by Pam Uphoff
Vlad kept a polite smile on his face and hoped for the best.
***
Six weeks later he was in the fairgrounds, and after escalating “unfortunate misunderstandings,” had given up hope. Even if he—and the rest of the police—were still trying for at least a facade of friendly co-operation.
“This is not some Native World that you are subduing. This is not a World that has lost communication and is fair game to be picked up. We are a branch subject to Tier Four Regulus. We have three working portals of our own.” Vlad could damn near see his words being ignored.
“You and your troops are here to protect us from outside attacks, and you need to get them under control and behaving in a legal, polite fashion to everyone here. We will not tolerate theft, assault or rape.” He set the court order, the printed list, and chip on Captain Feldmann’s desk. “These Cyborgs and Lieutenant Offen, are to be removed from this World at your next Portal.”
“We’ll think about it.”
“This is a court order, not a request. Don’t think. Do it.” Vlad turned and stalked out of the Captain’s flimsy temporary office, and stomped across to where he’d parked. Eyed the lines of tents. All spiffy and new . . . and looking occupied. They’ve expanded since last week. The mess and kitchen took up most of the pavillion . . . even if they aren’t eating in shifts . . .
He got back in the Chief of Police’s big town car and told the driver to take him back to police headquarters. Tapped at his phone.
"Axel? How many troops were in the agreement? I thought five hundred, but there's four times that many tents at the Fair Grounds, and they don’t look like they’re just in case they get more troops approved, they look like they’re in use right now. Ditto the mess."
“Can’t say I’m surprised.” The man sounded . . . casual. “I’ll check on that.”
Chapter Thirty-four
How many Soldiers did we say?
Friday, November 1, 3739
"Is the Boss in?" Axel kept his body language quiet. Mr. Matveev was an awesomely efficient and capable man, keeping the Director's business organized and up to date. But he was not comfortable with physical aggressiveness.
"He's on the phone at the moment. Is it an emergency?"
"No, it can wait. I probably need less than two minutes, no need to interrupt his schedule. If he's likely to be on a long time I'll just send in a note."
"No, he should . . . he just got off, go in." The exec was eyeing his displays and had no doubt signaled that Axel was here.
Axel stepped through the inner door and closed it behind him.
"Senior Detective Vlad Gagarin, dealing with an issue with some Stuttie troops, says it looks like there's tents and mess for about two thousand troops, and it appears to be all in use."
The boss leaned back in his chair. "Damn. I knew there were more coming than going . . . but I hadn't realized it was that bad. And no tanks or AGCs . . . that we've seen. But there have been a lot of trucks . . . and the AGCs can be disassembled for gate transit. And most militaries have tanks small enough to drive through."
He grimaced. "It may blow up a lot sooner than I'd hoped. I'd really like a better idea of the political situation at Home."
Axel sighed. "I'd like to put a few precautions in place."
The Director nodded. "Yes. It's time."
***
"Pauli? I need you four to disappear. Absolutely no way for anyone researching me, to find you guys. Get inventive. Spend some money. Unfortunately my cliff house is probably already known. Stay clear of it. Umm, I'll do the bank work, get you more money to work with."
A gleeful chuckle from the boy. And an enthusiastic "Yes, sir!" as he turned back to his computer bank.
I may have just unleashed a monster!
***
The basement below the Research Center Building One was storage space, barely used. The area directly under the Portal was solid concrete, to bear the weight of the traffic above. There were two empty strips beside that, one running directly under the control room. A few holes to run the helmet wires from above, a concealed entrance . . . shifting the shelves of archived . . . stuff to cover up the ventilation and sanitary requirements . . . Some desks and computers, some men trying hard to look like harmless clerks, rather than Mentalists ready to defend the Free Portalists . . .
It wasn't quite as easy in the other two portal facilities, but not too much original construction was needed. Three weeks and it was done. The managers and techs gave him looks of skepticism.
"Betcha. All right. Tell you what. If I'm wrong I will personally pay out a thousand ruble bonus to each and every staffer here. Two months from now." He looked at his watch. "Good grief. Is it really four weeks until Christmas?"
The Manager shook his head. "Do you live under a rock? How do you avoid the ads?"
"Umm, too busy, I guess?"
Note to self, my standard candy, games, and books for all the kids. They expect it.
Big stuff for the Rangers.
***
The sniper rifle for Dimitri, matched pistols for Natasha, computer controlled laser gun drones for Pauli, X-ray transparent composite knives balanced for throwing for Barf.
He took them out into the wilderness for their early presents.
"You’re going to get token presents on Christmas. I want you to practice now, with these. Barf? Be very respectful of these knives. On top of their special manufacturing, I've layered on every shield piercing impression I know . . . "
They were awesome.
He bought the trees—the big one in the Grand Hall, one each for Andrei's and Nicoli's living rooms, one up on the fourth floor where the servants' lived.
A good time was had by all, decorating them, music playing . . .
Chapter Thirty-five
Forty-one Down
Sunday, November 24, 3739
Vlad was probably smiling again as he got to his office. Another great date . . . and she'd found a room in the west wing, unused but furnished . . . He sobered abruptly as he spotted Forty-one sitting there, wiping a tissue under his skull plate. Staring at the floor and not responding to the people glancing his way.
"Oh, shit. When did this start?" A cold lump formed in his stomach.
The old Cyborg sighed. "A few weeks ago. The antibiotics have stopped working. I figured I owed it to you to say goodbye. Before I talked to the chief."
Vlad swallowed. "Come with me. Right now."
"There's nothing to be done." But he got up. "I know I ought to talk to your Dad. But I can't face saying goodbye to little Dina."
"Yeah." Vlad trotted back down the stairs, tapped in a request for a car.
"You'll have to get another Cyborg to drive you around and occasionally save your ass."
"We'll see."
"Vlad there isn't anything that can . . . are you thinking about Lord Axel's cow medicine?"
"Yep. What did he call it? A hodgepodge of healing impressions?"
"And he specifically said for me to not come in contact with it." He glared at Vlad when he headed for the driver's side.
Vlad smiled a bit and walked to the other side.
"Vinogradov House?"
"Nope. Home. I'm going to dose you up with Dina's medicine."
Forty-one eyed him. "Dina got dosed with the Cow meds?"
"Dina snuck a sip of something Axel was analyzing. And after she started improving, they went over and begged for more. Seven days in a row . . . and she got back to normal fast. Still improving, adjusting, hard to believe it’s been a year."
"But . . ." Forty-one started the car and headed out. "I went back, twice, out of curiosity, and checked on the cows. They're spread out all over, just munching away. The winter was pretty mild, out there, they're doing fine. And, umm, seem to be unimpaired reproductively. Lots of calves, last time I checked."
"Right. So. Might as well try it yourself, right?"
Forty-one snickered. "So long as I don't run around humping cows like those bu
lls were."
"You never impressed me as the beastiality sort." Vlad snickered. "But then, you did seem to know what to do with cows . . ."
They were both still grinning as they pulled in the driveway and parked.
Vlad sobered. "It's just . . . judging by Dina, it may remove zivvy wires."
Forty-one froze.
"So . . . Dina got one dose, and started improving, then sank again. So for you . . . maybe one or two doses for all those healing impressions, but no more so you don't lose control of the arm?"
Forty-one nodded. "We'll have to, you know, experiment. Just a little. Because . . . there's no real downside, for me."
Vlad nodded. "So . . . let's go in and see if there's any left, or if Dina drank it all."
Dad was sitting in front of the TV. "The Stuttgartans agreed to bring in five hundred troops to help with, or better yet, prevent another invasion. But it seems there are actually a couple thousand of them out there at the Fairgrounds. Damn them. So we just finally realized that they are the invasion."
Forty-one shook his head, and staggered a bit.
Dad's head whipped around and he lunged to his feet. "Danny? Look at me." He grabbed Forty-one's chin and turned his head to look at the skull plate. "Oh shit."
Vlad heard a sharply indrawn breath from his Mother.
"Yeah. The antibiotics aren't working but your boy thinks Dina's medicine might."
Reminded, Vlad turned to the kitchen and took the "special" bottle down from the high shelf.
Not much left, but that doesn't matter with this stuff.
He leaned and grabbed a bottle of red wine from the rack and his mother handed him a funnel.
Filled Dina's bottle, poured a bit back. Poured a glassful and took it out to Forty-one. "Danny, eh? I think I've known you all my life and you never let that slip."
"Don't get nosy, punk!" The old Cyborg took a sip. His eyes widened, and he took a large swallow. Gasped for breath. "What is this stuff?"
"Axel says that so far, in analyzing it, they've found over three hundred separate operations, most of them antibiotic, anti-cancer, anti-parasite, general health boosters . . . Ahem . . . and a strong aphrodisiac. And they're still trying to figure out what the rest do."
"Wow!" he staggered to the nearest chair and sat down, careful to not spill. "That's, that's dangerous . . . Wait." He pointed at the TV. "Did that guy just say the Stutties were going to beef up our police? Them? They don't know anything about us . . ."
Vlad swallowed. "They're going to take over the police. And then we'll have nothing. No way to make them back down. Those bloody stupid Councilmen are going to just let them walk in, get cozy, and then take over."
Mitty shook his head. "Vlad? Bring me a beer."
Vlad turned back to the kitchen. Mom had the bottles sealed and turned to the sink to wash the funnel. Licked her fingers and froze for a long moment.
Cleared her throat. "That's . . . quite an effect." She glanced at the staircase.
Dina had slipped down quietly, and was sitting on the stairs a quarter of the way up, arms around her knees.
"I can't believe we let little Dina drink this for a week!" She got herself under control . . . then shot a hungry look across the room at Dad.
Dina snickered, and headed back upstairs.
Then Dad accepted a sip from Forty-one's glass. And Mom plopped herself down in Dad's lap . . .
Vlad set the beer down and turned back to the kitchen. He found a small clean jar and filled it with that wine. And took the jar and wine bottle both with him as he grabbed Forty-one and steered him toward the door.
"I think they need some privacy. And I think you need to get back to the barracks and take a day off. See how you feel tomorrow. The jar has enough for two more days, if you dare. And I'll stash the wine bottle somewhere in the office." He turned up his coat collar against the deepening chill, and glanced at the line of clouds. Rain or snow?
"Die yam that's gooooood stuff."
"Maybe two days off. Or three." He steered Forty-one firmly over to the passenger side and got him in . . . noting that there wasn't a bit of redness, let alone oozing around the skull plate.
That fast! Dare I hope he's healing inside as fast as out?
He turned in the car and walked across the lot to the office. A glance around and he popped into the records room. Anachronistic paper records in deep filing cabinets. He picked one at random and tucked the wine bottle into the back of the bottom drawer.
Not a good time to have alcohol show up in my desk, and since this is probably a massively illegal substance . . .
Chapter Thirty-six
Cyborg Orgy
Wednesday, November 27, 3739
"What do you mean all the Cyborgs are sick?"
Vlad looked over at the Chief Detective. "Sick! What the hell? Bad food?"
CD Bychkov clicked his phone off and glared. "You get along with them, go find out! It started three days ago, and it's spreading."
Vlad hustled across the big parking lot to the mess hall. The four Cyborg barracks on the right, the five servant's barracks to the left. Cooks, maids, cleaning crew, and the mechanics who kept the fleet running.
The mess was a mess. Dirty plates everywhere, and only a few women even trying to reduce the chaos. Lots of groaning bodies, some limp. Vlad bent over one . . . retreated hastily and called the station physician.
"I know, bring them in." the irritated voice on the other end sounded put out.
"There's too many of them. Load up your crew with anti-alcohol and get down here." Vlad snapped right back.
"They're Cyborgs, who gives a damn."
Vlad stomped on a desire to go kick him.
"They are very valuable . . . property . . . of the police force. Worth a quarter million apiece. Do you know how pissed the people in charge are going to be if they have to replace millions of rubles worth of . . . equipment . . . because you didn't do your job?"
A snarl.
"Grab all your anti-alcohol and get down here. With all of your staff."
Except, it's not just the alcohol, is it? How long has it been? Three days since I dosed Forty One? And now our experiment has expanded to all the Cyborgs and all the support staff.
A fast hunt found everyone alive, however a lot of them seemed to not be appreciating that. He finally found Forty-one in the woman's barracks, snoring in the arms of one of the cooks and . . . decided to leave him there.
A couple of hours later they managed to get a half shift out on the streets, and enough servants functional to get everything cleaned up.
Fortunately very little cooking was needed. Toast and tea were the special of the day.
And every bit of alcohol in the barracks was confiscated. A minor amount compared to how much had been drunk, judging by the trash bags full of empty bottles hauled away.
Vlad spotted Forty-one looking both hungover and smug. Shook his head and signed out a squad car to show some presence in a few neighborhoods that needed it.
It was a long boring afternoon, and he was delighted to finally get home.
The Cyborgs were, umm, supervised a bit more than usual for a week, but they all seemed healthy and showed no signs of aberrant behavior or alcoholism.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Early warning
Thursday, December 5, 3739
Vlad trotted downstairs, coat and tie over his arm.
"At least you should eat properly!" His Mom pointed him at the dining table, barely away from the living room, where Dad and Dina were watching the news.
Yelling at the TV. "Dissidents! Who the hell are you to decide who's a dissident? Already taking action against would-be tyrants? Who the ever fucking hell do you think you are going to arrest!"
Vlad leaned to look. Ah. A Stuttgartian speaking to the Council.
"Red and . . . Axel." Dina was wide-eyed and worried. "They know Axel's dangerous. They know he's dangerous to them and their plans."
"I don't think they'd d
are attack a Bureau Agent." Vlad called back.
Dina shook her head. "He has to hide! I'll go pack his things!" And she was off and out the front door.
Vlad munched, listening with half an ear.
How fast could they possibly move? My main worry should be my sister burgling the house next door!
He hugged his mom, then headed for the office. And walked into a very unhappy detectives’ floor. He paused to scan for the problem and caught the sound of voices from behind the Chief Detective's closed door.
Enhanced his hearing a bit. A stranger's voice . . . "Prioritize these dangerous Mentalists. Especially this Vinogradov fellow. A powerful man, nephew to a traitor . . ."
Vlad walked on pulling out his phone, tapping out Natasha's number.
Got a worried "Hello?"
"Tasha? If Axel's around warn him that he's being targeted by the Stutts. And you four . . ."
"Yeah, the guys are gone, and I'm just waiting for Axel . . . his phone is being answered by someone else. I . . . suspect I need to ditch this phone and disappear."
"Please do. Quickly. I'll keep my eyes open for your boss."
"Thank you." She still sounded worried as she clicked off.
Axel's the strongest Mentalist on the world. He's got to know they'll target him . . . which is piss poor gratitude for rescuing two of their highest ranked people. But when it comes to politics and power, gratitude means nothing.
