The Secret World Chronicles Read online

  "Out doing his job," the guard answered as though he were gracing a beggar with a quarter.

  "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 sending an Echo Support detective down here to interview you tomorrow. 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 CO's," 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."

  "O 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 lowlives; 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, Slik!"

  "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. "Adolph 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. Tomorrow he'd meet with the detective and give her enough tidbits to earn him an audience with the master of the house.

  Alex Tesla. Tesla, he mused. I wonder if he's any relation to the great man?

  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 shelves of books and music and movies that she loved, 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. She clutched her car-keys in one hand, wishing they were a sword. Not that having a sword in her hand would make any difference. 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 twenty-watt lighting. It was people that triggered her panic attacks, not places.

  She did choose 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 parties—or thronging to the venues of the parties that superstars of music and movies were holding, in hopes of getting a glimpse or even an autograph—or attending their own barbecues, or out lining the streets hawking cheesy giant foam hands and sun visors, were 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 stores would be deserted, especially the grocery stores. 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 disgruntled 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 sitting 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—which was the time Vickie usually chose to shop for groceries.

  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 began 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 was nice now, when she could actually get into the thing and 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 desirable neighborhood, and it certainly had seen better days, but it wasn't a slum. Cracking and peeling paint, aging roofs, stood in contrast to the immaculate yards; old arms and legs were up to yard-work, but not to ladders.

  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 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 look at her, the way they had looked at her when she was healing, after the mistake. 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 job of security 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?

  See, I need the rush, and for that some would call me a thrill-seeker. It's a trait that gets a lot of people killed. I've seen it, believe me. Heh, I once knew this crazy bastard called Gash. Big guy! Loved movies with midgets in them, and dainty blondes he could pick up with one arm, and he had this weird thing for... badgers.

  Don't ask.

  But what Gash loved more than anything was speed. He'd get into anything with propulsion just to see how fast he could go. This one time, he got some booster rockets, right? Don't ask me how, but he did, and then he...

  Wait, sorry. That's a long story, and the stuff about the badgers will haunt you.

  So... thrill-seeking. I don't think it applies, not to me, not entirely anyway. Risking your neck for nothing more than thrills can get real old real fast. There has to be more, there has to be... well, yeah, there has to be women. And pardon me for saying it, as women make up a good part of why I'm alive, but even that's not enough. Fame? Yes, that works for some. Money? Definite bonuses there.

  Beating the other guy? Oh man, nothing gets it done like competition.

  So that's where you'll find me – high risk, high stakes. It brings out the Masters and I am a Master, if I do say so myself. I never got caught, not until that day. And I don't even think that day counts. I know, a Master doesn't let his surroundings or the situation get to him. He stays on the job, he keeps focus, and he wins his prize. But you have to understand, that day was the worst day. Ever.

  Who am I? Red Djinni at your service. Chameleon, acrobat, mercenary and lover.

  Let me paint you a mental picture. Three men and a woman get out of a dark, sporty sedan. Something has their attention. They are watching a group of masked idiots with guns running into a bank.

  Notice the four people are wincing.

  They're not wincing in fear. Together, these four have run gauntlets of jagged metal rain and poison gas. Combat, while avoided when possible, is second-nature to them. The last time they were here in Atlanta, they were forced into an open-street battle with a OpTwo and her flunkies, though that fight had cost them months because it forced a retreat into the labyrinths of America's metahuman underground.

  They're not wincing in disbelief. The idea of robbers doing that old and tired bit of holding up a bank in broad daylight, and in one of the most Echo-populated cities in the world, might seem absurd — but let's remember something. In every demographic, from world leaders to the criminal element, you're going to find some really stupid people.

  So no, not fear and not disbelief. These people are wincing in anger. For about a month now they'd been planning a job of their own. A heist like this in Atlanta had to be done carefully. You had to get in, grab the goods, get out, and get away without anyone even knowing you were there. If so much as a brief physical description got out, Echo would be on you within a day, a week, tops. Say what you want about the showmanship and flash of Echo agents, they were damned good at their jobs and counter-measures had to be taken. This crew had learned that lesson once the hard way. To do this job, they had to be invisible.

  And that's where I come in. If you haven't already guessed, I'm one of the four. Not the short man drowning in muscles, and not the man who's as thin as a rail and sporting a long beak nose, and obviously not the gorgeous brunette with legs that go up to her neck. I'm the elderly driver with the withered, beaten-down-by-life expression, with the beer gut hanging over a cheap imitation-leather belt, and sporting a worn polyester security guard uniform bearing a cracked plastic name tag for a "Walter Semsdale". Not what you expected, huh? Well, that's the point. If you know how, you can be invisible in plain sight.

  We had planned and trained and waited for the day of the All-Star game, the day that the majority of security forces in the city would be concentrated on the other end of town. We had charted rapid routes of escape, memorized the full layout of the bank, and more importantly, of the secret bunker underneath where items of immeasurable wealth and importance were often kept. Simply nicknamed the Vault, this was the most secure facility in the city after the main Echo headquarters, hidden beneath a façade of a medium security investment group and banking outlet, and we knew the place cold now. We had studied this job from every angle, and we realized it could only be done one way, just the one, if we were going to get out with no fuss.

  This had to be an inside job.

  Like most high-security places, the design is to keep people out and not so much in. Study any blueprint of a vault or fortress and you'll see it. A group starting at the heart of the place can work their way out, disabling alarms, taking out cameras and incapacitating armed resistance with just a little coordination. But the worst case scenario, whether you're heading in or out, is an alarm being triggered. Once the entire place is up in arms the jig is up, and the odds of surviving, let alone reaching your prize, are slim. Hey, I love a challenge, but I hate suicidal runs. The object is to live to tell the tale, you know? So we needed an inside man, but the last thing we needed was another person to siphon off a split of the take.

  Enter Walter Semsdale.

  Walter's one of the senior security staff at the Vault, and while he doesn't hold top-level clearance he can walk in through the front door, descend from the public bank above and into the Vault's inner sanctum. And he has access to the main monitor room. He's also a 49-year old divorcee who suffers from regular cases of gout, indigestion and epic levels of halitosis. His sense of humor matches his diligence to personal hygiene. I know all this because I just spent the last two weeks getting to know Walter at his favorite watering hole. Didn't take much. A few stories about loose women, buying the first few rounds, and I became Walter's new best friend. I even got to like him a little. Pathos, I guess. Walter is a world-class loser, and I tend to root for the underdogs. Studying Walter – his mannerisms, his own bawdy stories and taking in one whore joke after another – I found him an easy mask. Walter is an uncomplicated man, and proved to be one of the simpler people I've studied to impersonate. Probably the hardest part of this job was learning to grow Walter's face. He has that look of a beagle, with folds that droop from his eyes and mouth like his skin is trying to escape. Growing that much skin is a pretty tedious task, even for me...

  What's that? Oh, right. Guess I should have mentioned it before. I'm a meta. Don't need to get into all the details right now, but let's just say I'm closer to my skin than anyone else alive.

  So... Walter. Right now we've got Walter strung up in his home. I'm wearing his uniform, sporting his less-than-dapper looks and I gotta tell you, this fake beer-gut I've got strapped on is hotter than hell.

  The inside job is the easiest, the safest and the stealthiest job you can perform. Still, when your mark is a fortress like the Vault it requires a lot of time and energy to plan out. So when we watched these rank amateurs, toting some cheap-ass, dimestore-bought hardware, rush into the bank, we knew what would happen next. They would get the people cowering on the floor, they would take out what superficial security there was in the bankfront, and by doing this, they would trigger the alarm that would put the whole facility, including the Vault, on alert. The Walter guise was now useless. I wouldn't be able to get where I needed to, to knock-out surveillance and communications, and while we had contingency plans the one thing we absolutely needed was for me to get in undetected. A whole month of planning, of preparation, wiped out just like that.