Revolution: Book Three of the Secret World Chronicle

by Mercedes Lackey

  Flashing back to the present, John watched in not-quite-slow motion as Uber snapped a fist toward his face; it was a haymaker, and more than powerful enough to kill him. John pivoted, his right and left hand coming up to loosely hold the Thulian’s arm; moving off the line of attack, he guided Ubermensch’s fist in the direction that the strike was already heading. Unable to stop himself, Ubermensch found all of the strength he had planned to use turning John into mush redirected forward. His fist must have seemed to pull him like a rocket as John dropped to one knee and he found himself soaring over John’s head in a parody of flight. His landing sounded as if someone had just flung a ’57 Chevy at a junkpile.

  John kept the dance up, redirecting the Thulian’s enormously powerful strikes to work against him. The superstrong meta clearly did not “get” what was happening to him, and his face reddened with fury. I can’t do this forever; I’m not that good, and he’ll get lucky. As if fated, John saw the blow coming; his feet were planted wrong, and he wouldn’t be able to avoid it this time. Without a single thought, he snatched the tied-up Reb, who was in the middle of the raging fight, and placed him squarely in front of his chest. The Reb gave a single strangled squeal right before Ubermensch’s fist impacted with him.

  Stars exploded in his vision, and John went sailing end over end through the air. He’d been through rough fights, crashes of various sorts, and explosions; none of them seemed to compare with how hard he’d been hit. His back impacting with the metal siding of the warehouse seemed significantly gentler, as did his landing. It took what seemed like ages for his vision to clear and for the black to fade from the edges. Looking down at himself to make sure he was still whole, he noticed that he was covered in the pulpy remains of the unfortunate Reb fake hostage. Brushing himself off and coughing violently as he stood up, John glanced at the new hole he’d helped make in the warehouse. Ubermensch was marching out through the missing piece of sheet metal, infernally haloed by the small fires inside the building. Part of the roof began to cant and collapse inwards as he exited.

  “Johnny, heads up. He’s ramping up something in his armor. It’s not energy beams . . . grav manipulation or something? I can’t tell, just that there’s something going on, and that can’t be good for you. Wish to hell I had some more complicated sensors.”

  “Now . . .” Ubermench’s face was scarlet with rage. “Now I become serious.” He stepped next to what looked like a thresher of some sort, setting his hand upon one of the massive blades in its exposed internals. Without any apparent effort, he yanked out the gigantic piece of metal, taking it into both of his hands like an oversized axe.

  Two green bolts split the air around John, coming from the far corner of the collapsing warehouse. The bodyguard whose arm he’d broken earlier was firing.

  Ubermensch whirled on the underling, spitting out something in German. It sounded like obscenities. From the look on the flunky’s face, it probably was. “Das is mein, scheisskopf!” Ubermensch finished, flinging a hand towards John. “Mein! Gehst du! Schnell!”

  Apparently the flunky didn’t react quickly enough to suit Ubermensch. Dropping the combine blade, Ubermensch touched something on his left gauntlet. Immediately, he sank up to his ankles into the dirt. That’s his grav stuff kicking in, then. Twisting to his right, the Thulian grabbed the edge of the combine, and dragged it single-handedly towards him. In one smooth motion, he had hefted the entire contraption above his head, rusted metal whining and creaking pitifully. He hurled it at the barn with impossible, inhuman force; it was mind-blanking for John to witness. The combine tumbled through the air towards the bodyguard; his shriek was cut short as the farm machine impacted with him and the entire end of the warehouse, completing the fiery collapse.

  John took advantage of the moment. Uber’s back was turned and he seemed to be literally planted. John focused again, thrusting both arms out to help direct his flames. He was sloppy in his aim this time; his beam gouged into the ground, cutting a burning trough as it tracked up to connect with his adversary. Ubermensch whirled around, but he seemed to be going much slower. He had to make an effort against the grav manipulator in order to move around. This was very good for John; he’d be able to leverage his mobility over the Thulian even more. I’d kill for an airstrike or some artillery. I wonder if they could shoot Chug outta cannon?

  Ubermensch made his way to another large machine, this one the size of a dump truck; with his freakish strength, he lifted it. John’s enhancements were still going, so he was able to move out of the way of the thrown equipment easily. So long as he had to keep dodging all of this farm crap, though, he couldn’t set up for a powerful shot. This was a stalemate, and that just wouldn’t do.

  Ubermensch hefted another machine: some monstrous Deere contraption, maybe a cotton picker. It still had cotton fluff in its rear catch, floating lazily around. John made a split-second decision, and held his ground. He’d need to be spot-on with this shot. Focusing again, he fired—not at Ubermensch, but at the machine.

  There must have been some fuel still sloshing around in the bottom of the tank, and plenty of fumes to go with it, not to mention all that flammable cotton lint. Gas fumes too, not diesel. The explosion swatted John flat into the ground, sending a massive cloud of smoke and fire into the air. Shrapnel rained down around John, and his entire front felt like it had been sunburned. His ears were ringing; the violent noise certainly didn’t do anything good for his sensitive hearing. He scanned the area; the secondary fires that the explosion had created were giving off a lot of smoke. John was barely able to make out the outline of Ubermensch, struggling to stand up.

  Using the smoke for concealment, John dashed through the smoke, closing to Ubermensch’s side. Moving with a practiced economy of motion, he grabbed for the Thulian’s left arm trying to deactivate the gravity manipulator. Ubermensch was still stunned, flailing about blindly while John scrabbled at the device.

  “Johnny, if you can get anywhere near his controls, they’ll be heat-shielded on top, but not underneath. If you can find a seam—”

  John took her advice instantly; instead of trying to switch anything on, he simply allowed his fires to spring from his hands. A half second later, the fires transmuted and became plasma. The housing for the forearm device glowed, crumpled, and then shorted before melting. Some sort of strange pulse of force blasted out of the device before it died; it flung him backwards as John’s senses all failed and his stomach lurched and spasmed. He skidded along the ground, his back plowing through some of the spot fires and getting cut up by protruding rocks.

  Still conscious somehow, he tried to stand, but the entire world had gone completely sideways. Must’ve done somethin’ to my equilibrium. The thoughts came sluggishly, and he finally dragged himself to his feet. The barn, the wooden one, was right there. He stumbled towards it drunkenly, falling twice before locking himself inside.

  Gutteral howls—more like animal sounds than German—echoed outside.

  There was a burst of static inside his ear that made him wince. Then: “—think you got his attention.”

  John tried to keep walking, but his legs refused to carry him anymore. The world spun again, and he slumped to the floor hard.

  “You really gonna let him talk about your mother like that? I’m pretty sure she didn’t service Croatian troops . . . at least not in that capacity.” Her tone changed. “JM. Johnny! Talk to me! Come on, snap out of it! Get moving! He’s still up, and he’s still coming! If you don’t get back in the game, he’s gonna squash you like a cockroach!”

  John didn’t have any strength left to bother answering Vickie; he barely had enough to roll onto his back. The door that he’d locked on the barn exploded inwards; Ubermensch stepped through, looking as furious as ever. He was also bleeding from the ears and nose; a side effect from his gizmo going berserk, probably.

  “Dammit, Johnny, talk to me! Zhar-ptica is about five minutes out!”

  Ubermensch looked down at him, and smiled. “Ameri
kan schweinhund. You have no stamina. Now you are a dead man.” The Thulian lifted one of his armored boots, savoring the moment before he crushed the life out of John.

  Despite feeling like he’d dug his way out of hell with a spork—a plastic spork at that—the adrenaline running through his system and his enhancements allowed him to see things happening in “stretched time.”

  This gave him enough time to remember Perun, and that battle in Atlanta. The old man shouting as he used his powers to save his teammates, his comrades. It was the first time that John had met the man, and the first time he had fought Ubermensch. At this exact moment, the two incidences seemed identical for some reason. John’s mental barriers fell, and his fire welled up inside of him until it shot forth, his arms reaching out almost of their own accord, as if to embrace a loved one. The beam was gigantic, encompassing Ubermensch’s huge body. It blasted through the roof of the barn, shining through the darkening sky like a demonic spotlight. John’s mind, still operating somehow, idly worried about whether some unlucky flock of birds or an airliner might be in the way.

  The beam shut off unexpectedly, leaving John gasping. The barn was completely ablaze now; the neat hole cut into the roof had quickly caught, and with the cotton lint and dust everywhere, and the aged, dry wood, the building was basically tinder waiting for a spark.

  John summoned more strength, willing more than commanding his limbs to do his bidding. Slowly, he rolled onto his belly. His arms came up in front of his face, and he pushed himself off the ground and onto his knees. Gasping for breath, he came up into a kneel, turning painfully to look where Ubermensch had been.

  The Thulian was lying on his back, groaning weakly. The elaborate set of armor had been mostly blasted off; what was left had melted unevenly to his hide. A glob had cooled over his eyes, blinding him at least temporarily.

  Finish it.

  John stood over Ubermensch, their positions from seconds before reversed. He hated Ubermensch, hated everything that the man and his fellows stood for. The Thulians were malignant, an infectious sort of evil and alien. The hate rose like lava inside him, flowing through him and powering him just as much as his blood did for his enhancements. It felt as hot as the fires raging around them, seemed to take life and strength from the blaze. John felt the sweat mixing with his blood, the ashes, and the dirt. When he’d killed before, it’d often been impersonal, necessary—and that meant different things depending on the situation.

  This was something he wanted. He wanted to destroy this man, this travesty of a human, this monster, utterly. To wipe him clean from the world and leave no mark of his passing. The fires came back to John; his restraint was not there, because he didn’t want it to be. No familiar twinge of pain. The fires boiled through him, ready to be loosed and to do their work—

  —and then they died. John felt as if he was suddenly plunged into darkness, into the depths of an Arctic ocean, as if he was sinking into it forever. With a strangled gasp, he fell backwards, helpless and powerless. Vaguely, he saw Ubermensch’s aide, the woman from the car, running to help carry the Thulian away. He felt arms encircling him soon after, hooking under his own and dragging him. Everything was burning; the barn, the ground, the stars were even blazing. The world was wreathed in fire for John.

  Someone . . . a voice he knew . . . was yelling in Russian in his ear. Vickie responded in the same language. He heard his name, but couldn’t seem to make his mouth work. He was just . . . tired. So tired. It seemed a good time to sleep.

  * * *

  “We are havink problem.”

  Red Saviour sat on the edge of her desk, arms folded, looking down at John. Untermensch leaned against the wall behind her, arms similarly folded.

  John had been through some dress-downs in the past, and this debriefing was sure feeling like it would shape up to be an epic one.

  “Problem is being, Comrade Murdock, that you were to be landing at different airport altogether from your destination, and were rerouted.”

  It was Untermensch’s turn. “So how is it that the fashista swine are meeting you when you land?”

  “Permission to speak?” John kept his tone neutral and respectful.

  Saviour nodded. “Do not be thinking is little recluse magician. She is never leaving apartment except for physical training and did not know any sooner than you.”

  “Naw, Vic’s straight. But still, somebody somewhere fu—er, messed this one up. They had that joint set up proper, with Ubermensch running the show.”

  “As in trap?” Untermensch’s eyes narrowed.

  “Sure felt like one. Reb stooge for a hostage, cars an’ guards waiting. The fact that the location was one that we were already gonna check out due to new intel, an’ the fact that the entire site was scrubbed of anythin’ useful ’cept for bodies before I got there . . . it all seems to point towards a trap.”

  “Hrrrmm.” Saviour considered this. “So . . . not so much that you were intercepted, but that we were lured there from beginning?”

  “Y’all tell me. Where’d the intel come from? The warehouse my team hit, but it got passed through Marconi an’ Tesla. I’d start from there, see what they’ve gotta say ’bout this. See if it was properly vetted.” He shifted uncomfortably. He was still extremely sore from the fight; Jadwiga had initially patched him up when he came into HQ, and given him enough stims and painkillers to allow him to get through the debriefing and remain clear-headed.

  Saviour nodded again. “That is being our job. Yours is to be telling us everything, from beginning. You land at airport. Da?”

  “Roger that, Commissar.” John went through all of the details, from landing, the Thulian flunky contacting him, the ride and the fun that entailed, all the way through to the fight and his collapse. The last part troubled him; he was definitely not in fighting trim. Despite that uneasiness, he didn’t hold back any pertinent information.

  Saviour and Unter, for all their faults, were good strategists. And once they had made up their minds that the “fault,” if fault there was, lay elsewhere, the debriefing evolved into only that. But it was intense. And detailed. They questioned his reasoning behind every move he had made. Why had he not kept Vickie more informed? Why had he broken the guard’s arm? Why had he not fled?

  It wasn’t any worse than he had expected; and that was good. They needed this information to figure out where things could be improved in the future. The Thulians were definitely playing the game in a new way, and everyone had to try to stay a step ahead of them. The world couldn’t afford to react to another Invasion.

  Unter tapped his finger on his chin when John was done. “One thing I fail to see. This . . . does not fit the pattern. It is not Blitzkrieg. It is also not infiltration. It is not selective assassination. Why is it like . . . a personal challenge? Armies do not send challengers.”

  “Permission to speak freely?”

  “Da, da.” Unter waved at him,

  “Y’got it nailed already, Georgi. This ‘Ubermensch’ has a hard-on for me.” John shrugged. “He was pissed off from when we first saw him here in Atlanta. Got angrier the more I taunted him. An’ he finally snapped when I mentioned the Commissar.”

  “Borzhe moi. This is making no sense—” Saviour began. But Georgi interrupted her.

  “Is making old sense, Natalya. Is like first days of Great War, when metas dueled while armies fought below or around them, like idiot knights. Is exactly like old days. You think in logic. This has no logic.” Georgi rubbed his temples. “Be asking your father, or Boryets. Ask them what it felt like.” He turned his attention back to John. “Would you say, obsessed, Comrade Murdock?”

  “I would, comrade. I wouldn’t go s’far as to say it was like a couple of gladiators; I’m not that grandiose. But he certainly wanted to make a moment of separatin’ my head from my shoulders.”

  “Could to be weakness we can exploit.”

  John nodded. Live bait was always the best sort of bait. If they could take advantage of Ubermensch�
��s seeming incomprehensible desire to defeat John—because the Commissar was too important, in the scheme of things—then they might be able to take him down for good. Ubermensch was a big name for the Thulians, back in the “Great Patriotic War.” Good things could only come from his heir-apparent no longer being around to bolster their forces and their morale.

  “We will be discussing this. You may go. I need not warn you not to be making gossip?” Saviour raised an eyebrow at him. John nodded, saluted, and turned on his heel to leave. The Commissar spoke just as he was in the doorway. “Oh, and you are to be going to Jadwiga directly. This business of power going with no warning . . . not good. You may still be suffering from injury.”

  “Will do, Commissar.”

  * * *

  It seemed that the past year’s theme was scars; John had been collecting new and interesting ones at a prodigious rate since the Kriegers had decided to try to burn down the world. Amazingly, things were holding together, if barely.

  Still, despite the demonstrated resilience of the human spirit, the attack from the Thulians had left marks on everyone. Scars of the soul, the heart, the body.

  Scars. That’s what my life has boiled down to. John held up his left hand to examine it as he took another swig of beer from the perspiring bottle in his hand. The asymmetric lines covering his entire body save for his face were the only outward evidence—save for his tattoo—that he had been part of the Program. But even without the scars from the surgeries, he still bore its marks. Just like the people he was now helping to watch over.

  “You are melancholy.” He should be used to the way Sera just appeared by now, but maybe the last twenty-four hours had made him jumpy. It’s not every day that you almost get stomped into a puddle by a Nazi giant. She had alighted on the roof just in his blind spot. When he pivoted so fast he almost lost his balance, she was right there in his shadow, probably as close as she’d ever gotten to him. Well, except for that stolen kiss.