In any event, Wallace is confident that, though the timing may be tighter than strictly comfortable, we'll get there in time to deal with this latest threat, and, of course, to rescue Candy, Doctor Foster, and those captive children.
* * * *
Candy's Journal:
Once sally port security personnel settled back down after clearly unwelcome interruption represented by Yours Truly's return to camp (i.e., refocused attention back to bottles’ contents, as God intended), Intrepid Special-Ops Girl draped arm firmly over Tasha's shoulder, dragged girl off for brief stroll around compound. Maintaining separation from microphones, quickly brought her up-to-date on Kazimirov's fireworks surprise.
Except for prior demonstrations of intelligence, might have wondered whether girl comprehended situation's gravity: Seemed supremely unimpressed. Response limited to sanguine, “So before escaping, we stopping them.”
Glad Tasha's confidence high; impending missile launch, together with own possible personal involvement in solving problem, left stomach so tied in knots, couldn't force down gourmet offerings children had saved me from evening meal. (To be fair, while primary appetite deficit grew out of tension-induced acid stomach, suspicion that entree's meat content probably started life as card-carrying member of Rodentia was less than helpful.) Divided up my portion amongst youngest campers, who clearly needed it more than I, regardless of source.
Later that night, showed Tasha how to use stick to keep razor wire out of mischief while eeling over fence. Adjourned together to base camp, where girl, Maggie hit it off instantly—in fact, within moments of arrival, Tasha found self snookered into moonlight Frisbee. Watched them briefly with smile: Clearly girl had proper doggie-parenting instincts; would take best care of BC possible, In The Event Of...
Once Maggie sufficiently frisbeed out (our opinion, not hers), fed, watered, BC diagnosed Tasha as snuggle-deprived, set about rendering treatment.
However, with dog in arms, girl found herself reliving Russian perspective on Mankind's End, replay centered on fact that her beloved, fiercely protective Dobie, out of town with father when plague, panic, riots started up, had never made it home. Flashback soon deteriorated into silent, convulsively whole-body-racking sobs, clearly born of pain beyond capacity to contain or express.
As involuntarily self-taught, rule-of-thumb psychologist (like all H. post hominems, been there, done that, understood suffering's dynamics all too well), could tell Tasha's determined focus upon long-lost dog classic grief-substitution syndrome: Yes, dog's loss almost too painful to contemplate, but intensified by transference mechanism: Dog's loss represented family, friends—whole of her world. Like most of us, girl was, in fact, to best of her knowledge, community's sole survivor. Also like most of us, had spent terrible protracted interval fearing was all alone on planet.
From appearances, this was first time Tasha had let anyone, anything get past barriers behind which bottled-up pain had mounted steadily, festering, well on way to turning septic.
Holding her tightly in my arms as she clung to Maggie, we helped her ride it out. By time emotional purge slowed, ground to quivering halt, girl was limp, barely responsive, but catharsis finally behind her. Based on own experience, that of friends', new family members', knew girl would be all right now.
(By rights, TD on Maggie's collar should have read, CTD, for champion therapy dog; never so much as twitched muscle to pull away as long as Tasha needed her.)
Outing concluded finally with gathering selected tools; swallowing couple mouthfuls of C-rations, accumulating balance to take back for kids; returning to prison camp; divvying up food. Finally made it into filthy beds shortly after one, both still red-eyed, borderline sniffily.
* * * *
Kim Mellon's Journal:
At dawn's first pinkish glow this morning, those of us not already awake and working under the lights on the A plane's engine were rudely jarred from our bunks by the mounting shriek of jet engines—not ours—spooling up to a full-throated roar.
Stumbling blearily en masse down the C-17s’ ramps to the ground, we saw what appeared to be a small, business-class jet, something on the order of a ten-passenger Gulfstream, accelerating briskly down the nearest runway. In the dim light, it was just possible to make out the Cyrillic lettering on the hull.
Banking steeply the moment it left the ground, the small jet climbed out rapidly toward the still-dark southwestern sky, clearly on course for Serdtsevina Rasovyi.
Teacher watched in silence, his face a poster portrait for the phrase, enigmatic expression. Next to him, Wallace shook his head and grumbled something which, if it had come from anyone else, could have been mistaken for a sarcastic observation about the special personal satisfactions of being included in precision operational choreography, as well as left and right hands each sharing what the other had in mind.
Adam, who had been up all night working on the engine, said nothing. Briefly he glared after the plane, but then turned and went back to work.
For myself, the burst of relief I felt when I saw that plane, and realized what was happening, was so profound that I couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry, and ended up doing a little of both simultaneously.
On the other hand, Danya's actions have reinforced my growing impression that, as a young girl, she probably was very much like Candy; and that, as our favorite problem stepchild grows up, it's going to be increasingly difficult to tell them apart.
Which contributes a somewhat less comfortable overlay to those feelings of relief...
* * * *
Volume VIII
Candle, Moth, Flame
* * * *
Candy's Journal:
Day XII
Achieved little sleep that night, Posterity, and even that not restful: Tossed, turned, obsessed (consciously and sub-) about morrow (okay, technically, today), not to mention Kazimirov's thermonuclear plans for (actual) day after tomorrow.
And when finally did manage to nod off, however briefly, promptly found self once again fleeing in slow-motion, inches ahead of polar bear—this one with recognizable elements of Kazimirov's face superimposed over, blended with ursine features.
But worse, bear allied this time with weaselly looking, bald-headed hyena—with slopey shoulders; almost nonexistent piggy nose with slitlike nostrils; wet, almost runny, unnaturally bright, fast-blinking, pale eyes; big, slack lips; no chin to speak of.
Just behind us as we fled—me pulling Daddy, him towing Tasha, rest of kids strung out behind her, all bouncing along like linked balloons—carnivores pursued, moving in synchronized, slow-motion bounds.
And as usual, no matter how steeply forward I leaned, or how glidey managed to make strides in effort to speed progress through syrup-consistency air, we gained no ground on anthropomorphically featured mobile appetites.
Worse, Daddy kept trying to pull away, turn back; kept muttering something about having forgotten to leave water running in stove, turn on electricity in bathtub, light fuse—whatever!
By two o'clock, when dormitory door banged open, jarring me blearily awake, was ready to smack him.
But adrenaline surge, upon opening eyes, cleared out blearies in short order: With no attempt at stealth, Driutsk, accompanied by two other men, marched up center aisle, stopped at foot of bed; stood regarding me: licking big, slack lips; unnaturally bright, fast-blinking, pale eyes shining even brighter....
* * * *
Kim Mellon's Journal:
At breakfast this morning, about seven, Lisa suddenly dropped her utensils and began writing furiously in the ever-present steno tablet.
“Hello, Mr. Driutsk,” said Terry, from her shoulder. “Gee, it's late; it must be the middle of the night. What are you doing here?”
Lisa glanced up at me, her eyes worried. “Mommy,” she murmured, “Candy's scared...”
* * * *
Candy's Journal:
“I told you I would see you later,” said Driutsk, making visible effort to suppress smirk.
“Get up, child. Come with me.”
Eased from beneath ragged blanket; rose cautiously. Switched on combat computer's peripheral hyperawareness, the better to watch all three simultaneously.
“Where?”
“With me.” Driutsk's big, wet, loose-lipped smile raised goosebumps up, down spine's full length.
“At this hour? Why?”
Breathily, Russian simpered, “It is time for you to cross the threshold into adulthood. I am going to expand your horizons....”
* * * *
Kim Mellon's Journal:
I found myself standing, staring at Terry, my feelings no doubt apparent in my face. But I wasn't sure whether I was more afraid for Candy or worried about how eavesdropping telepathically and/or empathetically on what appeared to be about to happen might affect Lisa.
Around the table, others had begun to notice. Adam, too, was on his feet, his face pale, eyes flinty.
Her pen never missing a word as they cascaded from Terry's bill, Lisa's eyes flickered up and around at us uncomfortably. But then, after a moment's visible deliberation, her expression firmed. “If hearing things like this is going to affect you this much,” she said sternly, her tone and delivery unmistakably my worried voice, “I'm not sure I should let you listen...”
* * * *
Candy's Journal:
“No ... !” Unexpected little voice shrill, angry, but curiously unafraid.
All eyes turned to see tiny Katia on her feet, eyes blazing, marching up aisle, bearing down on Driutsk. Child glared up monster's nostrils from vicinity of furcula; poked him firmly in chest with stiffened index finger. “Be her leaving alone. Not she knowing. With you I am being go—is enough!"
Irrelevant-but-analytical-detail-obsessed corner of brain enjoyed momentary internal dialogue over surprise at noting: First, Katia spoke English; second, marveling at how well—and only then, belatedly, realized just how smart tiny girl really was: Extra effort just to keep me in loop!
In response, Russian's smirk became, if possible, even more palpably loathsome. But then laughed; said (in English; repellant little dweeb lacked strength of character to resist being led—by child), “Yes, you will come with us.” Pointed at another girl, about Katia's age, shrinking back under blanket. “You too. My friends wish to experiment.”
“But you...” Turned back to me; leer faded to horrid caricature of smile whose contrived friendliness somehow more disturbing than unambiguous lechery; “...you I think may be special. You are for me."
Double bunks abutting wall on either side of unscheduledly Kitten-in-Cage Girl formed cul-de-sac—tactically, situation could have served as dictionary definition/illustration of cornered.
Carefully, stepped past trio out into aisle, furiously evaluating unexpected strategic/tactical complications...
First, quite apart from obvious negatives, situation strategically inconvenient: Still hadn't found Daddy; could not afford to attract attention at this point.
And tactically, even with theoretical advantage conferred by momentary startlement paralysis inherent in what Danni likes to call exploding baby bunny factor, three opponents, all staring fixedly at me, almost certainly too many to dispose of. Certainly not quietly.
True, Driutsk himself clearly easy meat: soft-bellied little desk-jockey; hardly significant factor.
Associates, on other hand, typically robust six-foot-plussers; strapping, healthy young Russian males. (One actually kind of cute, if preferences run to sexual deviates.) Grown men both; plus stance, movements suggested at minimum some training. Not to be taken lightly.
All of which highlighted question: Go quietly? Cooperate? Or blow cover in biggest possible way, thereby imperiling mission?
What would Danya do...?
But before could come up with answer, Tasha forced herself between Katia, Driutsk; hissed, "Enough! Be taking me!—never Katia you hurting again!"
Words barely cleared lips before Driutsk's expression turned contemptuous; launched casual, roundhouse fist at Tasha's head.
And suddenly, strategic considerations notwithstanding, tactical situation reshuffled: Like jackals circling crippled baby antelope, all three degenerates’ attention now focused exclusively on Tasha. For all intents, purposes, rest of us became invisible.
"Shazam....” Muttered trigger word came almost as surprise—but relief, too: Worrying phase now behind me.
Combat computer kicked in fully, time slowed...
Was already some five feet off floor, approaching apogee of leap, rotating to horizontal, as Driutsk's fist converged with Tasha's cheekbone. Time passing so slowly now, even had time for flash of apologetic empathy for girl: Had to leave easiest adversary for last, which meant Driutsk's blow no doubt would land before I finished with other two. Desperately hoped would do no permanent damage...
Arriving at targets’ shoulder height, legs coiled, cocked, then initiated half bicycle-pedaling motion: two almost simultaneous, hysterical-strength-driven kicks, one for each opponent. Left heel slashed in under number one's chin, crushing larynx, separating cervical vertebrae.
Impact provided fulcrum, leverage to drive ball of right foot inches deep into number two's temple, which—
Details of how Cross-Eyed Special-Ops Girl came to be lying flat on back, staring up through clouds of spots swirling about Driutsk's mask of rage, had been obscured by sudden, blinding explosion of light behind eyes.
Still, from this perspective, could hardly fail to notice: Heretofore-assumed-soft little slug's posture now epitomized textbook karate stance. Driutsk must indeed have been soldier; perhaps even “much decorated.” At very least, possessed first-rate hand-to-hand skills.
Obviously picked up my attack via peripheral vision; reacted automatically. Judging from pain location, had back-fisted me along cheekbone, just below ear, while my attention fixed on other two.
(Hey, no fair!—blindsiding my idea...)
Fortunately, blow delivered off-balance; target horizontal, floating. Majority of force glanced off unproductively due to angle. If had connected solidly, would have been in coma, if not dead.
Now, Homo post hominem reflexes intrinsically faster at peak efficiency than Russian's, but as lay there blinking to clear vision, combat computer seemed to be experiencing momentary bout of low-grade-concussion-induced off-peak efficiency—condition not all that easily distinguishable from paralysis.
Barely enough time-slowing function remained operational at that point to permit impact-crossed eyes to admire Driutsk's technical form as Russian drove right fist straight down toward Smith-Foster cardiac central—technique affectionately known among kung-foo movie aficionados as “heart-burster.” In fact, lying flat, with back supported by unyielding floor, if punch had landed, consequences no doubt would have justified blow's nickname.
All of which takes much longer to tell than do. Despite flickery vision, pain thundering inside skull, conditioned reflexes managed to slap weakly at Russian's fist, deflecting slightly; simultaneously, combat computer twisted torso—barely out of harm's way.
Recombined vectors, targeting parameters caused fist to brush sternum only lightly in passing, graze ribs hardly more firmly—then crash squarely into floor. Using excellent karate form, Driutsk had delivered simply devastating blow: Quite literally, whole building shook.
Unquestionably, if Russian had been performing karate demonstration, fist would have driven straight through plywood.
Except for presence of heavy joist, located directly beneath impacted floorboard.
Also unlike usual exhibition stunt, appeared to hurt like the dickens. And certainly, from expression, Driutsk's disposition not improved as scrambled to straighten up, reestablish balance, stance.
However, since intended target's block-slap had morphed into grabbing firmly onto attacker's forearm as fist blurred past, was able to use it for leverage to yank/swing self up past him. Even had time to inconvenience Russian further by planting audibly rib-cracking elbow en passant. Actually
made it to own feet slightly ahead of him.
Not that mattered.
Because as both came fully upright, blood turned to ice in belly: Noticed small, black, semiautomatic pistol in Driutsk's undamaged hand, aimed precisely at Intrepid Special-Ops Girl's favorite center of mass....
If time had slowed before, now stopped altogether for oxymoronically significant interval. Only sound in dorm was rasp of Driutsk's breathing, as eyes momentarily flicked, in purest, flaming rage, from me to broken, bleeding knuckles, to bodies on floor, then back to me.
Really surprised, Posterity, degenerate didn't just shoot me out of hand. Sure thought was going to. (Certainly would have had roles been reversed.) Undoubtedly would have been terrified, if had had time.
As things stood, however—gun hand fractionally beyond kicking range, ruling out disarmament attempt—only hope remaining was attempting legendary karate masters’ fabled twist/wiggle/sidestep from bullet's path at precise moment trigger pulled, followed by all-out, banzai-mode attack before opponent could get off second shot.
Regrettably, reputable authorities—Teacher, Danya, Gayle among them—uniformly agree such stories really are fables....
Still, in absence of alternatives, cranked up hyperalertness/focus to highest levels; tried to divide attention between ghoul's unnaturally bright, fast-blinking, pale eyes and trigger finger.
Wondered if dying would hurt a lot...
Instead, Driutsk dipped single functional finger of bleeding hand into pocket, extracted pair of handcuffs. Eyes never left mine as tossed restraints at Tasha—
Who, astonishingly, still was on feet; apparently blow aimed at her hadn't quite had time to land before monster shifted attention to me.
“Put them on her, or I will shoot her right now,” he snarled, “and then I will shoot you."
To me, in rage-filled whisper: “Now I will expand your horizons until you beg to die—then I will give you to Fedka...”
Have no doubt, every detail of tableau's next few seconds will remain fresh in memory until dying day—scene may well replace slow-motion polar bear chases as favorite nightmare hangout: Tasha, handcuffs dangling from hand, frozen in indecision. Horrified expressions of children standing around us. Brutally efficient-looking little gun, whose muzzle looked big enough to park UAZ in. Driutsk's rage-, hate-filled eyes blazing at me over pistol sights
Analog SFF, September 2008 Page 21