Cassandra Kresnov 04: 23 Years on Fire (42 page)

Svetlana climbed. She liked climbing. She liked the freedom it gave her, and the sense of power. It was only a little power—the power to choose where she wanted to go, and the power to overcome obstacles other people had put in her way—but to a street kid, even a little power was an exciting thing.

The elevator shaft was completely black, so she climbed with a flashlight in her teeth. That was awkward, but she’d found that if she wrapped the hard plastic first in a little cloth, her teeth got a better purchase and it hurt less. Besides, it was only four stories, and she hadn’t been kidding with Danya—she really was good at this. It pleased her to have something she was better at than Danya, not because she wanted to be better than him, but because it meant she could be genuinely useful to him. She’d have died for Danya. Killed for him, certainly. She hated to be a burden on him, as she knew he sometimes found her to be. This was her chance to give something back.

Finally she got down to Treska’s level, and balanced on the narrow ledge. Shrugging off the backpack, she reached inside and pulled out the crowbar. The elevator shaft hadn’t worked since the crash, it was said. But she’d tried the doors on their own level, and found the crowbar worked well enough to get them open. Treska had had the ones on the ground floor welded shut, so no one could access the shaft from there. She was hoping he hadn’t anticipated that one of his tenants on higher floors might use the shaft themselves. Probably not, given how useful it was as a second escape route . . . particularly for Treska, one floor above the ground and at no risk of a long fall.

Sure enough, the doors came open when she pried hard enough. Svetlana slipped through, then pulled the backpack after her.

She was in what had once been a hallway outside this floor’s offices. On the opposite wall there were plaques with company names on them. They hadn’t been polished in a long time.

Her flashlight off, Svetlana slipped silently down the hall, then peered in a doorway. She knew she should go to the door and let Danya in, but she had to scout first. Treska had not been downstairs at the bar or in his office, where he often was. That meant he was either here, or he’d gone out.

Immediately she could hear voices, coming from the far side of the floor. Treska used that part as his kitchen and bedroom. Here between were larger living quarters—she’d never been in them herself, but Danya had described them to her. It sounded like at least two people were in the kitchen, one of them Treska.

Svetlana considered her options. Treska’s door had lots of locks on it. She didn’t need a key to open them from this side—Danya had taken note of that, also. But it would be noisy, and much closer to the kitchen. Someone could hear or notice, or could simply be going to the door. And getting Danya inside would achieve . . . what? He was quite a bit bigger and stronger than her, sure, but bigger and stronger than Treska? Not a chance. Treska was a big man who lifted weights, Danya was a thirteen year old boy.

She would move faster alone, and didn’t want to put Danya in unnecessary danger. He’d risked his neck so often for her and Kiril. This was her turn.

She slid into the living room. There, as Danya had suspected, she saw a pair of black boots hanging over the edge of a sofa. Kresnov had worn black boots. Svetlana moved quickly, and came around the edge of the sofa . . . and got a shock, to see Kresnov’s blue eyes staring straight up at her. She was tied up, thick synthetic ropes with heavy knots. Normally a GI could have broken them, no problem.

“Here,” she whispered. “I’ve got some bipofalzin, and I’ve got a syringe. How much do you need?”

Something was odd, because Kresnov’s blue eyes were following her. She looked more alert than she had. But there was a handkerchief tied around her mouth for a gag, she realised. Quickly she pulled it off.

Kresnov wiggled her jaw, and yawned. “Don’t need the drug,” she murmured in reply. “The big guy already gave me some.” Svetlana blinked. “Wants me alive for a while, apparently.”

Svetlana could have smacked herself on the head. Neither she nor Danya had thought of that. “So you can break free?”

“No. He gave me another drug, muscle relaxant. Not strong enough. Got a knife?”

Svetlana produced one. Kresnov smiled up at her. She was very pretty when she did that. Svetlana smiled back, and began cutting. “Good girl,” said Kresnov.

The knife wasn’t very big, and the ropes were thick and tough. “My little brother Kiril was taken by a corporation flyer just now,” Svetlana whispered as she worked. “Danya thinks it might have something to do with us helping you. You have to promise you’ll help get him back.”

Kresnov frowned a little. “But how could they know? If they knew where I was, they’d have come here already and grabbed me.”

So she did have enemies amongst the corporations. Danya had thought as much. “Treska has some illegal communications gear,” she offered. “He talks on it sometimes.”

“Ah,” said Kresnov. “If they overheard him talking about me, and you, that could be it. They couldn’t trace it, but they’d know who you are.”

Wow, thought Svetlana. Maybe she’d gotten out of the Tings’ yard just in time after all. A rope snapped, but there were plenty more. She kept sawing.

“Promise you’ll help get him back,” she persisted. Kresnov said nothing. Svetlana stopped cutting. “Promise!”

“I promise,” Kresnov murmured. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“What?”

“It’s just something they say in the Federation. My name’s Cassandra, by the way. Cassandra Kresnov. You can call me Sandy.” Suddenly the voices were getting louder. Footsteps approached. “Quick, give me the knife. I’ll keep cutting, you hide. Oh, and put this gag back in.”

Svetlana pressed the small knife into her hand. She could hide it there under a heavily knotted rope and cut, not easily seen unless you were really close. She retied the gag, then scampered for the doorway and hid by the frame.

“So what do you think?” she heard Treska’s voice in the room she’d just left.

“Oh, pretty hot.” She didn’t recognise the other man’s voice. A customer? “Blonde, I do like ’em blonde. Pity she doesn’t look a bit younger, though. She looks, what? Twenty-five?”

“It’s all cosmetics with GIs, my friend,” said Treska. “She could be anything. Though, if you like ’em real young, there’s a fine little piece who lives on the top floor here, cute little brunette. Ten years old as of now.”

“Bit young. Wait a few years.”

“That was my thinking. A few years’ time, I take her to Donogle . . . her brother’s a bit protective, might have to do for him first. Shouldn’t be too hard, who’ll miss another street kid?”

They were talking about her, Svetlana realised. Her and Danya. She was surprised at how little surprised or shocked she was. She’d known Treska was a bad man, but they’d needed a place to stay, and this place was perfect. It had seemed worth the risk. Although in truth, it had been Danya who’d been most worried by and suspicious of Treska, especially where she was concerned. Her big brother was right again.

“You can have a turn now if you’d like?” Treska offered to the man. “You can be the first, break her in.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” said the other man, with eagerness.

“I’ll close the door,” Treska said cheerfully. “Just make sure you don’t let that gag off her. She might still be strong enough to bite your ear off.”

He left, and there came the sound of a door closing. The rattle of a belt coming loose. Clothes removed. Svetlana peered around the doorframe. The man was disrobing, sure enough.

Should she wait, Svetlana wondered? She didn’t know what she could do. The man was much bigger than her, and Sandy had her knife. How many ropes had she cut through? What if she hadn’t cut through enough? What if there was no choice but to stand here and wait for this horrible man to finish his business? But if she waited, surely he’d discover the knife?

The man was now climbing onto the sofa, on top of Sandy. There came the sound of mutterings, of dirty talk. Svetlana had heard that a few times, and had no idea why people did it. The other thing, she was coming to have some idea. But not like this.

Something went pop! The dirty talk ended. Then a thud, as the man’s body hit the floor. Svetlana ran into the room in alarm, rounded the sofa, and stared.

Sandy was sitting up, pulling severed ropes off her arms. The man lay on his side, eyes wide, tongue out. Unmoving.

“Is he dead?” Svetlana whispered.

“What do you think?” said Sandy, now pulling at the knots that bound her ankles. She was naked from the waist down. Svetlana hadn’t seen before, beneath Sandy’s long coat. The man had been trying to roll her onto her stomach. Her fingers didn’t seem to be working properly, and she gave up the knots and resumed cutting instead.

Treska’s voice came from the other room. “Amdo? Are you okay?”

Svetlana knew she should have hidden once more, but she was tired of hiding. The door opened, and there was Treska, in singlet and pants, his gut bulging, a cup of coffee held to his moustachioed mouth. Staring at the GI sawing through her last restraints, and the little girl who’d set her free.

“You little BITCH!” he roared, and charged at her.

“Dodge,” Sandy instructed, still sawing determinedly.

Svetlana dodged one way around the sofa, then the other, as Treska thundered after her, sliding on the floor on socked feet. He could have barged straight over the sofa, but on it sat Sandy, still sawing. She snatched at him as he came close, one-handed, and missed.

Svetlana was further surprised at how little frightened she was. Treska would kill her, she knew. But Sandy had her arms free, and even with the drugs, those arms were nothing Treska could survive if they got hold of him. She just needed to stay close to Sandy, and Treska couldn’t touch her. And Sandy’s ropes were being cut, one by one.

Treska seemed to realise the situation as she did, and ran cursing for the next room. The last of Sandy’s ropes came off and she stood . . . and nearly fell. Svetlana dashed to her side and held her up. Sandy accepted that balance, and lurched awkwardly toward the door that Treska had gone through.

“Stay back,” she warned Svetlana, and pushed through the door. But again she nearly fell, and Svetlana went with her, holding her up. The kitchen was empty, and beyond was the bedroom. Sandy went for it, Svetlana with her.

There on the bed was a crossbow—a favoured weapon of establishment owners. Corporation spies sometimes reported firearms, but crossbows were not illegal. Treska was loading it.

“Back!” Sandy warned Svetlana, who ducked behind the doorframe, but peered about to see Treska pick up the weapon and fire. Sandy snatched at the bolt, her hand a blur . . . and missed. It struck her in the throat, and she staggered back a step. Frowned, and pulled the bolt out. A single droplet of blood followed. No jugular vein on GIs, Svetlana recalled hearing. The veins went through the spinal column instead.

Sandy ran at Treska, who fled through the adjoining door. Svetlana followed, as Sandy collided with the doorframe, and Treska tripped in the room beyond, scrambling back to his feet. Sandy came after him, like something from a zombie vid, and Treska swung at her with a big right fist, and connected with a loud crack that would have laid most men out cold. Sandy’s head jolted back, but only a little. Treska, however, screamed with pain and clutched his hand.

He’d probably broken it, Svetlana realised. Smarter to punch a steel wall than a GI. Sandy stumbled forward, grabbed him by the neck, and drove him against a wall. And pinned him there, as Svetlana scrambled around to watch. Sandy’s fist tightened, and Treska’s eyes bulged.

“Fast or slow?” Sandy snarled. Only it wasn’t quite a snarl. It was too cold, too simple and straightforward for that. It was hatred, but controlled, almost calm. Svetlana stared, utterly mesmerised.

Treska wailed obscenities and whacked at her with his one good hand. His pants darkened in colour, and the air suddenly smelt bad.

Sandy looked at Svetlana. “Turn around,” she said. Svetlana shook her head, eyes wide. Sandy snorted. “Fine. Fast, then.”

Her arm jerked, and there was another loud pop! Treska’s head flopped like something no longer connected to his body. Sandy dropped him, and his limbs bounced. Then nothing.

“Of all the fucking stupid things,” Sandy muttered, looking about with distaste. “I want my pants.”

Her pants were ripped and unwearable, so she took some of Treska’s instead, and tied them with some of the kids’ rope since the tailoring fit her so badly. The kids, enterprising as always, ransacked the apartment for all sorts of useful things before leaving.

Danya knew a back way that didn’t involve passing through the tavern downstairs. They went into a back alley, then through several zigzags, Danya and Svetlana scoping their surroundings with all the professional poise of special forces recon. They seemed to think someone else might be after them, people called Tings, but Sandy’s head wasn’t working well enough to process it further. Svetlana walked at her side, providing support in case she needed it, which she occasionally did. Her balance came and went. One minute she could be fine, the next flailing up against some wall.