Analog SFF, September 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Unaware of these developments, of course, Candy flew on.

  Cognizant of the Candy-Terry mindlink, Teacher asked Lisa to listen for and take down anything the bird said which sounded as if it might be from Candy.

  During her first stopover, at Klamath Falls, Oregon, Candy encountered Maggie, a Border Collie, preternaturally intelligent, typical of the breed, who had been surviving on her own since the Khraniteli's attack. That night the BC awakened Candy with snarls—holding a pack of wolves at bay. Candy drove them off with warning shots. This ended Candy's indecision: Maggie was on the plane when she departed the next morning.

  Crossing into Asia via the Bering Strait, Candy encountered no one until the morning of the eighth day, when she met a likeable, white-bearded, slightly rotund, older gentleman who went by the nicknames, Igrushka Izgotovlenie or “Toymaker,” and Otets Igrushkayami or “Father Toys.” In pre-armageddon days Toymaker had been a manufacturer of high-end, high-tech games and toys. He had once attended a technical conference at Serdtsevina Rasovyi, and was able to furnish Candy with a detailed, hand-drawn map of the base.

  The following day Candy landed in the wilds just outside Serdtsevina Rasovyi, pulled up under trees, tied the plane down, covered it with camouflage netting, and went to bed early, prepared to begin infiltration of the Khraniteli's headquarters in the morning....

  [Footnote 1: Lisa's note: Blanks? Hah...!]

  * * * *

  Volume VI

  Unseen, Unheard, Uneasy

  Day X

  Subtle difference exists, Posterity, between practice infiltration runs back home, where penalty for getting caught limited to abrupt stinging sensation courtesy of Wrist Rocket-driven acorns impacting whatever piece of anatomy presents—versus reconnoitering real enemy installation, populated by genuinely murderous hostiles, folk who sincerely want everyone with H. post hominem DNA dead.

  Not that have ever been blase about practice penalties: Danni seldom fails to spot something sticking up; never misses with damned slingshot. Training consequences leave red, burning welts to aid memory, encourage improvement.

  In current milieu, however, suspect failing test would make one nostalgic for acorns.

  Debated odds of infiltrating at night, under cover of darkness, versus invisible ninja/zen approach: Becoming terrain, slipping in in broad daylight, right under Bad Guys’ noses.

  Obviously, under normal conditions, darkness preferred venue. But depending upon Khraniteli's paranoia level, security personnel might well be using infrared-based night-vision gear. If so, regardless of care taken, skill level employed, Plucky Girl Infiltrator's body temperature would stand out against crisp night air like light bulb. And that, experience suggests, would be bad.

  So chose daylight. Spent whole day stalking installation from various directions, costumed largely as clump of field grasses, with single sickly bush adhering to fundament, clump of sod gracing crown. Shiny nose, exposed skin generally, rendered less noticeable courtesy of handful of nearly dead-black goo from perimeter of convenient puddle. Good-quality stuff, too; had to remove only single leech before applying. (Chose to use “local color” for preliminary recon in interest of saving real special-forces face paint for actual, for-blood Daddy-extraction sortie.)

  Maggie regarded her own veggie disguise with amusement: mostly weeds/grasses woven into coat; though did blacken white patches by rubbing in locally grown organic makeup. But BC seemed to grasp premise; managed to limit joke's celebration to sparkling eyes every time met mine. (Amazing, how that seemed to be every time I glanced at her; Border Collies so alert.)

  However, stalking wily Khraniteli on own turf turned out easier than expected. First, no one on Bad Guys’ payroll in danger of being mistaken for fussy English groundskeepers: Not big on neatly cropped, weed-free lawns; converting bushes, hedges into mulch or topiary.

  In fact, without exception, surrounding fields downright unkempt: Acres of knee- to waist-deep grasses, weeds; dotted with innumerable scraggly bushes, actual thickets, even occasional hedgerows running here, there. Danya would have displayed someone's head on pike for negligence on this scale.

  Sneaking-up challenge nearly laughable. Well-motivated Daisy Scout troop could have conducted infiltration, accomplished objective, made escape, been home in time to present freshly washed, sparkly clean faces, hands at lunch.

  Periodically employed tiny Mossad-surplus multipurpose detector/tester to reassure self no antipersonnel radar in use. Of three-dozen Danni brought back with her for AAs’ use after World Ended, had borrowed only two. (Redundancy good; greed bad.)

  Eyeball survey, employing tiny, U.S. special-forces-supplied, folded-optics monocular tentatively classified various structures; also confirmed accuracy of Father Toys’ map. Rows of boxy, prefabish-looking, industrial-style, metal buildings, neatly aligned proximate to shelter's hillside entrance, likely housed research/manufacturing facilities. Variety of barracks, obvious infrastructure buildings (kitchens, chow halls, common rooms, motor pool, etc.) more informally scattered around periphery.

  However, first real estate to seize attention not on map: Prison camp near southern fringe apparently had come into being since Toymaker's visit.

  And no mistaking enclosure's purpose: tall, razor-wire-topped, chain-link fence all the way around. Guard shack at double-gated sally port on north side. Interior structures all ramshackle, southeastern U.S. chicken coop-style, clapboard dormitories. Supported by concrete pylons instead of foundations, with at least 18 inches’ wind-tunnel air space between floors, ground—heat loss on cold nights must have been ferocious.

  Doubtless where Daddy kept.

  One leg of unseen prowlings took us through motor pool. Having recently discovered own propensity for grand theft motor vehicle, occurred to me, should haste become issue, liberated vehicle might well facilitate exit with Daddy.

  (Though given Stallion's original price tag, "spectacular theft motor vehicle” probably more accurately reflects offense level.)

  En passant, snooped interiors of several Humvee-looking things known as UAZs, automobiles, trucks of various classifications. Verified that not only were all vehicles unlocked, keys apparently left in ignitions as matter of course.

  (Danya would have fashioned necklace from teeth of those responsible. While they watched!)

  Nightfall eventually found Foster sisters enjoying field rations, cozily ensconced at heart of apparently impenetrable hedgerow behind conveniently located hummock just over hundred yards laterally from prison camp, waiting to see if security forces would trot out night-vision goodies as light faded.

  If so, would spend night there.

  And if so, promised to be long night....

  * * * *

  We overprepared, Posterity. Here at very heart of their own territory, never mind continent, on fringes of Russian/Kazakhstani border Urals, not only are Khraniteli not obsessing over local security, substantial numbers of those charged with actual, physical safeguarding of primary base not, in fact, even remaining awake over security.

  Such, at least, was case at prison camp: At about six, night-shift crew wandered out in ones, twos, loaded down with baskets of food, liquor bottles. Settled down with day-shift folk at picnic tables outside sally port guard shack (no other guard stations, no gun towers, etc.); then all fell to, enjoyed leisurely, comradely dinner.

  Multiple food courses comprising jolly double-shift get-together lasted from almost sundown to good two hours after complex's lights came on. Libations ran out around midnight.

  Stumbling a bit, slapping backs, laughing like loons, day people finally lurched to feet, weaved imprecisely down trail toward residential area, leaving substantial majority of crack p.m. security squad (about whom had been worrying self into hissy-spaz all day long!) snoring in chairs.

  Have seen The Great Escape, Posterity (okay, several dozenteen times—youthful James Garner, Steve McQueen seriously ogleable specimens of Homo sapient males).

  However, after watch
ing Khraniteli guards’ Sergeant Schultzly performance, failure to encounter battery of endlessly probing searchlights scouring fence, grounds beyond, evoked little astonishment. In fact, prison camp nightlighting consisted of bare half dozen examples of same electric-eye-controlled blue-white iodine vapor lamps most farmers used back home.

  In short, Stalag Luft III this is not. In fact, at first impression, may not even rise to level of Stalag 13....

  Initial phase of storming castle consisted of feeding Maggie, giving hug; telling her “Watch,” indicating camp, supply cache; walking (okay, worming along through ground cover a little) to darker section of fence located equidistant between most widely separated iodine vapor lamps.

  Used Danni's gimmick to test fence, rule out fry-the-burglar-level voltage/amperage, contact alarms, or fabric-integrity-interruption detectors monitoring chain-link fence's structure.

  Razor-wire along very top limited to single lonely strand, coils stretched so far apart to span distance, promised to serve less as barrier than minor inconvenience.

  Oozed silently up chain-link mesh like Spider-Man, propped razor coils even farther apart with stick brought from thicket. Wormed past pointy bits without significant blood loss, removed stick, dropped to ground inside.

  Tah-dah.

  Now all had to do was find Daddy.

  Oh, and get us out.

  Hey, what could go wrong...?

  * * * *

  Now, Posterity, notwithstanding known tendency to knock wood while crossing fingers, legs, on occasion even eyes, while yielding to black cats’ right-of-way under stepladders resting on sidewalk cracks on triskaidektic Fridays, am not superstitious person. Really, do not believe previous question received, interpreted by Powers That Be as dare. Quite.

  Still, answer not long in coming: Daddy not bleeping here!

  Which isn't even worst part...

  * * * *

  Recon leading to these conclusions would have made Danya proud, Posterity: Switched on ninja mode; ghosted in, out of dorms like wraith, checking for occupants. First eight buildings empty; no one home at all.

  Wondered for briefest moment, exiting Dorm 6, whether whole camp would prove empty; but then common sense reemerged—regardless of personnel's blood-alcohol levels, surely Khraniteli wouldn't bother guarding empty prison.

  But not until last stop—Dorm Number 9—did answer materialize. Eased in through door, closed softly behind me, and, as floated silently down central aisle, realized some third of bunks at far end contained shapeless forms huddled under ragged blanket scraps.

  Edged closer, took look at sleepers.

  And jaw dropped.

  Children. All children. Nothing but children.

  Quick census revealed about two dozen kids, genders indeterminate. Appeared to range in age from maybe four to a bit older than self. All skinny, filthy. Some showed bruises, healing abrasions, even cuts.

  But children? Why children? And why on earth would anyone imprison, starve, abuse pack of kids?

  Gee, let's review...

  Here we all were, in heart of Khraniteli Central—primary base/research center. Danya had mentioned Khraniteli trying to develop pathogens capable of affecting hominems. Straightforward research; but how to test bugs’ effectiveness as study progresses, without risks attendant to keeping group of really ticked-off grown-up hominems around?

  Gosh, I'm stumped...

  Took deep breath then, held it, let out slo-ow-ly.

  Undoubtedly these kids all Homo post hominems,l being used as culture media/test subjects—multiply condemned, imaginatively described Khraniteli using my people as lab rats!

  Forced anger down. Now not the time.

  But made solemn promise—with overtones of blood oath: Time would come....

  * * * *

  However, this complicated matters: Regardless of whether found Daddy, had to get kids out; simply no choice there.

  But spoke no Russian, nor any of dozens—possibly hundreds—of Slavic/Baltic languages/splinter dialects that could form mother tongue for any/all these kids; and certainly no reason to expect any to speak English.

  Absence of which left informal sign language—hardly most efficient tool for communicating subtle concepts like, “Be-very-very-quiet-I'm-getting-you-all-out-of-here-follow-me-duck-through-the-hole-in-the-fence-stay-low-crawl-over-to-that-thicket-don't-be-scared-of-the-nice-doggie-you-meet-there....”

  Original plan, if term could be stretched to cover it, had been to slip in, find Daddy, get him out, killing bloody hell out of any-, everybody standing in way, fly home; scenario which, as stated, involved minimal reliance on Intrepid Special-Ops Girl's linguistic skills.

  But even as mulled problem, became aware of round, distinctly non-sleepy-looking eyeball peering up from one of larger, shapeless, huddled lumps.

  Barely had time to speculate about chances of leaping across distance separating us quickly enough to clap hand over mouth to prevent outcry—when kid raised finger to lips, breathed softest possible, “Sh-h-h.”

  No doubt own eyes round as nodded agreement.

  Slowly kid eased out of bed, tiptoed over to me, moving pretty quietly for untrained civilian. Cocked head toward dorm's empty far end. Again I nodded.

  Led to enclosure built into corner. Eased door open, slid through, beckoned to me to follow, closed door behind.

  Small room turned out to be minimally equipped but surprisingly clean, relatively odor-free “comfort” station, illuminated by small window, tiniest of plug-in nightlight LED glows.

  Once inside, new acquaintance peeked out window, then turned back to me. Noted at this point, new acquaintance also of distaff persuasion, half a head taller, possibly a year or two older than self, though, due to emaciation, surely outweighed her by good ten pounds (and my nonexistent curves farther along than hers, though malnutrition surely gave me unfair edge).

  Momentarily girl's eyes performed head-to-foot flicker, taking in camos, mud-darkened face; lingered briefly, thoughtfully, on katana grip projecting above shoulder, various web-belted utility pouches, low-slung Glock, conspicuously nightscope-, silencer-equipped M-1 in right hand.

  Then—surprise!—whispered Russian turned out even more difficult to understand than spoken-from-diaphragm version. Shook head regretfully. “Sorry. I'm an American. I don't understand. Do you speak English?”

  Girl's brow rose. “Eeengleeess?” came hesitant reply.

  I nodded.

  “So very bad I little spikking Eeengleeess. Under you stand?”

  Tiny shiver of relief warmed cockles of my worrywart. Communication solved. One problem down.

  (At this point couldn't be more than thousand or so to go.)

  Replied gratefully: “Yes, American. Your English is much better than my Russian.”

  “Hokay. Eeengleeess we spikking. You who are? Here why?—Here how?"

  Nearly blurted was looking for Daddy; had she seen him?—as if locked-up, starving, effectively condemned kid would have knowledge of, interest in, problems beyond own immediate survival.

  So took metaphorical step back; briefly allowed opening elements of Danya's incremental, information-gathering matrix to flash through brain: Quickest way to get information from people, she opines (apart from, where necessary, judicious applications of flexion, torsion, tension, compression, blunt, sharp, hot), generally involves identifying, then applying leverage against fulcrum comprising interviewee's self-interest.

  Given circumstances, motivation obvious; solution even more so: “Hi, I'm Candy. I'm going to get you out of here...”

  * * * *

  “Tasha.” Declaration accompanied by universally self-identifying finger tap to yclept's own chest. Then, clearly not proponent of empty conventions, irrelevant small-talk, girl got down to fundamentals: “You too kid. Got how you in? Get how us out?”

  Replied, “I came in over the fence.”

  Girl's expression fell. “Maybe can I do this. Bigger also one, twos, threes. But weak littlests
being; not can climbing.”

  Had solution to that: Unslung backpack, reached in, pulled out lovely, ultralightweight, Israeli special-forces-surplus, telescopic-handled, titanium bolt-cutter; handed over with smile.

  Tasha expanded handles to full three-foot length; opened, closed jaws. Nodded approvingly. Recollapsed device, handed back. Crooked brow. “Guards ... ?”

  Tucked bolt cutters back into papoose pack, closed flap; shrugged back into straps. “They probably won't be much of a factor; they seem to prefer spending their nights in postparty comas.”

  Tasha's brow lowered in obvious noncomprehension. Mmm ... given our combined cross-linguistic skills, probably needed to dial down syntax, never mind customary ambiguity level, if hoped regularly to be understood. Dick-and-Jane-emulation time.

  Mimed tossing back drink. Crossed, rolled eyes up into forehead; lolled head, jaw saggy, tongue drooping to side. Never been fond of, good at charades, but here performance sufficed.

  Girl almost laughed at impression; then smile acquired overtones of contempt. “Guards many so stumbling p'yanitsa. Such duties assigned being too stupid, too lazy real workings for. Time most spending vipivka.” She returned my tossing-back gesture perfectly.

  (Whee, new Russian words, at least one unmistakably pejorative in context. Hoped would remember later, when had more time, to have Tasha clarify which meant drunks vs. drinking.)

  “But others,” she added expressionlessly, with sudden shiver which snapped full attention back to here-now, "not stupid. Very smart. Very also bad. Some very, very, very bad-smart. Evil-smart.”

  Well, so much for any lingering doubts about whether both of us on same side. Nice also to have own opinion of Khraniteli confirmed. Nice in scary way.

  “But out gettings after?” she continued, tone anxious. “Littlests not can far walking. Khraniteli searchable; trucks, UAZs. Escaping so how?”