Volodya snorted. «There is much to discuss before—»
«Of course there is,» Kostya said, «but I think it’s safe to assume we lean toward working with Dr. Saenz. If he’s legit, I for one would love to have his help. The most important thing for now is to rescue Tyoma.»
«I agree,» Dima said. «Get Tyoma out and we can all meet later to work this out.»
Volodya scowled. «Fine, help him get out safely and we’ll talk.»
Tyoma could almost hear a smile in Javier’s voice. «We’re going to do great things together.»
Moscow
Sunday, June 8, 2138
7:35 p.m. MSK
Despite the sharp stitch in his side and the ragged panting of his breath, Marcus pushed himself to jog faster. Even the larger of the two mobsters was nearly out of sight now in the crowd ahead. The crowd! He couldn’t get over how many people there were in this strange city. He’d lived for so long with the dwindling population of Phoenix — and in the confines of his apartment — that to be surrounded by so many living people would have been distressing under even normal circumstances. However, these people were nothing like any he had seen before. They were as ragged and colorful as the upper levels of the tower had been orderly and antiseptic.
Every couple of blocks another of the needle-like towers soared so high into the sky that it made Marcus dizzy to attempt to see the top. The towers of central Moscow rose like silvery blooms from a trash heap, their lower floors already dingy and decaying to match the look of the neighborhood. Across the road to the right, the ancient buildings had collapsed and the local denizens had taken to dumping their trash there, until the small block was little more than a series of waste mounds, whose stench permeated the air worse than anything he’d ever smelled.
On the blocks between the towers, smaller buildings contained a mix of small shops and deserted, crumbling shells, while the road was lined with kiosks cobbled together with whatever materials the owner had managed to scrounge. There was a deserted church, the gold paint of its onion domes flaking badly. Few vehicles moved on these streets, while the sky hummed with the activity of countless lanes and levels of air traffic.
Marcus wondered why Meshing had turned Phoenix into a virtual ghost town while here it appeared to have had little effect. He dodged around a small crowd of people eating skewers of meat at a kiosk made from old rubber tires and wooden crates. Poplar fluff whirled about his legs as he stepped off a curb into the street. The big mobster was nowhere in sight. Marcus paused to catch his breath and consider what to do next. He couldn’t keep up the chase and he could easily get lost in this alien landscape.
«Papa, I know you’re upset, but could you get me an air car so I can help Zoya?»
«Certainly. Give me a minute to contact a taxi service.»
Still staring in the direction he had last seen his quarry, Marcus narrowed his eyes. He gave in too easily. Drawing in a long, shuddering breath, he took off running again.
«Stop running, Marcus. It will be easier for the taxi to pick you up.»
«I know you. You’ll have him take me to the apartment.»
For a few moments there were only the sounds of the street and his own labored breathing.
«It’s for your own good,» Javier finally responded. «I can try to help this girl myself, if you like, but you have no business trying to be a knight in white armor here. You have no idea where you are going or what you will do—»
Marcus shut off his wireless and sped up. He had just caught a glimpse of the big gangster far ahead through the crowd.
For once Zoya was glad to have the combat card. The way it made time appear to slow gave her the opportunity to consider her next actions. She hadn’t dared look behind her, but she was sure Tavik couldn’t be far behind. This part of the city was unfamiliar to her, but she was certain there had to be a metro entrance around here somewhere. Again she cursed her lack of wireless and the maps she could have easily accessed with it. She turned south at the next intersection; the morgue would be just across the river perhaps two kilometers from here, and she had always passed the Polyanka station on her morning walks to work. As she crossed the road she risked a glance back and was relieved to see Tavik and his monstrous comrade still a half block behind.
The small hill of trash she was passing would hide her from their sight for a few moments, so she looked at the list of alternatives the combat card provided. The first choice of grabbing a taxi seemed logical enough, but she’d wasted a good amount of her meager savings on one this morning already, money she had been hoarding for years in the hopes of ordering a child from the clinic. Zoya laughed inwardly at the thought. What does it matter now? I have no life left except to kill these bastards.
Still, another part of her wanted to remain on the ground, where she might get lucky and stumble upon a metro station or another bolt hole. She needed time to rest and think, time to plan her suicidal attack on The Pyramid.
Twisting to slip by an old woman pushing a rusty cart, she tweaked her knee and the old injury to her elbow throbbed with sympathy pain. Just what I needed! Running became torture now, and she was seriously considering pulling the gun and making a stand when she spotted the familiar ‘M’ of a metro station ahead near a U-shaped building with rubble and tangled bushes nearly choking the dark entranceway. She looked closer at the side of the building and saw that it was the Kropotkinskaya station. Now she knew where she was — her mother had taken her several times as a child to visit the ruins of the nearby cathedral.
Zoya ignored the pain in her leg and ran hard for the station. She stumbled and nearly fell as she crossed the street. Tents and makeshift huts crowded the strip of park at the center of the boulevard. The smell was even worse than the trash dump she had passed earlier. One of the metro entrances was boarded over with planks of ancient-looking wood, so she sprinted for the other side. There was a shout as she burst by two figures guarding the doorway. She tuned them out, swept down the short turns of stairs, and bowled over a man at the bottom of the steps. Strong hands gripped her arms and pulled her to her feet.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the man growled, washing her face with the smell of vodka. In the dim yellow glow that the combat card gave to the man, Zoya saw that his head was shaved and entirely covered in hundreds of tiny curling tattoos. “You don’t belong here!”
“I’m sorry,” she panted. “I need help.”
The man crouched to retrieve a shotgun he had dropped when she had crashed into him.
“Get out of here. There’s no help for you,” he said.
More shouting came from the entrance above, and Zoya pointed up the stairs.
“Those men want to kill me. Please!”
The tattooed man raised his gun, though he wasn’t yet pointing it at Zoya. “What is it to us? You’re not of our tribe.”
A shot rang out above followed by a cry of pain and some scuffling. The tattooed man cursed and aimed his shotgun up the stairs. “What have you brought down on us?” he snarled.
Zoya lunged past the turnstiles and plunged down the escalator leading to the platform. Her knee was throbbing by the time she descended all the steps. Unlike the station near her home, this one was well lit by dozens of torches and lamps. The platform was covered with bedrolls and small tents, and she could see many Trogs lying, sitting, or shuffling about, all of them limned in yellow light.
“What do you want, child?” said an elderly woman, leaning against the nearest pillar with a shawl draped over her shoulders. Several more Trogs stood up and crowded close to Zoya, several of them wielding knives or metal pipes, though their faces were fearful. Another shot echoed from above.