Siren

by Blaze Ward

  In twenty–four hours, he would either have to walk away, or make a call that ended up possibly destroying her life, and several other people around her.

  On a hunch.

  Well–trained. Well experienced. Professional.

  But still a hunch.

  What the hell did Demir have on her that could hold a woman that smart on a leash that tight? Quinta wasn’t a particularly puritanical place about women, not like most of the Fribourg Empire, so any youthful indiscretions shouldn’t be that bad.

  You had to work hard for the judge to offer you immediate enlistment in the marines instead of six–to–nine months in the pokey. Really hard.

  Something else he understood, probably far better than the girl did.

  So, the fussy little professor had something on the girl. And it was good. And she couldn’t destroy it to free herself, either because she didn’t know where it was, or it was secured so well she couldn’t get at it.

  Vo sat at the tiny kitchen table for two and visualized the game board.

  Chess has two colors. Again, one of its major failings, to a marine used to ten thousand options he could use to achieve success, from orbital strikes to spider mines.

  He had been playing white.

  Time to switch sides.

  Black King has a hold on Black Queen.

  She can spill her secrets to a white horse who wandered up, if she dared.

  She doesn’t dare.

  She might be free, if the dragon’s loot could be stolen. Or even destroyed in a fire.

  So we assume the dragon won’t store it in his house, where a terrible accident might happen.

  Plus, if it is that important, he would want to keep closer watch on it. Keep it handy, keep it…

  Vo felt his heart sink.

  A satchel of papers. One that Demir dropped when someone scared him. And that he was more concerned about gathering it all up than he was about being mugged by the big, scary marine, or explaining to the girl why he was in her flat in the dead of night.

  Important papers, too, and not just the random mish–mash of student assignments on fourteen different colors of paper, or a latest manuscript that would be all in one big folder, or research that would be a random collection of news–clippings, static copies, and printouts.

  Everything that had fallen had looked well–organized, professional. The sorts of files Navin the Black kept.

  Personnel files.

  Crap.

  Was I looking at my own file in that mess? Could I have reached down, picked it up, and unraveled everything accidentally? Would I have even realized it?

  If life wasn’t one of Sonja’s romance novels, it wasn’t one of his mystery thrillers either, even the cozy ones. X never marked the spot, and old Farmer Johnson wasn’t the guy under the monster mask.

  Maybe.

  Tomorrow, Dr. Demir would probably be very, very cautious, while he waited on what Phoebe learned from her big, dumb, marine hero after class. He couldn’t be randomly mugged. If the professor had any sense, the satchel could be destroyed, but the originals of the files would be secured in a bank vault somewhere, with only the copies of the information close at hand.

  Vo would need to access the satchel secretly. Read the contents.

  Dead of night.

  Black bag job.

  Cat–burglary. Breaking and entering. Armed trespass. Theft of private property. Possession of stolen goods.

  The sorts of things that get sealed in a court file when a Minor accepts the Court’s offer to run away and become a Marine, and therefore, Someone Else’s Problem.

  Vo popped the bones in his neck and grimaced at the memory.

  He had just spent eight years becoming a respectable member of society.

  Respectable enough.

  Was he really going to do something so stupid as to break into the guy’s house?

  Both consciences just shook their heads at him.

  At least he had learned the arts of sneakiness and misdirection from one of the most dangerous men in the fleet.

  Navin the Black.

  IV

  Date of the Republic October 11, 394 Quinta City, Quinta

  It was dark on this street, but Vo could see well enough. It was one of those wonderful, upper–middle–class neighborhoods that seem to accumulate close to well–financed universities, in this case taking up one whole side of the campus, while the other three filled up with cheap student housing, bars, and restaurants.

  Wide, tree–lined streets, with the trees just now starting to think about browning and dropping their leaves. Soft, grass–filled yards, well–manicured and landscaped. It would be quiet, unless a wind came up, and then the leaves would rustle all by themselves.

  You didn’t wear dead black for something like this. That was the mistake amateurs made, usually after watching too many ninja movies.

  A black lump stood out. A mix of moderate grays actually blended better, especially against landscaping and bushes.

  There would be lights on porches, and maybe motion sensors in back yards. People in a neighborhood like this would have cute little marker lights for walkways, like Auberon’s flight deck did for landing her dangerous little hawks.

  It would be impossible to come at the place over the roofline. That only worked in slums, anyway.

  Fortunately, there wouldn’t be any feral dogs, either. Place like this would bring the family mutt in at night to guard the house, and keep them out of the weather.

  Vo had a thing about dogs.

  It had been a twenty minute walk from his apartment. And two whole socio–economic strata. Nice blue collar to genteel poverty.

  These were old houses, starting to go to seed. The kinds of places professors in jackets with patches on the elbows would move into when they got tenure, keep for thirty or fifty years, and then sell when they retired.

  Not many kids. No big party animals.

  Quiet.

  Seventeen–year–old Vo wondered if these morons even bothered to lock their doors at night. It had that kind of feel.

  A candy store waiting for an urchin.

  Grown–up Vo had spent several hours virtually touring the neighborhood on his computer, and then arranging all the supplies he thought he might need for a job like this.

  He did miss the old tool–bag.

  He could make do.

  Vo had briefly considered blowing the closest transformer and blacking out the entire neighborhood for a few hours. That would get him past any alarms, but it would also probably wake people up and they might notice a ghost passing through their back alley.

  Better to let them sleep.

  Dr. Aeolus Demir. Bachelor. Tenured professor. Living in a monstrous, old, brick and wood house. Three stories above ground. Daylight windows indicating a basement below. A stupendous waste of living space, dedicated to housing just one man.

  On Anameleck Prime, they would have sub–divided the joint and put at least eight families in there. Maybe ten. Vo only grumbled a little.

  None of the publicity photos of the little doctor had indicated a dog. Not that it ruled it out, but it meant to plan for the possibility, and not the certainty.

  Dogs don’t like being zapped with a taze–charge any more than people do, and usually weigh a whole bunch less, so they get dropped harder. Vo wasn’t taking any chances on getting bit tonight.

  He had a thing about dogs.

  Vo had sat perfectly still long enough that squirrels would have climbed up on his shoulders to look around by now, if there were any out this late. Maybe he’d get lucky and an owl would land on him soon.

  There had been motions lights in the alley, two houses down. They had automatically gone dark again nearly forty–five minutes ago. Nobody had come out to look around.

  Dr. Demir’s house had a short staircase up to the back porch door, with a dim light over it that was just enough to illuminate the stairs. He presumed a laundry or mudroom beyond it. Some utter waste of useful space.
>
  To the left, a darker spot indicated a set of steps down. The basement was barely half a deck down from the ground, maybe only a meter and a half. The door there was not lit, but he wasn’t about to touch it. That would be the one door alarmed, even if nothing else was.

  Not that he would have stopped at one, but he would have started there while he worked out the rest of the house. But then again, he was professionally paranoid.

  How twitchy was the professor?

  On the right was his target. An ancient, steep staircase, made from honest–to–goodness wood beams thicker than his forearms. Up one flight to a second story door, then up again to the third level.

  Vo wondered now if the place had ever been sub–divided, and the professor hadn’t bothered with that level of external remodel when he turned it back into a single–person mansion. It had that feel. Seedy, but recovered, like an alcoholic who has seen the light.

  Those doors would be locked. Possibly alarmed. Hopefully not walled over inside.

  At least they both had windows in the doors themselves.

  It was late enough. If he moved now, he would have thirty minutes inside to work. If something happened at that point, he could hit the ground running, and hopefully get lost in whatever crowd of pedestrians were being chased out of the college bars when they closed on a Sunday night.

  A slim hope, but better than being the only person on the street if the cops came sniffing.

  Not that he had ever done something like this before, right?

  Vo stirred. He looked left, right, back, forward.

  Nothing but dark windows facing him. Hopefully without even–more–patient hunters in them.

  One way to find out. At least he could always make that one call to the right people, if this blew up in his face.

  It was a small soul. Cold and mean. But he liked it.

  Vo pulled a scarf around the lower part of his face, took a breath, and moved…

  Ξ

  Four steady strides across the alley way, Vo. From vine–covered wall to bushes besides an ancient outbuilding garage. You always move slowly, deliberately. Sudden movement draws the eye. Smooth blends.

  Stop. Breathe. Listen. Calm.

  Study the back windows here, looking for movement, reflection, lights.

  Nothing.

  Wait.

  Nothing.

  Ooze down the side of the building glacially. Become the last bush in the line.

  Gargoyle.

  Say a small prayer to Bes, the patron saint of cats. Cross the three meters of opening to the bottom of the stairs.

  Step to the far right on each tread slowly. Do not cause the edifice to sway, buckle, or creak under your weight and movement.

  Place each foot deliberately. You cannot explain why you are here, so you must be prepared to jump clear suddenly and run like hell.

  Ignore the squeaking of the steps. Nobody inside should respond to noise, as long as you move patiently and don’t rattle the building.

  First landing. Look at the rear windows halfway below you as you make the turn.

  Nothing.

  Continue another half–flight to face the second–story door on an oversized balcony.

  Mostly darkness inside behind drapes. Probably a room. Not walled over.

  Breathe once. Attack the next set of steps.

  Calm. Deliberate. You can leap from this height onto the grass and land safely. You qualified at Jump School from a higher elevation. Keep that in mind.

  Make the turn, study the whole back of the building.

  Still dark. Still quiet. Still waters.

  Approach the third–story landing, barely a meter square. There is no light up here over the door, or it is turned off.

  Explosion of sound as something moves, rushing right at your face and over your shoulder.

  Crow. Angry at being chased out of his nest by a predator.

  Breathe. Calm. Patience.

  You have brought a flash, but do not use it yet.

  Instead, study the window. Note the dust on the glass. Evidence of neglect. Hopefully, nobody uses this floor any more, except as storage and for parties.

  Study the frame. Look for wires and plates.

  There.

  Someone has wired the door for a circuit alarm. Two pieces of metal rub lightly when the door is closed. They did a half–ass job of installing it, putting it inside the doorframe instead of inside the house where it would be invisible until opened. The circuit will break when someone opens the door more than a few centimeters. An alarm will sound.

  You expected this.

  Reach into the bag and pull out a two–meter length of wire with gator clips at both ends. Bring the small knife as well. Carve a very small moat in the wood next to both pieces of metal.

  Clip the gators carefully.

  Study the door. Do not touch it.

  Old fashioned mechanical round handle that take a simple tumbler key. You no longer own dedicated lock–picks, but were able to improvise this afternoon. Muscle memory.

  Slip the first piece of metal in. Turn the lock just enough to create tension. You cannot wear gloves tonight because you need the sensitivity.

  Do not leave fingerprints anywhere until you can get the gloves out of your pocket.

  Insert the probe next. Assume a standard design. Four vertical pins. Older than starflight. Good enough to stop anyone without some level of training, patience, and need.

  Tickle the lock pins. Feel them release like the individual buttons down the front of your girlfriend’s shirt as she slowly gives in.

  Hold the torsion with care. Time is not critical, but important. Let’s only do this once.

  Feel that last pin surrender. Your girlfriend smiles up as she offers you the greatest birthday present a sixteen–year–old boy could ever imagine.

  The lock turns slowly under your hand. Feel the mechanism give way. Turn the handle with slow care.

  Glacial.

  The latch lets go. Add the slightest bit of forward pressure, looking for a dead–bolt. Nothing.

  Darkness.

  Ξ

  Vo pushed the door open far enough to peek in and listen. At least no alarms filled the night.

  So far, so good.

  He slid sideways and shifted his head around to look at the back of the door. No secondary alarms or devices.

  He listened to the building as he put away the picks and put on thin gloves. No voices, nor footsteps. Nothing to indicate awareness of an intruder, and the old building creaked anyway. Not much, but it hadn’t been rebuilt to be rock solid inside. He would hopefully hear someone on the stairs.

  Vo checked the gator clips, made sure they were solid, and moved away from the door, closing it almost, but leaving a space where he could pull it suddenly if running.

  He stayed close to the left hand wall, away from the floor vent he could see, and not out in the middle where the old beams might squeak the most.

  Each step was like gliding on ice now. He tried to become one with the house.

  The roof pitched in steep here. The other end of the hall was a lovely stained glass design that should be centered over the front porch. Four doors faced each other in pairs, plus a spot where the stairwell opened on his left.

  Vo pulled his flash now and turned it on just long enough to confirm the hallway.

  There was some dust on the floor. Not much, but he would leave a trail of foot prints when he left, like on a snowy winter morning.

  But it also eliminated this floor as a hiding spot.

  He moved just far enough to peek down the stairs. Down a half flight it turned to the right and disappeared.

  Again, darkness.

  He stayed on the outside as he took each step slowly. The building squeaked and groaned with age and temperature–differential settling. Hopefully, nobody was watching him, evil–villain–style on a secret camera monitor.

  He got to the first landing, peeked again.

  Another half flight and it op
ened out onto a carpeted floor.

  This level had nightlights plugged into the sockets in a couple of places, from the amount of ambient light. A resident would be able to navigate to the bathroom and back without having to turn anything on or bumping into something.

  It was still silent. Hopefully, a good sign.

  Vo crouched down and looked, and then crept forward when he didn’t see anything.

  This hallway was wider than the one above. There was space for an overstuffed chair to the left and a small bookcase to the right.

  With a house like this, Vo assumed money. There were closed double doors at the end to the right, the back of the house. Hopefully, Demir didn’t have to sleep with the satchel chained to his wrist, like that guy in that one spy–thriller movie.

  Then it might be worth just taze–zapping him, tying him up, blindfolding him, and saying to hell with subtlety. That kind of situation would probably be evidence enough, anyway.

  Speaking of.

  Vo pulled the taze–pistol he had just bought today from his pocket and checked everything. Never assume the gun still works. He kept it in his left hand, low to his side. He could shoot with either hand at this range, and generally needed his right free to work.

  Across and to his left was obviously the upstairs guest bathroom. He could see a nightlight brightening it up enough for strangers.

  Vo assumed that the doors on the left would then be bedrooms. Would the two on the right be a library and an office? Demir could waste enough space to do that.

  If not, I’ll look downstairs. If all else fails, maybe we’ll go for the strong–arm tactics.

  He moved to his right, staying close to the wall. Both doors were cracked halfway open. Both rooms were dark.

  There was a smell out of place here, but he couldn’t identify it.

  Barely a taste on the tip of his tongue. Sweet–sour. Not fresh flowers, or not anything he could place. Chemical. Faint.

  The bottom edge of the double–door at the end was dark. Hopefully that meant that Demir had gone to sleep at a reasonable hour for Monday morning classes.

  Vo would feel stupid doing all this breaking and entering, to not find the man at home.