by Robyn Bachar
“There’s our girl,” he said. “I will see what we can do. But for now, if you are strong enough, I have a task for you.”
“Oh?” So soon? They couldn’t possibly be sending her out on another mission already.
“Something simple.” He rose and offered her his arm, though she knew there wasn’t a gentlemanly bone in his body. Curious, she took his arm and allowed herself to be led from the medical center.
Xiaoling frowned as she belatedly noticed that the room had been empty except for them. When was the last time she saw an empty med center? Before the rebellion, certainly. Where were the other agents? The staff?
She stopped and pulled free. “Eight years? Did we put down the insurrection?”
A crack formed in Agent Petrov’s perfect calm. “No. The colonies broke away and formed a new government.”
Her jaw dropped—not only had she failed in her mission, but the Soviet Union had failed to regain its core colonies. “How many?”
“Twenty-three.”
Xiaoling staggered and grabbed the wall for support as the world seemed to tilt and spin around her. Twenty-three colonies? That was madness.
Agent Petrov slipped an arm around her waist and started her moving again. “For now. We had a contingency plan should such a thing occur. We are close to launching an initiative that will allow us to regain those colonies and secure new ones as well.”
Xiaoling nodded—cautiously, for her aching head still tingled with a strange static sensation. The edges of her vision blurred, and black spots danced in her periphery, as though she was about to faint. She took a deep breath and focused on the act of putting one foot in front of the other. She would see what Petrov wanted, and then she would return to the med center and speak with a doctor about these strange side effects. Petrov probably had paperwork for her—he had always been a by-the-book sort, in love with proper procedure.
He led her through several corridors, and she found comfort in the familiarity of the surroundings. Many things might have changed over the past few years, but Soviet décor always persisted. The same serious faces scowled at them from the framed portraits lining the walls. They turned down another hallway, and she stopped to stare at the memorial wall. The KGB’s official wall of fallen agents was kept in Moscow on Earth, but each colonial facility had a copy. Xiaoling reached out with trembling fingers and touched her name, carved into the concrete like a tombstone.
“There are so many,” she murmured. Names stretched before and after her own, a litany of agents who had given the ultimate sacrifice for the Party.
You die in battle in enemy territory and you’re lucky if they bother to ID your body.
Xiaoling looked for the speaker but only found Agent Petrov watching her with solemn eyes. With another deep breath she straightened, and then took his arm again.
She knew something was off when he turned away from the personnel offices and led her to a lift, then down to the interrogation cells. Her pulse leaped—was he debriefing her? She had no idea what she had done while her cover was active. There was nothing that she could tell him.
Agent Petrov keyed open a door and Xiaoling resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose at the stench that rolled into the hallway. He waved her inside with a dramatic bow, and she wondered what had gotten into him. Theatrics had never been his style.
She stepped into the interrogation room and assessed the subject’s condition—poor, at best. Whoever he was, he had put up a hell of a fight. Blood-matted hair, one eye swollen shut, a split lip, and perhaps a missing tooth or two. His right arm had been amputated, but the wound had been long healed. Perhaps he lost it during the rebellion. Could he be a core colonist agent?
“Who is he?” she asked.
“A former Alliance marine,” Petrov said. The door closed behind them, sealing them into the room with the subject. “He had no useful intelligence. I want you to terminate him.”
She blinked as Petrov unholstered his sidearm and handed it to her. The grip was heavy in her hand as she frowned. “You want me to terminate him? Why? You can’t do it yourself?”
“This is your task. I can make it an order, if you prefer. I do outrank you now.” He smiled, but it was a cold expression. Xiaoling didn’t doubt that Petrov outranked her, though she did continue to wonder what kept him from truly advancing.
“Very well.” She hefted the pistol, but her hands were shaking. Nerve damage? Or worse, brain damage?
The subject cracked open one bloodshot eye. “Jiang,” he groaned.
“Jiang?” She quirked a brow at Petrov, who shrugged.
“It’s me, boss,” the subject said.
You’re going to keep calling me boss, aren’t you?
Yes. My other option was to call you Mistress, but that seemed unprofessional.
The gun wavered as she tried to sight down the barrel. She lowered the weapon and turned to Petrov. “How did you acquire him? Did he know my cover?”
“Yes, which is why he needs to be terminated. He knows too much about the program, but he doesn’t have anything of value to give us.”
“Ah. I understand.”
“‘S okay,” the subject slurred. “Is my fault. Didn’t have your six.”
Xiaoling raised the pistol and took aim.
“Just wish we’d gotten to that date.”
You promised me dinner, dancing and a vid.
Yeah, but...
But?
But they haven’t repaired my prosthetic yet. Can’t execute a proper hold with only one arm.
I’m sure you only need one good arm to hold me.
The hissing in her ears exploded into the roar of a tidal wave crashing into shore. Ryder. He was Ryder Kalani, chief of security of the Mombasa. The Mombasa was her home—the only real home she’d ever known, and the crew was the only family she had. They loved her, and she loved them. Love. Lover. She and Ryder were lovers, or had been. Could still be if she hadn’t burned that bridge.
Two realities pulled at her. One was comprised of duty and a desire to serve, but it was a dull, colorless life, filled with suspicion instead of friends, colleagues instead of family. The other life was smaller in scope but filled with a sense of belonging. Of home.
Jiang. Lieutenant Jiang Chen, simple pilot. A woman wrapped up in mourning the loss of a life that had been a fiction, grieving for a husband and child who never existed.
Pathetic. She could do much better.
She fired.
Chapter Thirteen
Ryder shut his eyes and braced himself. He flinched at the sharp bang of gunfire, but nothing followed. No pain, no afterlife. What the fuck?
“You missed,” Valentin scolded. “Your aim has deteriorated.”
Two more shots, followed by a scream of pain. Ryder opened his eyes—or eye, considering one was still glued shut—and spotted Valentin on the floor, Jiang standing over him with her pistol aimed at his head.
“My aim is impeccable, thank you,” she said. “You have thirty seconds to explain the super weapon.”
“Compliance,” Ryder said. “He called it Project Compliance when he was asking me about it. With extreme prejudice.”
“Thank you, Chief. Well then, Agent Petrov, you will explain Project Compliance. Do it and I let you live. Hesitate and I empty this weapon into your head. No more restoration for you.”
“All right, all right!” Valentin held his hands up in surrender, but then lunged for her weapon. Jiang coolly shot him through the shoulder and he fell back again.
“Thirty seconds, Agent Petrov. Go.”
Valentin snarled. “They modified the implant. It controls what the subject sees, and how they react to it. The Party wanted a bloodless way to prevent another rebellion. We lost so much because of the rebellion—money, resources, territory. Not ju
st in losing the colonies, but in the effort to regain them.”
“Twenty seconds. The implant grants mind control?”
“Not control. Perception. We determine what they see. How they see it. It’s impossible to control a human mind the way they wanted. With the implant we don’t need to control what they think or force their actions. We ensure that everything they see will ensure their compliance.”
Disgusting, if it was true. Ryder still wasn’t sure how that qualified as a super weapon, but they’d worry about that after they got out of here. Provided they lived that long.
“It’s in the prototype stage? Ten seconds,” she said.
“Not for long. They’re preparing to mass produce it for implantation in colonists.”
“Bullshit. You can’t mass produce brain surgery.”
“We didn’t have to. We found a better delivery method. Simple, bloodless and undetectable.”
“How, Petrov?”
“I won’t tell. You’ll have to kill me. But you couldn’t do that after all we’ve been through, Xiaoling.”
“Wrong answer, Agent Petrov.”
The man opened his mouth to reply, but Jiang put three bullets into his skull.
“You said you’d let him live,” Ryder blurted.
“I lied. He was a liability.” She scowled down at her post-op attire and settled for stowing the pistol in the band of her pants. She rifled through Valentin’s pockets. “You don’t leave a wolf at your back.”
“You’re not going to shoot me, are you?”
“You’re not a wolf, Chief. You’re a big, cuddly Rottweiler. Besides, you can’t buy me dinner if you’re dead.”
Ryder grinned, even though the expression made his face ache, and was flooded with relief. “You’re still you.”
“Not quite.” Jiang rose and looked him over. “I guess you could say I’m all of the above. We’ll table this discussion for later. Right now you look a mess, and we need to patch you up.”
“Good. Untie me.”
“Not yet. It’ll be easier if you’re restrained when I dose you.” Jiang opened a cabinet and rummaged through its contents. “Damn, we should pocket some of this to sell at the Stryke Zone’s black market. We could buy you a dozen new prosthetics.”
That didn’t sound encouraging. “Dose me with what?”
“Shit that’ll cure what ails you. Interrogators have all kinds of equipment to revive a subject who tries to expire before the session is done.”
“Boss, you’re not exactly evoking confidence here.”
“You’ll be fine.” Jiang loaded an autoinjector with a cocktail of Soviet mystery drugs. “Deep breath.”
“Boss—” he began, and then she jammed the device against his neck. Fire raced through his veins and he screamed, loosing a flurry of expletives in three different languages. His heart pounded and his teeth ground, but then the fire receded and left a numbness in its wake.
“Better?” she asked.
“Not sure yet. Less pain.”
“Good.” She began undoing Ryder’s restraints. “Can you walk?”
“Just give the order, boss.” When the last restraint was gone Ryder eased into a sitting position. Everything hurt, but it was an improvement over his previous agony. “Torture sucks.”
“It’s meant to.” Her hands brushed over his body in an efficient check of his wounds, and his heart stumbled. Jiang stepped back, her head cocked to the side. “We won’t get far dressed like this.”
“Neither of us will fit into Valentin’s uniform.”
“True.” Her focus returned to him. “Look at you, you’re enormous. You’re the exact opposite of stealthy.”
He coughed a startled laugh, then winced as his ribs ached in protest. “That’s why they pay me the big money.”
“Oh shit, we’re getting paid for this? That alone is reason to defect. Right, then. There’s a janitorial closet next to the lift on this level. They might have coveralls here. Maybe we can find a tarp to throw over you.”
Ryder frowned—she spoke faster, and there was a change in her voice. Jiang’s tone was lower now, her voice huskier as though she lived on hard liquor and cigarettes, and she had a hint of an accent. No idea what kind of accent it was, but time was of the essence.
“Lead on,” he said.
Jiang keyed the door open and peered into the hallway. “Empty. Security monitors this area, but...” She trailed off as she darted to Valentin’s side and grabbed the watch on his wrist. “Shift change. Excellent. Gives us an edge.”
“About time something went our way.” Everything ached as he stood, but nothing major was broken. He’d make it, though he felt naked without a weapon—and his prosthetic. He was quite literally unarmed.
Jiang drew her stolen gun and they hurried down the hallway. Their footsteps seemed unnaturally loud in the silence, and Ryder’s entire body tensed in anticipation of an alarm. They reached the closet and it opened easily. Guess the Soviets weren’t worried about someone stealing cleaning supplies in a KGB facility. Jiang rummaged through shelves and supply cabinets, muttering in Mandarin. He quirked a brow—had she spoken that before? She spoke Cantonese with the captain when they wanted to get on Tomas’s nerves.
“There’s a sink there.” Jiang motioned to the far corner of the room. “Wash up.”
“You got it, boss.” Ryder hissed as he splashed water on his face. Shit. Tomas was going to have to put him back together again when they got home.
“Here.” Jiang handed him a coverall. “It’ll be short on you, but it’s the largest they’ve got. Not sure what to do about shoes for either of us. Looks like the employees wear their own boots.”
“What, the Party doesn’t supply their footwear? I’m shocked.”
Her brow rose. “Does the Alliance provide footwear for their custodial workers?”
“Probably not. Point taken. Shoeless escape it is. Do you know what they did with my gear?”
“Probably sent it off to be forensically analyzed. See if they can learn any actionable intelligence from the soles of your boots.”
“Seriously?”
“Nope. Binned it. Sorry.”
Ryder shrugged and shed his bloodied prisoner’s garb. Jiang stared and licked her lips as she admired the view, and Ryder waved a warning finger in her direction. “None of that now.”
“Just as long as I can have some of that later.” She grinned, and Ryder desperately tried to think distracting thoughts before he tented his stolen coveralls.
“Escape first, boss. Celebration later.”
“Nope. Escape second. Intel gathering first. Celebration last.”
Ryder wisely averted his eyes as she changed. He studied the cleaning supplies on the nearest shelf. “Potential for a smoke bomb here.”
“I thought so, too, but I was thinking more along the lines of a bomb bomb. Distract them with some real damage.”
“You can make a bomb out of this shit?”
She stepped into view, dusting off the seat of her coveralls. “Of course I can. That’s like spy school 101. Okay, mission parameters. We need to acquire weapons, access a data terminal, and get out fast. We can’t get to the shuttle. They would’ve impounded it as soon as we were picked up. This facility has its own hangar. We need to steal one of their ships.”
“And you can do that?” he asked.
Jiang sniffed. “Of course I can. What kind of agent do you think I am?”
“Beautiful. Brilliant. A goddess among men,” he said solemnly.
“Good answer. Here, I’ll show you how to use a few simple cleaning supplies to turn this room into a crater.”
Ryder grinned. “Now we’re talking.”
* * *
She hefted the pistol and paused before opening the d
oor, reaching for her calm center. Deep breath. But the calm refused to obey, likely due to the war of personalities going on in her head. It was damn hard to focus when the traumas of her past were trying to reconcile with the realities of her present. Who was she, anyway? Xiaoling Kwan, the ambitious intelligence agent so eager to prove herself that she signed up for experimental brain surgery? Or Jiang Chen, the reliable pilot of an Alliance privateer ship.
“Boss?”
She glanced back at Ryder, and her heart sank at the sight of his injuries. A weaker person would have died from the hell he’d doubtless been put through, but not Ryder Kalani. He was a force of nature, and he was watching her with complete trust.
“Fuck it,” she muttered.
“Huh?”
“Sorry, mood swings. Trying to sort everything out in my head, and it’s crowded in there.”
“Well tell the voices to shush while we’re on the clock.”
She snickered. “Thanks. Here’s the thing—I was never really Xiaoling.” She straightened her posture, as though she could physically shrug off her doubts. “I was a street urchin before the KGB picked me up and put me in the program. I didn’t have a name, not that I remembered, so they named me Xiaoling Kwan. But that was just another cover, you know?”
“No?”
“Don’t worry, Chief. I’ll tell you all about it later. All you need to know is that I’m sorry. This is where I want to be. With you. Us against the forces of evil, as far as this fight takes us.”
Ryder was silent for a moment, but then he leaned down for a quick—and bloody—kiss. “I’m here as long as you need me.”
Jiang wobbled, weak in the knees—the kiss was little more than a peck on the lips, but the simple gesture packed a powerful emotional punch. She loved him. Holy shit, she actually loved him. Talk about wrong place, wrong time, though it did bolster her resolve to see that they both got out alive. They needed to have a serious conversation.
