Collision: Book Four in the Secret World Chronicle - eARC Page 11

  The Bear was hooting with laughter. He settled the hat back on his head and waggled an admonishing finger at Mel. “Now, now, devushka, you must be to waitink your turn, my little blini!” He headed into the dance-floor. “The Bear is in demand tonight!” he trumpeted, as the cosplayers scattered.

  Red watched him go with a grin. “Now see, Johnny, there’s a guy who’s got it wired.”

  “Well, I mean, he’s got a lot of wirin’, I can see that. More’n a few shorts, if’n ya ask me.” John looked at the bottom of his scotch glass, swirling the drink slightly. “He sure as hell can drink, I’ll say that much.”

  “He’s my hero,” Red said with wonder.

  “Why, ’cause he’s always pickled?” John chuckled.

  “No, he’s just so oblivious,” Red said, dreamily. He motioned to the floor, as Bear sashayed up to yet another unsuspecting girl. She turned, found herself nose-to-nose with the grinning lecher, and screamed. “He has no clue the terror he’s invoking in these girls. He just keeps on keepin’ on. Thinks he’s gifting them with his attention. There’s no room to get hurt. Make’s him invincible, in a way.”

  “Not to the Commissar’s excoriations. Or whatever piece of crockery she feels like chucking around.”

  Red chuckled. “You saying Bear’s made a play for your Commissar?”

  John visibly shuddered. “Hell no. He wouldn’t be among the livin’ if he had. Everyone else seems to be fair game, though.”

  “Well, not like you have any shortage of cute girls at that old factory HQ of yours.” Red gave him an oddly speculative look. “What about you? Any interests on the homefront?”

  John shrugged. “Got a few prospective gals that seem interested. The Russians are a bit on the strange side, but that’s alright every now an’ again. Gamayun, little thing, is on the shy side; she’s usually pulling double shifts using her radar stuff to keep an eye out around our area of operations. Mamona, she’s an Atlanta native; I don’t trust any gal that can throw knives better’n I can, though.” He took a sip of his drink, thinking. “There’s also that Sera gal. I really don’t know what her deal is. She’s…different; not just the wings, mind you. Always seems to be watchin’ me, followin’ me around. But a little scared, like.” He finished his drink, elbowing Red. “You? I imagine that a campus would be a decent spot to pick up women. Any of ’em take a shine to you?”

  Red chuckled. “Nah. I seem to have a bit of rep. People, not just girls, avoid me. Just as well. Like I said, bad things happen with me and women.”

  John looked at Mel. “What ’bout that one? She seems to have eyes only for you.”

  Red stole a look, and caught Mel casting furtive glances his way. “You noticed that, did you? I don’t know, Johnny. I’ve worked with her before. She’s never really given me the stare before. Something’s changed with her.”

  “I heard she got shot in the head,” John said with a shrug. “How’s that for a change?”

  “Could be,” Red said. “Not the first time a severe head wound has gotten a girl to change her mind about me. I’m just getting a weird vibe from her. Like anything there would just start odd and end badly.”

  “Could be a fun middle though,” John grinned.

  “Could be,” Red admitted.

  “You ever get that feeling about a girl before?” John asked.

  “Every freakin’ time,” Red muttered.

  * * *

  At the end of the bar, Untermensch shook his head. “Comrade Murdock is moron,” he opined to Overwatch.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “All those stories of women, yet he has beautiful angel-creature sick in love with him still and cannot see it.” Untermensch snorted. “Moron. Blind.”

  There as a long pause. Then “Yeah,” came the soft reply.

  In Untermench’s corner, there was a puff of displaced air, right over something that looked for all the world like a stone drink-coaster set into the marble of the bar. There was a tracing of fine lines, like celtic knotwork, all around the rim of it, incised into whatever material it was.

  And, at that moment, there was something that looked like a lumpy stone statue made by a kindergartner standing on top of the coaster. Unter nodded at it. It nodded back. Unter raised a finger to attract Mel, then pointed down at the little stone figure.

  Mel reached under the bar and poured a double shot of single malt into a small paper cup, and brought it over to the two. But rather than handing it to Unter, she gave it to the little statue, who took it, wrapping both arms around it to hold it. There was another puff of air and the statue, and its burden, were gone.

  “Daughter of Rasputin is serious about drinking,” Unter observed, and went back to his own tipple.

  “Ain’t no other proper way t’be,” Mel answered as she sauntered back to her place at the bar.

  * * *

  From the corner closest to the door, Yankee Pride did his best to blend in with civilian clothing and a local brew that Mel had recommended for someone with “real hometown taste.” Most of the younger patrons kept to themselves, casting suspicious glances as they avoided his table. Pride ignored the giggling group of non-ECHO ladies and focused on the latest report from the different groups in the city ready to lodge their complaints against the organization. It was a long list.

  It came with being the face of the organization, the willingness to listen and nod in spite of half a dozen stuffed suits and their pet lawyers demanding compensation for what they felt were actions against the city. He had no problem going to those meetings and making the necessary concessions, but it didn’t make him feel all that heroic. If anything, it just made him feel tired.

  Pride knew that he was older than most of the metas in the establishment; if he was completely honest with himself, he was old enough to be a father to some of them. Instead of going home to a loving wife and a house full of kids, he sat in a dark corner of a bar, doing paperwork. He cast a furtive glance at the lone CCCP member across the room; even he wasn’t doing paperwork, which was saying something for the Russian. Pride rubbed his face with one hand and let the slim tablet fall to the table.

  “Not liking what you read, sir?” Mel stood at the table, a tray full of empty bottles and glasses balanced against her hip. “If you’d like, I’ll put on one of the evening’s games. You root for the Bulldogs, or that other team?” she asked with a wink.

  He couldn’t resist the smile and answered with his own wink. “My momma warned me, some things are best kept a secret when you’ve got to be in charge. People form alliances over the strangest things.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” she drawled. “But really, you want some company? If you squint hard enough, it looks like Parker, Mary Ann, and that CCCP woman are trying to tease Corbie out of all his feathers. I’m sure he could spare one of them.”

  That brought a laugh out of Pride. “I’ll let him keep his feather-pluckers, as long as they don’t pluck him bald.”

  “I’m betting he’s happy getting plucked,” Mel remarked dryly.

  “And I’d bet that you’d be right.” He took another pull on his bottle and nodded at the pair of Djinni and Murdock at the bar. “That seemed to go over well.”

  She nodded. “They ain’t killing each other. You got a bet going?”

  Pride frowned. “On?”

  “Which one drinks the other under the table. Three to one on Murdock, although I personally think Djinni might hold his liquor better.” Mel winked at him before patting him on the shoulder, her eyes quickly scanning the tablet. “And you might want to take it easy, sir.”

  He considered the advice as she weaved her way back to the bar. It would do him some real good to take it easy, she was right. Pride’s gaze wandered back to the tablet and the reports and he sighed. He knew he needed to take it easy, but he didn’t have any clue where to begin.

  * * *

  The door flew open again, banging hard against the wall behind it, and didn’t move. Of course the door didn�
�t move. It wouldn’t dare, considering who was standing in the doorframe.

  A female was silhouetted against the night-shrouded street outside, arms akimbo, legs braced slightly apart, as she surveyed the interior of the bar. She looked exactly like a movie poster.

  Or perhaps a propaganda poster for the CCCP, circa 1960, because she was wearing the “battle dress” version of the CCCP uniform; flack jacket and form-fitting pants of nanoweave (supplied via Bella’s good offices), gold star in a red circle on her chest, belt supporting firearms and a short club around her waist—Red Saviour was always perfect happy to apply “non-lethal” force to various parts of thuggish bodies if the circumstances required she hold back on her powers.

  Untermensch sighed into his vodka and slapped the shot-glass down on the counter, evoking a quick pour from Mel. If he was lucky, he might get one or two more before Saviour herded the cats home.

  “Is being last call for comrades,” Saviour announced into the silence, her voice deceptively mild and sweet. “Davay!”

  Mel was already pouring three shots for her, as this was a nightly ritual. Saviour strode to the bar and tossed them back in rapid succession.

  “Bah. Like water. When are you to being get proper wodka?” Saviour asked scornfully.

  “I keep addin’ diesel t’ th’ bottle,” Mel drawled. “Guess I ain’t got the mix up high enough yet.”

  Saviour barked a laugh, and her eyes lit on the CCCP member nearest her—which happened to be Murdock. He and the Djinni had their arms draped around each others’ shoulders, obviously deep into their cups. They were performing a Johnny Cash song. “Ring of Fire” to be precise. What was absolutely terrifying was that they were actually doing a good job of attempted two-part harmony. Saviour had to grab the back of John’s collar, dragging him away, though this didn’t stop either of the two men from singing. Red got up, as if to follow, but was frozen in place by Saviour’s cold stare. He sank back onto his stool.

  “Aw c’mon lady, can’t Johnny stay out and play?”

  Saviour’s wordless glare could have lasered through steel plate. Red shrugged and raised a glass to her, grinning. “’Til next time then, darlin’. See you tomorrow, Johnny, see if we can follow up on that Draken lead…”

  “Being try a little harder this time, Comrade Chameleon,” she said dryly. “Is not to be found in bottom of bottle.”

  Her gaze next fastened on the cosplayer done up as Soviette. She did a double-take, frowned, and looked as if she might actually do something about the impersonator, before shaking her head and snorting. Her eyes moved on, catching Mamona, summoning her with a quirked finger, and sending her out the door without a single word regarding the fact that drinking age in Georgia was twenty-one and Mamona was two years shy of that. Another sweep of the bar—ignoring Unter for the moment, allowing him to signal Mel for a refill—and she caught sight of the little stone figure at Unter’s elbow. She nodded briefly to it; the creature straightened, put down his paper cup, saluted her, and picked up the cup again before vanishing in a puff of air.

  One by one, the Commissar gathered up her errant comrades, coming at the last to Unter, who sighed, drained the last drops of his last drink, and gave her a casual salute. “You missed Bear,” he muttered, as he passed her.

  “Am not missing Bear, tovarisch,” he heard in his ear via the Overwatch system, as he joined the slightly weaving line of black-clad comrades heading on foot towards the base. “Am not missing Bear at all.” There was a cruel chuckle. “Is good to let Bear be run out by bartender. Better her arm wear out, beating him, than mine. Besides, we let him drink ECHO wodka instead of ours, are nyet having to clean up after, and also save all those many, many rubles.”

  * * *

  Bear burst through the bathroom door, a lighter in one hand and an empty tumbler in the other, screaming, “Free Bird! Play that funky music!” The Bear looked around, confused; the bar was empty and quiet, now. Beer bottles and dirty mugs littered the bar counter and the tables. He lowered the lighter and tumbler in his hands, sighing heavily. His shoulders slumped, and he seemed to collapse in on himself a little bit. He trudged towards the middle of the bar, looking wearier with each step. If anyone had been watching, they would have noticed that he looked smaller, diminished; if not for the metal chassis that comprised most of his body from the shoulders down, he would have just been another lonely old man at closing time. He looked up as he fumbled with one of his belt pouches to pay for his tab.

  There was a battered and spotted mirror behind all of the drinks; polished metal, it looked like. Hard to break in case the patrons got a little rowdy. The mirror had small distortions and imperfections in it, but Pavel could see himself well enough in it. A battered and somewhat soiled WW2 NCO’s cap sitting crookedly on his salt and pepper hair. Almost all salt and no pepper, like bad ukha, he thought wistfully. His mustache wasn’t much better, framing his mouth and surrounded with deep furrows from age and fighting. The current song, some pop country garbage that was popular with the college crowd, ended. The one that followed it was somber, opening with muted piano.

  “My body is a cage…”

  Pavel listened quietly to the song, studying himself in the mirror. He was tired. His body destroyed in the Great Patriotic War, and remade using some of his own designs and what was then the cutting edge of Soviet engineering and scientific knowledge. It had left him frail, a shell of who he had once been. The son of a watchmaker and chemist, he had taken after his father before becoming a revolutionary. His experiments had led to the discovery of his own metahuman ability; generating energy blasts through specialized gauntlets that he wore. His research had taken him down dark paths to gain the knowledge to harness his abilities, but it had been in service to the People, or so he had always told himself.

  That had been decades ago; his glory as a true hero was long since faded. He kept living, though, despite everything. He had seen the slow fall of his beloved Motherland, almost all of his friends dead, his name disgraced and then forgotten. Pavel had despaired for a time, before following even more selfish pursuits…but that was the past. That was what he thought about the most, when he was alone and vegetative in front of the television. Kept awake nights by the plasma heart chamber that whirred incessantly in his chest, with only vodka to somewhat dull his thoughts.

  He sighed once more. The Commissar would be expecting him back at HQ, no doubt. Besides, there was a Matlock marathon tonight, and he didn’t want to miss it. He finished fishing out money from his belt pouch, then added a little extra before leaning over the counter and grabbing another bottle of People’s Choice. Pavel turned to leave, straightening up, puffing his chest out as much as the chassis would allow, and holding his chin high. He was halfway to the door when Mel emerged from the kitchen, polishing a glass and looking at him queerly.

  “Why do you put on the act, old man?”

  Bear turned, a little startled, before smiling sadly. Hrm. Is something different about that devushka. Ah, bah, being shot in head would make anyone different. “A man, a good Bear, is being what his comrades need him to be. If they are needing me to be jester, then that is what this Bear will be for them. Spokoynoy nochi, tovarisch.” Pavel glanced one last time at the mirror at the back of the bar, and with that he marched out, belting out a “drunken” and poorly done rendition of “Freebird.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Hurricane: Storm Flags Flying

  Mercedes Lackey and Dennis Lee

  “Her name is Emily.”

  Scope looked down at the timid girl who sat before them. She seemed to melt into the chair, determined not to be noticed, blanching each time she snuck a peek at any of them through her blond, tangled hair.

  “No callsign yet?” Scope asked.

  “She hasn’t chosen one, no,” Bull answered. “Jensen’s getting antsy about it. He’s on my case to pick one for her. It’s playing havoc with his filing system.”

  “Jenson can sit and spin,” Scope barked. “You can
’t just pin a callsign on someone. That shit will stay with you for a long time. To hell with his files. If he had his way, we’d all be numbers.”

  “You’re just miffed that he still calls you Bulwark the Second.”

  “Been called worse things,” she sniffed.

  Bruno stepped forward, and offered his hand to the girl with a smile. “Hey, they call me Acrobat…”

  He jumped back with a start as the girl slapped his hand away. “Get away from me!” she screamed, and disappeared again under her hair.

  “Real winner you got this time, Bull,” Scope said, shaking her head. “She makes Bruno look like an Op Four by comparison.”

  “Aw c’mon,” Bruno said. “Give the girl a chance! She can’t be that bad… hey!”

  “She’s not right in the head, sir,” Scope continued, ignoring Acrobat. “Shouldn’t she be going through Psych before us?”

  Bulwark looked up from his tablet. Scope caught of glimpse of the girl’s file scrolling down the backlit screen. He pursed his lips and shook his head.

  “We’re not there yet,” he rumbled. “Bruno, I want you to show me those new maneuvers you’ve been working on. Scope, you stay with her.” He gestured Acrobat to the door and turned to follow.

  “Wait, what?” Scope said. “What do you want me to do here?”

  “You could try talking to her,” Bull said, and firmly closed the door behind him.

  Scope swore. A lot. She turned towards the girl, and gestured helplessly.

  “What am I supposed to do here?” she demanded, throwing her arms out in exasperation. No one answered. The girl, Emily, peered out once again through her hair. She fixed Scope with a glare that was far from trusting.

  “Look,” Scope said, her hands falling back to her sides. “I’m sorry, but I think you’re stuck with me. Bull always does this. Dealing with People isn’t exactly on my strong list of skillsets, and he’s got a tendency to throw us in the deep end when we need to learn something. Sink or swim, y’know? So I’ll tell you what. Me, I’m going to…”