by Mercedes Lackey; Cody Martin; Dennis Lee; Veronica Giguere
He was so preoccupied with the death of Perun that he almost missed completely the droning sound that had slowly been filling the air for the past few seconds, slowly climbing over the din of the fighting. In a flash of metal and smoke, something shot out of an alley to the west. It was huge, and looked like some sort of car from a hell tailored specifically for vehicles. John bathed his hands in fire, ready to light up whatever this new menace was, until he saw it run over two Nazis, crushing them under wickedly spiked treads that looked more like chainsaws than they did as a means of traction. The vehicle wove through the melee, narrowly missing several of John’s comrades, before skidding to a halt next to him. The treads melded into the machine, and were replaced by very thick tires. The vehicle, upon closer inspection, resembled a Mad Max, junkyard version of a salt-flat racer. A very familiar face that John couldn’t place peeked out over the edge of it. “Echo OpOne, Speed Fiend, reporting for action! A mutual friend told me you could use a hand out here.”
John was too stunned for words, at first. Finally, he jumped onto the back of the vehicle, then surveyed the fight. The troopers’ numbers were diminishing, but their leader Ubermensch was still putting up one hell of a fight. He must’ve been somewhere close to as strong and resilient as Chug, and he was also fighting with that nasty energy-sheathed sword. “Start strafin’ that guy; we’ve gotta get his attention. Think y’can do that?”
Speed Fiend smiled over his shoulder; he couldn’t turn that much in place, since it appeared that he was actually hooked into his vehicle from the waist down. “Hang on; this puppy has some giddyup.” With a squeal of tires and a spray of crunched rubble, the pair flew towards Ubermensch.
* * *
It was exactly like being in the middle of a nightmare. Bella saw the building fall on Nat; felt her—for lack of a better word—lifeline plunge. Watched as Ubermensch laughed and turned away.
She grabbed Chug’s arm; the telepathic/empathic link she’d managed to establish with him surged with what was less words and more feelings and images. The rocky creature whirled with astonishing speed, eyes focused on the pile of rubble. He howled. And then he wrenched out of Bella’s grip and lurched for the pile, and when he reached it, began ripping into it like a beagle in pursuit of a rabbit down a burrow, a plume of debris cascading behind him as he dug.
By the time Bella stumbled up to him, he’d half uncovered Saviour. Bella went to her knees beside the Commissar and clamped both hands around her head.
There was a point between “dying” and “dead” where, if you tried hard enough, and had enough energy, you could bring someone back. Saviour was just a hairbreadth on the right side of that, and with a gasp, Bella began pouring everything she had into the woman she was coming to think of as a friend. And pouring. And pouring . . .
And it was like pouring water down a drain . . . it was running out faster than she could pour, even if she drained herself to save Natalya.
* * *
This “Speed Fiend,” or whatever he called himself, really knew how to drive. John had managed to strap himself to the vehicle with a harness that seemed to have been affixed as an afterthought for whatever passengers this insane contraption would carry. They were moving at blazing speed, the car sliding and dodging through the fighting; barely missing a CCCPer or Echo team member here, sideswiping a Nazi there. John couldn’t focus on that, though; he still had a job to do if he wanted to really help his friends. Despite the jolting movement from the vehicle’s shocks as it sped over rubble and wreckage, John was able to accurately target Ubermensch. It helped that he was one friggin’ big Nazi, nearly as big as the powered trooper armor all on his own. John fired off bursts of flame, aiming for the Nazi leader’s face and chest, as fast as he could; he guessed that he wouldn’t be able to kill him or even injure him, but he could at least distract him, keep the bastard from going after someone like Upyr or Soviette.
Ubermensch was cursing, swatting at the flames as they splattered against his face. He swiped his sword at random, trying to swing it in whatever direction he thought John was firing from. Arcs of the sword’s energy cut into the ground or flew harmlessly into the air before dissipating; one of them even bisected a Nazi trooper that Unter was fighting. The Russian looked up puzzledly as his opponent split into two halves, falling to the ground.
“Insect! What do you think you can accomplish with your little buzzing?” Ubermensch peered angrily through the flames.
The Nazi leader was able to see for a moment between John’s shots; he oriented himself, setting his feet, before he charged ahead. He had guessed, correctly, where Speed Fiend was going to be driving through. Ubermensch lowered his shoulder, intercepting the vehicle. Its entire frame shook violently as he collided with them; the Nazi moved almost as fast as John could at his top speed. The impact destroyed the entire front end of Speed Fiend’s racer, crunched metal and engine components squealing pitifully as smoke poured from under what passed for a hood. “That’s not good!” shouted the Echo Op. The front end burst into flame, bathing both of them in greasy smoke. “That’s really not good!” Putting the vehicle into a suicide slide, Speed Fiend brought them to a halt, crashing the side into a wrecked school bus. “You better get outta here, pal. I’ll deal with the fire. Go kick that guy’s ass!” John unbuckled himself, leaping from the ruined vehicle.
Ubermensch was wearing the same smug smile that he’d had when he killed the Commissar. “Well, communist pig. I slaughtered your sow, shall I make bacon from her piglet? Shall I smoke you over your own pitiful flames?”
John started to advance on the Nazi. “Make your last words a prayer, sucker. There ain’t gonna be enough of you to bury once I’m done.” John dropped down to kneel, bracing his right hand with his left. Just as Ubermensch began to raise his sword, John amped up his flames almost the highest he could before he risked losing control. With a sharp gasp, he released the fire; the rubble underneath the beam, which was the size of a man, exploded as any residual moisture instantly vaporized. Trash combusted, and the air took on the same ozone tang that happened after lightning struck. The blast hit Ubermensch dead-on, and actually bowled him over onto his back. One Nazi trooper nearly one hundred feet behind him was hit with part of the strike, exploding as the atmosphere inside of his suit superheated and combusted in an instant.
Ubermensch struggled to his feet. He looked genuinely surprised, and even a little bit . . . scared? His sword was sputtering uselessly in his hand, and his entire chestplate had been melted off, leaving his bare chest marred by the impact of the blast. He stood staring at John for a very long moment, and then locked eyes with him. His eyes were very cold, and in that moment, the hatred that filled them rocked John with an all-too-familiar feeling.
But neither of them had a chance to act further. The remaining crippled war machine lurched up over the building behind Ubermensch, and an ear-shattering squeal filled the air. The few remaining troopers, the dead, and Ubermensch all flew upwards, attracted by whatever force the machines exerted to recall their men. And as soon as the sphere was covered, bristling like a dandelion from hell with its dead and living, it shot straight up and was out of sight in a moment.
The battle was over. At a great cost, they’d won an ambush designed to decimate them. And John could only manage to feel very weary.
* * *
“Sestra—” Soviette was tugging at Bella’s arm. “Sestra, you cannot help her, she is gone—”
There was a buzzing in Bella’s ears; she could barely hear Sovie. She couldn’t see. She knew she was in trouble, but damned if she was going to give up. Nat wasn’t gone. Not yet. And Bella wasn’t going to let her go.
Not without going with her.
Gray faded to black . . . and just like they always said, there was a light.
But instead of Bella going towards the light, the light came to her.
You would give your life to save her? Bella knew that voice. Her wordless assent made the light bloom around her with warmt
h and a new level of energy.
The willingness is enough. And it is permitted. Take what you need, little sister.
Abruptly, Bella could see and hear again, and as had happened before with John Murdock, she found herself connected with a life-force that left her gasping. But she was not so overwhelmed that she wasn’t able to think, and act, and siphon off enough to plug that energy-sucking “hole” that was Red Saviour, enough to stimulate every cell in her metahuman body into overdrive, enough to heal her, and enough to jolt heart and brain into action again.
Beneath her hands, Red Saviour began to cough and sputter, and gasp for air.
Soviette fainted.
* * *
As the war machine sped upwards, Ubermensch kept his eyes fixed on the American swine that had struck him. He would have remained to destroy the dog, if he’d been able. If he’d had the means of detaching himself, he’d leap down from half a mile up to land on him at this very moment.
He had thought his one great enemy would be that woman, that daughter of his namesake’s nemesis. But no. She was nothing. He had crushed her like a fly, and the victory had had no lasting savor.
But this . . . man. Whoever he was. How dared he challenge Ubermensch and the Fourth Reich?
His hatred burned, burned like the man’s own plasma fires, burned like the heart of hell. And Ubermensch made a vow to himself.
Whatever the cost—he would find out who this man was. He would make it his life’s task to destroy everything he cared for, everything he was connected to, everything he wanted.
Then, and only then—Ubermensch would destroy him.
* * *
John had extinguished his fires as soon as the Nazis were out of sight, retreating with their dead and wounded. He felt horrible, spread thin and raggedy; despite that, he kept his eyes fixed on the sky for a few extra moments. It was chance that he was looking up at the right moment to notice the flash; he almost reignited his fires out of reflex, before he recognized the light. Flames and feathers. Seraphym. His eyes immediately shot to the patch of ruined building where Bella and Soviette were crouched over their dead Commissar. Saw Bella’s eyes go wide, Saviour’s body lurch and begin coughing as the life flooded back into it, and then Jadwiga fainting at their side.
Just as quickly as it had started, it was over. A single feather floated down from the heavens, carried by the wind. Another miracle had been performed. John surveyed the area; it was a battleground, a charnel pit a few moments before. Blood still spattered and pooled on the ground, on the piles of debris, with what was left of the bodies of the Rebs dotting it at odd intervals. Unter and a few other CCCPers had policed the very few survivors, binding their wrists with oversized zip ties. Another squad of his comrades had already begun the task of laying out the bodies of the Rebs in a line, their weapons disassembled and thrown into a pile. Gotta make things all nice and tidy for when the cops an’ Echo show up, he thought with a tinge of bitterness. This was definitely going to stir up a hornet’s nest; Nazis working in league with the Rebs, and making a concerted assault on a section of Atlanta. Lots of paperwork and wringing of hands, to be sure.
Paperwork. John walked stiffly over to where he had left Perun’s body. The war veteran’s hair was matted with dust and sweat, and his eyes were still gazing lifelessly toward where the enemy had been moments ago. John knelt down, brushing his hand over the dead man’s face to close his eyes. In a testament to the skill and teamwork of the CCCP, and no small amount of luck, Perun was the only one on their side killed; if you didn’t count the Commissar, that is. Several people were injured, some of them severely; Stribog and Zmey were both in need of immediate attention, and would have to be evacuated to the CCCP HQ as soon as possible. The rest of their force was a collection of cuts, scrapes, fractures and gunshot wounds. Bella and a revived Soviette were already making their rounds, tending to the most serious wounds first.
John coughed into his hand, wracking his body with pain. He walked towards his comrades in order to help with the clean-up effort, dismissing the specks of blood that he had coughed into his glove.
Over the course of the next three hours, the CCCP finished accounting for the Rebs and weapons. A contingent of Echo personnel arrived in their fancy cars, taking reports and helping to add to the organized chaos involved with cleaning up a large amount of death and destruction. Molotok had taken charge, given the Commissar’s condition, and was making sure that everything was taken care of. When it was finally time to head back to HQ, John was operating on automatic; he was just too damn tired to get too worked up, to muster anything more than the necessary energy to walk and nod when addressed. Things were generally back to normal at the HQ in short order; those with wounds had them tended to, and everyone else went back to their assigned duties. Beneath it all was an undercurrent of anxious concern; his comrades whispered to each other about what had happened to the Commissar, her death and miraculous resurrection. John ignored it as best he could, stripping out of his patrol uniform and into one of the CCCP’s issue coveralls. He was given a leave on his paperwork by Untermensch. “It can wait for later, comrade. Get rest, first.”
John wasted no time signing out and leaving the compound. He knew that he was suffering a stress reaction to the entire incident, and knew how to deal with it. He just didn’t care enough to bother. Not wanting to head back to his squat to be alone with his thoughts, he started walking aimlessly. He avoided the more heavily populated parts of his neighborhood. After about an hour, he’d recovered enough to start really thinking again. How come we didn’t see ’em coming? What’s the connection between the Rebs and the Nazis? Who was the big sucker in charge of ’em? Why’d Perun die, and Nat get a second chance? It was that last thought that stuck in his mind like a burning ember, stirring up his emotions. First, there was grief and guilt over the death of his squad commander, a man he hardly had time to know. Then there was anger. At the Nazis, the Rebs, and surprisingly . . . at Sera. John’s feet had purpose now, and he started walking faster. Then he broke into a jog, then a run, and finally he was sprinting as fast as his enhanced body could carry him.
Hardly registering it, he was back at his squat. He vaulted up the stairway, through his apartment, finally bursting through the roof access hard enough to shake the frame.
The Seraphym knelt on the tar-and-gravel roof, her fires dim, her head bent so that a cascade of flame-hair covered her face. She was as still as a statue, and apparently so turned inward that she didn’t even hear him, nor hear the roof door slam open.
Or did she? Was she just ignoring him? Blowing him off? John spoke, his voice even and low. “Sera.”
Slowly she turned her head to face him. As always, her expression was serene, her eyes that unreadable, blank gold. But there were tears on those too-perfect cheeks.
Only for a moment, however. A graceful hand passed over her face, and they were gone, erased as if they had never fallen.
“John Murdock,” she said, with no hint of emotion in her voice. “You surprised me.” Then, with just a touch of irony, she added, “I hope you approved of the taxi I sent for you.”
Seeing Sera crying stirred something in John, and he felt some of the anger leave him. Still, he was far too stubborn to get completely over it, so he walked up to her. “‘Speed Fiend,’ right? Where do I know him from?”
“The first time we met.”
John shook his head, uncomprehending, when it dawned on him. The truck driver. The fella he had saved, or tried to, when he first showed up in Atlanta. The driver had been ambushed by a gang of looters, and John had killed them. He still remembered the look of fear on the driver’s face when he first tried to approach him to help him get to a hospital. “I take it y’got him some help. With Echo, from the way he looked.”
“He will only join Echo in the next hour. His . . . talent . . . emerged after he healed, and he has been learning it on his own.” A pause. “I sent you what help I was permitted. I came and told him it was time, and
where.”
“And what of Nat? Isn’t that a bit of a bigger job than you’re allowed?” John set his jaw; he could feel the anger creeping up on him again, but was doing his best to keep it in check.
“I did not heal her.” She looked directly into his eyes, and blinked once. “This is difficult to explain.”
“Try.”
“Perhaps . . . if you regard it as conservation of energy. Miracles, like energy, do not come from nothing. They must be paid for. For every miracle, something miraculous must in turn be sacrificed. Only in this way can the Law of Free Will not be subverted.” Another slow blink. “In this case, it was not so big a miracle as you think. A very, very small one, in fact. Natalya Shostakovich is a metahuman, and a very resilient one.”
John crossed his arms. “An’ what about Perun? He was too, an’ now he’s just a very dead man.”
“There . . .” She shook her head. “It is complicated. He was an old, old man. He had outlived most of his comrades and friends and all of his lovers. Part of him was ready to move onwards. Part of him wanted to do so long ago. But the rest of him did not want to do so in . . . in a manner unbefitting a warrior. He knew what he was doing and that it would probably kill him. And . . . there was no one willing to make that sacrifice for the miracle, for him.”
“You’re so sure ’bout that? What about me?” His jaw tightened, and he consciously tried to relax with very little effect.
One eyebrow rose. “So. Will you give me your life? Not your death, John Murdock. Your life.”