Al-Haiyan, the capital of the Sultanate of Er-Rummal's colonies on Tar-Mariat
"The issue isn't even where the terrorists got the money for the jets, or why Enrique Salvador would want to overthrow the current order," AlNilam mused, working on Murad's muscles. "Fialkovskaya's genome has sixty-seven percent overlap with the genome of a person MT considers so dangerous that they refuse to hire his descendants. So how did Fialkovskaya get past the SS screening?"
"Mmmfff," Murad grunted, his face buried in his arm. Irfan was sitting astride him, thighs gripping his sides firmly, giving him a massage — which wasn't conducive to abstract thought. The Yakzan's mind was filled with a hazy image of a hot tub and all the things one could do there after a massage.
"Fialkovskaya's resume is honest enough," his prince continued. "She really is a bioengineer; she worked at Bogorad University, wrote a doctoral dissertation. But somewhere in MT's security system, there was a glitch, and she ended up in 'Bioronica'."
"Mmmhmmm," Murad agreed, melting into the bed under Irfan's strong hands. The prince swayed slightly as he worked, sitting on Al-Fayyaz's backside, making all the possibilities for later in the hot tub increasingly enticing.
"I have about a dozen explanations for this," Irfan pressed his palms into Murad's deltoids. "But the simplest, and I think the most realistic, is a hole in MT's security system. Or rather, not a hole, but someone who knows all about Fialkovskaya's genetic makeup and, precisely for that reason, allowed her to work there."
"Pffffhhmmm," the Yakzan responded.
"I'm almost certain it's an inside job. But who could have done it, and why? How could someone have swapped Fialkovskaya's genome data, when geno-cubes are only produced by the Corporation... are you even listening to me?!"
"Yes," Murad said obediently. "Maria Fialkovskaya, her genome, and her mysterious ancestor."
The prince snorted angrily and gave the Yakzan a rather pointed poke in the ribs.
"I was talking about who inside the Corporation would benefit from putting Fialkovskaya in a management position! Of course, she wasn't head of the main 'Bioronica' office, but a provincial center was enough."
"It would be useful to find out who her ancestor is. That might clarify things."
"Clarify what? No, I'm more interested in why MT's security and inquiry services flatly refuse to speak with us," Irfan hissed; Murad let out a faint gasp as the prince's fingers dug into his shoulder muscles. "I would very, very much like to speak, for example, with the head of the Inquiry Service, Elena Pavlidis. Pulling off this trick with Fialkovskaya would require a very high position."
"Maybe it's a small fish. Someone from the staff who handles the annual checks. Pavlidis isn't doing it personally."
"That would mean Fialkovskaya had to submit a fake geno-cube for verification. Twelve times, since she worked in 'Bioronica' for twelve years. That's a very risky undertaking."
Irfan's fingers moved up from Murad's shoulders to his neck. The Yakzan closed his eyes blissfully.
"Maybe it's someone from the family," the Wad-Prince murmured suddenly. "The Tadićs have ruled the Corporation for over two hundred years, and they've been multiplying diligently the whole time. It's possible someone from a junior branch decided to stir up a power struggle to get a shot at the throne."
Murad flinched slightly.
"But junior family members don't have the influence to..."
"Who knows, Murad. No one knows what goes on inside the Tadić family. They guard their privacy even more fiercely than my own family."
"But airing the family's dirty laundry in public isn't the best way to hold onto power."
"If everything my relatives did for the Corporation came to light, everything my father did to me," Irfan hissed, "the Al-Jailim clan wouldn't last a day on the throne. But the junior Tadićs probably expect to pin all the blame on the senior branch and come out clean themselves. Pity we have no way of finding out what's going on there."
"It's probably a good thing we have no way of finding out," the Yakzan thought. "Better not stick your nose into the Corporation's affairs if you want to keep your head."
Irfan stopped squeezing his sides, rose to his knees, and patted Murad on the shoulder.
"Turn over."
Al-Fayyaz rolled onto his back, and the Wad-Prince immediately shrugged off his pajama shirt, revealing his lean, muscular torso. Murad propped himself up on his elbow and traced a finger up the hollow between his ribs, from his stomach to his collarbone. The pale whiteness of his prince's skin was the result of a minor error in the genome assembled by the Corporation's best specialists. And its smooth, hairless texture was the consequence of the punishment Irfan had endured for trying to reveal how an unknown clan had suddenly ended up on the Sultanate's throne. Not a single hair had grown on his body since he was sixteen, because...
"You're thinking about the wrong thing," Irfan whispered softly, leaning toward Murad until his hair brushed the Yakzan's face. Murad smiled, reaching up to run his hand through the springy, soft curls. At that moment, the phone on the nightstand shrieked.
"Answer it," the Wad-Prince ordered, pressing his lips to Murad's neck. The Yakzan fumbled for the cursed phone and said:
"Al-Fayyaz, Yakzan to His Highness AlNilam."
"Is... is this you?" a hesitant male voice came through. "They gave me your number at work. Gemma's work, I mean. This is Eric Federline, Gemma's husband. I just... she hasn't been answering her phone since she left for the office, and I..."
"One moment," the Yakzan muted the call and gripped AlNilam's elbow. "Effendi, something's happened to Nightbird. It's her husband. He can't reach her."
The Wad-Prince sat up sharply.
"What?!"
He snatched the phone from Murad, switched it to speaker, and said sharply:
"This is AlNilam, Wad-Prince of the Sultanate. What happened?"
"I'm Eric, Gemma's husband," Federline replied. "I've been calling her today, on her personal and work numbers, but she's not answering. I called the center, but they told me she hasn't shown up yet, and then one of the administrators gave me this number, and I... I didn't know it was yours, I'm sorry... Your Highness," Eric added uncertainly.
"When did you last call her?"
"Half an hour ago. She left about an hour ago, around seven. She forgot her dinner box at home; I wanted to catch up with her, but your security guard wouldn't let me out of the apartment. So I started calling, but..."
"Don't worry," AlNilam said; his eyes blazed with fury. "We'll find Gemma and bring her home."
***
The buns. That was the last thing Gemma remembered clearly — she'd forgotten the dinner box Eric had prepared at home and had stopped at a bakery on the way to work. She'd walked out with a bag in her hand — and then everything went black.
It was dark, stuffy, damp, and she couldn't move. Something cool touched her skin at her ankles and wrists. "A paralytic net," Nightbird thought, and broke out in a cold sweat as a sharp stab of fear hit her. Where was she?! Who had done this to her? Why couldn't she see anything?! Was she blind?!
Nightbird's breath came in ragged gasps. A coarse, thick fabric rose and fell against her face. She blinked, her lashes brushing against it. A hood. They'd put a hood over her head. Praise Omokan, she wasn't blind.
A rustling sound came from nearby; Gemma held her breath, then slowly exhaled through her nose, hoping the movement of the fabric wouldn't give her away. The elders of her tribe had taught her to be silent and invisible, as befitted a true Chokon, a forest huntress, a descendant of the wolves of Torskachevan.
They had also taught her to maintain impassivity and composure in the face of an enemy. Fat lot of good those teachings were now, here in this damp, stifling darkness!
"I am Chokon," Nightbird swallowed the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. "Omokan created us fearless."
She repeated it to herself in her native tongue, like a mantra, until the rustling turned into footsteps. Gemma strained her ears. Three or four people were approaching her, their movements accompanied by a squelching sound, as if there were puddles on the floor.
The footsteps stopped. Nightbird closed her eyes, trying to breathe as shallowly as if she were still under the influence of whatever drug they had injected her with.
"So, what do we do with her now?" one of her captors asked dryly. Her voice was high-pitched and young.
"Children," Gemma's heart lurched. "Magrinha recruits children. The bastard!"
"We can interrogate her now," a young man's voice, still breaking, said from above her head. "Find out what they know about us, warn our people..."
"And then?" the girl asked, just as dryly (was she even of age?).
"Uh... then..."
"We'll have to kill her," the terrorist said. Nightbird suppressed a shiver.
"We could just dump her outside the city," a second boy, with a higher baritone, interjected hastily. "Somewhere in the florofauna thickets."
"We don't have any memory-altering serum," the girl replied. "So there aren't any other options."
Gemma licked her dry lips. The youths stood over her in silence, not doing anything yet. They were probably finding it hard to make up their minds...
"But we have to do something!" the deeper voice exclaimed. "Papa left us to watch..."
"Watch, not draw attention to yourselves by kidnapping center employees in the middle of an investigation!" the bloodthirsty girl snapped.
"We couldn't just sit around doing nothing anymore! Kamal at least tried..."
"Kamal was a spineless idiot! Do you have any idea what would have happened here if he'd managed to kill the prince? Battalions of Al-Shadiyar, the Sultan's Guard, stream-troopers, angels from heaven and demons from hell would have descended on this place in no time!"
"I don't think you have enough faith in our Cause," the baritone said, offended.
"You can believe in the Cause without turning off your brain," the girl retorted, nudging Nightbird in the side with her toe. Gemma made no sound. "She's still out cold. Fine. Drag her into the light, and you — give me the syringe."
A syringe! A whirlwind of names flashed through Gemma's memory. There were many truth drugs — pure and combined; long ago in college, a grey-moustached Bellatores had told them, future office rats, how to counteract the serum. "Though you'll never need this," he'd said mockingly; now Nightbird didn't even know if he'd been telling the truth or just spinning tales.
The two pups lifted her and moved her — not far, but Gemma felt air touch her skin. It was stale too. The hood was pulled off her head. Gemma let her head droop, pretending she was still unconscious, her mind racing as she tried to remember how a truth drug would interact with the stimulant she'd been given. She vaguely recalled that even a harmless cough syrup could affect truth drugs, which was why they were usually not mixed with any medication.
One of the terrorists rolled up her jacket and blouse sleeves. An injector stung her skin lightly, and a second later, Gemma broke out in a cold sweat again, her heart pounding, her temples throbbing. She knew she needed to come to, and opening her eyes, slowly raised her head.
She was in a damp, dark tunnel with concrete walls. There was no foul smell, so it wasn't a sewer. Light filtered down from above through a grate; streaks of moisture and channels carved by running water marked the walls. Puddles dotted the floor here and there.
"Maybe it's a drainage system?" Gemma thought. Al-Haiyan was hit by heavy downpours several times a day, when water flowed in sheets through the streets; during storm season, the flow could become a raging river. Hopefully, a storm wouldn't break right now, or they'd all drown.
Three people stood before Gemma — a short girl and two young men. All were wearing coveralls, heavy boots, and kaitas covering their faces up to their eyes. The girl was probably local — dark skin, thick black brows, large dark-brown eyes with long lashes. She leaned toward Gemma and asked:
"Do you remember your name? Nod if you do."
Nightbird stared at her. She was thinking about the method the Bellatores had mentioned, wondering if these youngsters would use other interrogation techniques on her if the serum didn't work, or if they'd just kill her.
"She's out of it," the deep-voiced one, a tall, stocky boy, said. "Let's wait."
"We don't have time to wait," the girl hissed. "They're already looking for her. We have a couple of hours at best." She took a second injector from the other boy, and Gemma made her decision. She had nothing left to lose, and she began to sing a Chokon hunting song.
Gemma's voice, naturally quite low, was hoarse from the drug and the hood; at the first sounds, the girl recoiled from Nightbird as if she were plague-ridden and shrieked:
"Shut up!"
"In your dreams," Gemma thought. Her heart was still racing — from fear and the stimulant; her vision blurred occasionally, and she couldn't help thinking about the guns her captors all carried...
"I am Chokon," Nightbird reminded herself. "Omokan created me fearless!"
Easy for the ancestors to say...
"Shut up!" the girl shouted, slapping Gemma across the face. Nightbird faltered for a moment, then switched to a lullaby, which in her current state sounded rather menacing.
"Listen, maybe we should forget it?" the baritone boy said nervously. "She's out of her mind! Maybe she's gone crazy! Besides, she's just... she's just a secretary, isn't she?"
"Then why, for the love of Shaytan, did you kidnap her?!" the girl snarled. "No, Konrad saw her with the prince, and since she's here, we're interrogating her, though by Allah, it's the last thing I wanted to be part of!"
She pressed the second injector to Gemma's arm. Nightbird, still singing, stared the girl in the face, and she involuntarily backed away. After a few seconds, Gemma's head spun, and her vision blurred.
"What's your name?" the girl asked.
"Onkonde tataro issa," Gemma rasped, switching from the lullaby to a more upbeat wedding song. The Bellatores had said to keep babbling anything, nonstop, without pausing for a moment, to keep your tongue from blurting out what you were being asked.
"What's your name?" the girl repeated through gritted teeth.
The answer almost escaped Gemma's lips, and she sang even faster, grateful the song was a long one. The boys stared at her as if she were deranged and edged away.
"Why were you with the prince at Fialkovskaya's apartment?"
"Inare ono kaiche!" Nightbird shot back, glad her grandmother had taught her nearly all the Chokon songs for any occasion.
"Answer!" the girl yelled, slapping Gemma again. Nightbird switched to a long, mournful funeral dirge, like a broken jukebox skipping chaotically from one tune to the next with every jolt.
"What have you found out about us? Come on, talk, for Allah's sake, stop wailing!"
Gemma immediately held the longest, lowest note she could, as the answer was already forming on her tongue.
"What do you know about Fialkovskaya?"
"Yiirchii-i-i-i!!" Nightbird responded fiercely.
"Aishe, that's enough," the taller boy pleaded. "The serum must be defective; can't you see it's not working?"
"You two idiots..." the girl began, then suddenly stopped, drawing a pistol and pressing it to Gemma's forehead. "Either you start being useful, songbird, or I'll blow your brains out, understood?"
"I could take the gun from her if it weren't for the net," Nightbird thought. She was much taller than the girl and took basic self-defense courses regularly.
"Understood or not?"
"If you blow my brains out," Nightbird rasped, "the Corporation's SS will find you, and they won't even bother interrogating you — they'll just skin you alive."
"Who would care about some secretary!"
"I'm not a secretary; I'm part of the Security Service. The Corporation always avenges its own. You can probably recall a couple of high-profile cases if you use those two or three brain cells of yours."
Aishe stepped back, her gaze uncertain.
"She's right," the other boy, shorter with a baritone voice, interjected. "The Corporation's people are already on our tail; now we can use her as a hostage."
"The Corporation's people are on our tail because you committed the stupidest possible act," Aishe hissed. "And you disobeyed Papa's direct orders! He explicitly told us to stay put and keep a low profile! Fine," the girl holstered her pistol. "We're running out of time. Lift her up, and let's get out of here."
"Where are you taking me?" Gemma asked. Her heart clenched with fear again, though it seemed they'd changed their minds about killing her.
"You'll find out soon enough," Aishe promised. "Maybe, if you're lucky, you can sing your little songs for Papa."
Almonzeia, the capital of the MT Corporation's colonies on Almonzis
Teddy lay on the sofa, scrolling through a book on the modern history of the Averon continent on his tablet. He was trying to understand why it seemed to breed so many terrorists, as if they were the continent's main export. Glancing over at Aguilar, the journalist noted with surprise that his cellmate was gloomy, scowling, and kneading dough with a tense, focused expression. Usually, the pastry chef's face had a good-natured, serene look, like a contented cat, and Ross asked:
"Is something bothering you?"
"Yes," said Aguilar, slamming the dough down on the board. A cloud of flour flew up to the ceiling, settling on his dark, wavy hair. He plunged his hands back into the dough, and Teddy sighed. The sight of those strong, swarthy fingers working the white dough conjured up decidedly non-culinary associations.
"They're only checking the engineers and technicians," the pastry chef hissed.
"Well... yes. Who else? If there's been an equipment sabotage, they're the first priority."
"Engineering training isn't limited to them."
"What, you think," the journalist asked, surprised, "that some stripper on the express has a higher technical degree but is hiding it so she can keep slinking around a pole?"
"Strippers, waiters, stewards, cleaners, housekeepers. You can't underestimate anyone."
"In the sense of social justice or as a terrorist threat?"
"Terrorists, Teddy, are no stupider than intelligence services," the pastry chef slammed the dough down again, making Ross flinch. "They've long since mastered the tactic of infiltrating agents into enemy ranks."
"Well, I think Fontaine's probably figured that out too..."
"The head of security is bound by interrogation protocols. In case of a sabotage in a technical area, he's required to check the engineers and mechanics first."
"How do you know? Maybe he's started with the cleaners."
"I'd start with the escorts," Aguilar said through gritted teeth. "Or whatever they're called here."
"Girls and boys who are pleasant to the eye."
"What?" the pastry chef blinked.
"That's what it says," Teddy quickly found the "Personnel" section on the express's website, opened the relevant page, and turned the tablet toward Aguilar. "Look how many there are. Should we check them all for degrees, or just a sample based on personal preference?"
"Can you check?"
"Of course. You can too; it's easy. Open a personal page and look at the 'Education' field. Here, for example: Mia Summers, first-rank escort lady — Public School No. 802 on Tabitha-7, then massage school there, followed by dance, etiquette, and erotic practice courses at a training center in Almonzeia."
The pastry chef looked so stunned and comical that Ross snorted with laughter and handed him the tablet:
"See? It's all listed, and I doubt, given our gorilla in uniform's level of paranoia, that anyone could have infiltrated the express's crew with forged documents."
"I wasn't talking about forged documents."
"Surely no one would be so dedicated to a cause that they'd waste years of their life getting an education just to sabotage an express?"
"Why 'waste'? A person or a being can be recruited while they're still studying or after they've started working."
"I understand that. But you started with the idea that someone on the service staff might have an engineering degree stashed away. I don't think Fontaine would miss such a curious fact; a cleaner with a degree would immediately become suspect number one."
"True," the pastry chef sighed, handing the tablet back to Ross. Teddy felt a slight flush from the accidental brush of his fingers.
Usually, Ross had no trouble getting someone he liked into bed, but he couldn't seem to get his intentions across to Aguilar. Maybe it was because the pastry chef looked at him with a kind of benevolent condescension, like a decorative pet that would die if made to exert itself.
"Even if we find people or beings with suspiciously good education," Teddy continued, to distract himself from these gloomy thoughts, "we still can't interrogate them. We'd have to call the gorilla, explain everything, and he wasn't exactly thrilled last time."
"I don't care about his thrills," Aguilar muttered. "I'm sure he's keeping you here as bait for the terrorists."
Ross's heart lurched in fear; at least the blood finally drained from his groin and, presumably, returned to his brain, because it started to dawn on him why the pastry chef was sleeping on the sofa in the living room with a pistol within reach.
"B-b-but he's supposed to protect me! I'm a passenger!"
"The train isn't going anywhere yet, so technically, you're not a passenger, just a ticket holder."
Ross had no answer to that. One thing was clear: he couldn't escape the train. Aguilar was alone, but there were four hundred SS soldiers, and besides, running was pointless. The terrorists would get him immediately. Unless he bought a ticket for another train, one leaving Almonzis immediately, tomorrow at the latest!
A loud ring from the video phone cut through his panicked thoughts. Aguilar wiped his hands on a towel, walked to the door, and pressed the speaker button.
"Claude Reneal, the Express dispatcher, is here to see you," a woman from the SS announced. "Are you ready to receive her, sir?"
The pastry chef turned to Ross, raising an eyebrow in question.
"Yes, yes, ready!" Teddy called out hastily. Maybe she'd come to say the terrorists had been caught?!
He rose as the woman entered and gave a slight bow. He'd glimpsed this plump blonde (charming, but not his type) in Anna Dmitrievna's reception area. She'd been friendly and sweet then, but now she looked very upset.
"Good afternoon, miss. Has something happened?" Teddy asked, since the dispatcher was silent and the awkward pause was stretching.
"Madame wishes to see you."
"Personally?" the journalist asked, cringing, still not fully recovered from their last encounter.
"Yes. You need to identify a terrorist. A dead one."
"Dead?" Ross choked out. "Me?"
"Yes."
Teddy shot a pleading look at the pastry chef.
"But I've never... I'm not sure I can... I mean, I didn't see..."
"I'm afraid you'll have to, Mr. Ross," Miss Reneal said. "You're our only witness."
"O-okay," Teddy licked his lips. "I'm ready. Fine. Where's the photo?"
"Not a photo. You'll need to go to the main office."
"Why?" Aguilar asked unexpectedly, and Miss Reneal jumped.
"I'm sorry?"
"Why does Mr. Ross need to go to your main office if he can identify a dead terrorist from a photo?"
"They want to talk to him. She wants to talk to him," the woman raised her eyes to the ceiling, "the highest authority. Madame Tadić, the head of MT Express."
"Did something go wrong?" Aguilar asked, his gaze probing Miss Reneal. She sighed faintly, her shoulders slumping. "Was a crew member hurt? Fontaine? Madame Lavrova?"
"No, no, none of them. But they wanted to take him alive, and he opened fire and... and... he shot himself," the dispatcher whispered. "God, it was horrible..."
"What about civilians? Other people in the building? Any casualties?"
Teddy offered the woman a tissue. She sniffled, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose.
"Sorry, I... I'm just so shaken up. I never... never thought..." she took a deep breath. "I'm sorry."
"It's alright," Teddy said soothingly. "Would you like some water?"
"No, thank you. As I understand it, no employees were hurt. But Madame Tadić, who saw it all herself... I mean, he started shooting while Anna Dmitrievna and Mr. Erdem were on a video call with Madame Tadić, and so... she wants to speak with the only witness herself."
"That's quite dangerous, miss," Aguilar objected. "Taking Mr. Ross into the city. Besides, we were strictly forbidden to leave not just the train, but even our compartment."
"That was Madame's order... our Madame, I mean."
"Verbal?"
"Yes."
The pastry chef was silent for a moment; his gaze swept up and down Miss Reneal, as if scanning her. His eyes were expressionless, as though he were sleepwalking.
"Very well," Aguilar said. "We'll go. But you'll have to bring a service car right to the car's exit. I'll accompany Mr. Ross."
"Yes, of course. I'll arrange the car and wait for you at the first vestibule. You'll be escorted."
"A sensitive young lady," the pastry chef murmured as she left the compartment.
"What's so strange about it? A crazy terrorist nearly killed a bunch of people, including her colleagues and acquaintances. Lucky no one was hurt. I wonder if the terrorists themselves didn't realize one of them was a suicidal maniac?"
"He wasn't a maniac," Aguilar said calmly, checking the charge on his pistol. "Most terrorists try to kill themselves when captured because interrogation by an epsilon-being is unbearable."
These words sent a chill down Teddy's spine, and he decided not to pursue the topic.
Outside the door, an escort of four SS soldiers awaited them. Heading for the first vestibule, Ross again felt like he was back home — where he couldn't move a step without his personal bodyguard. This time, Aguilar walked ahead, not behind to the right, and the journalist nearly crashed into him when he stopped suddenly.
"The car is too far," the pastry chef said. "Six meters from the doors."
"We'll walk six meters in the sun; I'm not made of ice cream, I won't melt," Teddy snapped. It annoyed him when Aguilar started acting like his father's bodyguards.
"Please, come out," came Miss Reneal's voice; Ross couldn't see her behind the pastry chef's broad back. "I'll go with you."
"Bring the car to the doors," Aguilar replied.
"We can't get any closer. Please, don't keep Anna Dmitrievna and Madame Tadić waiting."
The pastry chef stepped toward the doors, and Teddy saw a strip of brightly lit platform. The daytime heat touched his face, immediately drenching him in sweat. A dark blue-and-black service car was visible a short distance away.
"Please. The car has air conditioning," Miss Reneal jumped down to the platform and turned to the journalist. "Can I help you down, Mr. Ross?"
Teddy started forward, but Aguilar suddenly gripped his shoulder painfully.
"Hey!" Ross protested, and then something outside flashed blindingly. There was a short cry, and the pastry chef, with a roar of "Sniper! Get back!", shoved the journalist behind him and raised his arm, deploying an energy shield. Teddy caught a glimpse of the woman's body lying on the platform — her head shot through, the edges of the wound blackened, everything tinted yellow by the shield.
"Oh, my God," Teddy stammered. Nausea washed over him. Someone's strong hand dragged him back from the vestibule, though Ross could barely walk. Never, even in his worst nightmares, could he have imagined someone being killed right in front of him — so easily...
"She... she..." Ross barely managed. She'd been talking to him just a minute ago, breathing, moving... how could this happen?
"She was one of them, Teddy," Aguilar whispered. He was moving toward their compartment without slowing, practically carrying Ross on his shoulder.
"What do you mean, 'one of them'?.."
"The terrorists' accomplice. One of them lured her out of the train and killed her so she couldn't talk."
Teddy closed his eyes.