Revolution: Book Three of the Secret World Chronicle
Page 57
Well . . . there was at least one good thing she might be able to do. “Overwatch: Command: open Bulwark, private,” she said, her voice shaking. “Overwatch to Bulwark.”
“Operative Victrix—this is—”
She took a deep breath. “This isn’t Operative Victrix, Bull. This is Vix. Something . . . something I want to tell you. Bella’s alone in her old office in Echo Med, and I’m the only one who knows she’s gone off to hide from everyone shortsighted enough to think we won this one. If you want to keep everything on the pro level with Bella, go hit the bar or deal with how you feel right now on your own.” She could almost hear him stiffen. But she kept right on going. “If you want to stay just her friend, go to her and give her the same stiff upper lip talk you’d give any friend who was also your superior officer. She’ll probably be grateful for it, and it will send her a very clear signal about how you want the future to look between you. Both of those choices are perfectly valid. But there’s a third choice too.” She took another deep breath. To say that Bulwark was intensely private about his feelings was like saying that Everest might be a little tall. If she were in person . . . he’d probably walk out before she could get very far. He’d probably be tempted to punch her in the nose—not that he actually would, ever, but this would test even his legendary patience. Fortunately, she was literally in his ear and he couldn’t shut her off before she finished. “If you want more than that, this is your chance to get that door open in the gentlemanly fashion you prefer. I know her, and I think I kind of know you. You are both dying inside right now. You both need someone to lean on for a while. Go help each other through it, and you’ll come out the other side with something pretty damn special. That’s it, all I have to say.”
There was silence for a moment. “Operative Victrix . . . I would appreciate it if you would mind your own business,” came the dispassionate answer.
“Yes sir, Bulwark. Overwatch out,” she replied, and closed the channel, and then shut down the system except for the usual twenty-four–seven monitoring, which she could do from her bed. Because right now she needed a shoulder too. She’d stayed “with” Rider until the last moment, watching him in the train’s security cam, solitary witness to his bravery. Frank had heard her frantic call and said he was on it, and she had just left him to deal with the threat alone, assuming he’d be all right.
And Bruno. Bruno. She would never stop seeing him in the back of her mind, and he would haunt her for the rest of her life.
On her watch. Dead because of her. And despite everything she could do, the literal magic, she had not been able to save them.
She shuffled off to her room, and Grey jumped up on the bed before she threw herself down on it.
* * *
Bulwark listened to the faint white noise of the closed channel, then set his rig to “private” mode. He looked down the hall. To his right was the way out. Although he wasn’t a drinking man, he knew which bar the retired vets would be at tonight, and he knew that he would be welcome and understood among them. Toasts would be made. Stories told. Old pain eased a little in the sharing. New pain, too.
To his left, this corridor would lead him to the cross-corridor that ended at Echo Medical. The offices would be empty, except for one; the injured had all been stabilized, patched, stitched, and otherwise mended and were in their hospital rooms upstairs. The Med staff, the metas, anyway, would be taking a break before getting back to work. For the next few hours, the Echo injured that had survived would be in the hands of the purely human staff, and the metas had gone off-duty, unless they were paged for an emergency.
All but one. One, who was still very much on-duty, and probably would not go home tonight, or for many nights to come.
He hesitated another moment longer, then turned to the left.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Here with Me
MERCEDES LACKEY AND CODY MARTIN
John was still sore all over. The latest Op had been . . . interesting, to say the least. More than anything, he was just glad that it was over. He was looking forward to getting patched up, to checking on the neighborhood, to a cold beer . . . and, of course, Sera.
It still amazed him how things had turned out with the two of them. John, who had spent the last few years on the run and making sure that he had no personal connections, had fallen in love with an angel. He hadn’t used the “L” word yet, but he knew it was there. Somewhere deep down, he also knew the truth about Sera. His rational mind wouldn’t allow him to admit that to her, either; it’d be an affront to his pride as a devout unbeliever. The world has gone insane, all right, an’ I’m right there with it.
First things were first; since he had taken more than the usual battering on this mission, he had been ordered to check in with the medbay and get himself looked at. He was starting to feel weak again, too; just another thing to worry about. This nonsense has been going on too long; time to bite the bullet and have Jadwiga figure out this deal with my energy levels, and why my abilities have been up and down. Can’t have another weak moment during an op.
Not that he was looking forward to it, but oh well . . . that was part of the job, get banged up, get poked and probed. He straightened his back and headed for sickbay.
* * *
Jadwiga was doing a good job of keeping the emotion out of her face. All except for her eyes. It helped that she was a beautiful woman, and not the modern, so-skinny-as-to-be-sick, supermodel sort of pretty. She was classically beautiful, and very Russian. The Commissar was a bit of a caricature sometimes with her zeal and heavy-handedness; still there were times when she seemed more “old-fashioned cop” of any nationality than particularly Russian. But the “Soviette” screamed Russian with her every move; even in the maternal, yet slightly stern way she cared for the personnel of the CCCP.
And her eyes said that the news wasn’t good. It looked to John like she was about to pronounce sentence on a patient in triage, rather than reporting what he had expected to be a dull and routine summary of his physical.
John didn’t stop looking at her while he buttoned up the top of his jump suit. “You’re awful quiet, Doc. What’s the prognosis?”
“You have been coughing blood. Yes?” She didn’t wait for his nod. “This is not something trivial, comrade. Da or nyet?”
Again, she didn’t wait, and she must have seen the assent in his eyes. “This is the sign that things are being too far. You have great damage in your lungs. You do not smoke, you have no tuberculosis, you should not have such damage, and it is new. I then take tissue sample. With primitive equipment as Moscow allows us”—she grimaced—“is looking to me that cells are being in apoptosis. Ischemic damage is resulting; thus the much coughing, dizziness, lack of appetite, disorientation, and bouts of weakness. Is being why your power goes—” She made a little “poofing” motion with her fingers. “I do not know what is being cause this. But is fatal.” She took a deep breath. “Without knowing cause, is being no cure. If is a cure possible. Is nothing I am studying, and is nothing in conventional medicine can being help.”
John felt sick to his stomach. This had been going on for a while, but the symptoms hadn’t been anything he couldn’t explain away due to the aggressive and often violent nature of his new job. Not willing to give in to the shock and slowly twisting horror in his belly, John seized on the word he hadn’t understood as a possible handle . . . something that would show him a way out of this. “What’s . . . apoptosis?”
“Your cells are being suicide,” she said bluntly. “Cells are always being die, da, but not like this. Too many, and just . . . disintegrate, from inside. This is making big damage, and is happening all over you, but most in lungs. No cells, no oxygen; no oxygen . . .” Her eyes were sad, but there was nothing in them to give him the escape route he wanted out of this.
“So, there’s nothin’ tha
t can be done ’bout it? We don’t have any pills, medicines, or surgeries or anything for this? Apoptosis and ischemia?”
“Nyet in conventional medicine. You are metahuman. That is not always being . . . positive.”
He mulled this over for a moment. “Who do we know that’s the best with metahumans, then?”
“Echo.” She sighed. “And Comrade Bella is being head of Echo Medical and Echo CEO. She is nyet doctor, but . . .”
“But I trust her. An’ that’s enough for me, right now.” John stood up from the examination table he was sitting on. He sighed heavily, turning himself to face Soviette. “Jadwiga, I need y’to do me a favor. I need ya to keep this under wraps until I can talk with Bella.” He held up his hands quickly to cut off the protest she was already beginning to voice. “I need to be sure. There’s still a lot of fight that needs doing, and I don’t wanna get pulled off of duty based on ‘maybes.’”
Reluctantly she nodded. “Just being remember. Your comrades are being depending on you. You are also not wanting to be weakest link that fails when moment is worst.”
More fear. That had already happened, almost, a couple of times. Fighting against Ubermensch, when the Thulian suicide squad attacked the HQ, and during the battle with the Rebs. The next time . . . the next time would probably be the last time; he was never that lucky, and he’d already been beating the odds just by staying alive as long as he had. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t come to that. Thank you, comrade.”
* * *
John sat on the roof of his squat. He wasn’t drinking; just thinking. Never can catch any breaks, can I?
No matter what he did now, he was screwed. End of the line, with no more hands to play. Discounting Bella being able to come up with something amazing and unheard of, John was going to die. How does a man cope with that knowledge?
He could slink off somewhere, a place without people, and die alone, like a dog. It’d be the simplest and probably least painful thing for him to do. At least physically. He might even be able to stretch out his time by a few months, maybe a year given the far-above-average plumbing his body had acquired.
He wouldn’t suffer as much, except for the state of his soul. Or at least what passed for whatever his soul was. Not that long ago, that was what he would have done without a second thought. But . . . now? He’d be abandoning everything again. He’d be deserting the CCCP, his neighborhood, the world. He’d be deserting Sera; that thought was almost unbearable now. Everything was on the brink, and had been for a long time. He was just one warm body . . . but everyone counted in the fight against the Thulians.
Giving up wouldn’t do. That itch would still be there. It’d been years since he’d been in action, doing what he was best at: fighting and projecting force in places most folks would never want to go. His cause had almost always been just, and goddammit, Right. He had that again, now. It was precious to him, in a way, almost as much as freedom and life itself were. He was alive again.
“That settles it,” he said to no one in particular. John looked up at the stars; they were a little more washed out now that electricity was stable in this part of the city. The CCCP and some effort from Echo had seen to that. It was still beautiful, and John felt thankful. Wonders abound. “So, I’ll fight. Besides, it’s always okay to punch a Nazi.”
* * *
In running the revolt, Bella had learned many things, one of which was how to delegate and get the hell out of the way. Paperwork? Ramona had someone. Detective work? Ramona all the way—she was still healing up, and coming to terms with what had happened to her, but giving her something to get her mind off her new condition was good for her in many ways. She was still head of Echo Med; no one wanted her to step down, but that was a lot easier now with the whole team wired. Public Affairs? Spin Doctor, Pride, and give the media the illusion she was always accessible but so modest she preferred Pride to do the talking. Actually it wasn’t modesty. It was terror.
Strat, Command and Control? Bulwark.
And that miracle Echo needed? Two brains in a box in far-off Metis. They promised her they would give her something impressive. She just prayed they weren’t blowing smoke up her ass.
So being CEO was not yet the nightmare she feared it could be. Give it time, maybe . . . but for right this moment she could breathe a little. A little.
She ran down her mental list of things to do. Check in with Panacea via Vickie. Check in with Bulwark via Vickie. Check in with Nat via Vickie. Check in with Tesla and Marconi via Vickie. It amused her no end that despite Verdigris’ considerable genius and immense resources he never had had any idea of exactly how much Vickie could do, nor had he or any of his underlings managed to crack her network. And she had no doubt that, somewhere out there, they were trying. Vickie, raging paranoid that she was, was sure that sooner or later he would finger her for the one that had ruined his game.
But he didn’t have any magicians on the payroll either. Until he did, Bella was pretty sure Vickie was safe.
Her comm beeped, with the CCCP sequence. She checked it expecting to see something from Nat.
And frowned seeing the ID. Wasn’t JM usually on patrol?
She answered before it went to voice. “Yo, Johnny.”
“Bella. Got an hour? I need words.”
She was good at reading voices, even his. Something was wrong. Any thought of putting him off went out the window. “Now. Where?”
“Peoples Park,” came the reply. That was the combination community garden and playground CCCP had put together in his hood once the crap in a section of the destruction corridor had been cleared away. Well. Eaten. It had kept Chug in meals for several weeks. Chug went there regularly to play with the squirrels, usually under Bella’s or Upyr’s supervision. No time for that now; she’d have to see if Einhorn could be coaxed into it.
“Five minutes,” she replied.
She didn’t bother to change out of her civvies; she was less conspicuous in the park that way anyway. Well, as “less conspicuous” as anyone with blue hair and skin could be. She sat down on a bench next to the playgym made with scavenged pipe and waited.
John was good, but Bella’s telempathy was better than any sneaking skills taught on the face of the Earth. Still, she didn’t hear or see him until he was sitting down next to her. “We have to stop meeting like this,” she said laconically. “My husband is beginning to suspect.”
“Sorry, comrade. Didn’t know that Papa Smurf was that cagey.” John did his level best to appear casual and relaxed. He stretched out, hanging his arms over the backrest of the bench. But Bella could still feel the steel-taut tension running through him. He was, by her father’s favorite phrase, “Wound tighter than a banjo string.” And despite everything going on, JM hadn’t been that wound up for . . . quite some time.
Which meant her first impression was right. Something was really, really wrong.
“Much as I know you love me, you don’t ask me to a clandestine meeting in the middle of the day because you want to know if I want wheat or rye on my Reuben.” She gave him the Look. “Spit it out. Or I’ll touch you and find out anyway.”
So he told her. Told her what little he knew, anyways. Verbatim for what Jadwiga had said, with the scant amount she’d been able to piece together from the ancient medical gear that Moscow supplied them with. “And that’s where I’m at. The doc isn’t going to tell anybody until I’ve met with an expert in the field of metahuman medicine. Namely, you.”
She wrestled for a moment with a viper’s nest of conflicting emotions. Anger, despair, frustration . . . she wasn’t going to help him if she couldn’t think clearly. “I’m only a paramedic, Johnny,” she said, carefully.
“Yeah, you’re a paramedic. A paramedic with first-hand experience in a field that most med school grads won’t touch because it’s not all that high paid, unless you’re with Echo. You’re head of Echo Med, so you can sneak me in on the QT so Nat doesn’t find out. An’ you have your fingers in a lot of pies; places that
might be able to figure out exactly what’s going on with me. Places that’ll figure it out without it getting back to the Commissar immediately.” He turned to face her soberly. “I’m still in this fight, Bella. I can’t let this take me away from it. D’ya understand?”
Only too well. “All right. Now I know Jadwiga’s a psionic healer like me, and I assume she would already have tried that on you so we can eliminate that as a cure right now.” She drummed her fingers on her knee, thinking fast, running through her options at Echo Medical. “Are you free right now?” She was a past master at running people through tests. Hell most of the time the problem with running tests was not that the equipment wasn’t free, but that the techs to run it weren’t, and after the Invasion and being short-handed, she was certified on most of it.
“I’m officially on leave for the rest of the week, due to injuries sustained. I was able to suss out an extra five days from Jadwiga, considerin’, as opposed to the two that the Commissar originally ordered.” He grinned lopsidedly. “Call it my charmin’ personality at work.”
“Right. Then you sit there for a little while I send some texts.” Through Vickie, of course. She wasn’t going to chance any of this going on the Echo net.
She thought her thumbs were going to fall off when she was finished, but within a few more minutes, the answers started to come in. Most of them were appended with “If you can run the—” She sighed. Looked like she was in for a long night.
“First thing, Johnny,” she said, eyeballing him for size. “We need to go borrow one of Bulwark’s Echo uniforms.”
* * *
Three days of tests, more tests and in the end, a verdict that the patient was terminal. Now all she had for him was no hope and an armful of bottles to keep him going, keep his energy up and the mounting pain at bay. She wanted to break down and cry, but she was going to save that for when she was alone. She waited on the park bench with the bag at her feet and wondered what he’d done to deserve this.