Analog SFF, September 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  However, most convincing detail required no added attention: After nearly two weeks’ shower-free life on road, personal ambiance had acquired sufficient authority to bolster illusion of travel-weary wanderer beyond any challenge.

  Finally, after applying smudge of dirt to forehead, another to back of hand, dragging fingernails firmly against hard ground to pack with dirt, headed back to “base” camp—but again, as with Stallion, and for same reason, came no closer than about half mile.

  Have brought journal up-to-date. Wrapped camouflage clothing, weapons, equipment in weatherproof plastic sheet. Shall tuck this volume in there, too.

  Fed Maggie, told her, “Watch,” and (without Austrian accent), “I'll be back.”

  Thereafter, plan calls for walking back to car, firing up, and driving openly, unarmed, right into Serdtsevina Rasovyi....

  * * * *

  INTERLUDE

  Archivist's Note(b)

  Up to this point, these chronicles have been transcribed directly from Candy's daily journal entries. Hereafter, however, this record has been assembled by merging her far less frequent, personally written, after-the-fact entries with other participants’ contributions, as well as the stream-of-consciousness account that she transmitted in real time via her mental link with Terry.

  By far, most of the labor of taking down the bird's almost incessant chatter was performed by Lisa Mellon. Relieved by her mother and others only long enough to catch a few hours’ sleep, even eating on duty most of the time, the child spent virtually every waking moment with Terry, pen and steno tablet in hand, making a verbatim record of Candy's thoughts in real time, as events developed.

  Apart from combining the various accounts, the bulk of my editorial participation as Candy's chronicler during this segment has been limited to transmuting the present-tense text, which emerged from the Candy-Terry-Lisa link, to the more conventionally comfortable past-tense format.

  * * * *

  Volume VII

  Parlor, Fly, Spider...

  Opportunities to update journal likely to be few, far between during this phase of operation, Posterity. Going to have to rely upon Terrylink; hope someone back home making notes of birdbrain's rambling adequate to fill in blanks later1.

  Because obviously dasn't carry journal with me—not even James Bond, at peak of Roger Moore-tenure cluelessness, would go undercover with detailed account of actions-to-date, future plans, carried physically on person.

  True, Pitman nearly as archaic, arcane as classical written Latin. However, if Loki's sense of humor should manifest in form of Khraniteli capable of deciphering your Humble Historiographer's unique version of pothook shorthand (in English?), sure would put crimp in strategy.

  Oh, well, if not, assuming I live through this, can always reconstruct events from memory; then merge personal record with whatever AAs have preserved from Terry's stream-of-consciousness blathering. After all, not as if haven't possessed near-eidetic recall practically from birth.

  At least I think I have.

  I forget....

  * * * *

  Drive took barely long enough to lash self into heartstring-yanking rendition of pitiful-little-match-girl, oh-so-happy-finally-to-find-someone-else-alive! level of hysteria. Initially, tears began to flow almost too easily, raising worries about peaking too soon, particularly since encountered no one to play to between settlement fringes, laboratory.

  However, as rounded last corner prior to lab, played final method-actor card: Quite deliberately dredged up, dwelled upon, wrenching image of Lassie Come-Home's return through village after months-long cross-country trek to meet Her Boy at three o'clock as left school at movie's end: staggering, limping, all but collapsing, driven onward by almost inconceivable depths of unconditional canine love, loyalty...

  Image ensured rivers of tears flowing as, shortly after noon, slammed on brakes, skidded Mulletov to stop yards from security post. Streaming tears, stared wide-eyed out open window at guards. Deliberately released clutch, lurching vehicle clumsily as engine killed.

  Flung door open, burst from car, squeaking inarticulately. Sprinted across intervening neglected lawn, hurled self into nearest Russian's arms, sobbing, “I can't believe it! I thought everybody else was dead!"

  My targeted Khranitel glanced around at comrades with slightly embarrassed air, patted me awkwardly on back, said something incomprehensibly Russian in borderline-kindly tones.

  Pulled back slightly to look up into mark's eyes. “Oh, darn,” I blubbered; “you don't speak English, do you. And I don't speak Russian.”

  "English ... ?” inquired cold voice from lab doorway behind “my” Russian—who almost physically leaped clear of me, so quickly did he remove comforting arm from shoulders, step back. Then turned, delivered brief, uncomfortable-sounding burst of Russian; saluted, positively quick-stepped back to post.

  "I speak English,” said new arrival, eyeing me coldly down nose.

  Took every ounce of control I possessed, Posterity, not to blow cover; to remain in character as almost deliriously relieved/overjoyed, unlost-after-all-this-time, unquestioningly trusting waif. Because, based on AAs’ intelligence report, Tasha's pithy description, new acquaintance emerging from doorway could be none other than Vladislav Kazimirov—Hitlerian cult-leader-analog responsible for formation of Khraniteli, primary architect of Grand Plan, plus most of their strategy, tactics.

  In short, single individual most responsible for butchering more than 7 billion souls.

  Clearly belonged on list with Driutsk. By rights, on line above...

  Monster eyed me disapprovingly. “I am Kazimirov. I am in charge. You will answer my questions or you will be punished severely. Where did you come from?”

  * * * *

  “Always remember who you are," Danya cautioned repeatedly, when discussing finer points of undercover work. “Keep your false identity's persona and history in mind at all times. However, never try to lead your interrogator to the facts you wish him to learn; a pro is almost certain to notice. Instead, let him coax it out of you at his own pace.

  “But,” she added with one of those rare, quick, genuine grins, “don't be too quick to understand. If you're not bright enough to comprehend what they're asking, simplifying the questions down to your level will make them feel all superior. Superior people"—eyes twinkled—"are sure they can tell when they're being lied to....”

  * * * *

  Responded with shy smile: “I'm Elizabeth Borden. You can call me Lizzy.”

  All right, yes, I know, I know—foolish impulse; but odds Russian might comprehend joke far outweighed by satisfaction contained in subliminal threat's delivery.

  (Yes, Danni warned me about that, too.)

  “I did not ask your name,” Kazimirov snapped rudely; “I asked you where you came from."

  “A big factory farm,” responded helpfully, with only slightly puzzled distress at hostility.

  Kazimirov's brow darkened further. "Where ... ?”

  “It's in Plas-Plastinov-Plastinovskaya,” I stuttered, allowing growing dismay to show, “in Ipolitoff, just north of the Caucasus mountains. Mr. Ivanov gave my family a whole suite in the workers’ dormitory there on the farm.”

  (Lawsey, lawsey ... Ivanov's suite in Ipolitoff, near Caucasians?—Ipolitoff-Ivanov's Caucasian Suite, of course. But just knew Kazimirov not classical music buff. Okay, yes, still playing with fire; yes, still dumb—but simply couldn't help self; pulling supercilious dragon's whiskers was like drug!)

  “Why were you in Plastinovskaya?”

  Radiating round-eyed, earnest helpfulness: “We were visiting Russia.”

  Khraniteli leader's breath departed with sound like big truck's air brakes. Tone acquired distinct menace. “Why were you in Plastinovskaya?”

  Still helpfully, but a bit worried; dialing in slightly protesty tone: “It was part of our tour.”

  “What was the purpose of the tour? Why were you staying on a factory farm in—wait.” Paused. Head genoc
ide eyed captive sternly. Could see wheels turn as tried to figure out how to dumb down question sufficiently. “Before you were in Russia, where did you come from?”

  Expression cleared—at last, question little Lizzy could answer: “Germany.”

  “So you are German?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “What were you doing in Germany?”

  “It was part of our tour.”

  Slightest touch of pink brightened Kazimirov's cheeks. Entrance security detail personnel found occasion to focus attention elsewhere. “Why did your family go there?—And do not tell me it was on the tour.”

  Hesitated, eyed monster with confusion, distress bordering upon renewed tears. “But it was."

  Russian regarded Plucky Secret-Agent Girl with undisguised contempt, but paused for further thought before trying again: “Before the tour started, where were you living?”

  Added slight nervous stutter for artistic effect: “Wau-Wausip-p-p-pi.”

  "What ... ?”

  Repeated answer with very most earnest demeanor, obviously doing best to clear up pronunciation.

  “Where is this Wausippi?”

  “Waushara County.”

  Kazimirov shook head as if trying to dislodge gnat. Could see wheels turning: How could anyone be that provincial! For slow provincial's benefit, in slightly less threatening tones, clarified, “What country is Waushara County in?”

  “America.”

  "Hah. I thought I heard the contamination of that vile American accent in your English. Never mind, never mind; what was your family's interest in the factory farm?”

  “We were part of a farmers’ tour. We were exchanging farming techniques and advanced ag-agri-agricultural t-technology.”

  “Where is your family now?”

  Made silent fish mouths, as if trying to speak. Allowed tears to resurge in earnest, broke into silent sobs; finally gasped, “R-right after we g-got th-there, my family, Mr. Ivanov's fa-fam—eh-eh-everybody got all sick and they died ... !”

  Abruptly Kazimirov looked pleased. “But you didn't die...”

  “N-n-no, sir,” I blubbered, mopping eyes with filthy sleeve, while admiring Russian's mastery of obvious.

  "You did not get sick,” he repeated thoughtfully. Then snapped grimly, “Have you ever been sick? Have you ever had colds, the flu, measles, tonsillitis?”

  Shook head; concentrated on keeping expression textbook study in silent, puzzled, tear-streaming misery.

  By now Russian looked positively delighted, in own ominous fashion. Turned then to strange-looking specimen just emerging from lab entrance behind him. “Driutsk, here's another one for your collection. Put her in with them. The doctor can test her tomorrow.”

  * * * *

  Heart sang, but strove to control features, as “The doctor can test her tomorrow” echoed, reechoed in head: doctor!—doctor!—DOCTOR!—tomorrow would be reunited with Daddy! On top of controlling features, maintaining grieving appearance, suppressing reaction to prospect of seeing Daddy, was running pretty close to multitasking limit—

  Until Driutsk stepped forward, eyed me up, down, sideways; gently took hand, started leading me off.

  Abruptly, then, attention snapped to, refocused exclusively on, escort. Had been so excited at infiltration strategy's success, Driutsk's presence—who, what he was—failed at first to register.

  Returning recollection, realization, brought instant chill, sobriety. Almost forgot necessity to dial down tragic affect progressively.

  Glanced at captor through residual tears. Noted was studying me in turn, with entirely too much interest: Wet, almost runny, unnaturally bright, fast-blinking, pale eyes lingered here, there, every—

  No. Mostly just here, there.

  (At least to degree here, there actually discernable on someone my age...)

  At no time, Posterity, has partying with Driutsk, or anyone else for that matter, ever been first-choice element of Daddy-rescuing strategy. Never have felt so uncomfortable in presence of any man—not even Rollo, whose intentions, though unambiguous, were at least arguably honorable. (To degree would-be wife-beating sociopath comprehends honor.)

  Risked another glance at Driutsk. Strangely constructed little man. And “little” appropriate adjective: really short for adult male; no more than half head taller than self.

  Overall, features disturbing: small, round, utterly bald head (lacking even eyebrows) mounted, apparently without benefit of neck, directly on steeply sloping shoulders; almost nonexistent, piggish nose with slitlike nostrils; aforementioned pale, fast-blinking eyes; big, slack lips; no chin to speak of.

  Realized, upon reflection, Driutsk bore eerily close resemblance to Addams Family's Uncle Fester—original New Yorker magazine version (Adam has entire NY cartoon collection on CDs), not TV series or movies.

  Still, intel is intel. In hopes of ascertaining hint of degenerate's schedule, agenda, preferably in time to avoid them, tried to get him talking. Began hesitantly, “Do you speak English?”

  “I speak seven languages,” Russian answered smugly. “I am a much decorated soldier and an accomplished electromechanical engineer. I have killed many, many of our enemies, and our leader depends upon me to solve many, many technical problems. I have served our cause in many, many ways, with great distinction.”

  Well, so much for trying to get repulsive little slug talking. But abruptly, despite situation's patently skin-crawly aspects, found self having to fight down impulse to laugh: Like nerdiest, least appealing boy in school trying clumsily to overawe new girl on whom Has Designs, Driutsk clearly trying to impress me.

  Suppressed shudder. Based on Tasha's summary of Katia's situation, would have thought was too old for him. Apparently refugee disguise's twin-ponytail “angel-wings” hairdo had achieved too much success in “rolling back years.”

  Yay.

  * * * *

  Regrettably, at least from Driutsk's perspective, conflicting duties, no doubt based on “many, many” talents, apparently required presence elsewhere that evening, eliminating opportunity to follow through with flirtation. (Oh, darn.)

  However, during approximately mile-long promenade through settlement, from laboratory to prison camp, little troll worked hard at being charming. This involved stilted version of sightseeing guide's patter: pointing out, describing functions of various significant buildings, recounting Khranitelis' plans for world, accomplishments thus far (though skipped lightly past that whole genocide thing). Plus guiding captive, by means of “many, many” touches from soft, pallid, flutteringly busy, helpful little hands.

  Actually, though little degenerate certainly blurred line, never quite crossed from annoying to overtly offensive contact during walk. Got impression was fishing to see whether “importance” within Khraniteli ranks, coupled with friendliness, might encourage new girl to show interest, meet him partway (perhaps before other kids could warn her what a thundering, creepy dweeb he was). If so, must have found me disappointingly obtuse: Never noticed roaming hands; comprehended what was up to.

  Still, as departed, Driutsk intimated would see me later—underscoring point, intentions, by actually wiggling single hairless brow suggestively.

  Disinterested prison camp guards reluctantly broke away from picnic table, cycled new capture unceremoniously through sally port's double gates. Didn't even bother patting down inductee first, never mind conducting actual weapons/contraband search. Apparently eagerness to return full attention to food, drink (or vice versa; clearly each individual possessed own view of how God intended him to celebrate evening) overrode minor considerations such as institutional security.

  Once inside, briefly maintained cover identity behavior: Stood looking mournfully out through fence long enough to impress any observer with fact new prisoner found situation distressing. Then, with big, theatrical sigh, slowly turned around—

  To find Tasha leaning against nearest dorm wall, surrounded by rest of kids, regarding me with cryptic expression. After moment,
girl pushed away from wall, strolled up, draped arm around shoulders, led away. In process, mouth grazed past ear and, without moving lips, she breathed, “Having violet special lamp selling on bolts cutter....”

  * * * *

  Already high regard for Tasha rose further still when, before we exchanged first words beyond original, barely audible wisecrack, girl gathered balance of kids around us; had them begin singing traditional Russian children's/grownups’ folk songs as we strolled around enclosure's open areas, apparently by purest coincidence never coming close to light/utility poles, structures generally, as swapped gossip, bringing each other up-to-date on developments.

  Singing? Could not resist asking.

  Amazingly, despite complete lack of spook training, formal or in-, Tasha had figured out, all by self, Khraniteli might have hidden microphones around compound. Had kids perform inconspicuous, inch-by-inch scan. Ultimately located over dozen bugs concealed in yard, determined were monitored by guards in sally port guard shack; then came up with low-tech, white-noise solution to conduct unmonitorable conversation in case had missed some.

  Likewise had turned up microphones in dorms. Curiously, only tiny, one-per-dorm, unisex restrooms unbugged. Apparently, with only one commode, tiny sink, no shower, never crossed Khraniteli's minds that non-hygiene-related business might be transacted within. Which of course explained girl's invitation to confer there previous night.

  At every turn, Tasha's foresight, perceptiveness, inventiveness, sheer native intelligence leave me more in awe. No kidding, Posterity; Danni simply going to love her.

  “Caughted by accident not, yes?” she said in mock-prosecutorial tones, once amateur antieavesdropping chorus had reached full volume.

  “No; I checked out the area. There's no inconspicuous way to get into the laboratory to find out where they're holding Daddy. I finally decided that the simplest way in is—”