Home at Last

by Alex Sapegin

  Andy sat up and unknotted the shoelaces of his army boots and wanted to crash back onto the couch already, but a strange aching feeling in his chest drove away the first hints of sleep. Lacing up his shoes, he rushed about the room. The pain in his chest spilled over into panic. Okay, calm down, breathe normally. Any phenomena should have an explanation. Just closing his eyes and calming down enabled a kind of push on the mental channel that brought a cry for help.

  “Andy, Kerr, help!”

  Olga! Something had happened to Olga! Targ, how can I get out of here? I don’t want to leave dad holding the short end of the stick; otherwise, I’d just go crazy doin’ it my way… But then three dozen corpses would be just the beginning. What should I do? I gotta’ make a plan, fast! Oh, come on, Andy, don’t jump off the deep end. Where am I? In the scientific complex, yes, but the state secret services run this place, and their people are practical and pragmatic. Maybe I should turn to the pragmatic gentlemen in uniform, but how can I explain the cause of my spiritual torment? Andy froze for a moment. Let’s proceed from the fact that the secret services know about the connection between brother and sister. Dad indirectly confirmed that it was through her help that the world’s “loss” was returned to his native planet. The rope can be pulled from either end. He plunged into a trance, groped for the “rope” of communication, and sent along it a good portion of encouragement.

  Deciding to act, Andy went into the office and picked up the black telephone receiver on the desk. Trying to be laconic and collected, he told the operator that he wanted to meet with someone from the law enforcement agencies since the matter is urgent and briefly described the essence of the problem. The voice at the other end promised to pass the report along up the line. Time passed painfully slowly. He wanted to bang his head against the wall from his own powerlessness.

  Fifteen minutes later, the lock of the front door clicked. The telephone guy had kept his promise, but instead of the long-awaited strong men, he was visited by two clever men from who-knows-where, who began to question in detail how he had determined the hypothetical danger that threatened his sister.

  Are they serious?

  When a second round of questions began, he lost his patience. The yelling that followed drove the freaks from the apartment. The day was getting interesting. Andy flew to the apparatus and demanded a meeting with Lieutenant-Colonel Helmitsky, curator of the medical sector. If the guy on the other end of the phone didn’t immediately report to the subfloor where Andy was located that he wanted to meet with him, he’d pronounce a particularly dirty curse that causes a man’s organ to fall off. The line went dead. Apparently, the threat had an effect, because three minutes later, an armed detail showed up, which sent him to the coveted lieutenant-Colonel.

  Helmitsky listened attentively to the persistent guy and promised to understand, although he personally considered the anxiety to be in vain. Olga was under guard, and her guard hadn’t raised any alarms. But to calm the young man’s nerves, he would give this matter top priority. Andy grit his teeth. The sense of danger hanging over his sister screamed like a banshee. TIME. Everything depended on that ephemeral physical quantity which measures the passing segments of life. Targ! While the underground was passing the word along to the higher-ups, and agreeing on orders and approving plans, and voicing the object’s incomprehensible anxiety, time would be lost, and he wouldn’t be released from the dungeon.

  Andy looked around. Oh! True vision told him there were no longer any video surveillance systems in the office. The members of the secret services sacredly kept their secrets. He made the decision instantly. His blue eyes flashed with an otherworldly glow. The Lieutenant-Colonel stiffened from the piercing gaze. A pained expression came on his face. People tend to experience pain during a thorough mental scan. After scanning through Helmitsky’s memory, Andy cast a certain cunning magical interweave on him that subordinates a person to the will of the caster. The downside of the spell was that the one who fell under it turned into a brainless idiot for a time, a living zombie only capable of fulfilling the other person’s commands.

  Fifteen or twenty minutes later, the person would get their mind back but not remember anything about the past events. However, it was not possible to kill through the interweaving or to send the person under the spell to his death. But Andy didn’t need that now. He stood in front of the mirror, called his captive to him, tore off the badge from his jacket and put on himself and the unfortunate curator of the medical sector illusion charms, disguises. The work was clumsy. Ania would have tapped her foot at such sloppy work. She was a strict teacher and didn’t stand for hack-work, but it was unlikely anyone would look closely at the people who’d changed their appearances.

  Lieutenant-Colonel Helmitsky volunteered to personally lead the visitor to the apartments assigned to him. The gray-haired guy walked, head down and shoulders hunched. Upon entering the room, he immediately fell asleep, and the curator of the sector went to the transition gallery... The clock was ticking.

  Having safely passed the control post, the Lieutenant-Colonel for some reason turned into the technicians’ room. If the watchman at the CCTV monitors were somewhat more attentive, they would have seen that the strong man’s hair had changed color. Illusions didn’t last long on dragons, and the numerous volumetric sensors and motion sensors did not allow him to use a visual curtain.

  Time. In a few minutes, Helmitsky would wake up, and then using his appearance would be a recipe for disaster, especially since there would be further posts with fingerprint scanners and retina scanners. He needed to get to the elevators as quietly as possible. He couldn’t keep posing as the Lieutenant-Colonel. A wave of someone else’s fear overwhelmed Andy. The fury and pain of losing someone close struck his nerves.

  Targ, what’s happening to Olga?! Hold on, little sister, I’m coming!

  Then a technician entered the room in his working clothes. Fortune had smiled wryly at the were-dragon.

  * * *

  Andy crouched in a group of workers crowded at the next checkpoint. What an identity thief he’d become, and so soon after returning to Earth! He inspected himself in the mirrored surface of the armored glass and renewed the mask and delusion charms. It was better to double and triple check it than get into trouble when the illusory mask wore off near some CCTV camera. Well, it’ll have to do. The face was moderately tired and unshaven; the overalls were worn and wrinkled, and there was a strange bubble effect in the pant leg on his right knee. He looked around once again. Okay, he felt a little sorry for the face’s rightful owner, probably being tortured with questions right now, or maybe not. By the time Andy left the center, he would wake up, or some compassionate colleague of—Andy looked at the badge—Yaroslav Magariu would look into the storeroom and see the man with a blissful smile on his face, which, of course, would not be good. But that’s okay, let him lie down, rest. Andy’s “hacking” of his brain couldn’t pass without leaving a trace; the guy needed rest.

  The electronic wristwatch taken off the technician was gaily counting down the seconds. Thirty seconds left before the “bugs” triggered. It was worth hurrying and squeezing into the queue. He had to make a clean getaway. If he got to the elevator shaft, then he could safely assume that the endeavor had been a success. He just had to pass the post with the fingerprint- and retina-reading devices. His face was a mask, but it didn’t make him an exact match of the person’s body, and it lasted no more than half an hour...

  Andy glanced at his watch, switched to magical vision, fell into a combat trance and took a long step forward. Time! How often today he’d had to monitor time and follow the second hand. The delayed spell worked like a Swiss chronometer. In its fraction of a second of existence, the interwoven structure generated an electromagnetic impulse sufficient to disable electrical the appliances in the whole sector. The corridor immediately plunged into darkness, and the home-grown terrorist squeezed through the slightly opened pneumatic door, which nearly chopped off his heels (when
the power went out, the doors were automatically closed). Wow! The floor trembled slightly; somewhere something made a boom. Apparently, he’d overdone it with the spell… oops.

  The soldiers on the post seized their machine guns. A murmur ran among the technicians. People didn’t understand what was going on, so a panic was almost breaking out. Andy rushed to the elevator shaft like a bullet. The emergency lighting ought to kick in right about now. A shock spell formed in his head all by itself.

  Shields up; put as many shields as possible on yourself, darling. There’s another post before the elevator; you’ll have to be rough with it. There’s a turn, then the checkpoint.

  A series of rounds of spells flew at the armed guard. The soldiers fell limp onto the ceramic floor. The shock spell carried the elevator doors away.

  Well well! It’s a good thing there were no people on the trajectory of the last “surprise;” they would have made a completely unaesthetic impression smeared on the wall. Quickly now! Crap.

  On the upper levels, the power supply system wasn’t disconnected, and the automation blocked the elevator shaft. Armored plates blocked the road to freedom; the diaphragm tore off the hinges. He immersed himself in the astral and struck. The “petals” of the second diaphragm turned outwards. He sent a dozen free modules upstairs. A pair of shields sealed the former elevator doors. The last thing he needed was them firing at him from below. Without recharging them, the shields would last fifteen minutes—plenty of time. His free-module scouts signaled the absence of danger to the highest point. Onward! Clutching at the clamps, spitting out the sweat dripping down his face, like a madman, switching his arms and legs in turn, he quickly started to climb up the shaft to the first ground level. When there were ten yards left to the exit, the modules signaled that a “group of comrades” was coming to meet him. For some reason, they were angry and rattled their weapons with might and main. OH WOW! Two of them installed explosive devices at the elevator. People in camouflage wisely took up their positions and prudently left themselves some escape routes. On the platform in front of the building, two infantry-fighting vehicles were rumbling. From the direction of a three-story building, several trucks and an armored personnel carrier were moving towards the buildings of the scientific complex. Twins almighty, he could hear the choir warming up—it was about to sing him a funeral dirge. General Sanin had trained them well.

  Andy stopped. It seemed he’d underestimated the military, and they’d learned their lessons from the first time they met and were constantly on the alert. An ambush, Targ take it! He didn’t want to send the men to their deaths, but if he chose any lesser course of action, they would kill him. He couldn’t get away with stunning them; real die-hard yahoos were waiting outside the door. Oh, you shriveled dwarf tail... While he was assessing the situation, the men in camouflage together, quickly moving their feet, moved toward the exit. They had written off the entire building as collateral damage; there were much more than two explosives set to blow. The modules found another five devices. When had they managed to install them? They clearly would not let him get away alive. How did they know that he would make his way through this elevator? Andy turned his head slightly and looked at the camera lens pointing down the elevator shaft. That’s the answer. What an epic fail. I really messed up, counted on having looked through Helmitsky’s memory, although how could he have known about all the controlled points? He squinted his eyes toward the door. The blue of the formerly white whites of his eyes was clouded with a film of battle madness. The were-dragon’s lips curved into an anticipating, spiteful smile. If you don’t want to do this the easy way, we’ll do it the hard way!

  The Norsemen’s mages call this interweave “Thor’s hammer.” A killer thing, but in the hands of someone with unlimited by mana reserves, the “hammer” acquired truly inconceivable power.

  * * *

  Major Potsky and his men jumped up and down on the spot, busily checking that nothing was jingling, creaking, rubbing, or scraping anywhere on their bodies. Their equipment and ammunition shouldn’t interfere with their movement or stealth. Ten minutes ago, he’d sent the second group to the scientists; they had some kind of situation going on there. As always, a fly in the ointment appears unexpectedly, as if from nowhere, and the guys from his quick response team were always sent to fix it. The major had only commanded the soldiers to report for duty when Sanin requested the second group. Fortunately, the fighters were always on call.

  “Load the trucks,” commanded Potsky, glancing toward the buildings of the scientific complex, the roofs of which were visible behind the neatly trimmed tops of the trees. Suddenly, the green crowns swung sharply from a shock wave. Above the complex, there was a crash as if a squadron of fighters had overcome the supersonic barrier. One of the buildings literally flew into the air, then while in the air, it swelled from the charges that had exploded inside. At the same instant, it crashed down again, and Potsky realized that his surprise limit for today had not yet been reached. After the building, several infantry combat vehicles appeared above the trees, rotating in the air. Someone at the top made a big mistake in calling the situation simply “abnormal.” A short gesture, and the soldiers immediately distributed themselves; a few seconds—and the unit was ready for battle.

  Potsky transferred the radio station to the wave of the second group and pressed the tangent. “Leader-two, leader-two, come in, ‘dad’ calling, over. What the hell is going on there?” swore the Major.

  The sounds of the shooting were drowned out by the wild roar of the wind. Out of nowhere, a real tornado formed over the secret scientific complex. It turned into a storm and instantly covered everything and everyone with cement dust. Visibility fell to zero. A few minutes later, the major’s keen hearing determined the sound of a car engine starting. Judging by the familiar sound, it was the headquarters’ Jeep Patriot. The car zoomed off somewhere; it was impossible to determine more precisely because of the howling wind, but obviously, it was heading for a checkpoint. In another moment, the static had absorbed all sound coming through the device.

  In the checkpoint area, in the direction the Patriot had flown off to, something exploded. A fireball painted the dusty cloud with a blood-red color. The howling of the wind died down; the hurricane gusts no longer raised dust and bent trees. Whoever organized the bacchanalia did what he did and booked it out of the guarded area. The major and the special forces soldiers looked at the fading fireball.

  “‘Beehive’ calling ‘dad;’ come in ‘dad,’ over,” the radio station came alive. The Major did not wait for an answer from “leader-two.” Potsky, gritting his teeth and spitting gray from the dust saliva, responded to the command and received an order to immediately advance toward the city. The soldiers of the special forces, gray with dust, their eyes glittering angrily, casting frequent glances towards the scientific complex, silently listened to Command’s next whim. A lot of questions had accumulated in the three minutes the “light show” took place. The major felt that after the task, the guys wouldn’t let it go, and if the staff didn’t give at least some sort of explanation of what happened, he would personally fire them all.

  * * *

  The Patriot polished off twenty miles on a dirt road. The road was in pretty good condition. The car was not pursued. Strange... Had they decided not to ruin people and equipment by a futile chase, or was it because they appreciated the gesture of goodwill in the scientific complex? He could have killed everyone, but he limited it to the armored vehicles, and perhaps the infantry combat vehicle crews were not killed. The ammunition wasn’t detonated. The others were all swept away by the wind and dropped like broken branches. While the warriors and a sniper that he still hadn’t found shot at the phantom menace, he managed to activate the “storm.” What a great visual curtain!

  Andy looked at the driver. The Lieutenant turned white from the demonic look he gave him and clung convulsively to the steering wheel.

  “Look at the road,” Andy grumbled and held his tw
o-inch claws across the dashboard. The Lieutenant swallowed convulsively and broke into a cold sweat. Besides the claws, the partial transformation added a mouth full of sharp teeth and scales on the were-dragon’s neck. “Is there something you wanted to say?”

  “G-g-gasoline,” the driver managed. His brown eyes shot a glance at the red flashing light bulb. “I... I didn’t refuel today. Don’t kill me!”

  “Alright, we’ll go until we run out. Don’t worry, you’ll live.”

  Andy leaned back in his seat. What a day! To draw an analogy, all the events that had occurred could be compared to a swing, and on each subsequent swing, it would rise higher and higher. And that would be just fine if he liked the altitude. A movement forward—he’d made his way into the astral. A swing back—it turned out that all his labors had in fact been coordinated behind the scenes, unbeknownst to him by the astral Hermit and certain higher forces. Another swing—his official coming out of the coma and the acquisition of some share of freedom. In counterbalance to that—an incomprehensible threat to his sister. The next move was a successful (almost successful) escape, which was almost “broken off” by guys in camouflage with machine guns in their hands. Again Fortune smiled, slipping him the truck, but the fickle lady’s smile quickly faded, and her flabby buttocks loomed in the immediate future.

  The engine sputtered and started cutting in and out; the car stopped. We’ve arrived. Fortune bared her lower back. Thank you! Honey, maybe you’ll still turn your face towards me? Targ, why’s there no happiness in life? The driver curled into a ball; looking at the frightened man, the were-dragon felt a prick of conscience—what had he reduced him to!