Invasion: Book One of the Secret World Chronicle-ARC Read online

  She lounged back and watched the guys trundle in, mostly still wet from showers. They still stank a little of burnt rubber.

  “Hey, Blues?” One of the other rookies looked over at her as he was dishing himself out red sauce. “How’d you get to be EMT-4 so fast? You’re only what—19? 20?”

  “I slept with the instructor,” she smirked. “Naw, it’s actually a lot less dirty than that. I started taking the EMT courses while I was still in school. They needed me at ball games and stuff, and they wanted me legal. I got the jumpstart ’cause Echo Rescue tapped me for the touch-healing when I was twelve.”

  “Damn, there goes my bet…”

  New York, New York, USA: Callsign John Murdock

  I Minus 6:22:17 and Counting

  John Murdock sat on a bench in an out-of-the-way corner of Central Park with his face buried in his hands, laden down with a feeling that could only be described as “soul-weary,” assuming there were such things as souls. Since he’d found this spot, he’d never seen anyone else use it. Possibly because it was a frequent target for pigeons. With his eyes closed, he tried to shut out the happy ruckus of ordinary folks having a cheap good time.

  In the middle distance, he could hear a street preacher sounding off. And then, from somewhere behind him, the sirens of three cop cars wailed as they gave chase. He’d stopped looking for somewhere to hide whenever he heard sirens about a year ago, but the sound still made his nerves twitch.

  Whoever they were chasing wasn’t giving up without a fight.

  Probably there was no one in this park who could hear what he was picking up: the sounds of gunshots under the sirens. Single shots, all semi-auto. Handguns, then.

  Then he picked up something else. Microjets, tearing through the concrete canyons, on a vector that would converge with that of the sirens.

  Echo jet pack. Whatever the perps had done, it had to be bad to earn them metahuman attention. Tough luck, chumps. Cavalry is comin’. He leaned back, sighing heavily. Like you’re one to talk, chump. Every time he heard something like this, ten years of training to protect the innocent warred with five years of paranoia, but as ever, survival instinct and the paranoia won. The sounds ended with no way of telling the outcome—other than that the meta with the jets had clearly triumphed, since they spun down a minute after the shots ended.

  He shook his head. Things, little things, really hit home for him when it was bright and sunny out, like it was today. There were days when he wondered why he had ever been born. They were happening a lot more often lately, and this was one of them. And “never been born” all too easily morphed into “better off dead.” He was close, close to that point of no return, but he’d kept on living so far and damned if he was going to give up now. Sheer stubbornness maybe, or just the bargain-basement revenge of outliving the bastards that had put him in this position in the first place.

  He stood up, tired of feeling sorry for himself. He started walking away from the park, skirting on the periphery of the tree line, and kept going for several blocks, letting his mind go blank. Funny how people thought of New York as a terribly dangerous place to live. In fact, it was more like a series of vertical villages: people knew each other, went to the same little snack shops, bought milk at the same bodegas. The fact that he didn’t belong in any of those little enclaves, made the gloom wrap around his soul even tighter.

  Eventually, he found a bar; a real Irish neighborhood joint that must have been there for a century, the sort of place that firefighters and steel workers went to after putting in their shifts. Alcohol wasn’t really a cure, but it sure worked wonders for the short term. Six a.m. might be early to start drinking by most people’s standards but nobody in this bar was keeping track.

  But he wasn’t going to get any trouble here as long as he didn’t start any himself. At six feet even and 200 pounds, he wasn’t huge, not by the standards nowadays, where you saw Echo metas that were the size of park statues, but he wasn’t a pip-squeak either.

  Mostly, though, it was the way he moved and held himself that made trouble avoid him, recognizing him for a fellow predator.

  Inside the door, he looked up. There was a patina of hard use and age on everything. He strode up to the bar, spying a whiteboard listing the drink prices. Cheap. It was the first bit of good news he’d had all day. Money was running out. It went fast in this town, even when you were sleeping rough and making do with the showers at the Salvation Army. Be time to find a job soon, under-the-counter pay, shady construction work, janitor…he hoped he wouldn’t have to go on the gray side of the law. Still, he figured that he had enough to get drunk with, and maybe even some money left over for half of a decent meal. Or one full meal at a soup kitchen and a real bed at a flophouse.

  John sat down hard on the wooden stool, resting his elbows on the worn counter in front of him. The barkeep was busy having a conversation with a middle-aged couple at the right end of the bar. John knew what the barkeep saw: a customer maybe, but one that wasn’t going to spend a lot of money, even by the standards of this place. Clothing nondescript. Jean jacket, white shirt, and cargo pants; clean, but they had seen too many hard wearings and washings. His brown hair, a little too long and uneven, hadn’t seen a barber for a long time. Compact muscles and expressionless gray-green eyes, like two cold pebbles, also said he might be trouble, as did the callused knuckles. Fingerless gloves. Fistfighters tended to wear those. John rapped his knuckles against the counter a few times until the bartender tore himself away; he was an older man, with shock-white hair and a day-old stubble shading his chin. “What’ll it be?” he asked, his tone shaded with impatience as well as wariness.

  John looked up wearily, meeting the bartender’s eyes, and shoved a ten spot toward him. “Whatever’s the house special.”

  “House rye, dollar a shot, coming up.” The barkeep really was in a hurry to get back to the conversation. He shoved a half-full bottle—John’s eagle eye measured the contents as just about ten shots’ worth—and a shot glass across the counter at John, and turned back to the couple. He resumed his banter, stopping short to eye John up. “We’ll be having you pay as you go, too.”

  Echo Headquarters, Atlanta, Georgia, USA: Callsign Eisenfaust

  I Minus 02:32:15 and Counting

  By day, the Echo detention facility hummed with energy. Metahuman prisoners could not be afforded the same liberties as conventional convicts: no exercise yard, no recreation room, no library. Even the classic prison pose, leaning against the bars with hands useless and dangling, was denied them. The reinforced steel doors contained grills that afforded a limited view of the corridor.

  Some deemed it cruel. Most considered it necessary due to the unique nature of the metahumans. Ordinary criminals could be disarmed, metas couldn’t. Metapowers were, by law, lethal weapons that had to be registered with local law enforcement and the government.

  Eisenfaust paced his cell. After his death-defying escape from the clutches of the Thule Society, confinement was maddening. These imprisoned men and women were scum, and to be interred with them, even by choice, grated on his nerves.

  The grill at the foot of his door slid open to admit a tray with his lunch. “Guard,” he said. “I have waited for your commanders to speak to me for far too long. Where is Yankee Pride?”

  “Out doing his job,” the guard answered abruptly.

  “Why has he not contacted me? I told him I have critical information, a matter of national security.” Hand pressed against the door, he perversely longed for the typical iron bars of a jail.

  “Sure you do.”

  The guard tapped a button with his foot. The serving grill slid shut with a final clatter. He stepped back behind the food cart.

  “You’re all in terrible danger,” Eisenfaust said, his voice becoming strident with urgency. “Please, you cannot ignore this threat for long.”

  The guard sighed. He leaned against the door. “Listen, pal,” he said. “If it’ll shut you up, I can tell you this: they’re se
nding an Echo Support detective down here to interview you after lunch. Save it for her, okay?”

  Without another word the man wheeled out of sight. Eisenfaust stepped back, mind racing. A detective? Hardly an official, but at least someone who was trusted to report on matters of consequence.

  He felt momentarily giddy. “Danke,” he called down the hall.

  “Dankay? What kinda nonsense you spouting?” The rough voice came from the cell directly across his. The face behind the grill was black; blacker than a human should be.

  “Deutsch, mein freund. German. It means ‘thanks.’ ”

  “You ain’t been here long if you’re thanking the COs,” the black shape said. “You probably think you’re in here by mistake.”

  “Nein. I asked to be here.”

  The voice laughed, a coarse bark. “Didn’t know stupidity was illegal.”

  Eisenfaust scowled. “I suppose you’re incarcerated for rudeness.”

  Again, the staccato laugh. “Not me. Robbery with metahuman powers. Aggravated assault. Resisting arrest.”

  “You’re lucky Echo is so permissive. I’d have killed you on the spot.”

  “Oh ho ho, big man. You’re scaring me. What’re you in for?”

  Eisenfaust thought for a moment. “I killed one hundred and twelve men that I know of.”

  Silence fell upon the corridor around them.

  “Yeah?” The black shape moved away from the grill, his voice smaller.

  “Yes. Shooting. Bombing. By plane, by pistol…two with a knife. One with my bare hands.” All necessary deaths in wartime, he told himself, though in this den of thieves he took some relish in trumping their claims. No criminal can exceed the sins of a man at war.

  “Damn.”

  “So in my eyes, you’re all mere amateurs. Worse, your crimes were committed for selfish reasons. I fought for my country.”

  Every ear seemed to be turned to their conversation. Eisenfaust flushed. His story wasn’t for these lowlifes; only Echo and their metas were his peers, regardless of what cause they served.

  A high-pitched voice sang out from his right: “He shut you up good, Slycke!”

  “Go to hell,” Slycke rumbled. “My daddy served in ’Nam. Killed him a dozen gooks and brought back their fingers on a string. This guy ain’t no different, except…” His voiced trailed off. “Who’d you serve under?”

  “Haven’t you guessed?” Eisenfaust paused for effect. “Adolf Hitler.”

  The corridor erupted with angry shouting. The guards came through in squads, banging on the cell doors with energized prods and calling for order. Eisenfaust took his meal to his seat and smiled as he picked at the cornbread and ham. Soon he’d meet with the detective and give her enough tidbits to earn him an audience with the master of the house.

  Alex Tesla.

  Atlanta, Georgia, USA: Callsign Victoria Victrix

  I Minus 02:23:56 and Counting

  Victoria Victrix Nagy stood in her cozy living room, surrounded by the sandalwood scent of her candles, by the armor of her shelves of books and music and movies, and stared at the closed door of her apartment, gathering her strength and her courage. She was about to do battle, as she did about every two weeks, and the fight was going to require every resource she could muster. She checked, once again, to make sure that her protections were in place, that she was covered from chin to toes with not so much as a millimeter of skin exposed. The battle she faced was inside herself, and she faced it every time she had to leave her apartment.

  And it wasn’t getting any easier for standing there.

  She took a shuddering breath, felt her throat closing, her heart racing, heard the blood pounding in her ears. And the fear, the terrible, blinding, paralyzing fear spread through her, making her knees weak, her hands shake.

  But there was no choice. She had to eat. It was time to do the grocery shopping, panic attacks or no panic attacks.

  she heard her cat, her familiar Greymalkin, say in her mind.

  That did it. That broke the hold for a moment, as Grey had probably figured it would.

  “Selfish beast,” she said aloud, with a shaky laugh.

 

  On the strength of that laugh, she got to the door, and opened it. There was no one in the hallway, with its worn brown carpet and forty-watt lighting. It was people that triggered her panic attacks, not places.

  She chose her time and day carefully. It was early afternoon, the day of the All-Star game. Those people who were not at the game, or the pregame events, or thronging to glamorous parties in hopes of getting a glimpse or even an autograph of some movie star, or on the streets hawking cheesy giant foam hands and sun visors, were either at work, or at home. No one sane went anywhere, unless you could do so without resorting to any major streets or, god forbid, the Interstates. The traffic reports said that within a mile of some of the Star Parties it was taking an hour to go three blocks. The grocery stores would be deserted. Earlier this morning there would have been a last-minute run on the staples of the day: beer, hot dogs and buns, beer, ice, beer, soda and beer. Now, bored employees would be bowling in the empty aisles with frozen turkeys. Fortunately, the neighborhood of Peachtree Park would be spared most of the horror of the day. It was a blue-collar, working-class neighborhood, but the workers had, for the most part, long since retired to their thirties-era bungalows. There wouldn’t be many barbecues here today; the residents were inside to watch the game, sensibly isolated from the unseasonable heat (ninety degrees in February!) and the bugs, and especially from the “Georgia State Bird,” the mosquito. So the streets should be as deserted as if it was four a.m. on a Sunday.

  She made it down the hall to the elevator, an ancient model complete with brass grill inner doors. She pushed the button for the first floor, and the old cage shuddered and made its slow descent. There was no one in the lobby. Her sneaker-shod feet made barely a whisper against the worn-out gray linoleum as she crossed the lobby and let herself out through the front door.

  The parking lot was full. This was, after all, a fifteen-story-tall apartment building constructed in an era when people took buses and streetcars to work. The parking lot was always full, and those few residents who didn’t own a car could command a nice little monthly fee for the use of their assigned space. Vickie’s was as far from the building as physically possible, because the super knew that she only moved her little econobox when she absolutely had to.

  It looked as if there wouldn’t be much in the way of cloud cover today, and cars would turn into ovens, even with the air conditioning on. It was only around nine a.m., but this was going to take her…a while. Her little light blue, nondescript basic-mobile was parked under a giant live oak, which could be a nuisance in acorn season, but its shade was nice now. She could actually hold the steering wheel without using oven mitts.

  Once in the car, she let out a sigh of relief, and waited for the trembling in her arms to stop. The first hurdle was cleared.

  Actually driving was not a problem, even when there were other cars on the street. It wasn’t rational, but her gut regarded the car as a safe little shell, and the panic eased back to jitters as she negotiated the narrow, thirties-era streets. Peachtree Park wasn’t a trendy neighborhood, and it certainly had seen better days, but it wasn’t a slum. Cracking and peeling paint, and aging roofs, stood in contrast to the immaculate yards.

  At the border of Peachtree Park and the next neighborhood of Four Corners, things were changing. There was an Interstate exit that fed Four Corners. There had been demolition and rebuilding in the fifties, then the seventies, and now again. Here was the chain grocery Vickie made her pilgrimage of fear to whenever the supplies got too low. As she rounded the corner, she prayed that she would find the parking lot empty.

  It was, and again she breathed a sigh of relief. There was nothing there but five identical
semi-truck trailers—odd, but…

  Well, it was the day of the All-Star game, and it was entirely possible the drivers had realized they were never going to get anywhere today and had rendezvoused here to watch the TVs in the cabs and have an impromptu party of their own.

  This was the least of her worries. In a moment, she would park the car. She would have to get out of the car, and walk to the entrance of the grocery. Only a few feet but—there would be people there. People who would stare at her, the way they had looked at her—after. With revulsion. With loathing. With hatred—

  Get a grip. This is now, not then. They’re just people. People here for groceries, nothing more.

  But her palms were sweating now, and her short hair was damp with sweat, her mouth was dry, and as she turned off the ignition, her hands and arms were shaking and she had to force herself to reach for the door handle, then to pop the door open. She was hot and cold by turns, her stomach so knotted that she was getting sick and regretting that cup of coffee and morning toast…

  It would probably take her two hours to convince herself to leave the car.

  Atlanta, Georgia, USA: Callsign Red Djinni

  I Minus 01:58:27 and Counting

  In a perfect world—well, in my perfect world—things would still be chaotic. I know I’m in the minority here. If you’re one of those people who strive for that great secure job with regular cash showers in your ten-acre estate, I’m sorry, I just don’t get you. I can’t think of any place more boring than the common perception of paradise. To have everything you want when you want it, when would you ever feel your blood rushing through your veins with the bit caught in your teeth, riding the razor’s edge with a wind of flames at your back, or any other dozen clichés for the extreme life?