Dragon Dreams

by Chris A. Jackson

  She quashed the perverse desire to walk up and knock. There were still some lights on here and there, and one room in particular caught her attention. Northeast corner, ground floor, through the translucent drapes she espied dark paneling and bookshelves. A masculine room. She hoped the Congressman was up late working.

  She had left most of her things in her subway cubby but had kept her empty pack. When she reached a shadowed area between two street lights, she melted down into the winter-dead shrubbery and slipped out of her mittens, boots, coat, and socks. For this, she would need a sure grip. She stuffed all but her mittens into her pack and hid it under a shrub, then looked up at the wrought iron fence.

  Ten feet, she estimated. Piece of cake. Aleksi looked both ways, took three steps and leapt.

  She rolled over the top of the iron tines that topped the fence and landed in a crouch, perfectly still, ears straining to hear any sign that she'd tripped some unknown alarm.

  Nothing.

  From here it was a matter of patience and vigilance. She knew that motion sensors worked on a minimum pixel per second shift. With all the blowing leaves and snow, these had to be calibrated to ignore anything but something large moving fast. The cameras, however, were likely monitored by a person. Her approach might catch someone's attention if they happened to be watching the right camera at the right time. She avoided the melting patches of snow and moved slowly from shadow to shadow. When she finally stood beside the Congressman's house, she felt even more confident of her abilities. At least no sirens blared.

  She doubted there was a single window on the ground floor that wasn't wired with an alarm but hoped no such precautions were taken on the small, third-floor attic windows. The house was old, the mortar between the bricks soft and easy purchase for her claws.

  Aleksi went up the wall like a spider. At the attic window, she stopped and listened again. Still no alarms. Her claws made short work of the thin frame, and she lifted one pane free. She reached in, felt around the edge for wires, and, finding none, flipped the lock and tried to lift the window.

  It wouldn't budge.

  "Painted shut." But there was a cure for that, too. She ran a claw around the edge of the casement, digging out ancient paint. When she finished, she tried to lift it again. It slid up, making far more noise than she liked, but she was inside. She stopped and listened, straining for any hint that she'd tripped some kind of alarm.

  Nothing.

  The room she was in looked disused, an attic remodeled into a kid's bedroom, then mothballed. The bed was stripped, the cupboards and dressers bare, a few boxes and trunks stored along the walls. She moved to the door, opened it, and listened. A faint, rhythmic clicking that she couldn't place, and a distant TV.

  Good. The floorboards of the short hallway creaked underfoot as she slipped out. She could smell people and faint food odors. Easing down the stairs, she mentally marked any step that made noise. At the bottom, she took a moment to get her bearings. Two stairs on this floor, one toward the front and one back. She listened again, that tick-tick and the TV, then the distant clink of glass. The Twains were night people. Well, so was she. She descended the back stairs, feeling each one under her toes before putting her weight down.

  Northeast corner, she thought, edging down the hallway. The door to the room she wanted was closed, but the sound of rustling paper and the aroma of expensive whiskey told her that the congressman was inside. She turned the latch slowly and eased the door in an inch, thankful for silent hinges.

  This was the moment she was unsure about. Confronting Twain meant letting someone else know about her condition, but from what Hutch had said, Twain knew something. She had to find out what that was and knew only one way. She put on her dark glasses, pulled her hat low, then eased the mittens from her belt and put them on.

  Aleksi opened the door just wide enough and slipped through, as silent as a breath of air. She eased the door closed, working the latch to make sure it didn't click.

  Twain sat at a broad, leather-covered desk, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand and a thick, loose-bound document before him. He flipped a page, oblivious to her presence. The light was low except for the desk lamp. It was now, or never.

  "Working late, Congressman?"

  "Wha—"

  His reaction was everything she hoped for. The tumbler of whiskey hit the carpet with a thump, and he nearly fell out of his expensive leather swivel chair. By the time he recovered, she stood at his desk, the low lamp illuminating him while her face remained in shadow.

  "Who…who the hell—"

  "Don't recognize me, Congressman?" He recovered his composure a bit and started to stand up. "Just stay there for now, and please keep your hands on the desk. If you trip an alarm or call for help, I'll be gone before they can get here."

  "Al…Aleksi? Holy Christ! How did you get in here?"

  "Never mind that, Congressman. Besides, I'm here to ask you questions, not answer them. Like what do you know about the specimen stolen from my lab, and where the hell is Derrick Penningly?"

  "I can have a dozen armed security men here in two minutes." His eyes narrowed in the light, trying to discern her features.

  "And I can break a dozen bones in your hands and be out the same window I came in through in twenty seconds." She picked up the inch-thick mahogany and brass pen holder from his desk and snapped it in half. "Go ahead and call for help."

  His eyes widened, sweat beading on his lip. "Penningly called me. He said he had something I might be interested in, something he was willing to trade." He swallowed hard, and Aleksi got the impression that he was wishing he hadn't dropped his whiskey. "He told me he'd been infected by some kind of virus that was changing him…then showed me what…what had…his condition. I contacted some people, and they took him in. They confirmed his story and confiscated the specimen."

  "Confiscated?" Her teeth chirped as she ground them together. "Confiscated is something you do with a court order and the police, not with a bogus moving company on a Sunday." She took a breath, suppressed the urge to rip him in half, and continued. "Why take them?"

  "To analyze them." His voice was steadier. "They want to isolate the infective agent and see how it works. It's amazing! The changes in Derrick were—"

  "Are the same as the ones I'm experiencing," she interrupted. "So why frame me for Bob's murder? Just to get me out of the way?"

  "Nobody framed you, Aleksi. That was the police. Derrick's been charged, too."

  "Well, then they're half right, at least, but let me fill you in on something, Congressman: Derrick Penningly killed my friend. He ripped his throat out so he could take his place and steal my research project. If you think that's crazy, then you, too, are only half right. These changes…they're not just physical. They give you dreams, nightmares, and violent urges. I've been able to suppress mine, but Derrick's out of control. I don't know where your friends are keeping him, but you better hope it has really strong locks."

  "What do you want from me, Aleksi?" He sounded fully back in control now, though she could still smell the fear on him.

  "I want the bogus charges dropped, and I want the specimen returned to Dr. Hutchinson. His career's at stake, and your people don't need all of it to do your little science project."

  "I can't promise anything, Aleksi. It's out of my hands. But what about you? Part of the deal they gave Derrick was to try to cure his…condition. We could offer you the same."

  "I'm not going to be anyone's lab rat. I'm a scientist; I know how that usually ends for the rat. You've got everything you need to do your research." She reached into a pocket and dropped a slip of paper onto his desk. "When Derrick is brought to justice for Bob's murder, and you have a cure for this…thing, you call that number at midnight."

  "All right." He picked up the slip of paper. "Anything else?"

  "Yes. Tell your friends to call off their goons. I haven't hurt anyone yet, Congressman, but that doesn't mean I won't."

  "I'll see what I can do."<
br />
  "Fine." She turned to go, listening for him to do something stupid like pull a gun from a desk drawer. She almost hoped he would. As it turned out, he surprised her.

  "And I'm sorry for what happened to you, Aleksi. Truly."

  She looked back and almost believed him, then remembered what politicians did for a living. She left without a word and was out of his house in less time than she'd estimated.

  This is a waste of time." Minder One scanned the waterfront again with his binoculars.

  "Think of it as good practice." Derrick leaned back in the plush back seat of the SUV, watching the late-night foot traffic through the vehicle's tinted windows. Even in the dark, he could see every detail as clear as day. "You're going to have to have someone watching the boathouse every night now, but I think Hutchinson's place is your best bet. She went back to her apartment to pick up some stuff, but she has a thing for the good doctor. I don't know if he's still fucking her. If he is, he's braver or stupider than I thought."

  They had been skeptical when he told them the two were doing it. From the police report, Dr. Hutchinson said he last saw Aleksi on Friday, but Derrick knew that was a lie. That was another reason he'd torn up the good doctor's bed; police forensics would be all over it now. Maybe the dipshits could find some trace of her, which would put Hutchinson on the spot. His minders were still dubious, however.

  "I'd suggest watching from someplace high up and far enough away that she won't spot you. A rooftop or something." He reached over the back of the seat and opened the cooler, fishing out a soda and a package of cold cuts. He cracked the soda and peeled apart the plastic wrapping on the meat. It wasn't real meat, but it was food. "Those stupid cops watching the place can't see into his windows. She can come and go easily without getting spotted. That's where we'll catch her."

  His two minders didn't say a thing.

  Typical, he thought, downing half the package of cold cuts in one bite. Dumb-ass grunts.

  Aleksi hunkered in a seat on the subway, head down, feigning sleep, bag of groceries perched on her knee. She watched the people come and go, passing by without recognition. She hadn't seen a cop all night, and now it was late enough that the city was winding down. Time to vanish.

  Two more stops then dinner.

  She had found a little shop that sold whole smoked hams and bought four. With the accelerating changes, she didn't know how much longer she could keep shopping without drawing attention. A flash of dark color drew her attention to the door as two women wearing Muslim attire came in with a man. The gowns covered them from head to toe, all but their eyes.

  Perfect! Why didn't I think of that earlier? She felt for the pre-paid phone in her pocket and decided she'd get another one for Hutch tomorrow night. Maybe he could do some shopping for her. The money he'd given her had surprised her, but no less than his continuing affection, despite her condition. That he wasn't afraid of her, not disgusted by her, was willing to hold her, just hold her close, gave her strength.

  The one thing I haven't lost…yet.

  Aleksi blinked back tears and focused as the train came to her stop. She scanned the station for men in heavy coats with short haircuts and hearing aids, but saw none. Constant vigilance was becoming a reflex. She rose and passed the Muslim women on the way out, admiring their gowns once again. Garbed like that, she could walk anywhere, and all she'd have to worry about was racial profiling.

  She made her way to the service door and slipped through. She'd explored all of the disused tunnels and found four ways in; three were out of view of the ubiquitous security cameras and could be used.

  Deep in the disused station, she'd swept an area clear of detritus and vermin. Strangely, the rats didn't bother her; once she moved in, they moved out and hadn't returned, but the cockroaches… She shivered in revulsion. She was careful with her trash and had gotten a Styrofoam cooler to keep food in, which she duct-taped closed and hung in a net of orange construction mesh she'd scavenged. Aleksi sat down on a stack of old bricks and ate, thinking about her conversation with Twain, her time with Hutch, the feeling of his arms around her.

  Tomorrow she would get another phone for him and they could talk. She didn't doubt that Twain's friends could track her smart phone, and wondered if they could actually listen in. Maybe a third phone would be best; they were cheap and easy to get, and that way she'd have one to talk to Hutch with, and another that Twain could call. Yes, that would be best.

  When she finished her meal, the frequency of the trains told her that it was nearing dawn.

  "Sleep, Aleksi." She glared at the bundle of blankets and the sleeping bag she'd picked up at Goodwill. Not that she wasn't tired, and not that her impromptu bed was not comfortable enough. Aleksi had come to loathe her dreams. They were all the same now: violence, blood, tearing flesh… They were so vivid. Upon awakening she remembered images of species long extinct: giant sloths, titanotheres, wooly rhinos, men…

  "Why?" Were they dreams, or some kind of genetic memories? What was she becoming, some kind of extinct ice-age predator?

  She looked at her hand, so changed now it looked inhuman. How can this be happening? How could something like this evolve?

  Recollections of the shape in the CT scan of the specimen elicited a shiver of revulsion. She lay down, deep in thought, remembering an old science fiction novel she read, "Protector," by Larry Niven. Was she becoming something like that? Was this a stage of human development triggered by some latent genetic switch hidden in the human genome? No, she had too many violent tendencies, too many dreams of tearing humans to shreds.

  Then she realized one detail of her dreams that she hadn't before: Not humans, only men. She remembered the urge to fight or flee when Hutch first took her arm, the fleeting urge to lash out. But why would something evolve to prey only on men?

  36

  You said it was important, Congressman." Johansen took a seat in the busy café. He waived to a waiter and ordered coffee and a fruit plate. He hated public meetings like this, especially with politicians, but phones weren't secure. "What is it?"

  "Aleksi Rychenkna paid me a visit in my home last night."

  That snapped his irritation like a twig. "When?"

  "About eleven." His hand trembled as he lifted his coffee. "She went through my security like it was tissue paper. She could have killed my whole family. If you don't do something about this, I will."

  The threat was simple; fix it or Twain would go over his head, insist he be replaced. It wasn't an idle threat.

  "We've got people on it, Congressman." He accepted his coffee and fruit, lightened the former with milk and sprinkled sugar on the latter. "We've set out some bait that will hopefully flush her out into the open."

  "Then what?"

  "Rychenkna is a threat, Congressman. She's threatened you, and she threatens the security of this project. I'm going to bring her into the project or eliminate her." He sipped his coffee, his hand steady as a rock. "Any way you can help me with that?"

  "She told me that Penningly was the one who killed the Tomlin boy, and I believe her. She wants him brought to justice and the charges on her dropped. She also wants the samples returned to Hutchinson."

  Johansen laughed without humor. "Did she also want a pardon from the President? A house in the Hamptons? A chartered flight to Switzerland?"

  "Don't try to be funny, Doctor. She warned me about Penningly. She said the changes bring on violent urges, that he was out of control."

  "He is not out of control. He is under precise control, my control, and we're using him to our best advantage." He took a bite of heavily sugared strawberry and chewed. "Now, how can you help me find Aleksi Rychenkna?"

  Twain pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and dropped it on the table. "She told me to call her at midnight when I had any news. She wants a cure, Doctor, but she's not going to come in and be your lab rat. She was emphatic about that."

  "She won't come in willingly, but she will come in." He picked up the piece of pape
r, looked at the number and slipped it into his pocket, smiling without showing his teeth. "You can bank on that."

  He's getting home late this evening." Minder One lowered his telescope and squinted at the sky. The light in Hutchinson's apartment had just come on. "Might snow."

  "You should watch more closely." Derrick kept his eyes on the distant shape of Hutchinson moving through his apartment. "You might miss something important."

  "You really think she'll risk showing up here again after what you did? If she's contacted him, he's told her, and she won't be back." A metal door creaked open onto the roof, and Minder Two approached carrying an insulated pack and a matte black suitcase. "You've sent her to ground, Mister Penningly. She won't risk coming back to anyplace she knows you'll be watching."

  "I disagree." He caught a whiff of meat. "She wants to find me as bad as I want to find her. We're the same." His mouth began to water, but he didn't know if it was the aroma of the meat or the thought of finding Aleksi Rychenkna. He rubbed the swatch of cotton in his pocket and brought his fingers to his nose. Her scent… She plagued his dreams; his violent erotic dreams.

  "Dig in, Mister Penningly. It's going to be a long night." Minder Two handed his partner a wrapped sandwich and a cup of coffee, then took his own. He laid out his dinner, then opened the black metal case. The long shape of a rifle nestled in foam padding glinted in the faint light. He lifted it out and attached the stock and barrel to the middle portion that already sported a telescopic sight.

  "You're going to shoot her?" Derrick glanced at the distant condominium. "From here?"

  "If negotiations fail, yes." The man shouldered the rifle and took a sighting through the scope. Derrick caught a flicker of color from the rifle's frame, a laser range finder, or maybe even a targeting beam. "Not even eight hundred yards." He made some adjustments to the scope.

  "You might not want to use that laser too much. I can see the beam. And if I can see it, she can." He reached into the insulated bag, ignoring Minder Two's incredulous look. The meat was wrapped in white paper, cold in his hand. He unwrapped it and ate mechanically, chewing the tender steak a bite at a time, enjoying the flavor but thinking of something else entirely. His eyes never strayed from the distant balcony. When the meat was gone, he crumpled the paper and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.