by Pam Uphoff
He dropped his phone back into his pocket and headed for his desk.
The background voices dropped and heads turned toward him.
Detective Devin looked around at him. "Do you know what the hell is going on? They're going to raid Vinogradov House! I thought it was just the old Lord."
Vlad sighed. "Well, they aren't losing any time, are they? What you are seeing is the first stage of a mostly peaceful takeover of a world—ours in this case—as they quickly eliminate the strongest Mentalists before our stupid government wakes up and realizes they've opened the portals and invited the barbarians in."
They all looked at him like he'd grown an extra head.
"Guilt or innocence has nothing to do with who they are going to arrest over the next few days."
Everyone looked around as the door of the Chief's office slammed open.
Chief Detective Lord Bychkov stomped out, looking pissed. He zeroed in on Vlad. "Gagarin! You've been inside Vinogradov House. Please assist Agent Schweiger in raiding the place."
"Yes, sir." Vlad straightened. "Do you have search and arrest warrants in hand? Or shall I call the court . . . No?"
"We have declared an emergency. We don't need warrants. We'll question the Traitor's sons, and the servants. Especially any servants who belong to Lord Axel."
A sharp smile. "The Lord we already have in hand."
Really? Axel let himself be arrested? Or did he slip up and is in serious trouble. "That'll be an interesting trial. And . . . if you're going to search the house, bring lots of men, and graph paper. You'll need to map the damned thing, it's a maze."
A disdainful snort. "And what happened to all your Cyborgs last week?"
"Well, either someone wanted them all sick for who knows what reason." Vlad eyed the Stuttgartian Agent. "Or they all pooled all their funds with all the maids and kitchen staff for booze and they were all so drunk they got careless with keeping the food refrigerated and got to enjoy the combination of hangovers and food poisoning.
"And since nothing horrible happened while they were mostly . . . out sick . . . I tend to believe that's what it actually was.
Agent Schweiger snorted and led the way back down to his team, waiting in quasi-military vehicles. Vlad followed in his own car.
Lord Andre and Lord Nikoli were baffled and unable to help, their wives were upset, the children crying, the servants running about trying to clean up after the frustrated search crews stopped being kind to furniture, having discovered previously overlooked glass shards in the upholstery when they sat down. A few chairs had been thrown across rooms, fortunately not through the windows.
They'd gotten lost repeatedly, despite the maps . . . couldn't tell which servant was which, with all the family resemblances . . . All the paperwork that had been in the old Lord's office had been salvaged, generally much the worse for wear, bullet holed, power slashed and scorched.
It was hard to even step out for a break, with the wind coming up as the temperatures dropped and the wet snow starting. I hate these storms off the Sicilian Ice Sheet. Colder than hell, but at least they don’t usually last too long.
The Rangers' paperwork was missing, along with all four Rangers, Vlad was delighted to see. The rest of the servants’ records hadn't been updated.
Anastaciya wringing her hands. "We're still trying to figure out which servants to keep! Axel's paying half their upkeep, but legally they're still ours . . . I think?"
Axel's room baffled Agent Schweiger.
Vlad shrugged. "They treated him like a poor relative, and he spent very little time here." He walked to the next door and tried it. An empty room, a wide doorway to another empty room. Checked the rooms across the hall, empty. Even the bathroom looked abandoned.
Vlad opened the door to the stairwell. Looked up and down. "I really don't feel like getting lost again. Surely you have some idea what you're looking for?"
That got him a snarl. The agent stomped off. Vlad cocked his head at screams, and took to the stairs anyway. Bedlam reigned on the fourth floor, and Vlad handcuffed two Stutts who'd been trying to rape one of the teenagers. A fourteen-year-old girl named Nika had a beaut of a bruised cheek and broken fingernails. Torn blouse. The Stutts had some good facial scratches. And were pissed since he'd handcuffed them to a metal stair rail.
The girl's glare was for another girl, though. "They were looking for Natasha, and somebody told them I was her little sister."
"Right. All you youngsters stick together and . . . watch something on TV."
Tasha has a little sister?
Vlad found a couple of chairs halfway between the kids and the handcuffed goons. Got out his phone and checked in with the Chief. Got told to let the rapists go. Got told to not interfere with the investigation. "Oh, so we're now occupied territory and need to kiss our conqueror's arses so we can pretend we're still policemen and look the other way while they rape fourteen-year-olds?"
The Chief clicked off.
Agent Schweiger found them eventually. And growled at his men and sent them downstairs before he turned on Vlad.
"What? Shocked that our policemen disapprove of cops raping fourteen year old girls? Please do download your police standards manual, or whatever you call it, to the common site so we can figure out where you lot draw the line."
Narrowed eyes.
"So . . . how's the fishing expedition going? Have you found enough to justify arresting the man who rescued your people and warned you of a danger to your President?"
"Shut up." He turned and stalked away.
It was midnight before they packed it and left. Vlad lingered until the servants reported that all the Stutts were indeed gone.
He drove home through the heavy snow, to a quiet house.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Not Good
Thursday, December 5, 3739
His head hurt, and he had a vague memory of pulling up shields as that guy who'd followed him into the store pulled power, a glimpse of another as he turned . . .
Yeah, that feels like at least two stuns. I'm surprised they didn't manage to turn my brain to mush . . .
Very slight movements confirmed that both hands were strapped down to the bed he was on. A stab of pain as he lowered shields . . . people to either side, feeling fuzzy. Nothing like an alert guard, but then they'd probably be shielded.
A general all-over flexing of muscles.
Not injured, feet not very restrained, if at all.
My head is cold.
He froze.
No . . . if they'd already chipped me, I wouldn't be able to feel the other people.
An old lecture surfaced. "For the first twenty-four hours the zivvy wires grow randomly through the subdural cavity. The chip continually analyzes where the wires are and prioritizes zivvy to the most desirable directions. The second day is when the wires turn and penetrate the brain, again prioritizing the important areas . . ."
If I've been chipped, I have less than twenty-four hours to get to one of the places I have stashed the zivvy dissolver. After that, my mentalist abilities will be blocked, and I'll be wide-open to interrogation.
And Control.
Not to mention stupid.
An impression of strong minds approaching.
He shielded as hard as he could. Laid limp.
A loud thump of doors.
". . . Fucking illegal chipping! No One. NO. ONE. HAS. THAT. AUTHORITY!"
The Boss to the rescue, in time or not?
"Oh, damn." Right next to him.
Too late. Damn.
"I am going to . . ."
Axel parted his lips and spoke as quietly as possible. "Shut up or you'll wind up in the bed next to me. Got a knife?"
The briefest of pauses. ". . . speak to those worthless ingrates." A sense of shifting movement. "So, Doctor Petukhov. Did you at least have the decency to install a wife chip? No? Of course not. So the Emergency Committee will have all our secrets."
A snort from further away. "From a pla
yboy traitor?"
"Traitor? You dare call Alex Vinogradov . . . You have no idea what you've done. And never will."
A bit of metal slipped into his hand, warm, as if from a pocket.
And more quietly, "Damn, Axel. I always knew you lived dangerously, but this isn't the end I expected, old friend. I'll think of you every morning." And barely aspirated, "Independent actions authorized. No limits."
I hope I can live up to your expectations, Boss.
Footsteps retreated.
The Boss’s voice. “And you, personally, are going to be held legally responsible . . .” The thud of doors cut off the rest.
Axel softened his shields carefully. No alert people around.
The metal in his hand was a pocket knife. Open. He bent his wrist and sliced through the restraint. Reached across his bare chest slowly, stayed under the thin blanket so as to not set off the motion detectors hospitals used to alert them to patients waking . . . Freed his other hand.
Switched the knife to the other hand, loosened tape and pulled the IV. Stuck it in the mattress, wadded the sheet and applied pressure. And waited for a victim.
And his headache was not itchy pain from zivvy wires growing.
How long since the surgery? What time is it?
The thud flap of the door to his left. Heavy footsteps that stopped beside him. "Stupid little traitor! They ought to have just killed you, instead of wasting zivvy on halfbred Livestock."
Axel opened his eyes a slit. Heavily built man. White shirt and red tie, white lab coat, with a name tag. Chief Surgeon Lord Ivan Petukhov.
Excellent.
The man turned away, and Axel shifted his feet, limbs stiff and heavy, but fast enough to get him up as the doctor started to turn.
One arm around his neck, haul him back to a convenient spot beside the bed. Other arm around, a hard twist and jerk.
The sudden limp weight staggered him, but he leaned him in against the bed, and held him while he stripped off the coat, the tie, unbuttoned the shirt and got it off. Unbuckled the belt, dropped the trousers. Let the torso fall back on the bed and Axel still had trouble getting rest of the body up there.
God only knows how much of how many drugs I'm full of.
He pulled the blanket up and over the doctor's head, and got dressed. Hunted and found the pocket knife. "Hope you don't mind me putting a hole in your belt, Fatso. And I really wish you had bigger feet."
He looked around. A row of beds up each side of the long room. Only five others occupied. Three between him and the big double doors at the end of the room, two on the other side of his bed. He fumbled his way through tying the tie, struggled into the white coat.
Fine muscle control seems to be getting worse.
He staggered down to the double doors and pulled one open a crack. No one in sight. He looked the other way. Women in blue uniforms, a big laundry cart, the handles of mops and brooms sticking up. He opened the door and walked away from the women as steadily as he could manage.
Lots of closed doors. All numbered, some with names. Single doors a dozen feet apart on his left. Double doors with wide spacing on his right.
Ahead the hallway made a right turn, and dead ahead, an open door.
So, Dr. Petukhov, did you rank a corner window?
According to the name plate, yes. Axel walked confidently across to it, a glance down the hall spotted a security guard. Ordinary type Cyborg.
Axel ignored him and closed the office door behind himself. Surveyed the room. Two windows, black night, snow blowing past, briefly showing in the light from the windows.
Big desk, credenza, book shelves, visitor's chairs. Coat rack with a heavy coat and furry cap with ear flaps. I'm almost sorry I killed you . . . well, no, I'm not. Never mind.
He circled the desk. A quick search turned up a wallet. ID, transit pass, and cash cards. The phone on the desk flashed the time when he touched it.
Twenty-one twenty. Not too late.
The door opened, and the Cyborg guard looked in.
:: The doctor's assistant, tidying up. ::
The guard nodded and withdrew.
Axel slung the heavy coat over one arm and put the furry cap on his head. Headed down the direction the guard had come from and attempted to stride out confidently. Or at least keep to a straight line.
The corridor to the left had a few open doors, movement well down it. More lights at what looked like an intersection.
This'll be the hard part.
He walked down the hall, the intersection to the left had large glass doors to the outside. A few late workers leaving. Guards nodding politely, bored.
Axel slung on the coat as he neared. Let a bit of the ID tag show as he pulled the earflaps down and walked out the door into the snow.
Or maybe that was the easy part. Now I need to figure out where I am and what bus I need to take.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Red and Brown
Thursday, December 5, 3739
Anger. Determination. Pain. Getting closer.
Dina opened her eyes and studied the computer screen. The big picture was from the mini cam way out at the corner of her patio.
It was pointed down the road, but showed the driveway and front steps of Axel's house on the left side of the screen. Four men had entered around five, they'd left with a lot of boxes. Then half an hour ago the house had suddenly been swarmed. And then they'd left . . . sort of.
The two little pictures showed straight across from Axel's house, and the street the other direction. The street curved in front of her house, so the side door and walk where they put out their garbage bins was out of sight of those men lurking around.
She had everything ready.
I just need the nerve. And the silence.
She closed her eyes. A hard grip, step down, down, step away. Walk. Not far . . . no, other way . . .
Dina shuddered. I remember how that felt, the utter disorientation, as it started.
She was in her snow boots, stretchy exercise pants. The old blonde wig she'd kept, even after her hair had grown back after her head was shaved. Now she grabbed the pillow case full of clothes and stuffed it down her stretchy pants.
The plan will work! I will make it work.
Her Dad's big brown coat, wrap it around, use his long brown scarf like a belt to hold it closed up over her "pregnant" belly. Grab the old sock. Open her bedroom door and slide out quietly, a long step just there, to avoid that squeaky board . . . down the steps, quietly, quietly, through the kitchen and out the side door, the little block of wood to hold it open. Dodge the garbage cans, and down the walk, through the gate and jam the sock in the latch.
Walk down to the street and around the corner to peer down the street. Ignore the stir across the street. Spot the figure way down the street, not walking very steadily. Wave, then stride quickly down the street. Now movement from the other side. Had they left the house?
She waved again. "Rudolph! I was getting worried!" Trying for a little accent, and then she reached him and hugged him.
A faint laugh. "My sweet, you should be asleep." Yes, he'd picked up the accent, just enough to hint at the Ukraine.
She hooked his arm and led him on down the street. "Oh, you know I can never sleep when you work late."
Stepping past the first man. "Oh! She kicked! Here! Feel!"
She took his hand and set it on her bulge.
"Nyet, my sweety. That is our son, getting into practice for the Spring Games."
She giggled at that.
"Let's get you two out of this snow." He led her onward and the shadows stayed where they belonged. She steered him past the garage, the front walk, around the curve . . . Even with her eyes open she could feel the desperate determination . . . physically too. Trembling. She pulled him onto the back walk, reached down to pick up the minicam, and walked past the bushes. She pushed the gate open, and caught it, closed it silently, easing the latch down as she pulled the sock out of it.
"Thought
of everything, did you?" A bare breath of sound.
"I hope," she breathed, and pushed the door open. Led him through, with a quick detour to hang up her dad's coat and scarf. Slid a hand through the curtains and picked up that mini cam.
Axel had been edging carefully up the stairs, and followed her lead to step over the squeaky board and into her room.
She took the heavy coat as he shed it, and the furry cap, and put them in the bathroom to drip dry. Hustled back to see him blinking vacantly at the bed.
"Sit down," she kept her voice low, "I remember how it feels. I have your wine, you can hide here for as long as you need to, to recover."
"Oh." He staggered over to the bed. "My feet hurt worse than my head." He leaned and nearly fell over.
She pushed him upright, and untied the snow-caked shoes, pulled them off.
We left a trail of snow melt all through the house . . . She popped up to put the shoes in the bathtub and pulled the wine bottle out of her sock drawer.
"Remember. Half a glass a day for seven days."
He nodded, shivering. "Twenty days and even the chip is dissolved. You need to stay legal—for now. I'm going to . . . go all Igor on them."
She pulled the cork out and handed him the bottle. He took a long swallow, stiffened and panted as the effects hit. Another swallow.
"No wonder you threw yourself at me, after you drank this stuff." A third swallow.
She snickered. "No, that was displaced hero worship. I've been in love with Red since the first book."
She reached and took the bottle from him. Worked the cork in and forced it down.
"You know, Igor's not very sneaky." She eyed him. "You need to be sneaky, to be Ghost, this time."
He breathed in a little laugh. "The wild gray stallion that no one could catch?" He leaned sideways and kissed her hair. "I'll have to start calling you Brown, since you just hauled my battered body to safety. And whatever else you have planned, don't go near my house. They may have left traps."
She swallowed. "Now I need to hide everything . . . those shoes and the pants and tie can go in Vlad's room, but your coat and hat . . . the wig . . ."
