Revolution: Book Three of the Secret World Chronicle

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Yes,” said the voice, dryly. “This is what I do. Perhaps now you understand why those who are Seen are important.”

  Red didn’t answer, he was locked in place, unable to tear his eyes away from it. He couldn’t make out much in the way of specifics, but he was able to ascertain various patterns and general outcomes. There were some branches that ended abruptly with something . . . he understood it to mean “This is not permitted.” Those branches were ones that began with an action on her part. There were a lot of those, and more sprang up as she frantically sped through her task. “Frantic” was the correct word. He was somehow able to sense more stress, more anxiety with every moment. And he understood, though he could not have said how, that such emotions—emotions in general—were utterly foreign to her. Oddly enough, love (a sort of generic, all-encompassing, “brotherly” love), compassion, grief . . . those she knew. Fear though—that was new. And she was afraid.

  . . . those who are Seen are important . . .

  He understood, and slowly he found his perspective hurtling into the infinite futures, to pick out key moments, key players, and the impact they made on this universe. Bella seemed to be pivotal in many of them, and she was either alone, taking strength and support from her closest friends, or with either Bull or, in a very, very few, Yankee Pride. Mostly she was alone or beside Bull, the very embodiment of his callsign, a true Bulwark. The Seraphym concentrated on those, and whether he liked it or not, Red was along for the ride.

  Bull wasn’t perfect, neither was Bella, but at the most key moments, he did the right thing. Protecting when she was at her weakest. Standing at her back when she needed support. Waiting when she was strong. Never holding her back even though he wanted to for her own sake, but mostly never urging the selfish over the selfless. Together they meant something, and although Red was not allowed to see the ends of those branches, it seemed that they were making a difference in—well—“saving the world” all out of proportion to what two people could reasonably be expected to do. But—it wasn’t perfect. They fought. Some of those branches ended with Bella alone again. Some, a lot fewer, ended with her with Pride. Some . . . just ended. It was the ones with Bull that the Seraphym just kept coming back to. Red felt his stubbornness hardening, like cement setting.

  Big deal, I could have that! I can do that!

  He pursued the branches where he was the one who had Bella. Where Bull came back and, with dull and lifeless fortitude, pursued duty until duty killed him, or where he didn’t come back at all. And he and Bella were fine together, more than fine! They were happy. Of course they were, he knew how to make her happy, and she was looking for someone she could make happy, someone who could surprise her, someone she could surprise—

  But something was wrong. Something was terribly, horribly wrong. They might have been happy, but no matter what he did, no matter how good they were for each other—

  Well, the branches that the Seraphym was chasing all dove into this huge, blank area. And on the other side of that blank, a blank he understood instinctively—partly from her frustration—that the Seraphym could not see through either, the world had gone to hell. All parties were losing, no matter what they did. Whether they all fought separately, or somehow united and fought together, it all went down into flaming hell.

  “This is what Matthew March saw. This is what Alex Tesla called ‘The Ides of March.’ This is why Matthew begged me for death.”

  And no wonder. You die, he dies, she dies, everybody dies. He and Bella were just fine right up until they died horribly along with everyone else. And whether they died early in the massacre or late, what happened after that was the world going under the grinding bootheel of the Thulians, and . . .

  . . . and then the Thulians turned their attention outward. And he knew it wasn’t going to stop with the Earth.

  He felt the Seraphym’s frustration, anxiety, even terror. She wanted to intervene, but every single branch where she did was slammed with that big fat “no entry” sign. She had to intervene. But she couldn’t. And she couldn’t make out what it was that would turn them all away from those paths into hell.

  Shit, woman, just make something up!

  But it seemed that she couldn’t.

  So, frustrated, he felt her turn her attention away from the futures and into the past. And now the past—one, solid, unbroken braid made up of a multitude of threads—stretched out before them both. He sensed she hoped to find an answer there, as she began tracing back the path of Gairdner Ward’s life, working from this moment backwards.

  Which meant they were both looking right into the man’s past thoughts, at the moment when he destroyed everything in his “holding pen” in his surge of grief, pain, and rage. Rage at . . .

  Being told his wife was dead, and the Seraphym refusing to divulge the information of how, when, and why. His wife.

  Victoria Summers.

  Amethist.

  * * *

  The Seraphym found herself somehow abruptly shoved aside. It made no sense; a mortal was not supposed to have that sort of power over a Sibling, but she felt the reins of this particular horse seized from her hands, and the Djinni took over. He didn’t have control of more than a fraction of her abilities, of course—he couldn’t. The sheer strength of the torrent of information should have made him go madder than Matthew March had, instantaneously, but he used what little that he could control to sift ruthlessly through Bulwark’s past.

  Mostly, the reason he had been able to take over was because he had taken her utterly by surprise. Mortals could do that. Mortals were unpredictable, and even she could be surprised by them. Mortals had the most precious Gifts of the Infinite, Free Will and Creativity. But he could not keep control for long, and she moved to take it back.

  No, Sibling. This is permitted.

  Astonished for a second time in as many nanoseconds, she held her hand and her power, and watched over him, ready to move in at any time if her powers endangered his mind. The Infinite had spoken. He was now . . . potentially . . . Important, and had earned that much protection. So she lent him stability, trickled power to him, and subtly guided his hand when she knew what he wanted, so that he became a laser scalpel, rather than a case of dynamite. She struggled as he floundered, overpowered by so much disbelief and rage that it was all she could do to keep him contained. This was the past, and he could not change it, no matter how much he might want to. And . . . it was not memory, which could be mistaken. It was what had happened, unvarnished, and unshaded. Amethist and Bulwark. Victoria and Gairdner Ward. He witnessed all of it, from their first meeting, their first mission, their growing attraction to each other and when it had finally blossomed into love. Their wedding, long conversations concerning children, their future, their loved ones. It seemed as if Amethist had indeed moved on. The Seraphym felt the Djinni’s pain, his denial, and finally, his anguish, as Amethist never once mentioned him to Bulwark, had never seemed anything but complete and fulfilled with this man. She watched as Red brought up Bulwark and Amethist’s first date, and with longing reached up to cup Amethist’s blushing face in his hand, finding nothing to grasp but a faded image from the Heart of All Time. And then, with his other trembling hand, he brought up an image of Bella, the first time she had spoken to Bulwark, just seconds after she had driven the Djinni to his knees with a well-placed punch. She was blushing, and the Seraphym was struck by the similarities shared between these two women. Djinni saw it too. Both strong. Both determined to do what was right, regardless of what it cost them. Both beautiful, both unconcerned with their own beauty. Both not just ready, but eager, to give everything to help another.

  Both, if he was to be honest, attracted by the same qualities in Bulwark. Qualities he was noticeably lacking in.

  “I am sorry for your loss.” These were more than words. They were backed by what the Seraphym was. She did understand. How could she not? She felt what he felt, and shook with the power of it. His heart wailed with the injustice of it, of losing n
ot just one, but two women to this man, and she wept with him.

  “Show me,” the Djinni said.

  “What do you wish to see?”

  “Show me,” Red snarled. “What happens to me, without her?” He didn’t have to specify who he meant.

  “Much of that future is hidden from me,” she said, and uncharacteristically knelt to him for a moment in humility. “I am truly sorry. This is the source of my own uncertainty. I . . . think . . . it is not so much hidden, but so in flux that even I would go mad trying to sort through it all. I will show you what I can, and I beg you, believe that I would show you more, if I could. I will show you all I am permitted—in fact, all that I am permitted to know. Will that . . . be enough?”

  “I’ll let you know,” he replied. “Do it.”

  And so, she did. Fragments, mostly, as much as she could snatch from the branches that were changing so quickly that they were blurring even to her. Mostly, he was in pain. Mostly, he was achingly alone. But too much was unknown, too much was obscured, and within such a short period of time. Past a year, at most, the Seraphym’s vision revealed nothing for this man.

  But around him, the world was slowly improving. They won victories, small ones at first, then greater—then the Great Blank. But on the other side of that . . . on the other side of that, instead of virtually every branch of the future ending in hellfire and Thulian conquest, something else flared into existence. A few tenuous strands of fate began to burn with hope, began to pulse with renewed vigor, with the promise that all was not lost. And there were glimpses in those futures of the people he had come to care about despite himself, battered, worn, almost broken, but triumphant.

  “It’s what needs to happen,” he said, finally. “It starts here, doesn’t it? With a choice.”

  The Seraphym nodded, reached out for him, and gave him what compassion she could.

  “With a sacrifice,” she said. “But the choice is yours. It always has been.”

  “No, it’s not much of a choice at all.” Red replied. “But you’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

  She nodded, and Red turned to meet her unearthly gaze.

  “She is not for me,” he said.

  The little pocket of unreality rang like a bell.

  It is permitted, Seraphym. The Red Djinni is ready.

  Of course! It had not been Bulwark who was not ready! It had been the Djinni!

  With pure joy, the Seraphym leapt from the “gate” like a racehorse released, and poured herself into Bulwark. She gave him glimpses of his future; she gave him glimpses of his past, the things that would galvanize him rather than sink him. She showed him how very much he meant to those around him.

  But most of all, she gave him hope. That, too, was another thing she knew, and knew well. The bits of the future, she knew he would forget as soon as he awoke. But he would remember the hope. She was like a radiant torrent refilling a dry, parched lake. No matter how profound his grief, it could not prevail against her. And she found, and ruthlessly slew, the little worm of despair the evil thing called “Harmony” had left to gnaw at his soul, a thing that Vickie and Bella had both missed. This, too, was permitted.

  She filled him with her fire, and pulled him back from the abyss. And then, she used words to trigger that fire.

  “I had not thought that Bulwark was a coward,” she said, scathingly, lashing him with contempt.

  That got his attention. Gairdner Ward may have been called many things in his lifetime, but “coward” wasn’t one of them.

  “Nor did I believe that he was lazy,” she continued. “Yet, there you stand, taking the coward’s, the lazy man’s way out. ‘I will do my duty,’ you say, knowing very well that merely doing your duty is not enough, is never enough. Knowing that everyone who steps back into life must be invested in life, and determined to fight through whatever life flings in his path. But no, you will walk in, and walk out, not even so much as an extra on the stage because you are too much a coward and too lazy to step up and actually live.”

  She sensed his anger slowly igniting. But that was not what she wanted. Anger alone would not bring him through this.

  “Yes, coward, I say again. You knew Victoria was no longer living long before I told you. And yet, you fought. You lived. You even loved. You connected with and cared for those around you. But now, you use this fact of her death as the excuse to give up. Death is nothing. Even if you had not the evidence of your own experience, of my presence, to prove that, you know that death is nothing. But no. Now you will give up, let loose of those connections you have made, deny the ones you might make in the future if you were not such a coward, if you dared to have the courage to care, to have the hunger to feed mankind, if you dared to reach out. You are angry? Prove that I am wrong!”

  Again he would have said something, but she cut him off. “Yes, you are in pain. So is everyone around you. And you know that! And you are lonely. All mortals are lonely! That is the condition of mortality, that you can only, briefly, touch one another, and only if you have the great courage to reach out, to risk more pain, to risk rejection, to bet all against the chance of that connection! You had that, Bulwark! You could have it again! But no, you are afraid.” Terrible contempt colored her words. “And you think you are all alone in that. Fear. You know nothing of fear.” And she showed him. Vickie, fighting back panic from the moment she woke to the moment she slept, wrestling with more fear in her very dreams. Acrobat, battling constantly with his own insecurity. Scope, certain that she was never, ever going to come up to the mark she had set herself, no matter how well she did. She even gave him brief glimpses of Red’s pain—though not the cause, never the cause, and not his thoughts.

  And Bella, struggling every moment of every day beneath the burden of being the de facto leader of a rebellion with few resources and no assurances whatsoever, a role in which she felt crushingly inadequate, and a role which she knew was one that could (and probably would) kill her friends. Friends who trusted her and her decisions, that she would knowingly send straight into the jaws of death.

  “Are you finished?” Bull asked.

  “Are you?” she countered.

  “No,” he said, and she felt his resolve, the fires she had lit within him die down to bright, self-sustaining coals. And that was all, he was Bulwark after all. She had restored his connection—his willingness to connect—with those he held dear. Before, he felt a duty to return, now there was impatience. There was work to do, and he was Bulwark. He was ready.

  She softened, and surrounded him with compassion. “No, you are not finished. You have not yet begun. Let us go home.” She held out her hand to him. “Now it is time.”

  He didn’t hesitate, and took her hand in his.

  * * *

  This time, the world didn’t fade to black. Red felt his hand fly to his eyes as a crescendo of light flared up around them. When it subsided, he found himself standing next to the Seraphym at Bull’s bedside. Bella was there, sitting next to Bull and sprawled across his chest. She wiped the tears from her face and looked up at them, astonished. And then, without fanfare, Bull opened his eyes and sat up. He gave Bella a soft pat on her arm, and turned to the Seraphym. He nodded.

  She smiled. There was still compassion in that smile, and sadness, even grief. There was understanding, and shared pain. She knew this was no “happy ending,” that the odds were terribly against them, and that she had asked them all to step forward, unflinching, to accept that world of anguish. She said nothing. Her look said it all.

  Bella gave a low cry and threw herself around Bulwark. He patted her back gently. “I’ve been told you might need my help in the next little while,” he said. Red chuckled and shook his head. Bull was back, definitely back.

  “Did you take a graduate course in ‘Understatement’?” Bella asked, around what sounded like a few tears. “Don’t you ever, ever do this to me again, you hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Bull said. “I apologize for the delay in returni
ng. You’ll have a full report on the matter on your desk in the morning.”

  “Moron,” she replied.

  Red chuckled again, but the laugh died in his throat. Bella’s joy and Bull’s palpable if somewhat veiled relief at being back felt like a dagger twisting in his gut. He tried not to think about what had just happened here, what his choice had cost him. He made another choice then, one to leave, when he felt the Seraphym stop him with a touch. He turned back, and met her gaze with his own.

  “Red Djinni,” she said, touching his face with shaking hands.

  “Yeah?”

  “I can See you.” Her eyes held him, full of grief and remorse, compassion—and maybe, just maybe, a touch of pride, pride in him.

  “That’s great, darlin’,” he said. He turned away, walked purposefully to the door, and left.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Bedlam Ballroom

  MERCEDES LACKEY AND CODY MARTIN

  Of course, while some of us were fighting the internal Echo revolution, others were concentrating on the real enemy: the Thulians. After KC, they’d been quiet. Consolidating the forces, we figured. Trying to work out how we had found their staging depot. More than that, maybe, trying to figure out what impossible weapon we had that took out their entire staging depot in a few minutes.

  Some people were not content with waiting for the Thulians to make the first move. Some people wanted to take the fight to them.

  If you guess those people were Red Saviour and the CCCP . . . well, you win the Kewpie doll.

  * * *

  Red Saviour drummed her fingers impatiently on the desk, staring at the mountains of paperwork. Moscow always wanted paperwork. Which made no sense, since this was no longer the old days of the USSR where paperwork provided the jobs for thousands of low-level clerks. She privately suspected her father of demanding it just to keep her off the street and out of the headlines.