“You see how I hit that tank and the fireball went right through the armor!” Barnes was using his hands like a fighter pilot to show what had happened. “Then I ‘jumped’ about twenty meters to the left and hit the tank again. Unbelievable.”
“Just remember nobody was shooting back at you,” Dalton noted.
That brought a moment of silence.
“What exactly happens if we do get shot?” Trilly wanted to know.
“You slip back into the virtual world,” Dr. Hammond said, “and allow Sybyl to reconstitute you.”
“Far out!” Monroe yelled, raising his hand for a high five from Egan.
“You go on the real thing in six hours,” Raisor said. “I suggest you get some rest.”
As the team filed out, Dalton cornered Lieutenant Jackson. “What do you think?” he asked her.
“I think it was too easy,” Jackson said.
Dalton nodded. “Two things worry me. First, we still don’t really know what happens when the avatar gets shot or blown up or run over, or any of the other things that can happen to it.”
“And the second?” Jackson asked.
“Murphy’s law,” Dalton said succinctly. “Whatever can screw up will. I’m concerned about the Russian psychic capability. What if they are on top of this?” He could see the look in Jackson’s eyes and knew she was thinking the same thing. “What if this demon, this Chyort, shows up? Or if what happened to the first team happens to us?
“We don’t know much about what we’re doing,” Dalton continued. “We really don’t know diddly about the Russian capability. What about this Dr. Vasilev? You said he worked in Moscow. Do you think you can find him?”
Jackson looked tired, black lines under her eyes, but she nodded. “I can give it a shot. He’s published in some journals that give some bio information. I can go to the Institute in Moscow and try to find him from there.”
“I’d really appreciate it,” Dalton said. “I know you need to rest, but— ”
Jackson held up her hand. “No problem. I’ll go back in.”
Dalton ran a hand through his goo-filled hair. “I’ll go with you.”
Feteror sensed a presence down the computer path he was on. A shadow where there shouldn’t be one. He paused, uncertain for the first time in a very long time. The shadow moved.
Feteror raced down a side path, his essence flowing through the circuitry, and he popped out behind the shadow. He froze, seeing his grandfather looking about in amazement at the hardware inside of the computer.
“Opa!” Feteror exclaimed.
The old man turned, a bright smile above his bushy gray beard. “Arkady!”
Feteror edged forward, uncertain. “How can you be here?”
Opa shrugged. “That is what I wanted to ask you. And where is here?” His frail arms waved about.
Feteror stepped forward. “But you aren’t real.”
Opa reached out and grabbed Feteror’s virtual arm. “Does that feel real?”
“But— ” Feteror shook his head. “How can this be?”
“How can you be?” Opa said. “I don’t know. I was asleep. And now I’m awake.”
“But I didn’t summon you,” Feteror said.
“Summon me? Summon me?” Opa glared at his grandson.
“What happened to wake you?” Feteror asked.
The old man frowned. “Someone tried breaking in.” He looked about, confusion crossing his face once more. “But I was home. In the cottage. Someone was at the window. I woke and yelled. They ran. But this isn’t the cottage.”
Feteror nodded. Rurik’s prying had woken the old man. But what he didn’t understand— and knew the figure in front of him wouldn’t know either— was how his grandfather’s image had come “alive” and escaped its memory cell. This was something new and unprecedented.
Feteror checked the time. He knew that General Rurik would exhaust all the normal channels to try to find his wife and children. When they failed— and they would, given Oma’s and his own thoroughness— he would reluctantly turn to Feteror. He estimated he had a little while before the call came.
“Where is the cottage?” Opa asked.
Feteror reached out and took his grandfather by the arm. “I will take you home, Opa.”
Chapter Seventeen
Dalton’s lungs filled with liquid. His body spasmed, tired muscles fighting the foreign substance, then giving way.
The process went faster and shortly Dalton was back on the virtual plane. Jackson’s falcon avatar swooped past, over his left shoulder, startling him.
“Ready to go?” Jackson asked.
“Where’s the first point?” Dalton asked.
An image from Sybyl appeared in his mind as Hammond spoke. “You’ll be taking the polar route to Russia. Your first jump point will be in central Canada right above this lake.”
Dalton’s arms flowed into wings and he took flight, catching up to the falcon.
“First jump, ” Jackson said.
“First jump,” Dalton acknowledged.
He concentrated on the lake point in Canada. Everything went blank; he felt disoriented and then he was there, about five hundred meters above the water.
He looked around. Jackson was close by. Dalton felt awkward and huge next to her small, graceful form.
“Second point, ” Jackson projected.
It took them four points to get to Moscow. Dalton had no idea if that many were necessary— if they could have gotten there with one jump. He also had no idea how much time passed. Between some of the points the transition was not instantaneous. He felt as if he had flown a distance between some of them in the gray fog of the virtual plane.
He was grateful for Jackson’s presence, as he wasn’t sure he could have made it this far this quickly without her keeping him oriented.
“The Russian Physiological Psychology Institute is that building.” Jackson nosed down toward a large, square building, built of dark stone. Dalton followed. He paused as Jackson’s avatar blipped into the roof and disappeared, then he did the same. He was in an office. There were three men in uniform inside the room. Dalton staggered backward before he realized that he was still in the virtual plane and the men couldn’t see him.
“This is Dr. Vasilev’s office. ” Jackson paused. “I don’t know who they are. They have GRU tabs on their shoulder boards.”
“Seems like they’re looking for something,” Dalton noted.
That was an understatement, as the large desk was turned on its side, spilling papers. Two men dropped to their knees, searching both the papers and the underside of the desk. The third, obviously an officer of higher rank, watched the other two.
One of the men on his knees said something to the senior officer in Russian. The officer replied.
“Vasilev is missing, ” Jackson told Dalton. “They’re trying to find out what happened to him.”
“You understand Russian?” Dalton asked.
There was an amused tone to Jackson’s projection. “Yes. And so do you.”