Post by Magnetar on Dec 28, 2018 18:36:25 GMT
Space and time stretch on forever, the canvas of eternity.
Waves dance across it, fleeting images formed in their passing.
Most are blinding or obscure, but there is one that is both brilliant and clear. A waveform emanating from a single focus, shot out in all directions. As it spreads it fades, wisp-like traces bouncing off the sky. A peak forms where the wave gathers, far from its origin.
Magnetar closes her eyes, and her body leaves this world for one of light.
“You’re late. You are needed on a plane that is now two hours into a transatlantic flight.”
Abigail opens her eyes. She is aware of the man leaning against the open door of her room without needing to look behind her. She would have known even had he stayed silent. He is holding a folder, which he offers to her.
“Agent Grachyov. It’s not like I have a phone you can reach me with, hm?”
She turns around and accepts the folder, leafing through its contents.
“This matter is best kept off insecure methods of communication.”
The folder is a personnel dossier of standard arrangement. She skims each page, cataloging them in her memory, then processes them mentally. The dossier describes four people: two men, two women. By the photographs one of the women is obviously her identity, with some cosmetic alterations. All are reasonable well-positioned members of the Main Intelligence Directorate.
She hands the dossier back to Grachyov, folded shut.
“Svetlana? Really?”
He looks at her, stern.
“Tell me who you are.”
“Svetlana Vetrova. I was born in June of the year nineteen-ninety-four, raised with four siblings just outside of Moscow…”
She recites the false identity almost mechanically, building it from the dossier’s blunt language as she carefully cultivates a soft Russian accent that sounds sophisticated even in English. Perfect English, of course.
“...during my teenage years, which lead to my parents realizing I may be empowered. I underwent evaluation at the Ministry of Internal Affairs, where my abilities were thoroughly tested. I possess eyesight unaffected by light level, and I have a perfect memory, both short and long term.”
Abigail pauses for just a moment to smile.
“These abilities, now properly harnessed, benefited me greatly. I started attending University prior to leaving secondary school, accelerating the pace of my education. I graduated from Moscow State University with a Masters in both Biostatistics and Forensics. I spent some years in academia, working closely with the Ministry as well as the Soviet Army, assisting on research into wound analysis and reconstructive surgery. The Main Intelligence Directorate noticed my aptitude, and I was recruited to work for the security of the Union as an assistant program manager working under Doctor Fyodor Leonov.”
She barely manages to suppress a laugh, switching back to her usual voice.
“Leonov? The same Leonov?”
In her mind she glances at the dossier. Sure enough, the Leonov pictured is the one she knows.
“I’ve been away too much. Our medicine monkey is a program director now?”
Grachyov laughs.
“In the Directorate, at least. He seems to believe that his advancement there should grant him greater status here in the Division. Of course, that would be unbecoming of a meritocracy.”
“How’d you get him to agree to do anything with me?”
“Oh, he was quite upset that his life’s work is being used as, how did he say it? Ah yes: ‘a guinea-pig for one of Grachyov’s paranoid delusions.’ To which I informed him that, if he wishes for spies to exist in this century, then he will acquiesce to my so-called delusions.”
“I’m guessing I’m the only fake on this operation then?”
“Indeed. I should note, this identity is not to be treated as disposable. You will do as you must, of course, but keep in mind that a good deal of effort went into its creation. Enough to pass customs and full background checks globally, unlike your usual tourist personas.”
“I’ll be careful. It’d help if you could give me an idea of what I’ll be doing, at least.”
“Much as I enjoy our talks, you have a plane to catch. You will be informed once you are on board.”
“And I didn’t even get the chance to sit down. Give me a lead?”
Grachyov takes out his phone. He shows it to Abigail, a flight tracker on the screen. She nods. He inputs a number then holds the phone to his ear.
“Ah, Fyodor, hello.” Grachyov speaks in Russian, a language Abigail is now intimately familiar with.
A voice can be heard on the other end, the words unintelligible but clearly said in anger.
“I don’t care, Fyodor. Tell your pilot to maintain his current heading. And be sure he keeps the cockpit door open. You’re making a pickup.”
Grachyov pulls the phone away from his face as the voice responds. The voice rants for a moment, then Grachyov looks at Abigail, mouthing the word ’Go.’
Abigail reaches out. She can feel the phone’s signal routed through the same antenna she is standing on. Between it and the plane’s trajectory, she can imagine the necessary route. Her body hums as her own waveform is generated, and she closes her eyes.
Chilled air cuts into her as Abigail materializes in the stratosphere, already rushing towards the distant surface.
She reaches out with her field to the cloud stretching out below her, halting her descent.
With none of the usual electronic interference generated by civilization her magnetic senses are finely aware of her environment. The plane is obvious with its metal construction, despite being well over five miles away.
A moment of concentration is all that is necessary and she can feel the plane’s contours, how the metal frame of the cockpit gives way to a void filled with glass.
She emits her waveform, directing it at the windshield. She is threading a needle moving at several hundred miles per hour. Fortunately, relativity is on her side.
“…machinations cause any harm to the standing of me or my program, Grachyov, I swear on the Revolution I will do unspeakable things! Unspeakable, do you understand?”
Abigail opens her eyes. She has appeared just behind the cockpit doorway, not far from Leonov, who is shouting into one of the plane’s built-in phones from the table he is sitting at. She waves at him, waggling her fingers. Past him, she sees the other occupants of the plane. A man and a woman are conversing at one table, wearing a suit and a dress uniform respectively, as well as two armed men dressed in full service gear positioned near the rear of the plane.
Leonov slams the phone onto its cradle.
“Damn bastard…”
He notices Abigail, and visibly recoils. She sits down across from him, and he regains his composure.
“As I mention it, the unspeakable arrives.”
“Oh, Doctor Leonov.” Abigail feigns offense, slipping into the voice of her latest alias.
“You wound me. Surely it is a joy to see your loyal assistant?”
Leonov rubs his temples with a circular motion, stretching and compressing the bald skin across his head.
“I would be lying had I said that is the worst part of this inane operation, but it comes a close second.”
“It’s good to see you too, Fyodor.”
“At least your Russian has improved. The bastard showed you the operative dossier, I hope?”
Abigail nods.
“The mission consists of Doctor Fyodor Leonov, current head of the Joint Biometrics Resource; Lieutenant Dinara Antipova, field lead for deployment of the Joint Resource within the Main Intelligence Directorate; Alexei Bragin, Ministry of Foreign Affairs; and of course myself, Svetlana Vetrova, assistant manager to Doctor Leonov.”
“And it is that last one which shall haunt me in the future. It seems Grachyov intends for you to ‘graduate’ from Accessory to Internal, or that is the only explanation I can imagine for the increasingly close access he has given you over these years. But never mind all of that. We only have eight hours to get you prepared.”
Fyodor snaps his fingers, pointing to Abigail and then to a storage locker in the back. One of the soldiers retrieves a briefcase from the locker, ferrying it over to them and laying it out on the table, then returning to his post.
Abigail opens the briefcase. Inside is a uniform that matches Antipova’s in design, though without decorations. It bears the name of her alias, and a few patches detailing rank or indicating assignment. Notably there is one that is used by the Ministry of Internal Affairs to designate state-employed empowereds.
“There is a lavatory in the back, should you desire privacy.”
Abigail shrugs and stands up. She dons the uniform on top her jumpsuit, the skin-tight garment not affecting the clothing’s fit. She ensures it is properly worn, small and focused uses of her power smoothing out wrinkles. Completing the ensemble she manipulates her hair using its inherent magnetism, tying it together into a braided bun. She strikes a pose, hands clasped in front of her.
Leonov looks her over, frowns, and points at her hands.
“I mentioned the lavatory in hopes that you would remove that garment of yours. It is much too obvious. You do have skin under it, yes?”
Abigail smiles. Using her power she breaks bonds in the fabric of her jumpsuit, about halfway up the forearm from each wrist. She takes the now-gloves off of her hands, folds them, and stores them in a buttoned pocket on her uniform.
Leonov releases a defeated sigh.
“I suppose that will suffice. Onto the next matter. You may have noticed from the dossier that your appearance is to be changed. There is a cosmetics kit in the briefcase. You are capable of doing your own makeup?”
She nods.
“Naturally. I don’t think that will be necessary, though. You see, I’ve been practicing.”
Abigail removes the cosmetics kit, a hard plastic case. Opening it reveals the expected assortment of makeup, colored contact lenses, and a set of silicone fingerprint prosthetics. A folder is held in place over the mirror in the case’s lid. She finds a high resolution photograph within: her own face, altered.
“I’m a fan of the eyes. Blue was always a nice color. And I suppose the freckles had to go, they are a bit childish. It’s what made them so cute.”
Holding the photograph next to the mirror so that her reflection is aligned with it, Abigail focuses on her power. She can make out the individual dipoles that form the pigments of her irises, rearranging them until her eyes match the desired hue. She applies the same treatment to her face, pushing the little splotches of melanin inward, leaving the skin cells behind.
The fingertip prostheses fit easily. She can feel the ridges of each one, and molds her own to match, breaking and bonding the facsimile dipoles into the new shapes. It is painful, but not enough to bother her. She removes the false fingertips and neatly returns them to the cosmetics kit, packing it back into the briefcase.
Abigail notices a smaller bag that had been under the uniform. It contains a passport, official identification, and a state-issued smartphone. She tries her new thumbprint on the biometric lock, and the phone’s main screen appears.
“So Doctor Leonov, now that I have arrived, will you detail my objectives?”
“You can see your ‘colleagues’ about that.” He motions to the table near the back, where Antipova and Bragin are seated.
“I will be spending the remainder of the flight organizing the past four years of work into a document that will prepare you to speak of it with at least some understanding. Know that this does not bring me pleasure.”
Abigail makes her way to the back of the plane, taking a seat at the unoccupied end of the wrap-around bench.
“Ah, Svetlana!” Antipova greets her with genuine-sounding cheer.
“It has been far too long; we really must catch up.”
The Lieutenant is on the low end of average height, but even with the dress uniform on is clearly solidly built for a woman of her stature. She has dark black hair, cut short yet still feminine, topped by a garrison cap that matches her uniform. Her gray-green eyes appear just as cheerful as she sounds.
“That is a conversation I would love, Dinara, but it’ll have to wait. Shamefully I was running late today, and missed our briefing. Would you and your acquaintance bring me up to speed on the matter?”
“Oh, my apologies for not introducing you two. Alexei, this is Miss Vetrova, Doctor Leonov’s apprentice. Svetlana, this is…”
Bragin extends his hand.
“Alexei Bragin, Ministry of Foreign Affairs. You could say I am something of a diplomat.”
Abigail shakes his hand, doing her best to match his firm grip. Bragin looks like a man almost straight out of the old Soviet propaganda: tall, blond, sturdily built, but with a friendly demeanor and a kind face. His voice is firm and charismatic to match.
“Our agenda for today is merely a matter of smoothing over some rough diplomatic matters. Svetlana, you are aware of the American Department of Empowered Welfare? They have been quite active in studying what we would call public surveillance. Specifically, facial recognition for the purpose of identifying what they refer to as villains. This stands in sharp contrast to the focus of Doctor Leonov’s Biometrics program, which is designed primarily as a resource for criminal investigations, rather than as a tool for monitoring the populace. The Premier has become concerned that this may lead to Soviet citizens facing difficulties abroad should their likeness be used by such villains as a scapegoat, especially in light of the past failures of the American justice system. We are planning to meet with the lead designer, Gail Belrose, who has been the driving force behind the project, in order to address our concerns to her and her superiors.”
Bragin leans in, lowering his voice.
“And, of course, should this technology make its way into the hands of the Central Intelligence Agency or the Federal Bureau of Investigation, many of our friends may have their carefully crafted lives uprooted. Already concerning is the Combined Armed Forces Coalition having apparently sponsored this ongoing project.”
“That sounds like rather undesirable circumstances to find ourselves in. How far along is this project?” Abigail asks.
“From what my sources understand, not far.” Antinova says. “The system has only been deployed at select government installations, and may be a ways off from widespread street-level implementation. The Premier hopes that, in the name of international cooperation and a peaceful future, our nations will be able to put aside their differences and work together on this matter, to ensure the privacy and integrity of our citizens is preserved worldwide. And, perhaps, so there may be a few gaps through which some individuals may fall.”
“The less said of that, the better.” Bragin interjects. “This operation will be risky enough as it is. Now, if we are all properly informed, I would suggest you both prepare for a long day. Thanks to the wonder of timezones, we will be landing just before oh-nine-hundred local time. We will head to the Soviet embassy, and from there prepare for our appointment at the Department’s Washington office, scheduled for eleven-hundred sharp.
Abigail smiles and nods.
“Thank you so much, the both of you. It’s been far too long since I’ve done field work with a team.”
Washington, District of Columbia, United States
Entrance to the United States, it seems, had never been easier.
Despite coming to a private gate, they had to endure general security. As expected, ‘Svetlana’ was pulled aside. The capital of America, Washington’s security is almost unparalleled, and naturally the airport had the means to detect the empowered.
Ministry badge and paperwork were presented, and she was allowed to continue unmolested.
The group was met by a driver from the Soviet embassy. That trip had proceeded in silence. Upon reaching the embassy, everything that had left their persons, phones and bags namely, were inspected for bugs. Some use of Magnetar’s power ensured that their clothes and persons would be clean of any listening devices.
From there the group was given a squadron of cars; one to carry them, and two escorts.
“May I speak out of character, as it were?” Abigail asks.
“Go ahead.” Leonov grumbles.
“This car is very well armed. A rifle and a shotgun in each door, pop-out panels for ease of access to both, and something very illegal under the front hood.”
Antipova looks at her with surprise.
“How could you tell?”
“Guns are rather dense metallic masses. How could I not?”
Bragin frowns.
“You’re using that power now?”
“It’s always on, to a degree. More sensitive when my field is active, but the potential of it provides enough sensation to work with. So, what’s with the guns? Are we expecting trouble?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that.” Leonov answers. “Just that the Americans let villains run loose, it seems. The very building were are going to was attacked not long ago. Besides, these are Special Applications vehicles. They were built by paranoid hands, and thus have tools for every conceivable threat, unlikely as they may be.”
“Hm. I can’t say it’s bad to be prepared. Speaking of, this may seem a bit late, but I haven’t quite pieced together my role here. I know Grachyov has better spooks, if he really felt the need for another spy to be involved.”
“He didn’t tell you?” Bragin says, bewildered. Abigail shakes her head.
“He didn’t, then. How best to put this…”
“You’re the bait, dear.” Antipova says. “The best way to undermine a system is to shake the people’s faith in it, and Grachyov has made you into our false positive. By starting with a real positive, of course.”
Abigail nods. Whether the plan is sensible isn’t her concern, so she merely accepts it.
The cars turn off from the road, following a driveway to an office complex. They park near the entrance, lining up in the drop-off zone.
Bragin grabs the car door's handle.
“Well ‘Svetlana,’ I hope you perform well under pressure, because we are about to enter an American government building in the company of a high-tier villain.”
He locks eyes with Abigail.
“How would you Americans say it? Ah, yes: ‘It’s showtime.’”
Waves dance across it, fleeting images formed in their passing.
Most are blinding or obscure, but there is one that is both brilliant and clear. A waveform emanating from a single focus, shot out in all directions. As it spreads it fades, wisp-like traces bouncing off the sky. A peak forms where the wave gathers, far from its origin.
Magnetar closes her eyes, and her body leaves this world for one of light.
“You’re late. You are needed on a plane that is now two hours into a transatlantic flight.”
Abigail opens her eyes. She is aware of the man leaning against the open door of her room without needing to look behind her. She would have known even had he stayed silent. He is holding a folder, which he offers to her.
“Agent Grachyov. It’s not like I have a phone you can reach me with, hm?”
She turns around and accepts the folder, leafing through its contents.
“This matter is best kept off insecure methods of communication.”
The folder is a personnel dossier of standard arrangement. She skims each page, cataloging them in her memory, then processes them mentally. The dossier describes four people: two men, two women. By the photographs one of the women is obviously her identity, with some cosmetic alterations. All are reasonable well-positioned members of the Main Intelligence Directorate.
She hands the dossier back to Grachyov, folded shut.
“Svetlana? Really?”
He looks at her, stern.
“Tell me who you are.”
“Svetlana Vetrova. I was born in June of the year nineteen-ninety-four, raised with four siblings just outside of Moscow…”
She recites the false identity almost mechanically, building it from the dossier’s blunt language as she carefully cultivates a soft Russian accent that sounds sophisticated even in English. Perfect English, of course.
“...during my teenage years, which lead to my parents realizing I may be empowered. I underwent evaluation at the Ministry of Internal Affairs, where my abilities were thoroughly tested. I possess eyesight unaffected by light level, and I have a perfect memory, both short and long term.”
Abigail pauses for just a moment to smile.
“These abilities, now properly harnessed, benefited me greatly. I started attending University prior to leaving secondary school, accelerating the pace of my education. I graduated from Moscow State University with a Masters in both Biostatistics and Forensics. I spent some years in academia, working closely with the Ministry as well as the Soviet Army, assisting on research into wound analysis and reconstructive surgery. The Main Intelligence Directorate noticed my aptitude, and I was recruited to work for the security of the Union as an assistant program manager working under Doctor Fyodor Leonov.”
She barely manages to suppress a laugh, switching back to her usual voice.
“Leonov? The same Leonov?”
In her mind she glances at the dossier. Sure enough, the Leonov pictured is the one she knows.
“I’ve been away too much. Our medicine monkey is a program director now?”
Grachyov laughs.
“In the Directorate, at least. He seems to believe that his advancement there should grant him greater status here in the Division. Of course, that would be unbecoming of a meritocracy.”
“How’d you get him to agree to do anything with me?”
“Oh, he was quite upset that his life’s work is being used as, how did he say it? Ah yes: ‘a guinea-pig for one of Grachyov’s paranoid delusions.’ To which I informed him that, if he wishes for spies to exist in this century, then he will acquiesce to my so-called delusions.”
“I’m guessing I’m the only fake on this operation then?”
“Indeed. I should note, this identity is not to be treated as disposable. You will do as you must, of course, but keep in mind that a good deal of effort went into its creation. Enough to pass customs and full background checks globally, unlike your usual tourist personas.”
“I’ll be careful. It’d help if you could give me an idea of what I’ll be doing, at least.”
“Much as I enjoy our talks, you have a plane to catch. You will be informed once you are on board.”
“And I didn’t even get the chance to sit down. Give me a lead?”
Grachyov takes out his phone. He shows it to Abigail, a flight tracker on the screen. She nods. He inputs a number then holds the phone to his ear.
“Ah, Fyodor, hello.” Grachyov speaks in Russian, a language Abigail is now intimately familiar with.
A voice can be heard on the other end, the words unintelligible but clearly said in anger.
“I don’t care, Fyodor. Tell your pilot to maintain his current heading. And be sure he keeps the cockpit door open. You’re making a pickup.”
Grachyov pulls the phone away from his face as the voice responds. The voice rants for a moment, then Grachyov looks at Abigail, mouthing the word ’Go.’
Abigail reaches out. She can feel the phone’s signal routed through the same antenna she is standing on. Between it and the plane’s trajectory, she can imagine the necessary route. Her body hums as her own waveform is generated, and she closes her eyes.
Chilled air cuts into her as Abigail materializes in the stratosphere, already rushing towards the distant surface.
She reaches out with her field to the cloud stretching out below her, halting her descent.
With none of the usual electronic interference generated by civilization her magnetic senses are finely aware of her environment. The plane is obvious with its metal construction, despite being well over five miles away.
A moment of concentration is all that is necessary and she can feel the plane’s contours, how the metal frame of the cockpit gives way to a void filled with glass.
She emits her waveform, directing it at the windshield. She is threading a needle moving at several hundred miles per hour. Fortunately, relativity is on her side.
“…machinations cause any harm to the standing of me or my program, Grachyov, I swear on the Revolution I will do unspeakable things! Unspeakable, do you understand?”
Abigail opens her eyes. She has appeared just behind the cockpit doorway, not far from Leonov, who is shouting into one of the plane’s built-in phones from the table he is sitting at. She waves at him, waggling her fingers. Past him, she sees the other occupants of the plane. A man and a woman are conversing at one table, wearing a suit and a dress uniform respectively, as well as two armed men dressed in full service gear positioned near the rear of the plane.
Leonov slams the phone onto its cradle.
“Damn bastard…”
He notices Abigail, and visibly recoils. She sits down across from him, and he regains his composure.
“As I mention it, the unspeakable arrives.”
“Oh, Doctor Leonov.” Abigail feigns offense, slipping into the voice of her latest alias.
“You wound me. Surely it is a joy to see your loyal assistant?”
Leonov rubs his temples with a circular motion, stretching and compressing the bald skin across his head.
“I would be lying had I said that is the worst part of this inane operation, but it comes a close second.”
“It’s good to see you too, Fyodor.”
“At least your Russian has improved. The bastard showed you the operative dossier, I hope?”
Abigail nods.
“The mission consists of Doctor Fyodor Leonov, current head of the Joint Biometrics Resource; Lieutenant Dinara Antipova, field lead for deployment of the Joint Resource within the Main Intelligence Directorate; Alexei Bragin, Ministry of Foreign Affairs; and of course myself, Svetlana Vetrova, assistant manager to Doctor Leonov.”
“And it is that last one which shall haunt me in the future. It seems Grachyov intends for you to ‘graduate’ from Accessory to Internal, or that is the only explanation I can imagine for the increasingly close access he has given you over these years. But never mind all of that. We only have eight hours to get you prepared.”
Fyodor snaps his fingers, pointing to Abigail and then to a storage locker in the back. One of the soldiers retrieves a briefcase from the locker, ferrying it over to them and laying it out on the table, then returning to his post.
Abigail opens the briefcase. Inside is a uniform that matches Antipova’s in design, though without decorations. It bears the name of her alias, and a few patches detailing rank or indicating assignment. Notably there is one that is used by the Ministry of Internal Affairs to designate state-employed empowereds.
“There is a lavatory in the back, should you desire privacy.”
Abigail shrugs and stands up. She dons the uniform on top her jumpsuit, the skin-tight garment not affecting the clothing’s fit. She ensures it is properly worn, small and focused uses of her power smoothing out wrinkles. Completing the ensemble she manipulates her hair using its inherent magnetism, tying it together into a braided bun. She strikes a pose, hands clasped in front of her.
Leonov looks her over, frowns, and points at her hands.
“I mentioned the lavatory in hopes that you would remove that garment of yours. It is much too obvious. You do have skin under it, yes?”
Abigail smiles. Using her power she breaks bonds in the fabric of her jumpsuit, about halfway up the forearm from each wrist. She takes the now-gloves off of her hands, folds them, and stores them in a buttoned pocket on her uniform.
Leonov releases a defeated sigh.
“I suppose that will suffice. Onto the next matter. You may have noticed from the dossier that your appearance is to be changed. There is a cosmetics kit in the briefcase. You are capable of doing your own makeup?”
She nods.
“Naturally. I don’t think that will be necessary, though. You see, I’ve been practicing.”
Abigail removes the cosmetics kit, a hard plastic case. Opening it reveals the expected assortment of makeup, colored contact lenses, and a set of silicone fingerprint prosthetics. A folder is held in place over the mirror in the case’s lid. She finds a high resolution photograph within: her own face, altered.
“I’m a fan of the eyes. Blue was always a nice color. And I suppose the freckles had to go, they are a bit childish. It’s what made them so cute.”
Holding the photograph next to the mirror so that her reflection is aligned with it, Abigail focuses on her power. She can make out the individual dipoles that form the pigments of her irises, rearranging them until her eyes match the desired hue. She applies the same treatment to her face, pushing the little splotches of melanin inward, leaving the skin cells behind.
The fingertip prostheses fit easily. She can feel the ridges of each one, and molds her own to match, breaking and bonding the facsimile dipoles into the new shapes. It is painful, but not enough to bother her. She removes the false fingertips and neatly returns them to the cosmetics kit, packing it back into the briefcase.
Abigail notices a smaller bag that had been under the uniform. It contains a passport, official identification, and a state-issued smartphone. She tries her new thumbprint on the biometric lock, and the phone’s main screen appears.
“So Doctor Leonov, now that I have arrived, will you detail my objectives?”
“You can see your ‘colleagues’ about that.” He motions to the table near the back, where Antipova and Bragin are seated.
“I will be spending the remainder of the flight organizing the past four years of work into a document that will prepare you to speak of it with at least some understanding. Know that this does not bring me pleasure.”
Abigail makes her way to the back of the plane, taking a seat at the unoccupied end of the wrap-around bench.
“Ah, Svetlana!” Antipova greets her with genuine-sounding cheer.
“It has been far too long; we really must catch up.”
The Lieutenant is on the low end of average height, but even with the dress uniform on is clearly solidly built for a woman of her stature. She has dark black hair, cut short yet still feminine, topped by a garrison cap that matches her uniform. Her gray-green eyes appear just as cheerful as she sounds.
“That is a conversation I would love, Dinara, but it’ll have to wait. Shamefully I was running late today, and missed our briefing. Would you and your acquaintance bring me up to speed on the matter?”
“Oh, my apologies for not introducing you two. Alexei, this is Miss Vetrova, Doctor Leonov’s apprentice. Svetlana, this is…”
Bragin extends his hand.
“Alexei Bragin, Ministry of Foreign Affairs. You could say I am something of a diplomat.”
Abigail shakes his hand, doing her best to match his firm grip. Bragin looks like a man almost straight out of the old Soviet propaganda: tall, blond, sturdily built, but with a friendly demeanor and a kind face. His voice is firm and charismatic to match.
“Our agenda for today is merely a matter of smoothing over some rough diplomatic matters. Svetlana, you are aware of the American Department of Empowered Welfare? They have been quite active in studying what we would call public surveillance. Specifically, facial recognition for the purpose of identifying what they refer to as villains. This stands in sharp contrast to the focus of Doctor Leonov’s Biometrics program, which is designed primarily as a resource for criminal investigations, rather than as a tool for monitoring the populace. The Premier has become concerned that this may lead to Soviet citizens facing difficulties abroad should their likeness be used by such villains as a scapegoat, especially in light of the past failures of the American justice system. We are planning to meet with the lead designer, Gail Belrose, who has been the driving force behind the project, in order to address our concerns to her and her superiors.”
Bragin leans in, lowering his voice.
“And, of course, should this technology make its way into the hands of the Central Intelligence Agency or the Federal Bureau of Investigation, many of our friends may have their carefully crafted lives uprooted. Already concerning is the Combined Armed Forces Coalition having apparently sponsored this ongoing project.”
“That sounds like rather undesirable circumstances to find ourselves in. How far along is this project?” Abigail asks.
“From what my sources understand, not far.” Antinova says. “The system has only been deployed at select government installations, and may be a ways off from widespread street-level implementation. The Premier hopes that, in the name of international cooperation and a peaceful future, our nations will be able to put aside their differences and work together on this matter, to ensure the privacy and integrity of our citizens is preserved worldwide. And, perhaps, so there may be a few gaps through which some individuals may fall.”
“The less said of that, the better.” Bragin interjects. “This operation will be risky enough as it is. Now, if we are all properly informed, I would suggest you both prepare for a long day. Thanks to the wonder of timezones, we will be landing just before oh-nine-hundred local time. We will head to the Soviet embassy, and from there prepare for our appointment at the Department’s Washington office, scheduled for eleven-hundred sharp.
Abigail smiles and nods.
“Thank you so much, the both of you. It’s been far too long since I’ve done field work with a team.”
Washington, District of Columbia, United States
Entrance to the United States, it seems, had never been easier.
Despite coming to a private gate, they had to endure general security. As expected, ‘Svetlana’ was pulled aside. The capital of America, Washington’s security is almost unparalleled, and naturally the airport had the means to detect the empowered.
Ministry badge and paperwork were presented, and she was allowed to continue unmolested.
The group was met by a driver from the Soviet embassy. That trip had proceeded in silence. Upon reaching the embassy, everything that had left their persons, phones and bags namely, were inspected for bugs. Some use of Magnetar’s power ensured that their clothes and persons would be clean of any listening devices.
From there the group was given a squadron of cars; one to carry them, and two escorts.
“May I speak out of character, as it were?” Abigail asks.
“Go ahead.” Leonov grumbles.
“This car is very well armed. A rifle and a shotgun in each door, pop-out panels for ease of access to both, and something very illegal under the front hood.”
Antipova looks at her with surprise.
“How could you tell?”
“Guns are rather dense metallic masses. How could I not?”
Bragin frowns.
“You’re using that power now?”
“It’s always on, to a degree. More sensitive when my field is active, but the potential of it provides enough sensation to work with. So, what’s with the guns? Are we expecting trouble?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that.” Leonov answers. “Just that the Americans let villains run loose, it seems. The very building were are going to was attacked not long ago. Besides, these are Special Applications vehicles. They were built by paranoid hands, and thus have tools for every conceivable threat, unlikely as they may be.”
“Hm. I can’t say it’s bad to be prepared. Speaking of, this may seem a bit late, but I haven’t quite pieced together my role here. I know Grachyov has better spooks, if he really felt the need for another spy to be involved.”
“He didn’t tell you?” Bragin says, bewildered. Abigail shakes her head.
“He didn’t, then. How best to put this…”
“You’re the bait, dear.” Antipova says. “The best way to undermine a system is to shake the people’s faith in it, and Grachyov has made you into our false positive. By starting with a real positive, of course.”
Abigail nods. Whether the plan is sensible isn’t her concern, so she merely accepts it.
The cars turn off from the road, following a driveway to an office complex. They park near the entrance, lining up in the drop-off zone.
Bragin grabs the car door's handle.
“Well ‘Svetlana,’ I hope you perform well under pressure, because we are about to enter an American government building in the company of a high-tier villain.”
He locks eyes with Abigail.
“How would you Americans say it? Ah, yes: ‘It’s showtime.’”
