A.J. FRAZIER
PROLOGUE
January 1st, 1998
Moscow, Russia
In the heavy darkness of the city, a train roared down the railroad tracks.
And a young woman stood in its path.
She, a police officer, waited amidst the snow flurries in full uniform. The train was still a distance away, but the white headlight grew larger.
Blonde strands of hair waved across her face, loosened from the normally strict bun beneath her uniform’s winter hat. Staring at the oncoming light with wet, hazel eyes, she let out a deep, wavering sigh. Tears trickled, and the cold wind whipped them away.
The railroad tracks rattled.
Perhaps she was a coward, but the officer did not know what else to do. She couldn’t live with the memory anymore. She didn’t want to constantly relive it–the moment on July 13th, 1996, when they ripped the screaming newborn away from her.
“It’s not yours!” the tall, skinny nurse sneered as she poked and prodded the infant like it was the result of a science project and not… human.
Her human. Her baby. Her little angel.
The train screamed.
The officer let out a desperate sob.
She’d sold her soul to the devil. In Aleksey Petrov’s government, it was easy to do so, and she couldn’t forgive herself.
“Please!” she screamed at the nurse. “For a goddamn minute, let me touch her!”
Two years ago, she hadn’t possessed the funds to cover her partner’s mounting medical bills. After a census, city officials approached her with a solution: participate in Project Savior, and her medical debt would disappear. It sounded innocent enough–donate eggs, sperm, or surrogacy. Create new generations, and a better future for your country.
The pitch was promising. “War will come again. Your children will be warriors; protectors and heroes of our country.”
The kids would have a purpose greater than one could imagine. With enhanced genetics to create nearly indestructible human beings, the future warriors would execute the promise of a safer Russia.
And a safer world.
Desperate to alleviate the chaotic financial needs of her household—one that was not even deemed legitimate in Russian legislation—the young woman agreed to donate her eggs for experimentation and carry a genetically enhanced child. She signed the paperwork, ignoring the terms and conditions that clawed at her heart.
“You are agreeing that the fetus belongs to the Russian government during pregnancy, and upon birth. Sign here.”
The earth began to vibrate.
Was it another earthquake? The oncoming train?
Judgment?
Weeping, the officer’s body shook.
“For God’s sake, just let me cuddle my baby for one fucking second!” Her scream pierced the hospital room, but the nurse rubbed the baby down as if she were forced to clean a stray dog.
“You signed the papers. Project 4 does not belong to you, she belongs to the government.” Roughly, the nurse pinched the baby’s toes and looked at the sobbing mother. “There is no nurturing allowed. Be grateful Project 4 will receive the necessary training to accomplish what needs to be done instead of wallowing in self-pity like you.”
The new mother screamed as the nurse stormed from the room with—
–Project 4–
–the child held far from her body.
"I’m so sorry," the officer wailed, and her body shivered from emotion and the cold. "I should have found a way out for you. I should have run away."
Where was the baby now? Did she smile? Was she allowed to smile, to be happy? Would Project 4 ever experience the warmth of an embrace, or the beautiful words–I love you?
"My little angel," the officer whispered shakily, her eyes fixed on the train that tore down the tracks. "I love you."
The radio crackled. Dispatch called a unit number.
"Into Your hands, oh Lord, I commend my spirit and body." The officer closed her eyes, and the tears numbed her cheeks.
"Dispatch to Unit 02-05–reports of an infant taken from a hospital by a priest. Possibly driving a black sedan. We see you’re in the area."
Her eyes snapped open.
Dispatch was calling her unit number.
Gasping, she braced herself.
The train approached with impending fury, its white light cutting through the swirling snow.
Then–squealing tires.
Her head jerked right. A black sedan swiveled down the icy road, readjusted, and then accelerated towards the tracks.
The train screamed, and the officer knew she had to make a choice.
"I copy," the officer said, still unable to move, listening to the impending train and the oncoming car. She didn’t want to live anymore, but—
"Caller advised they believe the sedan is en route to the Kremlin; unknown reason," the woman over the radio continued. "Please advise if you need a backing unit."
As the train thundered forward, and the earth shook beneath her feet, the police officer made a decision. With a cry, she flung herself away from death.
The train roared by, creating a moving wall between her body and the black sedan. The officer heard the car crash. As she staggered backwards with widening eyes, an infant screamed.
"I’ve got the suspect on the other side of the train. Send backup," the officer barked over the radio, and retreated from the tracks. She withdrew her firearm; her eyes darted back and forth.
The train continued on, and she glimpsed the sedan between the spaces of the blurry cars. Then movement–
A man emerged from the vehicle.
"Sofiya!" A male officer’s footsteps pounded up behind her. "What do you see?"
Sofiya didn’t speak. Instead, she tilted her head towards the passing train. No words were necessary.
A black-haired man, clad in a black suit and a white collar, stood on the other side of the railroad tracks. In his arms, he held a crying infant.
“She’s not yours!” the nurse snapped, yanking away Project 4.
"Get on your knees!" Sofiya shouted, and her heartstrings tore.
The priest stared at the officers. He spoke in English, his voice hoarse, almost a growl. "He needs to get to the Kremlin."
Together, the officers advanced.
Heart racing, Sofiya holstered her weapon and snatched the swaddled infant from the priest’s arms. "Handcuff him," she commanded, and she pulled the baby against her body. She began to rock him.
"Take him to the Kremlin," the priest mumbled again, compliant as he watched her with icy, blue eyes.
"What’s your name? Who’s telling you to take this child to the Kremlin?" the officer snapped, comforting the baby, holding him close just like she’d wanted to do with her own.
The priest snaked a tongue over his lips. "My name is Fr. Paul," he said. "And I follow the instructions of someone far more powerful than I am."
The officer thought of Aleksey Petrov. Who else, other than God, would be more powerful than him? She clutched the baby closer and bared her teeth. "I’m glad I stopped you." Sofiya looked down at the infant who rested in her arms. "Because this baby deserves a chance to be loved.”
"That baby—" the priest spat, as the other officer led him towards the cruiser. "—is a catalyst for the end! He belongs at the Kremlin!" The madman’s roar haunted the night as the cruiser door slammed. His voice became muffled.
Ignoring the priest, Sofiya gazed at the infant. "Thank you for the second chance," she whispered, and walked away from the railroad towards the flashing police lights. Her boots left deep footprints in the snow; imprints that led away from a self-destructive choice… one that could have left the world with no glimpse of hope in the final years of its life.