What if he grabbed a syringe and injected air into Stalin or Bledsoe? Would that cause the Omega Mesh to trigger a timeline reset? Probably. And could Winston even commit murder like that? He doubted it. That was not how his mom had raised him. It wasn’t the man his father had died wanting him to be. Winston could too easily imagine the look of disappointment in Alyssa’s eyes.
The doctor screwed the needle into the syringe and motioned for Bledsoe to come closer. Bledsoe set the Alpha Machine on Stalin’s desk next to his Chinese writing set and rolled up his left sleeve. The grin faded on his lips but never fully left. As the doctor slid the needle into the vein inside Bledsoe’s elbow, Bledsoe glanced back at Winston and gave him a quick wink.
Just a twitch. A little nudge of the last blade into Winston’s heart.
That same callous arrogance he had shown when pinching off a piece of his father’s brain.
A storm built inside Winston, threatening to rip him apart, and he was powerless to channel it. The world was ending right before him, and he couldn’t move. Everyone, everything, every moment he had ever known would end as soon as Bledsoe’s QVs entered Stalin’s bloodstream.
The doctor gradually eased back the syringe plunger, filling the tube with dark blood.
Winston couldn’t talk reason to the dictator. He would never listen to a child, and Bledsoe would override anything he said. He couldn’t attack physically. He had nothing to leverage, nothing Stalin wanted, and Bledsoe had no weaknesses Winston could exploit.
Winston found himself staring at the mostly empty water glass. The poor doctor had feared for his life, but he’d had no choice. Did Stalin have his family locked up somewhere? Was he facing torture and death if he hesitated? And for what? Because he was Jewish?
That was so irrational and unfair. What kind of delusional whackjob locks up doctors because of their—?
The doctor withdrew the needle from Bledsoe arm, satisfied that he had a large enough sample.
“You’re really good at that,” Winston said to the doctor.
Everyone looked at Winston, confused at such an odd comment.
“Ah, thank you,” said the doctor.
He held the syringe vertically and tapped at its side, forcing any air in the tube up to the top. He depressed the plunger just far enough to push out the air and force a couple of drops of blood down the needle, which he wiped away with a clean cloth from his bag.
“Are you that good because you’re Jewish?” Winston asked.
The doctor’s expression turned wary. A cold warning crept into Bledsoe’s face.
Winston heard his tinnitus bloom for only a second, and then Bledsoe’s voice was in his head.
Winston ignored him.
“No,” said the doctor, who was clearly trying not to look at Stalin. “My religion has nothing to do with my experience as a medical professional.”
“Oh,” said Winston.
Bledsoe stepped to the foot of Stalin’s bed, motioning for the doctor to proceed with the injection.
The doctor moved to Stalin’s side.
“I like Jews,” said Winston absently, as if musing to himself.
The doctor and Stalin both regarded Winston as if he’d lost his mind. Who would dream of praising Jews in front of an anti-Semitic dictator?
Craving a distraction from the awkward silence, the doctor held out a hand for Stalin’s arm and said, “Great Leader, may I?”
Stalin assessed the doctor from under his bushy eyebrows and held up his index finger in his lap, indicating that the doctor should wait. He squinted at Winston.
“You associate with Jews?” Stalin asked.
Winston shrugged. “Sure. We do all the time. Even my girlfriend is a Jew.”
A small part of Winston registered the absurdity of the moment. It was the first time he had verbally acknowledged Alyssa as his girlfriend, and he had said it to one of the worst tyrants in world history. He remembered that impossibly distant morning when his father, then known as Mr. A, had encouraged him to pursue Alyssa and felt the recollection warm his heart.
Bledsoe hissed in his mind.
Stalin used the same index finger to point at Bledsoe. “What about him?”
Winston intentionally misunderstood. “My dad? He likes my girlfriend, too. He even encouraged me to go after her.”
All factually true, thought Winston.
“I—” stammered Bledsoe. “I am not this boy’s father!”
Winston blinked and recoiled, feigning shock and offense.
Stalin scowled. “Yet he shares your blood. Why else would you bring a boy who was not your child?”
Bledsoe’s mouth opened, eyes bulging, as rage threatened to derail his plans.
Winston pulled a frown and gazed sullenly at the floor. “I don’t know what to say. What other father do I have?”
Winston looked up at Bledsoe with the saddest puppy dog eyes he dared.
Then Bledsoe made his final mistake. He turned back to Stalin before he had his features under control, when the anger was still fresh on his face. Stalin didn’t need to know exactly why Bledsoe’s mood had changed so much at that moment. It only had to make him suspicious.
Leaning back, as if in thought, Stalin slid his hand under his pillow. It emerged a second later holding a long-barreled pistol, which he pointed squarely at Bledsoe. The engraved, silvered barrel and pearl grip gleamed. It was a beautiful piece, worthy of a cowboy.
“General secretary,” said Bledsoe, raising his arms wide in a show of innocence. “Great and brilliant leader of the Soviet Union. The boy is…” He groped for the word. “…insolent. Traitorous. I will deal with him. But please know that I am no friend to Jews.”
Bledsoe stiffened at the insult but made one last attempt. “I implore you, Premier Stalin. Your health. Without my help, you will die.”
“And maybe I will die with it.” He gave another pensive grunt. “I will bring in more doctors tomorrow. Not Jews. We will discuss this. Guard!”
Somehow, Stalin summoned the strength to make his call with loud, ringing clarity.
Bledsoe knew the tide had turned against him. He bared his teeth at Winston like a cornered animal. Winston gave him a wink.
The chamber door opened, and a uniformed man charged into the room, already drawing his sidearm.
Winston slowly raised his hands, showing he didn’t pose a threat.
Bledsoe extended a hand toward the artifacts, which still rested a few feet away on Stalin’s desk. The rings and the three pieces suspended within them trembled, scraped across the glass desktop a few inches, and then sprang across the gap and into Bledsoe’s hand.
Blue energy crackled around the artifacts.
Just as the thought formed in Winston’s mind to do something, maybe dive for the man and go for a Shade Tagaloa quarterback sack — because that always worked so well — Stalin’s gun erupted.
The blast was sharp and deafening in the wood-paneled chamber. The bullet slammed into Bledsoe’s left shoulder, nearly knocking him from his feet and sending the Alpha Machine flying. The device rolled along the floor, artifacts spinning inside it like some strange children’s gyroscope toy, and Winston saw his chance. Bledsoe clutched at the wound and stumbled.
Careful to keep his hands at his sides, Winston bent his will toward the Alpha Machine, pulling it to himself. Not a lot. Not enough to make it lift into the air. Just enough to influence the direction of its roll.
Catching his balance, Bledsoe spotted the Alpha Machine’s departure. His eyes flicked to Winston, and his outrage cut through whatever pain he felt from the gunshot. He extended his bloody right hand toward the Alpha Machine, which came to an immediate halt as Bledsoe sought to call it back to himself.
Winston felt the man’s pull against his own. Win
ston tried harder. His jaws clenched and his eyes narrowed as he exerted more effort, but Bledsoe matched him. The man’s breathing came in deep gasps. His lips exposed bared teeth. He refused to give up, and the Alpha Machine trembled on the floor between them.
Winston recalled finding the first piece in the bank vault and reading the note, that first revelation that he had a father and then seeing who that father was. Mr. A had been his friend for a year. He’d had a father in his life all those months and never known it.
He remembered cutting free the second piece in the Shanghai tunnels and sacrificing it to go after Shade.
With Theo’s help, he had freed the third piece from its Japanese bomb, and Theo had ultimately paid for their friendship with his life.
The fourth piece, handed to him by his young, vibrant father. And then, only hours later for Winston, he’d watched his father die at Bledsoe’s hands, ancient and broken, in the Tillamook blimp hangar.
And now the fifth piece, which Winston had fetched with the full intent to make it his last living action.
No one had ever paid a higher price for this Alpha Machine. He had earned what was his, and not even the Omega Mesh would convince him otherwise.
And as if flipping a lever, Winston diverted all of his mental energy from the Alpha Machine to the QVs in Bledsoe’s body.
The Alpha Machine jerked toward Bledsoe as he finally had uncontested control, but then it lapsed into idle wobbling again, like a rolling coin on the verge of falling over.
Winston pictured the scene on the Hanford catwalk, clearly seeing Alyssa on the verge of attacking Bledsoe. Bernie had frozen her, just as, for an instant, he had stopped Winston from rushing into the Area X metal shop to save his parents.
How had Bernie done that? It had to be QVs. They were networked, whether directly or through the Omega Mesh. Bernie hadn’t shown the ability to control others, like a puppeteer, but he could pause them through some sort of temporary paralysis. That made sense. It was a smart feature to implement if you had a connected race of beings learning to control their emotions. Would Bledsoe have that capability, or was it only for true aliens like Bernie? Winston was willing to bet that being half-alien would do.
He reached into Bledsoe, wrapped his mind around the man’s QVs, and visualized encasing him in glass, just like the photo still in his pocket, locking him in place.
Bledsoe froze.
The man’s fury was a tangible force that pressed into Winston through their connection.
Winston stepped slowly forward, bending down, and picked up the Alpha Machine apologetically, as if embarrassed on Bledsoe’s behalf. “Here, let me clean this up.” He backed away to his former position, posing no threat to the dictator.
With one hand on his desk for stability, Stalin shakily rose to his feet, careful to keep his gun leveled at Bledsoe. As the guard stood at the foot of the bed, trying to assess the threats, Stalin gave a mirthless chuckle.
“What now, American? You cannot even face me? Where are your flattering words?”
Stalin waited for a reply, but Bledsoe showed his complete disdain by not so much as turning his head to meet the premier’s gaze. He only stared at Winston, who met Bledsoe’s enraged eyes with confusion and a slight lift of one eyebrow that expressed, What? You’re not going to answer him?
The gesture was not lost on Stalin, who grunted his irritation and said, “Guard, remove him.”
As soon as the guard had both hands on Bledsoe, Winston released him.
37
Recording Revisited
“No!” bellowed Bledsoe through gritted teeth as he regained control of his body. “You’re making a mistake!”
“Comrade,” said a voice from the doorway, “the Great Leader does not make mistakes.”
The newcomer flicked on the light switch by the door. The room flooded with illumination from the overhead chandelier, making Winston squint. He tried to make out details about the new man, who was dark skinned and bald. He wore loose navy pants and a green officer’s jacket with a broad leather belt. Red trim adorned the collar and epaulets.
Something struck Winston as familiar about the man, but it wasn’t until he strode into the room and passed Winston that realization struck him in a flash.
Holy Potter, thought Winston. It’s Command One.
Recognition spread across Bledsoe’s face a moment later.
“You,” he breathed. “What is Management doing here?”
Command One paused before Bledsoe, giving him a once-over before turning his attention to Stalin.
“Great General,” he said with calm control. “Are you harmed?”
Seeing that the guard had Bledsoe, wincing and gasping from his wound, covered, Stalin finally lowered his pistol. “No. Only a stomach sickness. I will be fine. Do you know this man?”
“He’s—” Bledsoe likely realized how absurd the name Command One would sound. “Jerod. Jevon. Janek! He’s with the organization that hired me.”
Stalin suppressed a chuckle. Major General Mikhailov has served me since the Great Famine twenty years ago, after he defected from the West. I cannot count the number of times he has saved my life.”
Command One gave Bledsoe an icy, dismissive glance. “Perhaps you met one of my brothers. I have seven, although one is deceased.”
The general reached for the syringe, and the doctor placed it carefully in his hand. As he watched Bledsoe, Stalin said, “This man has considerable knowledge of our nuclear weapons activities, and he says he knows what will happen in the future.”
Command One brushed off the assertion with a sigh. “There are spies and charlatans everywhere. You know this.”
“True, Comrade.” Stalin paused and then added. “He said his blood would cure my sickness and give me strange abilities.”
Command One lifted an eyebrow, showing skepticism and dismissal. “That seems…unlikely.”
Stalin chuckled and shook his head slowly, as if waking from an odd dream. “He was persuasive. But!” He waved his gun toward Bledsoe. “What do you suggest we do with him? He and his boy did break into my room somehow, despite your security.”
Command One bowed his head. “I regret that very much, Great Leader, and am anxious to get to the bottom of how it happened.”
He met the dictator’s eyes, but there was something in his stance — the tilt to his head, the way he blinked as if taking in surprising information — that struck Winston as odd. He had seen that body language before.
“Perhaps,” the general said with careful consideration, “we should detain this man and explore his knowledge and claims.”
“Wait,” Bledsoe objected. He tried to step aside, but the guard pressed his muzzle into Bledsoe’s back. “There’s no detaining necessary. I can prove everything right now.”
Command One shifted to his left, blocking Winston’s view of Stalin. The general clasped his hands behind his back. He extended two fingers and flicked them upward twice — an unmistakable gesture clearly meant for Winston.
He didn’t have to be told twice. Winston slowly and silently levitated the Alpha Machine only an inch or so above his hands. He felt the pieces bond with his mind as the pressure in the back of his head increased. He spread his hands apart, allowing the pieces to spin freely. He knew he wouldn’t have much time.
“I am not saying there are not elements of truth to his claims,” said Command One, “only that we should approach them with prudence.”
Stalin seemed disappointed that there would be no immediate execution.
“No,” said Bledsoe. “Hell, no!”
“Would he react so if he had nothing to hide?” asked Command On
e. “And really? Curing sickness by giving you his blood?”
“We can detain him for questioning,” said Stalin. “Much questioning. He may be a spy or an assassin.”
“Yes,” said Command One. “I have the perfect facility and the perfect people. In Siberia.”
“I’m not going to Siberia!” yelled Bledsoe. “And this boy—”
He worked to spin about in the guard’s grip to face Winston, but it was too late. White and blue sparks cascaded from above Winston’s head, bouncing and sputtering out on Stalin’s beautiful hardwood floor.
Winston had the time and location selected. He wished he had the help of Little e, because even though Bernie had recharged him somewhat, he still felt deeply tired.
“He’s escaping!” roared Bledsoe. “Somebody grab him!”
Command One backhanded Bledsoe across the face and sent him sprawling into Stalin’s black pigskin couch. That was enough to distract the guard for the two seconds Winston needed.
The tori flipped and spun within the rings, beneath which the fifth piece rotated round and round. Winston compressed his energy and command into the Alpha Machine as he visualized pressing the navigation controls.
As the Russians stared at him in amazement, and with Bledsoe’s howl of loss and defeat filling the air, Winston vanished.
***
The first indication Winston had that he wasn’t back at Hanford, ready to do whatever was needed to rescue his friends and family, was that the catwalk over the spent fuel pool looked like Bifröst, the glassy, rainbow-hued bridge connecting Asgard and Earth in Thor. The balconies and decks that lined the gigantic storage facility appeared to be made of sparkling crystal, making them resemble suspended Christmas ornaments. What had been a yellow crane spanning the width of the pool was now a series of thin steel rods from which dangled a gigantic, curved, three-pronged claw, in which was stuffed a plush brown teddy bear exactly like the one Winston had cherished in kindergarten. The green-and-blue pool, rather than being filled with radioactive waste canisters, was now lined with complex patterns of gaming PC fans lit with various LED colors. Its edges were also lined with sauna jets. Of course.
Winston Chase and the Omega Mesh Page 32
