Chapter 2: Contrasts Between The Shadows And The Darkness
A few hours had passed slowly for most of them. A big dinner was set on the dining table, fine for Baloo, who was starved nearly to death. But Rebecca felt a hint of disappointment over the variety and selection of food set down:
Of all the vast fortune at Mr. Sinclair's disposal, his tastes in food were so....common. There was a giant platter filed with french fries. Several other platters were filled with cheeseburgers, onion rings, and a gray pile that could only be tuna salad. A cooler filed with glass bottles of cola stood around a tub of ice. Wildcat's and Baloo's reaction was something of total ecstasy but there was something in Rebecca's face that resembled disappointment. Kit's face and expression was blank, but Molly could sense that Kit was thinking intently. Everyone wanted to start eating but she quieted their protests, intending to wait for the now-revealed Demitri Sinclair to finish cleaning up and joined them. They waited impatiently, Baloo's fingers kept wandering towards the nearest platter, stalled only by his boss's cutting remarks...and a few attempted stabs on the hand with her fork! Molly was fidgeting slightly but didn't whine too much.
A few minutes later, Demitri returned to join them. Clean and washed, he wore a pair of faded blue jeans and a gray short-sleeved button shirt. His slightly long hair was combed but still had a slightly windblown look. Zatherias walked just behind him, looking even cleaner in neatly starched coveralls. They both took chairs and sat down and everyone started to pile their plates with food. Baloo took a more then generous amount of burgers and fries of their piles. Kit and Molly soon joined in. Molly poked Kit in the ribs, and whispered to his direction, asking him to smile. Kit did.
Wildcat and Zatherias literally dove their hands into the greasy fries, never minding that they were using their sleeves as makeshift napkins. Rebecca tried to repress a moan as she saw Wildcat using his tuxedo sleeves to wipe the grease from his hands.
The ate in silence for a few minutes; the silence was often broken by Baloo's loud commentary about the quality of the food. Then Demitri spoke:
"I guess you all are wondering about why I asked you all here?" He ate his food casually, almost without refinement. Like he was just some blue-collar worker eating in some roadside diner instead of one of the wealthiest men eating on his own island!
"The thought had crossed our minds a number of times," Rebecca replied politely. Kit didn't have to listen intently to hear that the answer was directed towards him. He voiced his concerns about this arrangement weeks before they left. Everything from the signing of the non-disclosure agreements, which even Molly had to sign! To the security background checks. To even the generous amount of money just to come here. The amount was roughly what they'd make in a month of deliveries. Just to come here. Kit's only question was "Why?" or more directly, "Why them?".
"I've done some research on most of your backgrounds," Demitri replied. "You both have an extensive history of getting out of tight situations, escaping once- noted 'inescapable' prisons and complexes, and some of you have skills that I wouldn't find available anywhere else." His hand leaned towards each person as her replied. "Mr. Baloo is something of a legend in Louies, if not his mind. His tactics are considered dangerous and suicidal by various pilot instructors, despite the high success they entails.
"Wildcat's modifications are well noted. I remember his article about using parts of a kitchen stove to repair an engine in Aviation Weekly. It's a good thing proofreading is considered a science now.
"Rebecca Cunningham has built a successful business in a male-dominated business society, a task not easily done. And a seemingly successful mother at that." He smiled at her a bit, making her swell with pride.
"Mr. Cloudkicker has skills that aren't well known to most, but are to be well respected. His volunteer work in the Cape Susette National Cartography is highly praised."
"What about me?" Molly asked.
Demitri almost laughed. "Who can ever forget the child who caused a whole daycare center to be under quarantine over measles." Molly laughed at that. Rebecca smiled in spite of herself. That moment has made it's way into Day care history, and most likely never to be topped!
"I know that others have skill that well exceed yours. But as for now, I cannot rely on them, not for what I am asking. Yes, I do have what are known as 'Mad Hatters' but even they are becoming....unreliable." Demitri took another bit from his burger.
Kit mused silently through all this. "Mad Hatters" were the black ops of any corporation; former soldiers and trained mercenaries that deal in corporate security, industrial espionage, and sometimes illegal activities. The downfall of the Darven Petro Group for their dealings in blackmail and murder of rival execs were a well known example of such a group.
"I'm sure that you've all heard about my recent.....loss." Demitri continued, his voice straining a bit. He looked deeper into his burger. "The search parties have found inconclusive evidence around where they think Anya was last reported at. But others things have just came up."
"I'm sure we can all accommodate you the best we can, Mr. Sinclair." Rebecca replied diplomatically.
Demitri looked up. "I'm sure. But you might want to see the evidence before you make that decision." He turned his head to Zatherias and nodded to him. Zatherias, knowingly, reached from under his side of the table a flipped a concealed switch.
The lights dimmed slowly, like in the cinaplexes Kit and Molly went to during his baby-sitting jobs. A small slab of white lowered to their line of sight. Baloo smiled as bit as he realized that it was a projection screen. A map showed itself on the white slab. Baloo recognized it almost instantly.
The Typhon Sector.
It was inside a fire-fire zone, a result of a recent civil war going on in the last three months. Almost every attempt to bring relief supplies and humanitarian aid was twarted..often with deadly outcomes. He could see the four major islands, spread out in a irregular triangle, no closer then 170 miles apart, but no more then 78 miles together. The interior was an entire archipelago of 217 islands, most still unexplored. Cape Susette once had over several dozen colonies and settlements in those islands, mostly geological survey and science research. But some had mining complexes, drilling inside the islands for petroleum and vital ores.
Some had colonies that were for people who wanted to avoid the "City Life". Some were missionaries, some were colonists who hoped for a better life and future for their families, and some were scientists who wanted to find herbs and plants to combat diseases. Ever since the Settlements tried to declare independence from Cape Susette, the political stormfires have literally torn apart the people, who shared different views on this issue. And with the new acts of terrorism involving the Settlements, the no-fly zone was in force.
"Do you know what this is?" Demitri asked.
Rebecca paused for a moment, trying to find a polite way to reply that they weren't going to fly into a declared war zone. The Sea Duck wasn't much in her opinion; it was meant to haul cargo, not meant as a fighter. But then, she shared the same viewpoints about Baloo.
The risk was far more dangerous then the advantages. The blockades that were kept made it even harder. Usland Military has kept a sizable portion of it's fleet into position around the islands. And the orders to "shoot on sight" any plane that tries to bypass the blockade..well, she wasn't going to risk it.
"Mr. Sinclair....I know we seem to be adequate for whatever you might be asking but-"
"But it's too dangerous." Demitri finished for her. She nodded.
Demitri looked at her, studying her. She had fire, he didn't doubt that. Few people could stare at him that close and not visibly flinch. But he knew that if he laid everything on the table, it would be counterproductive for what he was asking for. So he gave out a sketch:
"Six months ago, my beloved wife Anya, traveled at great personal risk to a major shipyard facility. We were under the suspicion that a conspiracy involving some of my major board members might be producing something not authorized by myself and the board of directors. We also concluded that several of our major bank accounts have been re-routed to other areas. We don't know where or to what. All that we do know is that some of the funding have been tied into another business venture entitled 'The Jauntas Corporation.' And it's gotten us worried."
"Why not consult your internal security experts on it?" Kit asked.
"Good question, and a valid one, Mr. Cloudkicker: My security has been compromised, severely. The flight plan that was issued to Anya was given to the highest ranking people inside internal security. It was never issued to anyone else."
"What's this Jauntas Corporation?" Rebecca asked, her interests piqued.
"It's a firm that's been dealing with biological sciences. Fungi, bacteria, et al. And it also deals with some military contracts, a lot of them classified. But what is interesting is this.."
The screen switched from the map to a list of directories. Rebecca recognized it as a page copied from the International Business Directory. The copied page was blurry but she could tell that it was listing the major and minor corporations starting with the letter J. Jauntas was not listed.
"Jauntas was supposedly formed just over a year-and-a-half ago." Demitri continued. "But this directory was printed just last month."
"Mis-print?" Baloo offered.
"No," Rebecca answered before Demitri could. "The Directory is notorious for getting their facts straight. Almost sadistic, is more accurate. They fired an entire editorial staff over improper grammar three months ago. "
"Just over a month ago, a week before I first contacted you, I received a message from one of the Settlements inside the Typhon Sector. It was using a Extreme High Frequency radio that literally bypassed the local jammers just by sheer power alone. It was attuned to a precise radio frequency that was pre-determined just before Anya left. Only her and myself know this frequency. I think you should hear this."
Zatherias nodded and politely escorted Molly away. Wildcat joined them and carried away his and Molly's dinner plates away. Kit and Rebecca didn't mind too much. Wildcat wasn't much in terms of understanding, but he could and might protect Molly with his life if necessary. When they were gone, Demitri played the message.
A static sound filled the darkened room and instantly, the entire group could hear a female voice in the overheard speakers. One that was familiar to every pilot within the next 700 miles and beyond.
Anya Sinclair.
"They're coming through." More static and something that sounded like gunfire in the background "Demitri, can you hear me?" Her voice was not mistaken. A siren voice now filled with determination and true grit. Her voice was broken by sounds of radio static and gunfire, a few voices shouted in the background. Kit could hear bangs that only could've come from explosions.
"Boast the gain, we need more power." The signal cleared but only so much. "Demitri, if you can hear me, listen up: Something is very wrong here. The blockades are starting to invade most of the islands. We don't know why. The Settlements are in the process of being bombarded. Civilian colonies, convoys, all have been under attack. Most of the main fleet are taking positions around Isle Nublar, the shipyards. They got to the shipyards. We don't know why exactly. We are-"
A loud whoop sparked more static from the message. Machine gun fire was getting louder in the background over the shouts and screams of unknown people.
"Shut up!" She roared to someone. "I'm on the phone here!" She turned her attention to the message. "The shipyards have increased productivity by over 300%, building something. I'm not sure but I think it's a carrier fleet of sorts. They're using the prototype engine as a template. Someone-"
The static got louder, the gunfire increasing.
"Their trying to hit the array," Anya shouted to someone. "We have to move out, Demitri. Security on your end has been compromised; badly. Get down here as soon as you can; and trust no one among your staff. No one. Anya Sinclair out."
The message ended almost abruptly. For a moment, the buzzing static filled the dark room, the only light was from the projector. For a while, Kit could see a silent rage developing in Demitri's face, his eyes ablaze. Then just sadness. Kit remembered that look all to well; his face once had that look. That murderous rage that would want to hurt those that did harm to him. The look that would say, "I'm taking them all to hell, at whatever the cost, at whatever the risk."
For a moment, Kit shuddered.
Rebecca digested the story as much as she could. The blockade actually attacking the Settlements, a shipyards facility of some sorts. And the news that Anya Sinclair was still alive but probably aiding the Settlements. It was too much at such a short period. The Settlements were good people, she'd met several. Proudly independent, fiercely loyal, and never afraid of hard work. A majority of them served more then their fair share in the Phoebus Wars, fighting until they could not physically fight no more!
And now the possibilities were revolving around her mind like a roulette wheel: the possibility that war with such fine allies were just one of them.
"What prototype engine?" Kit asked.
Demitri switched slides, showing a blueprint of a intricate engine design. A top half showed what looked like a engineering structure, Kit recognized it from his science classes. This one looked very familiar. That part he knew, the other parts he failed.
"Two years ago," Demitri explained. "We were working on an alternate way to fly around. We've also been trying to find a better way to land aircraft, thinking of hostile situations where long-or even short-runways are not available.
"Our goal was to use current and experimental technology and equipment to create a cheap and easy-to-use way for an engine to accomplish all theses objectives. Meaning that the craft will be highly maneuverable, fast, and be able to land in areas no other aircraft was able to land."
"And what is it?" Kit pressed.
Demitri smiled his cold smile. His reached over the projector and turned it off. Rebecca let out a startled screech. Kit pressed his hands against his ears to block her piercing tone. Baloo took a moment to slip a few more cheeseburgers into his pockets The room was bathed in total darkness until he flipped back on the overhead lights.
"I'll tell you tomorrow; it's getting late." He finished. "I took the liberty of providing sleeping quarters for you all. Get some rest and we shall talk tomorrow." And with that, he left the room.
A group of stewards entered and silently escorting them away.
"He's hiding something," Kit concluded.
He sat on the blankets of his bed, a king-sized one at that. The blankets were mostly cotton but very thick with wool filling. The room was well furnished: a oak desk stood at one wall in front of a set of tinted windows. Doors to a lavish bathroom were also oak but with gold trimmings. A bookcase separated Baloo's and Kit's beds. The selection was decent, but mostly old literature. Kit took a thick volume of poems and flipped through it impatiently, hoping to ease his mind from what ever that was bothering him.
Baloo was looking like he was enjoying all this, not looking worried one bit. The small refrigerator that was inside the endtables eased his thought better then Kit's poems. The endtables were lined by their beds. Baloo almost went directly to the food.
He stared at one section of the wall, which was nothing more then a huge mirror. It took up almost the entire wall! A perfect reflection of the room showed in it's perfect surface. And when Baloo looked up, he could see that the entire ceiling was mirrored as well. He thought briefly about Becky's room having the same mirrors in their rooms. And almost smiled at what her reaction might be.
"You're thinking too much into this, l'ttle britches." Baloo was chomping on a salami sandwich, mustard and Mayo lined his lips. "Here we are, about to rescue the most popular and beloved persona in piloting history, going deep into hostile territory.." And suddenly, his tone dropped in realization to what he just said. "And into a potential war zone, where we could be shot down, taken prisoner, or..." He gulped down at that last potential outcome. Suddenly, the sandwich in his hand lacked flavor as well as appeal.
"What about Anya?" Kit asked, mostly to himself.
Baloo's face softened, his brief shock turned into one of small sadness. A look Kit rarely saw. He put his large arm around him. "She'll be all right," Baloo confided. "She's tough, I know that."
"But I still think he's hiding something from us," Kit pressed further his point. "Something he wants hidden from us for now."
"You don't trust him?" Baloo asked. It wasn't quite a question.
"I don't know." Kit finally replied. It was almost a lie. Kit had nothing against Demitri Sinclair personally. His designs have saved countless pilot lives in the last several years alone. And yet, their was something unsettling about him as well. Something that made him seem dull, distant. But for a few moments he though he saw something else...something he couldn't exactly place somewhere but just as unsettling. All this time, knowing that Anya, his wife, was still alive. And now deciding to act out. Why now?
Better yet, why them?
And he looked at Baloo and noticed that he was thinking the same questions too.
Someone knocked on their door, Kit jumped slightly. Baloo's sandwich fell to the carpet. Kit's nerves were a bit jingled lately, but only so much. Rebecca and Molly walked in, dressed in their sleepware. Rebecca wore a cotton nightgown with a lace trim. Her hair was nicely brushed, like it was glad to be away from all that styling and curling irons. Molly instantly ran towards Kit and nearly tackled him with her weight. Kit laughed loudly.
Baloo walked towards Rebecca, seeing her face slightly creased in concern.
"Don't tell me your worried about this too?" Baloo replied.
"Kit must've the same concerns," Rebecca admitted. "It's too much to take at once, Baloo. Anya Sinclair, alive after all this time. This Settlement problem. And her aiding them...I can't bear to think of it on my own."
"The Settlers are good people," Baloo wanted to take her hand to comfort her but didn't. That goes to show her that he didn't do things completely on impulse. "I flew with a bunch of them; good people, hard working. And they never try to siphon your fuel tanks when you turn your head....unless you do it to them first."
Rebecca laughed at this small joke. Baloo liked her laugh; it was much preferable then her yelling.
"How's your room look?" Baloo asked. He noticed her looking with disdain at the mirrors on the walls and ceiling.
Rebecca looked around some more and then replied. "I was hoping to trade rooms until I noticed your had the same problems that mine had." She gave a weary smile; Kit noticed this and gave a smile knowing smirk. Rebecca winked at him briefly.
Baloo looked around at the mirrors. "Yep, this guy must have a thing for mirrors. He must be one very sick puppy."
Rebecca continued to laugh, then checked her wristwatch. Realizing that time, she wished them all good-night.
"Molly," She called out. "Let's get some sleep, honey." Molly rushed to her, ever filled with energy. Kit waved good-bye to them both as they left.
Baloo went after her to the doorway.
"Yo, Beckers," He whispered to her. "Don't tell me your afraid of your own reflection." He grinned wolfishly.
"No," Rebecca's brow was creased in confusion. Like there was something that was wrong but she couldn't tell what. "I just keep feeling that someone is actually watching me when I'm inside that room. Like he could see me no matter what I do, " And she left with Molly, leaving Baloo to wonder about what she meant by that. Kit didn't say anything, and Baloo didn't have to ask what was on his mind on her thoughts. She left their room, with Molly in her arms. Baloo didn't notice with she did as she left but Kit did; noticed how deftly she lifted the pile of newspapers with her free hand as she left the room. It was a move that was almost practiced, experienced. Kit stood there for a moment, admiring such a move. In all those years of him scraping and lifting from stores to survive, he never encountered someone who lifted something so large and so fast!
After Baloo tried to salvage what was left from his sandwich, they both decided to get some sleep. And when the light's went out, they did, ever so confident that they were alone.
If they only knew...
Demitri Sinclair stood alone in his Sanctum. His private domain that not even Anya was aware of. A large room filled with his secret files and secret motives. And long, seemingly endless hallways that had nothing but glass windows.
Windows that showed other rooms. Like Baloo and Kit's, for example.
Demitri designed this complex to his exacting details and conditions. One of which was to have all of the visitor's quarters to be equipped with a one-way mirror. Demitri could just sit down in front of the window and see them doing their business, never knowing, never suspecting that he was watching them. It was an invasion of privacy, it was indecent. But Demitri did this not for thrills, but strictly on business. Or so he told himself every time he thought of it.
The Sanctum was dark, lit only by a few desklamps and the lights that shone the titles in his bookcases. His books were well received for their class and sophistication, but in here, the books were all technical manuals. Mostly on military weapons, tactics, codes, cryptography, and ciphers. Several were on slight-of-hand, the occult, and strange conspiracies. Some were on anagrams, secret societies, and even darker natures. It was a dark place, and seemingly evil place, but Demitri felt it was necessary to have it to preserve his sanity, especially during these times.
And if he ever got bored looking through the mirrors on the walls, he could climb up and literally walk above them on the ceiling mirrors, which were the same as the wall mounted ones. The ceiling mirrors have several layers of clear-glass and sound muffling properties, so he could walk freely without them noticing.
And that was what he was doing: walking around the various rooms, seeing what he could see. It was like walking on air, with nothing under his feet, noting to tell him that he was on solid ground. It used to give him bad dreams but they soon subsided.
He saw a rich couple, supposedly well-to-do in the social circles, screaming at each other in drunken rages. Demitri sometimes regretted that the rooms were soundproof. He wanted to hear about what they were ranting and raving about this time! Potential investors, be cursed!
He walked over to Baloo's and Kit's quarters. The lights were off but he could still see them. The moonlight from the windows provided adequate lighting for him to see them. He was watching them the most since they entered the rooms. He watched Kit "voice" his concerns to Baloo. He couldn't hear him, of course. But his skills for reading lips were matched only by Johner, his chief of security.
He walked over to Rebecca's room. It was too dark for him to see inside; it bothered him briefly. Usually, even moonlight was significant to fill the room. He looked down and realized that he was standing on a newspaper.
Not standing directly on a pile, but someone taped sheets of newspaper over the mirrored ceilings and the mirror wall. Ever inch and square centi-meter of mirrored surface was covered in print!
No way, He thought in astonishment. He saw a small pinprick of light glowing though one small hole in the layered newspapers. He knelt to peek in.
It wasn't just the mirrors: The paintings on the walls, the mirrored surfaces of the endtables, even the felt covers of the radio speakers were covered! If he had the ability to look inside the bathroom, he'd find that Rebecca and Molly taped the mirrors and the frosted glass too!
"I'm always the person on the outside looking in," he confessed to Anya one night.
"It doesn't have to be that way," she comforted him. She held him in her arms, he had another panic attack; his every muscle twitching and spasming. He was quietly sobbing. She whispered her comforts to him, rocking him gently, never letting go. In the dark, he was all alone, vulnerable, a target. He bit down on his lips to keep back his screams; a trail of blood poured down his chin. He wouldn't scream; he'd hold it back, for her. For Anya.
"You had that dream again."
Demitri brushed away the memory as fast as he could, failing badly. His emotional breakdown during the Wars almost crippled him. It was not something he wanted to think about in the future.
"What was the dream about," Anya asked.
He walked away from the mirrors, feeling strangely defeated in some obscure way. He re-entered the office area of his Sanctum, seeing the new batch of intelligence files on his desk. It was neatly stacked among the other equipment on the desktop: A small intercom rig with a headphone set, a typewriter, several magnifying glasses on a faded leather desk blotter, several dog-eared books with trails of book ribbons leaking out, and at least five cups of tea. Also on the table were a few picture frames; one was his wedding picture taken with Anya, dressed in her perfect Victorian gown and him in a frock coat. Another was one of his niece, Clara. He sat down in his chair and opened the first folder he could get to.
The news was not good. Using his old contacts inside the military and the intricate network of informants, spies, and contacts, he created a network of intelligence gathering that almost rivaled CSIA-Cape Susette Intelligence Agency. He had contacts inside Thembria's High Marshall's staff, a few executives from Kahn Industries, a legion of informants from law enforcement agencies and divisions, some from other countries. And they've all sent what they could to him, never knowing that the person they spy for is none other then Demitri Sinclair.
Using some funds hidden from even his accountants, Sinclair financed various means of gathering information, some for his own personal use, some to sell through third parties. The more harmful, he kept, the ones that linked his rivals to various ner- do-wells that they'd pay good money to keep from the presses. Most of these people he used just for various jobs, gathering files and the "scoop" on their bosses and fellow execs. He rarely used them for harm, just as a means to an end. The rest he either discarded or used to influence various others to work as his eyes and ears, like he did with the others. But less sparingly. In addition, he kept up with the most up-to-date techniques of maintaining such a vast network: the purchasing of information; the subsidizing of informants; the use of cipher codes; and the designing and installing of a Byzantine communications system that allowed him to remain in close control with his legion of agents
The Settlement's blockade maintained that they were holding positions so on one could enter nor leave the area. Yet, Anya's words about them attacking made him search deeper into the data. A well positioned military aide helped him plenty to confirm this.
"It's getting worse," a voice said from behind him.
"Yes, it is," Demitri confirmed. "What've you found out, Johner?"
Johner, his chief of security, stepped from the shadows. His face a mix of scars and burns, a result from years of war and fighting. Yet, his eyes showed a great amount of insight and knowledge. A warrior poet, in his words, and a term that Demitri couldn't dispute. A person who could sever a man's spine with a nail file, yet could recite old sonnets like an actor. A large as a bear, with the looks, one might add; but very effective at his work.
"The same: nothing's changed." Johner admitted. "We are attacking them. And for no apparent reason. All convoys who try to ship medical aid have either been re-routed or detained."
Demitri listened as he continued scanning his files. Once he was finished and committed most of the impertinent facts to memory, he'd destroy all the files via a hidden chute that lead to one of the furnaces down below.
"We have to get the prototype out for deployment." Demitri concluded after a moments thought.
Johner shook his head; they've had this discussion numerous times. "The risk is too great. We still haven't gotten it to work perfectly. And in conditions like what we're expected to face-"
"I know," Demitri argued. "But it's fast, has yet-unknown capabilities to them, and can outrun their interceptors." He turned to face him, showing his sorrowful face. "We have to get her."
"What if it's a trap." Johner argued. He could yell and scream his head off in here. The walls were soundproof. And no one could ever hear them, even if they put their ears against the very walls that separated them from the Sanctum. "they already knew of her flight plan, knew where to get at her, so what's to stop them from using her to get to you?"
"We don't even know who 'they' are," Demitri fairly roared at him.
"Maybe," Johner shot back. "But we know they want the prototype. They already got the engine, from what she said. So maybe they want the whole package deal. I'm more concerned about how you'll take it."
Demitri's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?" He hissed.
Johner leaned forward to face him, point-blank. He didn't flinch, nor look away.
"We both know how far you went, "Johner replied, his voice a deathly- monotone. "We both know how deep you fell into. I'm still surprised that you're still sane over that. But the fact of the matter still remains: How far will you go? And who are you willing to take with you into hell if it is necessary?"
Demitri looked away, not responding. Not willing to respond. He clamped his mouth shut, afraid that he would say something he didn't mean.
The Kipple....
He crawled through the mess, his flight suit long torn to tatters. His fingertips raw and bleeding from the climbing and the falling. All around, the unburied dead laying on the decayed ground.
"Only another twenty miles to go," He kept telling himself. "That's as far as I have to go. Another twenty miles."
That's as far as I have to go.
"You can't take the child," Johner said. It wasn't a question, nor a statement. It was a command.
"I'm not taking the child," Demitri replied slowly. "We have excellent day-care facilities. She can stay with some children her own age while this pulls through."
The island has excellent security with a garrison of guards to protect it from enemy attacks. But a lot of those guards have families and often put their interests over Demitri's opportunities. So Demitri ordered several sections of land put aside for family usage: Schools, day-care facilities, and even more-then-adequate commissary. The wives were satisfied with the vast selection the libraries had to offer, from housekeeping to correspondence courses. And the children were happy over the vast playgrounds and the schools. In fact, several wives and their children that grew up on this island became valued employees in his company. Most working "Orientation", which helped new families adjust better in their new homes.
Demitri looked at Johner. "Did you think I'd be that crazy?" There was a dangerous glint in his eyes. To bring a child into.....
Johner never turned away. "You tell me,"
Demitri's hand lashed out, not at Johner, but at the contents of his desk. Papers and bound files flew in the air and fell to the dark carpeting. A desk lamp struck the wall and went out, the bulb shattered against the impact.
"Do you think of me as a monster?!" He roared in the semi-darkness. "She's my wife, for God's sake."
"And you'd do anything to get her back," Johner roared back. His face just inches from his employer's. "Doesn't matter who burns with you; old men, young women, innocent children. We both damn well know that." Without warning, Johner's hands reached out and grabbed Demitri's arms. Johner's huge hands held his arms like vise grips. He pulled him over the desk. Spittle flew from his lips and hit Demitri's forehead. "You got to stay in some control over this." His voice lowered. "You've been my friend a lot longer then you been my employer. Don't fall into the abyss again." And he let go of Demitri, who proceeded to wipe the spittle from his brow.
"We have to get her back," Demitri continued, his rage subsiding. "If I don't try...." He didn't continue, he couldn't.
"You going to ask him?" Johner asked, changing the subject.
"I'm not sure," Demitri answered slowly. "He may not agree to this."
Johner bent down to pick up the papers and files. He tossed the broken desklamp almost absently. "We better decide fast; we're running out of time."
"I know," Demitri's eyes started to dull, his voice slowing, introspective, deathly quiet. "And we've lost so much time already."
Two Hours Later...
Demitri Sinclair sat alone in his Sanctum, his chair creaking every time his body shifted it's weight. He was tired and weary, and looked the part in every detail. A coffee mug dangled over his armrest by his finger. It reeked of scotch but so did Demitri a moment ago.
He hated to drink; but he hated to be outside. In the community, where everyone could see him and pick him apart like a lab specimen. Where everyone screams his successes in the open ground but whispers his problems behind closed doors. Every party, every dance, every event or gala he had to attend, he could hear them whispering about him. Admist in their waltzes and in between sips of wine and puffs of cigars, they could be heard whispering about his flaws and frailties:
"Look at him, all the riches at his command and yet he can't get his thoughts in a row."
"See him. Mr. Sinclair. A man as rich as Midas yet as insane as The Mad Monk."
"All that grace and beauty Lady Anya possess, and they are wasted upon with such a flawed person as Sinclair."
"He survives the Kipple, yet we are the ones to truly suffer with such a brute in our presence."
"He's a cold-blooded murderer. He killed in the Wars, and I think he enjoyed every moment of it."
"Look at him, with his shaking hands and his darting eyes. He figures us as the Regime. Watch him closely when he cuts his steak; might drive it into you if you move too fast."
He awoke from all this, drifting upwards into counsciencness like a diver seeking the water's surface. Once, all this talk bothered him to no end. He listened as they spoke of him; thinking that he was too naive to hear, or too blasé to care of such rubbish.
"They don't know you," Anya comforted him after that first party. It was the first they attended, celebrating the first year of Constance Air's success and it's future as a leading contender confirmed as "rock-solid".
"They wouldn't last ten seconds in the Kipple," She spat in anger. She was usually so even-tempered, so calm and collective. But their words wounded her more then her husband. "You lasted over a week; that's seven days more then they would last."
"You haven't seen it," Demitri replied quietly. His voice was slurred from the scotch and burbon. "I didn't want to but I did. I didn't think I'd make it out. The things I've seen..." And he gulped down another shot before he could finish. Before he allowed himself to finish.
"Why won't you tell me about it?" She asked, begging, pleading to be let in. To enter a part of himself he wouldn't allow her in. Where he wouldn't allow himself into.
"Why?" She asked again.
"Why?" He whispered to himself. He rubbed his eyes awake as he checked his watch. The Sanctum was still dark, still gothic. It lacked a clock but Demitri never went far without a watch or a timepiece with him.
2:32 AM.
Perfect timing, he thought briefly as he walked one bookcase and lifted a cover up from it's mount. The bookcase slid aside to reveal another passageway. One that was more brightly lit and less shadowy. Demitri blinked his eyes at such blinding light, but his eyes rapidly adjusted. The passage way led to a hidden outlet to the Underground Tunnel Network, which led to his CIC center. Command, Intelligence, Control. The brainworks of his industrial empire.
The Tunnel Network was used mostly for maintainance and repairs, but it was also used as a evacuation option. One passageway led to several converted submarines that could carry the entire population of his island plus another hundred if necessary. He left nothing to chance, nothing to risk if he could help it.
But one passageway led to his CIC. Every multi-national corporation owned one: a collective that made sure that everything was working to plan. That all crises were resolved quickly and quietly. Khan owned one, hidden inside the sub- basements of Khan Towers inside Cape Susette. And he could bet good money that Khan knew of his CIC as well. Information was as valuable a commodity as currencies and they both were filthy rich with both.
The CIC was in "Gray Mode", meaning that it was on nightwatch. Few people stood watch at their respected posts. The CIC was full of cubicles, consoles, and maps. A giant map, bigger then even the one in his office, took up the entire wall. Updated constantly on the hour, a long sliding ladder stood idly by.
He whispered to the officer on the watch that he needed to use the transmitter. The officer nodded and silently escorted everyone from the center. Leaving Demitri all alone. He walked by, seeing everything at once. And saw the typewriter-like device siting on a podium in the center of the room, under a hinged plastic cover. It was locked by two sets of keys, one was always on hand nearby, the other was reserved for Demitri and a few of his trusted personnel like Johner. He unlocked it and turned to device on.
He disliked the Communicator. It was new and rarely trusted, even for such prototype technology. Using radio signals that used a complex coding sequence, they could in theory, type a coded message into another console, which would decipher it and display it in almost real-time. The intercepted transmissions would be useless because even if they had a Communicator of their own, it was adaptable to run over 75,000 different variations of codes! It was a huge leap from the old decoders of old, but only so much.
He typed in his message, knowing that the person he's contacting would be awake even at this hour.
CODEC: LOG IN; QUERY
CODEC SEQUENCE 11374
IDENT: SINCLAIR, DEMITRI.
CONFIRM?
Codec was another term for "Which codes you want to use today?". Ident was to describe the user in case the records need conformation or future reference. Confirm was a simple command of yes/no variation, to respond, "Yes, I am Demitri and Codec 11374 is acceptable."
He typed yes. And waited.
He didn't have to wait long.
MESS: Khan1
HELLO, OLD FRIEND. WHAT DO YOU ASK OF ME?
The conversation went like this, all in complete detail from the records.
SINCLAIR: I NEED TO GET PAST KHAN'S BLOCKADE, COVERTLY PREFERABLE.
KHAN1: HARD TO ACCOMPLISH. SEARCH AND DESTROY WAS NOT MEANT AS A BLUFF.
SINCLAIR: CONFORM; BUT MUST REPEAT IMPARATIVE; SLIP THROUGH UNDETECTED. UNNOTICED. ANYA HAS BEEN FOUND.
KAHN1: HOW?
SINCLAIR: NO TIME TO EXPLAIN. POSSIBLE TO REROUTE CERTAIN PATROLS FROM VARIOUS AREAS?
KHAN1: POSSIBLE BUT NOT EASY. BUT WILL TRY.
SINCLAIR; WHAT SHER UP TO?
KHAN1: NOT SAYING, VERY CONCERNED ABOUT BLOCKADE. EVEN SIDETRACKED BY CERTAIN MILITARY PERSONELL. HIGH RANKS.
SINCLAIR: HOW?
KHAN1: UNKNOWN, EVEN CABINET KEPT FROM LOOP
SINCLAIR: HOW LONG TO INPLIMENT PLANS?
KHAN1: TWO DAYS, YOU SHOULD GET THERE IN TIME. GOOD LUCK.
SINCLAIR: NEED IT; THANKS.
With that now out of the way, Sinclair called his staff and told them of his plans. He gave his orders and told them to get it ready by morning. By then, Baloo and Mrs. Cunningham would receive their orders and he would leave for the Typhon Sector and Anya.
A few hours had passed slowly for most of them. A big dinner was set on the dining table, fine for Baloo, who was starved nearly to death. But Rebecca felt a hint of disappointment over the variety and selection of food set down:
Of all the vast fortune at Mr. Sinclair's disposal, his tastes in food were so....common. There was a giant platter filed with french fries. Several other platters were filled with cheeseburgers, onion rings, and a gray pile that could only be tuna salad. A cooler filed with glass bottles of cola stood around a tub of ice. Wildcat's and Baloo's reaction was something of total ecstasy but there was something in Rebecca's face that resembled disappointment. Kit's face and expression was blank, but Molly could sense that Kit was thinking intently. Everyone wanted to start eating but she quieted their protests, intending to wait for the now-revealed Demitri Sinclair to finish cleaning up and joined them. They waited impatiently, Baloo's fingers kept wandering towards the nearest platter, stalled only by his boss's cutting remarks...and a few attempted stabs on the hand with her fork! Molly was fidgeting slightly but didn't whine too much.
A few minutes later, Demitri returned to join them. Clean and washed, he wore a pair of faded blue jeans and a gray short-sleeved button shirt. His slightly long hair was combed but still had a slightly windblown look. Zatherias walked just behind him, looking even cleaner in neatly starched coveralls. They both took chairs and sat down and everyone started to pile their plates with food. Baloo took a more then generous amount of burgers and fries of their piles. Kit and Molly soon joined in. Molly poked Kit in the ribs, and whispered to his direction, asking him to smile. Kit did.
Wildcat and Zatherias literally dove their hands into the greasy fries, never minding that they were using their sleeves as makeshift napkins. Rebecca tried to repress a moan as she saw Wildcat using his tuxedo sleeves to wipe the grease from his hands.
The ate in silence for a few minutes; the silence was often broken by Baloo's loud commentary about the quality of the food. Then Demitri spoke:
"I guess you all are wondering about why I asked you all here?" He ate his food casually, almost without refinement. Like he was just some blue-collar worker eating in some roadside diner instead of one of the wealthiest men eating on his own island!
"The thought had crossed our minds a number of times," Rebecca replied politely. Kit didn't have to listen intently to hear that the answer was directed towards him. He voiced his concerns about this arrangement weeks before they left. Everything from the signing of the non-disclosure agreements, which even Molly had to sign! To the security background checks. To even the generous amount of money just to come here. The amount was roughly what they'd make in a month of deliveries. Just to come here. Kit's only question was "Why?" or more directly, "Why them?".
"I've done some research on most of your backgrounds," Demitri replied. "You both have an extensive history of getting out of tight situations, escaping once- noted 'inescapable' prisons and complexes, and some of you have skills that I wouldn't find available anywhere else." His hand leaned towards each person as her replied. "Mr. Baloo is something of a legend in Louies, if not his mind. His tactics are considered dangerous and suicidal by various pilot instructors, despite the high success they entails.
"Wildcat's modifications are well noted. I remember his article about using parts of a kitchen stove to repair an engine in Aviation Weekly. It's a good thing proofreading is considered a science now.
"Rebecca Cunningham has built a successful business in a male-dominated business society, a task not easily done. And a seemingly successful mother at that." He smiled at her a bit, making her swell with pride.
"Mr. Cloudkicker has skills that aren't well known to most, but are to be well respected. His volunteer work in the Cape Susette National Cartography is highly praised."
"What about me?" Molly asked.
Demitri almost laughed. "Who can ever forget the child who caused a whole daycare center to be under quarantine over measles." Molly laughed at that. Rebecca smiled in spite of herself. That moment has made it's way into Day care history, and most likely never to be topped!
"I know that others have skill that well exceed yours. But as for now, I cannot rely on them, not for what I am asking. Yes, I do have what are known as 'Mad Hatters' but even they are becoming....unreliable." Demitri took another bit from his burger.
Kit mused silently through all this. "Mad Hatters" were the black ops of any corporation; former soldiers and trained mercenaries that deal in corporate security, industrial espionage, and sometimes illegal activities. The downfall of the Darven Petro Group for their dealings in blackmail and murder of rival execs were a well known example of such a group.
"I'm sure that you've all heard about my recent.....loss." Demitri continued, his voice straining a bit. He looked deeper into his burger. "The search parties have found inconclusive evidence around where they think Anya was last reported at. But others things have just came up."
"I'm sure we can all accommodate you the best we can, Mr. Sinclair." Rebecca replied diplomatically.
Demitri looked up. "I'm sure. But you might want to see the evidence before you make that decision." He turned his head to Zatherias and nodded to him. Zatherias, knowingly, reached from under his side of the table a flipped a concealed switch.
The lights dimmed slowly, like in the cinaplexes Kit and Molly went to during his baby-sitting jobs. A small slab of white lowered to their line of sight. Baloo smiled as bit as he realized that it was a projection screen. A map showed itself on the white slab. Baloo recognized it almost instantly.
The Typhon Sector.
It was inside a fire-fire zone, a result of a recent civil war going on in the last three months. Almost every attempt to bring relief supplies and humanitarian aid was twarted..often with deadly outcomes. He could see the four major islands, spread out in a irregular triangle, no closer then 170 miles apart, but no more then 78 miles together. The interior was an entire archipelago of 217 islands, most still unexplored. Cape Susette once had over several dozen colonies and settlements in those islands, mostly geological survey and science research. But some had mining complexes, drilling inside the islands for petroleum and vital ores.
Some had colonies that were for people who wanted to avoid the "City Life". Some were missionaries, some were colonists who hoped for a better life and future for their families, and some were scientists who wanted to find herbs and plants to combat diseases. Ever since the Settlements tried to declare independence from Cape Susette, the political stormfires have literally torn apart the people, who shared different views on this issue. And with the new acts of terrorism involving the Settlements, the no-fly zone was in force.
"Do you know what this is?" Demitri asked.
Rebecca paused for a moment, trying to find a polite way to reply that they weren't going to fly into a declared war zone. The Sea Duck wasn't much in her opinion; it was meant to haul cargo, not meant as a fighter. But then, she shared the same viewpoints about Baloo.
The risk was far more dangerous then the advantages. The blockades that were kept made it even harder. Usland Military has kept a sizable portion of it's fleet into position around the islands. And the orders to "shoot on sight" any plane that tries to bypass the blockade..well, she wasn't going to risk it.
"Mr. Sinclair....I know we seem to be adequate for whatever you might be asking but-"
"But it's too dangerous." Demitri finished for her. She nodded.
Demitri looked at her, studying her. She had fire, he didn't doubt that. Few people could stare at him that close and not visibly flinch. But he knew that if he laid everything on the table, it would be counterproductive for what he was asking for. So he gave out a sketch:
"Six months ago, my beloved wife Anya, traveled at great personal risk to a major shipyard facility. We were under the suspicion that a conspiracy involving some of my major board members might be producing something not authorized by myself and the board of directors. We also concluded that several of our major bank accounts have been re-routed to other areas. We don't know where or to what. All that we do know is that some of the funding have been tied into another business venture entitled 'The Jauntas Corporation.' And it's gotten us worried."
"Why not consult your internal security experts on it?" Kit asked.
"Good question, and a valid one, Mr. Cloudkicker: My security has been compromised, severely. The flight plan that was issued to Anya was given to the highest ranking people inside internal security. It was never issued to anyone else."
"What's this Jauntas Corporation?" Rebecca asked, her interests piqued.
"It's a firm that's been dealing with biological sciences. Fungi, bacteria, et al. And it also deals with some military contracts, a lot of them classified. But what is interesting is this.."
The screen switched from the map to a list of directories. Rebecca recognized it as a page copied from the International Business Directory. The copied page was blurry but she could tell that it was listing the major and minor corporations starting with the letter J. Jauntas was not listed.
"Jauntas was supposedly formed just over a year-and-a-half ago." Demitri continued. "But this directory was printed just last month."
"Mis-print?" Baloo offered.
"No," Rebecca answered before Demitri could. "The Directory is notorious for getting their facts straight. Almost sadistic, is more accurate. They fired an entire editorial staff over improper grammar three months ago. "
"Just over a month ago, a week before I first contacted you, I received a message from one of the Settlements inside the Typhon Sector. It was using a Extreme High Frequency radio that literally bypassed the local jammers just by sheer power alone. It was attuned to a precise radio frequency that was pre-determined just before Anya left. Only her and myself know this frequency. I think you should hear this."
Zatherias nodded and politely escorted Molly away. Wildcat joined them and carried away his and Molly's dinner plates away. Kit and Rebecca didn't mind too much. Wildcat wasn't much in terms of understanding, but he could and might protect Molly with his life if necessary. When they were gone, Demitri played the message.
A static sound filled the darkened room and instantly, the entire group could hear a female voice in the overheard speakers. One that was familiar to every pilot within the next 700 miles and beyond.
Anya Sinclair.
"They're coming through." More static and something that sounded like gunfire in the background "Demitri, can you hear me?" Her voice was not mistaken. A siren voice now filled with determination and true grit. Her voice was broken by sounds of radio static and gunfire, a few voices shouted in the background. Kit could hear bangs that only could've come from explosions.
"Boast the gain, we need more power." The signal cleared but only so much. "Demitri, if you can hear me, listen up: Something is very wrong here. The blockades are starting to invade most of the islands. We don't know why. The Settlements are in the process of being bombarded. Civilian colonies, convoys, all have been under attack. Most of the main fleet are taking positions around Isle Nublar, the shipyards. They got to the shipyards. We don't know why exactly. We are-"
A loud whoop sparked more static from the message. Machine gun fire was getting louder in the background over the shouts and screams of unknown people.
"Shut up!" She roared to someone. "I'm on the phone here!" She turned her attention to the message. "The shipyards have increased productivity by over 300%, building something. I'm not sure but I think it's a carrier fleet of sorts. They're using the prototype engine as a template. Someone-"
The static got louder, the gunfire increasing.
"Their trying to hit the array," Anya shouted to someone. "We have to move out, Demitri. Security on your end has been compromised; badly. Get down here as soon as you can; and trust no one among your staff. No one. Anya Sinclair out."
The message ended almost abruptly. For a moment, the buzzing static filled the dark room, the only light was from the projector. For a while, Kit could see a silent rage developing in Demitri's face, his eyes ablaze. Then just sadness. Kit remembered that look all to well; his face once had that look. That murderous rage that would want to hurt those that did harm to him. The look that would say, "I'm taking them all to hell, at whatever the cost, at whatever the risk."
For a moment, Kit shuddered.
Rebecca digested the story as much as she could. The blockade actually attacking the Settlements, a shipyards facility of some sorts. And the news that Anya Sinclair was still alive but probably aiding the Settlements. It was too much at such a short period. The Settlements were good people, she'd met several. Proudly independent, fiercely loyal, and never afraid of hard work. A majority of them served more then their fair share in the Phoebus Wars, fighting until they could not physically fight no more!
And now the possibilities were revolving around her mind like a roulette wheel: the possibility that war with such fine allies were just one of them.
"What prototype engine?" Kit asked.
Demitri switched slides, showing a blueprint of a intricate engine design. A top half showed what looked like a engineering structure, Kit recognized it from his science classes. This one looked very familiar. That part he knew, the other parts he failed.
"Two years ago," Demitri explained. "We were working on an alternate way to fly around. We've also been trying to find a better way to land aircraft, thinking of hostile situations where long-or even short-runways are not available.
"Our goal was to use current and experimental technology and equipment to create a cheap and easy-to-use way for an engine to accomplish all theses objectives. Meaning that the craft will be highly maneuverable, fast, and be able to land in areas no other aircraft was able to land."
"And what is it?" Kit pressed.
Demitri smiled his cold smile. His reached over the projector and turned it off. Rebecca let out a startled screech. Kit pressed his hands against his ears to block her piercing tone. Baloo took a moment to slip a few more cheeseburgers into his pockets The room was bathed in total darkness until he flipped back on the overhead lights.
"I'll tell you tomorrow; it's getting late." He finished. "I took the liberty of providing sleeping quarters for you all. Get some rest and we shall talk tomorrow." And with that, he left the room.
A group of stewards entered and silently escorting them away.
"He's hiding something," Kit concluded.
He sat on the blankets of his bed, a king-sized one at that. The blankets were mostly cotton but very thick with wool filling. The room was well furnished: a oak desk stood at one wall in front of a set of tinted windows. Doors to a lavish bathroom were also oak but with gold trimmings. A bookcase separated Baloo's and Kit's beds. The selection was decent, but mostly old literature. Kit took a thick volume of poems and flipped through it impatiently, hoping to ease his mind from what ever that was bothering him.
Baloo was looking like he was enjoying all this, not looking worried one bit. The small refrigerator that was inside the endtables eased his thought better then Kit's poems. The endtables were lined by their beds. Baloo almost went directly to the food.
He stared at one section of the wall, which was nothing more then a huge mirror. It took up almost the entire wall! A perfect reflection of the room showed in it's perfect surface. And when Baloo looked up, he could see that the entire ceiling was mirrored as well. He thought briefly about Becky's room having the same mirrors in their rooms. And almost smiled at what her reaction might be.
"You're thinking too much into this, l'ttle britches." Baloo was chomping on a salami sandwich, mustard and Mayo lined his lips. "Here we are, about to rescue the most popular and beloved persona in piloting history, going deep into hostile territory.." And suddenly, his tone dropped in realization to what he just said. "And into a potential war zone, where we could be shot down, taken prisoner, or..." He gulped down at that last potential outcome. Suddenly, the sandwich in his hand lacked flavor as well as appeal.
"What about Anya?" Kit asked, mostly to himself.
Baloo's face softened, his brief shock turned into one of small sadness. A look Kit rarely saw. He put his large arm around him. "She'll be all right," Baloo confided. "She's tough, I know that."
"But I still think he's hiding something from us," Kit pressed further his point. "Something he wants hidden from us for now."
"You don't trust him?" Baloo asked. It wasn't quite a question.
"I don't know." Kit finally replied. It was almost a lie. Kit had nothing against Demitri Sinclair personally. His designs have saved countless pilot lives in the last several years alone. And yet, their was something unsettling about him as well. Something that made him seem dull, distant. But for a few moments he though he saw something else...something he couldn't exactly place somewhere but just as unsettling. All this time, knowing that Anya, his wife, was still alive. And now deciding to act out. Why now?
Better yet, why them?
And he looked at Baloo and noticed that he was thinking the same questions too.
Someone knocked on their door, Kit jumped slightly. Baloo's sandwich fell to the carpet. Kit's nerves were a bit jingled lately, but only so much. Rebecca and Molly walked in, dressed in their sleepware. Rebecca wore a cotton nightgown with a lace trim. Her hair was nicely brushed, like it was glad to be away from all that styling and curling irons. Molly instantly ran towards Kit and nearly tackled him with her weight. Kit laughed loudly.
Baloo walked towards Rebecca, seeing her face slightly creased in concern.
"Don't tell me your worried about this too?" Baloo replied.
"Kit must've the same concerns," Rebecca admitted. "It's too much to take at once, Baloo. Anya Sinclair, alive after all this time. This Settlement problem. And her aiding them...I can't bear to think of it on my own."
"The Settlers are good people," Baloo wanted to take her hand to comfort her but didn't. That goes to show her that he didn't do things completely on impulse. "I flew with a bunch of them; good people, hard working. And they never try to siphon your fuel tanks when you turn your head....unless you do it to them first."
Rebecca laughed at this small joke. Baloo liked her laugh; it was much preferable then her yelling.
"How's your room look?" Baloo asked. He noticed her looking with disdain at the mirrors on the walls and ceiling.
Rebecca looked around some more and then replied. "I was hoping to trade rooms until I noticed your had the same problems that mine had." She gave a weary smile; Kit noticed this and gave a smile knowing smirk. Rebecca winked at him briefly.
Baloo looked around at the mirrors. "Yep, this guy must have a thing for mirrors. He must be one very sick puppy."
Rebecca continued to laugh, then checked her wristwatch. Realizing that time, she wished them all good-night.
"Molly," She called out. "Let's get some sleep, honey." Molly rushed to her, ever filled with energy. Kit waved good-bye to them both as they left.
Baloo went after her to the doorway.
"Yo, Beckers," He whispered to her. "Don't tell me your afraid of your own reflection." He grinned wolfishly.
"No," Rebecca's brow was creased in confusion. Like there was something that was wrong but she couldn't tell what. "I just keep feeling that someone is actually watching me when I'm inside that room. Like he could see me no matter what I do, " And she left with Molly, leaving Baloo to wonder about what she meant by that. Kit didn't say anything, and Baloo didn't have to ask what was on his mind on her thoughts. She left their room, with Molly in her arms. Baloo didn't notice with she did as she left but Kit did; noticed how deftly she lifted the pile of newspapers with her free hand as she left the room. It was a move that was almost practiced, experienced. Kit stood there for a moment, admiring such a move. In all those years of him scraping and lifting from stores to survive, he never encountered someone who lifted something so large and so fast!
After Baloo tried to salvage what was left from his sandwich, they both decided to get some sleep. And when the light's went out, they did, ever so confident that they were alone.
If they only knew...
Demitri Sinclair stood alone in his Sanctum. His private domain that not even Anya was aware of. A large room filled with his secret files and secret motives. And long, seemingly endless hallways that had nothing but glass windows.
Windows that showed other rooms. Like Baloo and Kit's, for example.
Demitri designed this complex to his exacting details and conditions. One of which was to have all of the visitor's quarters to be equipped with a one-way mirror. Demitri could just sit down in front of the window and see them doing their business, never knowing, never suspecting that he was watching them. It was an invasion of privacy, it was indecent. But Demitri did this not for thrills, but strictly on business. Or so he told himself every time he thought of it.
The Sanctum was dark, lit only by a few desklamps and the lights that shone the titles in his bookcases. His books were well received for their class and sophistication, but in here, the books were all technical manuals. Mostly on military weapons, tactics, codes, cryptography, and ciphers. Several were on slight-of-hand, the occult, and strange conspiracies. Some were on anagrams, secret societies, and even darker natures. It was a dark place, and seemingly evil place, but Demitri felt it was necessary to have it to preserve his sanity, especially during these times.
And if he ever got bored looking through the mirrors on the walls, he could climb up and literally walk above them on the ceiling mirrors, which were the same as the wall mounted ones. The ceiling mirrors have several layers of clear-glass and sound muffling properties, so he could walk freely without them noticing.
And that was what he was doing: walking around the various rooms, seeing what he could see. It was like walking on air, with nothing under his feet, noting to tell him that he was on solid ground. It used to give him bad dreams but they soon subsided.
He saw a rich couple, supposedly well-to-do in the social circles, screaming at each other in drunken rages. Demitri sometimes regretted that the rooms were soundproof. He wanted to hear about what they were ranting and raving about this time! Potential investors, be cursed!
He walked over to Baloo's and Kit's quarters. The lights were off but he could still see them. The moonlight from the windows provided adequate lighting for him to see them. He was watching them the most since they entered the rooms. He watched Kit "voice" his concerns to Baloo. He couldn't hear him, of course. But his skills for reading lips were matched only by Johner, his chief of security.
He walked over to Rebecca's room. It was too dark for him to see inside; it bothered him briefly. Usually, even moonlight was significant to fill the room. He looked down and realized that he was standing on a newspaper.
Not standing directly on a pile, but someone taped sheets of newspaper over the mirrored ceilings and the mirror wall. Ever inch and square centi-meter of mirrored surface was covered in print!
No way, He thought in astonishment. He saw a small pinprick of light glowing though one small hole in the layered newspapers. He knelt to peek in.
It wasn't just the mirrors: The paintings on the walls, the mirrored surfaces of the endtables, even the felt covers of the radio speakers were covered! If he had the ability to look inside the bathroom, he'd find that Rebecca and Molly taped the mirrors and the frosted glass too!
"I'm always the person on the outside looking in," he confessed to Anya one night.
"It doesn't have to be that way," she comforted him. She held him in her arms, he had another panic attack; his every muscle twitching and spasming. He was quietly sobbing. She whispered her comforts to him, rocking him gently, never letting go. In the dark, he was all alone, vulnerable, a target. He bit down on his lips to keep back his screams; a trail of blood poured down his chin. He wouldn't scream; he'd hold it back, for her. For Anya.
"You had that dream again."
Demitri brushed away the memory as fast as he could, failing badly. His emotional breakdown during the Wars almost crippled him. It was not something he wanted to think about in the future.
"What was the dream about," Anya asked.
He walked away from the mirrors, feeling strangely defeated in some obscure way. He re-entered the office area of his Sanctum, seeing the new batch of intelligence files on his desk. It was neatly stacked among the other equipment on the desktop: A small intercom rig with a headphone set, a typewriter, several magnifying glasses on a faded leather desk blotter, several dog-eared books with trails of book ribbons leaking out, and at least five cups of tea. Also on the table were a few picture frames; one was his wedding picture taken with Anya, dressed in her perfect Victorian gown and him in a frock coat. Another was one of his niece, Clara. He sat down in his chair and opened the first folder he could get to.
The news was not good. Using his old contacts inside the military and the intricate network of informants, spies, and contacts, he created a network of intelligence gathering that almost rivaled CSIA-Cape Susette Intelligence Agency. He had contacts inside Thembria's High Marshall's staff, a few executives from Kahn Industries, a legion of informants from law enforcement agencies and divisions, some from other countries. And they've all sent what they could to him, never knowing that the person they spy for is none other then Demitri Sinclair.
Using some funds hidden from even his accountants, Sinclair financed various means of gathering information, some for his own personal use, some to sell through third parties. The more harmful, he kept, the ones that linked his rivals to various ner- do-wells that they'd pay good money to keep from the presses. Most of these people he used just for various jobs, gathering files and the "scoop" on their bosses and fellow execs. He rarely used them for harm, just as a means to an end. The rest he either discarded or used to influence various others to work as his eyes and ears, like he did with the others. But less sparingly. In addition, he kept up with the most up-to-date techniques of maintaining such a vast network: the purchasing of information; the subsidizing of informants; the use of cipher codes; and the designing and installing of a Byzantine communications system that allowed him to remain in close control with his legion of agents
The Settlement's blockade maintained that they were holding positions so on one could enter nor leave the area. Yet, Anya's words about them attacking made him search deeper into the data. A well positioned military aide helped him plenty to confirm this.
"It's getting worse," a voice said from behind him.
"Yes, it is," Demitri confirmed. "What've you found out, Johner?"
Johner, his chief of security, stepped from the shadows. His face a mix of scars and burns, a result from years of war and fighting. Yet, his eyes showed a great amount of insight and knowledge. A warrior poet, in his words, and a term that Demitri couldn't dispute. A person who could sever a man's spine with a nail file, yet could recite old sonnets like an actor. A large as a bear, with the looks, one might add; but very effective at his work.
"The same: nothing's changed." Johner admitted. "We are attacking them. And for no apparent reason. All convoys who try to ship medical aid have either been re-routed or detained."
Demitri listened as he continued scanning his files. Once he was finished and committed most of the impertinent facts to memory, he'd destroy all the files via a hidden chute that lead to one of the furnaces down below.
"We have to get the prototype out for deployment." Demitri concluded after a moments thought.
Johner shook his head; they've had this discussion numerous times. "The risk is too great. We still haven't gotten it to work perfectly. And in conditions like what we're expected to face-"
"I know," Demitri argued. "But it's fast, has yet-unknown capabilities to them, and can outrun their interceptors." He turned to face him, showing his sorrowful face. "We have to get her."
"What if it's a trap." Johner argued. He could yell and scream his head off in here. The walls were soundproof. And no one could ever hear them, even if they put their ears against the very walls that separated them from the Sanctum. "they already knew of her flight plan, knew where to get at her, so what's to stop them from using her to get to you?"
"We don't even know who 'they' are," Demitri fairly roared at him.
"Maybe," Johner shot back. "But we know they want the prototype. They already got the engine, from what she said. So maybe they want the whole package deal. I'm more concerned about how you'll take it."
Demitri's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?" He hissed.
Johner leaned forward to face him, point-blank. He didn't flinch, nor look away.
"We both know how far you went, "Johner replied, his voice a deathly- monotone. "We both know how deep you fell into. I'm still surprised that you're still sane over that. But the fact of the matter still remains: How far will you go? And who are you willing to take with you into hell if it is necessary?"
Demitri looked away, not responding. Not willing to respond. He clamped his mouth shut, afraid that he would say something he didn't mean.
The Kipple....
He crawled through the mess, his flight suit long torn to tatters. His fingertips raw and bleeding from the climbing and the falling. All around, the unburied dead laying on the decayed ground.
"Only another twenty miles to go," He kept telling himself. "That's as far as I have to go. Another twenty miles."
That's as far as I have to go.
"You can't take the child," Johner said. It wasn't a question, nor a statement. It was a command.
"I'm not taking the child," Demitri replied slowly. "We have excellent day-care facilities. She can stay with some children her own age while this pulls through."
The island has excellent security with a garrison of guards to protect it from enemy attacks. But a lot of those guards have families and often put their interests over Demitri's opportunities. So Demitri ordered several sections of land put aside for family usage: Schools, day-care facilities, and even more-then-adequate commissary. The wives were satisfied with the vast selection the libraries had to offer, from housekeeping to correspondence courses. And the children were happy over the vast playgrounds and the schools. In fact, several wives and their children that grew up on this island became valued employees in his company. Most working "Orientation", which helped new families adjust better in their new homes.
Demitri looked at Johner. "Did you think I'd be that crazy?" There was a dangerous glint in his eyes. To bring a child into.....
Johner never turned away. "You tell me,"
Demitri's hand lashed out, not at Johner, but at the contents of his desk. Papers and bound files flew in the air and fell to the dark carpeting. A desk lamp struck the wall and went out, the bulb shattered against the impact.
"Do you think of me as a monster?!" He roared in the semi-darkness. "She's my wife, for God's sake."
"And you'd do anything to get her back," Johner roared back. His face just inches from his employer's. "Doesn't matter who burns with you; old men, young women, innocent children. We both damn well know that." Without warning, Johner's hands reached out and grabbed Demitri's arms. Johner's huge hands held his arms like vise grips. He pulled him over the desk. Spittle flew from his lips and hit Demitri's forehead. "You got to stay in some control over this." His voice lowered. "You've been my friend a lot longer then you been my employer. Don't fall into the abyss again." And he let go of Demitri, who proceeded to wipe the spittle from his brow.
"We have to get her back," Demitri continued, his rage subsiding. "If I don't try...." He didn't continue, he couldn't.
"You going to ask him?" Johner asked, changing the subject.
"I'm not sure," Demitri answered slowly. "He may not agree to this."
Johner bent down to pick up the papers and files. He tossed the broken desklamp almost absently. "We better decide fast; we're running out of time."
"I know," Demitri's eyes started to dull, his voice slowing, introspective, deathly quiet. "And we've lost so much time already."
Two Hours Later...
Demitri Sinclair sat alone in his Sanctum, his chair creaking every time his body shifted it's weight. He was tired and weary, and looked the part in every detail. A coffee mug dangled over his armrest by his finger. It reeked of scotch but so did Demitri a moment ago.
He hated to drink; but he hated to be outside. In the community, where everyone could see him and pick him apart like a lab specimen. Where everyone screams his successes in the open ground but whispers his problems behind closed doors. Every party, every dance, every event or gala he had to attend, he could hear them whispering about him. Admist in their waltzes and in between sips of wine and puffs of cigars, they could be heard whispering about his flaws and frailties:
"Look at him, all the riches at his command and yet he can't get his thoughts in a row."
"See him. Mr. Sinclair. A man as rich as Midas yet as insane as The Mad Monk."
"All that grace and beauty Lady Anya possess, and they are wasted upon with such a flawed person as Sinclair."
"He survives the Kipple, yet we are the ones to truly suffer with such a brute in our presence."
"He's a cold-blooded murderer. He killed in the Wars, and I think he enjoyed every moment of it."
"Look at him, with his shaking hands and his darting eyes. He figures us as the Regime. Watch him closely when he cuts his steak; might drive it into you if you move too fast."
He awoke from all this, drifting upwards into counsciencness like a diver seeking the water's surface. Once, all this talk bothered him to no end. He listened as they spoke of him; thinking that he was too naive to hear, or too blasé to care of such rubbish.
"They don't know you," Anya comforted him after that first party. It was the first they attended, celebrating the first year of Constance Air's success and it's future as a leading contender confirmed as "rock-solid".
"They wouldn't last ten seconds in the Kipple," She spat in anger. She was usually so even-tempered, so calm and collective. But their words wounded her more then her husband. "You lasted over a week; that's seven days more then they would last."
"You haven't seen it," Demitri replied quietly. His voice was slurred from the scotch and burbon. "I didn't want to but I did. I didn't think I'd make it out. The things I've seen..." And he gulped down another shot before he could finish. Before he allowed himself to finish.
"Why won't you tell me about it?" She asked, begging, pleading to be let in. To enter a part of himself he wouldn't allow her in. Where he wouldn't allow himself into.
"Why?" She asked again.
"Why?" He whispered to himself. He rubbed his eyes awake as he checked his watch. The Sanctum was still dark, still gothic. It lacked a clock but Demitri never went far without a watch or a timepiece with him.
2:32 AM.
Perfect timing, he thought briefly as he walked one bookcase and lifted a cover up from it's mount. The bookcase slid aside to reveal another passageway. One that was more brightly lit and less shadowy. Demitri blinked his eyes at such blinding light, but his eyes rapidly adjusted. The passage way led to a hidden outlet to the Underground Tunnel Network, which led to his CIC center. Command, Intelligence, Control. The brainworks of his industrial empire.
The Tunnel Network was used mostly for maintainance and repairs, but it was also used as a evacuation option. One passageway led to several converted submarines that could carry the entire population of his island plus another hundred if necessary. He left nothing to chance, nothing to risk if he could help it.
But one passageway led to his CIC. Every multi-national corporation owned one: a collective that made sure that everything was working to plan. That all crises were resolved quickly and quietly. Khan owned one, hidden inside the sub- basements of Khan Towers inside Cape Susette. And he could bet good money that Khan knew of his CIC as well. Information was as valuable a commodity as currencies and they both were filthy rich with both.
The CIC was in "Gray Mode", meaning that it was on nightwatch. Few people stood watch at their respected posts. The CIC was full of cubicles, consoles, and maps. A giant map, bigger then even the one in his office, took up the entire wall. Updated constantly on the hour, a long sliding ladder stood idly by.
He whispered to the officer on the watch that he needed to use the transmitter. The officer nodded and silently escorted everyone from the center. Leaving Demitri all alone. He walked by, seeing everything at once. And saw the typewriter-like device siting on a podium in the center of the room, under a hinged plastic cover. It was locked by two sets of keys, one was always on hand nearby, the other was reserved for Demitri and a few of his trusted personnel like Johner. He unlocked it and turned to device on.
He disliked the Communicator. It was new and rarely trusted, even for such prototype technology. Using radio signals that used a complex coding sequence, they could in theory, type a coded message into another console, which would decipher it and display it in almost real-time. The intercepted transmissions would be useless because even if they had a Communicator of their own, it was adaptable to run over 75,000 different variations of codes! It was a huge leap from the old decoders of old, but only so much.
He typed in his message, knowing that the person he's contacting would be awake even at this hour.
CODEC: LOG IN; QUERY
CODEC SEQUENCE 11374
IDENT: SINCLAIR, DEMITRI.
CONFIRM?
Codec was another term for "Which codes you want to use today?". Ident was to describe the user in case the records need conformation or future reference. Confirm was a simple command of yes/no variation, to respond, "Yes, I am Demitri and Codec 11374 is acceptable."
He typed yes. And waited.
He didn't have to wait long.
MESS: Khan1
HELLO, OLD FRIEND. WHAT DO YOU ASK OF ME?
The conversation went like this, all in complete detail from the records.
SINCLAIR: I NEED TO GET PAST KHAN'S BLOCKADE, COVERTLY PREFERABLE.
KHAN1: HARD TO ACCOMPLISH. SEARCH AND DESTROY WAS NOT MEANT AS A BLUFF.
SINCLAIR: CONFORM; BUT MUST REPEAT IMPARATIVE; SLIP THROUGH UNDETECTED. UNNOTICED. ANYA HAS BEEN FOUND.
KAHN1: HOW?
SINCLAIR: NO TIME TO EXPLAIN. POSSIBLE TO REROUTE CERTAIN PATROLS FROM VARIOUS AREAS?
KHAN1: POSSIBLE BUT NOT EASY. BUT WILL TRY.
SINCLAIR; WHAT SHER UP TO?
KHAN1: NOT SAYING, VERY CONCERNED ABOUT BLOCKADE. EVEN SIDETRACKED BY CERTAIN MILITARY PERSONELL. HIGH RANKS.
SINCLAIR: HOW?
KHAN1: UNKNOWN, EVEN CABINET KEPT FROM LOOP
SINCLAIR: HOW LONG TO INPLIMENT PLANS?
KHAN1: TWO DAYS, YOU SHOULD GET THERE IN TIME. GOOD LUCK.
SINCLAIR: NEED IT; THANKS.
With that now out of the way, Sinclair called his staff and told them of his plans. He gave his orders and told them to get it ready by morning. By then, Baloo and Mrs. Cunningham would receive their orders and he would leave for the Typhon Sector and Anya.