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Salmi, Karelia District, Russia was a revitalized ghost town. Where before nothing but Reaper Plague death had stalked the streets, now the area bustled with drab military vehicles, automobiles of every make and model, bicycles and pedestrians.
Winthrop Jenkins gazed at the activity from his third-floor corner office – the highest available on the heavily guarded research city. It overlooked the A130 bridge that crossed the Tulemayoki river. That in turn emptied into Lake Ladoga, whose waters lapped the piers and pilings of the suburbs of St. Petersburg a hundred kilometers to the southwest, and extended almost to the Finnish border.
Not too near, not too far. The new facility was remote enough to ensure few stumbled across it, but close enough to draw on the metropolis for material and support.
The Russians had been kind.
He laughed. “Kind” was a euphemism; they wanted what he had. He and the Russians needed each other, for the moment. Wouldn’t they be surprised when they found out what kind of scorpion they held to their collective breast.
They undoubtedly had a plan for seizing all of his work once it was far enough along, once their scientists had absorbed enough advanced research. Of course, he had a plan of his own to counter this, but he was playing a dangerous game.
A knock at his door brought his chief of research, Sharion Prandra, into his office. She shut it carefully behind her while at the same time Jenkins pressed a button on his console that should ensure privacy by scrambling any bugs or sensors.
“You asked for a meeting?” Jenkins waved her to a seat in front of the ancient wooden desk that had probably been there since Peter the Great was Tsar. “The usual time was not sufficient?”
Prandra set a small silver tray down. On it rested a polished pot, two glass teacups and a jar of raspberry jam.
“A social call?”
“It’s business, but not lab business per se.” She poured the strong hot brew into the two receptacles, then spooned a glob of thick jam into her cup.
“You’ve gone native, I see,” Jenkins said, ignoring the sweetener and bringing the steaming liquid to his florid lips. He sipped carefully, then set the cup down on the edge of his desk by his right hand.
“Not all Russian customs are beastly. I find I like the taste, and the sugar helps me think.”
“So what are you thinking about today?”
“The future.” She sipped again. “Specifically, to what use my research is to be put.”
“Our research,” Jenkins said, warning.
“I do not see you in the lab with your eyes on an electron microscope screen, or running nano-assemblers. If I accept you as part of my team, you must accept me as part of yours.”
“Meaning?” He eyed her narrowly over his again-lifted cup. This kind of rhetoric was unusual for the normally cooperative woman.
“Meaning that as you have a say in the science, I want some input – or at least some knowledge – of the operational side of things.”
Jenkins closed his eyes, admitting to himself that this was not completely unexpected or unreasonable. Prandra was not only a brilliant scientist but was also a shrewd person in general – not like most of the head-in-the-sand researchers. She had been willing to put herself under the knife early on, to try out Septagon Shadow’s less unpredictable human augmentations, such as her cybernetic eye. And she loved the power and control she had over her subjects. No, her interest had never been merely scientific.
So the question he had to ask himself was this: freeze her out and risk a problem, or accept her bid to get more involved?
Because she was the head of the project – hell, she was the project - he chose the latter. “All right. But only you. Operational security is imperative, even from – especially from – our local benefactors.”
“I understand,” Prandra said. “But I can read the cards quite clearly. We have ten S-3 Shadows now, the latest and best we’ve ever produced. No more glitches, no more mental instabilities. They’re reliable, completely under our control. Soon enough we’ll have a hundred, then a thousand. But what will we do with them? Even a thousand are not enough to retake North America for ourselves.”
“Who said anything about North America? Why bother, when we can carve out our own empire somewhere less...resistant. Somewhere with a tradition of autocracy, whose people are used to submitting to the iron hand. Rule by fear is much more effective than rule by brute force.”
“Carve out an empire? The world is rapidly turning into a science-fiction Disneyland. Every nation that joins the Free Communities is quickly brought under the Council’s wing and large-scale corruption is stamped out. The ones who don’t want that join the Neutral States to get some political cover and retain what independence they can. but the NS won’t tolerate gross misconduct either. Where else is there?”
“China and Russia are still their own masters. North Korea is as closed and surreal as ever, since the Chinese still find them useful. And a few islands – Madagascar, Sri Lanka, some of the smaller ones.”
“That’s just my point,” Prandra said with exasperation. “What’s left? Where’s our place? I want to continue my research unfettered, and I don’t want to be hunted down and put on trial for war crimes.”
“Exactly. So where can we retain some independence and, at the same time, be safe from the do-gooders?”
“Do get to the point, Winthrop. Play your guessing games with someone else. Where will we go?” She covered her anger by finishing her tea and pouring more.
“Right here.” He spread his hands, taking in their surroundings.
“What?”
“We stay here...and take over Russia.” Jenkins smiled, sitting back with his tea in his hand.
“You’re mad.” Prandra stood up to look out the window, not wanting to show her dismay.
“Not at all. I have a plan, and now that you wanted in on it, I’ll explain how you’re going to help me.” He reached into his pocket and took out a metal vial, setting it on the table.
The sound of its hard contact caused her to turn and look. “And that is?”
Winthrop smiled. “They call it ‘nanocrack.’”
