Commander Hans Volkswagen had waited for a moment like this for a long time. He had honed his special transit corps into an elite branch of the Symmzinnati Police Department. That is what he thought anyway. At police headquarters, Volkswagen’s officers were seen as outcasts. It was the last chance for officers who could not make it anywhere else on the force. They were tucked away over at Union Terminal Station and throughout the tunnels and stations of the Symmzinnati Central Subsystem.
The chief of police liked it that way. With the rampant murder rate in Symmzinnati, he had bigger problems. He only chewed on Volkswagen when the latest murder occurred on a train or at a station.
Overall compared to the rest of Symmzinnati, crime on the subsystem was pretty low. So covered by his people and Motherland Defense personnel, rarely did anything happen in Union Terminal Station. Now, the commander played a hunch that something was really afoul with the theft at the station. He could only guess what was going on in the Soviet consulate. He knew Silas Whowood had been a spook once with NASAIT attached to Moscow. Perhaps Silas knew a lot about the Soviets and their links with aliens. Moscow was contiuing their glastnost policies by interviewing him about what he knew then. The Soviets had him over for a visit with a point of the gun invitation though. Maybe it was just that theft. They wanted their property back. He was not sure. Now, if he could break a spy ring or smuggling ring, his name would be on the front page of the Symmzinnati Inquirer and the chief would have to take notice.
He had his Special Incursion Squad gearing up in front of the consulate. Busting right in would be an international incident; he knew he would have to be diplomatic, at first anyway.
Commissar Stroganov re-entered the formal reception room. The consulate’s two security agents were at his side.
“I am afraid Mr. Savchenko has taken ill.”
Nell gasped.
“Not to worry. We have a doctor on staff and he is attending to him. He just fainted as we were meeting.”
“Where’s Boris? Where is this doctor?” asked Nell standing up suddenly. Halley moved to comfort her.
“Yes, where is he? Can we see him?” asked Halley.
“Since when does a consulate have a staff physician?” asked Silas also standing up.
“It is new for Soviet consulates. Your American medicine is so expensive that we hate to have to go to your hospital, if we can be treated at home,” said Stroganov.
“Uh huh,” said Silas, “So you wouldn’t mind taking us to Savchenko?”
Suddenly there was a muffled scream. It seemed to come from right below them. It could only be Boris.
“Where is he Stroganov?!” said Silas making a move towards the Commissar. Stroganov’s security men stepped forward and produced handguns.
“Don’t worry Mr. Whowood. Savchenko will be just fine. I would say that he will be a new man even.”
Across the main hall from the formal reception room, Mariana heard the scream. She had been left there in the other waiting room that was for members of the public with appointments. It was so typically bureaucratic that she was forgotten and left to sit there. She was used to that back home, so it would not have bothered her, except for the urgency. The scream sent a chill through her. She made for the door to the hallway. She had to do something as much as it terrified her.
Dr. Andropov scanned the vital signs of his, well, patient would not be the word. It would be his subject. He had injected Comrade Stalin’s DNA, the reactive agent and the nanoprobes into Boris that would build the new man of steel. His subject had screamed, fought against the restraints, and then passed out. Boris’ vital signs were strong though. Within a minute of the injection, facial features that were Boris’ seemed to change. A moustache started to grow. His skin had a light yellow tint. It started to shine even. As this happened, the bust, sitting on table nearby, lost its gold luster. You could see that it was still Boris, but was also someone else.
Boris’ face twitched. His hands flexed and squeezed into fists. He grunted and then took in a deep breath as if someone who had just held their breath underwater too long and had lungs desperate for oxygen. He gasped a few times and then his eyes flickered open. He turned his head to look at Andropov. He ranked at the ankle and wrist restraints.
“Who are you?” he growled with a scowl.
“No, who are you?” asked Andropov expectantly.
“I am Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin, general secretary of the communist party of the Soviet Union, and your leader. Release me now or you will die!”
Andropov wavered on his feet. There were tears at the corners of his eyes. He beheld his god. “Comrade Stalin, you’re alive! I have brought you back to life.”
“I was never dead!”
Hey, Tim. Nice story so far -sorry I haven't commented for a while....
LKJ
Posted by: kerravon | 2007.02.17 at 03:00 PM