AEGIS EVOLUTION

by S. S. Segran

The woman’s eyebrows rose. “That’s me.”

  “In that case…” Gareth loped over to the flowers he’d dropped, straightened them, and passed them to her. “A few of them are a little bent. Sorry about that.”

  She took the flowers in one hand, bewildered. “These are beautiful. But… what are they for? Who are they from?”

  “As I said, I’m just doing a delivery.”

  “Well, thank you. And I apologize if I sound brusque. It’s just… with all the worry about this disease and the war, people here have been even less open to one another than usual. It’s nice—and surprising—to see kindness survive.”

  Gareth reached out to pull a piece of leaf stuck in the young girl’s hair. She wiggled around in her mother’s arms and beamed at him. He smiled back, then glanced at the manor and let out a low whistle. “This is an amazing property you have. You’ve done really well for yourself here.”

  The woman bashfully waved the bouquet at the house behind her. “Oh, this is all inheritance. Anya and I have been fortunate that way.”

  Inheritance… from her parents? Or perhaps a late husband. She’s using ‘Ms.’ instead of ‘Mrs.’, after all. Deciding to risk it, he offered a smile and said, “Undeniably. I’m sure you and your husband must enjoy raising your little girl here.”

  The woman turned away from him. “My husband passed.”

  “Oh… I—I’m sorry.”

  She said nothing, but when she turned back to him, she frowned. “You’re still bleeding.”

  “I’m fine.”

  She shook her head. “Come inside, we’ll get you cleaned up.”

  “Aren’t you worried I’ll spread the disease?” he asked, half joking.

  “You’ve been standing here with your mask all askew after saving my daughter. I’ve already taken my chances, but I’m going to send Anya upstairs, just to be safe.”

  In the sleek, black-marble topped kitchen of the stately home, Gareth removed his leather jacket and dabbed the scrapes on his temple with a paper towel. They were small, inconsequential, but the woman was insistent. She circled him like a mother hen as he started to rinse away the crusted stains at the sink.

  “So,” he said, taking a cloth from her and wiping his face, “what did a lovely woman like you do for a living before the world started sliding to hell in a handbasket?”

  “I’m an artist,” she said, pouring water into a glass.

  “Really? You’ve got a gallery somewhere?”

  “God, no.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste, then passed him the glass. “My work isn’t public. It’s mostly for charity or private auctions within my network. I believe they serve better this way than if they’d gone to the masses. Besides, it’s just a hobby, really. Something to do with my time.”

  No wonder her occupation didn’t show up anywhere online, Gareth thought as he removed his mask to down the drink. Wealthy artist living on inheritance. Not too shabby a life.

  “And you?” she asked. “What do you do?”

  “Me? I travel the world. Doing odd jobs here and there, meeting people, gaining new experiences.”

  “That sounds amazing,” she said dreamily. “I’ve always wanted to travel but I… never had the courage. And now it doesn’t look like I’ll ever get the chance. You’re certainly fortunate. You must have met many… interesting people during your travels.”

  Their eyes met. Gareth couldn’t stop from grinning, and neither could she.

  From somewhere in the house came the ringing of a handbell. The woman gave the Sentry a remorseful look. “That’s my little one. She’s tired and wants me to tuck her in.”

  Gareth shrugged his jacket back on. “I should be going, anyway.”

  She walked him to the door. “It was a pleasure chatting with you. It’s really nice to see a face that smiles around here. And thank you for the lovely flowers.”

  “I’m just the errand boy,” he said, bowing. “It was lovely meeting you, Ms. Deol. And please, try not to leave your home if you can help it. You’ve got a darling family here and I’d be remiss if I didn’t beg you to stay safe.”

  “That’s very sweet of you. I was planning a complete lockdown from tomorrow onward.”

  “Promise?”

  She gazed at him with wonder. “You are a cheery spark of light in this dreary place. Yes, I promise.”

  Once inside the car, Gareth crossed the first name off his list, then keyed the second address into the GPS. It took him eastward, past the famed Red Square plaza. Just after it was Lenin’s Mausoleum, where the body of Russia’s former leader lay preserved and on display for the world to see. Gareth thought it was a bit macabre.

  In the far reaches of a quieter district, the Sentry headed up the stairs of a decades-old apartment building. The lights overhead flickered and buzzed as if they would burst any minute, and a constant cold draft seemed to follow him. Everything around him gave him the creeps. The one thing he could not stand was horror movies, and the building gave off all the wrong vibes.

  He reached the eighth floor and double-checked the apartment number, then knocked on the second door to his right. A rat scuttled past his foot, making him jump. “Bwah!”

  The door cracked open and one eye glared out. “Da?” said a rough voice.

  He quickly righted himself. “Good evening. May I speak with Mrs. Deol?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m here on behalf of a neighbor who—”

  The door swung fully open, revealing a short old woman with a kerchief tied around her head. She had a rolling pin in hand and she looked absolutely livid. “It’s Petrov again, isn’t it? I told him, I will not be sharing any more of my food! And now he pulls his lousy lackey in to help him? That wretched, no-good son of a—”

  “Are… are you Mrs. Deol?”

  “Are you stupid? Does it look like anyone else lives here? Yes, it’s me! Now you go and tell Petrov that if he so much as tries to set foot in my house again, or even knocks on my door, he will regret it!”

  “Madam, if you don’t mind, I’d really like to—”

  She screeched and swung her rolling pin like a bat, hitting him square in the abdomen. He doubled over, the wind knocked out of him, and backed off, holding a hand up in submission. “Okay! Okay! I’ll let Petrov know!”

  “You better!” She slammed the door on his face.

  Gareth hobbled down the stairs to his car as fast as he could. Well, I’m quite certain that’s not who I’m looking for. A Caucasian with an East Indian name—must’ve taken her husband’s after marriage. He rubbed his sore abdomen. Oof, that babushka has one heck of an arm.

  He typed the final address into the car’s navigational system. It took him southward; he drove past the Kremlin and over the Moskva River toward the next district. As he passed the famed Gorky Park, he felt disheartened. The normally vibrant public square was completely empty, even the outdoor ice rink. He had fond memories of it from his mid-twenties when he and a group of friends backpacked across Europe. The ice rink had given them bruises and sore feet, but also ear-to-ear smiles all around. He shook his head sadly.

  The GPS led him to a country-style, single-story house at the outskirts of the district. Two luxury cars were parked inside the gated property. The lights on the property grounds were lit, but the house itself was not. Gareth pulled a face. Guess I’ll have to wait the night out here.

  He stationed his vehicle across the street from the house behind other parked cars, turned off the engine and hunkered down, pulling his jacket tighter and covering his ears with a beanie. Being from Wales, he was used to the cold but it didn’t mean he enjoyed turning into an icicle. He was in and out of slumber the entire night, his subconscious too paranoid about missing whoever might walk out the front door.

  Just before dawn, he startled himself awake. Momentarily forgetting where he was, he peered out his window just as a brown-haired, tanned woman in a business suit strode out of the house. Her face flushed, she unlocked her car, warily checking her sur
roundings. Her behavior intrigued Gareth. He slid lower to conceal himself as she sped past, then followed her. That looked secretive… She could be the one, driving to her office of horrors. Or that could also be guilty behavior. Maybe she left a lover in the house.

  She was the only one of the three women on his list who had some presence on social media. As far as he could tell, her main interests were cats, skiing, and fun nights out with her friends. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was something.

  He tailed her across the bridge back toward the heart of Moscow as daylight broke. They navigated the streets until she pulled up by an imposing cream-and-tan structure with four rows of glass windows. Gareth gawked at the large emblem high up on the building. No. Way.

  He was staring directly at the offices of the Ministry of Health.

  So you leave out the most important part of your online profile? he thought, irritated. I could’ve saved so much time if you’d stated it up front.

  As the woman headed inside, he fished a spare wallet from his bag, stuffed some rubles and kopeks into it, then removed his beanie to part and comb his hair, hoping to look sufficiently professional. He straightened his jacket and jogged into the simple reception area of the building just as the woman stepped into an elevator to his far right. Not knowing if he could follow her, he hurried to the smartly-dressed man behind the reception counter and held up the wallet. “Excuse me, a woman dropped this. She had dark hair. I tried to give it back but she just got into the elevator.”

  The man took it without smiling. “Your Russian is good, even though you’re obviously not from here.”

  “Um, thanks… Will you pass that to her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great.” Gareth glanced back to the elevator, then awkwardly added, “She, uh, she’s quite a gorgeous doctor, isn’t she?”

  “Doctor?” The man finally cracked a grin. “You are a funny one, foreigner. I suppose she could be a doctor, except for the fact that she’s an accountant.”

  “My mistake. Well, thanks again.”

  Gareth returned to his car and put the heater on full blast. He was utterly lost. I hate dead ends. Frustrated, he drove to a hotel and got the cheapest room available. As he took the elevator up, he muttered incessantly to himself.

  Okay, relax. There’s no point in getting worked up. Go back. Retrace your steps. Do more research.

  Hours later, he slammed his laptop shut and tossed it onto the bed. There was nothing more to be found. None of his local contacts could help him, and the Russian Sentries were on the frontlines doing what they could to stave off the devastation from the war.

  Gareth threw open the curtains and looked out over Moscow. The city glinted under the orange sun as if on fire. He rested his forehead against the ice-cold window.

  What did I miss?

  31

  In the small town adjacent to Phoenix Corporation’s hydroelectric project, Deverell ate his breakfast seated by the window of a family-run diner. He fumed at the delays getting here. He’d landed in Astana, Kazakhstan two evenings before, but had been trapped in the city due to a massive snowstorm. At the first sign of clear skies, he’d taken off in a rented pickup truck for an eighteen-hour drive, tormented by the thought that the longer Victor remained in Reyor’s hands, the shorter his lifespan would be.

  The Sentry had arrived at the town less than twenty minutes ago, just before the night shift workers were relieved. The once sleepy settlement of four hundred inhabitants had swollen into a bustling municipality serving over three thousand people working on the massive project. Across the street from the diner, men and women in dirty coveralls swung in and out of the doors of a laundromat and a grocery store, seemingly happy to be off-duty. Two workers in green garments carrying laundry bags ambled up the street.

  Deverell sized them up as they entered the laundromat, then quickly paid for his meal and hurried out, careful not to look out of place; most of the workers were Kazakhs, with some Mongols and others from Russia. With his pasty complexion and height, the Sentry hoped he could pass for the latter; a worker on his day off. He was also painfully aware that other eyes also watched the town; most likely Americans who, while dressed as civilians, carried themselves with the sharp bearing of military specialists. Deverell figured that if Victor really had been caught, Reyor would have beefed up the security at both the Sanctuary and the construction project.

  He crossed the street just as the two workers left the laundromat. Bumping into one of them, Deverell gripped the man tightly by the shoulder and wrist as though to keep them both steady, then apologized profusely in Kazakh.

  “It’s okay.” The worker smiled.

  Deverell returned the smile, then glanced up at the gray sky. “I heard we’re going to get hit with another storm later,” he said. “Do you think they’ll change the shifts around, maybe shorten them?”

  The man looked up at the sky as well. “I have no clue, but I’m not too worried because I’m finally on my weekend.”

  “Ech,” the second Kazakh grumped. “I’ve still got two more days to go.”

  The pair bickered as they strolled off. The Sentry looked down at his hand and waggled his eyebrows at the nametag he’d removed from the first man’s chest. It’s a lucky thing I’m one of the good guys, he thought.

  Inside the empty laundromat, he rummaged through the dryers, picked out coveralls like the ones the workers wore, and locked himself in a bathroom at the far end of the establishment. Once he’d shimmied into the stolen clothes, he rested his hands on the edges of the sink and gazed into the mirror. Wincing at what was to come, he focused on the structure of his face, just below the skin. Little breaths of pain escaped him as he felt the cartilage in his nose and ears and the bones in his face slowly start to move. He could hear the dull crackling throughout his head for almost a minute until everything came to a rest. The man in the mirror no longer looked like Deverell, instead resembling the worker whose nametag he’d lifted. It wasn’t a perfect mimicry but it would do in a pinch.

  He dug through his backpack and pulled a leather bracelet onto each wrist, both two inches wide. The one on the right had a thin wire connecting it to a small hoop that fit over his ring finger. Time to take these prototypes on a test run.

  Leaving the town behind, he made his way on foot to the sprawling construction staging area located half a mile away between the bank of the Irtysh River and a stretch of snow-covered hills to the west. As he approached a junction he noted a wide, west-bound dirt road that seemed to lead inland through the hills, away from the staging area.

  That probably leads to the mining area where raw materials are excavated for construction, he thought. The Sanctuary’s most likely somewhere back there, too. Mining activity would offer a perfect cover. I need to get there, but I’ll look out of place going on foot.

  He continued on to the staging area. As he neared the bustling site, he noticed several baton-bearing guards in gray uniforms posted at various locations around the site. This must be the regular security detail for the construction project, he thought. But those two eagle-eyed blokes in black over there are packing some real firepower. Probably Reyor’s bunch, protecting the Arcane Ventures.

  The two guards only gave a quick glance at what must have been a familiar face as Gareth entered the worksite. He fished out a hardhat from a crate beside a row of dirty flatbed trucks, then checked the vehicles. The doors all opened but keys were nowhere to be found.

  I could hotwire one of these, but I’d rather not leave too big a footprint around here. Let’s try something else. The Sentry located the site office—a converted shipping container—and made sure the hardhat was pulled low over his eyes. His abilities allowed him to mimic the basic facial structure of whoever he had physical contact with, but it didn’t change his voice or the pigment of his skin.

  Workers sat behind messy desks. Most were focused on their computers or paperwork, but one older Kazakh woman waved him over. “Serik? Why are you back? I thought
you were done.”

  “I—”

  “As long as you’re here, would you mind going to Site Two? The excavator there is broken again. I tried to get ahold of the other mechanics but they’re all busy.”

  “I’ll take a look at it.”

  “Great.” The woman jerked her thumb over her shoulder at a large panel on the wall with keys hanging from hooks. “Use truck number six. I’ll sign it out to you.”

  Deverell grabbed the keys and found the truck and appropriate equipment within, then left the staging area. No excavators here, so it’s probably in the mining area in the hills.

  He drove toward the town, then turned right onto the dirt road he’d observed earlier. As he rounded the bend, he noticed a guard in black stationed there. Continuing down the wide, muddy track, he soon spotted the stalled excavator a quarter-mile away. Then, something else caught his eye.

  Another dirt road forked west of the main one and curved out of sight between two hills. He saw no vehicles taking that path.

  Curious, he thought as he arrived at the broken excavator.

  The operator, a Russian man, looked annoyed. “Well, finally! Do you know how long I’ve had to wait for you?”

  “I apologize, we’ve been really busy. So what’s the problem?”

  “The oil is overheating again.”

  “Alright, let me have a look.” The Sentry got to work checking the gauges in the cab. It helped that not only were he and his brother uniquely bright, but they were also knowledgeable in a wide range of occupations.

  Deverell finished his inspections and turned on the excavator. Within minutes the oil temperature shot up. He turned it off and plugged in a diagnostic analyzer, waiting until it beeped to check the readout.

  The operator hovered near him impatiently. “Well?”

  Deverell jumped out of the cab. “Looks like the oil cooler is malfunctioning. There could also be a problem with the relief valve pressure. Let me clean the valves and try again, otherwise I’ll have to get replacement parts.”

  “Hurry up, then.”

  “You wish,” the Sentry muttered. It would take about thirty minutes to confirm the problem one way or another and it was time he didn’t have, but he needed to assimilate into the workforce and avoid raising suspicion.