Even the wolf bore a surgical steel device.
The augment capped the base of the dog’s skull, attached via titanium screws and wired in place. With the touch of a button on the radio-transmitter, they could feed pain or pleasure, enhance aggression or docility, dull senses or stimulate arousal.
“What have you found, Lieutenant?” she asked.
“The children are not in the cavern,” he said.
She stopped and turned.
“We searched the entire village, even the deserted apartment complex, but when we circled wider, we discovered a scent trail along a back wall, behind the animal facility. It led to one of the service hatches to the surface.”
“They went outside?”
“We believe with the American from the hospital. The children’s trail came from the hospital.”
So that at least answered one question. The American hadn’t escaped, then kidnapped the children. It seemed it was the other way around. The children must have helped him escape.
But why?
What was so important about the man?
It was a question that had nagged Savina since the man had first arrived. Two months ago, Russian intelligence had been alerted about a plague ship that had been pirated in the Indonesian seas. Intelligence services around the world were looking for it. She had been tasked to see if her subjects could find it. A test. One she had passed. Primed, the twelve Omegas had pinpointed the island where the ship was being held. A Russian submersible was sent to investigate and came upon the lagoon just as the ship was sinking.
It was victory enough—until Sasha had begun scribbling with a fervor that almost burnt her augment out. A dozen pictures, from a dozen views, of a drowning man, being dragged down by a net. Believing this was significant—and being curious herself—Savina had alerted the Russian submariners. They already had divers in the water.
They found such a man, barely conscious, tangled in a net. They rushed up in diving sleds, forced a respirator into his mouth, and rescued him back to their submersible.
Savina had ordered the man brought here, believing he must be significant. But once at Chelyabinsk 88, he claimed to be just one of the cruise ship’s electricians. During their interrogation, the man had not seemed especially bright to her, just a scarred and shaven brute of a man with a coarse vocabulary and missing one hand. Likewise, Sasha had showed no interest in him. Neither did any of her fellow Omega-class subjects.
It made no sense, and the man proved to be a nuisance, caught one day tapping into a surface broadcast trunk, wired to his prosthetic cuff. They did not know what he was doing nor what type of signal he had sent out, but in the end, it had no repercussions. For security’s sake, they had the cuff surgically removed.
Over the weeks, Savina had grown to believe that the girl’s intensity had just been a childish fear for the drowning man’s life. Done with the matter, she had turned the American over to the care of the laboratory group at the Menagerie. They were studying memory, and a living human subject was raw material not to be wasted.
Savina had sat in on his surgery.
What they had done to him…
It still made her shudder.
But now he was gone—vanished with the brother of Sasha, who was also missing. What game were these children playing?
She didn’t know, and this late in her own plans, she didn’t have time to figure it out.
“Your orders, General-Major?”
“Search the surface.”
“I’ll bring all the dogs,” his voice snapped.
She stopped him. “Not just the dogs.”
Borsakov stared at her, his eyebrows pinched questioningly. But he knew what she wanted done. “General-Major? What about the children?”
She strode away. Now was not the time for subtle actions. She still had ten children. That would be enough.
She confirmed her order. “Loose the cats, too.”
11:45 A.M.
Pyotr sat between Marta’s legs. Her strong, warm arms wrapped around him. He didn’t like to be touched, but he let her. The sweet earthy smell of her damp fur swelled around him. He heard the hush-hush of her breathing, felt the beat of her large heart in his own spine. He had known Marta all his life. He had known these arms. After Pyotr’s first operation at the age of five, she was brought to his room.
He remembered her large hand. It had scared him, but she lay there for most of the day, her head resting on the edge of his bed, staring at him. Finally, one of his hands had drifted to hers. His fingers danced along the wrinkled lines of her overturned paw, curious. She had stared at him with large brown eyes, moist and knowing. Long fingers wrapped around his.
He knew what it was.
A promise.
Others would play with her, cry in her arms, sit long nights with her…but Pyotr knew a truth that morning. She had secrets that were his alone. And his secret was hers.
In those arms, he stared out at the strange woods. They were allowed up here sometimes, to wander the forest with a teacher, to sit in the quietness. But it still frightened Pyotr. A wind whispered through the forest, knocking limbs and shedding twirling falls of leaves. He watched them and knew something was coming.
He was not like his sister.
But some things he knew. He leaned deeper into Marta, away from the leaves. His heart beat faster and the world faded, all except for the leaves. Drifting, twirling, dancing…terrifying…
Marta hooted quietly in his ear. What is wrong?
He trembled and quaked. His heart was in his throat, pounding a warning as more and more leaves fell. He searched in the spaces among the leaves. Konstantin had once told him how he could multiply so fast in his head.
Every number has a shape…even the biggest, longest number is a shape. So when I calculate, I look to the empty space between those two numbers. The gap also has a shape, formed by the boundaries of the other two numbers. And that empty shape, too, is a number. And that number is always the answer.
Pyotr didn’t fully understand. He could not do math like Konstantin, nor could he solve puzzles like Kiska, nor could he see far like his sister. But Pyotr knew no one else who could do what he could do.
He could read hearts…all sorts of hearts.
Great and small.
And something was coming, something with a dark, hungry heart.
Pyotr searched among the falling leaves as his own small heart hammered. He filled in the emptiness one space at a time.
Sweat beaded on his forehead. The world was just falling leaves and the dark spaces between, swirling and churning, reaching for him. In the distance, he heard Konstantin shout his name.