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

  I expect the Thulians are laughing about that.

  Chapter Twelve:

  Karma Chameleon

  Cody Martin and Mercedes Lackey

  Payback was hell.

  John Murdock had spent the last five years of his life thinking about no one and nothing but himself. Now it seemed that every responsibility he had shrugged off in those years was coming back on him.

  Once upon a time, before the Program, he’d have pitched in here without a second thought. That person, that Johnny Murdock, seemed like a stranger to him now. Someone out of a book or a movie, someone he couldn’t possibly be.

  Hell, maybe it was just karma catching up to him.

  He was living better than he had in years, though that wouldn’t normally have been saying much. That was just the material side of it, though. The people here, beyond all reason and expectation, had welcomed him. Trusted him. Maybe that was what had gotten to him—the trust. It wasn’t something he had given or received for far too long, and he ached for it somewhere deep inside of himself. But at the same time, he hated the broken-record feeling of playing through the paranoia over and over again.

  So instead he tried to think about what needed doing. Right now what needed to get done were the community gardens. Not pretty ones, but working ones. Grocery deliveries were still sporadic, and half the people here that had once had jobs were either unable to get to them, or else the job was under a pile of rubble. People were going to need to eat. Gardens would provide some of that. And besides what Hog Farm brought in, John had managed to find seeds in some of the most unlikely places: the wreck of a hardware store here, an abandoned grocery there, even an old five-and-dime that had been nearly moribund by the look of it before the invasion.

  On the plus side, no landlords had shown up looking for the monthly rent checks, and the city seemed to have forgotten—maybe fearing riots—that utilities were supposed to be paid for.

  This neighborhood was old enough that the houses had yards, even if some were the size of postage stamps. But a tiny yard could still support a garden, and could even provide food enough for two households, with skill and a little good luck, and there were the bigger, community gardens Hog Farm helped put in. People without yards helped out those people who planted, if for no other reason than they hoped to get some of the bounty. There was a more subtle effect from the planting, though. Planting a garden is a way of acknowledging that, yes, there will be a future. People who have given up don’t garden. People with a will to survive get their hands dirty, and nurture.

  An old Southern tradition returned, too. There was a time, long before satellite TV and cable, when evenings would be spent on porches or stoops, with rocking chairs and sun-brewed tea, and everyone in a neighborhood would walk along and visit with each other. Now this was resumed, at first, as a way of making sure gardens wouldn’t be disturbed, but each night the “patrols” got more relaxed, and the vigilance let down. The gang members split off in ones and twos and stayed to talk with their elders. Before long, even a couple of the street toughs might be spotted kicking some debris out of the way for an old couple strolling from home to home.

  John was busy hammering together a set of scavenged two-by-fours for a mulch bed when one of the neighborhood kids came running up to him. He set down the power drill he was working with, wiping his hands on an already dirty T-shirt. “What’s the rush, kid? Y’wanna try your hand at this?”

  “Nuh-uh, Mister John.” The youth gulped for breath, hands on his knees. “I came over here to tell you…there was a guy at your place. He’s asking around for you. Some dude in a suit.”

  “Suit?” John’s heart felt like it froze in place. The Program. They’re here! After a few moments of sheer panic, John started breathing again, relaxing his hands so that they weren’t balled up into white-knuckled fists. Then his reason came back. Time to think, to work an out for this. “Did he ask for me by name? Does he know I’m here right now?”

  “Nuh-uh. He just said that he was looking for the ‘meta’ that was looking after our ’hood. What do you think he wants?”

  John shook his head. “Dunno, kid. But I aim to find out. Stay here; Jonas looks like he needs a hand with those bags of soil. Why don’t ya give him a hand?” He patted the kid on the shoulder, doing his very best to walk calmly; he didn’t want to spook any of the people at the garden, some of whom had overheard his conversation with the boy and had clearly taken an interest. Once he was a block away, edging against one of the destruction corridors, he started running. His mind was racing with strategies, possibilities, escape plans; how he would get out of the city, out of the country—off of the planet if it were only possible—this wasn’t just for him. If it was the Program, everyone here was in danger.

  Who was it? Why did they want him? Should he just abandon everything and start running now? It would’ve been smarter to go in the exact opposite direction than the one he was heading. But John couldn’t shake the thought that whoever was looking for him might lean on the residents of the neighborhood to try to find him. If he could have just had the trouble all for himself, he would have taken it readily; he wasn’t prepared to set up folks that were depending on him for more pain than they had already gone through.

  He had the distinct impression when the kid said “suit” he wasn’t talking about a three-piece and tie. Armor maybe. Or the whole package, like that Silent Knight Echo OpThree. Had Echo sent someone else after him now? In less than five minutes he had arrived; edging to the corner of a building and peeking out around it, John was somewhat surprised at what he saw.

  It wasn’t armor. In fact, the guy looked like a used-car salesman. What John’s old man used to call “the Sears Sucker Suit.” Polyester, the kind of thing that you couldn’t destroy with a nuke. Blue, because that was supposed to be somehow less intimidating than black. He was middle-aged, and it showed on his form; a spare tire was definitely growing around his midsection. He stood there, hands clasped behind his back, staring up at John’s old industrial building as if waiting for him to appear in one of the windows. Well, this is…different. What the hell does this guy want? Waiting a few heartbeats to collect himself, John finally strode out from around the corner, making a beeline for the suit. His training still kept him on his toes; he was careful to approach the stranger from his right side, which would probably be the hand he used to go for a weapon since most people were right-handed; coming at him in that way would mean that the muzzle or whatever dangerous bit this guy could pull would have to travel in a longer arc in order to get a bead on John.

  The stranger looked over to John as if pleasantly surprised. John came to a stop about fifteen feet away, taking the chance to be the first to speak. “So, you’re lookin’ for me. Who are ya, an’ whaddya want? I’ve got stuff to do.”

  “The name’s Chuck Smith,” the man said, with a professional snake-oil smile. He looked down, kicking a piece of concrete rubble absentmindedly. He took a couple of steps past the debris towards John. “I think you might be interested in a proposition from my firm.”

  John eyed him sourly. “What firm, an’ what’re ya offering? If you were able to find me, you probably already know that I’m fairly set as it is, an’ I don’t like much in the way of annoyances.”

  The man rubbed the back of his head, and shifted his weight towards John. “Ah. You had a visit from Echo, I gather.” The man chuckled, and rocked forward a little on his toes. He took another step forward, close enough now for John to notice that he was wearing some sort of light body armor under his hideous suit. Superaramid maybe, the next gen from the old flak jackets. “Tesla’s Nanny Squad. Well, they have their hands full these days, and they’re pretty short of personnel. You can rest assured that unlike them, we don’t bite off more than we can chew.”

  “You still haven’t told me who this ‘we’ is.” The stranger fished in his jacket as John tensed, watching him through narrowed eyes. But all that came out was a card. The man handed it to him.

/>   It was a much more polished piece of presentation than the rep was. Not just a business card, this was a tiny CD. Slip it in a computer and it would probably give you a slick PowerPoint pitch. Blacksnake Security Services, it said in flowing script. Professional Protection Guaranteed.

  “Blacksnake. That PMC that got famous over in the Sandbox. You’re mercs.” John had never had too much of a taste for merc work; there were some reputable companies, but for the most part they were like Blacksnake. Most private military companies concerned themselves with private security, through personal bodyguard work and protecting key sites for their employers. Others focused on fulfilling roles that underequipped and corrupt militaries in third-world countries couldn’t provide, and some rarely filled humanitarian roles.

  However, Blacksnake, and the companies like them, went deeper than that; assassination—never directly traced back to them, naturally—and assisting in coups weren’t out of their scope. John lowered the card, looking at Chuck. “So, whaddya want with me?”

  “We’re recruiting. We heard about some of your work here, and we figured you could do better than this—with us.” Smith glanced up at the abandoned building, with a little smile playing on his lips. “We’ve even got a dental plan. I know what you’re thinking. We couldn’t possibly want you. Well, under most circumstances, that would be true. We don’t know anything about you, except that your actions tend to indicate you’ve got some training in…how to put this?…our area of interest. And without references, that would normally not be enough to get you a look-over, much less a pitch. But”—Smith raised a finger—“you’re a meta. And we’re prepared to waive a lot of things to recruit a meta.”

  Why, ’cause there seem to be fewer of us lately?

  John hesitated a moment before replying. “No, thanks. I’ll figure out something on my own. If you’ll kindly get outta my neighborhood, we’ll call it a day. An’ don’t be stopping by with any more offers; I’m not interested.”

  The man looked ostentatiously hurt. “You haven’t heard the offer yet. That’s a bit of an unfriendly attitude, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Don’t much care what your offer is. I don’t need whatever you can offer.” John crossed his arms in front of his chest with finality, settling the discussion.

  Smith made a sour face. “I was really hoping that you wouldn’t take that tone with me. You know, Echo is limited by how much they can push you. We aren’t. And since you invited Echo out of this neighborhood, that could technically mean we could take it under our jurisdiction. It’s a fact, ever since the invasion, people get rather nervous about having loose metas around, answering to no one, operating on their own. I wouldn’t doubt that somewhere there’s a file on you, and a bounty with that file. Maybe even at Echo. And among other things, we collect bounties.” He sighed heavily. “Don’t make me do something we’ll both regret.”

  John arched an eyebrow, uncrossing his arms. He straightened up to his full height, easily half a foot over Smith’s. He ignited a jet of flame in his right hand, letting it sit there idly at his side. “I’m already regrettin’ you coming here. Don’t make it any worse for yourself. Now, get.”

  John had expected him to try to negotiate, or even to try to come off as a hard-ass with some sort of “We’ll get you!” line. But he didn’t. Instead, he moved in on John, and moved far quicker than his frumpy appearance had led John to believe he possibly could move.

  It was only after Chuck had gut-punched John—hard—that he realized that he had allowed the Blacksnake representative to get within arm’s reach. John staggered, stumbling backwards on the uneven ground. His flame extinguished, he wrapped his arms around his aching midsection as he widened his stance to catch himself. Looking up as he sucked in breath, John saw Chuck unbuttoning the front of his jacket, revealing a pulsating device on his belt. Iridescent armor gleamed dully under his shirt; even though John had glimpsed it earlier on, he hadn’t recognized it for what it was: some sort of mecha-armor, not superaramid.

  His mistake. This was going to be a fight.

  Not wasting a moment, John snapped into action. His enhancements made him faster than any normal man. Chuck was caught off-guard by the unexpected movement, and John had a clean shot at disabling his attacker. He clamped his left hand around his opponent’s shoulder—why was he so damned slippery?—and prepared to step into Chuck to plant an elbow through his throat; it was a killing move, and would have crushed the man’s trachea and maybe even his spine, with John’s enhanced strength. Then there was more pain, as John’s elbow smashed into the air less than a centimeter from Smith’s throat.

  In another snap-moment, John was being kneed and hit simultaneously; he reacted, blocking the blows, but was still driven back.

  What the hell was that?

  His elbow throbbed; he had no doubt it would have snapped from the force of his blow, if it had been only bone. “That” had to be some sort of force-field armor.

  “Not friendly, John. Yes, we know your name, your first name anyway. Not friendly at—” John was already on top of Chuck again, lashing out with fists, elbows, feet and knees. He tried to grapple with the other man, but couldn’t find purchase; he couldn’t grab onto his clothing, hair, or even his limbs without receiving a flurry of return blows. John’s body was rocked by the strikes and his vision blurred. As he knew all too well, getting hit wasn’t like it was in the movies; getting punched and kicked hurt, knocked the air out of him, dizzied him, and made it hurt to block or return those blows.

  Ducking under a swing and redirecting a vicious kick by twisting out of the way and slapping it with the flat of his right hand, John dropped to the ground. He arced his leg hard into Chuck’s rear foot, where all of his opponent’s weight was resting. Smith’s legs went out from under him; whatever sort of force field he had on, it didn’t make him completely invulnerable. As soon as Chuck was flat on his back, John was on top of him, trying to put the other man into a hold so that he could get at the device on his belt.

  More blows came from Chuck, aimed at John’s face and midsection. His ribs creaked, and he had several cuts opening on his brow, cheek, chin, and lips. John knew that he couldn’t take too much more of this sort of punishment. He needed to end this fight, and fast. Smith managed to snake an arm out from under John’s hold, and used it to grapple John closely. There was a sharp whump accompanied by a flash of light, and John was skidding across the ground, his skin tearing open on gravel and broken glass. His back slammed against a curb, stopping him instantly. Stars were swimming in front of his eyes, but he jumped to his feet out of reflex. Chuck was still climbing up from the ground; he was fast, but he wasn’t the most nimble person. John relaxed, letting his control wane for a moment. Twin lances of blindingly-white flame sprang from his outstretched hands, flying towards Chuck. Both jets of fire rebounded off of the force field at obtuse angles, cutting jagged swaths through whatever they impacted with. Chuck, finally back on his feet, looked worried, but continued to move towards John. John responded with more fire; surrounded his attacker in it completely, firing arm-thick bolts of plasma, igniting the asphalt beneath his feet. None of it got through, and Chuck kept advancing.

  John continued blasting and moving, never allowing himself to get cornered; if he got within arm’s reach of Smith again, he might not be able to recover in time. His shin was bruising terribly from where he had kicked the force field with it, and he was starting to limp. His ribs told him that they didn’t want him to breathe anymore, and the blood trickling into his eyes made it hard to see.

  Sick an’ tired of this shit.

  John feinted to his left, then back to his right before charging at Chuck head-on. He fired a wide burst of flame at his opponent’s face, obscuring his vision; Chuck threw his hands up in front of his face and stumbled backwards, instinctually flinching away from the attack. John closed in with his opponent, and scrambled for the techy-looking belt, which he could only assume and hope controlled the force fields;
if he could disable it, he was sure that he could make quick work of this bastard.

  His fingers scratched at the invisible wall just a centimeter above the device, unable to penetrate; John’s control on his fires lapsed, and Chuck was able to see again. He grabbed John by the back of his neck and his jeans; John could see some sort of hydraulic joints ripping through the elbows, shoulders, and knees of Chuck’s suit as he hefted John above his head, and then threw. John hit the brick wall beside the entrance of his home fifteen feet above the ground, crushing several of its bricks and knocking a good many others loose before falling back to earth with a sickening thump.

  Everything went black for what seemed like an eternity, give or take a few millennia. When he came to, he knew that he was still alive, at least somewhat; Smith was talking again.