by David Bishop
Nikolai had talked about partnering Di Grizov during his thieving days, being taught everything he knew. No prison in the Empire would be able to hold him - a typical Dante boast. Several times during the war the former lovers had been presented with opportunities to kill each other, yet had been unable or unwilling to do so. Rather than deliver Dante for execution, Jena let him escape, urging him to get to safety offworld. "I never want to see you or hear the name Nikolai Dante again," she had said before turning away.
Where was he now, Jena wondered? Despite herself, she combed daily bulletins from across the Empire, looking for his name. The bounty on Dante's head had reached fifty million roubles, with half as much again if anyone should succeed in delivering him alive to the Tsar. Several times Dante had apparently been captured, only to escape again. His apprenticeship with Di Grizov had not been wasted experience, it seemed.
If he had any common sense, Dante would go beyond the reach of the Empire. The ridiculous rogue possessed many qualities, Jena thought, but common sense was not among the strongest. If I know Nikolai, he's probably in trouble right now - up to his neck.
TWO
"Without a ruse the thief won't steal"
- Russian proverb
Dante liked dressing in black. For a start, it hid a multitude of sins and stains, both of which he had considerable experience with. Secondly, it enabled him to disappear into the shadows. Thirdly - and most importantly - it added a hint of danger to what he considered was his already considerable animal magnetism. Few ladies could resist having a kiss stolen from their lips by Dante when he adopted his guise as the Gentleman Thief!
Dante had first pulled on the black mask while staying at the Hotel Yalta, not long after his acceptance to the House of Romanov in 2666. To celebrate his new status, the black-haired brigand had thrown a month-long debauch at the hotel, one of the Empire's most expensive resorts. It was only after the bill arrived that Dante discovered being a Romanov did not also grant him access to the considerable family purse. Ever inventive, he quickly returned to his thieving ways, reviving the skills honed while growing up amongst the Vorovskoi Mir.
He dressed from head to toe in black, pulled on a matching mask and proclaimed himself to be the Gentleman Thief - robbing the rich and then robbing them again. Soon, under-sexed, over-excited ladies were flocking to the Hotel Yalta in the hope of being ravaged by this virile young cutpurse. But all of that was before the war, before Dante's name became a curse upon the lips of millions. A conventional job was beyond his imagination or skills, and laying low for the next fifty years held little appeal. Live fast, have fun and let tomorrow take care of itself was Dante's motto. But you still needed roubles and kopecks to fund such a lifestyle, and so the thief's mask was coming out of retirement.
Dante studied his reflection in a mirror while knotting the mask into place. His eyes sparkled with wit and intelligence, he liked to think - or at least a hint of mischief. A neatly trimmed black moustache and goatee helped enhance his roguish good looks while a lustrous mane of black hair was swept back from his forehead, reaching down almost to collar length. With the mask, few women could resist my considerable charms, he thought.
You're not going out in that I hope, a pious voice said inside Dante's head.
"Why not? It's always been a hit with the ladies."
It does have the advantage of covering half of your face, yes.
"I haven't got time for this, Crest. I've an appointment to keep."
The prim voice sighed heavily. More petty thievery? If so, you can do it without my help. I wasn't created to enable ease of entry for minor felons.
"I resent that remark," Dante protested. "I am not a minor felon!"
Really?
"Don't you know what we're going to rob?"
I dread to think.
"The Imperial Mint," Dante announced triumphantly.
The Imperial Mint?
"Yes."
The most heavily guarded, impenetrable and implacable building in all of St Petersburg?
"That's the one." Dante waited but was rewarded with only a lengthy silence. "Well, aren't you impressed?"
Yes.
"I thought you would be."
This must be the stupidest idea you've ever had, Dante, and that is setting it against an already impressive list of stupid ideas.
Dante finished adjusting his mask. "Whine all you want, Crest, but sometimes I think you actually enjoy my little adventures."
Nothing could be further from the truth! I am a Weapons Crest; one of the most advanced battle computers known to mankind, a repository of vast knowledge and wisdom, charged with the task of training my symbiotic host to become a potential ruler of the Empire! I should have been bonded with a pure-born Romanov - instead I got stuck with you, a lust-driven, sewer-spawned, gutter-rat who acts first and thinks last. You have turned me into an accessory for your petty crime sprees and rejoiced in my discomfort!
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Dante replied. He looked down at the double-headed eagle tattoo on his left arm, the only physical manifestation of the Crest's presence within his body. "Anytime you want to shut up, just let me know."
I wouldn't give you the satisfaction! Our bonding has given you abilities far beyond most men. You have a vastly enhanced healing ability, so you can survive almost any wound. You can extend cyborganic swords from your fists, giving you a significant advantage in hand-to-hand combat. And with the knowledge in my sentient computer brain, you can access and override any computer in the Empire! But what do you use all these gifts for?
Dante sighed. "You nag worse than my first wife, Crest."
You've only been married once - and she's dead.
"Don't remind me."
You still haven't answered my question, Dante.
"You seem to be doing enough talking for both of us."
Lying, cheating, debauching, crime, infamy and indolence!
"And nobody does it better, Crest."
I despair for you.
"Despair all you want, but lower the volume while you do. It's hard to concentrate with an extra voice offering a running commentary in your brain."
Well, at least you've got one intelligent voice inside here, the Crest snapped. If it wasn't for me, cuckoos could nest in your skull undisturbed.
Dante clutched the sides of his head. "Diavolo, just shut up!"
Fine!
"Good!"
I will!
"Suits me!"
After a few moments the Crest spoke again. But you'll be needing me later to break into the Imperial Mint?
"Yeah, of course."
In that case I'll start hacking the Imperial Net for security logs, alarm codes and other useful information.
"Thanks."
Let me know when I'm needed.
Dante waited a moment; but the prim, haughty voice had gone silent - for now. "Finally, some peace and quiet," he muttered, before emerging from the bathroom into the suite's living room. An unwelcome fug, redolent of death, spoiled fish and horse liniment, hung in the air. Dante's nose crumpled involuntarily as he sought to avoid breathing too deeply. "Bojemoi, did somebody die and leave us their corpse in the will?"
"Worse - tonight is Spatch's turn to cook," an aristocratic voice replied. Dante peered through the fumes to see the speaker. Lord Peter Flintlock was standing by the balcony doors, breathing the night air of St Petersburg in preference to whatever vileness was being concocted inside the suite. Tall and thin, with a carefully coiffed tangle of blond hair, Flintlock acted like a fop and dressed like a dandy. He still wore the scarlet uniform with gold braid from his days as a conscript in the Romanov army. Disgraced and deported from his native Britannia for some unknown depravity, Flintlock had joined the fighting forces rather than be executed. Cowardice kept him alive, as did an unlikely alliance with the other occupant of the hotel suite.
"Fuoco, what he is making? Mustard gas?" Dante approached the corner when Spatchcock was stirring something toxic in a pot on a
portable stove.
"A little something of me own invention," the grubby chef replied in a gruff and uncultured voice. "Not as lethal as mustard gas but get one drop on your skin and you'll be retching your guts out for hours. I call it purge juice."
"Charming," Dante said.
"Thought it might come in handy for our raid on the mint."
"Our raid? I've already explained - you and Flintlock wait outside while I go in alone. One man might get in and out alive, but never three."
"Still, you never know," Spatchcock maintained. "It might go wrong. We might have to launch a rescue mission for you!"
"If something goes wrong, I know exactly where you two will be headed - straight for the hills, looking after your own asses."
The sly-faced poisoner grinned, displaying a mouthful of decay and broken molars. "Heh. You're probably right." Like Flintlock, Spatchcock had chosen conscription ahead of execution during the war. The pair had met when they were selected to serve under Dante in the Rudinshtein Irregulars, a motley collection of thieves, murderers and human effluent. Flintlock and Spatchcock had fitted in perfectly.
But the grubby little man was unlike his aristocratic comrade in almost every other way. A liar, forger, extortionist and purveyor of filth, Spatchcock had murdered a dozen men with potions, pills and poisons before the war. Fond of eating his own lice, he could make a meal out of anything - but few would want to consume it. Any clothes he wore seemed to attract grease and stains, and the only baths he took usually involved falling into rivers, lakes or oceans. "Heard you arguing with the Crest again. Surprised you two don't get a divorce."
"I've thought about that more than once," Dante admitted, before leaning forwards to whisper in Spatchcock's left ear. "Secretly I think it enjoys all our misadventures but just can't bring itself to admit that." He straightened up again, not wanting to stay too close in case of catching something unpleasant. "How long before this stuff is ready?"
"Any minute. Just got to let it cool down."
"Good. I want to hit the mint just before midnight, as the security guards are changing shift. While they're busy comparing notes-"
"You'll be nicking the bank notes?" Spatchcock interjected.
"Not exactly. I have something far more valuable in mind."
The Imperial Mint stood to the east of St Petersburg, its imposing stone and marble structure surrounded by cybernetically-enhanced attack dogs, a constantly shifting laser defence grid and a cadre of Berez Enforcers. Recruited from the colony world of Berezova, these fearsome aliens were renowned for the thickness and resiliency of their mottled brown skins. Gravity on Berezova was twice the strength of that on Earth, making the Enforcers vastly more powerful than any human. Anyone who took on an Enforcer without the aid of a large tank was considered foolhardy or insane.
"Should be a piece of cake," Dante said, standing in the shadow of a building opposite the mint's main entrance. Behind him Spatchcock and Flintlock looked less certain, the Englishman hopping nervously from foot to foot while his lice-infested associate scratched at a facial scab.
"You want to take some purge juice, just in case?" Spatchcock asked.
"No thanks," Dante replied. "I'd rather rely on my wits."
"There's a doomsday plan if ever I heard one," Flintlock muttered, earning a baleful glare from his former commander. "Sorry, did I say that out loud?"
"Just stay here and keep the getaway vehicle ready. If I do make it out of there in one piece, I'll probably be running for my life." Dante checked his mask was still in place and then began strolling towards the mint, bold as brass. "Crest, how are those security specs coming along?"
All was silent but for Dante's footsteps.
"Crest, can you hear me?" he hissed under his breath. "This is no time to give me the silent treatment." Dante was close to the mint's security perimeter, but knew retracing his steps now would only attract suspicion. Instead he crouched and began retying the laces on one of his black leather boots. "If this is about what I said earlier, I'm sorry, okay? However I've upset you, I'm sorry!"
By now one of the Enforcers had noticed the stranger lingering just beyond the pulsating laser defence grid. It stumped towards him, carefully choosing its steps across the marble flagstones outside the mint. Dante noticed the guard approaching and continued fiddling with his laces, now retying those on his other boot. Beads of sweat were gathering under the black silk of his mask. He swiftly pulled it off and shoved it into a pocket. Hanging around the mint at midnight wouldn't be easily explained, but wearing a black mask over your face at the same time could complicate matters further.
"Please, Crest, tell me what I've done wrong before that guard realises why I'm really here!"
Well, you're tying that lace into a double knot, for a start, the Crest finally replied. You'll have a terrible time undoing that later.
"Forget the lace! Tell me how to evade the alarms and get inside!"
Not until you apologise.
"I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry!"
Now say it like you mean it, the Crest replied with a sniff.
"How can I mean it when I don't even know what I'm apologising for?"
Saying I nag, for a start. Telling me to be quiet. That sort of thing is very hurtful. You should think before you speak.
By now the Enforcer was within earshot of Dante. The would-be intruder stood up and smiled, giving the guard a friendly wave. "Nice night for it!"
The Enforcer glared back, its monolithic features impassive.
"Couldn't sleep!" Dante offered by way of explanation for his presence. "Thought I'd take a stroll, stretch the legs, get some air into the lungs."
Still nothing from the Enforcer.
"Well, guess I'll be moving along. Maybe I'll be see you later!"
Maybe I'll see you later? the Crest spluttered inside Dante's mind.
"Bye!" Dante called to the guard, before turning and slowly walking away, whistling tunelessly. After a few seconds he risked a glance back over his shoulder. The Enforcer was returning to its post outside the mint's entrance. "Okay, I think I fooled him," Dante whispered.
Congratulations, the Crest replied. You've found someone even stupider than you. That's quite an achievement.
"Very droll. Now how do I get in?"
Turn and start running towards the laser defence grid. The beams are on a complex rotational system but time it just right and you should be able to pick a way between them.
"And if I don't?"
Even your enhanced healing abilities will have trouble reattaching your head or limbs.
"You're filling me with confidence, Crest."
Makes a nice change. Normally you're just full of sh-
"Shut up!" Dante hissed. He spun round and started running towards the laser defence grid. In front of him red beams danced through the air, appearing and disappearing in a dazzling light show that defied interpretation. "Crest, are you sure about this?"
As sure as I can be. There is one factor I can only guess at.
"What's that?"
Your incompetence. Prepare to jump forwards into a somersault.
"Fuoco," Dante whispered.
Now! the Crest commanded. Dante dived into the air hands first, then tucked his legs up underneath himself as he cleared a red beam that suddenly appeared below him. Now kick out and tumble into a forward roll when you hit the ground! The black clad figure followed the Crest's instructions, wincing as his body hit the ground. Stand up - quickly! Dante was on his feet in a moment. Run five paces to your left! The fleet-footed thief set off in one direction. Your other left! Dante twisted round, reversing his direction. Stop! Stay absolutely still! Laser beams sliced through the air in a dizzying cycle of movement, each accompanied by a low buzz and flash of heat. One zipped between Dante's legs, searing the fabric just below his crotch.
"Ahhh! Hot, hot, hot!" Dante winced.
Now, run three steps forwards and then go into a cartwheel!
Dante began running again. "What's
a cartwheel?" he asked.
Just jump!
"I can't look, I can't look," Flintlock whimpered, peering between his fingers as Dante danced around inside the laser field. "Is he still alive?"
"He's still in one piece," Spatchcock chuckled gleefully, "but I'm guessing he won't need his bikini line waxed anytime soon."
"What are you talking about, Spatch?"
"The lasers have - oh, never mind! He's done it, he's through!"
"Bravo!" Flintlock cheered loudly before realising where he was. "Well done," he continued in a much quieter voice. "I always knew he'd pull it off."
"Hmph! That was the easy part," Spatchcock said. "He's still got to penetrate the building, slip past all the security and unlock the vault."
"Oh dear. And that's more difficult?"
"Put it this way, your lordship - no thief has ever made it out of the Imperial Mint alive."
Dante was thankful for the drop in danger levels once inside the mint. He entered via a side window, its lock picked by a combination of the Crest's sentient computer mind and a cyborganic key extruded from one of Dante's fingernails. Inside there were no lasers to dodge, as the mint did not want its staff sliced and diced as they went about their jobs. Instead security rested with a series of alarms and motion sensors, all swiftly neutralised by the Crest. The Gentleman Thief needed less than ten minutes to reach the centre of the building, the mint's world famous Vault of Doom.
"Bit of a melodramatic name, don't you think?"
The Crest ignored Dante's sarcasm. Nobody has ever deduced the correct combination for this chamber. It is said anyone hoping to crack the safe could spend a millennia of millennia upon the task and still not succeed.
"Media hype, just a smokescreen to put off the easily discouraged."