Eric James Stone's Blog, page 23

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Unforgettable – Chapter 6

Careful not to make any sudden moves, I raised my hands. "I surrender." If I just played along, my chance to escape would come. I rose from my knees and turned to face my captor.

It was Yelena.

The circle of the gun barrel glinted a steady silver. "What do I do with you?" she said, in English.

"Let me go? I promise never to do it again."

She chuckled. "I am to believe that?"

I backed away a little, in the direction of the bathroom. I'd read her file. She wasn't a killer, so she probably wouldn't shoot if I ran for the bathroom. Probably. And she would think she had me trapped. Then if I could just keep the door closed long enough, I would have a chance.

"Really," I said, "you don't want to shoot me. You'd have to clean up all the blood, and disposing of a body is a real hassle."

She shrugged. "No hassle. I call police, say I shoot burglar. They dispose of body."

"Well, then, think of all the annoying paperwork." I tensed myself, preparing to lunge for the bathroom. I would do it in the middle of my next sentence, to catch her as off guard as possible.

"I do not want to kill you, Nat," she said, "but I must have prototype."

I started to speak, then just stood there with my mouth open as the full impact of what she had said hit me. She had called me Nat.

"What did you call me?" I finally asked, not sure I believed it.

"Nat," she said. "Is name you give me in Barcelona. You have different one now?"

My heart raced. "You … can remember me?" Had my talent stopped working? No, people still forgot me after Barcelona.

Yelena raised an eyebrow. "How can I forget my handcuff partner? When I see you across street, I know you plan to search for prototype, so I come back."

Obviously, she remembered. Was she just naturally able to block my talent? No, she had forgotten taking the prototype from me at gunpoint the first time we met.

Since she could remember me, my talent was useless in trying to escape from her. But I didn't want to escape — I wanted to find out why she hadn't forgotten me. Could it somehow be the result of the magnetic lock in the handcuffs?

It would be really stupid to get myself killed the first time I met someone who could remember me. I had to gain her trust somehow.

I wouldn't be able to try multiple approaches with Yelena, so honesty was my only option that could work in the long term. "My name is Nat Morgan. I'm a CIA officer. My assignment was to steal back the prototype and switch it with a fake. The fake is in one of my pockets. Is it okay if I take it out very slowly?"

She nodded, so with deliberate slowness I unbuttoned the pocket and withdrew the fake prototype. I turned it so she could see both sides.

"Why switch?" she asked. "Why not just steal?"

"Because the fake has a tracking device—"

She swore in Russian. "Drop it on floor and destroy."

"Wait," I said. "The CIA isn't after you. We just want to track where the prototype goes. We know you're selling it to Jamshidi, and we want to track it to his lab."

"Very nice plan for you," she said. "And when Iranians find prototype not work and has tracking device, not so nice plan for me."

"You're right," I said. "I hadn't considered what might happen to you if my plan succeeded. But if you help me locate Jamshidi's lab, then I can protect you, give you a new identity in the United States. For your mother and sisters, too."

Yelena stiffened. "What do you know of my sisters?"

Maybe mentioning her sisters had been a mistake. But I couldn't restart the conversation, so I had to make the best of it. "I know they're with their father, when legally they should be with your mother. But maybe the chance to move to America would tempt them away from their—"

"I not move to America," she said. "I must work for the Bukharins." She almost spat that last word.

On the plane, I had been puzzled by Yelena's willingness to work for the mob. But from the hatred in her voice I realized they were forcing her to work for them, probably through blackmail or extortion. "Have they threatened your family?" I asked. "If we can get your family out—"

"Is too late," she said. "Bukharins take my sisters last year and sell them. High price for twins on sex slave market."

"But I thought they were with your stepfather."

"They leave note, but I know is lie. They hate him — they never go live with him. Then I find picture of them for sale by Bukharins. I quit SVR to infiltrate syndicate and find where they sell my sisters."

During the course of her explanation, her hand holding the gun lowered. The gun now pointed at the floor instead of me. I could have run, but instead I sat down on the edge of the bed.

"And have you found where they were sent?" I asked.

"No." She sniffled. "Ten months I work for them, but they not trust me yet. They not give me access to files."

"But you're a great thief," I said. "Why haven't you broken in to steal the files?"

"Too dangerous. If anyone without proper authority steal or look at the files, then they maybe they move or kill my sisters."

I nodded. "So you've been trying to work your way up in the organization until you're authorized to access the files, including your sisters'."

"Yes. But may never happen." Frustration filled her voice.

"If I could get the information on your sisters without tipping off the Bukharins, would you help me get the location of Jamshidi's lab?"

"Is finding lab so important?" she asked. "There must be easier way. Why risk for me and my sisters?"

Maybe because she was the one person who could remember me. Maybe because saving girls in trouble made me more like the hero my mother wanted me to be. But I couldn't say that.

So I shrugged and said, "How could I desert my handcuff partner?"

* * *

After a casual surveillance stroll around the block that housed Klub Kosmos and the Bukharin Syndicate's headquarters, Yelena and I sat in a booth in a bar in downtown Moscow to plan our operation.

"Once inside club," she said, "I get guard to let us into private rooms in back."

I had a sudden moment of doubt. In the past, forgetfulness about me had always spread from the people I met to include the people they talked to about me. But since my talent didn't work on Yelena, maybe it wouldn't extend to the people she talked to about me. That would make my plan unworkable, because I was relying on her to talk me past the guards, who would then forget me.

"We need to test something," I said. "Introduce me to someone."

"Who?"

"Anyone."

She stood and beckoned me to follow her to the bar. "Vasilyi!" she yelled, and one of the bartenders came over. They exchanged some words in Russian.

Vasilyi leaned over the bar to me and said in English, "What can I get you, bubba?"

"Diet Coke," I said.

He poured me one. "On the house."

"Thanks," I said. I took a sip, then put it down. "Let's go," I said to Yelena.

"Where?"

"Somewhere he can't see us."

She rolled her eyes and took me to the back of the bar near the restrooms. "Good enough?"

I looked back and couldn't see the bartender. "Good enough."

"What is this about?"

"I'll show you in a minute."

She heaved an exaggerated sigh. As we stood there and my mental clock ticked off the seconds, I felt foolish — here I was with a beautiful woman who could remember me, and all I could do was annoy her.

"Okay," I said. "Take me back to Vasilyi and ask if he remembers me."

"Why?"

"Please, just humor me."

Back at the bar, she summoned Vasilyi again and asked him something in Russian. He sized me up, then shook his head. They talked a little more, with Yelena looking more and more puzzled as the conversation progressed. Meanwhile, I grew more and more relieved. My talent still worked on everyone but Yelena.

Finally, Vasilyi leaned over the bar to me and said in English, "What can I get you, bubba?"

"Diet Coke," I said.

He poured me one. "On the house."

"Thanks." I picked up the drink and motioned toward our booth.

"He say I must be drunk," said Yelena, "because he never meet you before. How do you make him forget?"

"I'm very forgettable," I said. "It's a talent I have."

"Talent?"

"It's happened ever since I was a baby. No one can remember me for more than a minute after they don't see or hear me."

A cute wrinkle appeared in her brow as she looked at me skeptically.

"I'm serious," I said. "You've seen it work twice now."

"Twice?"

"Remember the guard who locked us up in Barcelona? I was able to surprise him because he didn't remember I was there."

"But … how is such a thing possible?" There was still and edge of incredulity in her voice.

I shrugged. "I wish I knew. I used to think maybe it was some sort of pheromone I give off, but since it works against computers, that can't be it."

"What do you mean, works against computers?"

"Information about me just disappears from anything electronic. That includes any computer logs of my actions, which is why I can be so sure I can find the info about your sisters without leaving a trace."

"Is incredible," she said, but her tone conveyed acceptance.

"I've learned to live with it. Use it to my advantage — it really helps when I'm on a mission."

"Make you sloppy," she said.

Now it was my turn to be puzzled. "Sloppy?"

"You expect me to forget you — that why you not hide your face outside my building. I not like working with sloppy people. The plan is too risky."

"Yelena," I said, "you are the first person in my life to remember me when seeing me again. The first person ever. I wasn't sloppy — I didn't even know it was possible for someone to remember me until you said my name. We're connected somehow, and that's why I want to help you find your sisters. Trust me, I can do this."

She studied my face for a few seconds, then said, "I will trust you."

* * *

Even outside Klub Kosmos, I could feel the bass beat in my chest. Yelena bypassed the line and walked right up to one of the bouncers, with me right behind her. The bouncer, a barrel-chested man wearing a black suit and black tee-shirt, unhooked the velvet rope to let Yelena in.

"He's with me," she said in Russian, jerking a thumb over her shoulder in my direction.

The bouncer gave me a nod and let me pass.

Once inside the door, we had to pass through a metal detector. Yelena handed her purse to another bouncer, who took a casual look inside. The gun didn't faze him — he closed the purse and handed it to her on the other side. The Bukharins trusted her to be armed in their club, which meant they didn't know she knew what they'd done her sisters.

The closest thing I had to a weapon was the carbon-composite lockpick set I had stowed in the waistband of my underwear, so I made it through the detector without setting off any alarms. Taking my hand, Yelena guided me through the mass of gyrating bodies on the dance floor to the rear of the club.

I couldn't help worrying that she would feel the sweat on my palms. Maybe she would think I was too nervous about the operation and would abort. I was nervous, I realized, even though missions like this were almost routine for me. The difference was that this time I had an audience I needed to impress, and who could remember if I messed things up.

After Yelena vouched for me, the guard let us into the private rooms. As the door closed behind us, the club's sounds faded to only mildly ear-shattering. Yelena led me up a narrow flight of stairs, then knocked on a door.

We were admitted by another guard. Thick red carpet — just the right color to hide bloodstains — muffled our footsteps as we entered the office. A silver-haired man sat behind a large glass desk. From the file I'd read on the Bukharin syndicate, I recognized him as Dmitri Ivanovich Bukharin, one of the three brothers in charge.

When he saw us, he rose.

"Yelena, it is always a pleasure," Dmitri said in Russian. "I just wired payment for the Barcelona job to your account." He glanced at me and added, "And who is your guest?"

"His name is Nat Morgan," she said. With one quick movement, her gun was out of her purse and shoved into my ribs.

"Yelena!" I said. "What are you—"

"Shut up." Her voice was all business as she backed away, keeping her gun aimed at me. She continued in Russian, "He's the CIA officer who interfered with me during the Barcelona job. He tracked me down, so I pretended to let him convince me to help find the Iranians' lab."

Dmitri chuckled, then spoke in English. "You should be more careful who you trust, Mr. Nat Morgan of the CIA."

"Obviously," I said.

 

 

Careful not to make any sudden moves, I raised my hands. "I surrender." If I just played along, my chance to escape would come. I rose from my knees and turned to face my captor.

It was Yelena.

The circle of the gun barrel glinted a steady silver. "What do I do with you?" she said, in English.

"Let me go? I promise never to do it again."

She chuckled. "I am to believe that?"

I backed away a little, in the direction of the bathroom. I'd read her file. She wasn't a killer, so she probably wouldn't shoot if I ran for the bathroom. Probably. And she would think she had me trapped. Then if I could just keep the door closed long enough, I would have a chance.

"Really," I said, "you don't want to shoot me. You'd have to clean up all the blood, and disposing of a body is a real hassle."

She shrugged. "No hassle. I call police, say I shoot burglar. They dispose of body."

"Well, then, think of all the annoying paperwork." I tensed myself, preparing to lunge for the bathroom. I would do it in the middle of my next sentence, to catch her as off guard as possible.

"I do not want to kill you, Nat," she said, "but I must have prototype."

I started to speak, then just stood there with my mouth open as the full impact of what she had said hit me. She had called me Nat.

"What did you call me?" I finally asked, not sure I believed it.

"Nat," she said. "Is name you give me in Barcelona. You have different one now?"

My heart raced. "You … can remember me?" Had my talent stopped working? No, people still forgot me after Barcelona.

Yelena raised an eyebrow. "How can I forget my handcuff partner? When I see you across street, I know you plan to search for prototype, so I come back."

Obviously, she remembered. Was she just naturally able to block my talent? No, she had forgotten taking the prototype from me at gunpoint the first time we met.

Since she could remember me, my talent was useless in trying to escape from her. But I didn't want to escape — I wanted to find out why she hadn't forgotten me. Could it somehow be the result of the magnetic lock in the handcuffs?

It would be really stupid to get myself killed the first time I met someone who could remember me. I had to gain her trust somehow.

I wouldn't be able to try multiple approaches with Yelena, so honesty was my only option that could work in the long term. "My name is Nat Morgan. I'm a CIA officer. My assignment was to steal back the prototype and switch it with a fake. The fake is in one of my pockets. Is it okay if I take it out very slowly?"

She nodded, so with deliberate slowness I unbuttoned the pocket and withdrew the fake prototype. I turned it so she could see both sides.

"Why switch?" she asked. "Why not just steal?"

"Because the fake has a tracking device—"

She swore in Russian. "Drop it on floor and destroy."

"Wait," I said. "The CIA isn't after you. We just want to track where the prototype goes. We know you're selling it to Jamshidi, and we want to track it to his lab."

"Very nice plan for you," she said. "And when Iranians find prototype not work and has tracking device, not so nice plan for me."

"You're right," I said. "I hadn't considered what might happen to you if my plan succeeded. But if you help me locate Jamshidi's lab, then I can protect you, give you a new identity in the United States. For your mother and sisters, too."

Yelena stiffened. "What do you know of my sisters?"

Maybe mentioning her sisters had been a mistake. But I couldn't restart the conversation, so I had to make the best of it. "I know they're with their father, when legally they should be with your mother. But maybe the chance to move to America would tempt them away from their—"

"I not move to America," she said. "I must work for the Bukharins." She almost spat that last word.

On the plane, I had been puzzled by Yelena's willingness to work for the mob. But from the hatred in her voice I realized they were forcing her to work for them, probably through blackmail or extortion. "Have they threatened your family?" I asked. "If we can get your family out—"

"Is too late," she said. "Bukharins take my sisters last year and sell them. High price for twins on sex slave market."

"But I thought they were with your stepfather."

"They leave note, but I know is lie. They hate him — they never go live with him. Then I find picture of them for sale by Bukharins. I quit SVR to infiltrate syndicate and find where they sell my sisters."

During the course of her explanation, her hand holding the gun lowered. The gun now pointed at the floor instead of me. I could have run, but instead I sat down on the edge of the bed.

"And have you found where they were sent?" I asked.

"No." She sniffled. "Ten months I work for them, but they not trust me yet. They not give me access to files."

"But you're a great thief," I said. "Why haven't you broken in to steal the files?"

"Too dangerous. If anyone without proper authority steal or look at the files, then they maybe they move or kill my sisters."

I nodded. "So you've been trying to work your way up in the organization until you're authorized to access the files, including your sisters'."

"Yes. But may never happen." Frustration filled her voice.

"If I could get the information on your sisters without tipping off the Bukharins, would you help me get the location of Jamshidi's lab?"

"Is finding lab so important?" she asked. "There must be easier way. Why risk for me and my sisters?"

Maybe because she was the one person who could remember me. Maybe because saving girls in trouble made me more like the hero my mother wanted me to be. But I couldn't say that.

So I shrugged and said, "How could I desert my handcuff partner?"

* * *

After a casual surveillance stroll around the block that housed Klub Kosmos and the Bukharin Syndicate's headquarters, Yelena and I sat in a booth in a bar in downtown Moscow to plan our operation.

"Once inside club," she said, "I get guard to let us into private rooms in back."

I had a sudden moment of doubt. In the past, forgetfulness about me had always spread from the people I met to include the people they talked to about me. But since my talent didn't work on Yelena, maybe it wouldn't extend to the people she talked to about me. That would make my plan unworkable, because I was relying on her to talk me past the guards, who would then forget me.

"We need to test something," I said. "Introduce me to someone."

"Who?"

"Anyone."

She stood and beckoned me to follow her to the bar. "Vasilyi!" she yelled, and one of the bartenders came over. They exchanged some words in Russian.

Vasilyi leaned over the bar to me and said in English, "What can I get you, bubba?"

"Diet Coke," I said.

He poured me one. "On the house."

"Thanks," I said. I took a sip, then put it down. "Let's go," I said to Yelena.

"Where?"

"Somewhere he can't see us."

She rolled her eyes and took me to the back of the bar near the restrooms. "Good enough?"

I looked back and couldn't see the bartender. "Good enough."

"What is this about?"

"I'll show you in a minute."

She heaved an exaggerated sigh. As we stood there and my mental clock ticked off the seconds, I felt foolish — here I was with a beautiful woman who could remember me, and all I could do was annoy her.

"Okay," I said. "Take me back to Vasilyi and ask if he remembers me."

"Why?"

"Please, just humor me."

Back at the bar, she summoned Vasilyi again and asked him something in Russian. He sized me up, then shook his head. They talked a little more, with Yelena looking more and more puzzled as the conversation progressed. Meanwhile, I grew more and more relieved. My talent still worked on everyone but Yelena.

Finally, Vasilyi leaned over the bar to me and said in English, "What can I get you, bubba?"

"Diet Coke," I said.

He poured me one. "On the house."

"Thanks." I picked up the drink and motioned toward our booth.

"He say I must be drunk," said Yelena, "because he never meet you before. How do you make him forget?"

"I'm very forgettable," I said. "It's a talent I have."

"Talent?"

"It's happened ever since I was a baby. No one can remember me for more than a minute after they don't see or hear me."

A cute wrinkle appeared in her brow as she looked at me skeptically.

"I'm serious," I said. "You've seen it work twice now."

"Twice?"

"Remember the guard who locked us up in Barcelona? I was able to surprise him because he didn't remember I was there."

"But … how is such a thing possible?" There was still and edge of incredulity in her voice.

I shrugged. "I wish I knew. I used to think maybe it was some sort of pheromone I give off, but since it works against computers, that can't be it."

"What do you mean, works against computers?"

"Information about me just disappears from anything electronic. That includes any computer logs of my actions, which is why I can be so sure I can find the info about your sisters without leaving a trace."

"Is incredible," she said, but her tone conveyed acceptance.

"I've learned to live with it. Use it to my advantage — it really helps when I'm on a mission."

"Make you sloppy," she said.

Now it was my turn to be puzzled. "Sloppy?"

"You expect me to forget you — that why you not hide your face outside my building. I not like working with sloppy people. The plan is too risky."

"Yelena," I said, "you are the first person in my life to remember me when seeing me again. The first person ever. I wasn't sloppy — I didn't even know it was possible for someone to remember me until you said my name. We're connected somehow, and that's why I want to help you find your sisters. Trust me, I can do this."

She studied my face for a few seconds, then said, "I will trust you."

* * *

Even outside Klub Kosmos, I could feel the bass beat in my chest. Yelena bypassed the line and walked right up to one of the bouncers, with me right behind her. The bouncer, a barrel-chested man wearing a black suit and black tee-shirt, unhooked the velvet rope to let Yelena in.

"He's with me," she said in Russian, jerking a thumb over her shoulder in my direction.

The bouncer gave me a nod and let me pass.

Once inside the door, we had to pass through a metal detector. Yelena handed her purse to another bouncer, who took a casual look inside. The gun didn't faze him — he closed the purse and handed it to her on the other side. The Bukharins trusted her to be armed in their club, which meant they didn't know she knew what they'd done her sisters.

The closest thing I had to a weapon was the carbon-composite lockpick set I had stowed in the waistband of my underwear, so I made it through the detector without setting off any alarms. Taking my hand, Yelena guided me through the mass of gyrating bodies on the dance floor to the rear of the club.

I couldn't help worrying that she would feel the sweat on my palms. Maybe she would think I was too nervous about the operation and would abort. I was nervous, I realized, even though missions like this were almost routine for me. The difference was that this time I had an audience I needed to impress, and who could remember if I messed things up.

After Yelena vouched for me, the guard let us into the private rooms. As the door closed behind us, the club's sounds faded to only mildly ear-shattering. Yelena led me up a narrow flight of stairs, then knocked on a door.

We were admitted by another guard. Thick red carpet — just the right color to hide bloodstains — muffled our footsteps as we entered the office. A silver-haired man sat behind a large glass desk. From the file I'd read on the Bukharin syndicate, I recognized him as Dmitri Ivanovich Bukharin, one of the three brothers in charge.

When he saw us, he rose.

"Yelena, it is always a pleasure," Dmitri said in Russian. "I just wired payment for the Barcelona job to your account." He glanced at me and added, "And who is your guest?"

"His name is Nat Morgan," she said. With one quick movement, her gun was out of her purse and shoved into my ribs.

"Yelena!" I said. "What are you—"

"Shut up." Her voice was all business as she backed away, keeping her gun aimed at me. She continued in Russian, "He's the CIA officer who interfered with me during the Barcelona job. He tracked me down, so I pretended to let him convince me to help find the Iranians' lab."

Dmitri chuckled, then spoke in English. "You should be more careful who you trust, Mr. Nat Morgan of the CIA."

"Obviously," I said.

Mr. Stone goes to Washington

In less than two weeks, I'll be in Washington, DC, for the Nebula Awards Weekend.  As part of that, I'll be participating in a mass autograph signing that is open to the public, so I invite any of my friends in the DC area to drop by and say hello.  My collection of stories doesn't officially come out until August, but the publisher will have "sneak preview" copies available.

The signing will be from 5:30 to 7:00pm on Friday, May 20, at the Washington Hilton (1919 Connecticut Ave., NW).  Other authors participating include:

John Joseph Adams
Christopher Barzak
J. Kathleen Cheney
Aliette de Bodard
Tom Doyle
Scott Edelman
Timons Esaias
Cynthia Felice
Andrew Fox
Kerry Frey
Laura Anne Gilman
Anne Groell
Joe Haldeman
Peter Heck
Vylar Kaftan
John Kessel
Alethea Kontis
Mary Robinette Kowal
Geoffrey A.Landis
Allen Lewis
Tom Lewis
Lee Martindale
James Morrow
Catherine Petrini
Stanley Schmidt
Lawrence Schoen
Lansing Sexton
Bud Sparhawk
Allen Steele
Michael Sullivan
Robin Sullivan
Michael Swanwick
Brandie Tarvin
Mary Turzillo
Michael Whelan
Alexander Whitaker
Connie Willis

 

Thoughts on Mormons Writing Speculative Fiction

In conjunction with the LDS Storymakers conference going on in Salt Lake City, Howard Tayler wrote an interesting blog post about Mormons writing science fiction and fantasy.  His basic point is what he calls "a meme in a monoculture":

Brigham Young University is the spiritual heart of Utah County, and Utah County is a monoculture. If an idea springs up or is planted at BYU, if it is an attractive idea, one which resonates with the culture (or at least which isn't anathema) that idea is likely to spread like wildfire.

I think wildfire is the wrong comparison, because to me that suggests something that starts off small and rapidly grows.  I'm going to go with a fruit tree metaphor instead, and show off my rather limited and probably inaccurate knowledge of fruit trees: a fruit tree starts off small, and takes quite some time to grow, during which it produces small amounts of fruit, and then it when it reaches maturity it starts producing a lot of fruit.  (Surely there must be some sort of fruit tree like that.)

Here's a chart I made from the data at Marny Parkin's excellent site MormonSF.org.  I counted the number of novels per year with "New York" in the publishing information.  (That ends up excluding some nationally published novels from publishers elsewhere, but it gives a good proxy for national publication. I wasn't going to do all the counting manually.)

Unless the total number of nationally published speculative fiction novels has more than tripled since 2005, the proportion of Mormon-authored novels has definitely gone up.

Bits of good news

A couple of items of good news:

For the first time, one of my stories has placed in the Analog readers' poll:  "Rejiggering the Thingamajig" tied for third place in the short story category with "Shame" by Mike Reznick and Lezli Robyn, behind "Red Letter Day" by Kristine Katherine Rusch and "Happy Are the Bunyips" by Carl Frederick.  My fellow Utah writer Brad R. Torgerson took first place in the novelette category with his story "Outbound," of which I happen to own the first autographed copy. And first place in the novella category went to my friend Richard A. Lovett and his co-author Mark Niemann-Ross for "Phantom Sense."

Also for the first time, I've been accepted to the Launch Pad Astronomy Workshop, after applying for several years and not getting in.  Basically, it's a one-week intensive course in astronomy for writers.  And making the news even better is the fact that one of my Odyssey classmates, William T. Vandemark, also made it in.

Unforgettable – Chapter 5

"Her name is Yelena Semyonova," said Edward Strong, after I confirmed the photo was the same woman I had encountered in Barcelona two days earlier. I sat across from Edward's desk in his office at Langley.

Edward was my CIA handler. No one ever told me why he was assigned to me, but my guess was it had something to do with the fact that he suffered from early-onset Alzheimer's disease. Medication had slowed the progress of his memory loss, but he was capable of forgetting people who lacked my talent. Maybe his bosses figured he could handle forgetting me better than someone with a good memory.

He was only two years away from mandatory retirement, and I wondered who they would get to replace him.

"She probably drove to Paris," Edward said, "because she took a flight to Kiev out of Charles de Gaulle yesterday."

"So she gave me her real first name?" I asked. "That wasn't very professional." I did it all the time, but that didn't matter because nobody remembered. I wanted her to be a professional, because being taken down like that by an amateur made me feel stupid.

"Hmm." With arthritic fingers, Edward paged through her file. "We've got kind of a good news/bad news scenario here. The good news is she's not with the Russian SVR."

"Ukrainian?" If so, I felt a bit better about letting her get away with the prototype, as the current Ukrainian government was pro-American.

"No. She used to be in the SVR, but she quit eleven months ago. The bad news is that we suspect she now works for one of the Russian syndicates."

I winced. "I should have anticipated she would—"

"Everyone makes mistakes, son," Edward said. "But there's more bad news: the syndicate she works for has been hired by this man." He handed over a photo of a bald, morbidly obese man. The photo was very grainy, as if shot from a great distance and then blown up to 8 x 10. "Kazem Jamshidi. Iranian citizen, made most of his billions in oil. We used to think he was relatively harmless, just trying to make Iran into the Silicon Valley of quantum computing so they'll have something to export when the oil runs out."

"Used to think?" I asked.

"From what we can tell, he's trying to build a quantum supercomputer that can predict the future. Accurately. The implications are tremendous — he could take over the stock market, give our enemies warning of our military plans. We haven't even thought everything he could do."

I thought about it. In the hands of an enemy, such a supercomputer would seriously compromise our national security.

"And he's hired the Russian mafia to steal technology to help build it?" I asked.

"Not just steal. They've kidnapped quantum physicists and engineers from around the globe — although they've steered clear of Americans and Western Europeans, probably to avoid riling us up. We're pretty sure they've assassinated key people in the industry, too."

"So," I said, "how do we stop him?"

Edward grinned at me. "That's my boy! Your file said you were enthusiastic, but it's nice to see it for myself." His smile faltered. "I mean, I guess I have seen it for myself, before, but …"

"Don't sweat it," I said. "I'm used to people forgetting."

"Right." He gave me a brief nod. "We know Jamshidi's built an underground lab somewhere in the Iranian desert, but we don't know where it is. We'd love to trace a locator beacon to his lab. And you can help set that up."

"How?"

"With this." He pulled a circuit board out of an anti-static envelope and slid it across his desk to me.

It looked awfully familiar. "That's the InterQuan prototype," I said. "How did you get it?"

"No, it's a GPS tracker and locator beacon built based on the pictures our source at InterQuan sent us. You see, we don't think Yelena has had time to transfer the prototype to Jamshidi's people. So, we need you to catch up with her and switch this for the real prototype. Your talent can make it so she won't remember the switch, right?"

I nodded. "Shouldn't be a problem, if I can find her and she still has the prototype."

"Uh-hmm." He gave me an appraising look. "I like the can-do attitude, but I really don't like sending you into the field like this without any kind of backup."

Smiling, I said, "We've discussed this before. If I ever have to go radio silent for a minute, my backup will forget me."

"Right, of course. Sorry for bringing up an old subject."

"No problem, I appreciate the concern for my well-being. Don't worry about me — I'm used to getting myself out of tough situations."

A woman knocked at the door and brought in a manila envelope for Edward.

"What's this?" he asked.

"The documents you requested," she said.

"Ah, thanks." He opened it and leafed through the contents. "Quite satisfactory."

As she walked out, he said, "Okay, son, there's a seat booked on a plane to Moscow this afternoon." He handed me an itinerary, a credit card, and a passport.

I flipped the passport open to find my name was Bob Daniels. The passport photo was a Polaroid we had taken earlier and developed in my presence.

"Moscow?" I said. "I thought she was in Kiev."

"She left for Moscow this morning." He handed me Yelena's folder. "Here's something to read on the flight."

* * *

The first time the CIA tried to book me on a flight, a few months after I joined, they ran headlong into the weirdness of my talent. The airlines all used computers to track reservations, so any details about my ticket would vanish.

So they tried booking me under an alias, figuring that the computers wouldn't know it was me. Those reservations disappeared as quickly as the first.

"It's no use," I told Edward as he hung up the phone after talking to the travel office. "There's no way I can fly anywhere, which means I won't be able to carry out any missions."

"Nonsense, my boy," he said. "Someone with your talents was born for a job like this. We just need to figure out the limitations on what is affected and work around those."

After some trial and error experimentation, we found a way: use an existing reservation made for someone else and informing that person his trip had been postponed. It meant creating new identity documents for me for every trip, but that was no obstacle for the CIA.

* * *

While on the plane — one of the new supersonic intercontinental jets — I perused Yelena's file.

Yelena Semyonova was born seventeen days after I was. Even though her parents could remember her, that didn't stop her father from leaving like mine had. Her mother had remarried, though, when Yelena was eight. She had twin half-sisters — Ekaterina and Oksana — nine years younger than her. Apparently her mother had been a figure-skating fan.

She majored in world politics at Lomonosov Moscow State University, but was recruited by the SVR and left before graduating.

According to the information the CIA had collected, Yelena was on track as a career agent for the SVR until a family crisis intervened. Her mother and step-father had divorced when she was a teenager, with full custody of the twins given to the mother. But after a dispute with their mother last year, the sixteen-year-old twins had run off to live with their father.

Yelena requested various government departments to return the girls to the legal custody of their mother, but nothing happened. She had resigned from the SVR, and that's where the CIA information on her ran out, except for a note that she frequented a Moscow night club owned by the Bukharin syndicate.

I was a little disappointed by Yelena after reading the dossier. I could understand that she might get disillusioned by her government when they refused to help return her sisters, so her resignation didn't bother me. But working for the Russian mafia? Surely she had other options.

Then again, if the CIA hadn't hired me, I might have continued with my life of crime. So who was I to cast stones?

I put the folder back in my carry-on and slid it under the seat in front of me. Then I leaned back in my seat, closed my eyes, and remembered the kiss. I daydreamed about getting her to kiss me again — before I stole the prototype from her, of course.

* * *

Idle daydreams are not a good basis for operational planning. So my actual plan involved locating the prototype and stealing it without even bumping into Yelena, let alone kissing her.

After landing in Moscow, I had a taxi take me to the apartment building that was her last known address, in case she hadn't moved after resigning from the SVR. The building was in a low-rent district, and the intercom at the door wasn't working. I walked up seven flights of stairs to apartment 73.

I knocked on the door. If she answered, I would be a befuddled American tourist who had come to the wrong address. I'd apologize and go wait outside the building until she left.

But the twenty-something Russian woman who answered the door was not Yelena, so I went with Plan B.

"Is Yelena here?" I asked in my atrociously accented Russian.

"She doesn't live here any more," she said.

"I am a friend of Yelena. I was an American exchange student at the university with her." I had rehearsed these lines on the flight over. My vocabulary was good, but I couldn't get the grammar right without practice. "Could you give me her new address or phone number?"

She looked me over head to toe, and apparently decided I wasn't to be trusted with that information. "No," she said. Maybe she was overprotective, or maybe she was just a good judge of character.

"Sorry to bother you," I said, and walked away. I heard the door close behind me.

I stopped and counted to sixty, then returned and knocked on the door again. She answered.

"Is Polina here?" I asked.

She frowned, shaking her head. "You have the wrong apartment."

I scratched the back of my right ear. "Sorry, my mistake." I started to turn as if to leave, then said, "Can I use your phone to call Polina and get the right address?"

She looked me over head to toe. This time, the verdict was different. "Just for a minute."

"Thank you," I said.

She showed me to the phone on an end table in her living room. I dialed a random number. The phone call itself didn't matter. But it gave me the chance to surreptitiously stick a penny-sized electronic bug onto the bottom of her telephone.

Someone answered my call. I said, "Sorry, wrong number," and hung up.

"Thank you," I said to the woman, and I left.

Once I got to the stairwell, I sat down and took out a pad of paper and a pen.

Writing in Russian takes me a while, even if I'm just copying Cyrillic characters off the web browser on my cell phone. With the aid of an online translation program, after five minutes I managed to write the following message:

Warn Yelena not to trust the Iranians.

I knocked on the door for the third time. But instead of waiting for the woman to answer, I left a folded sheet of paper on the ground and then ran.

Sitting back in the stairwell, I pulled out my cell phone. It had been modified to record the transmissions from the bug I'd put on the woman's phone. I listened through my wireless earbuds, and as I had hoped, she made a phone call.

Yelena's voice answered.

As the woman passed on the warning I had left, an audio analyzer in the cell phone decoded the phone number she had dialed. I wrote it down, then called Edward's direct line at Langley.

"Strong here," he said.

"There is a file folder labeled 'Nat Morgan' in the back of your bottom desk drawer on the right," I said.

"What? Who is this?"

"Just look for the file folder."

It always took Edward a few minutes to get his bearings.

"How do I know you're really Nat?" he said, as usual.

"We have an authentication protocol," I said. "It's on a bright yellow sheet of paper."

He riffled through the folder. "Batman," he said.

If his word was a superhero, mine needed to be a classical composer starting with the same letter. "Beethoven." Starting with a different letter would mean I was under duress — he would pretend the authentication had worked, but would know something was wrong.

"Okay, son. Why'd you call in?"

"You up-to-date on my mission now?"

"Have you found Yelena Semyonova?"

"Not yet, but I have a number for her I need you to trace." I gave him the number.

"Um," he said. "Can I put you on hold while I get someone to track this down?"

"No, you'll forget the whole conversation," I said. "But you can conference someone in."

"Right, good idea."

Fifteen minutes later, I had the billing address for the cell phone Yelena was using.

* * *

One taxi ride later, I stood at the entrance to Yelena's new apartment building. This was a more upscale place, with a nicely decorated lobby and a doorman — her life of crime must be paying pretty well.

I asked the doorman to ring Yelena's apartment. She was there, so I walked out and stood across the street to wait for her to leave.

Darkness had fallen by the time I spotted her coming out the glass doors of her building. She paused on the curb and scanned the street. She looked right past me without showing any sign of recognition, of course.

Yelena was every bit as beautiful as I remembered. She wore a silver-sequined top and black miniskirt, which meant she was probably headed to Klub Kosmos, run by the Bukharin syndicate.

She might have the prototype in her purse, ready to hand it over to Jamshidi. I had hoped my warning about the Iranians might delay her. If I followed her to the club, I just might be able to swap out the prototype there, but if she didn't have it with her I would miss a chance to burglarize her apartment.

She hailed a cab and I jaywalked across the street in time to hear her tell the cabbie to take her to the Hard Rock Cafe. That gave me time. I'd search her apartment first, and if I didn't find anything I'd track her down at the Hard Rock.

I sauntered over to the doorman and pulled a hundred ruble note out of my wallet. "I want to surprise a friend," I said in stilted Russian.

He shook his head.

I pulled out two more notes. This time the head shake was slower in coming. Another two notes earned me another shake, so I started to walk away.

"Okay," he said.

I handed him the money and he opened the door for me.

Sometimes it was easier just to ignore my talent and use the standard methods. I smiled as I rode up the elevator, thinking about how the doorman would puzzle over the five hundred rubles when he found them in his wallet later.

My lockpicks got me into Yelena's apartment. To my surprise, there was hardly any furniture. She certainly hadn't spent much money decorating the place. But I couldn't complain, as it made my job easier.

I started in the master bedroom. A systematic search of the closet and dresser revealed nothing unusual. Lifting up a rug, I spotted the faint outlines of a trap door in the floorboards. I pried it open and found a box of bullets and an empty holster. No sign of the prototype, but wherever Yelena was going, she was armed.

Behind me, I heard the unmistakable click of a revolver being cocked.

Houston, we have a cover

Actually, the cover is for everyone everywhere, not just Houston.

Here's the cover for my collection Rejiggering the Thingamajig and Other Stories, coming this month from Paper Golem Press:

Special thanks to Mary Robinette Kowal for her outstanding work in designing the cover.

Going down…

This morning, for the first time since probably 2006, I weighed less than 180 pounds: 179.8.

Back in December of 2005, I had gotten up to 233 pounds, and in 2006 I got down to under 180, but over the next few years my weight was generally in the 180s, then the 190s.  Last year I got up to 205.8 and realized I needed to start focusing on weight loss again.

The morning after I returned from vacation in Texas, January 2, I weighed 199.2, so I've lost 19.4 pounds this year, almost half of it in April: I weighed 188.4 pounds on April 1.

How did I do it?  Keeping my caloric output about the same (I walk a treadmill for the length of a TV episode on DVD 6 days a week, but I'm pretty sedentary the rest of the day) and reducing my caloric input, which I track using FatSecret's Calorie Counter app for my Android phone.  For April, I switched from my usual breakfast of a Sausage Egg McMuffin to just a Sausage McMuffin, I cut out the snacks I was usually eating before and after lunch, and on the few occasions when I went to a nice restaurant to eat, I made sure to limit what I ate.

This month, I'm going to be traveling a lot, so I won't be able to eat my regular meals.  I will probably put a few pounds back on, which is why I made an extra effort to lose weight in April.

Suddenly, I'm a fan of the Nook

One of the reasons for the poll about ebook readers I did a couple of days ago was I wanted to see whether Kindle readers outnumbered other readers in approximate proportion to my ebook sales numbers.  For the three titles I had available for both Kindle and Nook, the Kindle version was outselling the Nook version by about 7 to 1.

Until late last night.

Before going to bed, I looked at the Nook sales numbers for the day, and 3 copies of "That Leviathan, Whom Thou Hast Made" had sold — which was as many as had sold the first 27 days of April.  I figured it was just a statistical blip.

This morning, a friend congratulated me on being featured in a Barnes & Noble email, at which point I checked the sales figures.  The number of sales for yesterday had risen from 3 to 7, and the sales for today were almost a hundred — and passed a hundred before I finished writing an email in reply.

Being listed as one of the Hugo nominees in the email, plus being listed as such on the front page of the science fiction & fantasy section of the Nook store, has had a huge impact on sales, which are now over 300.  "That Leviathan" has gone from a Nook store sales rank in the tens of thousands to #158, and it's currently #11 on the Nook science fiction and fantasy bestseller list.

So far, there's been a very slight spillover effect to my other Nook books.  Strangely enough, there seems to be more spillover effect to Kindle sales of "That Leviathan," which has risen from a sales rank of 82,000 yesterday to its current rank of 5440 — the highest one of my ebooks has ever been in the Kindle store.

Of course, these sales will start tapering off as the impact of the email wears off and the SF&F Nook page content changes.  But it's been fun to watch.

"That Leviathan, Whom Thou Hast Made": Nook version, Kindle version

Poll: How do you primarily read ebooks?

UPDATE: OK, I've fixed the problem that was causing the poll to fail.

Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post's poll.