Theoretical Death

A standalone spypunk story

☛ Leo Vaughn writes unusual fantasy for unusual people, rep’d by Lucienne Diver of the Knight Agency. His novels are coming soon to a bookstore near you.

Deadwater Inn is a series of standalone short stories—basically Casablanca meets the Cold War in the multiverse. You can jump in anywhere without prior reading.

Come on, don’t be shy. The water’s cold and moody.

—

“Go on.” The KGB agent gave Nora a little push. “Walk into the portal.”

She absorbed the shove but didn’t budge. It was all happening so fast. Where did she want to go?

The one naked bulb overhead threw a harsh light on the tiled floor and walls. This was one of those basement rooms with a drain in the center of the floor. Convenient, those drains. Fastest way to dispose of blood. Nora had stayed in plenty of nasty hotels in her day, but the Lubyanka, the infamous Soviet prison—now, this place took the cake.

“Of course, we follow you.” The agent grinned at his companion, another KGB man who elbowed his ribs in return. Behind them, three Soviet soldiers watched over the proceedings with PPSh-41 submachine guns hanging from their shoulders. It wasn’t every day they set a prisoner free and sent her straight into a portal. There was no telling what would happen.

“So where you go?” The first agent spoke again with broken English, but it seemed too broken, as if he was trying to play a character. Who that character was, Nora had no idea, which meant the ruse wasn’t working. Ultimately, she was too simple, too good-hearted for all this. Their games made her head spin. And she was so tired.

The agent pointed again to the far end of the room. There, beyond the drain, the light failed in a way she couldn’t explain. It was as if a gray mist hung there—or as if she viewed that part of the room through an out-of-focus lens under heavy blankets.

She shuddered, and the hairs stood up on her neck and arms. How she hated portals. One could walk them by skill alone. Walk precisely straight ahead, and one would step out into a certain dimension—or another place in this dimension, depending on the starting angle of the walk and the turn taken in the midst of it. Shift the path one degree to the right, and one stepped out into an entirely different corner of the multiverse. It was no game for greenhorns. Yet here she was, only a few months old as a spy, doing the damn thing again.

Baby Caroline’s little face flashed through Nora’s head, and her lungs locked up. The child was never coming back. Nora had run and run and run, right into the arms of the American CIA, who’d promised all-consuming danger and even a welcome, theoretical death, but it hadn’t worked. Nothing would. Real death would always hang in the middle of her, right where her heart used to be.

“Having second thoughts?” The first KGB man snickered, and his companion shifted on his feet. “You can stay. We… extend your lodging.”

Behind them, the soldiers’ boots creaked as they watched and waited.

She chewed her lip. This was no simple choice. One or both of the agents would follow her through the portal to see where she went. It was shameless, boldfaced surveillance. Her husband, Harlan, waited for her in their home dimension. If all was well—if he’d survived the CIA’s madcap games—then he still ran the Deadwater Inn. The place was their life’s work and the best watering hole and lodging to be found close to the portal back home.

If all was well, their cat Gabby Jack still slept on the bar after most of the customers had gone to bed.

Lord, how she missed even that stupid brown cat.

But she couldn’t lead the KGB men there. That was unfair to Harlan. And if Montpelier, her CIA boss, happened to be staying at the Inn, there would be hell to pay.

Where, then?

Perhaps back to Langley—to CIA headquarters?

A little smile twitched in one corner of her mouth. That would be funny. In fact, it would be smart. The KGB knew exactly which direction to walk to step out in the bowels of Langley. Either they would follow her, right into the arms Uncle Sam’s portal guards, or they would realize her game and back off.

The decision was made, then.

Wait for me, Harlan.

Her heart fluttered and tears clouded her eyes. Oh yes, she would go home—she had to—but not yet. Not until she could think of Caroline and still breathe. There was no telling when that day would come, but if Caroline’s short and tortured life had taught her one thing, it was not to plan too much.

How, then, did one get to Langley from the basement of the Lubyanka?

She’d gone back to Langley before through another portal, but they were all the same. She could feel the proper approach in her feet. She stepped an inch to the right, then walked a hair to the left, toward the portal.

The shoes of the Soviet agents clacked on the tile behind her.

“I’m going to Langley,” she said over her shoulder. “You want to come?”

They stopped short, their faces twisted with consternation.

“Perhaps you could spy on us. I could bribe the guards for you. They would let you out of the portal room. You could explore the entire complex.”

“Get yourself lost.” The first KGB agent crossed his arms on his chest. “American bitch.”

She shrugged. “Virginia is lovely this time of year. But you’re sure? You’re staying here?”

Behind them, the soldiers stirred, fingers settling on trigger guards.

Don’t overplay it, sister.

She would have to savor it inside, where it really counted. Lord knew it was the only warmth she would find in the portal.

The cloudy darkness loomed before her now. Her skin tingled with the chill. Measuring every step, she walked on, into the damp and the bitter cold.

I’m coming, Harlan. Just not yet.

§ § §

Text © 2026 by George Anderson. All rights reserved.

Banner artwork created by Bianca Yamakoshi. © 2026 by George Anderson.

No AI technology was used to write or edit this story. Likewise, no AI technology was used to generate or modify any visual content associated with this story. Read the No AI Statement for full details.