Code Name Igor

by Pam Uphoff

  Axel walked closed, reaching out mentally into a dull, slow, incurious mind. Saw the routine, where to take the garbage . . . past some guards . . . who would probably know where to hunt for the idiots.

  He followed the janitor into the next office and sent a sleep impression. Took the cap and lanyard and walked back out. Tucked his tote out of sight and pushed the cart, squeaking all the way, down the corridor, turn, down to the elevator . . . another janitor coming from the other side.

  Axel got in first. The other man pushed his cart in. Pushed a button. The elevator rose. The janitor pulled his cart out, Axel followed him to a security checkpoint. A guard grunted and walked over to open a large gate.

  Axel reached out mentally, gently to read the guard's surface thoughts.

  Poor sods. I'd rather they just took me out and shot me than be that stupid . . . a glance outside . . . wish they'd hurry, I hate waiting for the shots . . .

  Axel got the whole picture, as he pushed his cart through the gate and outside. Oh Shit! Where can I ditch the cart without raising an alarm? And . . . those Cyborgs marching out there . . . The firing squad?

  Axel shoved the cart to the side, grabbed his tote and took off running. Wire fence, quick swoop of slice and dive through. He dropped the tote and sprinted as the Cyborgs lined up facing five men in striped overalls, hands bound behind their backs, heads shaved . . .

  Lasers or, no, they have rifles.

  He pulled power as he ran, turned to run sideways, to get clearance between executioners and the condemned.

  "Ready . . ." The man sounded bored.

  "Aim . . ."

  A hard physical shield, angled downward . . .

  "Fire."

  The impact of the bullets on his off-center, unanchored shield tumbled him. Axel propped himself up and threw a hard stun impression across the prisoners . . .

  They dropped.

  Axel stayed low and watched the officer turn away indifferently and lead his squad away.

  Workers in khaki drove a small flat out to the bodies on the ground. Shaking out body bags . . .

  One man in civilian garb walking out and pointing something at the bodies . . .

  Axel closed in fast, and reached out into the man's brains. Squashed his startled realization the first guy was alive. Had him enter the death . . . and the next . . . all five confirmed dead, and he walked away, leaving the workers to their business.

  Axel walked to the flat and unsealed the bags as the workers loaded them, so the men could breathe . . . barely recognized Andre with his head shaved, the stitches and scab where a chip would be inserted. Shit! And Nikoli . . . two strangers . . . and . . . was that Councilman Kovalev?

  The workers wanted to take the bodies into that building back there.

  Axel leaned on them telepathically, convinced them that they were all done for the night, go home, good job, all is well.

  Now I just need to fire up my beacon and drive this disaster through . . . He straightened and eyed the bright lights half a mile away. The lights flickering across the walls from the headlights of the trucks lined up for the portal.

  Pity to come all this way and not do any damage at all. I think a little reciprocal kidnapping is called for, under these circumstances.

  He stepped up on the flat and with a little experimentation drove back to where he'd dropped his tote, then turned the flat down a path along the wall of the building toward the Portal Center. Tried to remember details from his brief visit.

  It was standard enough that he hadn't looked beyond the large number of armed men standing around.

  So I walked out on a ramp, for foot traffic or small vehicles. And judging by the trucks, the portal can be turned the other direction so larger wheeled traffic can drive straight through—or out of—large doors that would have been behind me as I faced the mercenaries.

  So the portalmaker's private hell is either right through that wall, or across on the far side of the portal.

  Well, growing up, up top, I know the standard controls . . .

  I should be able to feel the pain and find the portalmaker.

  He slowed and stopped. Lowered shields and felt . . . a mental . . . stubbornness. Pain under it. A refusal to give up.

  And someone closer, shielded and powerful. Axel snapped around . . . to stare at an empty corner . . . no, there was a distortion . . .

  "Damn, that's a good . . . hmm, not unnoticeable . . ." Axel blinked. This has to be . . . He switched to English. "The Enemy, I assume?"

  And suddenly there was a man standing there. Black haired, tall and muscular. "Is that what you call us?"

  "We have no idea who you are, or why you are attacking us. We assume you are the same people who destroyed almost every government building on Tier Two Stalin. And are responsible for the Plague. What do you call yourselves?"

  "The Empire of the One. You attacked us. We repulsed you, followed you home and destroyed, as you say, nearly every government building. A year later, you returned from a second world. So this Alliance of yours is going to be destroyed."

  Axel eyed him. "You have already broken the Alliance. You poisoned the Three Hundred and the Alliance is now in the process of collapsing into individual worlds, raiding each other for the zivvy that is all that keeps the Families of the True Men in control."

  A razor edged flash of teeth. "Good."

  Axel bit his lip. "You might pass on to your masters, that the Plague destroys the Mentalist abilities of elite and servants alike. Of course, if you intend to follow up with a conquest, this is all to the good—for you. But if you wish to change our culture—weaponize that zivvy dissolver. Knock the props out from under the elite, by giving the lower classes back the abilities and intelligence they were born with."

  A twitch from the flat.

  "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to finish rescuing these idiots . . ." He looked at the wall. "And I think I'll take their portalmaker along with me."

  "So you can wire him up to yours?"

  "Actually we’ve been experimenting, helmets, not wires and so forth."

  "How . . . interesting." The Enemy stared at the wall for a moment, took a half step to the side and sliced a tall arch, and back across the bottom, stepped back as the slab tilted outward and crashed to the ground between them. A thin smile as the light from inside gleamed off hazel eyes, then the man was just . . . gone.

  "Damn . . ." Axel bolted through the hole, shields up hard and threw a stun impression in a stream across the far side of the room. Four men collapsed across their controls and Axel leaped to slap the emergency shutdown button. Locked the door. Shoved a desk in front of it.

  He flipped open the latches sealing the coffin-like structure in the middle of the room and hauled the lid open. "Hi. I'm Igor, and I'm kidnapping you."

  "Oh . . . Okay." Pale, bald, muscles badly atrophied, blinking in the lights . . . Axel sliced tubes and wires, helped the man sit up, everything but his face coated with nasty looking goo that probably kept his skin from dissolving. Which made him slippery, but he was light enough to heave over his shoulder and carry out the hole in the wall. Axel laid him down on the moaning body bags. Caught the sound of multiple running feet and brought up a hard dome shield, physical and energy.

  The guards leaping through the hole in the wall wasted ammunition, then Cyborgs rounding the corner ahead started firing lasers, while Axel turned the flat away from the hole in the wall . . . paced out twelve feet in front of it and sliced out a hole in the pavement. Set the beacon in the hole and turned it on. He trotted back to the flat, peeling out of his shirt.

  "You need this worse than me."

  "Oh, right . . . I remember . . ." The portalmaker helped get himself into the shirt as Axle jerked the hood out of the collar, covered the man's head, pulled the shirt tails down as far as they'd go, and pulled a couple of body bags over his legs.

  Then he got behind the controls and fished the spattercloth sack out of the tote, hauled it over his own head as the porta
l opened and he gunned the flat through.

  ***

  They were all set up for decontamination and ignored all his pained yelps as he got hosed down with a nasty salt brine before, during, and after he undressed, then helped with the others, as they hadn't been expecting a crowd, let alone five recovering from stun and one unable to stand at all . . .

  Then a fresh water rinse, bathrobes, and they got hauled through empty corridors to the isolation ward in the medical center.

  Not that we ought to need to be isolated, the Plague, if we got any on us, should have been washed off. But safety first . . .

  Where he got to explain it all to the Boss and the Inquisitor through a glass wall with a speaker.

  They were both grinning.

  "You snatched their portalmaker! That'll keep them grounded." The Boss sobered. "Now we'll have to first grab the other imposters, and then . . . figure out what to do with the chipped originals."

  Axel shook his head. "They were raiding for zivvy. I really doubt they wasted chips on people they were planning to execute."

  "What?" Councilman Kovalev staggered up to the window, a hand hovering over the scab on his bare scalp.

  "A cheap, easy way to demoralize you, make you easier to question, control." Axel looked past him to the Medic. "Scan them. Let's find out."

  The medic frowned "I have a meter to check the function of chips as they grow in. I was just going to check . . ." He pulled out a little screened box and placed it against the Councilman's head. "Nothing. If there's a chip in there, it's not working at all."

  Kovalev grabbed the window frame to support suddenly weak legs. Axel and the Medic grabbed him and walked him back to his bed.

  "Check everyone else." Axel looked around at all the rest of the patients. "In fact a full scan, to see if they put anything in their heads, would be a good idea."

  The portalmaker let his head drop back. "Doesn't matter to me. I'll be wired back up soon enough. Just for a minute there . . . I sort of hoped . . ."

  Axel walked over to him. "This is Siberia Max. We've been experimenting with less brutal methods of controlling portals." He looked back at the Boss. "Could be really interesting, with a full blown, experienced portalmaker."

  "And there's another report I need to make . . . where it can't be overheard."

  "Time critical?"

  "No rush. You'll probably want to shoot me after you hear it."

  :: All right. I'm braced for the worst. Tell. ::

  :: I encountered one of the Enemy. :: He closed his eyes and remembered the whole conversation.

  The Inquisitor was shaking his head. :: You . . . suggested a different tactic? And told them the Alliance was broken? ::

  :: One suspects they know. But a chance to get them to stop spreading the Plague was not to be missed. I thought diverting them might work, where a plea to just stop wouldn't. ::

  :: I've always wondered when they'd invade. :: The Boss eyed him.

  :: From what I overheard on Neu Frankfurt . . . I think they want peace, and for us to stop killing each other. ::

  They gave him disbelieving looks.

  The Boss shrugged. :: Relax. We'll probably let you out tomorrow. I'll send Murphy up to tell you what comes of our hunt for the imposters . . . in fact, we need the names and addresses for the other two. ::

  Axel eyed the two unknown men, both sitting up and looking around. "I was planning to rescue those two," he waved at his cousins, still not quite with it, "and grabbed you other three just because you were there. Kovalev I recognized. Who are you two?"

  "Lord Hans von Mansfeld, Stuttgart." A heavy German accent. "And Lord Gunter von Colloredo, who is our President's right hand man. Where are we?"

  Axel paused to change languages. "This is Tier Five Siberia Max. We're a research World, with a small population. Budapest Reborn has twice attacked us, and replaced at least two people here with imposters . . . were there more people where they were holding you?"

  "No!" He sat up in alarm. "Replaced?"

  "If they have replaced me . . ." Lord Gunter paled.

  "We will check for a path back to Stuttgart."

  "We are Tier Two! If they have . . . we will destroy them for this!" Gunther was recovered enough to start getting mad.

  Axel nodded at the portalmaker. "We've made a start. They're grounded until they get a portalmaker trained up. In the meantime . . . we'd best hope you six grow some hair."

  He walked over to Andre and Nikoli. Partly dazed, partly . . . devastated.

  "Don't look at me!" Andre turned his head away. "Where are we? How did we get here?"

  "You've been rescued. They didn't really chip you, they just played a vicious little game to manipulate you."

  "Really?" Nikoli's eyes widened, then filled with tears and he fell back, shivering.

  "You'll be fine in a few days, take a vacation for a couple of weeks so your hair grows back in . . . right now we're all in quarantine until they're sure we don't have the plague." Axel held his hand out and squeezed down a handful of power.

  Everyone in the room did the same, some a bit shaky, the portalmaker's flickering and dim.

  Axel walked back to him. "Relax. You're going to need some rehab . . . what's your name?"

  "Henrik Leitz." A faint smile. "It's been awhile since anyone's called me that. What is the date?"

  "November twenty-third, 3738."

  "Thirty-eight! God above. I was in that casket for eight years?"

  "I guess so." Axel shivered. And I hope to hell I can get Henrik into Dr. Borodin's program!

  And get out of here myself, soon. God, I wonder what's going on at home?

  Chapter Twenty

  Murder?

  Saturday, November 24, 3738

  Vlad had had worse hangovers, but not in recent memory.

  He eyed that nice dry sandwich and glass of milk dubiously as Dina snickered.

  "I should never have let you talk me into drinking your medicine." Lord Axel's cow potion. Dissolves zivvy! No wonder he warned Forty-one to not get any on him!

  She sniffed. "How are your eyes?"

  He looked around at the bright colors, out the window and across the city. "Fully recovered." And I didn't have to set the computer at arm’s length to read it!

  "And apart from a horrible headache, the rest of me is recovered as well, although I don't think I'll go into work today." He glanced at the computer. "Catch up on my mail and paperwork and such, I think."

  He'd just finished his late lunch when the comp dinged for incoming business mail . . . from Regulus.

  Siberia Max had been discovered by the Regulus Hub, but the first scientists in the Research Center had been from all over, about two thirds Russian, the rest German Families. The businessmen who came later had been mostly Russian Family from Regulus, with servants . . . and the three servants of the Vinogradov's who hadn't been born here had been imported from there.

  The answer to his query was straightforward. Vera, born to a servant, trained to be a chef, sold to Vladimir Vinogradov and exported to Siberia Max. Katarina, born to a servant, trained to be a lady's maid, sold to Vladimir Vinogradov and exported to Siberia Max. Vadik Solovsky, third son of Lord Ivan Solovsky, MD. Not Presented, Executive Plate, trained medic, sold to a clinic no longer in business, sold to Vladimir Vinogradov and exported to Siberia Max.

  Son of a doctor. Trained medic.

  "I'll be damned." He picked up his phone and called Forty-one. "You free? I'm headed for Vinogradov House to have a chat with a killer."

  "I'm on the way."

  ***

  "But . . . what . . . nobody will tell me anything!"

  Natasha paused, a large piece of broken glass in her hand. Big enough to be used in a smaller section of the complex windows. The original antique glass valuable enough to be worth the effort. Eventually the smaller bits and splinters would be swept up.

  Lady Veronica was looking around, in tears. Standing on the bottom step of the stairs, as if afraid to set
foot on the marble floor.

  Her house is trashed, and someone who looked just like her husband was killed here two days ago.

  Lady Anastaciya was keeping to her rooms, with the children. Her husband’s look-alike has been arrested and hauled away . . .

  Natasha bit her lip. "Perhaps, My Lady, under the circumstances, you might want to use the east side stairs, and eat in the Breakfast Room. Shall I send lunch there? And perhaps for all the children? And send Lady Anastaciya's to her rooms?"

  Lady Veronica took a deep breath. "Yes, an excellent suggestion, Natasha, thank you."

  Natasha set the glass in the box for the etched pieces and headed for the servants’ stairs. She checked her shoes, careful that she wasn't tracking glass splinters down the hall, tucked her gloves in a pocket and trotted down the stairs to the kitchen.

  Where emotions were high, between shock over the battle, the death of the Nikoli look-alike and the arrest of the Andre look-alike. Tears from the mothers of the two imposters. Sympathy and tears from the others who remembered them.

  Fear that the real lords could be dead. And worry over the future of all the servants that belonged to them.

  Sprinkled with glee over the overheard talk in the aftermath of the battle.

  "Igor! I heard it clear as a bell! Our Lord Axel is Igor!"

  Natasha snickered. Poor man's tried so hard to hide it! Even the Rangers didn't suspect anything like that! She pulled herself together and followed the good smells to the head cook. "I suggested to Lady Veronica that they take lunch in the breakfast room. She's going to bring all the kids down, but probably Lady Anastaciya will eat in her rooms."

  "Oh, good idea." Miss Vera grabbed plates and bowls. "I'll send up the soup immediately, the day's getting cold! Alfonya, get up there with water glasses. You, girl, the silver, hop to it!"

  Junie started collecting the silverware, Natasha grabbed a pile of napkins and the tablecloth and hustled up the stairs. Spread the cloth, distributed napkins, left a pile of extras where they'd be handy for the kids . . . then trotted down the back hallway, glad to see that all the ornate old etched and beveled glass windows here were intact. The back wall of the Grand Hall . . . well the ground floor was a mess, glass gone, and the carved wooden frames shattered, and burned. The second floor had lost some glass, and the wooden paneling and furniture up both sides of the hall were pockmarked and splintered by bullets, even the marble floor hadn't escaped. Chips, shattered tiles.