russia is grudging at best. Am I right?”

  “One sniper in the right spot at the right time, comrade.” That was Untermensch, a sardonic smile on his face. “That can be all it takes to be changing history.”

  “Or prophecy,” added Bella.

  “All right, point taken. We figure out more on what to do when we have somethin’ to go on.” He sighed, gathering up his jacket. “What can a lowly comrade such as myself do t’help in the meantime, aside from patrollin’ and fixing up this joint?”

  “What else have soldiers like us ever done?” asked Unter, shrugging.

  * * *

  The futures were moving again. Seraphym sat in utter stillness in the shelter of a giant air duct, screened from below by the parapet around this roof that was also a garden.

  It was a strangely soothing place to be, this bit of growth atop the CCCP headquarters. Planted by the twins and Upyr, but designed by Fei Li, the Seraphym had discovered it a week or so ago and had taken to giving it some of the same attentions she was giving the neighborhood gardens—though this one needed such things far less. Mostly she just encouraged the plants here to grow, so that they were as lush now as plantings that were several weeks older.

  She needed a soothing environment at this moment. CCCP had learned of the prophecies of Matthew March, and that was changing the shape of what might be; there was still that maddening blank spot where John Murdock was, but . . . there were new things, new lines, springing into existence and she had to close her eyes to concentrate on them.

  If only she could see into that gap. If only she could get some inkling of what it was that John Murdock represented so that she could make some kind of a guess as to how to cross that gap to the one set of futures she needed to reach . . .

  She was concentrating so hard that for a moment she even lost track of where and when she was. And before she realized it, John himself was next to her, a glass of water instead of a bottle of alcohol in his hand. “Evenin’, Angel.”

  She did not startle or “jump” as a human would, but her eyes opened wide and she stared at him blankly for a moment. “Good evening,” she replied, feeling off-balance. “It is a . . . pleasant evening.”

  John nodded, sipping from his glass. “Yeah. Skies are clearin’ up from all the smoke and crap that got thrown into ’em.” He leaned forward against the edge of the roof, looking down into the street. There were a few stragglers waiting in line at the CCCP’s soup kitchen, as well as some children playing in the street. “Folks are startin’ to relax again. Ignorance is bliss, I guess.”

  What to say? Anything might reveal too much.

  John saved Sera the trouble of attempting to think of something enigmatic enough. “Got some news; suppose y’already know some of it. Stuff ’bout a fella named March. The folks downstairs seem to give it credence, and they’re a sharp enough bunch. Still, I’m not really given to believing in all of that precognitive mystical stuff.” He turned to look her in the eyes. “Which, given present company, might make me an idiot.”

  Before she could even think—which in her case, was less than an instant—It is permitted breathed into her mind. Her eyes widened.

  “There is not . . . one future,” she said, uncharacteristically hesitant. “There are . . . many. More than the stars in the galaxy. But . . . not all are equally likely. And some are born and others die, depending on what is done in the now.”

  He nodded. “Still, the experts seem to think this one is legit. Lotta ‘gloom and doom,’ involving—”

  “The enemy, your enemy, the invaders of the broken cross . . . they conquer all. Those that resist are destroyed, those that do not are enslaved. And the world ends in fire and death.”

  John raised an eyebrow. “Y’know all ’bout this ‘prophecy’ already, don’t you?” He set his water glass down on the ledge to stand up straight and study her face.

  “Yes. I have seen it. I . . . see the futures. This one ends in what Matthew March could not see because he could not imagine it.” She gave him a penetrating look, and . . . felt even more unsettled. By him, and not just the absence of him in the futures. Perhaps that is why she told him more than she intended to. “The enemy takes its force from this world to spread outward and onward. And since this world is but a . . . a launching pad . . . it suffers the fate of such an object. When they are gone, there is nothing you would recognize that is left.” She Listened. There was no rebuke. So this, too, was permitted.

  “Huh. Commissar, Bella, and some gal named Vickie all seem to think that’s ’cause they weren’t countin’ on the CCCP being . . . well, us. They’ve gone to some mighty efforts to take us out, and we’re still kickin’.”

  Something about him made her want to tell him things. She trusted that the Infinite would tell her when to stop at this point. “Mortals are limited in what they may see. Thei
r minds . . .” She shook her head. “Those who have seen only a fraction of what we may, the Siblings, have gone mad. And they are limited by what they know. If they do not know of a thing, generally they cannot see the future that it contains.” She took a slow breath. “Matthew March could not see you.”

  Nor can I . . . She wondered if he would remember that.

  John shook his head. “Still sounds fuzzy through and through, if’n ya ask me. Whatever the case may be concerning the ‘futures,’ our bunch is aimin’ to do what they were gonna do anyways: fight. Figure out how to hit back at the Nazis, get proactive instead of reactive. Rebuildin’ is well and all, and damned necessary. But reacting to a threat isn’t nearly as productive as eliminating it at the source. And those fascists sure as hell had to have come from somewhere.” John’s gaze drifted back to the street. “Speakin’ of rebuilding, I meant to tell you thanks. Y’know, for helpin’ out around the neighborhood. Subtle, but I figured I knew what to look for after a while.”

  That startled a smile from her, and she felt heat in her cheeks. “You are . . . welcome.” She felt impelled to explain. “There is so very much I am not permitted to do, or to say . . . it is a joy to find things, even small ones, that I can.” She took a deep breath. “I am not permitted to change the futures. Only mortals may do that.”

  “Well, every bit counts. Lot of the folks in the neighborhood are lookin’ to change their own future; ’bout the only good thing that came from the Invasion was folks banding together, for the most part.”