Analog SFF, September 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Found was warming to Tasha. Not for single moment had girl implied leaving smaller, slower kids behind might be acceptable solution.

  “I have an airplane.” Clarified with universal hand gesture.

  Tasha's expression lightened—then just as quickly darkened; brow crooking dubiously. “You? Kid? Airplane?”

  Could not repress grin. “Yes, a kid with a plane. I'm a pilot. I started young. It's a pretty big plane; it'll carry all of us.”

  After another moment's thoughtful hesitation, girl nodded, accepted assurance at face value. Ghost of smile returned. “Good.” Then looked worried again. “But tonight please not ... ?”

  Okay, that went better than expected. Had foreseen at least some debate over that very point. Had to find Daddy first, but if positions reversed, I'd have wanted out soonest.

  Shook head regretfully. “No, we can't leave tonight. First I have to find someone.”

  “Good. Katia tonight here not. Driutsk ... has her.” Tasha paused bleakly, but behind eyes glowed something reminiscent of vulcanism. Girl took long, slow, shaky breath; continued in almost rasping tone, “Katia nine. Not can leaving her. Not must leaving her. With him."

  Hmm ... Clearly, subtext operating here, but passing right over head. “Who's Driutsk?” Glanced at watch. “It's past one; why on earth would a Khranitel have a nine-year-old girl with him at this late whoa...”

  Blissfully wheel-spinning, blank moment concluded much too quickly. Suddenly understood. Too much.

  Have read expression, “Her eyes flamed.” Never actually seen it done before, but at aborted question, Tasha's expression metamorphosed into mask of ... well, never actually seen such loathing on any human face before, never mind kid's.

  Still had no clue who Driutsk was. But at that point didn't care. Didn't matter. What overrode interest in whom: Monster, beyond peradventure of doubt. Needed killing in worst way, earliest opportunity.

  Made mental note, if at all possible, to take care of that little detail before leaving with Daddy. And kids.

  And especially Katia.

  * * * *

  Remarkably, given obvious depth of bond with victim, Tasha came down first. Voice nearly steady when asked, “Looking you who for?”

  Before answering, performed moment's breathing-discipline exercise to restore own semblance of poise. “Another American. A doctor.”

  “American Foster doctor?”

  Posterity ... ? Please, whatever you do—never ever let me succumb to temptation (granted, currently nonexistent) to try to earn living playing poker. Thought, for briefest moment, had weathered shock of hearing stranger say Daddy's name out of blue without turning so much as a hair.

  But at that point, curious expression stole across Tasha's face. Looked oddly like sympathetic smile. Still quivering inside over sudden, blindsided, Daddy's-name impact, probably spent several whole seconds speculating about cause.

  But then girl reached out fingertip, brushed tear from Plucky Stonefaced Girl's cheek. “More to here you than just broking us and doctor out of tyur'ma." Statement, not question.

  Sighed. (Okay, probably sniffled.) Didn't know if daddy even had Russian equivalent (subsequently learned counterpart pappa, of all things), but irrelevant; ignored genetic issue altogether as responded, “He's my father. I thought he was killed in Washington during the Khraniteli's attack. Then I heard he might be here.”

  “Ah...” Tasha's expression cleared. “Out sticking butt to finding him no wonder.” Paused; eyed me cryptically. “Reminding me of him you.”

  Smiled absently. Russian girl's sidewaysly inverted/mismatched syntactical elements reminded me of Kyril, before true colors surf

  —So deafening was internal click triggered by dots’ belated connection, would have sworn must have wakened kids out in dorm: Tasha had not just heard of Daddy—"You've met him? Is he here ... ?”

  She nodded. “Main building laboratory kepting in Foster doctor. Kazimirov"—another shiver—"very, very top evil Khraniteli boss, tellinged Foster doctor new germs making us being for sick—being for die."

  Girl paused then; expression softened, hint of smile crept across features. (Suppressed own smile: Clearly Tasha had met Daddy; inspires those feelings in everyone.) “But does small-of-hand, Foster doctor,” she continued, with hint of mischief. “Fooling eye, switching needles. Tricking Kazimirov—even Fedka, evil, evil, evil doctor supervising. First sticking day, Foster doctor whispering on ear, kids telling, ‘Don't being worry'; vitamins water just sticking. Sick making never, promise.”

  Yes, that would be Daddy; die thousand times over before harming child—but smart: If simply refused, died nobly, Khraniteli would have turned project over to someone else. Obviously someone less knowledgeable, less likely to succeed—but certainly less principled.

  Found self smiling. Could just see him: laboring away in lab (with earnest, utterly absorbed expression) like wholesome, ruggedly handsome version of Ming the Merciless, formulating compounds whose sole purpose, notwithstanding long list of ingredients, centered on emission of noxious vapors—while actually turning out vitamin cocktails, probably occasional real medicines, too, where judged appropriate, to help malnutrition-ravaged children.

  Pulled out, unfolded Toymaker's map. “Can you show me where they're keeping him?”

  Tasha eyed sketch; indicated oblong almost adjacent to underground shelter entrance. Then grinned; glanced up, pointed out through window: Dark shape visible looming at mountain's base. “There,” she breathed in barely audible whisper. “Main laboratory, there kepting Foster doctor.”

  Nodded, thanked her; but, as turned to door—

  “Foster doctor father being,” Tasha blurted suddenly, tightly. “Of course must him getting out.” Lip quiver barely visible, final word hardly audible: “First.”

  Stopped in tracks. Spun; fixed her with what hoped would be regarded as resolute eye. Declared, “I will come back for you. All of you.”

  Struck by thought. Again unslung backpack. Extracted bolt cutters, handed over. “Hide them inside a mattress or somewhere. If something bad happens—if I don't get back, you get those kids out of here.” Told her about sloppy motor pool discipline; should be easy to steal vehicle, get away cleanly.

  Finally, recalling again Danni's lessons in people-management techniques, put arms around Tasha, administered big, deliberately lingering hug in shamelessly manipulative attempt to bolster spirits, boost confidence. Told her firmly, in mock-Austrian accent, “Ah'll be bock.”

  Should have known better, Posterity. Terminator impression drew not so much as eyelid flicker—but shamelessly manipulative hug ended with both of us leaking tears.

  * * * *

  Amazingly, back at hidey-hole in heart of thicket, Maggie managed to confine delight at big sister's return to persuasive rendition of leaping joy without actually moving muscle or making sound. Almost as if understood reason behind need for silence.

  Shared snuggly quarter hour with fuzzy sibling, gave her stingy partial handful of freeze-dried liver, topped up water dish; then, with night still young, again told her, “Watch,” headed off for further snooping.

  Glided past installation's peripheral elements, with which already familiar, straight into heart of encampment; object: Acquaint self with interior layout, particularly area of big laboratory building in which Tasha felt Daddy imprisoned. Must have circled structure half dozen times, edging closer each time, until aware of every bush, leaf, blade of grass which might furnish cover, as well security details.

  Vexed to discover lab security relatively tight, by Serdtsevina Rasovyi standards. Even pretty darned tight. Both entrances boasted four-man squads—

  Hey, Posterity! Just realized something else: Have seen nothing to suggest women play active role in Khraniteli's plans, operations. Both shifts of prison camp guards comprised exclusively of men; likewise, all personnel guarding lab. In fact, every single soul have seen Out & About during day's prowling has been male.

  Unl
ess women begin turning up (at all, never mind in significant numbers, responsible roles—regardless of intensity with which I oppose them), current growing suspicion likely to mature into conclusion: Khraniteli “society” borrows from “world-is-a-male-playground” cultural bias enjoyed by (at least males of) oil-rich, middle-eastern countries prior to Mankind's End.

  Actually, wouldn't surprise me at all to find casually genocidal ideology emerged in toto from that zealot-nourishing environment, with its oddly hypnotic belief structure. Certainly ample history for it in those parts.

  Just ask Danya....

  All right—enough philosophical gnat-straining; more than ample selection of real problems ahead just making sure right people emerge from this encounter with skins intact.

  Wait ... Isn't that pretty much a casually genocidal ideology, too...?

  No! Stupid notion—stupider still to have ping-pong moral debate going on inside own head while reconnoitering. Issue could not be simpler: My people didn't start this; didn't strike first—particularly didn't cheerfully snuff 7 billion people just to provide fresh start for own exclusive membership. That single fact provides sufficient distinction to differentiate sociopaths from those whose refusal to be victims includes doing whatever takes to solve problem.

  Solve for good. Solve, as Danya is wont to observe, for never again....

  My job simple: Get Daddy, children, self, Maggie the hell out of here, alive, minimizing risks in process. Shan't go out of my way to kill anyone (except Driutsk, of course, if opportunity arises—okay, maybe Kazimirov, too), but don't plan to waste energy, sympathy keeping any opposition members alive who insist on getting in way.

  All the while keeping in mind Danni's more relevant combat maxims, most of which boil down to some version of “Never leave live enemy behind you,” which distills down further to perennial catchall: “Dead guys don't get back up....”

  Okay. With that nonsense settled—out of mind, out of the way—got down to reconnoitering in earnest: identifying specific lab security installations, how manned, equipped, how alert various members appeared to be.

  Even employed Wrist Rocket from extreme long range to sample startlement reactions by exploding iodine vapor bulb suspended practically over heads of lab's front entrance security team.

  Results mixed: Learned several intriguing new Russian words, phrases, about which intended to ask Tasha later.

  More importantly, however, determined which team members reacted constructively; i.e., instantly taking cover, bringing up weaponry, while scanning vicinity from behind solid objects; as opposed to those who merely jumped up swearing, brushing glass fragments off clothing with expressions of offended dignity. As with any population, competents in minority.

  All in all, night's stalking concluded on generally successful-but-unsatisfactory note: Lived through adventure; but no possible way to get past security, gain unseen entry to lab, look for Daddy.

  Finally called off recon as bad job; and by sunrise Foster sisters had adjourned to more remote, better concealed location in heart of mature copse, where we pitched semipermanent base camp, ate proper meal, mourned absence of shower (okay, that part limited to self), conducted brief, short-range Frisbee session amongst trees; thereafter, somehow, managing to get to sleep.

  Not, however, most restful of slumbers. First mulled over (okay, worried, fretted, brooded, agonized about) strategic/tactical dilemma of getting inside lab, finding Daddy. Finally dropped off into troubled sleep, during which subconscious picked up baton, kept chewing on problem, causing serial bad dreams, until—

  Oh! Of course. How obvious...

  —awoke with answer.

  * * * *

  Kim Mellon's Journal:

  Well, we're a full day behind schedule now, at least.

  Some weeks ago, Adam dropped a wrench through and out the bottom of the engine compartment of the truck he was working on. It bounced to the exact geometric center of the vehicle's mass, thereby making it equally difficult to reach from every direction.

  As he climbed under to retrieve it, he offered his personal theory of the mechanism underlying Murphy's Law: Ages ago, he explained deadpan, after the ancient Norse Gods had retired, Loki, the God of Mischief, grew bored and decided He needed a hobby...

  We all laughed, then. Now I'm not so sure.

  In any event, regardless whether the responsible party is supra-Norwegian or merely Irish, about halfway between Anchorage and Norilsk, our karma reserves ran dangerously low.

  Adam, Lisa, Terry, and I were traveling on the B plane with Danya. Teacher, Peter, and Wallace were aboard the A plane.

  At the specific moment when Chaos elected to descend, Danni and I were in the cockpit, visiting with the pilots: Scott London, an “active-duty” Air Force pilot...

  ("Hey, I haven't retired, and the Pentagon has yet to notify me of my release.")

  ...with thousands of hours of C-17 pilot-in-command time, and Lennel Palindrome, who's second-chairing for Scott. They were swapping that-reminds-mes, I-learned-about-flying-from-thats, mixed with patent, blatantly outrageous there-I-was-upside-down-in-the-clouds-with-both-engines-on-fire-style whoppers, when Lennel broke off midhomily with, "Oh-oh...”

  Hearing such sentiments expressed by a member of one's flight crew at midnight, eight miles above the full-moon-lit Arctic icecap, possibly four hundred miles from the North Pole, will clear away one's cobwebs.

  Lennel's exclamation was followed almost instantly by Scott's terse comment on the short-range walkie-talkies we're using for interplane communication (under some conditions—sunspot-induced signal “skip” among them—normal aviation radio transmissions could be picked up by Khraniteli electronic eavesdropping even at this range): “Kenny, is your number two on fire ... ?”

  Happily, it wasn't, quite, though the fifty-foot-long orange flames and the volume and density of black smoke gushing from the jet exhaust surely would have fooled me.

  Still, as a precaution, they shut it down and we crippled the rest of the way across the Arctic Ocean at three-engine speeds.

  Landing at the sprawling military base at Norilsk, we taxied up to the largest of the service hangars, shut down, disembarked, and all our aircraft-oriented people rolled up their sleeves.

  Including Adam, of course—whose eyes are positively smoldering at the delay. While he has no background whatever in jet engines, he understands the theory, he's a preternaturally quick study (Cameron, Lennel's second-in-command, says Adam absorbed the engine schematics in a single glance, as if by osmosis); and, of course, in matters mechanical, his instincts approach the level of extrasensory perception. In addition, hand tools in general seem to become extensions of his nervous system.

  Accordingly, he has been welcomed with open arms by our aircraft tech people; both for the assistance he might furnish, as well as the opportunity his involvement provides to keep an inconspicuous eye on him.

  If only Danya were as easily distracted—or supervised: Even during the most tranquil of times I've never heard anyone describe her as mellow, but the more tightly wound she becomes, the quieter she gets, and for the past few hours she's been so quiet that I positively fear for her.

  A little while ago I encountered her stalking thoughtfully around the Black Hawk helicopter stowed in the A plane, its rotors folded for transport. Operational manual in hand, she was calculating how long it would take to fly it from here to Serdtsevina Rasovyi, if we can't get the C-17 back into the air really soon. The answer, she told me, ever so softly, is about ten hours, not including fuel stops.

  Actually, we could get there lots faster in the B plane alone; however, standing policy has been always to fly the C-17s in pairs, in case of situations exactly like this: Between them, these ships carry enough spares and trained personnel almost to build another Globemaster, never mind repair one.

  Still, these practical considerations are not sitting well with Danya, to say nothing of Adam....

  * * * *

  Candy's Journa
l:

  Day XI

  There. Wasn't even all that difficult to get antediluvian People's Vehicle running—ancient Volva, Mulletov Couptail, or whatever long-gone rural Russians called this 1940s American POS clone. No idea of actual brand, of course; can't begin to read Cyrillic lettering on hood, trunk. And while retaining bright colors, ceramic-coated manufacturer's emblem offers even less insight.

  Found vehicle in parking lot of what passed for gas station hereabouts, in little, not-quite-town/crossroads settlement just east of lake.

  Tracked down gasoline generator in nearby (sorta) farm/general store. Hauled over to station, gave it pro-est, most forma tune-up in history of infernal combustion engine repairs: Wire-brushed carbon-embalmed sparkplug; filed corroded points; removed, pitched gunk-obstructed in-line fuel filter altogether. Thereafter, generator actually started on first pull (fortunate, since probably wouldn't recognize replacement parts even if had been sitting right on counter).

  As machine began charging Mulletov's battery, dealt with car's similar operational bits at least as unceremoniously as had treated generator's. Clearly unaccustomed even to such cursory attention, vehicle demonstrated gratitude by firing right up once reassembled.

  At least mostly; five of six cylinders responded, ran smoothly; sixth chimed in with occasional counterpoint as spirit moved it.

  Withal, getting expedition on wheels not difficult, but was time-consuming. Started at sunup. Three hours’ trek to town (chasing Frisbee nonstop en route, Maggie probably covered 20 times distance I did; regarded entire trip as lark, excuse to frolic) followed by another almost three hours’ labor, which she regarded as pleasantly boring excuse to explore, sample local olfactory palette.

  Thereafter, mere 15-minute drive took us to within half mile of Stallion's hideout; at which point left car, went rest of way on foot. Judged leaving fresh tire tracks close to plane would have been less than scintillating tactics.

  Changed back to civvies—but not before spending five minutes scrubbing clothes into ground to eliminate any suggestion of freshly-laundered, colors-brighter-than-new/whites-whiter-than-white appearance. Similarly grimed own hair, following irregular snipping back bangs to give coiffe that practical, spontaneous, “just-haggled-off” look. Then pulled off scrunchy securing ponytail, gathered hair into two separate little-kid-type ponytails departing head just above, behind ears—gambit which alone probably took three years off apparent age, underscored innocent, harmless appearance.