April Marie Dancer

 

 

 

                                    THE INTERROGATION

 

 

Illya Kuryakin took a deep breath and held it.  The hand drill was fitted with a miniature rotary saw.  The high pitch whine ate a huge chunk of his confidence as the ugly little instrument was applied about an inch and a half under his eyes, right along the left cheekbone, then the right.  The pain was excruciating as deep slits were cut in those tender locations. Single element wires with minute sensors were inserted and thrust deep under the skin.  A small monitor was set up.  Kuryakin tried to concentrate on the possible mechanics of the coming pain, to ward off further panic.   Placed close to carefully selected nerves in order to induce pain, the sensors would stimulate his optic nerves and probably his sinus cavities and associated ganglia there.  Now came the injection in the upper arm.  And he heard a gentle hum announce the presence of current applied to those sensors.  Pain engulfed him in great waves.  Great tidal waves.     Now’s the time to bow out, he thought, and closed his body down as he’d been trained to do years ago. 

Alarms beeped loudly as the sensors in the metal restraining chair reported impending death.  Heartbeat, respiration and skin conductivity dropped quickly.  The two interrogators stopped in their tracks and called Madeline. 

 

                        HEADQUARTERS, NEW YORK

 

Alexander Waverly was upset.  Sir John faced him across the large round table. 

“Things have now gone too far with that group.” Waverly began. 

“We’ve been aware of Section One’s movements recently, and let them go on, as they appeared to be going after the EWI group, as we are.” Sir John offered.  “Now, suddenly this heinous attempt on Kuryakin.”

“This is absolutely unacceptable.” Waverly raised his voice.  “That man is far too important to lose now.  In fact, I must take action immediately.  I fear we are too late already.”

Waverly picked up an ordinary looking phone and made a most extraordinary call.

“Yes, George,” he said, “deuced glad you’re there.  We have a problem that requires your immediate attention.  It has to do with that bunch of mad dogs we term Section One.”  He paused as the man on the other end of the phone reacted.  “They have one Illya Nikovetch Kuryakin.  Shot him down in the street and kidnapped him.  I don’t care what misguided reason they have for such an action.  I want him returned.”

Waverly listened for a few seconds before interrupting.

“I don’t care where they are, but I do care about what they might be doing to this man.  You know as well as I do that he is crucial to our further operations.  Absolutely crucial.  And I want him back, or rather news of his release within the hour.  Do I make myself understood?”  Waverly rarely got upset.  Sir John observed with trepidation his reddening complexion and shaking hands. 

“Alexander, my good fellow, calm yourself.” He suggested reasonably.

Into the phone, Alexander barked “News within the hour, I repeat.  No excuses.  I’ll contact you with further demands following the safe return of my man.”  And slammed down the phone.

Waverly looked at Sir John.  He made visible efforts to pull himself together before he spoke again.  “Sorry old man”, he said.  “I don’t think you fully appreciate the implications of this.  Have you read Kuryakin’s updated file?”

“No I don’t believe..”

“Well, let me fill you in on a few previously withheld facts as we wait for news from George.  I don’t know how much you know about Illya Kuryakin, so I’ll begin with same salient points. You can read the rest at a later time.

Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, I believe, is the culmination of a certain evolutionary event that began just before the turn of the twentieth century.  As you may be aware, a normal human brain uses direct current, or DC, for it’s communication between synapses.  This method of propagating energy does not lend itself to broadcasting a carrier wave, or any other form of radiating energy.  However, as I said, about 1895, individuals began to be born with an alternating current, or AC method of propagation, quite separate from their normal mental capacities.  If you took a look at Kuryakin’s EEG, and knew what to look for, you would be startled at the differences between his brain and that of a normal human being.  Not to belabor the point, let me say simply that the individuals born with this capability can send and in some cases, both send and receive coded impulses, um, thoughts.  Hence, I believe, the sudden upsurge in interest in the mystic around the turn of the century.  It is my personal opinion that certain individuals prior to 1895 were born with this capability.  Such as that fellow, uh, er, ah yes, Casey, Edgar Casey.  The famous “sleeping prophet” who was so well documented in the early thirties and forties. 

In addition, the majority of the people born with this capability also possess higher than normal intelligence.  Kuryakin himself last tested out at about 220 on the generally accepted scale.  That was 11 years ago.  His IQ may be beyond any known means of measurement now.  That’s of lesser importance, however.  Ah, except in the case of his most recent discovery and invention.  And I believe you have an inkling of what that is and what it may well mean for our operations, security and capabilities, not to mention the rest of mankind.  I tell you now in strict confidence that he is not the only person with these qualities employed by this Command.  He is, however, the most powerful.”

“Excuse me, Alexander, but I must interrupt your narrative to ask a pertinent question, or miss half of what you say due to internal pondering.  Do you, yourself, possess this extraordinary ability?”

“Why, er, yes, I thought that was quite clear.”

“Thought so.  Do go on.”

“Well , yes.  Harrumph.  As I was saying…. Ah. As with any group of people, some are inclined towards putting their special talents and intelligence to good use, and some turn the other way.”

Ah, yes, the dark side.” Sir John quipped.

“Excuse me?” Waverly looked non-plussed.

“Oh come now, Alexander.  You must have seen or heard of “Star Wars” at some point during the last 23 years!”

“Sir John, this is no matter to be taken lightly.  Please let me finish my points without further interruptions.”

Sir John had the good grace to say nothing further.

“As you may have guessed, this organization we know only as EWI, or Exponential World Intelligence, is set in direct opposition to any and all decent ways and means of obtaining power and wealth.  Their leader, if such he is, is nearly as powerful as Kuryakin, more so if you consider he has a team effort going.  Their ultimate goal is not yet clear.  I fear the worst, however.  Their chosen comrades, our old nemesis T.H.R.U.S.H., mistakenly think they, meaning THRUSH, are the controlling factor in the newest combined campaign for world domination.  I assure you personally, and this must be strictly kept also, that EWI will be in control of any operations undertaken by this unholy alliance.

Now we have a misguided Section One stepping in as if this were only one of the blasted terrorist groups, which are their primary target, at least by charter.  And they hit the wrong side!  Lord!!  How long ago has it been since I was in contact with George?”

“Hmmm, uh, about 15 minutes.”

“If you would excuse me, Sir John. I need to conduct a little private business.”

Sir John blinked, then rose without another word and left his own office.

 

“The Dark Side.” Alexander Waverly chuckled to himself. 

 

 

                        IN THE HANDS OF SECTION ONE

 

           

Nikita looked up in alarm as Madeline whisked by, abandoning her usual catlike stalk.  Noting the direction she was headed in, Nikita’s anxiety level rose several notches.

“Oh God, Walter” Nikita moaned, “it’s too late already.”  She picked up the nearest loaded weapon, a deadly piece of work, modified by Walter, to deliver a killing shot with little effort on the shooter’s part.  Her mind in turmoil, she headed full speed after Madeline.

“Nikita wait!” Walter called after her.

Without pause she yelled back.  “No, this is what must happen!  I have no choice!”

Walter picked up his own personal weapon, pausing a second to make sure the magazine was full, and ran after her. 

The automatic door to the interrogation room clanged shut. 

 

 

Madeline stared at the two people standing over what appeared to be a corpse, hastily pulling wires out of Illya’s head. 

“Stop what you’re doing.  Begin resuscitation attempts now.”  Against all her training, against her very nature, Madeline felt something she hadn’t in years; fear and remorse.  Almost of their own volition, her hands reached out to touch the lifeless form strapped in the chair.  ‘My god what is this?’ her mind screamed.  ‘What am I doing?  He cannot die, I need…’ Pounding on the door interrupted her thoughts.

“Madeline! Open the door, NOW!”

 

         ************************************************ 

Nikita, closely followed by Walter, reached the door. They stopped and stared at one another.

“Nikita, you know she’ll order your cancellation for this.  And if she doesn’t, Operations will!”

“This is it Walter,” Nikita panted, “end of the line.  Follow my lead here, or I will by God take you with me when I go.”  The blue eyes meant it.  Walter made up his mind quickly, in about half a second.  After all, he’d lived a long time, done things he’d be sorry for if and when St. Peter opened his big book, but he’d do this for her and take the consequences. 

“I’m with you, Sugar.”

“OPEN UP, MADELINE!!”

 

Three things happened.  The door opened.  The gruesome twosome raised their weapons.  Nikita shot them both.  Two shots, one in each head.  Only no neat holes appeared.  The heads exploded.  The room instantly looked like an abattoir.  Blood, brains and bone splattered, splatted and splintered floor to ceiling. 

Madeline, looking less saturnine than Nikita had ever imagined she could, ignored even this interruption. 

“He’s not dead.” Which was the only thing she could have said at that instant to stop Nikita from carrying out one more messy execution.

Long experience had taught Nikita that this woman was capable of anything.  She would use anything to distract you; keep you from an unwanted action, so she trained her weapon on Madeline anyway. 

“Back away.” 

Almost woodenly, Madeline complied.  Nikita moved cautiously toward Illya, keeping her eyes on Madeline.  “I’m taking him out of here, Madeline.  You are going to help me.  Walter?”

“Right here, Sugar.”

“Cover me.”  A plea, a prayer, a command. 

            “What the HELL is going on here?” Operations yelled.  He’d come personally rather than send an operative. 

            ‘Perfect.’ Nikita thought.  ‘All players on scene.  It’s do or die.’

            Walter moved faster than he had any right to; grabbed Operations, twisting one arm back and across, holding him in front of his own body; his weapon held ready to blow a third head to smithereens if necessary.  “Don’t be mistaken Paul,” he said sotto voice, “I won’t hesitate this time.” 

            Knowing time was of the essence, Nitika moved to the next logical step, not daring to think of failure.  Michael’s training stood her well.  She fervently wished he were here. 

Before she could take that next logical step, alarm bells clarioned.  Operatives scrambled to their ready positions.  Doors and shields came crashing down.  Incongruently, Operation’s cell phone rang.   Unbelievably, Operations asked Walter to answer it.  Walter struck the head hard enough to crack it, and Operations slumped to the floor, breaking his own arm, held in a vice grip by Walter.  “That’s for Belinda,” Walter snarled.

“Answer it, Walter.” Came Nikita’s voice coldly.  She hoped she knew who and what this was.      

“Paul can’t come to the phone right now, may I take a message?”  came Walter’s voice to Nikita’s unbelieving ears. 

Walter listened for a few seconds, a slow grin spreading over his bloody features, as George’s voice gave instructions.

 

Two minutes later Mark Slate walked into the room, flanked by five efficient looking people. 

George had remotely deactivated all protective devices and guided Mr. Slate and company to the bloody scene.  One by one, pertinent doors and blast shields had opened, while the rest remained closed.  Slate had been able to view some of the non-plussed and very nervous people watching him and his team progress toward the interrogation room.  Someone’s voice had come over the intercom instructing personnel to remain passive.  Still, he was glad the people he’d seen were behind blast proof plastic. Walking towards the dead-end of a long corridor, he caught the familiar scent of spilled blood and knew he’d arrived.

Mark’s customary flippancy failed him.  His face grim as death, he took in the inert form in the chair, the three people standing in various postures of tension, the two headless bodies, the unbelievable amount of blood and gore, and lastly, the gray-haired man at his feet.  This one, he noted, arrived after the bloodbath, since he was the only one not covered head to foot with the aftermath of a decapitation.  Make that two, and hold the celery.   

To the female holding the weapon still pointing at Madeline, he said  “Easy, Luv, don’t you recognize the cavalry when it arrives?”  

 Nikita’s posture remained unchanged.  Her weapon remained on target, and she moved her eyes only; looking first at Madeline, then at the man in the chair.  Madeline stayed precisely as she was also.  She knew where her maximum danger lay.  Nikita had been pushed too hard, too far, too long, by herself and Paul to be regarded as anything but a major threat in such a circumstance as this.  Madeline, whose mind was usually abnormally facile under pressure, seemed to have locked up.  Something about the prisoner they had nearly killed, and about the man who’d just entered the room, seemed to scatter her sharp wits to the four winds.

‘Think!  How can I turn this around?’ she chided herself.  Nothing came.  The only prudent action was none at all.  Maintain silence, think about the power structure underlying all, and use it.  ‘Was George responsible for this?  It seemed a logical conclusion.  How had the impenetrable Section spaces been breached?  Was Michael directing this?  The time factors seemed too short, for this second possibility.’  Finally she decided on some course of action.

“Mr. Kuryakin is in need of immediate attention.” She said to the man who led the invasive team.  “He was not dead when I arrived, and I know how best to treat this condition.”

“Shut up!” came Nikita’s voice, close to panic.  “Don’t let this woman touch him.  If you are his friend, and value his life, don’t allow her to do anything further.”

“First of all, you two surrender your weapons in a most non-threatening manner to my men.  Now, all three of you move over to the far wall,” Mark said.  “We’ll take a quick look at the damage.  Marshall, Etheredge, cover them.”

Mark walked quickly over to Illya, once the three had complied, and put a tentative hand to his temple.  Frowning, he bent close to an ear and whispered something no one else could hear.  Long minutes dragged by.  Mark continued to touch and whisper.  Finally a response came.  Eyes open, Kuryakin gave a suppressed moan and moved his head ever so slightly.  The movement brought pain far out of proportion to the act.  Mark looked into tortured blue eyes.  “What is the drug?” he inquired.  When no one answered, he became impatient and repeated the question in stentorian tones.  Illya gave a harrowing scream and promptly lost consciousness.  Spouting expletives, albeit quietly, Mark strode over to the three people against the far wall.  “Alright.  Who has the answer to my painful question?” he whispered.  It was Madeline who spoke up, also quietly.

“It’s a nerve induction amplifier.  Any noise produces extreme discomfort.  The same for touch.”

“Antidote?”

“No, this must wear off.  It may take up to six hours, depending on his metabolic rate.  It is fortunate he was unconscious when the shots were fired.  Otherwise, he would be dead.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

“Bloody monsters.” Slate hissed.  “Damned sadistic bloody monsters.”

He turned and walked back to his team. 

“We’ll have to move fast.  I have nothing to sedate him with, so we’ll move him as quickly as possible and hope he survives the trip.”

“I can provide a suitable sedative,” said Madeline quietly.  Both Walter and Nikita looked at her.  “I assure you I intend no further harm to Mr. Kuryakin,” she stated blandly.

“Yeah, right,” said Walter disgustedly.  And to Mark Slate he said,  “Look, I know this is awkward.  Nikita and I were ready to lay down our lives five minutes ago to save your friend.  This woman,” and he spat out the word with so much hate, Madeline turned to stare, “is, as you say, a sadistic monster.  I’m familiar with the ways, means and drugs employed here.  Let me assist.”

Nikita had not said a thing nor moved since he’d grouped her with the other two against the wall.  Mark had been waiting for her to do or say something.  Something about her felt right. You,” he pointed to Nikita, “will do the administering of the sedatives.  And you,” now pointing at Walter, “will assist her.  You, Madame de Sade, will surrender yourself to my team and refrain from any untoward movements.  Now move.”  Mark wasn’t as sure about the man as he was about the young woman, but felt he hadn’t much choice.  The other woman he was sure of.

Nikita, released from stasis, flew into action.  Going to the recessed cabinet in the wall she pulled out a vial and located, prepared and primed a hypo.  As she worked, she said over her shoulder, “In Medical, at the other end of this corridor, there are stretchers and blankets, I suggest you send someone with Walter to get what’s needed.”

“The corridor is clean, Sir,” Marshall reported, following a quick inspection.

“Then do it.” Mark directed Marshall and Walter to get the items needed.

 

“Thank-you,” Mark said, “very much Miss…?”

“Nikita.  And that man we sent to fetch the stretcher is Walter.  He’s a good man.  One of the few here.”

She approached Illya with the hypodermic capsule and a sterile pad drenched with antiseptic.  She gave his bloody arm a quick swipe and held the capsule to the area, steadying his arm with her other hand.  It was the first bodily contact she’d had with him while she was conscious and the effect startled her.  She felt…. Well, a rush of different sensations and emotions.  She jumped back slightly, and Slate, who was watching her very carefully, moved quickly toward her, a restraining hand ready to clamp down.  “No,” she said quietly, “nothing’s wrong.  I’m just worried.  You see here, where they were removing the wires; a lot of damage may have been done.  They were in a hurry.  Probably going to kill him, since he appeared to be failing anyway. She would have wanted to get him out in a hurry.  Those two,” and she pointed, with a slight shudder, “are not going to be missed.” 

“What kind of organization is this anyway?” Mark asked.  “I thought you were the “good guys” same as we are.”

Nikita turned to look at him.  For the first time, he saw her eyes clearly.  Lovely, huge, blue-grey eyes, set in an arresting face.  It would be hard to say just how lovely she’d be when cleaned up, but he’d bet his last tuppance that she’d be attractive enough to beguile any man with a pulse.

“That answer would take too long, just now,” Nikita murmured. 

“I’m Mark Slate, by the way, of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.”

She acknowledged his introduction with a minute nod, then glanced at the door as Walter and his escort came rattling down the hall with the stretcher and warm wraps.  “Excuse me, Mr. Slate.  I must deactivate this chair and I’ll need two of your people to catch him.”

Belatedly, Mark had Etheredge call Dancer on his comms unit.  The veteran field agent filled her in briefly.