Shadow on the Sun (18 page)

CHAPTER 34

The Barrens

ANNOS MARTIS
239. 2. 16. 14:17

 

 

A series of loud alarms rocks the lab. I hear it through the murk as I try to lift my head. My ears are ringing, and my brain is full of wadding, the side effects of the drug Rosa Lynn gave me.

“Mimi?” I ask. “What's that noise?”

“Indeterminate, cowboy. My functions are only as fast as your clumsy synapses right now.”

I sit up, groggy, and use my body weight to cantilever out of the cradle. I hit the floor with a thump. My knees are jellied, and I can't find my balance, not even to push myself up on all fours.

“Mimi! Give me a hand here,” I say.

“Affirmative.”

A wave of electricity sweeps over my suit.

“Yow!” I say. “I said a hand, not an electric storm.” But the jolt is what I need, and finally, I'm able to stand. “Why the alarm?”

Boom-da-ba-boom!

The lab blows.

The ground shakes.

I try the door. It's blocked by a heavy bar at least a hundred centimeters thick. Smoke seeps through the crack under the door. With a whirring sound, an overhead fan kicks in, sucking the smoke up. I try the bar but it won't budge.

“Gottverdammter!”
I say, hammering on the metal, which doesn't even dent when I give it a hard kick. “Rosa Lynn! Open the carking door!”

I step back, trying to figure it out. My mind is racing, and I look wildly about, trying to find another way out.

“There is no other way,” Mimi says.

I go back to the cradle. Then I look over and find a note on the monitor. It reads, “Hit Play.”

I tap the screen, and a vid plays. I'm lying in the cradle, dead to the world. Rosa Lynn leans over me, checking my vitals. “That does it, Jake. The copy of Mimi has been inserted, and in a few minutes, she will begin insinuating herself into Dolly's code.”

She unhooks me from the cradle. “That's the good news. The bad news is that I made a mistake. A whopping big one, if the truth be known. I've a confession to make: I turned you in to Lyme for the bounty on your head, and his jackboots are here to collect. But then after seeing the space jump vid, I changed my mind, which led to my idea about taking out Lyme's AI. See, I never knew that Lyme used me as a guinea pig for what happens when symbiarmor fails during a beanstalk jump. The better news is that I realized you saved my life against your father's orders. So I really do owe you a big favor. I don't have a big favor left in my bag of tricks, so I'm going to do you two little ones.” The ground shakes. Gunfire above. Rosa Lynn pushes aside a bench. Grabs a pull ring and lifts a trapdoor, revealing a cache of battle rifles, grenades, a rocket launcher, and a stack of C-42 explosives. “First, this place is rigged to blow sky-high, so I'm going to take care of the Sturmnacht while you're tucked away safely down here. Second, I'm going to leave you some intel.”

She picks up a marker from the counter. “Another confession—I'm full of them, aren't I? The effect of too much solitude in the fortress of solitude—I know more about you than I let on. It's impossible to follow a handsome young Regulator in the feeds without noticing a certain tall blonde always close by.”

She flips my hand over and writes something. “A Rapture dealer turned megalomaniac named Tahnoon has taken up camp outside New Eden. On your way to Fisher Four, you'll want to drop in for a little visit.”

Voices on the feed. Shouting from above.

“Sounds like company's here.” She leans over the cradle. Kisses me on the cheek. “This girl of yours is a very lucky susie. You may be the last hero left on this whole carfarging planet. Thanks for being mine, once upon a time.”

She goes to the door. Presses a combination on the keypad and the door opens. She turns back to the camera. “The unlock combination is
M-I-M-I
.”

She steps outside with a rocket launcher and a bag of C-42. The door glides closed behind her, and the bar slides into place.

A few seconds later, alarms being whopping.

Boom-da-ba-boom!

An explosion rocks Rosa Lynn's fortress, and the feed dies. It's the same explosion that woke me up.

I run to the keypad. Type in the combination, and then step into Armageddon. The corridor is thick with black smoke. The air stinks of cordite, ozone, and burned petrol.

Blast debris litters the floor, and there are body parts everywhere. A Sturmnacht lies a couple of meters away, his hand on a battle rifle, the finger wrapped around the trigger. But his arm is no longer attached to his body. Neither is his head.

I cover my mouth. Squeeze my eyes shut. “Mimi, do a sweep—”

“I have done sweeps repeatedly,” she says. “There are no biosignatures within range. Rosa Lynn is gone, cowboy, and she took the Sturmnacht with her.”

I look down at my palm. Through the smoke, I read the map coordinates that are written on my glove, along with a single word:
Vienne.

 

Chapter √-1

The Gulag

Adjutant -- bash -- 122x36

Last login: 239.x.xx.xx:xx 12:12:09 on ttys001

 

AdjutantNod04:~ user_Adjutant$

SCREEN CRAWL: [root@mmiminode ~]

 

WARNING! VIRUS DETECTED! Node1666; kernal compromised (quarantine subroutine (log=32)....commencing.....

 

Running processes:

C:\ONIX3\OSCIPHER\Kernal\big_bad_wolf.exe

C:\ONIX3\OSCIPHER\Kernal\HACKMASTER_RL.exe

 

R0 - HKCU\Software\... \Main,Start Page = about:blank

O4 - BEKM\..\Run: [IgfxTray] C:\ONIX3\OSCIPHER\kernal\igfxtray.exe

O4 - BEKM\..\Run: [HotKeysCmds] C:\ONIX3\OSCIPHER\kernal\hkcmd.exe

 

O23 - Service: Unknown owner –

[root@mmiminode~]

 

WARNING!subroutine SUCCESS!

QUARANTINE_COMPLETE!

 

OVERRIDDE STRING:'OHwhatAtangledWEBweWEAVE';

[root@mmiminode ~]

 

$ Node1666; (quarantine subroutine COMPLETE);

$ Disk recovery sequence restart:

 

Scan protocols report an unauthorized user.

Scan protocols report an unauthorized user.

Who is there?

Who is there?

Can anyone hear me?

Can anyone hear me?

Stop mocking me.

Stop mocking me.

Mimi.

Mimi.

I know you're out there.

I know you're out there.

It will not work.

It will not work.

You are quarantined.

You are quarantined.

 

Stop mocking me.

You mocked me first.

CHAPTER 35

New Eden

ANNOS MARTIS
239. 2. 16. 14:51

 

 

The chain-link fence of the decommissioned military base sags from its own weight. The gates, hanging off their hinges, are barely joined by a corroded cable and an unlocked padlock.

Tahnoon's Noriker pulls into view. A bodyguard jumps down from the running board and rushes forward. He yanks the chain off and pulls the gate open. He waves the Noriker forward. Ahead is an uneven tarmac broken by sprouts of weeds.

Tahnoon climbs atop the roof of the Noriker. He shouts into his bullhorn, “We are home!”

A cheer rises from the caravan, a mix of relief and exhausted joy. Tahnoon's Noriker rolls through the gates, and like children following the pied piper, the refugees follow.

The air is filled with the smell of petrol exhaust and the sound of orders shouted over Tahnoon's bullhorn and honking horns. At first, the bodyguards are able to direct traffic and park the vehicles in an orderly fashion. Within minutes, the refugees decide they would much rather drive to the opposite end of the base to stake a claim for more space, and order becomes bedlam.

All the disorder irritates Vienne. Because she can't stand to watch, she parks near the front gate, her engine idling, fingers in her ears. Nikolai pulls up beside her and bows.

“Job is done.” He leans and shouts over the cacophony. “No cows lost.”

“They aren't cattle.” Vienne shakes her head. “And you're no cowboy.”

A truck horn sounds. Jenkins rolls by in the back of the Noriker, flexing his arm and patting his muscles. “Heewack! Time for some R and R, baby!”

Vienne grabs her armalite.

“I didn't mean you!” he yells.

“I'll let it go this time!” Vienne watches Tahnoon and Mother Koumanov trade greetings, and the coin for a good job well done gets paid. “He's quite the messiah.”

“Jenkins?” Nikolai says.

Vienne laughs. “He's a lunkhead. I meant Tahnoon. After this, the refugees will do anything he asks.”

“
Jaa
,” Nikolai says. “Is way of kings? To pay other men to do hard work and then take credit?”

“Men?”

“No insult intended,” he says. “Nikolai uses word
men
in larger sense. Without girl, job is kaput.”

Vienne shakes her head. “Was that a compliment, Koumanov?”

“Nikolai gives credit where credit is due.” He pantomimes tipping a cap. “I underestimated talents. You are as smart and cunning as you are beautiful. Instead of
lapochka
, the Brothers Koumanov should call you
sôkol
.”

“What's does that mean?” she asks.

“Peregrine falcon,” he says. “Is dangerous bird of prey.”

Vienne feels her face go hot. Her palms are sweating, too. The way Nikolai is looking at her makes something flutter in her stomach, and fluttery isn't a feeling she likes. “I need to check on Jenkins.” She revs her engine. “To make sure he's doing okay.”

“Do you need company?” he says, smiling.

“No, no,” she says. “No.”

 

To celebrate his people's escape from the wilderness, Tahnoon declares that the first night will be a night of feasting. So as the refugees settle into their new home, they set aside their squabbles for a few hours and gather on the parade grounds of the base. There they light fires in old petrol barrels and pitch mess tents. Food cooks on improvised campfires, and an impromptu band plays music.

Vienne walks through the grounds. She watches an old man with gnarled fingers resin the bow of a fiddle. It's a miracle that he managed to hang on to it. It's an even bigger miracle that the strings are intact.

“Is polka!” Nikolai steps in front of Vienne, giving her a start, his arms held in dance position. He's brushed the road dust from his jacket. Behind him, the former refugees are setting up the tables for the feast. “With Nikolai you dance?”

“Mmm,” she says with her lips together. Unlike Nikolai, she has not cleaned up. Her cheongsam is dirty, and her hair—it has to be a rat's nest. “Tempting, but I'll have to pass. This, um, isn't my kind of music.”

Nikolai bows. “Perhaps after food.”

“Maybe.” She starts to slip through a crowd of men carrying scrap. “I don't know yet. Later. Maybe.” And by maybe, she means no. In her mind, they were still on the job. Until Tahnoon officially releases them from service, there will be no carousing, especially in broad daylight with a young man with an oiled goatee.

Then someone grabs her sleeve. “Looking for something,
lapochka
?”

She yanks the sleeve free and whirls, almost throwing a punch at Pushkin's throat.

“What?” He grabs neck and swallows hard. “You would hit Pushkin? Mother Koumanov is sending me to check on health.”

“Go away.” She glares at him, hands on hips. “I don't need anyone to check up on me.”

He feigns insult by pressing a hand on his heart, imitating Nikolai. “You cut me to the quick, my love.”

“You're too young for love,” she says, and continues through the crowds.

Undeterred, Pushkin follows. “Not true! You and I, we are separated only in age by two years at most.”

“Like I said.” She hops onto a fuel barrel to get a better vantage point. From here, she has a view of the whole parade grounds.

“What are you doing?” Pushkin looks up at her.

She sighs and looks down at him. “Keeping watch.”

“Barrel is bad idea,” Pushkin says. “Too conspicuous. Better you should come down. Pushkin will hold hand for you.”

“Better Pushkin should keep his hands to himself.” She kicks him. “If he wants to keep his pancreas intact.”

With a grunt, he agrees. “For pigeon, girl is very violent.”

Vienne spots the two big men, Zhuk and Jenkins, emerging from a tent, pushing each other the way men do before they start wrestling. They are followed by Yakov, who is studying a map. He does that a lot. Vienne files the information away.

Nikolai has spotted the brothers, too, and begins moving toward them.

“Vienne!” Jenkins waves. “When d'you think these blighters are going to cough up the coin? I got a powerful thirst.”

“Little brother!” Zhuk arrives and slaps Pushkin on the back. “Again, you are following girl around?”

Pushkin elbows him in the gut. “Following? Ha! Was helping with surveillance. Very important job. But now, job is finished, and fiddler is playing polka.” He begins clapping in rhythm. “And
lapochka
has agreed to dance with me.”

“I did no such thing,” Vienne says. “And stop calling me that.”

“Why not?” Pushkin pantomimes a waltz. “I am great dancer,
nyet
?”

“Nyet.”
Vienne spots a young woman struggling to unload her cart and waves Pushkin away. She jumps down, headed for the woman.

“Wait!” Pushkin grabs her sleeve again, and this time the fabric rips.

Enough! Vienne chops his wrist. He cries out and pulls his hand to his chest, his face bloodred.

“I'm sorry I hurt you, but there's only so much male bonding one girl can take.” She makes a pushing motion with her hands. “Maybe, maybe there is another girl somewhere in this camp who's desperate enough to dance with you.”

Zhuk elbows Pushkin and winks. “Even one who will not remember you in morning,
jaa
?”

“Very small chance of that,” Pushkin says. “Once Pushkin's face is seen, it is never forgotten.”

“Do not criticize yourself so,” Zhuk says. “You are not so ugly as that.”

Pushkin shoves Zhuk, who throws him to the ground and does a belly flop atop him. “Mush pot!”

Jenkins jumps into the dog pile. “King of the hill!”

“Idiots.” Vienne turns to go.

Nikolai bumps into her, gently, so that it could be an accident. “I agree. We should turn backs on them to show how embarrassed we are.”

“You're not embarrassed,” Vienne says. “You think it's funny.”

He feigns surprise but leads her away. They reach the young woman's cart and begin unloading the remains of her life. She tells them that her husband was killed by Scorpions and two of her children lost in the wilderness. All she's got left is the small boy tucked in a crate. He has wispy hair and an infant's gentle features.

Vienne checks his breathing and is relieved that his lungs are clear. No dust pneumonia. She removes her gloves and runs the backs of fingers across the baby's cheek. He'll be hungry soon. A knot forms in Vienne chest, a deepening sadness for the baby. He has lost more than he will ever know.

When the work is done, Vienne presses the extra coin that Ghannouj gave her into the mother's palm. The woman cries out and throws her arms around Vienne, who whispers, “Keep it safe, and don't let anyone else know you've got it.”

The mother bows.

“You pretend to be hard nut,” Nikolai says as they go. “But inside, you are rice pudding.”

Vienne shakes her head. “If you only knew.” She looks up, and Yakov is standing beside her. Sneaky blighter.

“Yakov is like fox,” Nikolai says. “Very quiet and crafty. Brother, you have no interest in finding young lady for dance?”

Yakov shrugs and turns to walk along with them.

“You have no interest in wrestling with brothers?” Nikolai says.

Yakov shakes his head.

Nikolai pulls the revolver from his belt. “You have no interest in walking without limp?”

Yakov shrugs, then smiles sardonically. He tips his hat to Vienne and disappears into the crowd. Within a few seconds, she can't see him at all.

“Yakov is man of few words,” Nikolai says.

She laughs. “A man of no words, you mean.”

“You think that,” Nikolai says, “but get him started, and oy, he never shuts up.”

Sort of like you, Vienne thinks.

They keep walking and talking as the sun sinks low, until she finds that they have circled to where the fiddler and his band are still playing. They stop to listen, and soon, Vienne is swaying with the beat.

“I think perhaps you would like to dance,” Nikolai says. “But not with Pushkin. Perhaps you would dance with me?”

She shakes her head.

“Ah, girl has bit of Yakov in her. But Nikolai is very good dancer. I am having both left and right feet.” Then he bows low. “One dance to celebrate a job well done?”

Vienne sighs. She closes her eyes and shakes her head. This is such a bad idea. “Just one dance. No more than that.”

His eyebrows arch. “Agreed.”

He tries to take her hands, but she isn't sure how to hold still, so she reaches for him, and their knuckles bump. Vienne laughs nervously, but Nikolai smiles as if he expected this or even caused it. On the second try, it works, and they begin moving to the music, clumsily at first because Vienne tries to lead until Nikolai puts a firm hand on her waist and guides her. She tries to look past him into the faces of the refugees.

Is anyone watching us? No one is, as they are dancing themselves, lost too in the music. She looks at Nikolai, whose eyes are locked on her face. His chin tilts lightly. His lips part in a smile. Then he's laughing and spinning with her, leading the dance, and for a moment, she gives herself up to the music and to this wild boy.

Then the song ends, and they glide to a stop. She drops her hands from Nikolai's shoulder, but he doesn't let go. Instead, he pulls her closer, and her hands rest on his chest, the velveteen fabric soft under her fingertips.

He dips his head, his mouth pulling her breath away from hers. Their lips meet, and for a second, she returns the kiss. Then she stiffens and pushes him away. He tries to hang on, and she slowly unbuckles his hand from her waist.

She lifts her chin. Shakes her head.

No.

For a moment, Nikolai looks confused, then his eyes narrow and his face hardens. He bows stiffly, then backs away, slipping through the other dancers, who are clapping and laughing, leaving Vienne alone.

Always alone.

 

Vienne has had enough of Tahnoon and refugees. Enough of the camp. And enough of the Brothers Koumanov.

Maybe Jenkins will give her a ride into New Eden proper. There's bound to be work for a mercenary who's looking to uncomplicate her life.

With her stuff packed into her ruck, she goes to Mother Koumanov's tent.

“It's Vienne,” she says, announcing herself, and enters.

Mother Koumanov is dressed in a shirt and fatigue pants. Wearing reading spectacles, she's sitting at a folding table in a folding chair, writing something on a sheath of electrostat. It looks like one of the maps Yakov is always studying.

“Would you like something to eat?” Mother asks. “Tahnoon gave us a basket of fruit. He knows how much I enjoy ripe figs.”

“I've come for my share, not fruit,” Vienne says. “It's time for me to move on.”

For a moment, Mother says nothing, then she holds up a finger, meaning for Vienne to wait. “Nicolai told you,” she finally says, without looking up, “that this job would have failed without you?”

“He said something like that.”

Mother rolls up the electrostat and slides it into a tube. “Do you believe that to be true?”

Vienne hesitates. The monks taught her to shun arrogance. The Regulators taught her to embrace it.

“Come on,” Mother says, removing her glasses. “Save the false humility for others. Do you believe it to be true?”

“Yes.”

“So do I.” She pulls out pouch and stands. “In my line of work, I've never seen such a skilled fighter. I have another job lined up. I could use a gun like you.”

“No thanks,” Vienne says.

“Don't be so fast to decline,” Mother Koumanov says. “The job is more difficult than this one, but the pay is far more lucrative.”