Revolution: Book Three of the Secret World Chronicle

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Get the snoopers on. Flash first. Watch out for falling glass. On three. Two. One . . .” Every light bulb in the warehouse exploded in a shower of sparks at that moment; more of Vickie’s techno-wizardry at play, whether legitimate magic or just her awesome hacking abilities, John didn’t know. The team already had their NVGs mounted, and it only took a few precious seconds to fix them over their eyes and turn the monocles on. The warehouse was lit up by the infrared lights that the NVGs used in total dark situations; the blue-white beams from the Nazi guns came out the characteristic night-vision green, scintillating across the team’s vision. The sparks, raygun fire, and muzzle flashes from the rifles all played merry-hell with John’s goggles, so he turned the light gain down with his off hand, still firing. Some of the Thulians were climbing into the armored suits, powering them up to help fight off the interlopers.

  “Don’t let them get in the suits! You guys don’t have armor-piercing rounds!”

  “Stay tight, and pick your shots! Get anyone going for a suit!” John gritted his teeth as he expended the last rounds in his weapon’s magazine. “Mag change!” He hit the magazine release, his free hand already prying a fresh ammunition magazine from his LCH and slamming it home into the magazine well. He charged the rifle’s bolt, and began firing again.

  “Frag out!” It sounded like either Unter or Bear; the team hunkered down slightly, still firing, when a tremendous explosion went off several meters to John’s right. It was still close enough to rattle his teeth in his skull. John could make out several Thulians screaming while the shrapnel and debris settled. That’s gonna get some attention. The police officers were only a few blocks away; even if they hadn’t heard the explosion, someone nearby might call it in.

  The team was pinned down, facing far too many Thulians for his own taste. If any of them were able to get into their monstrous suits, the cover that John and his comrades were hiding behind would quickly turn into only so much easily destroyed concealment. Cops would be here soon, maybe even that one security guard; more people that would be caught in the crossfire and probably killed. Probably? He’d seen with his own eyes how cops with sidearms fared against those suits. They might as well be kids armed with water guns.

  Mamona was keeping low behind cover, making herself as small as possible. Since she didn’t have a firearm or training with one—a fact that John was seriously regretting at the moment—she was focusing her energies elsewhere. She was using her metahuman powers to disrupt the aim of as many Thulians as possible. It was working, but only barely; even with the team taking down the Thulians at a fair rate, there were just too many of them for her to keep tabs on. Eventually, she was going to lose it, and one of them would connect with a shot on someone in the team.

  John was thinking at a mile a minute. He knew how this was going to end unless the team could withdraw; they wouldn’t be able to fight their way out and concentrate on the Thulians going for suits, though. They were surrounded and outgunned.

  At that moment, he felt something horrible well up inside of him, engulfing him in a maelstrom of pain and memory. Frozen solid, he stopped firing and—almost unthinkably, given that he was trained to the point of instinct and muscle memory—dropped his rifle. His entire body started to spasm. Visions of jungle canopy, muzzle flashes through night vision, friends and comrades gunned down and left bleeding flashed through his mind and took the place of the warehouse around him until that was all there was, all there ever had been, all there ever would be . . .

  John screamed uncontrollably; it wasn’t out of fear or anger, but a guilt so fierce it was eating him alive. The weapons’ fire from both sides slackened momentarily at the almost inhuman sound coming from him.

  Dimly he heard a voice that used to be familiar screaming in his ear. “Lozshites’ na zeml’u e ukroites’! Bistro! DROP AND COVER! NOW!”

  There was one, tiny, sane little bit of his mind left—just enough to register that the concrete floor suddenly erupted all around his friends, that shields of earth and broken cement mounded above every member of the CCCP team except for him with a roar like a Richter 8 earthquake, and the ground around him shook, knocking some of the nearest Thulians off their feet.

  Half standing, John threw his arms out wide, his back arched. He was exposed to the Thulians, and still screaming when it happened. A low boom sounded throughout the warehouse as a giant pulse of plasma exploded outwards from where John stood. Everything near him was bathed in flame, waves of fire splashing over everything. Metal, even the Thulian alloys in the suits and equipment, turned red and white-hot in an instant, exploding from the sudden temperature change. Boxes were blown apart, and concrete split open. The Thulians were incinerated almost immediately, not even conscious long enough to feel pain; several had their silhouettes burned into the brick behind them at the first blast of the fire storm.

  John shook, screaming and crying, as pulses of fire raced away from his body. Then, as suddenly as it had erupted, the fires ended, and with them, his strength, He dropped to the floor, panting, for a moment lost in confusion. Where was he? What—

  Behind and around him, mounds of smoking, blackened—and in some places, vitrified—earth erupted up again, freeing his comrades from their improvised shelters. Unter was the first to leap out. “Nasrat!” he spat. It seemed like the entire warehouse was on fire; the entire place looked like something out of a Baptist minister’s brimstone sermon with the few Thulian suits still standing passing for demons.

  The world of the real flooded back to him. He was here again. “Finish the job,” came John’s shaky reply.

  “Take them,” said Vickie, and Saviour at the same time barked something in Russian.

  There were very few Thulians left alive, much less able to fight back. The CCCPers dispatched them easily; with Mamona concentrating her disruptive powers on such a small number of targets, the team was able to eliminate them with concerted rifle fire.

  John coughed heavily, holding his headset close. “We need to clear out. We sure as hell are gonna get some attention, now. Everyone, pull out an’ head to the van, an’ do so on the bounce.”

  “Cops are holding; fire’s on the way. I leaked it was Thulian; anonymous tip from someone at a pay phone who saw a couple of Nazi suits and was running away scared.”

  “Good. That means they’ll let this joint burn a bit more, an’ don’t think it’s a crime scene just yet.”

  Bear, bringing up the rear of the team’s formation as they jogged through the burning wreckage, shouted, “Comrades! I know perfect song for occasion! ‘Da roof, da roof, da roof is on fire! Let the mother—!’”

  “Pavel!” Saviour growled. “Enough!”

  “Da, Commissar. I will restrain my exuberance.”

  “Keep your heads down. Blacksnake is sticking its nose in.”

  The team exited the warehouse easily enough with the confusion outside, generated by the fire department, the police, and several other entities in official-looking flak vests that Vickie had managed to call to the scene; they were just another bunch of ash-smudged workers amongst the rest.

  “There’s carry-out steak coming to meet you at the suite. Firm is called ‘Takeout Taxi,’ branded car, driver is named Tony.” Vickie allowed a hint of concern to creep into her voice. “Be careful on the way back, gang.

  “Private channel, Johnny, You need anything special?” An ironic tone crept into her voice. “I’m . . . kind of an expert on aftermaths. Name it, I can arrange for it to be delivered. Vodka with a Valium chaser, for instance.”

  John sighed, swaying with the battered van as it bumped along the road. “The three B’s wouldn’t be all that bad.”

  “Beer, bath and—what, exactly?”

  “Wouldn’t be gentlemanly fer me to say.”

  “Broads. Beer is in the fridge, you’re in the hot-tub suite if you check the bathroom. Broads, you’re on your own.”

  John half-smiled. “What do we pay ya for, then?” Without waiting for a reply, he r
emoved the earpiece, resting his head against the van’s metal wall with a heavy sigh. Perfect end to an utterly imperfect day. Quit your bellyaching, loser. You’ll have plenty of time to mull this over on the trip home. With that parting thought, John indulged in one of the oldest traditions of the infantry: catching a catnap.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Nox Aurumque

  (Night and Gold)

  MERCEDES LACKEY

  While we were “housecleaning,” so to speak, the Seraphym was doing some housecleaning of her own. It seems that we were not the only ones who were not inclined to sit down and wail.

  * * *

  Of all the burdens that the entity called the Seraphym carried, the heaviest was obedience. How many times she had longed to intervene, only to be told “It is not permitted,” or “This and this only is permitted”! How many times had she wept to see the mortal lives snuffed out or ruined . . . yet known that the reason she was told “It is not permitted” was because she was not the Infinite, that however powerful, she was limited and that there would always be ones she could not help because she was stretched too far . . .

  Already she did far more than anyone ever guessed. Mostly what was needed were such small things—a flash of light in the eyes, a breath of air to deflect, a flash of knowledge just before something happened, a whisper of warning in time to plan. But for all these things, she had to be there. They could not be done from afar. And sometimes, there was direct intervention.

  It was what the mortals called “The Lifesaver’s Dilemma”; if the lifesaver drowns trying to save too many, who will save the swimmers in the future?

  Obedience saved her. Obedience saved those who would matter in the days to come.

  But it did not help to know this.

  Rebellion was also a burden. Not because rebellion was forbidden, but because of how it was permitted. It must not be because of pride, or wishing only to glorify one’s own self. It must not be because of hate, or even dislike. It must not be—well there were many causes for which one must not rebel. That was the thing that those who had rebelled and Fallen did not understand. There was room even for rebellion in the Infinite. But it had to be the right sort of rebellion. It had to be less rebellion and more . . . creativity.

  One could only rebel when the Infinite itself was silent. When neither she nor any other Siblings could See a way.

  When it cost one’s own self dearly. When rebellion became a sacrifice.

  When it was, truly, for the greatest good, the greatest number.

  Thus far, the Seraphym had not yet found the time and place to rebel. But this—this might be the time and place.

  The Thulians were about to descend in force upon a little town in the red clay hills of Georgia. They were going to wipe it from the face of the earth, and every living thing, down to the insects, in it.

  The Seraphym had not Seen this becoming a certainty until—well, until a mortal hour ago, when an earnest conclave had swayed a single mind, and that mind had given the order. And that had been set in motion by the contacting of an aging, bitter man in Hungary. And that had been set in motion by something the Doppelgaenger had learned. And—

  Well . . . it was fruitless to speculate further. As always with the futures, nothing was certain, until just before it was.

  And now . . . now 9,376 men, women and children, and countless creatures that were not human, would suffer from the arrogance of one creature.

  By the time Echo or CCCP learned of this, it would be too late. Angusburo would be a plate of glass. There was no one to stand between the Thulians and their goal.

  Except her.

  She stood, invisible to mortal eyes, between the Thulians and the place they would destroy. She would not suffer this to happen. The Infinite was silent, thus far. She had not been told “This is not permitted”—but she had not been told that it was.

  The Death Spheres were not in sight, but black clouds boiled up with terrifying speed on the horizon, and she knew they were inside. This was new. The technology to make the clouds triggered fearful lightnings within them. This was also new.

  She dropped that which made her invisible. She called her aura of fire, her spear, her shield, and her sword. She would give them warning. They had seen her at work. She would give them the chance to turn back.

  The clouds surged towards her, alive with lightning. Behind her, the people of the town were running for cover, certain this was some freak storm that held a tornado, or worse. How much worse, they did not yet know. Most of them still either did not see her, their minds refusing to encompass her, or saw her and thought she was some Echo meta, here because—well they did not bother to wonder why, as they headed for their basements. Seeking shelter was paramount in their minds, and everyone knew there were no metas whose powers included controlling the weather.

  And still the Infinite was silent.

  They came at her in silence, and she saw them despite the cloaking clouds. Then the clouds engulfed her.

  With a thought, she burned them away, spreading her flame-wings wide, wide, creating a sphere of clear air within the cloud bank. The lightning struck her, but she felt it only as a distant pain, one that meant nothing to her. It was not that she could not be hurt—it was that she did not care if she was hurt. It lashed her, and she made it her own, taking it away from them and surrounding herself with its dance.

  Still, they came, so sure of their own mastery. They thought they had studied her; they thought they had an answer to her.

  She let her voice thunder in their minds.

  Stop.

  The energy cannons whined defiance. She felt the same defiance in the crews of the ships. She was only one being; how could she presume to stop them? She saw the commander call up his library of information, find her, and swiftly review what little there was—and reject it. The other captains had been mistaken, or inferior, or caught unaware. She could not withstand them.

  You shall not do this thing. I shall not allow it.

  “It’s a bluff!” she heard the commander of the fleet below communicate to the other ships. “She’s never taken a stand like this before, and she won’t win now!”

  Oh, she said into their minds. Be not so certain. Go. This place is not for your taking. Go and live, stay and die.

  And—

  Defiance. The defiance of those who see no other path but their own will. The ships began to move on her.

  And in the still, profound, and waiting silence of her heart, she heard, with great sadness, So like the ones lost to us . . . Seraphym, it is permitted.

  “I bring you Fire and the Sword!” she cried—not with joy, oh no, never with joy for such a task, but with release. The words rang across the sky.

  The Seraphym danced.

  To oppose mortal, material force, she must be, if not mortal, certainly material. Oh, she could have waved a hand and obliterated them all in a wash of plasma, but that was not appropriate. Each creature in this fleet must be given his own opportunity to rebel, to turn back. And for that, she must take them one by one.

  And they must all see it, and be aware of what she did.

  This was the work of an Instrument; always, always, the wicked must be given that chance to repent, to redeem themselves, for forgiveness was always possible. So she danced, and the first ship that she danced with came at her with newly hardened tentacles reaching with inhuman speed, and energy cannon seeking to lock onto her. But a moment, a heartbeat later, the tentacles were raining down on a pasture, severed by her sword, and the ship reeled beneath the beams of its own cannon deflected back to it by her shield. Then with a leap, she was atop it; her spear piercing the heart of the control mechanism, her hand hitting the metal of the shell with a hollow, gonglike boom.

  She leapt away; the ship canted sideways, half its flight controls gone. She ignored it; it was of no more moment to her. Undaunted—or perhaps unobservant—another was attacking.

  Near-infinite power wielded by precise control; that was the w
ork of an Instrument. No less than what was needed, but not one particle more. This time as she landed, a cascade of fire waterfalled from her down the sides of the ship—a white-hot waterfall that fused the portals for the weapons shut, and blinded the ship, a torrent of plasma that was so hot and fierce that it did so and dissipated without cooking the crew inside—though the climate controls nearly fused themselves trying to compensate. As the ship blundered off, blind and deaf, she leapt again.

  Her fire-wings buffeted the next ship, destroying the sensors an instant after blinding the crew. She left the weapons live on this one; the tentacles flailed aimlessly, the cannon blasted, and it left three more of its kin mortally wounded in the half minute after she left it and moved on.

  In his ship at the rear, the commander screamed at his captains, ordering them to destroy her, berating them for incompetence and worse. The black clouds boiled up again as she waited amid the dying ships of the front rank, giving the rest yet another opportunity to turn back.

  Instead, heedless of their crippled fellows around her, they opened up on her, pouring an inferno down upon her.

  Of course it hurt. She had a physical body—one that renewed itself as fast as it was injured, but a physical body nevertheless. The trick, as T.E. Lawrence famously said, was not minding that it hurt. Pain is information. The information is that the body is injured. Her body was already healed by the time the pain registered. The information was not relevant. She could ignore it.

  Ignore it, even as her body was burned and renewed, burned and renewed, for as long as they poured their deadly energies into the spot where she hovered.

  Even the Thulians could not keep up such a barrage forever. One by one, the exhausted guns flickered and went out. And she remained, burning, burning, within the fires of her own creation, the fires of the Infinite, wings of flame spreading wide once more.

  In his craft, the commander screamed imprecations at his underlings. Briefly she bowed her head. There was doubt in them. But the habit of obedience was bred into them. There was only one way to end this.