Revolution (10 page)

Istvan immediately started to shake. Bartok
uttered a series of sharp sentences. If they were intended to give
the little man courage, they had their effect, as Istvan drew in a
deep breath and stood erect. The trembling stopped, but a faint
sheen of sweat had popped out on his forehead. “This was lab where
they hurt me,” he said. Pointing with his hoof, he added, “The
cells are ahead.”

Once again, Bartok took the lead with his gun
still out. They walked down a corridor. Their feet made hollow
sounds. On either side of them were cells with the remains of the
changed inside them. Istvan began to cry, a terribly empty,
snuffling sound. “These were the other experiments,” he sobbed.

If they were experiments, they hadn’t turned
out very well. People with hunchbacks, two heads, four legs and
other nightmarish visions assaulted his eyes. Anastasia’s growls of
anger got louder, the hair on her shoulders standing up.

“What are we looking for?” Harry finally
asked.

“Anything useful,” Farrell answered in a very
quiet voice.

The group spent another twenty minutes
searching for clues. Harry went to one of the labs and searched
through the mess on a table of smashed beakers, metal and glass. As
he searched, his mind traveled back to his early days of research.
Looking through electron microscopes, checking cells, he had beheld
the miracle that people called life, all at his fingertips.

His father at his side, Marvin Goldman, a
short and slender man, had pointed out to the young Harry all the
possibilities ensconced in a single strand of DNA. “This, son, is
where it all begins. This is where you get your strength,
intelligence and life. Study it, learn it... know it.”

As Harry ran his simulations, in a moment of
youthful naiveté, he’d realized that life could be changed,
enhanced, diseases cured... all with a simple manipulation of this
or that gene. At the time, it never occurred to him that it could
be perverted and used for evil purposes.

With a start, he came back to the present and
knew that his research had indeed been twisted. An intense feeling
of guilt overwhelmed him. Although he couldn’t be held accountable,
he was still part of this.

Casting his gaze around the smashed
laboratory, he saw no life there, only death, and he longed to
leave, but the search was not yet finished. He continued looking
for clues. Nothing useful turned up until he found a computer disc.
He put it in his pocket and rejoined the others.

In another larger room, they found the
remains of smashed Genesis Chambers, operating tables and the
remains of food long ago eaten by cockroaches and flies. However,
they found no evidence of recent entrance. This was an abandoned
charnel house and nothing more. Finally, Bartok called a halt to
things. “We have found nothing here. Whoever was here, they have
already gone.”

Harry recalled the man saying something about
new information. He took out the disc and handed it over. “I found
this is one of the rooms.”

Bartok’s eyebrows arched and he pocketed the
disc. “It might have some information on it. I will check it later
on.”

He began to leave, and Harry put out his hand
to stop him. “You said last night that you had some contacts.”

“I will tell you all on the surface. Let us
leave this place.” Bartok looked around with an uneasy expression
on his face and pulled at his collar. “I do not like it here. It
smells of death.”

That seemed to sum up the situation. On the
way out, Harry spotted something scratched into the wall. It was
forradalom.
“What does that mean?” he asked Istvan.

The little pig-man got a look of fear on his
face. “It means revolution.”

Revolution for whom, Harry wondered, and then
ran to catch up with the others. Up on the surface, Bartok closed
the door. It shut with a resounding screech. He wiped the sweat
from his forehead and sat down on a stump.

Farrell scanned the area, but shook his head.
“I don’t have enhanced senses,” he said. “Anastasia, Harry, can you
smell or hear anything?”

Harry tested the air, but came up with
nothing save the usual smell of trampled leaves, dirt and assorted
animal droppings. Anastasia had begun her own scan of the area,
sniffing around. Istvan was doing the same thing, except that he
was snuffling on the ground on all fours, like a pig rooting out
truffles. More than a little envious, Harry watched as they went
through their maneuvers. “You guys got anything?”

“I’m not sure,” Anastasia answered, still
sampling the air. Her nostrils dilated and expanded as if she was
able to separate odor from odor. “It’s not like anything I’ve
smelled before.” She turned to Istvan. “What do you think it
is?”

“It is a bird,” he said in a matter-of-fact
voice. “It is a very large one.”

Last time she’d said something about smelling
something different, they’d ended up with Istvan in tow, Harry
mused. This time, who knew?

Silence reigned and Bartok lit a cigarette.
Farrell said, “Last night you said something about new information.
What is it? And if this is Russian handiwork, why are we here?”

Bartok puffed away, finished his cigarette
and dropped the butt, grinding it under his foot. “During the Cold
War, Hungary was an ally of the old Soviet Union. Our scientists,
professors, athletes... we all collaborated with the Russians in
order to achieve results.” He practically spat out the last word.
“One of those results was in the field of athletics.”

“Athletics,” Harry repeated. “What does that
have to do with it?”

“Better living through science, kid,” Farrell
answered and gazed at Bartok. “Am I right?”

“You are.”

Bartok went on to say that the
state-sponsored socialist programs often used secret labs in order
to train the genetic elite. Those labs were scattered all over the
Soviet Union and its territories. There, scientists used steroids,
growth enhancers or blockers and many more drugs in an attempt to
achieve the ultimate in human perfection. “There is an old saying,
the Russians had.
If we cannot beat you on the battlefield, then
we shall beat you on the sports field.
It worked for them very
well, don’t you think?”

It certainly had worked. The Russians and the
satellite Soviet-bloc countries won in athletics time and again.
Naturally, the Americans and their allies turned to using steroids.
The race on the battlefield became one of scientists and not
athletes.

“After
Glasnost,
many of these secret
labs fell into disuse,” Bartok continued. “However, the Russians
who were opposed to
Glasnost
often used these places to hide
drugs, money, artwork and more. In this case, they hid science and
created monsters.”

Harry thought about what the Nurmelev and
Grushenko had told him. They’d both had backers, rich
industrialists, ex-KGB,
Spetznatz
and others who’d supported
their vision. The money had to come from somewhere. “Uh, did you
check on who’s connected to Szabo? I mean, he’s a strong guy, but I
don’t think he’s smart enough to come up with transgenic ideas on
his own.”

Bartok chewed on his lower lip, silence
reigned, and Farrell prodded him with a “Well” comment. “Spill it,
mister, you asked us here.
You
asked
us.
We’ve been
pretty cooperative, so it’s time to share.”

“Very well,” Bartok said at length. “We were
not sure, but we think there is one other person connected to all
this. His name is Kulakov. No first name, no date of birth, no
information... nothing. I have been in contact with the Russian
government, but they also claim to have no knowledge of him. We
think he’s a member of the KBG, or maybe he was. We just don’t
know...”

A screech from overhead interrupted his
musings. Harry jerked his head up just in time to see an enormous
bird hurtle their way. “Company’s here!” Anastasia cried. “Get
down!”

With a cry of rage, the bird swooped over
their heads, uttering a raucous cry. Its wingspan practically
blotted out the sun and it slashed at their heads with talons.
Harry had seen the scratch marks on the corpses. This thing had
talons maybe a foot in length and they shone in the sunlight.

Istvan squealed and ran for cover under a
mound of leaves. The cry from above came again. The bird came back
for another dive-bombing run. As it neared their position, Harry
saw that it wasn’t a bird, not exactly. It had a woman’s body and
face with an extremely long and sharp-looking beak. Her eyes were
deep and black pools of ink, the color of death.

This was not a time for aesthetics, though.
The bird-woman came in fast and knocked Bartok and Farrell flying
when they drew their pistols. Farrell rolled over on his back and
let off a few shots. They all missed.

Above them, the bird-woman banked sharply. In
an impossible maneuver, she pulled up and went after Bartok, who
had gotten to his feet and was drawing a bead on his target.

“Get it, get it!” Farrell yelled.

“I am trying!” Bartok yelled back. He shot
three times, the bullets hit the mark, but the thing came in fast
and clamped its talons onto his left shoulder. “Get it off me!” he
screamed and beat at it with his pistol.

As Farrell tried to shoot it, the creature
slashed his arm with its wing and he dropped his gun. “Not again!”
he cried and fell to the ground, blood spurting from his forearm.
“It’s got blades for feathers!”

The enemy let go of Bartok and took off like
a shot. It circled around for a third run and came back fast. Harry
grabbed Anastasia and they hit the dirt just before she could slash
them as well.

“What are we going to do?” he asked from his
prone position.

“Stand up,” Anastasia ordered.

“You gotta be kidding me!”

“Nope,” she said with a fierce grin. “Trust
me.”

Reluctantly, Harry got to his feet and waved
his hands. “Hey, birdy, come and get me!”

A second later, a horrid screech came from
the bird-woman as she turned around. The thought of
oh crap,
she’s pissed
ran through his mind at light speed. He fought
down the desire to run. Instead, he stood waving his arms as the
enemy jetted toward him.

At the point of impact, though, Anastasia
blindsided her, and they tumbled to the ground in a flurry of
feathers and fur, both of them spitting and slashing at one
another. The bird-woman’s talons raked Anastasia’s side as well as
the side of her face. She yowled in pain, but continued her
assault, and her slashes to her opponents’ wings brought inhuman
screams.

Harry jumped into action and pinned down her
wings. As Anastasia had said, they were sharp and bit into his
hands. He ignored the searing pain and tried to block out the
screaming. It continued unabated until Bartok, who’d gotten over
his initial shock, ran over with his pistol and repeatedly clubbed
the bird-woman on the head until she stopped moving.

Harry released his hold. His hands were
bloody, but his regenerative powers kicked in the wounds soon
closed. “Is she alive?” he asked.

Bartok hesitantly put his ear to her beak.
“She is still breathing.” A sour expression appeared on his face,
as if he’d sniffed something most vile. “That is a shame.”

If there were any other word he could have
used, Harry would have used it. In this situation, looking at her,
there was no other word to employ than monster. At roughly six feet
in height with a body of a bird and long, spindly although
incredibly powerful legs, she reminded him of a hawk. However, her
face looked more human than avian.

“What could have made this...
thing,
”
Bartok muttered. His uniform was covered in blood and he was still
shaking.

Harry felt himself trembling as well. “What
are we going to do with her, keep her in the lab downstairs?”

Bartok shook his head. “No, this place is too
open. If this Szabo knows her, then he also knows this place. We
must take her back to the morgue.”

That meant taking her back to the car.
Everyone looked at each other in a
how do you do that
manner
until Anastasia stated with heavy distaste, “Tie her up.” She wiped
the blood from her face and waved Harry off when he came over to
look. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

Bartok supplied his leather belt, as did
Farrell. One belt went around the bird-woman’s wings, while the
other belt went around her legs so she couldn’t claw anyone. “What
about the beak?” Harry asked. It was nasty, long and more than
likely, very hard. Getting hit by that guaranteed an injury or
something worse.

“Use this,” a voice said.

Istvan had come out of hiding holding a
length of rope in his hoof-like hands. “I hid under the leaves and
found this,” he said in an apologetic tone. “I know her,” he said,
gazing at the unconscious bird-woman with a mixture of awe and
fear. “Her name is Martuska.”

Martuska—it was a start. Harry hefted her
body over his shoulder and they set off back to the car. Once
there, they tossed her body into the trunk and locked it securely.
“Is she going to be able to breathe in there?” he asked. “Not that
I care.”

“Air will circulate there, do not worry,”
Bartok reassured him. “We must hurry, before anyone comes back.
After we get to the morgue, I must contact my superiors. We cannot
risk putting her in a public jail.”

Putting her in a public institution
surrounded by civilians wasn’t the best plan, Harry thought, but
they didn’t have much of a choice. Tiredly, he got in the rear
seat. Anastasia sat next to him and rested her head on his
shoulder. “You did okay back there,” she whispered.

Maybe he had, but Harry still felt afraid.
Fear came with the job, but he told himself that if there was ever
a time to man up, it was now. He couldn’t afford to show weakness
here. The enemy wouldn’t.