[Witches' Horses] Witches' Horses
Title: suspicions
'Verse/characters: Witches' Horses; Stas, Sergeievich
Prompt: 01B "magic"
Word Count: 1439
Notes: follows lies, lies and more lies. Stas makes a gesture. Sergeivich has a mild Moment. These are not necessarily related.
Having catapulted the wordcount on this story well past any of the other russian-based stories, I pay mild (easter-egg level) attention to the one of the other sparkpoints involved.
Stas looked official all the way down the hallway and into the free stables, then ducked into a tack room and locked the door behind him. After reknotting his hair into its customary messy crest, he sat down at the scarred metal table and opened the box.
At first glance, it looked like a jumble of fabrics and lumps, but once he started pulling things out and laying them on the table he started recognising elements. A pair of tall black boots, with seals he wouldn't have dinged one of his subordinates for, accompanied by a sticky-note on the right sole that the linings and heels should be examined. The bulky black jacket the man'd been wearing when they went to talk to him, turned partially inside out and a fair number of pockets exposed. Its note indicated that it was heavier than it should be, even allowing for the outer material being some sort of cured animal hide. Something like eight potential weapons, of a size to fit in pockets, including a nasty-looking knife that was primly sticky-noted to be tested for poison. The knife had a corresponding sheath inside the lining of the coat, angled for a slashing draw.
What actually surprised him was the last thing in the box--the eyepatch. Which was not, in fact, an eyepatch, but a fairly sophisticated computer--no visible keyboard, maybe somewhere on skin or clothing?--with white text printed on the inner screen.
When he tilted the screen, he saw the printing read 'Bite me.'
He clapped a hand over his mouth in time to stop the shout of laughter, but only just barely. When he flipped the patch over, he nearly did it again. A sticky-note was attached to the outer side, and said 'Don't plug into anything--possibly viral'.
He had to put his head down on the table and laugh himself sick before he could actually start planning what he was going to do with the evidence.
If the engineer had been carrying whatever everyone was after on his person when he was arrested, there was no getting it back now. He'd have to trust that the man was competent enough not to have been--or that the blond bastard was smart enough to keep the thing hidden on the horse, which considering his recent experience with engineers he was more inclined to bet on. So. The thing was on the horse, and the horse had run, when the word of the arrests got out--and probably only on security bands, at that.
He eyed the little computer, wondering if it was sturdy enough to send messages between a rider and a horse, or the rest of the horse's crew. If it was, that might have been all that was needed--a burst of 'run' before the computer was shut down. If it wasn't, that implied the horse could eavesdrop on conversations. Not exactly a comfortable thought, but he couldn't dismiss it, especially without good evidence.
He bundled everything back into the box, stripped the official seals off it, and headed out again, pausing in the central train station to pick up a key to a storage locker before he took a lift to a library with mirrors and access to singers as well as books.
Settling himself as comfortably as he could in a chair designed for a terem-dweller, he flicked up the privacy screens, ran a few mousetraps through the system, and made a call.
"Sergeievich."
"Hey, Boss. Can you send me any mirror images of Chevalier de Grammont moving? Preferably more than one set, if we know whether or not the blond bastard's on her?"
"What address should I use?" Sergeievich sounded half-distracted, but listening. Stas figured he was fishing in the mirror records.
Stas looked down at the mirror, looking for the public-address symbols, then rattled them off, with a note as to which library he was in, in case Sergeievich needed to get hold of him, and let the connection go.
Ten minutes later, he was frowning intently at two moving horses, leaned back in the uncomfortable chair and watching the sequences over and over again.
Sergeievich had found him near-matching sequences of events--the horse running from a stable door into the black, dodging a few obstacles in her path and disappearing into the distance--but one of them was just after her rider had been arrested on the terem.
What was bothering him about the images was that when the rider was known to be off her, she was--though only to knowledgeable eyes--discernibly faster, both in reaction speed and distance covered. So either the blond bastard was one of two incredible riders--he refused to contemplate the idea that the bastard didn't ride, not with the way the man moved--or the horse was one tricky bitch herself.
Much to his surprise, he was inclined to the idea that the horse was a tricky bitch. To hide another rider that good would require the man--or woman--to rarely leave the horse, to the point of 'never'. The records suggested supplies enough for a crew of three or four, plus the engineer as a passenger, but they were patchy enough that it might be two or three, and a longer time between supply runs.
He gnawed on his lip for a while, watching the horse run, again and again and again, then summarily deleted both files, purged the archive twice, then downloaded a cursory run of pornographic images and deleted them too.
Sergeievich was fielding demands for engineers to help track down the mess in the wiring when he got back aboard the ship, and he got to listen in on the General being very calm, polite, and implacable about the fact that he had requested a group of engineers to repair a problem on his ship, they were working in isolation, and he was not going to give them back until the job was done. No, really. He didn't care that half the diplomatic suites had tweaked light and to ninety degrees of their usual gravity. Soothing the feathers of ruffled scientists was not one of his duties--would you like to take this up with the Tsar? No? Alright then. Goodbye.
Stas applauded after the mirror went dark and the singer irised closed, and Sergeievich made a face. "Did you really manage to kill something badly enough to get all of their really good engineers over here?"
"I thought you didn't want to know," Stas replied innocently. "But as it happens, no. They're not equipped to look for a human element, yet--we'd have caught this in the first four hours and flushed the whole area to the black."
"If something doesn't resolve soon, I may suggest it." Sergeievich sighed, rubbing at his temples. "I haven't spotted that damned horse on any of the blind spots, yet. They're running out of time."
Stas hesitated, some thought he couldn't name running around in the back of his head, then pushed off the wall, rearranging himself to be able to see the hand mirror over Sergeievich's shoulder. "Boss, have you got data on things like seal pressure for the vezha?"
"Officially, no. Why?" Sergeievich was playing with the mirror, thumbs brushing against frame and screen as he navigated a maze of systems.
"Check the pressures for a full day and night on that section that's got gravity problems."
" . . . lightning saints." Sergeievich stared at the mirror, his expression wavering between something very like awe and deep offense.
Stas very carefully did not laugh, or make a sign for any sort of deity. Even if the general's face was really, really funny, and the odds of successfully getting two unprotected men out a window and safely into a horse (let alone unseen) were so astronomically absurd as to be magical.
"You could release those engineers now," he said noncommittally.
"They're not done fixing the zastava yet," Sergeievich told him. "We'll be here another four days."
Neither of them mentioned that this would put them safely into the time range that wouldn't draw suspicion.
Stas sent a message later that evening, addressed to--depending on how you looked at it--a Pride of Mozhaysk, a Perun's Hammer, or Le Chevalier de Grammont.
It said, very simply, If you happen to run into a pushy blond bastard, the things that were taken off him in Tver are in the central train station in the free-stable terem. The locker is the current exchange rate of wheat for kopecks, the key 'tulips'.
Much to his surprise, he got a reply a day and a half later, in the same white text of the patch's message but apparently originating from a ship he happened to know had died in the war. The message said only Thank you.
'Verse/characters: Witches' Horses; Stas, Sergeievich
Prompt: 01B "magic"
Word Count: 1439
Notes: follows lies, lies and more lies. Stas makes a gesture. Sergeivich has a mild Moment. These are not necessarily related.
Having catapulted the wordcount on this story well past any of the other russian-based stories, I pay mild (easter-egg level) attention to the one of the other sparkpoints involved.
Stas looked official all the way down the hallway and into the free stables, then ducked into a tack room and locked the door behind him. After reknotting his hair into its customary messy crest, he sat down at the scarred metal table and opened the box.
At first glance, it looked like a jumble of fabrics and lumps, but once he started pulling things out and laying them on the table he started recognising elements. A pair of tall black boots, with seals he wouldn't have dinged one of his subordinates for, accompanied by a sticky-note on the right sole that the linings and heels should be examined. The bulky black jacket the man'd been wearing when they went to talk to him, turned partially inside out and a fair number of pockets exposed. Its note indicated that it was heavier than it should be, even allowing for the outer material being some sort of cured animal hide. Something like eight potential weapons, of a size to fit in pockets, including a nasty-looking knife that was primly sticky-noted to be tested for poison. The knife had a corresponding sheath inside the lining of the coat, angled for a slashing draw.
What actually surprised him was the last thing in the box--the eyepatch. Which was not, in fact, an eyepatch, but a fairly sophisticated computer--no visible keyboard, maybe somewhere on skin or clothing?--with white text printed on the inner screen.
When he tilted the screen, he saw the printing read 'Bite me.'
He clapped a hand over his mouth in time to stop the shout of laughter, but only just barely. When he flipped the patch over, he nearly did it again. A sticky-note was attached to the outer side, and said 'Don't plug into anything--possibly viral'.
He had to put his head down on the table and laugh himself sick before he could actually start planning what he was going to do with the evidence.
If the engineer had been carrying whatever everyone was after on his person when he was arrested, there was no getting it back now. He'd have to trust that the man was competent enough not to have been--or that the blond bastard was smart enough to keep the thing hidden on the horse, which considering his recent experience with engineers he was more inclined to bet on. So. The thing was on the horse, and the horse had run, when the word of the arrests got out--and probably only on security bands, at that.
He eyed the little computer, wondering if it was sturdy enough to send messages between a rider and a horse, or the rest of the horse's crew. If it was, that might have been all that was needed--a burst of 'run' before the computer was shut down. If it wasn't, that implied the horse could eavesdrop on conversations. Not exactly a comfortable thought, but he couldn't dismiss it, especially without good evidence.
He bundled everything back into the box, stripped the official seals off it, and headed out again, pausing in the central train station to pick up a key to a storage locker before he took a lift to a library with mirrors and access to singers as well as books.
Settling himself as comfortably as he could in a chair designed for a terem-dweller, he flicked up the privacy screens, ran a few mousetraps through the system, and made a call.
"Sergeievich."
"Hey, Boss. Can you send me any mirror images of Chevalier de Grammont moving? Preferably more than one set, if we know whether or not the blond bastard's on her?"
"What address should I use?" Sergeievich sounded half-distracted, but listening. Stas figured he was fishing in the mirror records.
Stas looked down at the mirror, looking for the public-address symbols, then rattled them off, with a note as to which library he was in, in case Sergeievich needed to get hold of him, and let the connection go.
Ten minutes later, he was frowning intently at two moving horses, leaned back in the uncomfortable chair and watching the sequences over and over again.
Sergeievich had found him near-matching sequences of events--the horse running from a stable door into the black, dodging a few obstacles in her path and disappearing into the distance--but one of them was just after her rider had been arrested on the terem.
What was bothering him about the images was that when the rider was known to be off her, she was--though only to knowledgeable eyes--discernibly faster, both in reaction speed and distance covered. So either the blond bastard was one of two incredible riders--he refused to contemplate the idea that the bastard didn't ride, not with the way the man moved--or the horse was one tricky bitch herself.
Much to his surprise, he was inclined to the idea that the horse was a tricky bitch. To hide another rider that good would require the man--or woman--to rarely leave the horse, to the point of 'never'. The records suggested supplies enough for a crew of three or four, plus the engineer as a passenger, but they were patchy enough that it might be two or three, and a longer time between supply runs.
He gnawed on his lip for a while, watching the horse run, again and again and again, then summarily deleted both files, purged the archive twice, then downloaded a cursory run of pornographic images and deleted them too.
Sergeievich was fielding demands for engineers to help track down the mess in the wiring when he got back aboard the ship, and he got to listen in on the General being very calm, polite, and implacable about the fact that he had requested a group of engineers to repair a problem on his ship, they were working in isolation, and he was not going to give them back until the job was done. No, really. He didn't care that half the diplomatic suites had tweaked light and to ninety degrees of their usual gravity. Soothing the feathers of ruffled scientists was not one of his duties--would you like to take this up with the Tsar? No? Alright then. Goodbye.
Stas applauded after the mirror went dark and the singer irised closed, and Sergeievich made a face. "Did you really manage to kill something badly enough to get all of their really good engineers over here?"
"I thought you didn't want to know," Stas replied innocently. "But as it happens, no. They're not equipped to look for a human element, yet--we'd have caught this in the first four hours and flushed the whole area to the black."
"If something doesn't resolve soon, I may suggest it." Sergeievich sighed, rubbing at his temples. "I haven't spotted that damned horse on any of the blind spots, yet. They're running out of time."
Stas hesitated, some thought he couldn't name running around in the back of his head, then pushed off the wall, rearranging himself to be able to see the hand mirror over Sergeievich's shoulder. "Boss, have you got data on things like seal pressure for the vezha?"
"Officially, no. Why?" Sergeievich was playing with the mirror, thumbs brushing against frame and screen as he navigated a maze of systems.
"Check the pressures for a full day and night on that section that's got gravity problems."
" . . . lightning saints." Sergeievich stared at the mirror, his expression wavering between something very like awe and deep offense.
Stas very carefully did not laugh, or make a sign for any sort of deity. Even if the general's face was really, really funny, and the odds of successfully getting two unprotected men out a window and safely into a horse (let alone unseen) were so astronomically absurd as to be magical.
"You could release those engineers now," he said noncommittally.
"They're not done fixing the zastava yet," Sergeievich told him. "We'll be here another four days."
Neither of them mentioned that this would put them safely into the time range that wouldn't draw suspicion.
Stas sent a message later that evening, addressed to--depending on how you looked at it--a Pride of Mozhaysk, a Perun's Hammer, or Le Chevalier de Grammont.
It said, very simply, If you happen to run into a pushy blond bastard, the things that were taken off him in Tver are in the central train station in the free-stable terem. The locker is the current exchange rate of wheat for kopecks, the key 'tulips'.
Much to his surprise, he got a reply a day and a half later, in the same white text of the patch's message but apparently originating from a ship he happened to know had died in the war. The message said only Thank you.