World Divided: Book Two of the Secret World Chronicle

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

  Bella laughed shakily. “Bad Army. No cookie. Yeah, this is going to take about the same amount out of both of us, but I’m going to guess that three sessions a day, for a week, should do it. And it is never going to get worse than it just was. It will always be a little better each time.” Then, softly, “And . . . thanks. I just want to be useful too. Without having to kill someone to do it.”

  This time, Mel reached out for Bella’s hand and gave it a reassuring pat. With the touch came a rush of what might have been feedback, if it hadn’t been offered as a sort of explanation and example rather than an accidental release. She saw and felt a shadow of what had transpired with the Rebs, including the combination of emotion from Bella as the ganger crumpled under her mental bludgeon.

  “With what you’ve got, you have to know the difference between ‘want’ and ‘need.’ You did what needed to be done. You didn’t head out there wanting to have that be the end result.”

  “But I need to get the control so I know, beyond a doubt, that isn’t the only option open to me. I need to be a laser, not a sledgehammer.” Bella nodded, swiping at her eyes again. “Fixing you will help me get that control. So this is for both of us.” She straightened. “Okay. Round two?”

  Mel smiled and unfolded herself to lie on the couch once more. “Round two.”

  * * *

  It was the same space, dark and rotting, but the four bodies had been pushed against the earthen wall. Mel hugged the kid’s jacket around her tightly, the tags from her comrades kept safe in an inside pocket. Six days had passed since the last time the hatch had opened, and the noises she had heard hadn’t involved any bits of broken English. She breathed through her hands and rocked herself back and forth, her own illusions letting her see the four men as simply asleep in their bedrolls as a calm summer sky stretched beyond them.

  Gunfire rattled the space above her, bullets piercing the wooden hatch on the box. The noise broke the false dream and Mel crouched in the corner. There was more gunfire and shouting, and she tensed as something heavy slammed against the wood.

  By this time the feeling of having Bella with her was familiar and comforting. The ghost in the back of her head that was not an illusion.

  They knew where she would be if they opened the hatch. It wasn’t unusual for these sorts of cells to change leadership and give up on their “prizes,” which meant that Mel was no longer of worth to whoever had taken charge. Struggling to breathe through the dust and the smell, she crawled on her belly to where her comrades lay and positioned herself between the wall and the bodies. They had expected her to die anyway, but to confirm that . . .

  They’ll have to find me first.

  The hatch opened and bullets showered the space where she had cowered and cringed for the past weeks. One of the cell’s flunkies dropped into the space, semiautomatic at the ready as he surveyed the corner. Mel fought the urge to retch as she waited for him to turn. Eye contact. I just need to see his eyes, she thought. And when he turned to face her, she counted three and got up, and to the flunkie it was as if the entire pile of bodies had risen up to retaliate.

  He screamed, and a second flunkie dropped into the box. The second saw not only the bodies of the soldiers as vengeful undead but also the man who was screaming. To make it even more authentic, Mel gave the first man the face and hollowed-out eyes of the kid they’d tortured. Panic ensued, with the pair babbling as she scrambled out of the box, pushing the same horrifying image on anyone she saw. To anyone outside, it would have looked as if the cell members had gone mad, shooting at each other or screaming in fright and fleeing. To everyone there, including Mel, all they could see were copies of the same empty face, the same tattered fatigues; all they could hear was the same wailing cry, and the smell of death and rot grew and filled the compound until it choked the air.

  She tried to run, but the illusion was so vivid, so utterly real to even her, Mel froze just outside the door. Another group wearing combat fatigues and heavy gear came down the hallway, rifles trained on her as they approached. She threw the same sights, sounds, and smells at them in desperation, the projected nightmare coming to a crashing halt when the twin leads of a stun gun hit her damp skin and brought her to the ground.

  Stop.

  It was the familiar routine, and welcome now. The memory froze even as she started to fall and she stood outside herself, looking at the scene.

  The healer’s presence was warm and supportive. You know the drill.

  Mel felt herself nod, felt the same cool detachment from the scene. It was a fight-or-flight scenario. I had to get out, even if it meant leaving them in the box. I used what I did as a resource to survive. And the ones here . . . The focus went to the group in combat fatigues, the small patches identifying them as members of the United States Marine Corps, something easy to recognize as the memory stood still but difficult to see through fear and panic. They should have brought a meta with them. Lack of preparation on their part does not mean that I’m responsible for my actions . . . right?

  Absolutely. And give them credit; they might not have had a mental meta available. But they recognized immediately what you were doing and took appropriate action given that they didn’t have a power to take you out. One more thing. Your fellow soldiers were there for you as well as you for them. They would have been proud to give you that chance to escape. Would? Were.

  Guilt rose up, followed by a tidal wave of shame. But to use them the way I did . . . I know they never moved. I know that the team was able to get them out and lift them home for their families. And still, it feels like I crossed a line . . . like I disrespected them.

  Did they, or did they not, all carry organ donor on their tags?

  It was a coolly logical question, one that Mel had never considered. Did. We all did.

  How is that different? You give even after death so others may live. There was implied consent. There was no disrespect intended, right?

  She managed another nod. Right.

  It would have been one thing if you’d been, hell, doing that as some kind of juvenile hazing prank. Scaring the hell out of a gym full of teenagers. This was fighting for your life. In a way, you gave them one last chance to fight with you.

  Mel looked down at herself in the memory. The kid’s jacket hung on her, the inside pocket flipped back enough to show the chains from the four sets of tags she carried. Yeah, she finally admitted. I guess you’re right.

  She felt the warmth of Bella’s comfort, and once again, that sense of something subtle changing. Now she knew what it was. A new neural pathway had just formed. By coming to that conclusion herself, and accepting it, she had formed it. Now Bella was making sure it was wired in hard, growing a couple new neurons in her brain. That was the physical reality. The emotional, the spiritual reality?

  Saving her sanity, and maybe her soul.

  Go.

  Mel faded into the fuzzy sensation as the Marines rushed forward, two in front as a third hefted her over a shoulder. She felt herself swing around, and a pair of gloved hands touched her face. There were short crisp words that identified the speaker as someone she should trust, and he asked about the other members of her team. She shook her head “no,” and the reminder triggered the same rush of illusions. The man in front of her fell back, eyes screwed shut as he tried to bark out an order to the others.

  Almost simultaneously, a dark cloth was wrapped around Mel’s eyes and a needle hit the skin behind her ear. She dropped into a blissful state of nothing as she changed hands and the rescue team made their way out of the compound.

  The memory dissolved as the first one had, the same waking sensation moving over Mel as she came out. Without thinking, she sniffed the air expecting that the same illusions had manifested during the session. She slipped her hand from Bella’s and sat up, rubbing her face and pushing her hair back.

  “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this,” Bella drawled. “People are starting to talk.”

  Mel gave a rough laugh as she passe
d the box of tissues to Bella. “Really? From the gossip I heard coming over here, you were cozy with the Ruskies. Something about how red and blue made purple.” She blew her nose and tried to smile. “They really have a guy who talks to squirrels?”

  “They do. He’s got the mind of a six-year-old. A sweet six-year-old. Before his accident he was a leading scientist. Now he looks like a half-finished statue; he can eat anything, and he talks to squirrels. His name is Chug, and everyone over there loves him.” She sighed. “Anytime I start doubting the wisdom of trying to save humanity I take him for a walk in the park.”

  “Sounds like good mutual therapy.” She glanced to the clock on the wall. “You might have time for one before it gets late. I mean, if you think I’m okay for the day.” Mel fidgeted with the sleeve of her Echo uniform. A week’s worth of sessions with the blue touch-telepath had done wonders for her bruised psyche; in the same amount of time, Echo hadn’t been able to find her a shirt that fit properly. “How many more weeks before I get to head out?”

  “We’re about to find out.”

  Bella moved her hand—and suddenly the office was flooded with the stench of rotting bodies. Mel jumped from the couch in a cold sweat, her body shaking as she fought with the knowledge that the smell couldn’t be from actual decay and the memories of the box. For a moment, she visibly warred with the want to retreat into the couch. She appeared as if she might vomit. Then, slowly and controlled, the office around them shifted to worn water-stained walls, peeling linoleum, and a polished bartop. Cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey replaced the smell of death, and the blonde’s shoulders and back untensed in a methodical fashion.

  She took in a deep breath, then let it out, and the bar in New Orleans vanished, leaving Bella in the comfy chair.

  “Awesome.” Bella pushed another button. “Purge the office before I puke, Frank, this one’s certified for duty.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  __________

  Sleeping with the Enemy

  MERCEDES LACKEY AND DENNIS LEE

  Oh, all the things that we did not know.

  I had tried to plug that hole. I had built a wild-hare system on a very old and outmoded PC with a bunch of outside-the-box spells on it. Now, magic as we have come to understand it in this century is hugely linked with math and physics, even if most mages can’t work with the modern tools of math and physics. So I tended to have a lot of success with computer shamanism.

  But this was right outside anything I had tried before. I was tired of being blindsided, and worse, I knew that we, Echo, could not afford to be blindsided much more. So I put together what I called my “Magic 8-Ball.” Much like the toy, it gave you very simple answers. Generally the question I asked it—which I did, every time something big happened—was “who was behind this?” I did that with the Mumbai Incident, and the answer had come up “Dominic Verdigris III.”

  I knew about him already, of course, both the public face of the benevolent billionaire and the rumored face of the shadowy criminal mastermind. I’m paranoid, so I believed in the criminal mastermind part.

  But I sure didn’t see this coming, and unfortunately, the 8-Ball couldn’t tell me.

  Khanjar, bodyguard and sometime lover to Dominic Verdigris III, frowned with impatience at her—well, call him what he was—her meal ticket. She knew he didn’t actually love her; he was constitutionally incapable of loving anyone but himself.

  On the other hand, she was no different, so they made a matching set. He certainly paid well. And she was on occasion fond of him.

  Not today, however.

  Her posture on the white leather chaise lounge in his office was deceptively relaxed. The room was recognizable as an office only because of the computers on the round, polished hardwood dais. It had a stunning view of the infinity pool and the ocean beyond, and of his yacht, anchored in that ocean. He had his back to the view, and to her. “I fail to see the point of this exercise,” she said, masking her impatience with a cool professionalism. “What do you need with Blacksnake?”

  Verdigris was engaged in doing something he very rarely did. He was visibly working. He sat in the middle of his suite of computers like some starship captain on his bridge, and scooted around from one to the other on a chair of his own design, feverishly buying, selling, manipulating. . . . She reflected that he would be happier right now if he had four arms, like that Echo Op, Shakti. When had his shoulders acquired that stoop? And should she mention his hair was beginning to thin? He’d probably invent something to fix that better than Rogaine. It would make a lot of money.

  “For one thing, this will stop them sending assassins after me,” he said, absently. “I thought you’d be pleased about that. It would mean a little less work for you.”

  Khanjar crossed her long, elegant legs, sheathed in perfectly form-fitting, white silk jersey slacks, and frowned, because he was much smarter than that remark, even when preoccupied with six computer consoles. “Then those who wish you dead will simply hire someone else,” she replied. “So—”

  And then it dawned on her. “This has something to do with the Deva, does it not? The—Seraphym?”

  Verdigris flinched. Aha, she had struck a nerve. In the shock following the Seraphym’s visit to him, he had blurted out to Khanjar everything the creature had told him. If he’d had an hour to get over that shock, he probably would have kept this secret as he had so many others. But he had not; she had stepped out of the shower to find him shivering uncontrollably on the bed; the Seraphym had departed mere moments before.

  Some might have thought she was a hallucination. Not Khanjar. Khanjar knew; this was a Deva. Within moments of hearing Verdigris stammer out his story, she had been calculating how long, and what it would take her to balance her karma. One of her bank accounts was utterly depleted now, and there were exactly one thousand, seven hundred and fifty-four orphans across the world who had been taken from the most appalling conditions of child slavery, poverty, disease or all three and would be raised in good and loving families, given every opportunity to thrive. One for every life she personally had taken. And from now on, every time she killed, another child would be saved. Perfect karmic balance. Khanjar was not looking to improve her karma; she was actually quite satisfied with her life as it was, and would not in the least mind repeating it when something came along to end this one. But she had no wish to be reborn to the same circumstances as those orphans she was saving.

  “She’s not a Deva. She’s just a metahuman.” A little sweat that had nothing to do with how hard he was working stood out on his brow. Aha, again. No matter what he said, he believed as well. He would try to convince himself otherwise, but deep inside, he believed.

  “A metahuman who showed you the future.” Khanjar probed a little deeper, cruelly. It was rare when she could get Verdigris to show anything but a flippant disregard for anything much outside himself and his comfort zone, an attitude that was at once curiously childlike and curiously chilling. She got a certain enjoyment out of this. “A future in which you were a—‘brain in a box,’ I think you said?”

  “That doesn’t make her an angel. Matthew March saw pretty much the same future, it just didn’t have me specifically in it.” He operated two keyboards at once, one with each hand. “Probably because he didn’t know me. I ran an analysis on his work for Echo. All the indications are he couldn’t see anything in the future that wasn’t somehow connected with people he knew.”

  “And now you are buying Blacksnake—why?” That bewildered her. What did he need with a small mercenary army—all right, one that did have a sizable number of metahumans, but still small—when he could, with the same effort, get the use of any one of a dozen national armies? If he tried hard enough, he could probably get the use of even the United States Army for an hour or two.

  “I’m buying Blacksnake so I can get Echo. Ha!” He pushed away from the keyboards, face radiating triumph. “Got you, you bastards. You are mine now!”

  “Ahhh.” This, she
understood. Echo, which had, more or less, cornered the market on metahumans, was the only organization that stood a chance of stopping the Thulians. Verdigris was going to make sure they did so—by somehow using Blacksnake and taking it over, so that he could be absolutely certain that all of their focus was on finding the Thulians and destroying them. None of this business about negotiation, making peace, or “keeping some for study.” Verdigris had written some of the Evil Overlord lists; he thought they were hilarious. No, he would reduce the Thulians to ashes, and then shoot the ashes into the heart of the sun.

  How he would do this, she had no idea. It didn’t matter. This was Verdigris. He had made up his mind and it would be done.

  But he was standing up and gesturing to her. “Come on, we’re going to go pay a visit to my new headquarters before they figure out who owns them now and make it harder on everyone for me to move in.”

  She nodded, and swung her long legs over the side of the white chaise lounge, reaching for her white silk jacket. This was more like it. “Anything I should bring?”

  He grinned, looking not unlike one of his pet sharks. “Your skills, my pretty. I suspect that the previous commander is not going to retire quietly.”

  She sighed as she followed him. Her bank account was going to suffer for this.

  * * *

  Khanjar wiped her hands on the general’s jacket with distaste. “It’s always a pleasure to watch a professional at work,” Verdigris said. “How do I look?”

  “Perfect, I suppose,” Khanjar replied, eying the holographic disguise critically. “So long as you don’t move too much. You tend to blur a little when you do.” She seized the general’s collar and pulled the dead body out of the chair. “Where do you want this?”