Presently, as Fedka appeared to be wrapping up, I ventured, “Excuse me, doctor, sir. The other children said there was another American working here. Another doctor? Do you think I could meet him?”
Fedka paused. Or froze, actually, almost lizardlike. Soulless eyes traversed as if mechanically operated, came to rest on me. Stared for long moments, still without expression; but gained subliminal impression of low-grade surprise, as if unaccustomed to children actually speaking to him, ever, apart from responding to direct questions in fewest possible words, then shutting up, trying to resume invisibility.
Dead Man inclined head; not quite nodding. “You speak of Doctor Foster. He will see you tomorrow.”
Response encouraged Little Lizzie to essay further behavioral research. Pasted on small, cautiously grateful smile. “Oh, thank you, sir. I haven't met another American since...” allowed hint of lower lip quiver, “...since my family all died.”
Depths of ennui with which this bid for sympathy was greeted left me almost breathless. Closest Fedka came to responding was on way out of exam room: “Doctor Foster insists upon taking all his samples personally. You will be brought back tomorrow.
“He will need fasting blood.” Empty eyes again traversed to mine. “Eat nothing after midnight until your blood sample has been collected. You may drink water, nothing else. If you violate this order you will be punished.” This last delivered without emphasis, almost without interest, but somehow set off stampede of goosebumps up, down spine.
Replied earnestly, “Yes, sir. I understand about fasting.” Paused; then, added fawningly, “I'll see you tomorrow, sir. Thank you.”
Fedka's response limited to opening anteroom door into corridor, hissing something in Russian, turning, gathering up DNA sample swabs, exiting in unhurried silence through doorway whence had emerged. Guard apparently waiting just outside; back within seconds.
However, instead of returning to doorway through which we'd entered lab building, went other way, headed for far end. Happily, in absence of audience, Bully-Boy contained enthusiasm; merely kept firm controlling hand on upper arm.
Halfway down hall, guard paused, parked me against wall with stern, warning glare, incomprehensibly Russian muttered phrase. Released grip, fumbled through clothing, extracted cigarette.
At which point, from adjacent doorway, raised voices became audible: Kazimirov's unmistakably arrogant Russian, followed by testy-sounding reply in English—
Daddy's voice...!
“You realize, of course, if I begin the process right now, it will have to be watched closely all night.”
Kazimirov's reply, in English this time, dripped sarcasm: “You will need much caffeine then. For by tomorrow, I want it finished, operational, ready for testing.”
“What, no threats? Don't you feel well?” Clearly Daddy's opinion of Kazimirov mirrored Lizzie's.
Even through door, Russian's steam-vent sigh was audible. “Must I couch every deadline in terms of a fresh threat? All right; the word, deadline, contains the word, dead. Disappoint me and I will give another child to Fedka to take apart for his ... studies.”
“You do know,” said Daddy, tone so chillingly conversational, was barely recognizable, “that someday I am going to kill that aberration, don't you?”
In context, genuine, unaffected merriment ringing in Kazimirov's laugh rendered it all the more disturbing. “That is between you and him. Do your job and neither of you will have to worry.”
Glanced up, down hall to get feel for location within long corridor; then memorized Cyrillic characters adorning door ID plate. Waited as guard completed light-up, enjoyed several apparently luxurious, vile-smelling puffs. Thereafter moved on, dragging unresisting charge behind him.
Of course unresisting—now knew where Daddy would be all night. Needed to get back to prison camp, tell Tasha, start wheels turning.
Developments thereafter, of course, conditional upon Daddy's situation, input—and what to do about missiles...
Withal, promised to be long night.
* * * *
Tasha's eyes went round, expression clearly horror-stricken as said, “Meeting you did Fedka ... ?”
Assured her had indeed. “Why?”
Girl's reply accompanied by headshake generated mostly as side effect of whole-body shudder of purest revulsion. "Chudovishche!—worsest, evilest, most monster here!” Paused, as if mentally comparing checklists, then: “Even Driutsk so bad not as Fedka. Children slicing up, organs he being study—still while alive ... !”
With own sudden shiver, recalled Kazimirov's gibe to Daddy about giving Fedka another child “...to take apart...”
Shivers stopped abruptly. Rage bloomed in soul, grew like something alive. Ground teeth. Nazi/Khraniteli super-race parallel now complete: Genocidal Russian zealots boasted very own Mengele.
Yet another entry for Intrepid Special-Ops Girl's “little list"—on its way to accumulating more names than Mikado's hapless executioner's.
And “they'd none of ‘em be missed....”
* * * *
Kim Mellon's Journal:
Finally, the engine's fixed, and we're back in the air. But I find myself still chewing my nails. Clearly, based on Terry and Lisa's latest information, we're going to get there slightly too late to help Candy try to retrieve Marshall Foster and save the children—and maybe even too late to do anything useful about those nukes.
Which latter problem scares me spitless: If we run out of time, I can foresee Teacher and Wallace, with tears in their eyes, concluding that the only way to save our people might be just to drop one of our own thermonuclear warheads from altitude.
With Candy, her father, and all those children still there.
I haven't said anything about this. I don't have to. Adam has become a mobile statue for the moment: He's working in the galley, his expression pale, towering rage and mortal fear obviously arm-wrestling just beneath the surface. I'm not certain that we'd be able to drop a bomb on Candy as long as he's alive. I pray we don't find out.
Even Teacher's expression is little more than a death mask from the strain. He, Wallace, and Peter have transferred to the B plane to listen to Terry with us and update their planning in real time.
The special-operations members of both planes’ complements are double-checking field equipment and practicing their hand-to-hand skills.
If all that weren't enough, we face yet another complicating factor: Given our starting time, the time zones and distance involved, we're going to arrive before sunrise—in the dark, no runway lights.
When I worried aloud about that, Lennel explained soothingly that quite some time ago they'd installed very, very bright infrared landing lights on the C-17s (so hot, in fact, that they almost qualify as energy weapons). Partly this was to take advantage of the broader hominem visual spectrum for night operations; but mostly it was to keep the other side in the dark (sorry) when we drop in for a night's reconnoitering, intelligence gathering, and general marauding.
So at this point, Teacher, Wallace, Peter, Lisa, Terry, Adam, the flight crews, our equipment-maintenance people, and all the combat people have something to do.
But it's not as if I'm completely useless; along with the Kellys, I'm helping listen to absolutely dead air with the electronics-sniffing equipment—and someone has to do the jittering....
* * * *
Candy's Journal:
Cautioned Tasha, “You understand, even though I know where Daddy is, we still may not be leaving tonight. He's very, very smart, and resourceful. I have no idea whether he's aware of the missiles yet. But once I tell him, he may have an entirely different idea of how to deal with the situation.”
“Silly duck,” retorted Tasha with grin.
By now didn't even bother correcting girl's syntax; just heard it as “goose.”
“Shooting laboratory way into—tomorrow thinking then conditions ever never again being feasibility for trying? Hah! Complex full on toes being whole personnels will.�
�
Um ... Girl had a point. Again. Irritating quality in new comrade-in-arms/friend-for-life. Only way into lab will be over bodies of security detail. First shift change thereafter...
Heck, even if could dispose of so many corpses, somehow eliminate forensic evidence, sudden disappearances on that scale sure to trigger reaction comparable to lobbing rock into big, round, paper wasp nest: full-blown alert—all-out, real panic (perhaps even prison camp security personnel remaining awake)—uproar lasting for days, probably weeks.
Okay, yes, may well be taken to Daddy tomorrow, as Fedka promised. But know where to be found tonight.
And day after tomorrow, missiles launch.
No choice: Must go in tonight. Can't risk missing Daddy connection. Just have to trust that between Daddy, me, plus Tasha, rest of kids, combined improvisational talents up to challenge.
Night promises to be Chinesely interesting as well as long...
* * * *
Volume X
Checkout Time
Really, Posterity, given fact that earlier that day Khraniteli had been in throes of major swivet over Driutsk's disappearance, wouldn't you expect night-shift prison camp security detail at least to pretend to pay attention? Figured would have to wait until late to slip out again.
But could hardly believe eyes: Well before dark, guards already deep into cups. By sundown, entire prisoner population probably could have exited via sally port itself, strolled openly through guards’ midst without being noticed.
By final stages of dusk, those still technically awake appeared to be engrossed in sleepy word game, whose every question/answer seemed to trigger gales of uproarious, if muzzy-sounding, laughter. Game's volume level ebbed as evening progressed, participants dropped off one by one.
Seemed to take forever for darkness to settle in in earnest, but finally time arrived to bid adieu to Serdtsevina Rasovyi Hilton. Gathered kids at previously selected darkest area along fence, deployed Mossad bolt-cutter, made neat little horizontal slit in fence right at soil level, plus two vertical cuts extending up about two feet. Carefully, quietly, flexed resulting top-hinged chain-link mesh panel out minimum distance necessary for egress, supported as children all slithered through. Then swung fabric back into place, readjusted cut ends to degree possible. When finished, unless looked closely, opening really not all that noticeable.
Ushered mob straight to base camp.
Oops, sorry, Posterity; forgot to mention revised schedule. On further reflection, could see no profit having Tasha expose kids, herself to risk of discovery by trying to collect Daddy, me at lab.
Yes, still planned to liberate vehicle to carry children—given numbers, something on order of covered troop truck called for. Thereafter would have kids stand by at base camp, waiting for us. If, however, not there by specified hour—made Tasha promise—would be on their way.
Maggie greeted us with silent but joyous hysteria. Prewarned, even smallest kids got through introductions without panic. And shortly thereafter, all had become Maggie's new Very Best Friends.
Tasha experienced (happily brief) teary flashback, then settled down. We fed Maggie—yes, “we"; lots of help: BC allowed as how meal delivered via children's one-nugget-at-a-time, repeat-as-necessary, handfeeding technique at least as acceptable as elder sister's boringly impersonal, twice daily cup-and-a-half-filled dish. Of course, with dog's subtle positive reinforcement, children's “assistance” probably resulted in bigger meal than I would have set out.
However, shortly found self back in tooth-grinding mode as noticed starving children first smelling, then gingerly sampling Maggie's food themselves—finally scarfing down in earnest. Sighed. At least holistic/organic canine diet fundamentally healthful: wholesome, balanced; protein content from good meat cuts (as opposed to ground-up noses, hooves, etc.); plus all ingredients hypoallergenic.
But Khraniteli have so much to answer for....
* * * *
Had been operating in Intrepid Girl Infiltrator mode during first night's dorm visit; hence, Tasha already familiar with no-nonsense alter ego. But other children watched transformation with round, wondering eyes: camos; real face paint this time; web belt adorned with pouches stuffed with extra magazines, as well as nonstandard weaponry such as shurikens, Wrist Rocket, sheath containing Camillus combat knife, etc.; plus, of course, low-slung, tied-down Glock holster, scope-equipped M-1.
Kids particularly taken by gleaming length of katana, whose saya, or scabbard, rode between scapulas, grip projecting conveniently just above right shoulder.
(Nigel Kuluwara, AAs’ self-described “token” Aussie [full-blooded Aborigine, Oxford physics Ph.D. by age 18, but tribe-raised as kid in Outback until 13 (better even than Danya at wraith-in-darkness stuff—way better than Yours Truly)], delights in referring to it as “Now, that's a noyf.")
Still, as Tasha watched new kid sister preflight equipment—cycling extractors on M-1, Glock to ensure actions still clean, well lubricated, all smooth and glidey; securing silencers to muzzles; thereafter verifying chambers primed—got impression girl might be realizing for very first time that this was no theoretical exercise: Dead-Serious Special-Ops Girl really did intend to enter lab over bleeding bodies (no doubt quite a lot of bodies), extract Daddy, plus (somehow) permanently cancel threat posed by missiles.
Notwithstanding last night's exploding baby bunny demonstration, pretty sure Tasha had begun regarding me as spiritual sister/girlfriend/confidante first, fellow prisoner next; weapon-studded, rescuer-girl/stone-cold killing-machine persona having faded with time to dim, distant, unlikely future figment of imagination.
* * * *
Reality can be jarring: Driutsk & Company's deaths had resulted from classic, sudden-combat, heat-of-battle, them-or-us battle dynamics. Further, little troll was evil personified (not to mention way ugly). As for cohorts, encounter too brief to learn anything substantive; but arrived at destinies fatally tarred by association, intentions, which eased, if not eliminating entirely, potential guilt arising from killings. Accordingly, like fellow gulagees, Tasha had emerged from experience positively glowing with satisfaction, ready to kill ‘em all again, dozen times over.
In combat.
However.
Necessarily cold-blooded, flow-silently-in-from-dark, shoot-carefully-at-pointest-blank-range-with-no-warning, out-and-out assassination which enabled truck theft provided girl with experience of very different flavor; left her looking more than a little green around edges.
Night-duty motor pool mechanic nothing like Driutsk: pink-cheeked, wholesome-appearing lad of perhaps 25.
Looked even younger dead.
At very last moment, must have sensed something amiss; glanced around with mild-mannered, startled expression, highlighted by sad, remarkably blue eyes, barely in time for 40-caliber Hydra-Shok bullet, announced by Glock's gerbil-cough, to open small, dark, red-rimmed hole just above eye, spray most of skull's contents out through huge opening in opposite rear quadrant, coating wall behind workbench at which had been rebuilding starter with mostly reddish mix of jellylike lumps of lighter-colored materials and bone splinters oozing down surface.
And must confess, Posterity: Even Danya's favorite Apprentice Assassin had to steel self to maintain professional aplomb at moment of truth.
Even more so afterward.
Became necessary, in fact, to issue stern internal reminder that victim was Khranitel, one of those who had massacred all of H. sapiens without warning; who, in addition, single-mindedly wanted Tasha, me, all her people, all mine, dead; who had already made serious attempt toward that goal, which, but for good luck on our part, plus own small contributions, surely would have succeeded.
Clinging to that thought, almost managed to get through killing's initial aftermath without wondering whether boy had had any idea what was getting self into—or whether, f'rinstance, might have been one of those clinically depressed outsider/loners who gravitated to hate groups seeking kinship, support, adulation of equally cri
ppled “peers” to compensate for overwhelming misery inflicted by onion-layered, multiple inferiority complexes.
(Whoa, how's that for breathtaking psychiatric concept?—support group whose therapeutic modality-of-choice is total obliteration of everybody else. Makes horror stories from Olden Tymes, about sociopaths who yearned for scope-equipped high-powered rifles, while casting longing glances at tall clock towers in crowded locations, sound almost normal....)
Never mind; told self didn't matter. Told firmly.
Had to repeat admonition. Twice.
Okay, maybe more.
Thereafter confiscated dead man's watch, synchronized with mine; required Tasha to take it—so would have no excuse not to leave when time came, regardless whether Daddy and I had made it back.
Selected truck; verified fuel tanks full; engine oil, coolant topped up. Cheat-checked tires using Adam-taught quickie shortcut: Whacked treads with hammer. Favorite cuddly knowitall says when resultant bonks all match within ear's limit to discriminate, tire pressures usefully identical. (Tasha watched test with ill-concealed concern, but held tongue; and was too preoccupied at the time to think to explain.)
Finally slid underneath, located air brake master valve, yanked off stoplight wires. If Daddy and I failed to get out, meet them, children would need to run dark, relying on infrared vision extension to improve chances of undetected escape. Last thing kids would need would be brake lights giving away position to airborne observers.
Hadn't had occasion to check out Khraniteli's airfield thus far, but arrow on Father Toys’ map showed which direction located, noted was some three miles “out of town,” so genocides surely list aircraft among assets. And at night, from helicopter, brake light flare no doubt visible ten miles or more.
Started engine, tiptoed truck gently, quietly (for military diesel) out into night. Returned to base camp by circuitous route, spending substantial portions of trip on pavement to avoid telltale tracks.
Had left Maggie babysitting kids (or vice-versa) while engaging in Grand Theft Six-by-Six. Children greeted us with rapture, particularly in case of youngests, rivaling BC's.
Analog SFF, September 2008 Page 23