“Aaah,” Tyoma said. “What is it?”
“Urgent call from a Dr. Vladimir Glek.”
“Volodya?” Tyoma said. The anthropologist had never called him at home before. “What does he want?”
“He won’t say. He wishes to speak with you. Says it’s urgent. I told him you didn’t want to be disturbed, but he insisted.”
Tyoma scowled. He hated being interrupted mid-game, and Volodya was the last person he wished to hear from. “It better be urgent. Put him through the proxy.”
There was a beep as the wireless interface in his slot registered a handshake with the incoming connection.
«Tyoma, you there?» Tyoma’s mind supplied Volodya with a bland male voice.
«I’m here. Why are you dis—»
«Come in. Now! Everyone else is already on the way. Your…companion didn’t want to listen to me.»
«What’s going on?»
«I’m not telling you over an unsecured connection. Just trust me that it’s important enough to take you away from your doxy.»
«I’d tell you to mind your manners, but we both know that’ll never happen. I’ll be there in half an hour.» Tyoma severed the connection before Volodya could reply.
“I must go to work, Vera.” He glanced at his clothes to see if they were still decent enough for the office.
Vera turned on her most smoldering blue-eyed gaze and bit her lip. “Do you have time for—”
“No, no,” said Tyoma, waving one hand in the air. “No time for that. You’re dismissed.”
Vera vanished.
Tyoma rubbed his stubbly cheek and considered whether he needed to shave. If it’s so important, who cares how I look?
Volodya’s insinuation that he was a dirty old man rankled. So what if I’m nearing seventy? It’s not like Vera is real.
“Weather?” Tyoma asked the apartment.
“Cool and windy, sixteen degrees,” replied a brisk male voice.
Tyoma grabbed a light solar jacket from the rack near the door and said, “Door.” The door hissed to one side and he stepped out into the hallway. “Lock door,” he said, turning toward the elevator.
Moscow
Sunday, June 8, 2138
10:30 a.m. MSK
A stitch ate at Zoya’s side and she pulled up panting. She had reached Prospekt Vernadskovo and left the decaying student dormitories behind. A handful of people shopped at the kiosks flanking the old metro entrance. A small girl playing a battered violin stood near one kiosk, an open case at her feet.
Zoya looked back but saw no sign of pursuers. Stupid, she thought. Should have hidden there and seen who came out. Then you’d know who murdered Georgy.
She massaged the ache in her side while considering what to do next. Her hand found the package in her pocket, and she pulled it out. It was rectangular, smaller than a playing card. She thought about opening it to see what could be so important, but then a terrifying thought struck her. If they’re looking for me, they’ll start at home. Mama!
She whirled about to look for an air taxi. One was just hissing by fifty meters overhead. She waved at a second one, but it was going too fast. Again she wished for wireless so she could ping the bastards. Two more taxis whipped by before one finally slowed and hovered in the street nearby.
It was a gypsy cab, so there was no meter. No autodriver either. She negotiated the price down to merely criminal and hopped into the back. The screen on the seat showed the agreed price, so she pressed her thumb to the rectangle until there was a beep. The scruffy driver smirked into the rearview mirror and took off.
Zoya reached for the Web connection but saw only a broken wire.
“Where’s the cord?”
“Broken.”
“I need to call home.”
The driver shrugged.
A decade ago she’d have been able to use a handset to call home, but the cash-strapped government had sold the bandwidth off to Goom-Zon, and now prices were unaffordable on her salary from the morgue. She guessed how long it would take to reach her place near the Kolomenskoe refugee park. Ten minutes, perhaps.
“Could you go a little faster?”
“Cops harassing us. Too expensive to pay fines.”
She rocked in the seat, staring out the window as the buildings grew newer and taller. They were approaching the ancient first ring road and the familiar hurricane shape of the central city, with its funnel cloud of vast skyscrapers broken in the center where the Kremlin stood.
Zoya pulled out the package again, untied the string, and folded out the wrapping paper, revealing two black chips. One looked like the standard slot data card, but the other was slightly longer. If inserted it would jut out from her head. The markings on the chips told her little: the long one had a tiny label with ‘AVK 6-6-2138’ printed on it, while the small chip had a similar label marked with ‘K3 — v2.6’.
Georgy had always run drugs, weapons, women, or cash. Zoya had never known his gang to deal in data cards. She considered trying the small chip, but the thought made her nervous, so she slipped the cards back in her pocket.
The cab dropped from the main taxi lane and slowed as the refugee camp in what used to be Kolomenskoe Park came into view. Even at mid-morning the mess of nailed-together boards, shipping containers, canvas, and tiny pre-fab hovels teemed with people.
The taxi plowed to a halt above the cracked concrete parking lot of her apartment building. She stuck her thumb back on the screen to confirm receipt of service, waited for the beep, and shoved her way out of the cab.
She hurried toward the entrance to her apartment block but pulled up short, her heart suddenly thudding in her chest. Two sky cycles and an old green solar car were parked near the entrance. She’d seen the car many times; it belonged to Georgy’s creepy friend Tavik.
She couldn’t stop a whimpered cry from escaping her mouth: “Mama.”
Her first urge was to run upstairs and try to trade the chips for her mother. She remembered all the times Georgy had bragged about Tavik’s ruthlessness. “He leaves no one alive, ever,” he was always fond of saying. Zoya shuddered and tried to calm her spiraling thoughts. She needed to be able to think clearly. Call her!
She took off running toward the entrance, ignoring the stitch as it struck again at her side. She skidded to a halt at the door long enough to punch in the security code. When the door clicked, she flung it open and ran past the broken elevator toward the stairs. Her apartment was on the tenth floor, but she stopped on the fourth and ran down the hallway to Baba Sima’s door. She pushed the buzzer and began rapping hard on the steel door.
“Baba! Open up, it’s Zoya!”
There was a muffled reply and she heard the bolt click back on the door. She pushed it open and flung her arms around the tiny old lady on the other side. Though Zoya called her ‘Baba’, Sima wasn’t truly her grandmother, but she’d been a close friend of Zoya’s mother for more than forty years.
“What—”
“Sorry to burst in like this,” Zoya said. “Mama’s in trouble. I must call her.”
“What trouble? Let me call for help.” Sima tugged at the sleeve of Zoya’s solar coat.
“No, I’ll explain later. Please, just let me call her.”
Zoya didn’t wait for a response. She scurried into the small living room and plopped onto the couch. She pulled the Web cable out of the socket and inserted it into her slot.
It took less than a second to establish a link. She sent a handshake request to her apartment address. The line beeped three times before her mother’s voice answered.