The egg, for lack of a better term, shifted and rumbled beneath their seats. It moved; Marina could barely tell it was moving, it was so smooth, but the hum and initial slight jerk reminded her of an elevator. Then it stopped, and they heard the sounds of metal moving, gliding; and then, with a dull thud, slamming into stillness.
It sounded like a door closing; and it came from behind Marina’s seat, from the direction in which the large chamber sat. She guessed that the pod had somehow moved out of the main large chamber and they were now in some other passage or channel.
There were no windows in their vehicle, so they couldn’t know for sure. All was still.
Then, a roar, muffled by the metal surrounding them, and the pod began to shimmy slightly. A soft hissing sound filled the air and Marina drew herself up sharply. Gas? Were they going to be poisoned? Drugged?
She started to unbuckle her seatbelt, then realized what it was. She’d heard it; experienced it often enough. It was oxygen … pressurizing the cabin, just like an airplane.
Suddenly, the shimmying settled into a smooth, dull rhythm, and without warning, the pod began to move. Fast. Smooth, but fast and surrounded by the dull roar. It sounded like a great sucking sound—what Ross Perot had long before fancifully described as the expected result of NAFTA.
Marina smirked at the thought, even though she had no idea where she was going. And if she would make it there alive.
They rode for some time. Perhaps thirty minutes; perhaps longer. Marina wasn’t sure, as her watch didn’t seem to be keeping time any longer.
“Should you stop this thing at some point?” she asked.
“There doesn’t appear to be any way to do so.”
“I thought you said there was red to stop and green to go.”
“I misspoke.”
Marina felt the sudden urge to throttle the man across from her. He looked entirely too smug—most likely at her consternation. “What happened to the red button?”
“It’s not red any more. It’s off. I don’t think there’s any way to stop this thing until it gets to wherever it’s going. Like an elevator.”
“In the elevators I’m used to, there are always emergency stop buttons.” Marina didn’t know why she was bothering. Perhaps he was just as anxious as she was, but he chose to show it with sarcasm. “Is there a fuel gauge? Something to indicate how long we might be zipping along here in limbo?”
“The only gauge shows something called pressure. And the dial jumped from the red to the green, which is the far side, as soon as we started moving. It hasn’t budged since.”
“That champagne is sounding good right about now,” Marina snapped.
“Might as well get some sleep. Wake me when we stop.” Gabe yawned, and he actually closed his eyes, letting his head drop back onto the headrest of his chair. Then he opened one dark blue eye. “Unless you can think of something better to do.”
Come to think of it, the chairs were pretty comfortable—and designed for sleeping, if the tilt of the headrest was any indication.
Well, if she couldn’t beat him, she could join him.
She let her head tip back and felt the curve of the headrest cup her skull. Might as well get some rest. Who knew what they would be up against when they finally stopped.
And if they didn’t stop, well, then, she’d go to her death without even knowing it.
They did stop, finally, and Marina came awake as the low rumble beneath her ebbed into stillness. The console lights dimmed and overhead lights came on. Gabe was awake too, and they looked at each other across the way. Marina unsnapped her seat belt.
“Please remain in your seats until the aircraft has come to a complete stop.”
Marina ignored Gabe’s attempt at humor, but she didn’t miss the edge in his voice—nor his spare, smooth action of picking up the gun and hefting it in his hand.
“What time is it? How long have we been traveling?” she asked, knowing that his sat phone would be the best measure of accurate time.
Gabe flipped it open. “About three hours, total. It’s about 4:00 in the pm.”
The pod jerked rather more harshly than it had at the beginning of the journey, signaling that it wasn’t finished with its trip. Marina felt another, more minor jolt, and heard a low snick as something clicked into place, and then everything was deathly silent.
Marina flipped the seat belt straps away and stood as they clattered against the sides of her seat. The palms of her hands felt slick and her throat dry. Gabe, on the other hand, was already fiddling with the lock on the door as if he was a prisoner finally finding his escape.
Marina was a bit more worried about what they might find on the other side of the door than being stuck in close quarters any longer.
The door slid open and instinctively, Marina slammed herself back inside, against the wall, across from Gabe. That left the opening clear in case someone or something was waiting.
But the area through which they looked was still and empty and appeared similar to the cavern they’d left behind hours before. Gabe stepped down from the pod onto the smooth floor, and that was when Marina noticed that it wasn’t rock, but tile. Metal tiles, glowing a cool silver in the well-lit room.
The lighting wasn’t harsh in the metal and rock chamber; it could have blared like a spotlight. But instead, it was welcoming and just bright enough that she could see the entire interior of the chamber and a doorway that was surely an exit.
Gabe had stepped a few paces away, and she noticed that he was pushing buttons on his satellite phone.
“Calling Bergstrom?” she asked, stepping near him.
“I will as soon as I figure out where we are.”
“You have GPS on there. Great!” Marina was wondering if they’d traveled outside of Canada during their three-hour journey, or whether they’d strayed into Alaska.
Gabe was frowning, and the expression on his face changed as she watched. “Don’t tell me we traveled back down to Michigan,” she said.
“There’s no way.” He was staring at the numbers. Then he punched some more, and stared at them again. “Impossible.”
Marina felt odd. In her experience, stoic Gabe did not often have moments where he showed such pure astonishment. “Where are we, then?”
-29-
July 10, 2007
Siberia
“The prodigal son … at last.”
Roman chose the most comfortable seat in Victor’s spacious apartments. “I presume you have been well cared for during your stay?”
“The vodka dried up a week ago,” Victor snapped. “Other than that, I have few complaints. Brother dear.”
“Ah. The vodka. I would have thought you’d tired of it by now.” Roman swept his gaze over his twin. “You look well.” He would if he were two decades older than he was. His sallow skin hugged hollow cheekbones, and his hair, still thick but now a metallic grey, needed a trim. The same dark blue eyes set in his own face stared back at him, foggy but still glinting with life. Perhaps the vodka hadn’t numbed him enough. Serious tremors shook his thin hand as he reached for a glass of water. If he’d shaved his head, he’d still look enough like Roman to be mistaken for an ill, thinner version. Perhaps if Roman had been the one to live Out-World, he would look the same.
Perhaps not.
“I never thought I would see you again,” Victor told him, surprising Roman with his frankness.
“I did not intend for you to do so. Our agreement was such. But as time has evolved, things have changed, and I chose to call you back.”
“Does Lev know?”
Roman knew that there were several layers to that question, and he thought about which levels to answer. He chose the simple one that answered them all: “He is aware that you are expected.”
“All these years … .” Victor shifted, his bony wrists knocking the table with the clumsiness of someone much older than he actually was.
“I hope that you had a good life. Got all that you wished.” And for that brief moment, Roman meant the words. His envy of Victor had nearly ruined him, and would have negated all that he had accomplished. It had been years before he accepted how things had turned out, and realized that in the end, he would have it all.
Yes, he had lost those years … but soon, he would have all that he desired. And his brother would remain this shell of a man. Carrying, he hoped, the guilt for what he’d done with him to his grave.
The guilt that Roman had seized upon as his own salvation; a tool to obtain what he desired most.
“And Marina? What does she know about this? About us?”
“Nothing! Of course, nothing!” Fear leapt into Victor’s eyes. Good. His daughter meant something to him. Leverage was always useful when playing such cat and mouse games.
“I have told her nothing.”
“That is well. She will be joining us soon, Victor. I prefer to be the one to educate her, if you don’t mind. My brain is not sodden with—is it Stoli?—and I wager I’ll do a better job.”
“Don’t involve her in this, Roman. What good will it do?” Victor had a fleck of spittle on his lower lip.
“What good? Why, she has the blood of Shamans and Skalas in her. She is the last of the Aleksandrovs and she must meet her grandfather. She must fulfill her destiny.” He fiddled with his thumb, checking a bruise on his nail which had blossomed from a small grey-blue mark to over the entire nail with black. “She is a brilliant, brave young woman. You must be proud of her.” Bitterness tinged his voice. Jealousy.
“I want no harm to come to her.”
Roman looked at his twin, born the older by no more than one hundred seconds. One hundred seconds that had haunted him all of his life. One hundred seconds that had driven every decision he’d ever made. “Of course there will be no harm to her. Why would I harm the Heiress to the Sacred?”
-30-
July 10, 2007
Siberia
Whether they were in Siberia or not, Marina didn’t want to remain in the chamber any longer. She supposed GPS devices weren’t incorrect very often, but she still found it hard to believe they could have traveled thousands of miles in three hours.