by Mercedes Lackey; Cody Martin; Dennis Lee; Veronica Giguere
“I kind of like the idea of forcing them to walk over him as they come in, don’t you?” Verdigris said cheerfully.
Khanjar sighed. “Your sense of the dramatic is going to get you into trouble, one day.”
Verdigris took his place in the chair at the head of the table while Khanjar dragged the body over to the door. Sitting down would disguise the difference in height, later.
Verdigris buzzed the receptionist. “All right, Miss Francher. You can send the board members in now.”
It might have been the shortest meeting in Blacksnake history. Verdigris informed the members of the board of directors that Blacksnake was in new hands. He regretted the unfortunate demise of the general—“He really should have been more careful about his health, my assistant did her best to save him, but the stroke killed him instantly.” He then dissolved the board, and sent them all away with enormous bonus checks, which Khanjar handed to them on their way out, making sure that each of them looked directly into her cold, dark eyes as they took what was essentially blood money.
They were in quite a hurry to leave. Anyone who might be tempted to divulge what had happened here would find his temptation murdered as abruptly as the general by the information on the minidisk that was in each envelope with the check. Men did not rise in Blacksnake without leaving a lot of skeletons in closets, and those disks had enough information on them to rattle any number of bones. And the severance checks were outstandingly generous.
When the door had closed again, and Khanjar had locked it, Verdigris shut down the holographic generator. “I have to work on that,” he said, hitting the side of his head with the heel of his hand. “Running it’s almost like having a migraine. The kind with no pain, just all sorts of visual effects. You can come out now, Rancor.”
At the end of the long conference table, a short man with enormous forearms materialized into view. He sat sprawled on one of the ultra-plush conference chairs, sporting a tan duster and a look of disdain, and calmly set the remote to his chameleon suit down on the table. Verdigris beamed at him. The man glared back, then removed a fresh cigar from his pocket and lit up. He took a few deep drags, his eyes never leaving Verdigris.
“Ranc, Ranc, Ranc, those things will kill you, you know.” Verdigris shook his head.
“It’s Jack now,” the man said. “I haven’t been Rancor in a long while.”
“They’ll still kill you.” Verd steepled his fingers and tried to look concerned. He didn’t succeed. Khanjar sighed to herself. This was going to be tedious. Dominic was going to try and be charming, Jack was . . . going to do what Jack would do. Men.
Jack continued to puff on his cigar and glare at Verdigris.
“So I think I’ve got it figured out,” Jack said finally. “Correct me if I’m wrong.”
Verdigris nodded, still beaming.
“Earlier today, you managed to buy up controlling shares of Blacksnake through your many dummy corporations. Your one obstacle was the current head, General Landover, the most successful leader Blacksnake has ever known, and the most popular, given his recent motions towards increased profit-sharing for all staff ranging from the field ops to the lowly secretarial pool . . .”
“I’m sorry,” Verdigris said. “Was he a friend?”
“He was an ass,” Jack answered promptly. “An ass with good luck, given that he fell into the crapper that the Kriegers generated and came out of the pit with his hands full of diamonds. But still, an ass.” Jack stood up and strolled over to look down at Landover. He snorted and spit on the body. “Nice work, Khanjy.”
“I consider her an artist,” Verdigris replied happily. Khanjar said nothing. She didn’t care for Jack. She didn’t hate him; she just didn’t care for him. He reminded her of the crude bullies that served the warlords back in her home province. Something she didn’t much like to be reminded of.
“And so,” Jack continued, pausing only to strike his heel across Landover’s temple, “you decide to expedite the transfer of power by coming here personally and removing the general from his seat, pay off the current board to walk away, all the while wearing my face, which leads me to the conclusion that you have work for me.”
“Work?” Verdigris snorted, his tone indignant. “A promotion, Jack! One must always look out for one’s friends.”
“Friends, are we?” Jack said, seating himself next to Verdigris. He paused to consider that. “Well, I suppose I’ve tried to have friends killed at one time or another.”
Verdigris coughed into his hand. “Now, Jack, we should let bygones be bygones. It’s a whole new world full of opportunity out there! You need me, now that the board thinks you’re the coup master. And I need you. What could be a better basis for friendship?”
Khanjar did not roll her eyes. She had an excellent poker face; most assassins did.
“Keep talking,” Jack said. “Be convincing.”
“You get to collect El Generalissimo’s salary, perks, and whatever you care to skim off the top. I’m serious, Jack. I did not buy Blacksnake to make a profit. I bought it for two reasons.” He held up one finger. “I got tired of watching Khanjar kill the morons they sent after me.” He held up the second finger. “I want Echo. To get Echo, I need Blacksnake. But I can’t be the head of Blacksnake, or I’ll never get Echo. QED: You become head of Blacksnake.”
“Uh huh,” Jack muttered. “And why me?”
“You were the most trustworthy of the current roster that I could discern.”
“Trustworthy in general or to you?”
“In general,” Verdigris admitted. “My only trepidation in this whole affair is that you might still have some issues with . . .”
“With the way you ended our last arrangement?” Jack offered.
“Oh really, Jack, if you can’t overlook a small matter of betrayal in the face of glorious immortality . . .”
“You tried to blow me up, Verd. Forty pounds of C-4 isn’t what I would call ‘small.’”
“Well, it is when you consider I overruled Khanjar and gave you a sporting chance.” Khanjar noted the gleam in Verdigris’ eyes. It was not entirely sane.
“Did it occur to you to ask me if I wanted in before adopting my identity and perforating the leader of a major coordinated force of mercenaries and metahumans?”
“And what would be the fun in that?” Verdigris grinned with aplomb. “Besides, I have a line on an old prize that might interest you. And this time, Jack, I’m not above sharing it. So? Are we BFFs now?”
“That depends,” Jack said as he reached down and extinguished his cigar on Landover’s exposed teeth.
“On what?”
“On what you can give that assures me I can trust you this time.”
“Proximity, my dear Jack, proximity. You will have the prize before I do, and while you do not trust me, I trust you. You do have an impeccable reputation for delivery.” Verdigris continued to grin. “And meanwhile, look at the lifestyle you get to enjoy! I really don’t care if you clean out every offshore account as long as you can keep the company running long enough for me to get Echo.”
Jack nodded, bowing his head in thought.
“The real deal this time?” he asked.
Verdigris nodded. “You do this right, we’ll both live forever. And not ‘continuing to age until we turn into wrinkled little raisins’ live forever, either.”
“Who’s the mark?”
Verdigris smiled. It looked like a shark. “I need you to get into Tesla’s office. A very little package I want planted.”
Jack gave him a quizzical lift of his brow. “Tesla guards the secret to immortality?”
Verdigris chuckled. “Tell me, Jack. Have you ever heard of Metis?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
__________
Thunder in Heaven
MERCEDES LACKEY AND CODY MARTIN
This story is the reason why I started raiding every resource I could get my hands on to build a system that would let me play Overwatch to more than one group
at a time. After this was over, I swore that never again would my people be left without their eyes in the sky, if I had to wire myself into the computers and hook myself up to IVs and never leave my chair again.
John had really fallen in with his newest “comrades.” They were certainly a motley bunch, comprised of metahumans from the USSR who were either decades past their prime or too green to reasonably be fielded. Still, each and every one of them had a “closeness” that John hadn’t experienced in years. They were on the ragged edge, working with a shoestring budget and not nearly enough people . . . but they were still getting their jobs done, making do where they had to. There was the oddball Great Patriotic War vet who would push the Stalinist line pretty hard, but for the most part John’s standing as a “sturdy worker” was enough to save him from most of the rhetoric.
Since joining the CCCP, the days had flashed by; there was always too much that needed to be done, so he was constantly busy. And it was a good feeling, much like what he had been doing in the neighborhood but with a bit more . . . was it legitimacy? The weight of the world wasn’t on John’s shoulders alone, anymore; he had backup, now. He spent most of his time patrolling and acting as a liaison between the CCCP and its Area of Operation. Odd-job construction bits around the HQ, taking breaks with Chug in the park or Pavel at the only working watering hole in the neighborhood, or filling out the ever-present reams of paperwork took up the rest of his time. John had finally got his stride back; if he could just shake the recurring chest cold and fatigue he seemed to have a run of, he’d have been better than ever.
For those seldom-quiet moments, he took his time to seek out Sera or Bella for conversation. Bella was the only American with CCCP ties that John associated with; there was that odd Vickie Victrix gal and Mamona, but John never saw much of them. Vickie was rumored to be somewhat of a recluse, and Mamona just had a different patrol schedule than John. And Sera . . . well, that was another matter. She’d virtually been with John since he’d entered Atlanta, in one form or another. He generally felt quite a bit better after meeting with her; the last time, he had attempted to introduce her to the concept of “ice cream” with mixed results.
Today there was a “simple” little task that needed doing in the upgraded infirmary, but of course with anything involving the CCCP, nothing was simple. What should have been freestanding, lockable supply cabinets needed to be shock-mounted to the wall, similar to what one would see in nuclear missile silos. Jadwiga was adamant about that. “More poundings on roof by Fashisti and all my bottles of medicines go flying? Nyet!” John had the free pair of hands and he kind of felt he owed Jadwiga at this point.
The base still didn’t have reliably working AC—except in the computer room—so pretty much everyone but Upyr stripped as far down as decency permitted while within the walls. For some reason Upyr never seemed to feel the heat. So John was down to a wife-beater and shorts as he sweated through the installation to Jadwiga’s specified cabinets. “Hotter than Hell on the 4th of July,” he muttered. It was one of his father’s favorite phrases, and had stuck with John.
“Lawsy may, it’s raining men,” drawled Bella. “You trying out for the Chippendales?”
John shrugged, tightening a bolt as he spoke. “Isn’t there a play bein’ put on for Smurfs somewhere in town? I hear they still need Smurfette.” John flashed a smile over his shoulder. “If you’re lookin’ for a gig, I think they might just let ya audition.”
John playfully swatted away a sponge that Bella had sent flying for the back of his head. “You should be grateful we’re out of ‘Souvenirs of the War of Northern Aggression.’” she mock-snarled.
“Saviour already bash ’em all? I know Old Bear made her go through at least a crate when he put in a requisition form for ‘Going-Postal Notes.’ Me an’ Unter had a chuckle ’bout it in the rec room.” He set down his wrench, turning and standing to face Bella. “What can I do for ya, Blueberry? Or’d ya just come to harass a hard-workin’ comrade?”
She gave him a thoughtful once-over. “Oh . . . came in here to resupply.” She put down her box of medical supplies. “By the way, there’s a wrecked warehouse at what used to be South Peachtree Place that was a med supply house. I got hold of them, they told me they’ve written everything off but no one’s looted it and we’re welcome to what we can scavenge.” Her eyes rested on the tattoo on the back of his hand. “And this is the point where if I wasn’t an empath I’d ask you about the ink and the scars.”
He frowned, ruffling his hair with his fingers. Bella noticed that he did so with his tattooed hand, specifically. “Well, gee, Bella. Here I thought we were friends.”
“That doesn’t mean I snooped. It means I know you don’t want to talk about it . . . but I also know you need to. To someone, anyway. You’ve gotten mental ulcers over it.” She turned her back to him and began stowing away little glass bottles in the infirmary fridge. “If you don’t do something about it soon, it’s going to blow up in your face.”
“Yeah, well, it ain’t exactly something that y’talk to anyone that you want to see breathin’ for the forseeable future. Y’know what I’m saying?”
“Actually, no. Why don’t you enlighten me?” She studied the labels on the bottles very carefully.
John looked around the room, his eyes staying fixed on the doorway for a few extra moments. Bella took that as her cue to close the door, and make sure it was locked. He sighed heavily, sitting down on a small wooden crate. “Well, shit. Whaddya know from what I told ya before?”
“Not much. And most of that is reading between the lines. You’ve got implants and the work is too good for it to be anything other than a program, presumably a government program, presumably the US government.”
“Wasn’t just any program. That’s what they called it; ‘The Program.’ I’m gettin’ ahead of myself, though.” He shifted forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “Grew up in Virginia with my folks, only child of theirs. Went through the motions in high school, then enlisted in the Army once I was graduated; kinda a forgone conclusion, since my old man had served for his career. Went ‘11-bang-bang,’—11b; Infantry. Passed all of what I needed to to get into Rangers, and went on to the 75th. Did this and that here and there. I loved military life. After I had gotten up in years and experience, I got a once-in-a-lifetime chance; tried out for 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, y’know, the ‘Delta Force’ that Hollywood makes all of those retarded movies about. Counterterrorism; real bad boys that knew their stuff. Won’t say with any small amount of pride that we were the absolute best at our mission profile, which was pretty damned versatile. Are you following me so far?”
“You sound like a recruiting brochure,” she said dryly. “Go on.”
“Yeah, yeah. Anyways. Did some things with Delta. There was a fairly big hiccup during one of ’em.” John went silent for a few moments, looking past Bella before snapping to ever so subtly.
“I’m an empath, Johnny. That felt like more than a ‘hiccup.’”
John continued to talk, not making eye contact with her. “After that, I got ‘recruited.’ There was a very hushed-up gig going on, and they needed the best and the brightest for it. Being a bit younger and a whole lot dumber, I went along with it. Program was as such: government had a couple of research stations where they were tryin’ to develop the next sort of mass-produced, cyber-enhanced soldier.” He held up an arm, displaying the symmetric scars running along the entire length. “It was a combination of surgical and cybernetic stuff. Overall it got called ‘enhancements’—musculature, reflexes, hardened bones, an’ so on. Six Million Dollar Man type of stuff; stronger, faster, tougher. We were the test batch for it, and it showed; we had over forty-five percent of our folks die from the trials for it.”
Anger made her eyes glow for a moment. “There is a special place in hell for whatever MDs were overseeing that.”
“We had all sorts; top of their fields, all of ’em. Just like us.” John chuckled mirthle
ssly. “After the surgeries and procedures were done, those of us that were left went through physical therapy to get our bodies used to the enhancements, and recover from gettin’ torn up. It was kinda like relearning to walk. Not too fun. Durin’ the retraining period, I exhibited something that the docs didn’t exactly expect.” He snapped the fingers on his right hand, producing a lighter-sized flame. “I had natural metahuman ability. Y’see, the docs and project heads wanted to make every soldier be on par with some of the mid-level metahumans via the enhancements. For the few of us that they found with powers already, they had special plans. I got shuffled into a side program, where they tried to figure out more about how our powers worked, if they were replicable, and how best to utilize them for Black Ops.”
“How . . . charming.”
“While I was in the Program—and trust me, I was still going along with it at this point, since I figured this is what we all signed up for—some more things happened.” Another very long pause on his part. The angry glow in Bella’s eyes went out. Her brow furrowed and it looked as if she was going to try and reach out to touch his arm, but stopped herself at the last moment.
“That’s—that’s what they call ‘collateral damage’ where you come from, I guess.”
“Yeah, well . . . after that, I became ‘uncooperative.’ Head researcher ordered me up for ‘termination’; gettin’ a lethal shot and then opened up on a cadaver table. I didn’t exactly cotton to that. I . . . I lost my head, there.” John smiled again, lopsidedly, staring past Bella for a moment before meeting her eyes. “Y’know what temperature steel melts at?” The lighter-sized flame on his finger intensified and grew to encompass his hand; the temperature in the room ramped up considerably as the flames became hotter and hotter before John suddenly extinguished them. “When I woke up, everything in the place was burned. Everything and everybody, you understand? So I ran, and had been runnin’ up until I came to y’all here at the CCCP.” He looked at her soberly. “You wanted to know. And there it is.”