“We don’t know,” Hammond said. “His body is also in stasis. I restored his power, but there’s been no contact. I think we might have lost the connection when I diverted all power to your team.”
“Where did he go?” Dalton demanded.
“We don’t know,” Hammond said, “but we have a larger problem on our hands. I just got a call from Washington. Your mission failed. The nuclear warheads have been stolen. Combining that with the information you brought back about the phased-displacement generator, we have the biggest danger this country has faced since the Cuban Missile Crisis. The National Security Council is very concerned. They are considering their options.”
Dalton looked up at the doctor, recognizing the panic in the clipped sentences. “Very concerned? Is that what you call it? They should be crapping in their pants. Options? What options? What are they going to do?”
Dalton took a deep drink of coffee, feeling the burning liquid hit his bruised throat. He relished the pain because it sharpened his mind, brought it out of the fog of near death and despair. The issue of Raisor’s disappearance bothered him, but it was a msytery that wasn’t a priority right now.
“For starters, they can now work with the Russians, given that the warheads have been stolen,” Hammond said.
“That’s like reuniting the Three Stooges,” Dalton said. “The Russians had to have known about— ” He paused, realization hitting him like a punch in the gut.
“What is it?” Lieutenant Jackson asked.
“Something’s not right about all this,” Dalton said.
“What do you mean?” Jackson asked.
“This Russian avatar, Chyort, it’s not right.” Dalton’s mind was racing as he considered all he had experienced. “Chyort attacked us, not the mercenaries taking down the train.”
“Maybe he thought you were the greater threat?” Dr. Hammond suggested.
Dalton shook his head. “No.” He turned to Jackson.
“Chyort was in the railmaster’s shack the same time you were, right?”
Jackson nodded.
“So he knew about the change in the timing of shipment. Yet the Russian guards weren’t ready. They ran right into the ambush. And Chyort attacked us, not the ambushers.
“He’s with them. I don’t know why, and I don’t know how, given that this Chyort is supposed to be part of the GRU, but he is with the Mafia, helping them. And we aren’t going to recover those bombs or stop the phased-displacement generator from being used, until we stop Chyort.”
Dalton turned to Dr. Hammond. “If you had to destroy your own project— stop Psychic Warrior— and you couldn’t defeat it on the psychic plane, how would you do it?”
Hammond spread her hands, taking in the complex. “To make sure I succeeded, I’d take out Bright Gate.”
“Which leaves you with the opposite situation from what we have right now,” Dalton said. “What happens to me if I’m on the virtual plane and my body here is destroyed? Or Sybyl is taken off-line?”
“I don’t know for sure what happens to your psyche if your body is killed, although I assume it would also be killed,” Hammond said. “But if Sybyl is taken off-line, then you will lose all the power and support you get from the computer. Your psyche might still be floating around out there, but it won’t be able to do much.”
Dalton nodded. “All right, then. That’s what we’ll do.”
Oma put the phone down. They had the bombs. They had the phased-displacement generator. But it had almost been a disaster. She thought about Leksi’s account of the strange beings that had attacked him— Americans, working in the same manner as Chyort. Yes, Chyort had won, but…
Oma knew the playing field had changed, she just wasn’t sure yet what the changes meant.
She looked at the computer screen on which she had left the information from her Swiss bank account. Four hundred million dollars. With 360 billion pending.
Her gaze shifted to the desktop, on which two things sat: the target list and the card from the NATO representative.
The phone rang. She grabbed it. “Speak.”
“We have dropped the child off as instructed,” the voice on the other end informed her.
“Very good.” Oma held the receiver in her hand as the other end went dead. Another piece in the puzzle that she didn’t quite understand. She’d assumed that Chyort had had her kidnap General Rurik’s wife and children for revenge. But if so, why had he told her to free one of the children in a place where the GRU would find him quickly?
She pushed down on the receiver button and got a dial tone. She punched in the number off the card. It was answered on the first ring.
“Yes?”
“Do you give this number to everyone or do you know who I am?” Oma asked.
“I know who you are,” the NATO representative replied. “Are you calling to chat about the weather or do you accept my offer?”
“You know about the warheads?”
“You have many people’s attention now,” the man acknowledged. “You might not enjoy the heat of the spotlight that is now shining in your direction. In fact, I’m not sure I can keep my offer on the table much longer.”
“I have four hundred million in an account already,” Oma said. “An advance against four billion. Do you understand my situation?”
There was a brief silence before the man spoke again.
“We can match the four hundred now that you have the bombs. But we also want the name of the original bidder and all other information you can give us.”
“I cannot do— ” Oma began.
“I would think that would be in your best interest,” the NATO representative interrupted. “Even if you give back the advance, they— whoever they are— will not be happy about your reneging on a deal. Give us the name and perhaps we can clip their wings so they don’t come after you.”
Oma knew that NATO was willing to pay ransom to get the bombs rather than launch a military mission that could easily be as costly in financial terms and more importantly costly in the arena of NATO blood spilled and public image. It was overall cheaper, more direct, and more in line with the realities of the world to pay. It was the way the real world worked.
“Deposit the money and we can discuss this,” Oma said. “Right now, this is only talk.”
“You are playing a very dangerous game and the clock is ticking. This deal requires all the bombs to be turned over. Every single one. I will have the money in your account inside of the hour. Then we will talk again. It will be the last time we talk, one way or the other.”
“You should learn to relax. To enjoy life.”
Feteror stopped his “pacing” and looked at his grandfather’s image in amazement. They were in the clearing near the stream. Feteror was beginning to worry that something had gone wrong. That Rurik would not let him out again. That Oma had the bombs now and had betrayed him.
“This is not life,” Feteror said.
Opa raised his bushy gray eyebrows. “What is it then?”
“This”— Feteror waved his hands around the glade— “is all an illusion. It isn’t real. We are inside a computer.”
“A computer? What is that?”
“ You aren’t even real.” Feteror had no patience for this. He needed to get out, or all that he had worked for would go to naught. He knew he could not trust Oma to keep her end of the bargain without looking over her shoulder. She needed him to operate the phased-displacement generator, but he knew that she might make a deal that didn’t require the generator now that she had the bombs. Of course, he reassured himself she didn’t have the PAL codes.
Opa didn’t look angry, merely puzzled. “How can I not be real?” He stretched his arms. “I feel real.”