“As you were, Operative Bulwark,” the aide said, before leading the rest away.
Pride paused and fixed Bulwark with an icy glare.
“Thin ice, Bull,” Pride said before marching off.
“I apologize for the transportation,” Bulwark said politely, turning to greet the new metas. “If things had gone according to plan, you’d have been flown back several days ago.” He punctuated this with a withering look at the Djinni, a look which glanced right off him, from all appearances. “Operative Taylor here will show you to your new quarters, and we can begin your orientation after you get a chance to clean up and—whatever else you need.”
They all looked tired, but they perked up at the mention of cleaning up. They certainly followed their escort willingly enough, leaving Bulwark and Jenson alone with the Djinni.
“So?” Bulwark said, looking him up and down.
“Job’s done,” Red replied.
“And that’s supposed to be acceptable?” Bulwark said, struggling to keep his voice calm.
“Job’s done, and that’s all I promised. You want more, then we’ll need to renegotiate our arrangement. Throw whatever job you want at me, Bull, but chaining me up will never end pretty.” The stance, the eyes, all told Bulwark one thing: this was not a challenge, this was a need.
“So it would seem,” Bull said, finally.
“Should I take him back to his cell, sir?” another guard asked,
“No,” Bull said. “Take him after the other recruits and have him pick out a room.”
“Good start,” the Djinni said as he sauntered away after the guard. “And I’ll be wanting a raise,” he called back over his shoulder.
When they were at last alone, Jenson gave Bull an exasperated look. “You’re doing it again!”
“Doing what?” Bulwark replied, his mind already racing out elsewhere.
“Giving Pride more reasons to bust you down.” He grimaced as he looked at the wreck of an RV being driven off somewhere by a guard. Hopefully somewhere to be incinerated. “Djinni belongs in a cell, and you know it. Maybe we don’t have enough on him to put him away, but we both know—”
Bulwark shook his head. “I’m not treating him like a prisoner anymore. I need him. He obviously won’t work under duress. We need to bring him into the team; it’s the only way we can get him to cooperate. Look what he did! He could have run. We all thought he had. Instead, he finishes the job.”
“We can recruit more without him,” Jensen insisted. “You don’t need any more of this kind of heat right now; you don’t need…”
Bulwark fought down a welter of emotions, allowing only insistence to show in his voice. “I need him. He’s my only lead. He’s the only one who might know what…”
Jenson held up a hand, his expression one of sympathy tinged with reluctance. “I’m sorry, Bull, I’m sorry. We all miss her, but we need you now. You can’t let this interfere with your work. You need to do your job, and let me do mine. I’ll find her for you. Just give me a little time.”
Bulwark closed his eyes a moment. Yes, Jensen had been assigned to find Echo Ops missing in the invasion. And yes, he was good at what he did. But…
“I hope you will, but you know as well as I do that if you haven’t found her by now, the trail’s cold.”
Cold as the grave. Cold as death. If she were alive…we’d know by now. The Psy-Ops would have found a trace. Someone would have recognized her. But still, he had to know. And Red Djinni was the only key he had.
The last time anyone had heard from her was when her partially scrambled comm link had reported her to be “somewhere” in the downtown area of Atlanta as the invasion started. The last time anyone had seen or heard from any of her team had been when Howitzer had been spotted fighting the invaders alongside…the Red Djinni.
Since Howitzer had gone down about a half hour after that…
“Djinni might be all we have left.”
Djinni had been very close-mouthed about what he’d done or been doing just before the invasion started. And short of violating every law about psions in the books, not to mention psionic ethical codes, and sending a psi-talent in to hose out his memory, the only way to find anything was to wait until Djinni himself was ready to open up.
But Jenson’s jaw was clenched, and Bulwark knew that he’d already made up his mind about what he would and would not do, and none of those plans included the Red Djinni in any way, shape, or form.
“I’ll find Amethist, Bulwark,” was all he said, before stalking off. “Whatever happened to Vic, I will find your wife.”
Chapter Eight:
Moving Day
Steve Libbey
The salt-and-pepper-maned Piotr Dzhavakhishvili animatedly described the purchase of the building whose lobby he and Red Saviour currently occupied. The American holding company had painted a rosy picture of the building’s condition, and when Dzhavakhishvili threw his hands in the air and stormed at every gross exaggeration, they backpedaled and denied ever making the claim. By the end of the negotiation, the hyperactive, well-coiffed, and overdramatic Russian liaison had bullied the owners into fully halving the price.
Red Saviour chuckled as he related the story. “It serves them right,” she said.
“These slumlords are scum,” Piotr agreed. “We’re their karma coming back to haunt them.”
“It is specter of Communism that will haunt them,” said Natalya. The famous phrase felt awkward in her mouth as English words—a sensation which defined her daily existence in Atlanta. She pointed out the window. “Look at this neighborhood. So much money in this land, but there are perfectly good workers sleeping in cardboard boxes. I am thinking there is big difference to be made here.”
Piotr frowned. “America likes its TV and malls, Commissar. You may find it hard to sell that line of reasoning in this country. Their complacency is overwhelming.”
She shook the curtains, causing a dust cloud to settle to the floor. This headquarters is little more than a decrepit office building with an obsolete, hurriedly installed, Russian computer network, she realized. Three floors and a basement, with a garage for the modest fleet of vehicles allotted them. The basement was blessed with high ceilings, so Petrograd immediately staked out the former laundry room as his lab. Storefronts divided the first floor, worthless to a metahuman peacekeeping force. She had ordered an overhead projector and screen to convert one of the storefronts into a classroom. Another of the storefronts had served as a restaurant in happier times. The kitchen could feed the CCCP and its staff ten times over. Walking through the space sent ideas swirling through her head.
The second-floor offices still contained shabby desks and filing cabinets too heavy and cheap to be worth selling off. She chose an office with a view of the street and a large window that could be used as an exit, at least for those not bound by gravity. A windowless interior room served for the computer network’s core. An air conditioner down the hall blew freezing cold air over the servers through an insulated tube. The setup looked as primitive as an old science-fiction movie.
People’s Blade divvied up the hastily converted quarters on the third floor, leaving space for showers and an adjoining infirmary, weight room, and social area. For herself and Red Saviour, however, she suggested that they take the smallest rooms. “As the new team grows, we will be first to have apartments of our own, as befits our rank. Until then, we will give the benefit to our comrades,” she’d said.
“Correct thinking,” Red Saviour replied though she’d winced at the tiny bed, whose thin mattress grazed two walls. “I will keep my clothes and boxes in my office.”
Fei Li carried her suitcases into her room. Red Saviour watched her go, back straight. Fei Li loves this, she thought. The Spartan arrangements, the military overtones. I, too, but now I find that I miss Papa—and Molotok. He and I are expected to live up to our parents’ legacy, but they had the Great Patriotic War to inspire their rise to glory. All we have is a recalcitrant bureaucracy, a d
ecadent capitalist city and a ramshackle building.
Still, she assured herself as she unpacked her suitcase on the bed, Marx wrote his Manifesto one word at a time, with but pen and ink. Modest tools that moved a world! So shall we.
“I need a signature here,” Piotr Dzhavakhishvili said, standing at the door with a clipboard. “For the reinforcement of the roof.”
Natalya grinned. Even as an airborne meta, she relished what that reinforcement made possible. “The helipad,” she said. “CCCP’s own personal air force.” The work order seemed straightforward, typed on a carbon form like she still found in Moscow. “I am not used to Amerikanski dollars. Is this good price?”
“Beats out the competitors,” he said. “This kind of work is never cheap.”
The work order had been signed by the salesman, initialed by Piotr…yet something was missing. She tapped the pen on the clipboard.
“What’s wrong? Did I forget something? The tool shed, landing pad, lights…they’re all there.”
“Nyet, nyet, is something else. Is…hmm…” She drew a circle on the form absently, then it hit her. “Is not union shop!”
“Huh?”
She held out the form for his inspection. “ ‘Look for the union label,’ says old song. In America, strict rules for use of union logo, for union members only. But no logo on this quote.”
He took the clipboard back and scratched his coiffure. “I never thought of that. I just put the bids out.”
“Unions are last vestige of collectivist thought in labor movement. My CCCP is union shop. I reject this bid!” She turned her back on the bewildered liaison. “Find me union quote. That I will sign.”
Annoyance crept into his voice. “The FSO gave me a budget more modest than modern, Commissar. Unions will charge you twice as much for the same work.”
“Is savings at expense of unionized workers! What kind of Communist do you think I am?” She spun on her heel. “CCCP holds to higher standard than cheap Amerikanski Pay-Mart culture. We will begin to set good example—by using union labor.” Fury built up inside her, as her zeal for rehabbing the building dissolved in a sea of bids and shady contractors. “Now, get out of my room, svinya!” She threw a thick copy of Das Kapital at the wall over his head. “Out!”
“Madwoman!” he shouted, stomping out. The floorboards groaned under his weight.
Fei Li peeked out of his own room, holding a crisply folded shirt. “Natalya? What is the commotion?”
“Nothing, nothing,” she said with a sigh as she picked up the book. “Just misunderstanding over contracts. First of many, I am thinking.”
“Don’t alienate our American allies just yet with your temper.” Her voice took a familiar, gently scolding tone. “We have lost much of our leverage. This is not Moscow.”
Natalya scowled at her as she bowed and ducked back into her room. Down the hall, Soviette directed an equipment-hauling Chug into the infirmary. Thanks to the squat powerhouse, they had no need of forklifts to haul heavy loads.
“Wait, Chug,” Soviette said. “Try this wall.”
“Okiez,” Chug rumbled, setting the EKG down. Even though his voice resembled a collapsing cliff face, much like his skin, his joy was evident. Chug was as eager to please as a puppy—one that was five hundred pounds and covered with an impenetrable rocky exterior. Had Soviette asked him to move the entire building, the CCCP would be homeless as the place fell down around a faithfully-trying Chug.
“Jadwiga,” Natalya said in Russian, “how is infirmary coming together?”
The elegant Soviette sighed like a nun in a jungle mission. “It is little more than a playpen for doctors. If anyone gets more than a scraped knee, they’ll die of gangrene. This room is unsanitary, underpowered, poorly ventilated…”
Natalya held up a hand. “Enough. I get the point. We are underfunded, it is true, and Moscow’s purse opens for us no more. We must make do, sestra.”
The doctor pursed her lips. “There is no making do while we lack even the most basic medical equipment. You wanted this infirmary to save us exorbitant American hospital bills.” She shook her head. “It won’t do that.”
“Hmm. But what about that?” She pointed at the unplugged EKG, whose dials and switches fascinated Chug. He hummed tunelessly as he flipped them on and off. “It is very impressive looking.”
“Right now, all it does is tell me when you’ve died in my primitive emergency room.”
“But you can heal with a touch. What need have we for surgical equipment?”
“I am not Jesus Christ,” Jadwiga said with barely restrained anger. “My powers convince the body to knit itself back together, but they are not magic. With serious injuries, there is no substitute for genuine medical knowledge. Besides,” she slapped Chug’s hand away from the EKG, making him cringe, “healing and diagnosis are two different things. Unless you want to pay Echo’s medical center every time Chug gets a stomachache from eating chairs, find me proper diagnostic equipment.”
Natalya bit back a retort. Soviette had been Medic One for years. Her combination of medical knowledge and empathic healing powers had saved many comrades’ lives in the past. Natalya respected her opinion above any other doctor she had met—and there had been many—and Jadwiga did not exaggerate to make a point.
“It’s that bad?” Natalya said softly.
Jadwiga flushed, embarrassed by her outburst. She petted Chug’s head to soothe him. “Da, it’s bad. Do you think it’s a deliberate slight from the old men in the Kremlin?”
Natalya shrugged. “Who is to say? But when in doubt, I just assume it’s politics.” She smiled sadly. “Make me a list. I’ll pass it on to Molotok and we’ll do what we can.”
“Horosho. I trust—well, I am sure you and Moji will find a solution.”
“Well…” Her voice trailed off. “Are you done with Chug?”
“Da. There is nothing left to carry.” Jadwiga winced at the abruptness of the comment. “For now,” she amended.
“Work on the list. It is important to me.” She squeezed the woman’s shoulder. “I promise.”
Jadwiga’s smile broke through her ordinarily aloof expression to show the great beauty she possessed. Her smiles were rare and to be treasured.
“Davay, davay, Chug! We have furniture to move.” Natalya took him by the hand and led him downstairs as if he were a child.
“Chug hungry,” he said.
Natalya groaned. Chug’s strange metabolism ran at lightning speed and allowed him to digest anything. Anything, including plants, machines, concrete—and furniture. She had little time. They passed the comm room, which would contain the advanced radio equipment and video monitors. Bubble wrap and cardboard boxes were stacked haphazardly in the corner.
“In here, Chuggy,” she said. “You can eat the bubble wrap, and the boxes, but nothing made of metal or plastic. Understand?”
“Chug unnerstanz,” he said. Within moments bubble wrap filled his mouth, popping like a miniature strand of fireworks. It would tide him over for an hour, she guessed. If he made up his mind to follow the packing material with a dessert of high-frequency radio transmitters, there was nothing she could do to stop him, aside from scolding him like a child. Chug possessed enormous strength, exceeding that of Worker’s Champion. She had never seen him wounded or injured, only stunned for a moment, when hit by a tank—the entire tank, thrown like an American fastball.
Fortunately, Chug adored the members of the CCCP, particularly the women, who doted on him. Natalya had to admit a fondness for him, and a bit of guilt that she regarded him as a pet.
The bubble wrap was nothing more than a memory and a burp, yet Chug was not satisfied. He eyed the cardboard boxes.
“Go on, but just the boxes.”
“Dank youz,” he said, seizing a pile of folded-up boxes like a hamburger. Chug was not a quiet or dainty eater, but did it matter when all he left were cardboard shavings? She would have to sweep up in here later.
With Chug temporaril
y sated, they began to move desks out of the rooms designated for meetings, resources, and—although she neglected to advertise it—interrogations. These were no snap-together particleboard pieces of junk, but rather hulking brutes from a time when a desk was expected to outlive its users. Constructed of solid oak and thick rolled steel painted an ugly olive, the desks weighed at least three hundred pounds apiece, enough to put the fear in ordinary movers.
Chug carried the desks in turn, maneuvering them as if they were oversized bags of groceries. A desk for the Commissar’s office on the second floor, three shared desks for the comrades, three in the resources library, leaving one for the reception area. Chug talked to himself as he trundled them up and down the stairs.
Fei Li would surely lecture her about some obscure aspect of feng shui, but the Chinese woman had taken one look at the weed-infested side yard and squatted down to clear it out.
Facing the door would be best for the reception desk, she concluded, recalling some tenuous strand of a feng shui conversation when Fei Li trained her in martial arts. Something about not having one’s back to the door, and that made sense to the soldier in her. Chug, however, had deposited the desk at the foot of the staircase, down the hall. He thumped around upstairs, probably busy trying to remember her instructions.
Natalya rubbed her hands on her jeans, crouched, found a handhold on the desk and heaved. Her metahuman physique afforded her triple a normal man’s strength, and the heavy desk put it to good use. She braced it on her belt and marched it down the hall. Craning her neck to see around it, she guided the desk into position and eased it to the floor. I should move furniture more often, she thought. It’s a better workout than a gym. Good practice for throwing dumpsters and trabants at perps, too.
She pushed a dusty office chair behind the desk and sat, looking out the door to the street beyond. Feng shui appealed to her sense of paranoia. She peeked in the drawers for abandoned office supplies. When she looked up, a man opened the door and strolled in as if he owned the building. Balding, large but not obese, he had the sturdy confidence of a man used to changing his environment with his hands. He wore a tie poorly and a workman’s jacket with ease. His metal briefcase showed signs of wear.
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