Collision: Book Four in the Secret World Chronicle - eARC Read online

  “They’re in terrible shape,” Bull said, shaking his head. “Most of them are having trouble swinging on a simple rope over that mud pit. There’s no way I’m putting lethal weapons in their hands. They’re not even close.”

  Bella felt the urge to smile fade away. Bull wasn’t just restless. He was pragmatic, to be sure, but this went beyond that. She actually felt something from him. It had a tinge of bile and disgust and it really didn’t suit him.

  “Something bothering you, big guy? They’ll get there, I’m sure of it; just look at them, you can actually see them improving on the course while we watch. It’s not like you to be overly hard on your recruits. What’s got that tight butt of yours in an uproar?”

  Bull exhaled, and shook his head. “She’s late,” he muttered. “Again.”

  Aha, Bella thought. He was preoccupied with what seemed to be his favorite topic of conversation these days. Scope.

  “I’m afraid she hasn’t shown up for her last three appointments with Mary Ann,” Bella offered. “All she did was call Gilead and ask for her scrips to get renewed.” Callsign Gilead was one of the few full MDs among the ECHO Meta-Healer ranks. “Gilead declined on the grounds that she has to actually see someone to renew that many restricted scrips.”

  “She is less herself every day,” Bull sighed. “Would you believe that last week I found her firearms strewn about, unchecked and with the safety off? This is beyond troubling.” He glanced again around the obstacle course.

  “Rogers!” he barked, and waited patiently as a wiry young meta untangled himself from some netting and trotted over.

  “Yessir?” Rogers asked, coming to a stop and saluting smartly.

  “You need to pick up your feet more if you want to tackle that net trap. I want to see your knees up to your waist, son.”

  “Yessir!” Roger answered.

  “Have you seen Operative Scope this morning?” Bull asked.

  “No Sir!” Rogers said. “But we don’t really expect to see her until this afternoon, Sir!”

  “And why’s that, soldier?”

  Rogers paused, clearly looking uncomfortable.

  “Out with it!” Bulwark barked.

  “She was at Normality with us last night, Sir!” Rogers answered. “She was… she was tying one on, Sir!”

  Bull sighed, and glanced at Bella. “Looks like she’s found an alternative for her meds.”

  John Murdock, (CCCP)

  John Murdock was busy fixing the CCCP’s fleet of Urals in the HQ’s motor pool. Almost all of them were dinged up, with a few that were barely able to start. For some reason, the Commissar felt like this was the most appropriate job for him; he’d been slotted for it on the duty roster for a week solid, in addition to his substantial patrol schedule.

  The particular Ural he was working on had a shot carburetor; he was in the process of rebuilding the entire damn thing, which was annoying and dirty work. All the same, he was thankful for the routine. It helped to keep his mind at least somewhat off of the whirlwind of information that he had been flooded with since “waking up.” The world had been set on fire, and he was one of the few people that was trying to put it out again. Some days, it felt like they were using water pistols against a forest fire. These CCCP folks…they were under-equipped, underfunded, and undermanned. There was some quiet support on those first two problems coming from contacts and friends they had in ECHO. Even still, it didn’t seem like enough to John; he was used to being a part of one of the most well-equipped fighting forces on the face of the planet.

  Despite that, these CCCP “comrades” were making it work, as well as they could. He had to remind himself; it’s not the arrow, it’s the Indian. Shiny toys and gadgets didn’t matter for shit if you didn’t have the skillsets and training to utilize them effectively. Back when he was still in the Army, he’d had a few ops where he and his team were “running light”; civvie clothes, a backpack, and an order to “procure on site.” He didn’t like doing things like that; too much left to chance, too many different things that could go wrong. Now, however, he was forced into that sort of situation quite regularly.

  Perks of your new outfit, fella. John still wasn’t sure that he liked the idea of taking orders from Commies, the Commissar in particular. He hadn’t had the best impressions of women in combat positions from his time in the service; Ranger and Delta were both all-male units, after all. Still. She seemed to have good tactical sense, even if she was a bit overzealous. Time would tell. There’s a big difference between being a cop, even one with metahuman powers, and fighting a war. John was eager to see how these Commies performed in a real, stand up fight.

  And if they can’t make the grade, then this “comrade” is heading for greener pastures, John thought.

  Red, Vix and Mel (ECHO campus, Parkour Course)

  Vickie frowned a little, as she eavesdropped on the conversation between Bull and Bella. She’d known Scope was…turning into a loose cannon. But until now, since Scope had been regularly ditching her Overwatch Mark One rig, she hadn’t known how bad it was getting.

  She was preoccupied enough that she had paused halfway up the “bar climb” wall, which was made of lengths of rebar poking out at irregular intervals in a giant slab of concrete. Suddenly her train of thought was derailed by Djinni’s upside-down face appearing in front of hers.

  “Pardon me,” he said, his voice only slightly muffled through his scarf. “Have you seen a tiny little waif of a mage around? She was supposed to meet me at the top of this here course thirty minutes ago…”

  “Sorry. Shamelessly dropping eaves,” Vickie apologized—without pointing out that it had only been about five minutes, not thirty. She made up for it by putting on some extra speed.

  Red, of course, outpaced her. He was like a gibbon. How did he do that?

  “How do you do that?” she asked, panting, as she paused at the top.

  He flipped back into a handstand, balanced precariously on an exposed beam, and neatly toppled down to straddle the girder with his knees. “From what I’m told, my grandmother had a thing for chimpanzees.”

  Vickie pretended to consider this, then shook her head. “Not likely, you’re not furry enough. From what I can tell, you don’t have a hair on you.”

  “You don’t know me!” Red objected. “I’ll have you know shaving is a great ritual for me. Candlelight, some Sarah McLachlan playing in the background… wait, just how much of my hairless me have you seen?”

  A lot more than you think, she reflected, and suppressed a grin. Then again…privacy warring with vanity…I wonder if he forgets to turn off the camera-feed on purpose? She heard something below, and peered down. “Here comes Mel.”

  “Oh good, maybe she can give you a run for your money.” Red paused as they watched Mel ascend. “You talk to her recently? She doing better?”

  Vickie sighed, because to be honest, she wouldn’t have been surprised if Mel was a wreck outside the bar. Mel had been in intensive care and rehab for weeks, completely missing the Big Push in New Mexico. Over the chaos of ousting Verdigris and capturing Harmony that day in the MARTA tunnels, she had become one of the many wounded that had almost been lost in the shuffle.

  At least she still lived. They had lost a few to Blacksnake that day, including Paperback Rider and Frankentrain. She knew that Red still missed them, especially Rider, who could always carry the most interesting conversations on the most obscure topics. Vickie missed them, too. She still felt intense guilt over losing them—and even more guilt over losing Acrobat. She’d overruled Bull, and Acrobat had died. Of course, if she hadn’t overruled Bull, Harmony would have gotten away.…

  Mel had been shot in the head, by Harmony herself. A lot of ECHO personnel had to be treated in the field that day, and whoever had worked on Mel had at least done a first-class job. She had arrived at ECHO Medical with strong vitals and a bullet-free wound, but had been unconscious for days. Chalk it up to meta-healing that she had pulled through. Her rehab had proven re
markable, with no visible problems with motor control, memory or cognition. She was far from recovered though. Whatever that bullet had done, whatever tissue it had burrowed into, it had cost her her talent. Mel could no longer summon her illusions.

  “She’s… coping,” Vickie said. “As far as Einhorn can tell. She’s putting up a brave front, I’ll say that much. She’s lost something vital, Red. It’s got to be killing her, not to be what she once was.”

  “Well,” Red sighed, and patted her hand. “It’s a good thing you’re here then. Might do her some good to talk to someone who’s been through that.”

  She shuddered. That was something she never wanted to experience ever again. But Red was right. If there was anyone around who understood how it felt to lose an intangible part of yourself, to be walking wounded when the wound didn’t show, it was her. “Yeah, I can do that,” she said.

  Red patted her hand again, and they watched as Mel continued to climb up to them. She moved with confidence. Vickie wondered if it was all for show. The girl had just recovered from a gunshot to the head, after all. One might have expected some signs of hesitation, even doubt, but Mel took each handhold and lift with ease. If she was in any way unsure of herself, she was hiding it well. As Mel crested the top, she hopped up to sit next to Red and favored them both with a grin.

  “And they thought I should take things easy for a while,” she scoffed. “It’s not like I got shot in someplace that counted, cher, only my head!”

  Caught off-guard by the unexpected joke, Vickie laughed uneasily. “I guess that could be said of a lot of us,” she said awkwardly.

  Mel blew a raspberry. “Don’t go there. Last thing we need is to lose that pretty little brain of yours.” Her lips curled as she glanced at the Djinni. “This one’s another story. Don’t know how much is rattlin’ around upstairs, but I bet a bullet wouldn’t hurt it none. Be a shame if he took one in the rump, though, and damage that fine property.”

  “You’re too kind,” Red said, dryly. “So they’ve cleared you for duty? Clean bill and all that?”

  “Clean as a whistle,” Mel said and flashed him a demure smile. “But I might let you confirm their assessment, if you play your cards right.”

  Vickie fought down a pang of jealousy as Red’s eyes lit up with surprise and interest. He recovered with a shrug and a flip comment on being years from proper medical accreditation, but she could feel the sudden heat between these two.

  Yeah right. What are you jealous of? It’s not as if he’s ever going to look at you the way he looks at any normal woman…

  Her thoughts trailed off as a soft bell sounded off in her ear from Magic Eight Ball, part of her Overwatch suite back in the apartment. Eight Ball was a prognostication program; she’d started it to try and ID who was responsible for any given incident, but as with all things that were part magic and part tech, it had started taking on a life of its own. She was beginning to suspect it was…well, it was getting about as sentient as a parrot, and as eager to please as a puppy. Which meant it was trying to predict the future.

  And right now, it was giving her tentative pings in her ear. Like a kid tugging on mom’s pant-leg. Not exactly alarms but…

  Well, foretelling the future was always a crap-shoot. No reason to think Eight Ball was any better at it than the average TV psychic, at least not yet.

  She ignored it. There was still half the course to finish. “Hey, people. We’re holding up traffic,” she said, and swung herself over to the other side to start her way back down.

  Bear, Unter and Upyr (CCCP)

  “I am remembering time in Stalingrad…” Bear was saying, as Upyr finished reloading her rifle. She hadn’t had much more success with the last several shots, but she was beginning to suspect that was due as much—or more—to Soviet Bear’s nonstop chatter as it was to her own faulty aim. It didn’t help that he was hitting her target as much as his own, looking over his shoulder to chat with Untermensch, talking and shooting in equal amounts. “Fascista were yards away, we were having no food for week and a half, no vodka for two days—truly dark times, let me tell you—so Yuri was having bright idea—”

  “If you are not shutting ever-flapping mouth,” Untermensch interrupted, and paused, then got a sly look on his face. “If you are not shutting mouth, I am to being cutting off Waffle House privileges.”

  The Bear’s normally stolid expression was transmuted into one of sheer horror. Upyr was fascinated. It appeared that Georgi had finally found a chink in the Bear’s armor. She wondered what on earth it was that Bear wanted at the Waffle House. It couldn’t possibly be the food, though she couldn’t rule it out. The man had an iron stomach, almost literally, and seemed to subsist on a regular diet of rotgut vodka (“People’s Choice”) and canned pasta.

  Whatever it was, Bear not only shut up but finally shouldered his own weapon and began taking methodical shots at his target. To Upyr’s chagrin, they were all either in, or very near, the bullseye.

  “Blin,” she muttered, and raised her own weapon. “What in name of Marx am I doing wrong?”

  “Perhaps you just need the right motivation, as Bear does,” Untermensch said, smirking.

  “And his is…?”

  “Her name is Paula,” Georgi said. “Waitress at the Waffle House. She is…sturdy.”

  Aha, Upyr thought. Not armor. A chink in the Bear’s amour.

  Ramona (CCCP)

  Near as Ramona could tell, the only difference between the paperwork that CCCP had to fill out, and the paperwork ECHO had to do for the Feds, was that the CCCP required two more copies. Other than that, it was pretty much the same, tedious stuff in the same excruciating detail. She was beginning to wonder about Chug, however. The rock-man had always seemed gentle and childlike around her—but some of the after-action reports showed an entirely different side to him. Situations involving hostages or direct threats to members of the the CCCP seemed to cause the man to become aggressive and unpredictable, with more than the usual number of cars being thrown. One report signed by Soviette had described not one but three separate trailers hurled at Blacksnake operatives who had tried to detain them during an afternoon stroll through the destruction corridor. Although Ramona could envision some of that behavior, she couldn’t believe the level of rage that Soviette had detailed. The man fed squirrels and called them names like Pietr and Mischka. He wasn’t the monster that some reports described.

  Victoria Victrix (ECHO parkour course)

  The pings were getting persistent. Either there was something wrong with the Eight-Ball program or Eight-Ball really needed to be attended to. In either case…

  “Overwatch: Open: Private: Red Djinni,” she said. “Red, my computer suite is being obnoxious and I need to know why. Give me a minute.”

  She didn’t wait to hear his answer. This could be done on her PDA; Eight-Ball was a very simplistic little fellow. She unrolled her bluetooth keyboard on one leg, opened the screen on her PDA and strapped it to her arm, and logged in from the top of the bar-climb. “All right, you little bastard,” she muttered, “Now what do you want?”

  She had forgotten that her channel to Red was still open. “I’ll have you know my parents were married, Vix,” came the snarky reply.

  Before she could manage a snappy retort, Eight-Ball was happily telling her why it was tugging on her pants-leg. “Oh…hell no…” she said aloud, and brought up her own HUD. “Overwatch: Open: Battlefield Overlay: Center: Current position: Max: 50 Miles,” she snapped out. And felt her heart stop.

  “Overwatch: Priority One Alert!” she screamed.

  John Murdock (CCCP)

  The carburetor was now completely disassembled, and ready for cleaning. The float bowl, the jets, the outer cover, the screws, the o-rings and gaskets had all been taken off. Now it was time to scrub the rotten thing down. Another exciting day in the service of the people of Atlanta…

  If this and playing cops and robbers was all he was going to be doing, maybe he ought to check out ECHO ins
tead. From his journal, he knew that they had tried to recruit him at one point; things hadn’t turned out so well on that front. Were there any alternatives to ECHO and CCCP?

  His train of thought was interrupted when he heard that little blonde gal, Vickie, over the comms: “Overwatch: Priority One Alert!”

  An instant later loud klaxons started blaring in the base, red warning lights accompanying them. John dropped the carburetor to the floor with a clank. There’s only one thing that alarm is supposed to mean.

  “It’s a goddamned attack.” John zipped up his issue coveralls and started sprinting towards the stairwell. They had drilled for this a number of times; Natalya had a penchant for surprise inspections and drills at odd hours. It was one bit of routine that he could truly appreciate; you could never be too ready for when the manure hit the fan. On the wall was a weapons locker; there was at least one in most rooms of the base. He stopped briefly, removing an AK-74M and as many mags as he could stuff into his pockets; depending on the threat, he’d primarily be using his powers, but a good rifle is always nice to have in a fight.

  “Murdock,” he heard in his ear. Vix again. “I’m activating your HUD. We have Death Spheres incoming from the 50 mile marker and closing. You’re going to be front line for CCCP. Just like the drill. If the RPGs don’t break on contact, you torch what they were supposed to hit.”

  John’s HUD lit up like a Christmas tree. “Copy, I’m on my way to the roof.”