The Shadow Protocol

by Andy McDermott

  I’m not afraid.

  Tony spoke again. “You’ve got to get to Bianca, and soon. Zykov’s getting impatient. She needs your help.”

  I’m in control.

  “I’m going,” he said firmly, moving fully out onto the roof. He stepped over skeins of electrical cables and headed for the Russian’s penthouse. The sign jutted out from the roof’s edge on a gantry. There was just enough room for him to put one foot in front of the other behind it; once he cleared the last letter, he would have a little more space—but nothing to hold on to if he slipped. The tiled roof curved steeply upward, offering no handholds.

  He nudged the heavy laptop bag behind his back for better balance. The medical case bumped against it. He kept going, picking his way past more letters. I, A, L, and he was in the open.

  Vanwall’s terror resurfaced as he looked straight down over the edge for the first time. Eight hundred feet, neon hyperspace streaks pointing the way to earth. Not my fear. Another deep breath. He brought up his arms to balance himself. One foot in front of the other. He looked ahead. The corner of the roof projected outward in an oversized parody of a traditional pagoda. He could see part of the penthouse’s balcony beneath it.

  One foot, then the other. The distance slowly closed. He kept his eyes fixed on his destination. Keep moving. A stronger gust caught him, making him wobble, arms seesawing before he regained his balance. The laptop bag swung behind his back, twenty pounds of bulky electronics acting like a pendulum. Even with the gambler’s fear suppressed, the seconds before he stabilized were terrifying.

  “Adam, I can see you on the UAV’s cameras,” said Holly Jo, concerned. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” he replied. “Just some wind.”

  “That’s always a problem when you eat Chinese,” Kyle cut in.

  “Kyle, shut up,” Tony barked, but the moment of levity was what Adam had needed to get over his fright.

  He set off again. “What’s Bianca do—”

  His leading foot stepped on something slick and jerked forward. He staggered, arms flailing.

  He was going over …

  He twisted and deliberately fell against the steep roof. The impact was hard, tiles grinding under his weight. The laptop bag thumped heavily against the rooftop.

  His foot slithered over the edge—

  He clawed at the tiles. Fingernails got a grip. Gasping, he held himself in place. His wayward foot found solidity again.

  “Adam!” Holly Jo cried in his ear. “Are you okay? Adam!”

  “I’m okay,” he croaked. He carefully levered himself back upright and probed the edge with his foot. “Shit.”

  “What happened?”

  “Like I said, shit. Literally. I just slipped on a big patch of bird poop.”

  Her brief laugh was somewhere between relief and disgust. “Jesus, Adam.”

  “Kyle, get the UAV in closer and warn him if there’s any more,” said Tony, concern clear even behind his professional tone. “Adam, are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Just a scare. The PERSONA gear took a knock, though.”

  “How bad?”

  “No way to tell until we try to use it. Okay, I’m moving again.”

  Kyle gave him warning of a couple more potential hazards. Adam stepped over them, heading out onto the overhang above Zykov’s penthouse. “What’s the situation inside?”

  “Bianca’s still in the bathroom,” Holly Jo told him. “Zykov doesn’t look happy—he’s pacing about in the lounge. I think he’s getting fed up with waiting.”

  “What about his bodyguards?”

  “I don’t see them. They must be in the back rooms.”

  Adam pictured the penthouse’s layout, recalling the floor plan Levon had procured. “Which bathroom is Bianca in?”

  “The one off Zykov’s bedroom.”

  “Damn.” To reach the balcony, he would have to monkey-climb down the support beam—making him fully visible to anyone in the main bedroom, and at risk of being seen from the lounge as well. “Okay, tell me when he moves. I’m going to the corner of the roof.”

  More carefully than ever, he advanced along the edge of the precipice.

  “Adam’s almost in position,” Holly Jo told Bianca. “He’ll be—uh-oh.”

  “What?”

  “Zykov’s coming!”

  She heard the muffled thump of footsteps outside, followed by sharp raps on the bathroom door. “Bianca! What are you doing in there?”

  “I’m fine, I’m nearly done,” she called out, fidgeting in near-panic before forcing herself to calm down. She flushed the lavatory. “Just a second …”

  It took exactly two seconds before he knocked again. “Are you coming?”

  She took several rapid breaths, trying to recover some façade of composure. “Yes, yes.” Steeling herself, she opened the door.

  Zykov was right outside. While he was a long way short of filling the doorway vertically, with his broad shoulders he blocked it widthways. He had a full champagne glass in each hand. “I was getting worried,” he said.

  “It was just … you know, foreign food. It takes a little time to adapt.”

  He offered her a glass. “You will be fine with this, I think!”

  “Thank you.” She took it. He showed no inclination toward letting her through. “So, ah …”

  He smiled, exposing pointed teeth. “What did you think of my bedroom? Nice, hey?”

  “I didn’t get a proper look, I’m afraid,” she said. “I was in rather a rush to get in here.”

  “So, you prefer the bathroom?” The smile widened, and he stepped into the room. There was still not enough space for her to get past him.

  “I, ah, wouldn’t say I prefer it,” she said, desperation behind her own, very tight, smile. He kept advancing. She tried to camouflage her retreat by turning as if to take in her surroundings. “But it’s a very nice—Oh!”

  Completely unintentionally, she stumbled on her high heels. It was only a small trip, but it was enough to spill some of her champagne. She looked down at the puddle. “Oh no, I’m sorry.”

  “No matter.” Zykov backed her into a corner. He put his own glass down on the counter, then slipped his arms around her waist. “So. Here we are. It is time that we—”

  Sudden movement behind him—and Adam delivered a single hard chop to the base of his neck.

  Zykov staggered, face contorted in pain, then his knees buckled. The American grabbed him under his arms before he fell. “Help me get him on the bed,” he said, voice low.

  Bianca was too startled to move. “What—what happened? What did you just do to him?”

  “Knife hand strike. Come on, we don’t have long.” He dragged the woozy Russian toward the door.

  “But—I thought that sort of thing only worked in movies!”

  “You’d be surprised. Hurry up. If he calls for help—”

  “Okay, okay!” She gingerly took hold of Zykov’s feet and they hauled him into the bedroom. Bianca saw the medical case and a bulky bag on the bed. The exit to the balcony was open.

  “Shut the lounge door,” said Adam as he dumped Zykov on the mattress. “Then work out the Hyperthymexine dose.”

  Bianca quickly closed the door, then returned to the bed. “How long will you be able to keep him from shouting for his bodyguards?”

  Adam produced a silenced gun and pressed the muzzle against the Russian’s forehead. “Long enough.” He thumbed back the hammer with a loud metallic click. Even in his groggy state, Zykov recognized the sound and stiffened in fear.

  “Oh God, oh God …” Flustered, Bianca tried to remember what Albion had taught her. Calculating the dose itself was straightforward enough; the associated theatrics was the hard part. She opened the case. The sight of a penlight torch reminded her of part of the show, but she struggled to recall anything more. “Okay. Eyes. Check his eyes.” She took the torch and performed a quick arm’s-length examination. “Yes. Two. They look fine.”

  Zykov screw
ed up his face in response to the bright light. “What you doing? What is this?”

  “Shut up,” Adam said firmly. “Make a sound and I’ll kill you.” The Russian finally focused on his face. “You! But—”

  “I said shut up.” Adam pushed the gun down harder. Zykov fell silent, narrowed eyes burning with anger.

  Bianca found a measuring tape in the case and stretched it out beside the prisoner. “Okay, sixty-five inches, that’s, ah …”

  “Five-five,” Adam prompted.

  “Five-five, right. Although …” She tugged at one of his shoes, revealing not only a stacked heel but a wedge inside. “Jesus, his heels are nearly as high as mine! Okay, more like five-three. So, ah, the dose would be, let me think …”

  He gave her an odd look. “Aren’t you going to weigh him?”

  “Did you bring any scales?” she snapped.

  “No.”

  “Well, then! You just picked him up; how heavy would you say he is?”

  “I’d guess about … a hundred and eighty pounds?”

  “That means nothing to me—I work in kilograms!”

  “Eighty-one kilos,” said Holly Jo through her earwig after a moment.

  “Thank you!” Bianca backed away, trying to do the sums in her head and quickly finding that they were beyond the limits of her mental arithmetic. “I need a pen and paper, or a calc—” Adam used his free hand to take out his phone and toss it to her. “Okay, thanks.” She found the calculator app and started tapping in numbers.

  Zykov was as confused as he was angry. “Who are you? This is about more than just taking my money, isn’t it?”

  “Very perceptive, little comrade,” said Adam.

  Zykov scowled. “I will kill you for this. And her.”

  “You won’t even know it happened. Bianca?”

  “Got it,” she said with relief. She loaded the jet injector with Hyperthymexine and set the dial to what she hoped was the right dose. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  Zykov started to struggle; Adam jammed his free hand down hard on his throat. The Russian rasped, choking. “Shit!” Bianca gasped, afraid that he would alert his guards. She pushed the injector against his neck.

  “No, wait!” said Adam, but it was too late. A brief phut of gas. Zykov’s breathless rattle became a strained gurgle of pain as his entire body convulsed. “Wrong order, you’ve done it in the wrong order!” He released the Russian and scrambled across the bed to the laptop bag.

  “Sorry, I’m sorry!” Bianca squeaked, close to panic. “I thought he was going to shout for help!”

  “It’s okay. Help me with this.” Dropping the gun, he unzipped the bag to reveal the PERSONA equipment. One corner of the recorder was cracked where it had hit the rooftop. “Tony!”

  His superior’s voice came through the earwig. “Yes?”

  “The recorder’s damaged,” he said, already opening the main unit’s screen and starting it up. “Do you want to risk—”

  “No, just make a direct transfer,” Tony ordered. He didn’t need to ask what had happened; the audio feed from their earwigs and the hovering drone’s cameras had told the full story. “Get as much as you can before the drug wears off.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bianca said again as she prepared the skullcaps. “I was—”

  “It’s okay, it doesn’t matter,” he assured her. “Just set everything up as quickly as you can.”

  She gave one of the caps to Adam, who donned it and started to adjust the positions of the electrode clusters. “I don’t know what the margin of error is on this thing,” he said, as much to himself as anyone, “so it’s a good job I’m a gambler right now.”

  Bianca pulled the second skullcap over Zykov’s head. She had seen the effects of being injected with Hyperthymexine on video, finding it merely unsettling, but in person—and on an unwilling subject—it was extremely disturbing. “How long have we got?”

  “No idea. Roger was the expert. Does this look right?” Adam pulled the chin strap tight, then turned his head so she could see it from all angles.

  “As far as I can tell.”

  “Okay.” He took out the jet injector. “I’ll wipe Vanwall’s persona. You connect everything up, and the second you’re ready, start the transfer.” He lay back on the bed and put the injector’s nozzle to his neck.

  “Adam, I …,” Bianca started to say, but he had already pulled the trigger. His body tensed … then the ever-etched smirk of Peter Vanwall slowly dissolved from his face.

  She turned back to Zykov. The Russian was straining as if his muscles were trying to burst through his skin, eyes flicking rapidly from side to side. The drug was firing his synapses, forcing him to recall all his memories—but how many had already gone?

  The thought galvanized her. She secured the skullcap, giving the electrodes one last quick check. If they were wrongly positioned, it was too late to do anything about it. She took the cable and plugged it into the PERSONA, then did the same with the lead from Adam’s cap. “Okay, here we go,” she said breathlessly as she tapped the keyboard.

  ACTIVE: PERSONA TRANSFER IN PROGRESS.

  The screen lit up, numbers scrolling up one window. The stylized graphic flared with pulsating colors as the electrodes read Zykov’s brain activity and sent that data into Adam’s mind. How much had her mistake lost? And how would only having a partial persona affect Adam? She had no idea; it was not a possibility Albion or Kiddrick had ever envisaged.

  Adam’s fingers were twitching, eyes moving as quickly as Zykov’s. Something was being transferred, at least. Enough to get the information they needed? All she could do was wait and hope.

  A minute passed. The data on the screen told her that everything seemed normal—so far. But for how much longer?

  “Bianca,” Holly Jo said, giving her a start. “One of the bodyguards just came into the lounge.” More urgency in her voice. “He’s heading for the bedroom!”

  Bianca whipped around in helpless horror as someone knocked on the door.

  A man said something in Russian. A question, Bianca could tell from his intonation. But she had no answer. And with Zykov trapped in the whirlwind of his own memories, there was no way she could force him to reply.

  Another knock. If he didn’t get an answer soon—She didn’t know what prompted her to do it, perhaps the half-forgotten memory of a scene from some movie or book, but she giggled, bouncing up and down on the end of the bed. The mattress creaked. Simultaneously blushing at the incongruous silliness of her actions and gripped with utter terror, she waited …

  The door didn’t open.

  “He’s going,” said Holly Jo, voice filled with relief.

  “Bianca, stay still,” Tony added. Seconds passed. Bianca heard the faint clunk of a door. “Okay, he’s gone.”

  She let out an explosive exhalation. “Oh Jesus! Shit.” Her hands were shaking—no, her whole body. “God, that was close.”

  “Are you all right?” asked Tony.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m just … scared,” she admitted.

  “You’ve done an amazing job, Bianca. Really. All you need to do now is wrap it up and we can get you out of there. How’s the transfer going?”

  She checked the PERSONA. The visual representations of the process were now quiescent. “I think it’s done,” she said, pecking at the keyboard with a quivering finger. “It says the latency estimates are … God, I don’t know. Not what they should be, is all I can tell you.”

  “Check on Adam.”

  She moved to him. His eyes were closed. “Adam?” she said quietly. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes.” He frowned, as if experiencing a mild headache.

  “Ask him his name,” said Tony.

  She did so. Adam opened his eyes, giving her a pained look. “Adam Gray.”

  “It didn’t work,” she said, crestfallen. Everything had been for nothing …

  “No, wait,” Adam said, raising a hand. “It’s there, it’s just … fuzzy. Hold on. My name is … Ruslan.
Ruslan Pavelovich Zykov.” His voice changed as he repeated the name, taking on some of the Russian’s heavy accent.

  “Your date of birth?” Bianca asked hopefully.

  “January 1966. The … the tenth.”

  “That’s right,” said Holly Jo through Bianca’s earwig.

  Bianca decided to skip through the standard questions. “What’s your most guilty secret?”

  Adam’s reluctance to answer told her that at least some of Zykov’s persona had been transferred to him. “When I was a boy, I … I stole from our church. I broke in and took all the icons, and sold them to a trader for two hundred American dollars. The whole village was horrified, but they never found out it was me who took them.”

  Bianca leaned back, surprised. Zykov was an arms dealer, a violent killer—and that was the event in his life of which he was most ashamed? “Okay, I think it worked,” she announced to those listening. “So now can we get out of here?”

  Adam unstrapped his skullcap. “We need to wipe Zykov’s memory first.”

  “And figure out a way to explain why he’s missing ten minutes of his life,” Holly Jo added.

  Bianca looked into the bathroom. “I’ve got an idea. You move him in there—I’ll pack up the gear.” She removed the cap from Zykov’s head.

  Adam took hold of the blank-eyed Russian and dragged him from the bed. “Always the same. The man has to lift heavy stuff while the woman does nothing.”

  “I hope that was Zykov saying that and not you,” Bianca chided, unplugging the cables and powering down the PERSONA.

  Adam towed Zykov to the bathroom and maneuvered him through the doorway. By the time he had pulled him inside, Bianca had packed everything up—except for the injector of Mnemexal. “Okay,” she said, joining him. “See where I spilled the champagne?” She indicated the splash. “I’ll yell for help, and when the bodyguards turn up I’ll say he slipped on it and hit his head.”

  “Good thinking. Help me turn him over.” They rolled Zykov onto his front. Adam regarded him for a moment—then took hold of him by the hair and slammed him face-first against the tiles.

  Bianca gasped in shock. “What are you doing?”

  “Making it convincing.” He lifted Zykov’s head to reveal a bloodied mark on his forehead. The Russian moaned softly. “He’ll believe that headache. Now give him the injection.”