The Red Winter

by Henry H. Neff

  “That’s the Atropos buyer?” asked Max.

  “Indeed,” said Dr. Medved.

  The image scrambled once again. “Go back,” said Max.

  She did as he ordered, pausing the video at a moment of relative clarity. Leaning forward, Max stared hard at the screen. “Zoom in on him.”

  The Atropos buyer grew larger until his face filled the screen. The upper half was largely shadowed and there was intricate skinscrolling, but the smile was unmistakable. It remained unchanged from when Max had seen it as a Rowan First Year. It was composed and pitiless, the smirk of one who enjoyed inflicting or witnessing pain.

  “You know him,” said Scathach, looking closely at Max.

  “I think I do,” said Max. “His name is—or was—Alex Muñoz. He used to be a Rowan student. He tortured Connor Lynch and Ms. Richter when Astaroth conquered Rowan.”

  Hazel hurried over to peer at the screen, her eyes narrowing to angry slits. “If Alex serves the Atropos, he’s the reason William was possessed and sent hunting after you like a mad dog. I’m going to wring his neck.”

  “Get in line behind Connor,” said Max grimly. “Alex is why Connor left Rowan for Blys. I’m not surprised he joined the Atropos. The guild’s perfect for someone who enjoys frightening others and causing pain. I’ll bet Alex entered my name in their Grey Book himself.”

  “But how could he control the clones?” asked Scathach.

  Max had no answer until Dr. Medved continued the video. The remainder was garbled until the very end. Just before the clones were released from their bonds, Alex produced something from his robes and showed it to Alpha and Omega. A closer view revealed a golden object almost like a pocket watch.

  “Do you know what that is?” asked Dr. Medved. “We saw it but could not determine why the object would hold any special significance for the clones.”

  “That’s David’s compass,” said Max heavily. “The Atropos took it from Cooper when he was possessed. Its needle doesn’t point north. It always points toward me.”

  Agent Varga addressed Dr. Medved. “Did the clones already hate Max?”

  “Of course,” she replied. “He’s the Original. When clones learn they’re only a copy, it triggers a profound identity crisis that causes most to despise the Original.”

  “But lots of your people are clones,” said Max.

  “Yes,” said Dr. Medved. “But they’re not clones of a superior person who had his own identity and history and deeds. They’re simply a combination of desirable traits engineered in a lab. They don’t come from any one person.”

  “So that’s why they obey,” said Varga quietly. “The Atropos gave them an identity other than trying to be a copy of an Original. In addition, they gave them the tool and even a mandate to destroy the Original they’d come to hate.”

  Max did not know what to make of Varga’s theory. He did not even know what to make of the clones. He felt more pity than hatred. From the moment of their inception, Alpha and Omega had been slaves, experiments corrupted by twisted science. Someone had taken babies and turned them into monsters.

  “Turn it off,” said Max disgustedly. “I’ve seen enough.” He turned to Hazel. “How long has Cooper been gone?”

  “Twenty-seven minutes.”

  “Should it be taking this long?” Max asked Rasmussen.

  The man considered. “Who can say while things are in such a state? Agent Cooper may have encountered enemies or been forced to go on foot. Perhaps Dr. Whitner fled from him. He’s hardly a comforting sight.”

  “Can we get a visual on Dr. Whitner’s quarters?” asked Max.

  Hazel shook her head and gestured at the holographic model of the Workshop. It showed a blue three-dimensional pyramid divided into a slew of stories. Throughout the Workshop, substantial sections had been highlighted red where surveillance was disabled. “Dr. Whitner’s quarters are here,” she said, pointing to a sizable red section. “That entire area is a blackout.”

  “And no sign of Prusias,” said Dr. Rios. “No large congregations of malakhim. And over thirty percent of the surveillance feeds aren’t working.”

  “No,” the teacher sighed. “It’s hard to pinpoint possible locations when we can’t see. Almost a third of the map is dark.”

  Rasmussen sat up as though a thought had just occurred to him. “That’s true,” he said. “But we could cross-reference additional data to narrow the possibilities.”

  “What data?” said Hazel.

  “Dr. Tressel’s,” he replied. “All Workshop personnel wear badges that mark their position relative to broadcast beacons. We could take the last few months of her location data and project it against this map. It would show us where she was spending her time.”

  “How long will that take?” asked Hazel.

  “Five minutes,” said Juergen. “Maybe ten. I just have to write a special script.”

  “Get going,” said Hazel. “Meanwhile, let’s keep scanning. I want to know where my husband is.”

  There were over forty working screens in the control room. Each displayed a camera feed for ten seconds before switching to another. The camera’s location was indicated by serial numbers at the bottom of the screen. Max scanned the glowing screens, looking for Cooper and any evidence of Prusias and his malakhim. Many screens were black or revealed empty corridors and laboratories. Others showed people running or fighting throughout the Workshop.

  “Go back!” blurted Scathach, pointing at a screen along the top row. Dr. Rios hit a button and an empty corridor was replaced by an aerial view of an enormous, high-ceilinged room filled with exhibits. At once, Max recognized it as the Workshop’s museum, where they displayed exotic creatures. Some members of the permanent collection were long dead; others (such as Cousin Gertie) had been frozen in a state of suspended animation. Fire was spreading across the museum floor while some of the exhibit cases had been shattered.

  “The exhibits,” said Dr. Medved uneasily. “Some must be loose!”

  “Move the picture left,” said Scathach urgently.

  The camera panned as Scathach ordered, revealing a dozen people backed into a corner alcove by a creature with a squatty, reptilian body akin to a komodo dragon. But this creature was far larger and boasted six legs and a forked, whiplike tail that swished back and forth. Its serpentine head was adorned with horns whose circular arrangement resembled a crown. The only thing keeping the monster at bay was the long piece of metal one of the people was jabbing and swinging every time the creature advanced.

  “I think that’s the basilisk,” said Dr. Rios.

  “Well, I’m positive that’s Madam Petra,” said Scathach. “Zoom in.”

  Dr. Medved obeyed. As the image grew larger, Max saw that it was indeed the smuggler. Apparently, she’d succeeded in rescuing her daughter and some ten other children from the dormitories. Now she was all that stood between them and an escaped museum exhibit.

  Max’s knowledge of basilisks was confined to what he’d read in Rowan compendiums. Their crowns caused some to call them the “king of serpents” but their real notoriety stemmed from a gaze so dreadful it was said to kill anyone who met it. Apparently Madam Petra knew what she faced, for the children looked away while the smuggler studied the basilisk’s shadow. Just as it reared back to strike, something small and furry leaped upon its back.

  “Is that a mongoose?” exclaimed Juergen, frowning.

  Rasmussen scoffed. “What would a mongoose be doing in the Exotics wing?”

  Hazel cursed softly. “That’s not a mongoose. It’s a smee we sent to spy on that woman. A silly, heroic smee who’s going to get himself killed …”

  Scathach snatched up her spear. “How do I get there?”

  “I’ll go with you,” said Max, rising.

  “No,” said Hazel firmly. “William said you’re to remain here.”

  “She’s not going alone,” said Max.

  Scathach almost laughed as she unbolted the door. “I’m not afraid of a basilisk. I
slew one on Skye. And I’ll not stand by to see Toby or those children hurt—even if it means saving that vile woman.”

  Rasmussen pointed at a map on his handheld device. “The museum’s almost directly beneath us on Eighteen. Go left out the door. A pod tube’s no more than sixty meters away.”

  “What if it’s broken?”

  “There’s an emergency stairwell just past it.”

  Gripping her spear, Scathach hurried out the door as Juergen opened it. As Rasmussen locked it behind her, an anxious Max turned back to the screens. Toby was no longer a mongoose, but a python coiled about the basilisk’s plated neck. The beast paid him little heed, however. Its focus was squarely upon the cornered children as it tried to get around the irksome human in its way. Petra was making a valiant stand, but Max could see that she was tiring. Every swing was a little slower, a little less effectual than the one before it.

  Come on, Scathach. Hurry.

  “Damn,” said Juergen, staring fixedly at his computer.

  “What’s the matter?” snapped a pacing Hazel.

  “There’s no location data for Dr. Tressel,” he said. “Not for weeks. Whatever she was working on, it was top secret. Data exemptions are rare.”

  “Which would seemingly reinforce the idea that Tressel’s project was, indeed, the creation of Prusias’s bunker,” said Hazel.

  “What about her team?” asked Varga. “If exemptions are rare, perhaps there’s data for her subordinates. Overlay their movements on the map. If the bunker was Tressel’s project, if many of them are going to one place, it’s likely to be the bunker’s location. Can you get that information for the people on Dr. Medved’s list?”

  “Let’s see,” said Juergen, pulling up a list of names and entering several commands. Columns of data appeared by each name. “It looks like it’s here. I’ll need a minute to tweak the script.”

  The situation in the museum was turning grim. Madam Petra was barely swinging the pole and visibly gasping as she tried to lure the basilisk away from the children. An exhausted Toby was no longer a python but lay curled in his native yamlike shape on the floor just beyond reach of the basilisk’s tail, which was swishing back and forth, like a playful cat’s. Suddenly, the monster struck. Petra leaped aside, dropping her weapon as the basilisk’s jaws snapped inches from her face. Pinning the smuggler with its foreclaw, the basilisk swayed up for the kill.

  An explosion of light filled the screen. When the image returned, Max saw Scathach driving the monster back with swift jabs and slashes of her spear. The basilisk recoiled from this new attacker, backpedaling on stubby legs while black blood poured from a wound at its throat. It spilled upon the floor, sending up gouts of smoke as the substance corroded the pale marble. Scathach stepped lightly around it, her attention fixed on the monster’s shadow. In one hand she gripped her spear, the other her slender poignard.

  When the monster struck, she just leaped beyond its reach while unleashing a vicious counterattack. Scathach’s anticipation and footwork were flawless, her counters perfectly aimed and executed. After four or five of these exchanges, the basilisk writhed backward in retreat, leaving a trail of smoking slime upon the tiles.

  “She’s got him,” said Varga. “What a fighter!”

  Max grinned. As Scathach positioned herself between the basilisk and the alcove, she pointed Petra and the children toward something, presumably an exit. Struggling to her feet, the smuggler grabbed the hand of a blond girl, perhaps twelve years old. Katarina hardly resembled the cold and haughty girl he’d met in Piter’s Folly; she had grown thinner and she looked frightened and dazed. Holding hands, the two led the other children in the direction Scathach had pointed.

  “Scathach probably told them how to come here,” reflected Hazel. She turned to Juergen. “How’s that script coming?”

  “Finished,” said Juergen proudly.

  Max glanced over to see some twenty blinking dots appear within the Workshop model. Some were stationary, but others were moving slowly in corridors or traveling smoothly in pod tubes. It was like watching a high-tech ant farm.

  “Every dot is someone who reported to Dr. Tressel recently,” Juergen explained. “This is what they were doing at eight in the morning six weeks ago.”

  “Can you speed it up?” inquired Hazel impatiently. “I want to see patterns, not watch someone cut their fingernails.”

  “You didn’t ask for time lapse,” grumbled Juergen, swiveling back to his terminal. Hazel sighed.

  Max returned to Scathach’s screen where the unmoving basilisk now lay in a pool of its own blood and venom. Scathach was staring coolly in the direction of the doorway where she had sent Madam Petra and the children. Scores of Workshop people were running past her, fleeing something beyond the camera’s view. Hefting her spear, Scathach advanced toward the unseen danger. Max glanced impatiently at nearby screens to see if they gave any indication of what else was happening in the museum.

  To his annoyance, one screen still displayed footage from the clones project. In this clip, they were standing beside one another, smiling grimly by a burning archway. Alpha carried his enormous spear while Omega bore a pair of slender knives. Max jabbed a finger at the screen.

  “No more recordings. I want to see more of what’s happening in the museum.”

  Behind him, Hazel gave an exultant whoop. Max turned to see the little dots moving much more swiftly about the Workshop hologram. Despite minor variations, the general pattern was unmistakable: the dots were congregating in one of the deepest corners of the pyramid.

  “What level is that?” asked Hazel.

  “Sublevel Twenty-Two,” said Rasmussen, squinting at the map. “Of course. That’s the same level and location as—”

  “There’s your husband,” interrupted Dr. Rios, pointing at a screen that showed Cooper running down a smoky corridor with a man slung over his shoulder.

  “Thank heavens,” Hazel sighed. “Where is he?”

  Dr. Rios gestured at the camera’s serial number. “Nineteenth level, southwest quadrant. He’s on foot, so I’d guess the nearest pods are malfunctioning.”

  Hazel was visibly relieved. “Well, it doesn’t appear that he’s hurt. And he has Dr. Whitner. How long until he can reach us?”

  “If he has to remain on foot, ten or fifteen minutes,” said Rasmussen.

  “Well,” said Hazel, glancing at the holographic pyramid, “I believe we got the answer first. I’ll try not to gloat.”

  Swiveling back, Max found Dr. Medved glued to Alpha and Omega’s screen. The pair walked out from the archway’s shadow and disappeared from view. Max waved a hand before her eyes.

  “Switch to a live feed from the museum.”

  The woman blinked as though jolted from a trance. She tapped the screen, her voice ripe with horror. “That is a live feed!”

  Max’s blood turned to ice. He could not move; he could only stare at Scathach’s screen as she came to a halt amid the broken glass and dancing firelight. Two long shadows appeared before her, one of which seemed to be carrying a spear. The shadow with a spear stood fast; the other began to circle. Scathach’s expression never changed. Inclining her head, she offered the warrior’s salute and advanced.

  Springing from his chair, Max snatched the gae bolga and scrambled to the exit. Based on Rasmussen’s earlier directions to Scathach, the museum was just two floors below them, a pod tube just sixty yards down the hall. He didn’t wait for the lock but wrenched the door half off its frame as Rasmussen scrambled out of the way. Turning left, Max raced down the hallway. He was scarcely aware of the blaring alarms. He barely registered Madam Petra and the Workshop children as he passed them in the corridor. His mind was fixed on Scathach and those terrible shadows.

  The pod bank was in flames, a morass of bubbling glass and plastic. Max made for the emergency stairwell, flinging open the fire door and leaping down the steps.

  When Max burst through the doors on Level 18, he could scarcely breathe. His body was numb with
panic, the gae bolga lifeless and leaden, as it always was when the clones were near. Ahead was a grand archway—the very portal the clones had stood beneath. A great fire was burning just beyond, its brilliance dancing on the corridor wall.

  Hurtling through the archway, Max entered the vast museum but saw no sign of Scathach or the clones. Distant shouts and screams echoed in its grand acoustics. Oily fires dotted the entire Exotics wing, as though combustible liquids were seeping through cracks in the floor.

  Max looked wildly about, yelling Scathach’s name again and again. There was no answer, just the crackle of flames and the dull boom of distant explosions. Trotting forward, he turned in circles, searching frantically for any sign of Scathach or the clones. He yelled her name again, hurrying toward the basilisk when he glimpsed its glinting carcass.

  Where was she? Was she even here? Had the clones taken her?

  His eyes swept a row of alcoves and galleries. Something was lying there, pressed against the base of an exhibit. Not a thing, but a girl lying in a pool of blood. Max’s worst fears had been realized.

  He was by her in an instant, kneeling as he took hold of her hand.

  “Can you hear me?” he said.

  Scathach’s eyes met his. Touching her wrist, he felt her life, faint and flickering but life all the same. Gazing up at Max, she tried to speak but only expelled a tiny breath of air, not even enough for a gasp. Glancing down, Max searched for the wound.

  It was not hard to find: a spear thrust through the back that stopped just short of piercing the mail corselet above Scathach’s heart. She would not suffer long. Pressing her against him, Max trembled with grief and rage. He didn’t care if the clones were near. He brushed a thin black braid off her forehead and kissed her clammy, salty skin. He kissed her pale cheeks and graying lips. Scathach was crying, her tears mingled with his and it frightened Max, for he’d never seen her do such a thing. She was far too proud. But gazing down, Max saw that her gray eyes were shining with love, not pain or sorrow. If she could not speak her goodbyes, she would say them another way.