by Adam Thielen
“So this is for him?”
“Yes.”
“And it will do what, exactly?”
“It’s kind of a crapshoot,” said Matthias. “But it’s supposed to make people feel bad.”
Tsenka twirled the injector between her fingertips. “You’re right, actually,” she said. “I’m not sure if anything can give me closure.”
“You’re going to find out, which is more than a lot of people can say.”
Tsenka inhaled. “You know, you could come with me.”
“I wish I could,” he said. “But I can’t. Shawn needs me. More than that, I’m tired of killing. I did my fair share, and I don’t want that life anymore.”
“It’s fine,” she said. “You never owed me anything, but you’ve done more for me than I can ever repay.”
“So true,” he said, grinning.
Tsenka nudged him in the ribs with her elbow, and Matthias put his arm around her waist.
“Ey, you were friends with Taq Jones, right?” asked Cho.
“I’d like to think I still am.”
“How long has it been since you talked to him?”
“I didn’t say I’m the best friend a guy could have,” he muttered. “Why?”
“I think you may want to give him a call sometime.”
“What’s going on?” demanded Matthias.
“I’m not sure,” she replied. “But he wasn’t looking great.”
Matthias exhaled. “I will say hello tomorrow.”
For a few minutes, they sat quietly, nestled against each other in the strange, dank hideout.
“I almost forgot,” Matthias said, perking up. “You will need a weapon.”
“What do you mean?” asked Tsenka. “I have guns. I have fists. I can probably get some grenades.”
“All bullshit,” he announced, standing. “No, what you need is something that in the hands of a strong and fast vampire, is more deadly than an artillery strike.”
“Mhm?”
Matthias stepped over to one of the shelves embedded in the back wall and lifted from it a katana in a sheath. The hilt was wrapped in a braided material and adorned with an ornate Japanese dragon. A handguard was missing, and the blade had only a hint of curvature.
“Is that your sword from the Haven fight?” asked Tsenka.
Matthias grinned. “No, I never saw that blade again. It was a good sword, but you can get one of those anywhere.” He moved in front of the bench where Cho sat. He then gripped the hilt with one hand and the sheath in the other and pulled them in opposite directions revealing a black blade. The edge stood out with its gleam, and the flat side had a strange pattern etched into it. Matthias held it in front of her.
“Three years ago, a bladesmith visited my home in order to give this to me,” explained Matthias. “I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it would never be used. It is the result of his life’s trials and errors. He wanted to create something new, so he said, and that his failures had cost him everything he held dear. If he had chosen to make traditional swords, he could have eked out a decent living.”
Matthias gave the blade a flourish. “Late in life, he found some success developing a forging technique that allowed for minuscule depressions in the metal. Minute variances in weight at specific points along the edge. Pathways for air to travel. At high altitude, the blade performs much like any other. However, as long as the air isn’t too thin, the perfectly crafted etchings on the blade direct air through specific paths over the perfectly weighted segments, and it vibrates.”
The vampire swung the blade and it made a typical swoosh. He frowned and swung again to the same effect. On the third try, he grunted, putting everything into it. A hum filled the room and stopped at the end of his swing.
“It takes a lot of speed to get it to hum,” said Matthias. “But once you do, the vibrations act as a force multiplier. There are fancier swords out there, with edges that are electronically vibrated, or superheated, or nano-thick. This, however, is a feat of engineering, and it can cut through just about anything.”
Matthias handed the blade to Tsenka, who stood and gingerly lifted it out of his hands. She adjusted her grip and swung. She nodded. “I’ve never used one before.”
“Learn how,” implored Matthias.
“A’ight. Thank you, Matthias.”
He placed a hand on Tsenka’s shoulder. “I have given you what I can. I know you said you could never repay me, but seeing that sword in your hand, I realize that isn’t true.”
“How?”
“I expect you to take what you’ve learned and do great things,” said Matthias. “Greater than I did.”
“I sere doubt that possible.”
“I see it in you,” he continued. “You’ve been given a second chance. When you are done with your revenge, you will have a debt to repay of your own. You don’t have to be a saint, but you can never be ordinary again. I want the world to know your name.”
“I don’t want all of that,” said Tsenka, sheathing the sword. “I just want… I don’t know what I want.”
“Did you really want any of this?” asked Matthias. “It’s just the hand you’ve been dealt. It’s your destiny.”
Episode 7: The Conspiracy of Kate
Ulaanbaatar was once a great, thriving city in the heart of Mongolia. At one point, half of the country’s population resided within its borders. Before the Collapse, it was the main trading conduit between China and Russia.
By the time the giant horsehead fiddle tower called Morin Khuur was completed, the nation’s debt had spiraled out of control. When Russia descended into chaos by defaulting on its debt, the government's creditors wanted their money out of Ulaanbaatar’s banks. Thus a chain reaction had started, and it wasn’t long before the entire continent had been abandoned by its leaders.
As was tradition, Russia and China fought over the small yet lucrative slice of land sandwiched between them. The former in the form of an alliance of Russian mafia outfits. The latter in the form of a megacorporation scrambling to grab what it could while there was no one to hold them accountable.
The population of Ulaanbaatar and a few lesser cities gathered from both the North and the South, and they were fond of their independence. In the ensuing conflict, much of the city was razed to the ground. The fiddle tower survived, as did the Winter Palace of the Bogd Khan and a couple monasteries. Conflict from inside China’s borders resulted in Chantech’s retreat from Mongolia, but the Russian gangs managed to seize power over the western half of the country before being driven back and exhausting their resources.
The Mongolian Mining Corporation ruled the eastern half, retaining control over their most abundant and profitable dig sites. The board had no interest in politics but knew it was the only way for the company and some semblance of order to survive. And so they held elections, with voting rights restricted to long-time employees within the corporation. But even in that limited form, it was still more democracy than the rest of the world saw.
Post-Collapse, a tepid attempt to restore luster to the city was made. But without the necessary resources, construction degenerated into slum housing projects for displaced citizenry. Poverty and a lack of strong governance created an opening for Russian mafia and hucksters to move in and create economies of escapism. Thus, Ulaanbaatar became a mixture of Russians, Mongolians, and a fair number of Chinese refugees.
It was there that the young woman named Desre Somer found herself after fleeing the tentacles of Chantech. Barely twenty-five, she had spent ten years of her life as a prisoner in a strange land. It had taken her several months to carefully make her way north, then across the border. Then more time and special favors to convince traders to smuggle her into Ulaanbaatar.
Her freedom was short-lived. The Russians had eyes and ears throughout the region, and when they learned a psion was on the run from Chantech, they scoured the city and quickly found her. Again, she was a prisoner. But this time, her captors were small-minded in their des
ire for her abilities.
To her surprise, Desre was treated well by the Russians. There were two reasons for this. The first was that the Pakhan, or regional boss, recognized her value. He understood that her willingness to cooperate would impact her usefulness. The other reason was the reputation of her brother. They were taking a risk by merely keeping her captive. If a day came when Roland showed up to collect his sister, the boss wanted to make sure she looked healthy and maybe even a little reluctant to leave. Even then, the Pakhan wanted the psion kept at a separate location from his own, where one of his Brigadiers could manage her.
Desre Somer sat in an office chair with a small desk in front of her. Her handlers had fashioned a pair of rooms on the top floor of a dilapidated apartment complex into a makeshift office for her to conduct her ‘work’, take her meals, sleep, and live.
She was a stout woman standing at barely five feet tall. Her excess mass was favorably positioned, giving her a thick but shapely appearance when ideally clothed. Her black hair was unevenly trimmed short, with locks brushing her chin. Neither a stylist nor tailored clothing were allowances her captors would agree to.
Desre’s face, with its small nose and mouth and large, round eyes, had a youthful innocence that belied the hardships she had faced. She wore an unassuming steel blue t-shirt and pants, and around her neck was a chrome choker with lines of dull gray running up and down the outside. It had a hinge in the front and a smart lock in the back.
Across from her was a sweaty fat bald man who had been dragged over to the chair by a pair of mafia enforcers. They stood on each side of him while he sat glancing nervously at Desre, then the thugs, then the windows.
Desre looked down at the screen embedded in the desk. The office was not particularly advanced. The com had no camera and was configured only as a host for data sent directly from her handlers. She flicked her hand above it, scrolling through the details of what they expected of her today.
The psion looked up from the screen and placed her outstretched index finger against the collar around her neck. The Russian thug standing behind her pressed his thumb against the lock and rotated his hand. The collar made a click as it unlatched, and the man carefully removed the device. He stepped back and took a seat against the wall behind her.
Desre closed her eyes and rested her hands flat on the desk. “Mr. Dubov,” she addressed. Her voice was smooth and sultry with an accent that was a mix of British and Chinese. “How are you feeling?”
The damp man stared at Desre without speaking.
“It’s okay,” she continued. “You can talk to me.” Desre closed her eyes and listened for his voice. It sometimes took a few tries to find it, like tuning into a weak radio station with a dollar-store receiver. “What did you eat this morning? How many children do you have? Do you enjoy classical?” Asked these questions, even the most disciplined mind would slip and answer the question in thought.
Banana chips, she heard him think.
“There you are,” she said in a soothing tone. Desre glanced down at the desk then back to Dubov. “Bank accounts. Just one? Two? More?”
The man tried to fight back with misinformation. One, five, seventeen, he thought.
Desre grinned. “There you go,” she taunted. “I like to play games, too. You have two accounts, I’m sure of it. Just two.”
Three, she heard him think.
Desre typed on the desk’s surface. “You’ve got some of Kurikiv’s money. How much?”
Dubov squirmed in his seat. “Enough of this!” he yelled. “She’s just making stuff up. I stole nothing.”
One of the thugs standing next to him, wearing a black leather jacket, pointed a semi-automatic pistol at Dubov’s head. He quieted.
“How much of Kurikiv’s money?” repeated Somer. But Dubov’s thoughts had become chaos, a storm of random ideas and thoughts meant to drown out the real ones. Desre shook her head and gently shhh’d, but the fear in Dubov had gotten out of control.
The psion stood, and the two men next to Dubov stepped back. Desre maneuvered around the desk and stood next to the seated man. She placed her palm on the top of his sweaty scalp. She felt sorry for him. They were both captives of the same mob. The thought that she might play a role in his death burdened her with guilt, but she was only doing what she was born to do.
Somer lifted a leg over his and straddled his lap, resting most of her weight near his knees. He made no attempt to push her off, as he had been warned with a gun once already. She shifted about to get comfortable and placed her hands on his temples.
“Don’t give up,” she taunted. “There you go. Just let me in. Yes, that’s right. Tell me all about the accounts.” Desre’s thoughts began to enter his mind. She guided him toward the banking information that the Russians wanted. “The account number,” she ordered.
Somer recited three account numbers digit by digit. By the time she finished, her breath had become heavy and her chest heaved. She moved her hands away from Dubov’s head and rested them on his shoulders. His face had lost a few shades and he stared at Somer wide-eyed before calming and allowing his eyes to travel lower.
Desre smirked. “Sorry, hon. I know that felt a little weird, but I have to do my job.” She lifted off him and returned to her side of the desk. Instead of sitting, she stared at the Russian man holding her collar. It glowed faintly, affected by her magic even at a distance. Perspiration had consolidated into tiny droplets on the metal.
She hated that collar. Laced with neutralized polonium, it absorbed her psionic energy, preventing her from using her abilities to escape. Not that she knew where to go. For now, the protection of the Russians was enough. Even so, just looking at the gleaming choker made her blood boil.
Even without the collar, Desre could not affect the minds of the Russians, as they all wore their own polonium in the form of small pendants around their necks. They didn’t make the mistake of underestimating her. Desre waited while the thug locked the collar around her neck. She shivered as the cold metal pressed against her skin. The noise her mind picked up all around her shut off, leaving an eerie silence.
“Thank you, Ms. Somer,” recited the man, as he did every time she extracted information for them. He escorted her to the adjacent room, fashioned to look like a modern apartment.
“Can you stay for a while, Mike?” asked Desre, addressing him by her own version of his actual name of Mikhail. “Just need some company,” she added. “What are you doing today?”
“I can’t stay,” he replied. “I would, but there are rules.”
“I’m going to go crazy being locked in here by myself,” she argued.
Mike shrugged. “We give you what you want, mostly,” he said.
Desre ran her fingers through her hair while glancing about the room. She walked over to the fridge and performed a few quick taps, causing Mike’s com to vibrate. He nodded, confirming that he had received her list of daily requests.
“I’m thankful for the hospitality,” she said. “But people can’t be isolated like this. It’s not healthy.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mikhail, turning toward the door. He stopped and looked back. “I will ask the boss. He believes you will send for help or try to leave if we give you outside access, but maybe he’ll allow some more socializing. Probably not, but I will ask.”
“Thanks, Mike,” she said. Mikhail nodded and left, locking the door behind him.
Desre stood in the middle of the studio flat for a minute with no compulsion to move. Her facial muscles contracted in a surge of sadness, and she crumpled onto the floor. This was part of the daily routine. It wouldn’t last long, but it made up for duration with magnitude.
* * *
Tsenka Cho had said her goodbyes and given Matthias a final hug. It was time to part ways. She returned to the Jones estate before sundown. The heat was bothersome and brought on drowsiness, but the nanites in her blood did a good job oxygenating her muscles and removing the excess glutamate decarboxylase used by the b
rain to encourage sleep. She had bought a white nanofiber hood and a mask to put over her nose and mouth after her last day-venture.
Kate and Drew worked to prepare an old-fashioned dinner. Mashed potatoes from a box, pre-cooked frozen processed reconstituted poultry blends, and cornbread. The latter being the only thing that required real prep. Kate hurried from the oven to the mixer, then to the sink. Drew attempted to predict her path and move out of the way with a success rate approaching fifty percent.
Kate leaned against the counter next to the mixer. Sweat ran down her temple. Drew hurried over, placing his hands on her waist.
“Take it easy,” he suggested. “Let us go sit down. I believe I can finish.”
“Yeah, okay,” she nodded and shuffled to a large rectangular dining table with rounded edges. She sat and sighed. “I’m getting worse. Every d-day.”
Drew considered how to respond in the form of various options. He used his knowledge of human psychology and Kate’s profile to determine what her response would be, and which response would result in her immediate happiness, with a secondary speculative calculation made for long-term mood effects.
“Yes,” he said, choosing to respect her self-evaluation. It was also factually true. “I will make sure it’s ready in time.”
Taq reluctantly answered his com, throwing the image up on the wall just outside his meditation room. His face was even more gaunt and pale than usual, and he was in no mood to be bothered. Had it been anyone else, he would have hung up.
“Matthias,” he acknowledged.
Matthias stared at the projection of his old friend in front of him and did not believe his eyes. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked, wasting no words.
“That’s one hell of a way to greet an old friend,” said Taq. “Is that what you called about?”
“Yes,” the nocturnal replied. “Now are you going to answer me?”
“No,” said Taq. “I didn’t hear a peep from you after you quit. If all you want to do is judge me, then we don’t have anything to talk about.”