Code Name Igor

by Pam Uphoff

  He stepped up to the Chief of Police. "Do you understand that, Chief Naoumov?"

  "Unfortunately."

  Lehr eyed him, then turned to Vlad. "So, you know the fugitive. Tell me about him."

  "I met him last year, as a suspect in the alleged murder of his uncle, Lord Vladimir Vinogradov. He . . . was considered a useless layabout. But he seemed very self-controlled, thinking ahead. Aware of all the legal and financial impacts of Lord Vladimir's death. Cold blooded and calculating. Not an ounce of grief.

  "Researching him, I found that he had degrees in statistics, accounting, history, and Mentalist studies, with a Doctorate in Power Applications."

  The Colonel straightened at that.

  "So he was not just naturally highly talented, but also educated, and most likely very well trained."

  "When, in the course of searching Vinogradov House, I found what looked like a dimensional beacon, Lord Axel made a single phone call, identified himself with a number and sent a recording of the beacon and the room it was in. A Fast Response Team arrived very quickly, and recognized him."

  Vlad shrugged. "So I realized that the 'job' he'd casually dismissed, and allowed me to assume was financial in nature, was that of a Mentalist with the Teams. I was not in a position to know if he was the agent said to have accompanied Inquisitor Gorbachev, however he was exhibiting all the symptoms of an unprotected portal crossing. I accompanied him and the servant who'd been showing me around, to the house he owned on Upper Cliff. I was boggled to find out it was next to my father's house, which we had always thought vacant and held as an investment. Inside I got the full lecture about it didn't happen until I had express permission for it to have happened."

  "After that, the Imperials took over the investigation . . . are you interested in the results?"

  "Only in the details of Lord Axel being proven guilty."

  "Actually Lord Vladimir's Executive Secretary killed him, as the only path he could find to stop his master, after he discovered the beacon. Inquisitor Gorbachev removed the controls and whatever inhibitions Lord Vladimir implanted, and got the whole confession out of him."

  "Where is he now?"

  "I have not seen him since. I did, two days later, receive an official decree from the Imperial Inquisitor's Office that the killing was justified defense of the World."

  A snort from the Colonel. "A nice cover for murder. So an Inquisitor is in on it!"

  Vlad eyed him. "Do you still have communication to Home? You might want to get an Executioner out here to look into the matter."

  The colonel blinked, thinking.

  Go on. Do it! Dare you!

  "I spoke hastily. I would never doubt an Inquisitor. Yesss . . . brave man, that Exec, a crucial moment when the invasion could be stopped while it was small. Now whether Lord Axel was in on the Treason is still not resolved."

  He glanced at his computer. "Agent Schweiger is of the opinion that neither Lord Andre nor Lord Nikoli are powerful enough, ambitious enough, or intelligent enough to have been in on the Treason. What do you think?"

  "I agree with that assessment, but will add that they are spoiled, arrogant, and dissolute, but only in small ways." Vlad shrugged.

  The Governor nodded. "I knew them all, of course. Rather . . . typical third generation down from a great man, those two. Lord Axel was different. I knew he was one of Rasputin's Agents. I would never have thought . . ." He shook his head sadly, and turned to the Chief of Police, looked him straight in the eyes . . . and winked. "Integrate your people into a unified force, I'll make sure that you do all right out of it."

  The Chief scowled, nodded.

  Vlad glowered, muttered "damn politicians." Shrugged. "How? There's not much room. We can put up barracks for more Cyborgs pretty quick, but not offices."

  "We'll talk about it." The chief herded him out, glancing at the Governor. "And our budget."

  "Now look, we've got money problems already . . ."

  They argued all the way back to the squad cars.

  Then the Chief eyed him. "What do you think, Gagarin, you're being pretty quiet."

  "Well . . . I'll look over the Stutt Cyborgs. Separate them from their current controllers and then we'll see what we're dealing with. Long term? My money's on Igor."

  The Chief glowered. The Governor sagged. Vlad got right in his face. "Don't write that man off. You know he's not cowering in a hole, so don't you give up either."

  The Governor straightened, offended.

  The Chief frowned. "Well . . . Gagarin, you are temporarily assigned to Cyborg duty . . . and try to make them into good cops, not occupying soldiers."

  "Yes, sir."

  ***

  So he started with a gang of Cyborgs he knew were good people and good cops. "So, did you all get three days worth of the zivvy dissolver," he grinned at their expressions.

  Forty-one shook his finger at him. "Are you supposed to tell anyone about that?"

  Two-four swallowed. "You're kidding?"

  "No. This is how the conquered worlds are successfully rebelling. Three days of the officers getting dosed with the Plague—which is a poison, not a disease—and three days of the troops getting the zivvy destroyer, and suddenly our army is the rebels' army."

  He certainly had their attention. "If you didn't get three days worth . . . any of you? Good. Now you need to go teetotal for three weeks to make sure it turns off before it affects your control of the arm. I don't know any more than that about how it affects Cyborgs.

  "Servant chips? A week of the wine, three weeks off removes the wires without damaging the chip, so it reads as functioning. Twenty days of the wine and even the chip is dissolved."

  He bit his lip. "Have any of you been around the Stutt Cyborgs?"

  They all nodded, and they all looked angry.

  Three-twelve growled. "They're acting like conquering warriors. Not quite to the rape, loot, pillage, burn stage . . . But they look like they really want to get to it."

  Vlad nodded. "I'm supposed to integrate them into the police force."

  "Oh shit." Forty-one hunched his shoulders.

  "So what I need you guys to do is meet them, talk to them when they're off duty and relaxed. Find out if the behavior is an overlay from their controllers, or if they really are bad. Try and find good ones, and get the wine into them. If they're being actively controlled on duty . . . we'll have to figure out how to deal with that. Because I don't think anyone has any of the Plague poison."

  "Day yam." Forty-one nodded. "Right, we'll see if we can lure any of them over to the side of law and order."

  "Or to the side of Siberia Max." Two-four nodded. "I think they're just in tents on the west side, kind of surrounding their portal, well, their arrival spot with the beacon. They've taken over management and security of our commercial portals. Don't know about the one Up Top. But they’ve shut down the two down here."

  "I'll look into getting some portable buildings for barracks, bring them over in small batches, so you can look the Cyborgs over. And friendly or not, try and get them to act like police, not as you say, conquerors."

  Chapter Forty-six

  Baby Sitting

  Thursday, December 12, 3739

  "So, you guys just kick back and take a few days off until the Stutties realize that they aren't going to be allowed to have our portals." Natasha eyed the twenty-four young men. The Portalmakers. Free Portalists, they call themselves. I think Axel has kidnapped our Portalmakers!

  "Ten days." Henrik, who was sort of in charge, grinned. "Nine, now. Not that I can tell you why then."

  They didn't come close to filling all the bedrooms on third floor west. By using the old furniture shoved into rooms, they'd managed to furnish them, only having to move a few beds from guest rooms in the east wing. And Natasha had raided Axel's Parents' apartment for the big screen TV and set it up in the only big room they could find over there. And bathroom space was a bit tight, but as the only people living in the whole wing, they didn't even ha
ve to worry about being quiet.

  There wouldn't be a problem feeding them, Axel'd had the Bursar load up on food two weeks ago.

  No, the main problem was a house full of servant women and teenagers suddenly confronted with young men they weren't related to. Suddenly they were wearing their best dresses and using makeup and she had lots of volunteers to bring food to the mystery guests they were hiding from the Evil Stuttgartians . . .

  I really hope this isn't one of those long drawn out wars!

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Agent in Action

  Thursday, December 12, 3739

  The Stutties were hiring every truck they could.

  "Ghost. Belong ta Lord Max Ignatov. Don' care what I do, so long's he get mos' of the money." Axel held out a card. "Pay to this accoun'."

  The Stuttie grunted and ran the card through his machine, and handed back the card, and sent him off to get loaded.

  Loot. State of the art electronics. You'd think a Tier Two World wouldn't have a problem buying any of this. But they sure are happy to swap for meat and veggies. At their exchange rate.

  The loaders finished, slapped a big "5" on his windshield. "After you leave the portal, follow the 5 signs," and waved him off to wait in the line for the portal. The Stuttgart portal.

  I just hope Henrik can open a portal in ten days. And that's cutting it close. Even if what he said about the Stuttgart Portal makers is true. Two very old and wobbly. Two strong.

  If I can take at least two of them . . . preferably the strong ones, they may find us very low priority, and go pick on someone else.

  I'd say a world like that must have a bunch of clones ready . . . but if they are already out of zivvy and can't wire up a new one . . . that's going to have major ramifications for these would-be empire builders.

  And that's why they wanted us. They assumed we had three portalmakers.

  I wish I'd been able to see their faces when they popped the coffins and found them empty.

  He had a gym bag on the floor. Clothes and toiletries. Two bottles of wine, professionally recorked and rewrapped after being dosed. In two fancy gift bags.

  Two teams of Cyborgs in Stutt uniforms working their way down the line of trucks. Checking papers . . . spotting the gift bags and reaching for them.

  "Hey! Tryin' ta get laid, y'know!"

  "We'll let you know if it works. Get moving."

  He growled and put the truck in gear.

  Winced through the portal twist and followed the rest of the trucks out of the portal security area, turned to follow the number five signs to where they were unloading electronic goodies and waited his turn to get unloaded. And drove off into the city.

  He parked at a casual looking restaurant, pulled his (new) computer out of its hiding place and ate while he searched for those warehouse-type places he'd scouted for the Diplomats . . . yeah. That one was not in a very good area. It would work perfectly.

  The Unfamous Artiste Max Ignatov rented and paid for it, got the code for the door, paid the waitress with a big tip and headed for his new home.

  All it needed was some furniture for the visible reception area, a couple of mattresses for the side office, because even Igor couldn't steal four Portal makers in a single day. Here.

  And some work tables.

  Groceries. Wine. Funnels. Because opportunities should never be missed.

  He studied maps, aerial photographs, and the "So you want to be a Portal Driver" handbook that showed him right where he needed to go in all four facilities. If all he wanted to do was drive through the portal.

  "It'll be easy to get in . . . but once I've taken the portal down . . . it's going to be interesting getting out with a handicapped guy over my shoulder."

  He frowned over at the truck. So perfect for some things, but . . .

  What the hell. He bought a dark grey sporty sedan. With a lot of zip—gasoline powered, like more than half the vehicles on these inner Worlds. Held the road well. Excellent getaway vehicle, once he’d gotten into the electronics and set some switches so he could turn off the location beacon, and the "anti-theft" remote turn off.

  And then there's the other thing . . . He drummed his fingers in irritation. This isn't the diplomats’ fault.

  He drove to a busy parking lot and pulled out the big clunky phone the techs had built for his first visit. Looked at it.

  No. They're politicians, heart and soul. Maybe later.

  He cruised the loop highway that passed all four portal centers. Made note of the times the portals were active. It took multiple passes, all day and all night.

  The first portal started at noon and stopped at midnight—the third portal ran opposite it.

  The second portal ran from six in the evening straight through to ten the next morning.

  The fourth portal ran from two in the afternoon overnight until six in the morning.

  To let the portalmakers sleep. And no doubt have nightmares, poor sods. I suspect two and four are the young portalmakers who can handle sixteen hour shifts. And the old ones can only handle twelve hours, and get twelve to recuperate.

  The third day, he cruised past to confirm the schedule, then he had an early dinner on the way back to the warehouse for his gear.

  The active camouflage suit got him in easily enough. And once in, he backtracked workers and grabbed generic overalls, and stuffed them in his backpack for future use. He ghosted along with the camo trying to look like the plastered wall, and followed workers up to but not through the security gate.

  He slid into the shadows, and climbed the door trim of the tall truck entrance. A hard illusion to swing around inside, above most people's gaze. and reach up for a girder and he was above all the lights, and could prowl at will. A peek through the portal . . . no place recognizable. Not much security on the far side.

  Must be one of their conquests.

  He prowled to one side . . . no, not the portalmaker room. The other side . . . Yeah, that thin stream of pain and effort. Exhausted, weak. No surface thoughts.

  One of the older portalmakers.

  No doors out to the portal room and truck entrance.

  The room had a solid ceiling, pierced only by wires and airducts. He stretched out on a girder. Cut a little hole in the duct and ran a minicam down to the vent and far enough out to get a good look. Not quite the standard setup, the coffin half built into the control panel. Just a slanted bin lid to access the portalmaker.

  Awkward, but not too difficult.

  One door, out of the wall away from the portal . . .

  Great, I can just see me staggering through hallways, a slimy, naked man over my shoulder, hunting for a door to the outside . . . Guess I'd better get back outside, see where the doors are. Unless the others are worse, this will be the last one I raid. I'll need to hit them fast, and get the last one out before the first one's rest period is over and they raise the alarm.

  Dammit.

  It's not going to be possible.

  The constant rumble of the trucks died away. He pulled his minicam back out and shifted to see . . . Ah. They're done with out-going and now the in-coming traffic starts.

  He slipped back out the big truck door and walked around the building . . . not liking the door placement. Don't they have fire marshals to insist on emergency exits all over the place?

  He slid quietly off the grounds and around to where he'd left the car.

  Then headed back to the warehouse, and argued with himself all the way.

  I'd rather kidnap them . . . but killing them may be the only option.

  He slept for a few hours until the rattle of the back door being raised alerted him to a problem.

  ***

  Men in dark clothing ducking under the door as it rose, flashlights . . .

  Axel reached and hit the light switch.

  The men froze, then clustered defensively, a few pistols coming up as they focused on him.

  "Oh good. I was afraid it was the police. Who are you . . . very young
men?"

  Ah, under eighteen so they aren't chipped. Six of them.

  The one in front, one of the three with a pistol, was looking wary. "Gib me alle your cash Karten, and du won't get hurt." Some sort of pidgin German-English mash up.

  Axel nodded. "You know, I don't believe in passing up opportunities that just fall into my lap. Let's talk business. You guys don't look terribly healthy, especially the one with the bandage around his hand."

  "Was? You denken sei waste medicine on Livestock? It don't matter who our Vater are, not that we know, but we got," He squeezed his hand closed on a glow of power, "das Talent, even so. Und they don't like that."

  "I see." Axel kept up a shield, even though the kids didn't look all that dangerous. He walked to the table and grabbed a glass and a bottle of wine. Twisted off the top and poured a half a glass. Pulled his med kit out of the truck and walked back to the table.

  "All right bandage boy, let's see your hand."

  The boy swallowed and edged out. The others followed. Curious, supportive, wary. They were eyeing the glass of wine suspiciously.

  And him even more suspiciously.

  He pulled out a pair of scissors. "I'm going to take the bandage off, so you can see what happens."

  The boy managed to pale even further. "Der doctor said they might as well konnten it off, I wasn't good for anything but a Cyborg anyway."

  This scrawny little thing?

  At least it was a professional wrap, and didn't stick, but the jagged cut in his palm was oozing pus, and the red streaks had almost made it to his wrist.

  "Right. Now drink this."

  The kid took the glass cautiously and took a sip. Huffed a surprised breath, and took a deep swallow. A couple of breaths. "Gut painkiller." He startled and held out his hand. "Was ist los?" His voice rising in panic, as blood-tinged pus gushed out of the cut.