Revolution

It had to be a trick.

“You don’t speak Russian?” said Stoner.

The man again asked, in English, whether they could use that language.

Stoner exhaled very slowly. He had to either trust the man—or shoot him. Doing nothing was more dangerous than either.

“I can speak English,” said Stoner.

The shadow took two steps forward. Though his voice was deep, he stood barely five feet tall, and had a scraggly beard that matched his thin body. He stopped abruptly, spotting the other two men a few yards behind Stoner.

“They’re with me.” Stoner gestured with his left hand. His right continued to hold the gun, his trigger finger still ready to plunge.

“This way, we go,” said the man, pointing to his right.

Stoner let him start. His stomach had tightened into a boulder. They walked eastward across the field, down to a narrow creek, then began following it northward. His escorts fell farther and farther behind; twice Stoner stopped for them.

“You trust him?” asked Deniz when he caught up the second time.

Of course not, thought Stoner. But he only shrugged.

After about a half hour of walking, the stream entered a REVOLUTION

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culvert under a paved road. The stream was wider here; and while it remained shallow, it was more than four feet across.

“Wait,” said the man who had met them. He put up his hand.

Stoner nodded. The man went up the embankment to the road.

“I don’t trust him,” said Deniz when he caught up again.

“What is he doing?”

Stoner shook his head. The elaborate precautions made sense—if a man was going to betray his comrades, he would have to expect himself to be betrayed.

“Maybe we should find some cover,” suggested Deniz. “To cover you.”

“Do it,” said Stoner.

He’d already spotted two good places on the right bank of the stream, both protected on three sides by large rocks or thick tree trunks. The Romanians saw them as well and moved toward them.

“Where are your friends?” the man asked when he returned. He looked around nervously.

“They’re here. Where is the man I’m to meet?”

“A house. Two hundred meters.” He pointed to the right.

“Lead the way.”

The man shook his head. “I’m not to go. Not your friends either. Only you.”

Stoner looked into his face. He had the face of a man who’d been beaten many times. He seemed more nervous than before.

“All right,” said Stoner. “Deniz, I’m going up the road.

Stay with our friend.”

“Yes,” Deniz called out from his hiding spot.

Stoner began walking. The setup seemed too elaborate for an ambush, but he couldn’t be sure. He tried focusing on his mission, tried pushing away the fear.

He dropped to his knee when he reached the road, sca

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

beyond a curve ahead. It was tiny, barely bigger than a garden shed would be back in the States. The woods thickened to his right, but there was a hill on his left and a clear field. He went up the hill, approaching the house from the back.

The cold ate through his coat. He opened his mouth, flexing his jaw muscles. The tendons were so stiff they popped, as if he were cracking his knuckles.

A dim light shone through the two rear windows of the house. Stoner walked up slowly, moving his head back and forth as he tried to see through them.

Nothing.

He was almost to the back of the building when he heard a footstep on the gravel in front of him. Dropping to his knee, he waited.

“Who’s there?” said a woman’s voice.

“Champagne,” said Stoner, trying not to sound surprised that his contact was a woman.

“Vin blanc.”

“Take two steps forward.”

The woman did so, walking out from the path near the corner of the building. She had a submachine gun in her hands.

“Why are you armed?” Stoner asked. His own rifle was aimed at her chest.

“It is not safe here to be without a weapon. Not for me. Nor you,” she added.

“Put your gun down,” he told her.

“And you yours.”

“All right.” But he waited until she had placed hers on the ground and stood again.

“You are the American?” asked the woman. Her English was accented, but not as heavily as Deniz’s or the man who had led him here.

“Yes.”

“You’re more than an hour late.”

“It took a while to get across the border.”

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The woman’s answer was cut short by a scream and the sound of gunfire back near the road.

Stoner scooped up his rifle. The woman already had her gun and was ru

“This way!” she yelled. “Come on!”

Before he could answer, a hail of bullets rang out from the woods, whizzing over his head.

Dreamland

1434

ANNIE KLONDIKE BENT OVER ZEN AS HE FINISHED HIS

checks. He was sitting on a folding metal stool, which had been pressed into service as a kind of launching pad so he didn’t have to start by sitting on the ground. His wheelchair was unsuitable, and the standard suits were always used standing up.

“Now listen, Jeff, no kidding,” said A

“I’m fine,” he told her, pulling on his Whiplash smart helmet, equipped with full communications gear and a video display in the visor. He reached back near his ear to the small set of controls embedded in the base, activating the integral communications set.

Da

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

nology to make its wearer invisible in the sky. But otherwise it was very similar to MESSKIT. Da

“Helmet on,” he said.

Zen could tell he was getting a kick out of playing pilot.

“Hat’s on,” he replied.

“Go to ten percent,” Da

Zen looked down at his right hand, then pushed the button he was holding with his thumb. The microjet engines in the back of the MESSKIT powered to life. They were relatively quiet, making a sound similar to a vacuum cleaner at about fifty paces.

Zen slowly twisted the control, moving the engines carefully to five percent total output, then to seven, and finally to ten. As the number 10 flashed in his visor indicator, his wings tugged him gently off the stool.

“You’re looking good,” said Da

As he said that, Da

The designers had worked hard to make the unit and its controls as intuitive as possible, but the feel of flying still took some getting used to. Zen slipped his power up two degrees and found that pushing his head forward helped him stay in place as he rose.

His helmet’s visor projected an altitude reading in the lower right corner, showing that he was 4.112 meters off the ground.

“How’s it feel?” asked Da

“Like I’m on an amusement park ride.”

Da

The sensation also reminded Zen of the zero gravity ex-