Revolution: Book Three of the Secret World Chronicle

by Mercedes Lackey

  John had already made his mind up; he couldn’t shut off his feelings anymore, even if he wanted to. It would’ve driven him over the edge if he still could. But he was still worried; what happened if the worst happened?

  Well, Sera seemed able to take care of herself, but that fact didn’t shake his fear. He’d already lost enough people; he wouldn’t let hubris claim another one, especially someone that he’d finally come to genuinely care about after so long utterly alone.

  He was fighting with shadows, though, and he knew it. There was really only one course open to him; keep going as best as he could, and hope that the worst didn’t come to pass.

  More than that, he hoped he got to see her again soon.

  * * *

  Sera had a new perch; the Suntrust Plaza was too exposed, too many people could see her there, even though it offered her an unparalleled view. She had found a most peculiar structure, a sort of Greco-Roman temple placed, for no apparent reason, atop one of the other high-rise buildings. It pleased her. It afforded her some measure of concealment; the best view of it came from an expensive restaurant and the sorts of people who frequented such a place were very unlikely to see her unless she intended them to. The same held for those who had offices in the surrounding buildings. Without all of those eyes on her, she felt more herself.

  The place also had an excellent view of the CCCP headquarters and John’s squat. Not a trivial consideration.

  She never actually rested as such; her mind was always working, sifting through futures, on the alert for moments when she was needed. But tonight, for a few moments, all those things had been shunted aside, in favor of a single astonishing sensation.

  A kiss.

  It was one thing to have the memories of billions of human kisses and caresses of all sorts available to one. It was quite another to actually experience such a thing.

  John could only have surprised her in this way because his future, his present, increasingly his past, and his thoughts were all so opaque to her. In fact, she was almost certain that she had known more about him before she came to know him better. It was as if the Infinite was removing her access to that information, so that she had to rely on what he revealed to her himself.

  This was a little unnerving. She was not at all used to the Infinite leaving her on her own, blind, relying only on a single, mortal, fallible source.

  But John himself was unnerving. Though . . . in a good way, she thought, suddenly. Certainly . . . that kiss . . .

  It was, most definitely, a sign, though not in the “sign from God” sense. His barriers were breaking down. He was willing to share things with her, things he had kept hidden from everyone. And he had finally made a firm emotional contact with someone.

  With her.

  Instinctively she put her hand to her lips. It had not been chaste, that kiss. Not the “kiss of peace.” Not demanding either, nor aggressive. Playful? Perhaps . . .

  Permitted?

  He had asked her, “What do you want me to be?” And she had been astonished. For no one, ever, had asked her what she wanted. She had said as much aloud. And then he had kissed her, and for that short time, she had not thought of anything else.

  She had told herself such a thing could surely be permitted. All things that brought creatures together were permitted . . . but had she known this, or merely told herself so because this was how she wanted it?

  The fact that you can ask the question tells you the answer, Seraphym.

  Well . . . there it was. Not the exact answer to her question, but certainly implied, by virtue of the fact that all good was in the realm of the Infinite, and that which was not good . . . was not.

  So, there remained, what to make of this? She was flying blind here, with John, with these very mortal things, with emotions. And what to do about it? Should she pull back? No, that was unacceptable; it was needed that he should become more human, more connected, not less, and withdrawing from him would only put back all those walls he was pulling down. Should she foster only friendship, as Bella did?

  Or should she just stop trying to calculate, and to steer, for once? Should she just . . . see what happens? Just let go?

  Was that why the Infinite was withholding information from her? To force her into the position where there were no maps and guides? To make a leap of faith into the dark, and trust that she would find the way?

  I think . . . that is exactly what I must do. And . . . strangely . . . the thought comforted.

  She looked down upon John’s roof, and saw the lonely figure there, gazing out over the city. But just at that moment, she felt it—the sudden need for her, and knew that she must not yet answer it, and John would be alone with his thoughts a bit longer.

  Not tonight, friend John, but soon . . . soon.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Seven Deadly Virtues

  MERCEDES LACKEY AND CODY MARTIN

  The obliviousness of the ultrarich never ceased to amuse Verdigris. Out there, just inland from the Port of Savannah, there were entire stretches of major cities that still looked like the aftermath of a nuke strike. But here he was, with a thousand of his closest “friends,” partying the night away on his own little “island”—one of his many company container ships, the deck mostly stripped of the containers—which had been transformed into a snapshot of any one of those destruction corridors. Only clean, sanitized, and with caviar and champagne.

  The theme of the party was “Post Apocalypse,” and like all of Dominic Verdigris’ parties, it was epic in scale. Costume was required, but these people didn’t have to worry about trivialities like coming up with costumes. Their personal assistants took care of that.

  There were four bands, more refreshment tables than Verd cared to count, and a nice sprinkling of Echo metahumans dragooned into providing “glamor.” And “entertainment.” Verd stood on the bridge of the ship and looked down on his tiny kingdom. Directly below him was . . . what was his name? Aqua-marine? Jeezus, what a stupid name. The dweeb had some sort of telekinetic water control. It actually had some practical application, since he could become a metahuman water cannon, but right now he was making impossible shapes in midair, like some sort of magic fountain. Fractals made of water astounded the oohing and aahing crowd of socialites that had paused in front of the Echo Op. Verd tapped a command to his party staff on his comm, and almost instantly the onboard lighting crew had the water sculptures lit up with lasers and colored lights.

  Khanji, as always, was at his side. Her costume was pretty amusing, really. It was actual Echo-tech body armor, carefully made up with little shreds of net, bits of leather, and splotches of paint. Not that she really needed body armor, but it was the only thing he could coax her into. She’d been very sullen of late, jealous of the attention he was paying to People’s Blade, no doubt. Maybe tonight would sweeten her temper a little, with the Chinese girl nowhere in sight.

  “These rich yuppies just can’t seem to wait to rip their expensive suits and dresses up and cover them in dirt and charcoal. It’s actually kind of funny.”

  “You’re not in costume,” Khanji observed.

  Of course he wasn’t. He was in a completely immaculate white silk suit. “I’m King of the Apocalypse, of course I’m clean; I own all the soap. Besides, it’s rather appropriate, don’t you think? All of these sots in rags?”

  “And why would that be, Dom?” Khanji replied coolly. “If you are making some sort of ironic observation based on media memes, you forget I spent most of my childhood in a Pakistani slum, so I didn’t get a lot of exposure to that sort of thing.”

  “Never mind, darling. How are things coming for our plans in Hong Kong?” He hoped that would distract her, sweeten that sour temper. After all, ordinarily he would have overseen everything, but this time he had put her in complete charge. “After turning the Bombay fiasco into a win, you deserve some more authority,” he’d said. He’d meant it as a compliment to smooth over her increasingly prickly disposition, but in a rare miscalc
ulation it’d only made her colder. Women. Can’t live with ’em, can’t sell ’em for parts. Well, actually, there are those Triads that keep on bugging me . . .

  “On schedule and running smoothly.” Her tone was completely dismissive. So much for that attempt.

  “Well, good. Good work.” He fidgeted with his drink, looking at his shoes; maybe feigning embarrassment at his earlier gaffs would bring her out of the rocky shell she was in. “I guess we’d better go mingle, huh? I mean, it’s my party, the host has to put in an appearance.”

  She snorted. “Half of them are already so drunk or high they’ll swear they’ve been talking to you half the night.”

  “Oh, that reminds me, the surveillance cameras are running on every corner of the ship, right?” Parties like this served multiple functions for a man like Dominic Verdigris. There were chances to take people aside to slip them a bribe, to have sequestered meetings that wouldn’t be noticed, even to have people murdered. His absolute favorite thing about these sorts of parties was the opportunities for blackmail; when intoxicated with their favorite poison—and sometimes drugs that they never even knew they had taken—people would do the darnedest things. And sometimes, just for the hell of it, even if there was no advantage to it, really embarrassing stuff could mysteriously end up on an internet video site. He always loved it when one of his leaks went viral. Sometimes it took a little bit more help than others, but that was part of the fun, too. Like that congressman that had turned into a squealing little heart-eyed fangirl over one of his pet metas at the last gig. One of those skinny, freaky Winds. Closeted, much? “We’ll wanna double-check the audio pickups; I’ll have my computer run all the recordings through a few filters, see what delicious dirt we get.”

  Khanji didn’t even bother to reply to that. She had very little to do with the electronic end of things; her expertise was at the physical side. She turned on her heel and left him alone on the balcony. It wasn’t as if he needed a bodyguard tonight. He was on his own ship, triple-checked by his own security, and staffed by his own security. And under the silk suit was a nanoweave bodysuit. Why, the automatic deterrents alone would take out an assassin before he even finished aiming. There was truly innovative research going on in predictive threat algorithms as well, something he had taken a keen interest in lately.

  Still, it felt pretty odd to head down to the party without her. It wasn’t attachment, per se; Verdigris had never been terribly attached to much of anything, other than power; wealth was just a byproduct of that, and only an ancillary concern of his. He was simply used to always having Khanjar there with him. And this was their first real row. She’d voiced her disapproval of things before this, but she’d never taken his decisions so personally.

  Verdigris knew where her real hostility was coming from, of course: the General. Ever since that first night, something had been off. At first he thought that it might simply be rivalry—one lioness sizing up the other. He hadn’t favored one over the other, so far as he had seen. In fact, the General’s “initiation test” was almost designed to fail; he had been pleasantly surprised when she had come back, whole and victorious. So, he had set her to tasks that suited her abilities, just as he had always done with Khanjar. All of this taken together suggested something deeper . . . but what?

  Could Khanjar have sensed he was considering making the General his second-in-command? But why would she be jealous about that? It wasn’t as if she had ever shown any interest in the position. Verdigris made his way down a set of metal stairs to the main floor, taking his time and contemplating the recent troubles he was having with Khanjar. It didn’t take long for someone to spot him and come stumbling over.

  “Senator! Lovely to see you and your darling wife able to make it tonight. I trust you’re enjoying this quaint little gathering of mine?”

  “Mr. Verdigris, you sell yourself short! I haven’t had this much fun since my frat days at Texas Tech! Ain’t that right, honey?”

  The trophy wife smiled vacuously. She was number three, if Verd recalled correctly. Former Miss Texas. Literally a trophy wife. Though it looked like she’d gone from blue to red ribbon quality in recent years; having a senator for a husband could be quite trying. “Yes, dear.”

  The senator and his wife were both dressed in completely white western suits, complete with an expensive ten-gallon hat. What completed the picture, however, was that both of them were covered from head to toe in crude oil. Or at least, what looked like crude oil. It didn’t smell like crude oil, it didn’t have that sulfur stink, which could be eye-watering. It smelled like designer fragrance from Chanel.

  His thoughts drifted back to People’s Blade and Khanjar as he politely tore himself away from the Texas couple. People’s Blade was a superb tactician; she was already making her presence felt on whatever tactical teams he paired her with. He’d originally had his doubts, though he was careful never to betray them; someone claiming to have the soul of a general, thousands of years dead, does tend to make for skepticism at best, and the conviction of outright lunacy at worst. Despite that, she tended to get the job done, whatever that job might be. She always seemed impatient, however; she wanted more and knew that Verdigris sensed it.

  Another one of Verd’s guests leapt out from behind the shelter of one of the cargo containers—this one hid a luxurious little lounge behind the layers of camo-net shrouding its open end. He pretended to hose down the whole area with the scrapyard chain gun he had slung at hip level. It was a pretty piece of FX work, it produced very realistic sound and a lot of spark and flash as it “fired.” The man himself was dressed like an extra out of Mad Max, complete with assless chaps and football shoulder pads, all studded with spikes and spray painted. The one off detail was that the man’s vanity prevented him from turning what had to have been a five-hundred-dollar haircut into anything but a faux-hawk.

  “Whoa! Sorry there, your Royal Highness!” the man giggled. “Didn’t realize the King of the Apocalypse was with us. Hope I didn’t smudge the suit!” Verdigris peeked behind him; judging by the mini pharmacy that had been set out on the lounge table, the man was seeing everything in rainbow.

  “Not to worry,” Verd replied, making a little brushing-off motion, and going along with the fantasy. “Force field, don’t you know. No blood, no foul.” What he didn’t say was that he’d had to switch off one of his security systems with a discreet hand gesture to keep it from turning the man into a red splotch against the wall behind him.

  “Seriously, Dom, this is a kick-ass party. Haven’t had this much fun since me and some of the boys from the office went out paintballing bums from the Beemer.” Dom didn’t actually recognize the man behind all the fake grunge and paint; it had taken that clue to ID him. Trent Perry, Wall Street investor. “And thanks for that tip-off on those water treatment hedge funds. I took out a derivative investment on them going bad. You made me a bundle.” Verdigris smiled and nodded as he walked away. It would certainly come as a shock to ol’ Trent when evidence was found that implicated him in a conspiracy to make sure that water treatment deal went bad. You win some, you lose some more. Now, where was I?

  What was Khanjar to him? Bodyguard first, lover a distant second. And growing more distant with each passing second, dammit. In the beginning when he’d hired her, it was only for her efficient deadliness and mercenary attitude, two things he could appreciate. In time, it had become economical and appropriate for him to tell her more and more about his plans and operations. Not everything, of course; he would have rather eaten his own tie than reveal everything to even someone as trusted as Khanjar. Then their sleeping arrangements had become coterminous. It occurred to him that the General’s rise was mirroring Khanjar’s, though he knew that even the mere suggestion of bedding her would likely result in the loss of some of his more important body parts.

  Right now, it was best to play the wait-and-see strategy; set up People’s Blade with a full access pass, same as Khanjar’s, and watch them both. In the end, it only matte
red who was the more useful of the two, anyways. That, and who was least likely to plant a knife in his back or a bullet in his forehead.

  He strolled along the deck, vaguely aware that he was . . . bored. Just then, movement off to one side caught his attention. It was a group of his guests, but the group was utterly atypical. Instead of taking advantage of one of the cozy lounges, they had pulled up bits of the “stage dressing” to sit on—boxes, burlap bags full of kapok, overturned buckets. They were clustered around one of his metahumans, who was also sitting on a bucket. Big black wings, black nanoweave uniform . . . Corbie, that was it. One of the minor talents. Verd remembered why he’d recruited the Brit—he could fly, and Verd had thought vaguely that he might do some sort of aerobatic nonsense.

  But no, he was just sitting here, talking to these people. No, he was doing all the talking. They were listening, and only occasionally asking questions.

  “. . . so busy tracking the dogs and Johnny M and Motu they weren’t payin’ attention to me, plus it was dark, so I zipped in and planted those limpet bombs on top of them and zipped out again.”

  “But you don’t wear armor do you?” gasped one socialite. “That was incredibly brave!”

  Corbie made a pshing sound. “Lot less brave than those National Guard blokes. No armor, no powers, and what they had was like carrying a popgun against a tank.”

  Verdigris stood there in the shadow of one of the containers, watching and listening. They’re eating right out of his hand. He’s not that good of a storyteller, either. But right now, I’d bet donuts to dinars that he could sell them anything in the world, and they’d lap it up.

  But there was more to it than that. He watched the Brit’s face. There was no trace of boredom, no guile, no sense that he had told this story a million times over—and he probably had. It wasn’t macho-bravado glory-hounding either, relishing the awe of his audience, reveling in the sense of “I am so wonderful.” The ego boost. No, it wasn’t that. Verd, who was an astute observer of humanity, knew exactly what it was. Corbie was a hero. Whether he was born to be one, or circumstances had made him into one, that was what he was. He constitutionally would not be able to stand aside when something needed doing, and it wasn’t that he was reckless or thought he was immortal, it was that at that moment, the risks were not relevant to him, because other people were far more important to him than his own survival.