by Dima Zales
“Hide from them,” I order Mr. Spock, who’s managed to crawl down my right pant leg as I instructed. “If you can—”
I don’t finish my mental command to Mr. Spock. Whatever the injection was, its effects reach my brain, and the cloud extensions can’t help me stay awake any longer.
My world fades to black.
Chapter Sixteen
“You have been unconscious for twenty-six minutes,” Einstein reports somewhere in my bleary mind. “Current time is 6:48 p.m.”
My whole body aches and pulses. I feel like a banana after it’s been frozen and pulverized into one of Ada’s smoothies. I seem to have regained my hearing, but what I hear—booming, whirling sounds like in the loudest circle of hell—makes no sense.
I open my eyes, and I’m glad to learn that, like my ears, they work again. Taking in my surroundings, I realize where I am.
I’m in a large helicopter, the source of that noise.
“He’s awake,” I hear someone say from behind me.
“Then what are you waiting for?” says a square-shouldered Suit and waves his vein-crossed hand in my general direction. “Put him back under.”
“Wait—” I attempt to say, but burning warmth spreads into my arm, and I descend back into the abyss of unconsciousness.
I wake up, but since opening my eyes caused me to get knocked out the last time, I decide to get my bearings before I show anyone I’m awake.
It takes me less than a heartbeat to realize something is terribly wrong.
Actually, many things are wrong, but the biggest issue is my state of mind. I can barely form a coherent thought.
At first, I think my mental handicap is from the concussion the stun grenade gave me and the drugs the Suits pumped me with, but I soon determine that the truth is more horrifying.
I have no access to the internet.
Frantically, I launch one AROS app after another, and all of the network-reliant ones, a large majority, report connectivity errors.
Eyes still closed and determined not to panic, I launch the Muhomor app to jump onto a Wi-Fi network or, failing that, a cell network.
The app shows me the visual representations of two Wi-Fi networks and a number of faint Bluetooth connections from unknown devices (likely smartphones). When I try smelling for a tasty connection, I find that both Wi-Fi networks have the sulfur stench of high security that the app can’t hope to penetrate.
One of the Wi-Fi networks has the option of entering a password, and I take a few guesses before giving up. Guessing would take a million years, and my failed login attempts might get detected after a couple more tries.
Panic sets in.
Concussed, drugged, and without the brain boost, I feel like I’ve smoked a few pounds of pot, drank a gallon of vodka, and then received a botched lobotomy. If I could magically inhabit my four-year-old brain, this is probably what it would feel like.
Cringing mentally, I try to hack the foul Wi-Fi connections, knowing full well it won’t work. Muhomor’s app makes the experience extra disgusting before informing me of “penetration failure”—an error text that would usually make me chuckle but isn’t even remotely funny now.
Desperate, I tackle the Bluetooth connections one by one. Failure follows another failure until I discover the faint smell of a familiar phone connection.
Its taste confirms my suspicions.
It’s my phone, Precious 3, but it’s almost out of range. Being a Class 1 Bluetooth device (a rarity for smartphones), Precious 3 has a transmit power of 100 mW, giving it a rather impressive range of 328 feet—a lesson I recall from Muhomor’s diatribe into the often overlooked topic of Bluetooth security. As he put it, most people think Bluetooth is safe because of its short range. It’s often true, but not always, and it looks like whoever is holding me prisoner underestimated my phone’s capabilities, or more likely, they don’t know I can connect with my phone.
With my connection to Precious 3 established, I enable the phone’s hotspot feature and brace for the cellular internet connection. It’s less than ideal, but better than nothing.
The boost doesn’t happen.
I check the phone stats and see it’s also outside cell-tower range. Perhaps whoever has me isn’t so stupid after all.
After I triple and quadruple check that there’s no way to get online with the phone, I try to use it to gather intelligence and create an AROS screen that gives me a view through my phone’s front camera. The screen is black, so I try the back camera in case the phone is lying face down. The back camera works better, and I see a boring cement wall. The only interesting detail is an air duct, adding to my growing impression that I’m somewhere underground. I see the battery on the phone is full and realize I got lucky that it’s lying face down, with the solar charger on the back facing the industrial halogen lamp.
“You’re awake,” a man says. His tone reminds me of a jaded customer service representative who’s trying to sound friendly but would rather stab his ears with a pencil than talk to yet another person on the phone. “No need to pretend.”
I open my eyes and see that the voice belongs to that square-shouldered Suit I saw earlier. Only now, for whatever reason, he’s wearing aviator sunglasses in this poorly lit, windowless room.
Stifling a fresh jolt of panic, I examine my surroundings and find blank concrete on all sides, further corroborating my underground bunker idea. That could explain the lack of cell service.
“Where am I?” I attempt to ask, but something unintelligible and hoarse comes out. It feels like my throat is filled with cheap kitty litter sand. “Who are you?”
“He might be too weak for a conversation,” says a man whose face is covered by a surgical mask.
“You’re done here, Doc,” says the Suit. “Someone will come get you when it’s time.”
Doc’s eyes glint with mild disapproval, but he listens to the Suit and leaves.
I try to lift my hands to scratch the tip of my nose but find that my wrists are restrained by leather straps attached to the sides of the hospital gurney. I also note that I’m wearing a drab hospital gown. There’s an IV in my arm, explaining the painful gnawing in the back of my hand. In general, I feel a symphony of pain and discomforts. Some are strange—like the really weird feeling in one of my most private parts.
“I’m glad you’re awake, Mr. Cohen,” the Suit says in that same falsely cordial tone. “I’m Special Agent Lancaster.”
He takes out his ID and shows it to me—but so briefly that I don’t get a chance to see what agency he’s with, if any. Not that it matters whether I get a good look at the ID, since those things can be falsified. I do weigh his claim that he’s with the government against what I know so far. I was inside a helicopter, and the fact that he isn’t in any facial recognition databases does suggest this is something government-related and clandestine. Who else would have the resources to remove people from every facial recognition database?
“Okay, why did you kidnap me, Mr. Lancaster?” I ask, fighting to sound calm while my sluggish brain tries to figure out the answer to my own question. It comes up with a vague list of conspiracy theories that includes my adventures in Russia at the top and Brainocyte technology in general at the bottom. I long for the brain boost like never before. I bet if I had it, I’d know what these people want from me.
If neurogenesis made my biological brain any nimbler, I don’t feel that at all.
“We didn’t kidnap you. We saved your life.” Lancaster’s fake niceness springs a small crack. “And it’s Agent Lancaster.”
A surge of anger chases away my anxiety, clearing some of the fog from my brain. Since I’m connected to my phone, I begin recording our conversation to Precious’s local disk. This way, I can replay this exchange and look for extra clues at my leisure when I have my brain boost enabled.
“Okay, Agent Lancaster,” I say, emphasizing his title. “Let’s review the facts, shall we? I’m tied to a bed.” I demonstratively yank on the straps. “I wa
sn’t read my rights. I have no clue where I am. Given our interaction so far, I choose to call this a kidnapping.”
“This is a place where you can be safe,” the agent says and cracks his knuckles with a disgusting pop—a gesture I find vaguely threatening. “As you no doubt noticed in that hospital, dangerous people tried to kill you. If we hadn’t intervened, you would be dead. I thought you’d be more appreciative of these facts.”
“Well, thank you for saving me,” I begin and realize what the odd sensation in my private parts is. They stuck a catheter into my bladder. It’s one of my worst nightmares, nearly as dreadful as being in a room without internet. Gritting my teeth, I finish with, “Now I’d like to be seen by my own doctor, in a hospital of my choosing.”
I’m about to mention my lack of clothes, when I realize I’ve been the most selfish rat owner ever. While worrying about myself, I completely forgot about Mr. Spock. I last recall him hiding inside my pants. Now he’s missing—as are my pants. I bring up the EmoRat app, and it gives me an error code that states, “Unable to establish contact with sweetums.” If I wasn’t terrified for Mr. Spock’s life and my own, I’d probably chuckle at Ada’s error message, but as is, I fall into deeper despair, my stomach knotting with anxiety once more.
“I’m afraid that leaving isn’t safe,” Agent Lancaster says without a hint of genuine regret in his tone. “This is the only way we can make sure you’re not attacked again. Also, the doctors tell me you’re in no condition to go anywhere.”
My molars grind together again. “I don’t feel too safe. But I am feeling well enough to go, so please let me go.”
“You’re on pain medication,” the agent says. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be so eager to get on your feet.”
The mention of medication prompts me to mentally ask Einstein for a report on the contents of my blood. He’s the way I interface with the “lab on the chip” imbedded under my skin. Of course, Einstein requires connectivity, so I instantly get an error message.
“I walked out of a hospital after a car accident,” I tell Lancaster, trying not to cringe at the memory. A sign of weakness wouldn’t help my case, so I make my face expressionless as I say, “For that matter, even after getting into a car accident, the hospital didn’t find the need to take the draconian measures you’ve taken. Why the catheter? Why can’t I pee on my own?”
The agent’s lack of expression matches mine. “If you leave, you’ll die. I’m sure you’re aware that Vincent Williams will never forget the death of his brother.”
“You’re well informed.” My eyes narrow. “Maybe too well informed. How do I know you didn’t hire Vincent Williams to attack me in the first place?”
“Come now, Mr. Cohen.” Agent Lancaster pushes his shades higher on his nose with his middle finger in a flip-off gesture that may or may not be inadvertent. “According to your dossier, you’re supposed to be a smart man.”
A dossier? My hands tighten into fists. “Right. I’m smart enough to know you got me here for a reason that has nothing to do with my health or safety. Smart enough to have noticed your surveillance a while ago. We both know you’ve been following me for months before the attack.”
The words burst out of me before I even realize the truth of them. Once I say it, though, I know I’m right. These guys must’ve been following me around. They grabbed me when they thought I was about to get killed before they could learn whatever it is they want to learn from me. Or, more likely, they grabbed me after Vincent Williams, a goon they hired, scared me enough to cooperate with my “saviors.” Because if they aren’t behind Williams, why didn’t they assist me during the attack at the restaurant? Were they having a change in surveillance shifts or something?
My headache intensifies as my world paradigm realigns, and I fully consider the reality of being spied upon. All the paranoia I thought was irrational wasn’t. To paraphrase the popular saying, you’re not paranoid if some shady government organization really is out to get you. Thanks to the brain boost, on some level, I must’ve known these guys were surveilling me. Gogi didn’t believe me because he isn’t enhanced, and they must not have been following Ada. That might be a clue. Then again, maybe they did follow Ada, and she might be less observant than I am, even with a boost. Or perhaps I noticed my surveillance because I am more prone to paranoia. I decide to later look up if paranoia correlates with being more observant.
Agent Lancaster takes off his aviator glasses and looks at me with gray eyes that eerily match the naked slabs of concrete behind him. “Since you brought it up, why don’t we start with that? How did you know about our surveillance?”
I can see this bothers him more than he’s letting on. I guess he has a high opinion of his organization’s tradecraft, and my claim that I spotted them doesn’t fit neatly with his ego.
“What do you think? What’s the likeliest answer to that question?” I’m hoping he comes up with some kind of theory, because truthfully, I have no idea. Besides my vague paranoia, all I had were bad dreams featuring people in suits.
“None of the likely scenarios are possible.” For the first time, anger openly appears on his face, and I wonder if it’s a good idea to get him angry while I’m in such a vulnerable position. “I handpicked every person on this task force.”
Now I understand why he’s so pissed. His worst nightmare is probably having a double agent working for him. At the risk of making him angrier, I decide to pursue this idea, seeing a chance to probe him for critical information. “You picked them, yet it looks like you have a rat in your midst.”
I choose my words carefully, figuring if they have Mr. Spock, he might reveal that upon hearing the word “rat.”
I know the actual expression features a mole rather than a rat, but the agent understood me fine, as evidenced by the tension in his jaw. After a moment, however, the anger leaves Agent Lancaster’s face. He’s either a good poker player, or he considered the idea of a double agent and decided it couldn’t be the case. Or he figured if there is a traitor on his team, someone I know about, I wouldn’t tell him about it so openly. I think about pointing out that I could be double bluffing, but I opt instead to watch him quietly and not think about the uncomfortable tube inside my penis.
“You’re just a paranoid guy who got lucky,” the agent says, reaching the correct conclusion. “That’s all that was.”
I breathe a small sigh of relief that he didn’t mention any actual rats and focus back on the issue at hand.
“I notice you didn’t deny the surveillance,” I say, attempting to stare him down. I can only hold his gaze for a few moments before I get the urge to look away. “Was it legal for you to follow me around all this time? Did you have a court order? For that matter, why on Earth were you following me?”
His eyes narrow to icy slits. “You don’t want to have an adversarial relationship with me, trust me.”
“So now you’re threatening me,” I say, wishing I felt as brave as I sounded. “I’d like to go on record. I want my lawyer present. I want to make a phone call. I don’t want to be here, and you have no right to keep me.” My voice rises as righteous anger grips me again. “If I’m guilty of a crime, then tell me what it is. I want—”
“I need you to calm down.” Lancaster’s words are clipped. I spot his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides and realize again I’m yelling at a guy who has me at his complete mercy.
I hear beeping from the device that’s monitoring my heartbeat, which means I’m not imagining the pounding pulse in my ears. Losing my cool is a bad idea, so I activate the BraveChill app—which doesn’t work for the same reason as most of the others. Forcing myself to take deep breaths, I mentally curse the server client architecture design we chose. It makes logical sense to do the heavy-duty computations on remote servers, but I’d give anything to be able to do this stuff in my head.
“Look,” I say when my breathing steadies a bit. “It’s hard to calm down when someone ties you to a bed and shoves needles and tu
bes into your orifices.”
“I understand, but your best course of action is to cooperate.” Lancaster’s tone goes back to fake friendliness and concern.
“Answer my questions, untie me, and get me a lawyer, and I’ll think about cooperating.”
His friendly mask slips. “You’re in no position to make demands.”
“A US citizen is always in a position to ask for a lawyer. And I’m asking.”
“Cooperate, and then we’ll talk about lawyers.”
I stare at him, and he stares back at me.
“I want a phone call and a lawyer,” I say again. “I’m not cooperating until I get that.”
“No? We’ll see.” He turns and walks to the door.
“Wait,” I yell, and though I know he can hear me, he shows no sign of it as he strides toward the exit. “Don’t leave. I really need to go to the bathroom.”
He ignores me, and I find myself alone in the room.
If Lancaster’s goal was to rattle me, he succeeded spectacularly. Though I knew I was in an awful situation, being left alone like this is infinitely worse.
It makes me realize just how screwed I am.
Chapter Seventeen
In case there’s a microphone in the room, I proceed to yell obscenities at Agent Lancaster until my throat gets scratchy and I feel overwhelming thirst.
Then I yank at the restraints, but all that does is give my wrists a nasty rope burn.
Ignoring the pain, I try talking politely this time, emphasizing the whole bathroom issue as a priority, but to no avail.
What’s really annoying is that, unlike movie heroes who lie about their bathroom needs to aid in their escape, I genuinely have to go. Though nauseatingly unpleasant, the catheter takes care of me needing to do number one, but it does nothing for the more and more urgent call of number two.
My panic builds, and under my breath, I curse Ada’s high-fiber diet for leading to this situation. Then I channel the negativity where it belongs and curse Agent Lancaster some more—but mentally this time.
