“Vickie, move!” he cried, but she stood in shock, her guns sagging in her hands. She was frozen in fear. What was it? She was up to this! He had been so sure of it.
Then he saw the flicker of flame, smelled the acrid gas, felt the heat of the igniter and tasted the metallic propellant, cutting through the murk of filth and sweat and blood like a honed razor as the Blacksnake merc charged his flamethrower. Her eyes were fixed on the weapon, like a bird’s fixed on the snake about to strike. She could no more move than that bird could.
Red charged. He couldn’t see much choice in the matter. The mercs heard him thundering towards them. They turned as one, and opened fire. Some shots found their mark in his chest, but a few struck his unprotected legs. Red faltered a bit, but kept coming. His eyes were fixed on the flamethrower. The merc, who had been so intent on dousing Vickie with fire, leveled the muzzle at Red and a gout of flame and propellant belched out, washing over him. It was surprisingly quiet. It was also hot. A lot hotter than he’d expected. The ragged, dry tatters of bloodless epidermis that had been shredded in the fight caught fire.
And hell. It hurt. Worse than the bullets.
Before, he had been able to mute the pain somewhat. It was something he had picked up over the years. The level of control he had over his skin used to frighten him. The first trick he developed was directed growth, which later led to a complete reversal of directed necrosis, allowing him to shed away what he grew. In the early years, the acute sensitivity of the nerve endings in his skin yielded not only heightened senses but extreme pain. He had to learn some control over that, if just to keep from going into shock. Cuts from blades and bullet punctures were sharp stabs that could be muffled, and he could muffle the continued throbbing of wounds, but this . . . this was a perpetual torment, and it seemed to be everywhere.
Red stumbled and collapsed, screaming.
Vickie’s scream pierced his. He hadn’t known a human could hit that high a note.
* * *
She couldn’t have moved, wouldn’t have moved, until he flung himself between her and death.
Then it wasn’t she who was the target, and she shrieked in fear and pure fury as he went down, burning. Equations exploded in her mind; power rushed into her, and she found a completely new level of force and concentration inside her. Time slowed. She pulverized concrete with a thought, flung it without even that, smothered the flames engulfing the Djinni, blinded the rest of the mercs. In the next moment, she had found the right support, caved in the floor beneath it and brought part of the roof and some of the loaded industrial shelves down on them. One of them got off a shot that burned across her bicep before she smashed him with an avalanche of broken concrete.
Then she was stumbling across the broken floor, sobbing, praying he wasn’t—he wouldn’t—
His body was still smoking as she scrambled next to him. “Djinni! Djinni! Vse zayebalo! Pizdets na khui blyad! DJINNI!”
“I cannot believe—” he coughed. “You actually—eat with—that mouth.”
Vickie exhaled in relief, hugging him instinctively.
“Ow,” he said, though he did nothing to stop her.
She cradled him gently, and just as she did, she heard a buzz over her embedded earpiece. “Five minutes, inbound,” followed the buzz. She recognized the voice as Panacea, one of the Echo Med team; she’d be the DCO, then. The cavalry was almost here. The Djinni looked terrible, however. He had a habit these days of getting pretty beat up, though he seemed to heal remarkably fast each time, and if he wasn’t invulnerable, he was frighteningly resilient. Stabbings, multiple GSWs, even disembowelment, but with the help of Bella and Einhorn, he would manage to pull through. They never had to worry about anything on the surface, at least. Left on his own, he could knit his own skin together. Still, she had to wonder how bad it would be this time. Bella could fix a lot of it, but the damage covered so much of his body, and it was hardly skin deep. She fought down a wave of panic as she took in the blackened areas, already cracking open to show oozing red beneath, already starting to flake away leaving what looked like half-cooked meat, leaking juice. It was all too familiar, and at the same time almost foreign. She dressed in the dark, these days. She hadn’t looked down at herself in years. Still, the memory of that day burned so very brightly, so terrifying it could catch her unawares at almost any time. She could be caught up in the most delicate of operations, running missions in the safety of her own home, and yet something could jar those horrific moments from the cobwebs of her mind, and she would freeze, or shiver, or even cry out in fright, caught in the memory of pain and terror. They said you couldn’t remember pain properly. They were wrong.
“Tell me what to do,” she told him, tearfully. “I’m not a healer. Tell me what to do!”
He opened his eyes, painfully, from the look of it. “Tell me,” he croaked. “Tell me . . .”
“What? What is it?”
“. . . tell me about the rabbits, George.”
The incongruity jarred her out of panic. “Red Djinni, you are such an ass,” she said, though with a startled laugh. It never changed with him, he would always be an asshat. She continued to chuckle, but it was mixed with a terrible sadness. He was in such agony, but he persisted in playing the clown. For her benefit, she supposed. He must have known what the charred sight of him must be doing to her. Or perhaps it was more than that.
“Your file,” she said. “I told you there’s nothing in your file.”
He looked up at her, and for once held his tongue.
“You said I could piece it together,” she continued. “You were right, in a sense. You’ve been at this game a long, long time. Still, Echo has next to nothing on you. What it tells me is that you’ve always been careful, and methodical, probably even paranoid. Rightly, of course, given what you were doing and who you were up against. You’re not paranoid when they really are out to get you. So what does it tell me when I’ve watched you be reckless and living on the edge for the last year? What does it mean when you let yourself get so hurt, even close to death so often?”
Red didn’t answer.
“I don’t know if you want to hear it. I make my living—or I did—dissecting characters and putting them back together. That makes me pretty good at analyzing . . . but not so good at dealing with real live people.”
“You’re the most social, outgoing hermit I know,” he assured her, and paused. She didn’t laugh, and held him with her eyes. He coughed, and nodded. “Maybe I don’t have to be so careful anymore. Maybe I was never meant to be. Maybe I’m finally living.”
“And maybe monkeys will fly out of my butt.” She shook her head. “Color me skeptical. You’re acting like your life doesn’t mean that much anymore, like you’re trying to pay back for something and you think there’s no way you ever can.”
“Maybe, but that’s my choice.”
“Yeah?” She huffed out a breath she had been holding in. “Well, that would have been true right up until you started getting people actually caring about your miserable carcass. Not your choice anymore. Or not so much, anyway.”
He drew in a breath, ready to deliver a heated reply, then stopped.
“Be still, my heart. I’ve rendered the Djinni speechless.” She gave him back as best she could; a smart-ass answer to lighten the air a little, and now she could think. She fished one of those Echo standard high-energy shots (trace elements and glucose so concentrated it made her teeth ache to have to choke one down) out of her own belt pouch. “Open your mouth, dork,” she said, and dripped it in when he did. That was what he needed most; the raw material, the energy to rebuild himself. Before he could come up with some other smart-ass comment, she dripped another one in. She was about to administer a third, when everything went white, then black, as something too abrupt even to register as pain smacked her in the back of the head. She didn’t quite pass out, but she fell limply back, stunned.
* * *
The energy shots she shoved down his throat were enou
gh to jolt Red back to some semblance of life, but it was the sight of her falling back, of feeling her hands falling away from him, that drove him to his feet. He was struck by a rush of blood to the head, and he gasped from the sudden vertigo as he fell back a few steps. Before him, a bloodied figure stumbled back into a spotlight, a broken two-by-four in his hands. It was the Blacksnake commander, Christian. He was favoring one leg, the other looking fairly mangled. Red imagined it had taken quite a bit to have wrenched that leg free from the fallen ceiling, and silently at that. Red’s eyes had begun to swell over, but through his obscured vision he saw the mound of debris that had once been an intact ceiling, industrial shelves, and the body parts that had belonged to at least three previously healthy Blacksnake operatives. Christian had lost his weapons somewhere in the wreckage. Red stared down at his hands. All his claws had been not-so-neatly broken off, leaving hard and ragged stubs, charred and dull and useless. He looked down at Vickie, who lay sprawled and helpless on the ground, her guns lost somewhere in the fight.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “The Djinni’s next to dead, I’ve taken out his only backup and all I have to do is swing this thing enough times into his head and it’ll be done.”
“Pretty much,” Christian said through clenched teeth. He didn’t advance, though. Why should he? Red looked like he could barely move, much less fight. Let the Djinni try and come to him. “Of course, while you’re lurching at me like a zombie, I’ll have plenty of time to finish off the bitch.”
He raised the two-by-four and hopped a half step forward. Red lurched forward in response, and the two began a slow and grotesque race towards the fallen Victrix. It was like a hideous zombie race. Time slowed to a crawl for the Djinni, making it even worse; it felt like one of those awful nightmares where he moved as if every limb was laden with chains. Each step was an exercise in torture. It took everything he had to keep moving forward, to not fall over, and through it all his body screamed at him to stop. Christian matched him, step for step, but it was clear who would win this race. As Christian took a final lunge forward and raised his makeshift club, Red dipped into his ravaged belt, drew out a small blade and smoothly hurled it at him. He saw Christian’s eyes widen and his swing falter as he dodged to avoid the incoming blade. The blade missed its target, narrowly, and instead of catching Christian full in the gut it bounced off his sturdy gun belt and clattered off to the side. Red took the opening, drawing upon whatever strength he had left and dove forward over Vickie, catching Christian in a desperate bull rush. The momentum drove Christian back and they both tumbled together into a disorganized heap on the rubble. Christian shrieked in pain as his leg folded under him. Red was in his own hell of burnt and smoking flesh, and screamed his own rage as he lashed out wildly, driving a solid hit into Christian’s ribs. He was screaming as much at himself as he was at his enemy, egging himself on to do the impossible. He had to keep the pressure on, to keep moving, to keep driving blows and try his luck on a feeble offense. But he was losing steam fast. He felt his arms failing him, he could barely raise them up. He settled for the pitiful expedient of wrapping himself around Christian like a spastic octopus, with limited success. Christian fought the grapple, freeing an arm which he used to lash out at Red in short, ugly jabs. Finally, he reared back and delivered a devastating elbow to Red’s midsection. Red coughed blood, spewing the frothy mess into Christian’s face, but managed to hold on.
Christian howled. “Why . . . won’t . . . you . . . fall?” he demanded, hammering Red again with his elbow.
Red coughed up more blood, and didn’t bother to answer. Instead, he held fast and waited for Christian to try for another elbow strike. The Blacksnake op didn’t disappoint, and when he reared back Red released him, rolled left and snatched up his throwing knife. Christian, taken completely by surprise and unbalanced, rolled with the momentum of his desperate swing, and howled again as Red dove back in, double-pumping the blade into Christian’s side. Christian doubled over to clutch at the wound but stopped as his neck met the edge of the blade.
Red held it there, almost gently, as the two broken men simply stared at each other.
“Why don’t I fall?” Red asked, his voice ragged and hoarse. “’Cause that’s not really an option for me. Better men than you have tried to take me down. I’m still here and I’ll be damned if I finally get taken out by some two-bit Blacksnake thug. I broke a lot of my own rules tonight, all because you and yours can’t see your way to do some good when the rest of the world has gone to hell. We should be past this kinda shit, we should be working together. Instead we’re just wasting our time in some stupid, pointless arms race. You, and your greed, and your . . . yeah, I can see it. It’s there, it’s plain, right on your face. Your bloodlust. You’re addicted to the hunt, the kill. Well, I’ve certainly sent enough of your men to hell tonight, what’s one more? I’m willing to bet if anyone ever had it coming, it’s you . . .”
He tightened his grip on the knife. Christian’s eyes began to bulge, as if daring Red to do it. Slowly, Red began to push the blade against Christian’s neck.
“D-Djinni. Stop. He’s down, out. You broke him.”
Though groggy, Vickie had managed to get to her hands and knees, and painfully pushed herself up.
“It’s enough. It’s more than enough. You saved that kid from these monsters.” She shuffled a step closer. “You saved me. Please. You can stop now.”
Red didn’t look at her. He was fixed on Christian, and the knife he held. His torn and bloodied lips curled back over his teeth as he hissed. The blade was shaking in his hand, a testament to the internal struggle that raged inside of him.
“For godssake, Red!” she croaked. “Listen to me! You don’t have to—have to go back to what you used to be! We’ll put him away, he won’t hurt anyone ever again! You have a choice here! Take it!” She held out a shaking hand, as if that hand held his options. “If you won’t take it for yourself, take it for your friends, the people who believe in you! Me! Bella! The Misfits! For Bull!” Her voice cracked and broke, and when she resumed speaking, it was softer, a mere whisper. “You have a choice, Red. Rise up to it.”
The knife continued to quiver in his hand and the hiss that escaped his teeth crescendoed to a roar as Red erupted. He threw the knife aside and struck Christian with a clenched fist instead, knocking him out.
Before either Red or Vickie could say or do anything else, the faint sound of a trickle of cascading pebbles made them both glance to the anthill of rubble Vickie had made. Poking his head and hands cautiously over the edge was the boy, Pike, eyes bulging with disbelief mingled with fear.
“It’s okay, kid,” Vickie croaked. “Come on down.”
At that moment, Red collapsed, and she hobbled to his side. “And I could use a hand here,” she added.
When Red’s head was cradled on her knees, and with Pike’s help, the Djinni was as comfortable as could be under the circumstances, and with three more of those energy shots in him, she sighed. In the distance, she heard the distinct howl of Echo sirens finally coming. Late. Quelle surprise. Verdigris had probably found some way to delay them. Her suspicion hardened to certainty; their erstwhile overlord was doing his best to cull the ranks.
“Help’s on the way,” she said to the Djinni. “Within shouting distance, in fact.”
Red looked down at himself and grimaced. “Bella’s gonna have a hell of time fixing me up this time.”
Vickie opened her mouth to answer, but there was really nothing she could say to that. She felt crushed with guilt. If she hadn’t frozen—
Instead, she simply smiled tremulously at him, when Pike cleared his throat and timidly waved his hand to get their attention.
“Uh, sorry . . . but . . . what are you going to do to me?” the boy asked.
Red looked up at him, his eyes swollen, his lips cracked and peeling. He managed a grotesque grin. “Nothing, kid. We’re just going to give you something those guys wouldn’t.”
&nb
sp; “Wh . . . what’s that?”
Red exchanged a look with Vickie.
“A choice.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Permitted
DENNIS LEE AND MERCEDES LACKEY
Bella had been avoiding Red ever since the unexpected kiss. It had sparked something she wasn’t quite prepared to admit to herself, and she didn’t have a clue where to begin with him. There was no avoiding Red this time, though, considering he had been brought in studded with bullets and looking like a quarter cow cooked by a Neanderthal.
“Jeebus, I need angel juice,” she muttered, as she hooked herself up to her rig and prepared to pour everything she had into the Djinni. Good thing I’m in sickbay. There were a lot of things she could do to herself here that would keep her on her feet that she couldn’t do in the field. She had a rig repurposed from one of the ancient hemapheresis machines that literally took blood, scrubbed it of fatigue toxins, and pumped it back into her supercharged with glucose and additives. And she had a pair of permanent ports installed so she could just plug it in. A good dose of energy from the Seraphym, however, was about a million times better, and more effective.
“Wha—?” Red asked.
“Nothing. You want drugs or not?” It would be a challenge to find a vein for a morphine drip, but hey, that’s what powers were for.
“Christ,” Red muttered. “You kiss a girl, and she loses any semblance of bedside manner.”
“The bedside manner you’re interested in doesn’t have anything to do with a morphine drip. And no, you cannot play ‘doctor’ with me.” She grimaced. “Unless, of course, the doctor I get to play is Dr. House.” She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have lupus. Or sarcoidosis. Or—”
“How’s the kid?” Red asked, interrupting.
Bella shrugged as she looked him over, gauging which wounds needed her immediate attention. “He seems a bit shell-shocked. Considering you’ve been tenderized, perforated and fried crispy within an inch of your life, you should worry more about yourself. I’m amazed you’re still conscious, and not screaming in pain. This another meta ability we should know about?”
Revolution: Book Three of the Secret World Chronicle Page 19