by Pam Uphoff
There've been other kids as good . . . nearly. And I couldn't save them either.
I need to stop doing this to myself. I need to stop caring about all these children. All these cousins to some degree, because heaven forbid my uncle or cousins show the faintest whiff of morals.
He ground his teeth, sat down at his computer and started writing the worst possible combination of a ridiculous Romance Hero and Heroine imaginable in an over-the-top plot to stop the assassination of a world’s governor . . .
I have that sample of the zivvy dissolver.
He ground his teeth. No. I shouldn't even have that. I shouldn't have even wondered if, some day, the Alliance, not needing me any more, would just chip me.
I am an Agent of the 300, I send reports, if needed, and receive orders through the Office of the Inquisitors. Even if, on this backwater low population world, I'm more often helping the Research Center or the Fast Reaction Teams. I'm a Team Mentalist more often than I'm a spy for the local office of Alliance Intelligence. Keeping busy doing other stuff and nearly forgetting why I'm really here.
I have no business even doubting the Alliance.
Doubting the 300.
He spent the rest of the day at his computer writing a brutal murder scene to establish the antagonist—named Vladimir—as a brutal sadist. It was shockingly easy, and what he was going to do to this sick son of a bitch by the end of this stupid story . . . Picked at dinner and ignored the usual insults from the rest of the family.
Didn't punch any of them.
It's done. One way or another.
He hid out in his second floor "apartment." Used the desk there to write. While arguing with himself.
It is illegal for me to have that stuff. Horribly illegal to use it. Capital offense. Four charges could get me executed. Or chipped, myself.
A tap on his door . . . a girl with a hair style problem and three bald kids, grinning and pointing at the one inch squares of exec plates.
He flopped back into his chair with a huff of relief.
And he absolutely did not have to blink away watery eyes when Natasha parted her hair to show a shaved square. With stitches around three sides of a flap of skin.
She grinned. "It worked! And I have a horrible headache. We're supposed to stay out of sight, because the boys are surprise presents. I don't know why I have to . . . I think I can brush my hair to not show anything."
"Well, you've got a month to adjust, then Mr. Solovsky will start giving you some pointers." He eyed the boys. "I wonder about wigs . . . In any case, you can all come up here anytime. Bag a little sunshine, and I suspect Pauli's latest project is a dynamite gaming machine."
He relaxed suddenly, grinning. "Congratulations! You three will never have to peel another potato . . . although if Natasha's going to be a spy, she may have to, now and then."
They all laughed, wincing at the headaches, but relaxing finally. Flopping on the floor in relief.
"N-n-Natasha t-told us how you f-fooled H-his L-lordsh-ship. D-do you know wh-which Twin g-gets wh-who? And what about me?"
"I suspect Dear Uncle considers you a gag gift, suitable for his appalling nephew." Axel looked over at Dimitri and Barf. "I have no idea about which Twin gets which Ranger inflicted on him. Hell, I don't know for sure that I'll get Pauli."
He spun his chair back to his computer and started a search for "wigs" and "boy cut."
They climbed up off the floor and snickered over his shoulder as he zeroed in on the shortest possible and ordered the stretchy things in medium blonde, dark blonde and light brown.
"How about ultra blonde and black? Then we could do disguises." Barf swapped grins with Dimitri.
"R-r-r-r-ed."
"I'm only doing this because I'm delighted to have pulled off using Snobovsky to manipulate Dear Uncle. Has nothing to do with relief that you guys get to keep your brains and mentalist abilities."
Natasha snickered. "Right. We know you're too tough and mean to care."
He spent the next two weeks teaching all four of them how to change their postures and strides to be even less recognizable. And monitored their grow-in period, when the zivvy, the living wires, were growing into their brains. The disorientation passed quickly. No sign their intelligence was affected, the glows of their Mentalist abilities remained high.
No problems, Thank God.
They'll always have their Mentalist Talent! I can teach them more, help them get stronger.
Natasha brushed her hair to hide the shaved spot, and as far as Axel could tell, neither of the twins noticed that Mr. Solovsky had four new assistants, let alone that they had executive plates. He ordered more wigs and cut them into inch squares of various lengths. The boys stuck the rectangles of fake hair over their plates, and wore them even after their hair had grown out enough to mostly hide the plates.
The cool fall weather set in and he got back to running every day—two laps around the grounds of Vinogradov House—then down to the basement gym for karate lessons with however many of the servant kids wanted them. The Rangers and half the older kids were usually there, and they’d started running, too.
And the Boss didn't call.
I swear I’ll never let my vacation and comp time build up again!
Axel gave up on his klutzy moron of a Hero and his Idiot Girlfriend. They just weren't up to dealing with the monster he'd created. He obviously needed a Real Policeman to do the heavy lifting. It was quite freeing to manipulate the whole thing, infuriating when he got carried away and wrote something he'd swear he hadn't intended but worked out better than what he'd sort of planned.
And . . . might have happened to find a few hours, now and then, to get out of sight and work with the Rangers, on a few methods of avoiding notice, and mental shielding. Telepathy. Deliberately pulling power. Applying that power to all the things he’d been teaching them.
Added physical and energy shields to the mental shields.
Not that Natasha needed more than a single lesson to pick up the techniques. And Pauli was positively gleeful when he connected to the miniature computer in his head. Well, inset into his skull.
He hauled them out to the nearest camping spot for three days of shooting. Natasha had always been good with the pistols, in combination with mentalist perception she was even more unbelievable than Dimitri with a sniper rifle. Barf and Pauli were merely very good.
Axel wrote an even more ridiculous final battle, with the beaten Vladimir stealing a car and peeling out for the dimensional portal as it shut, sliceing the car and the villain vertically, leaving half on each World.
And a really stupid wrap up scene, where the assassin was led off in restraints, the Hero proposed marriage to the Idiot and got turned down. The Idiot went off to find the policeman, who spotted her coming and departed quickly.
The end. And I am so happy to be done with it! I really don't have what it takes to write stuff like this! Especially not if there's going to be romance. And sex should be behind closed doors. And better yet, not happen at all, because realistically the two idiots wouldn't even think about contraceptives.
He saved it, copied it to a tab, and went down to dinner.
Good timing. Tomorrow's my birthday and I'll pack up and get out of this place.
Chapter Five
A Formal Dinner
Wednesday, November 14, 3738
The twins, as usual, bracketed their father, their wives sat together down from Andre, and chattered, ignoring the three children old enough to eat at the table, and Axel sat a chair away from Nikoli, unfortunately not being ignored.
However hard he tried to ignore them.
I wonder what Inspector Smirnov will investigate next?
Wait, no! I am not writing a sequel!
They'd started dinner late, and by the time the soup and salad courses had passed, the children started whining and were whisked away. Then the fish course. Imported halibut.
We don't have many farms, a few truck gardens, a few sports fishermen, b
ut nothing on a commercial scale that I've ever heard of. . . . Maybe a plot to isolate the world and starve the small population? No! Damn it, it was an interesting thing to do. To see if I could.
And anyway, there wasn't anything about a small population like here. I even put some Natives in.
So it'll have to be something different. Maybe an attack by the Enemy? Or another Alliance World? That could be fun. I wrote it as a Russian Families World. So should a German or Japanese Family World attack?
And still no sex. Otherwise I'll be realistic and the idiot girl will get pregnant, and the Hero will look blank, as if he had no idea how that could have happened . . .
Then little medallions of beef, and fresh green beans . . .
Imported beef, possibly local produce. I really ought to write in one of these ridiculous, drawn out meals. Inspector Smirnov could fumble around . . . or perhaps he could have a clueless assistant, for comic relief.
No. I am not going to write another book. Especially not one with a dinner like this, unfortunately not fictional one.
The purpose of which is probably to show the contrast between a dinner he wants and the not-much-of-a-birthday-dinner for me tomorrow, I suppose.
Last year Dear Uncle had indigestion and ate sparingly in his rooms, the others went out to dinner, and I had some excellent chicken in peace and quiet.
It's going to be hard to top that.
Or maybe he'll draw dinner out past midnight, then tell me happy birthday. And if he knows how old I really am . . . tell me to go pack.
God, that would be so nice!
Not allowed according to the terms of the various trusts, but I'm leaving anyway.
A loud crash of breaking china. Axel jerked around as his uncle, half his face sagging, leaned, tried to stand, and toppled over, taking his chair with him.
Axel leaped up, pulling out his phone and hitting the emergency code.
"What is the nature of your emergency?"
"Medical, my uncle appears to have had a stroke. Please send an ambulance." Axel knelt by the old man. He was gasping irregularly, his right eye blinking and confused. "No I do not need to go through your list, the left side of his face is sagging, and he is unable to speak or stand. Ambulance. Now."
"Medical assistance is en route. Ambulance is en route."
"Thank you." Axel looked around. "Harro. Turn on all the front exterior lights and open the gate, stand out there and flag down the ambulance." A quick glance at his watch. Twenty-two hundred hours, fifteen minutes . . . Damn.
"Andre, Nikoli, let's get your father off the floor and out to the couch in the large parlor."
"You don't give orders around here!" Nikoli glared. "And you sure as hell don't inherit anything!"
"Your father is not dead, and there is very little in the house that I want."
Oh hell.
The Rangers.
A couple of maids fluttered around, then menservants to help carry the old man to the parlor.
His Lordship was still breathing when the ambulance arrived.
God! Brain chipped medics with programmed responses?
Someone finally woke the chauffeur and told him to get the car out . . .
Axel's autocab arrived as the fully uniformed chauffeur finally walked out to the car . . .
Axel was first to the hospital where a doctor with an executive chip was shaking his head at a screen with . . . too many rather flattish lines.
Nikoli and Andre rushed up as the doctor spoke. "There's nothing to be done. There's minimal brain activity, and declining. I'm very sorry, but I recommend we remove life support."
Axel glanced at his watch. 22:56. "Lord Vladimir Vinogradov is a Head of Family. And a Councilman. I think it would be wise to have a Council Observer here, to remove any doubts."
Andre and Nikoli swapped glances. "What the hell? What are you up to, you slimy bastard?"
"Guys, think! It's quite obvious; we were all there at dinner when he had the stroke. The doctor recommended we remove life support. But you two are going to fight over the inheritance, the tabloids are going to love it . . . we need an official observer." Axel pulled out his phone and started tapping.
Nikloi leaned and tried to loom at him. "And you're not going to try to get any money out of us?"
"That will depend on the will, and I think we all know that Uncle Vladimir will have left me a tiny pittance, if anything."
A ting from his phone as the Council Hotline answered.
"This is Lord Axel Vinogradov. My uncle, Family Head Lord Vladimir Vinogradov, Councilman for First Plat District, has had a stroke and is not expected to live. We need an official observer to . . . witness all decisions made. We are at Central Mercy Hospital, IC4."
"We will send an observer immediately."
The doctor shooed them out and into a waiting room.
Andre and Nikoli eyed each other hostilely. Axel sat and tried to not watch the clock.
Fifteen minutes until a man walked in. "I'm Lord Evgeny Vitorov, sent by the Council to observe the medical decisions being made here."
Axel stood and introduced himself and the Twins, as two more men entered. Apparently a Councilman’s death was important enough to get people out of bed . . .
Axel blinked at a familiar face. What the hell is my boss doing here? Oh. Shit. Dear Uncle's on the Intelligence Committee. "Thank you for coming so promptly . . ."
Andre elbowed him out of the way. "Shut up you unctuous weasel."
His boss stifled a cough. "Can you tell us what happened?"
"We were eating dinner." Nikoli shrugged.
"And Father's chair fell over." Andre butted in.
"Axel was calling for an ambulance before he hit the ground." Nikoli rounded on Axel. "You knew! What did you do to him?"
"I was looking at him when half his face sagged. Then he went over in a crash, and I hit the emergency services button." Axel tried to not sound exasperated. "Time matters, with a stroke." And if I were a bit more calloused, I'd have not been so quick then, and fumbled around a bit calling for an observer . . .
"Yeah, that's what you say, now!" Andre.
"I demand an investigation!" Nikoli.
"An autopsy!" Andre.
"And test for poisons! Exotic poisons!" Nikoli.
"For God's sake! You two were on each side of him. I didn't get within ten feet of Uncle Vladimir. If you two don't shut up, the police are going to be investigating which of you killed him."
They both started yelling at once.
Axel pinched the bridge of his nose. Glanced at his watch. 23:35.
One of the observers was clicking at his phone. Odds are he's calling the police.
"If you two are done . . ."
"No!"
"You cold blooded murderer!"
Axel ground his teeth. "What sort of stupid mystery books have you been reading?"
"Well researched ones!" Andre yelled.
"You wanted Father dead before we turned fifty!" Nikoli yelled.
They kept it up for another ten minutes.
Axel looked over his shoulder as the door opened.
A tall man, young, blond, off the shelf suit. Intelligent eyes. A uniformed Cyborg behind him. "Senior Detective Lord Vlad Gagarin. Homicide. Who has died?"
Andre and Nikoli launched into a rather incoherent tangle that ended with them both pointing at Axel.
Axel looked at his watch. 23:52. He looked at the detective. "My uncle Lord Vladimir Vinogradov suffered what looked like a stroke approximately two hours ago. The Doctor has recommended we cease futile efforts to revive him. I called for a Council Observer to avoid the exact mess my cousins seem determined to create."
"So . . . is Lord Vladimir . . . officially dead?"
"He is still on life support. And may I point out that apart from my cousins' over emotional . . ."
"He's my dad! Of course I'm emotional! You . . ." Nikoli looked ready to leap on him.
Andre looked just as angry. "You poisonous little
shit! Sitting there gloating! I'll bet you'll be sorry when they arrest you!"
"Or when they read the will! You're not going to get a thing, do you hear me?"
"The entire hospital hears you, Nikoli."
"Let's all just calm down." The senior detective was looking a bit exasperated.
Axel had been around too many Cyborgs to not realize the uniformed man was both amused and appalled.
Yeah, me too, but it's bloody damn useful, tonight.
The cousins, breathing hard and glaring, did at least, shut up after a few more mutters at a low volume.
"Thank you." The senior detective eyed the brothers, then Axel. "Now. Where is Lord Vladimir?"
"Down the hall in IC4. Perhaps the observers should talk to the doctor." Axel stepped to the door and held it for all the officials.
The twins led the way, restarting their demands that he be arrested immediately, twice.
In IC4 there was a single nurse, the screen was showing even more flat lines. The doctor hustled in. "I'm sorry, but his brain activity is well below all standards of brain death, has been since he arrived, and his body systems are shutting down."
"Do you have brain scans?" Axel asked, from barely inside the door. A quick glance, 23:57.
"Of course." The doctor picked up a remote and brought up pictures on a wall screen. "Right there. An aneurysm. The dark blots are blood that has escaped the blood vessels, these lighter areas, brain tissue lacking blood. This second scan three minutes later . . . shows the progression. And now . . . well. There is nothing we can do, there is no one there to save. There wasn't, even when he was brought in."
The three observers exchanged glances and nods. One of them nodded to the twins. "We've seen enough. You may give your father Grace."
Nikoli and Andre exchanged glances and nods. "Give him Grace. Stop all life support."
A flip of three switches, an air tube removed. The doctor listened carefully as the last breath sighed out of the old man's lungs. A long moment, as the doctor listened for a heartbeat.