by Dima Zales
“Or he knows that Alan might go The Ransom of Red Chief on his ass,” Muhomor mutters. “We all know that if Alan was aware, your half-brother would’ve killed him already—or if he’s really above killing a child, he would now be begging you to take the little devil back.”
“Ada’s no picnic, either,” Mitya says. “If I were your half-brother, I’d keep her as sedated as the kid.”
“The biggest issue is that I suspect one or more of our guards might be taken over like Gogi.” I massage my temples in a futile attempt to relieve some tension.
“Because your half-brother knows where you are?” Unsurprisingly, Mitya’s quick to catch on.
“Exactly. How else did he know to give me so little time I’d have no choice but to drive where I’m told?”
“And if he does have eyes on you, you must get rid of the guards, or he might kill Ada or Alan to show he’s serious,” Muhomor says, catching on to my logic as well. “Not to mention that if you brought a compromised guard with you, he’d be a real hindrance.”
The horrific theory rings in my virtual ears as the car screeches to a halt in the real world.
The guards respond with varying degrees of surprise. Dominic is the only one who knows what’s going on, though he chooses to leave his Augmented Reality face unreadable.
“Get out,” I bark. When they stare uncomprehendingly, I add steel to my voice. “Everyone out. That’s an order.”
“Are you sure?” Dominic asks privately. “We’re in the middle of nowhere, and without a car, we have no way to follow you.”
“Please get them out, Dominic.” My private reply is beseeching. “I’m already late. There’s no time for discussion.”
Dominic grabs the shirt collars of the two men nearest him and drags them out of the car. Everyone else finally registers my demand and exits amid curses and grumbling.
“I’m driving,” I tell my friends in VR. Matching actions to words, I launch the Batmobile app, take control, and press the virtual gas pedal all the way to the metaphorical floor. “At least the road is empty.”
The car launches forward and hits sixty miles per hour in two seconds flat.
“I-84 isn’t empty,” Mitya says when he notices me double my initial breakneck speed. “You drive this fast, you’ll die in a fiery explosion.”
“It’s the only way I can get there on time,” I say. “If I crash, maybe Kostya will consider us even.”
“Do you want me to take over?” he offers. “My response times are better.”
“I want to do the driving myself. If you didn’t get me there in time, I’d have to kill you.”
“There are drones in the sky above,” Muhomor remarks. “They defied my intrusion attempts. Their security is as good as the Wi-Fi security around the rat, so they could be Kostya’s.”
“Keep trying to break the security,” I say. “Or better yet, make progress on figuring out how Kostya takes people over. If we can release Joe, I’ll have an ally.”
“Obviously.” In VR, Muhomor appears to be trying to hypnotize his feet through the glass table. “I already explained how difficult it is.”
Mitya shakes his head with overblown disappointment. “Dude. The one time everyone is begging you to do your favorite activity, and you manage to let us down like this?”
“You’re supposed to be pure intellect now,” Muhomor snaps back. “Brain completely in the cloud. Thinking at unimaginable speeds. Why didn’t you solve this problem?”
“In fact, I do have one idea.” Mitya looks at me. “It’s just not very practical.”
In the real world, my tire rolls over a pebble. The car shudders like a choking victim. I guess at these race-car speeds, even a pebble can cause a skid. Ignoring everything but the car, I slow down and even out the virtual wheel. Zapo creaks, but I manage to keep it steady and on the road.
“Any idea is welcome,” I say in VR when I have the vehicle back under control.
“If we know ahead of time who your half-brother will try to take over,” Mitya says, avoiding my gaze, “we can put their Brainocytes into a modified debug mode I designed. This way, we can have AROS itself provide more data. Of course, that means the person in debug mode still ends up being taken over.”
“Great,” Muhomor says sarcastically. “Now we just need another member of Mike’s family to hand over to Kostya with a request to take over their mind.”
“Mike is heading into enemy territory. There’s a chance that”—Mitya hesitates, clearly searching for a tactful way to proceed—“they’ll take over his mind.”
If this is Mitya’s way of sparing my fears, I wonder what he had originally planned to say.
“You’re right,” Muhomor says with way too much excitement. “Kostya might want to make Mike kill himself. That’s what I’d do. It’s the perfect crime that would look like suicide to the cops.”
I fight the urge to leap for Muhomor’s throat in VR. Instead, I channel the surge of angst into my insane driving in the real world.
“Mike,” Mitya says gently. “There’s no harm in being prepared. I just sent you a link to the version of AROS I’m talking about. Install it, and hope we don’t need it.”
An email arrives. I silently proceed to install the new AROS interface. Once installation is complete, the only difference I notice is a slight slowdown of perception, which could be the result of anxiety. Still, I complain about it.
“It’s the debug mode,” Mitya affirms. “This AROS sends certain details back to our servers, and that kind of extra processing is going to slow you down. Is it too much to live with?”
“It’s fine. It’s no worse than a crappy internet connection.” What I don’t say is that a crappy internet connection is worse than a mind fogged up by pot or alcohol.
“Just focus all your attention on driving for now,” Mitya suggests. “Once you reach your destination, focus on survival.”
He makes a good point. I stop all nonessential tasks and, for good measure, I even stop the threads of myself that are trying to figure out how Kostya hacked Brainocytes. I’ll rely on Mitya and Muhomor for this from now on.
“I’m feeling normal enough,” I say hesitantly. “I think I can pop into this VR room without jeopardizing my life.”
“Here’s an aerial view of I-84,” Mitya says.
My email dings, but there’s something happening on the road up ahead.
“Crap. Why is there traffic here in the middle of nowhere?”
“There was an accident.” Mitya highlights the part of the road where the density of cars lessens. “I’m guessing people are asking their car AIs to slow down so that they can gawk at the damage as they pass by.”
“That makes sense.” I wipe virtual sweat from my avatar’s brow and wonder if we should at some point turn down the level of realism in this room. “I just had an idea about the drones. Can you guys take control of all the drones in the area, as well as any robots you can locate, and direct them to where I’m going? Kostya didn’t say anything about bringing toys with me, just that I come alone.”
“Unfortunately, ‘all robots and drones in the area’ amounts to a couple of drones and no robots,” Mitya says. “I already checked. Sadly, this region is far behind the times.”
I spare a moment to do some research, though the distraction almost causes me to veer off the road. When I’m safe again, I say in VR, “We do have that factory in Albany.”
“That’s an hour and a half away from your destination.” Muhomor puts up a large map on the big screen with a map of New York state and the route from the factory highlighted. “By the time the robots arrive, you’ll be dead.”
“Even so, we’d make his half-brother pay for his death.” Mitya curls and uncurls his hands.
“On that cheerful note, I think I’ll avoid this room until I pass that traffic.” I demonstratively walk toward the meeting room door before poofing out of VR, as proper etiquette demands.
“If you don’t slow down, you won’t come back,
because you’re going to turn yourself into a pancake,” Mitya says to me privately.
“If I slow down, I won’t make it to Kostya’s hideout.” I shift my focus to the road.
Since I-84 is still a few miles away and there’s no traffic until then, I speed up as much as Zapo allows. Soon, the trees blur into a green haze. I push the car some more, until the seat starts to vibrate as though I’m riding an international ballistic missile, and then I push it harder.
I have to get there on time.
I simply have to.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It takes 1.7 seconds of breakneck speed before I approach the ramp to I-84 and slow down to merely two times the speed limit. Knowing that each car I pass could easily be my last makes my heart rate as fast as the insane rotation of my tires.
“Dude,” Mitya tells me privately. “Your driving would make NASCAR proud.”
I pull the virtual wheel all the way to the right to avoid the gray Volvo in my path. “That’s always been my ambition, NASCAR or stunts for The Fast and the Furious.”
I blast past a biker, provoking a stream of obscenities. I can’t blame the bearded guy, since unlike most other people on the road, he’s driving his death machine without AI assistance. I turn left and slip between a green Toyota and a silver Honda. If these cars hadn’t been self-driven, their drivers might’ve cursed me out worse than the biker. As it is, most of the people I nearly kill are busy with their VR entertainment, or ironically, they’re trying to look at the accident ahead instead of paying attention to the one in the making.
By the time I finally get through the snarl, I allow myself to check how I’m doing on time and feel giddy that I’ve gained five minutes of the ten I was short. Still, to make up the other five, I must get back to turbo speed, which I do without hesitation, focusing all my energy on the road.
“I heard a door close.” Mr. Spock sends me his words along with a huge dose of excitement through the EmoRat app. “I can’t smell the men anymore.”
They probably left to prepare for my arrival. I begin to reply, then stop myself. No need to tell Mr. Spock I’m on a suicide mission. I say instead, “You did a good job telling me about this. How do you feel about leaving Alan’s pocket to do a little reconnaissance?”
“Scared.” Despite his words, Mr. Spock peeks out of the pocket and shares his view with me.
The room is indeed empty.
“Find a better hiding spot,” I suggest. “Some place you can keep your eyes on them when they come back.”
He runs down Alan’s sleeve and then down the inside of his pants leg.
“That’s very clever,” I say encouragingly. My small friend likes compliments on his stealth skills. “Even if someone had come back in just then, they wouldn’t have seen you inside Alan’s clothes.”
The compliment breaks through the fear that threatens to paralyze the little guy, and he leaps the rest of the distance to the floor and quickly scans the room. This looks like someone’s man cave, with a high-end home theater setup and a pool table in the far corner. Both Alan and Ada are half sitting, half lying in plush La-Z-Boy recliners in front of a giant TV like the ones popular before VR made them obsolete. The light from a massive window to the right makes Ada’s face appear almost angelic in her slumber, while Alan looks as if he might open his eyes at any moment to cause some mischief.
I turn off the emotions going to Mr. Spock from me, because I don’t want to overwhelm the rat with heartache at seeing my unconscious family like this.
“How about you hide under Alan’s chair?” I suggest. “You’ll be able to see that door.”
The door in question creaks open.
A surge of adrenaline nearly makes me lose control of the car in the real world.
Mr. Spock reacts much better than I would have. In a whirl of whiskers and white fur, he dives under Alan’s recliner, finds an angle where he’s hidden, and tightens his muscles in an effort to make his body smaller and less detectable.
The door is wide open by this point, and a man walks in. I can only see the lower portion of his body, but based on his clothes, I recognize Boris, the asshole from earlier. Two more guard types follow him in, and though I can’t see their faces, I suspect they’re wearing masks.
“Stay hidden,” I tell Mr. Spock, even though he’s smart enough to know this himself. “No matter what happens, don’t leave that spot.”
“I’m worried about Alan and Ada.” Mr. Spock’s EmoRat worry is nearly as bad as my own.
“They’ll be okay, bud,” I reassure him. I wish someone would do the same for me. “I promise they’ll be fine. I’m working on saving them.”
“I’ll guard until then,” he states bravely.
“Mitya,” I write in a private Zik message. “If something happens to me, I want you to make sure Mr. Spock comes out of this alive. He’s hiding under a chair where Alan and Ada are kept.”
“Of course,” Mitya replies. “And just so you know, if something does happen to you, I’ll use the robots to make sure everyone responsible pays dearly for it.”
“I’m not sure I want my half-brother killed,” I say after a moment’s hesitation.
“Then I’ll just make sure he regrets what happened to you for the rest of his life,” Mitya replies, the Zik message completely free of any emotional overtones. “But the punishment will fit the crime.”
“I better focus on driving,” I tell both Mr. Spock and Mitya. “Let’s talk later.”
“Keep Share on so Muhomor and I know what happens when you get there,” Mitya says.
“I’ll watch this room.” Mr. Spock demonstratively narrows his pink eyes to get a better view of his surroundings.
Though the road after the accident is relatively empty, it doesn’t feel that way at this speed, and I must swerve to avoid cars almost every moment. It’s clear that if Zapo and I survive this, the car is going to need new tires by the time I get to my destination. And I might need a new set of adrenal glands and clean underwear.
When the GPS informs me that Kostya’s coordinates are on the right side of the road, I let out a breath I’ve held half the distance down I-84. Pulling up to the gate of the giant mansion my half-brother has made into his lair, I take in my surroundings. With a forest on one side and mountain views on the other, the location is a high-end realtor’s wet dream. There’s a giant fence surrounding everything and a driveway that spirals up the hill for at least half a mile.
I jump out of the car, rush over to the large in-wall intercom, and press the only button there.
“Da,” someone says almost instantly.
“Tell Konstantin that I’m here,” I bellow in that exaggerated way my mom uses during international phone calls to her school friends, as though she wants them to hear her all the way in Russia. “I still have three minutes.”
“Leave your car behind,” the voice says. “Walk in with your hands above your head.”
I raise my hands and trudge up the intricate pavers, my eyes never leaving my destination. My gray hair count doubles by the time the first Richard Nixon-masked asshole greets me with a machine gun, and triples when I realize just how many armed people are guarding the locked door.
“Where is my wife?” I demand from the guy closest to me. “Where is my son?”
The man doesn’t answer, so I repeat the questions in Russian. This doesn’t yield results either.
Yet another masked guard comes out and gestures for us to enter, looking like Richard Nixon as a creepy butler. I follow him into a gorgeous foyer and down a long, spindly corridor.
Through Mr. Spock’s ears, I hear the grating voice of Boris. “The show is about to begin. Let me turn on the TV.”
The television set in front of the room comes to life. Mr. Spock can only see a chunk of the screen from his vantage point. There’s not much to see, only the figure of a large man with his back to the camera. He’s standing like a statue, holding something shiny in each hand. The muscles in this guy’s bac
k are formidable, and even with the poor viewing angle, something about him is familiar. I have a good idea who it might be, so I keep a small window in my AROS interface open to keep a metaphysical eye on the TV screen as the guards lead me farther into the mansion.
Light from a skylight illuminates the modern art on the walls, but the masked guards with guns are the most common decoration throughout. Including this batch, I count fifty-eight men so far. Assuming they’re spread evenly throughout the place and represent a typical ratio of armed men to house space, if I add the size of the mansion into the equation, I get a very depressing result. There must be close to five hundred armed people here.
“This place would be a death trap even if I were armed and had brought Dominic and the rest of security guys,” I say after popping into the VR room. Since I’m no longer driving at race-car speeds, I can spare some attention.
Muhomor and Mitya both nod knowingly, verifying that they’re watching through my Share app feed.
“Kostya is probably bankrupting one of his companies paying all these goons, assuming they’re not being compelled like Gogi and Joe,” I continue.
“I doubt any of these people are controlled.” Mitya’s palms must be sweaty because I see droplets on the arms of the chair where his hands rested a moment ago. “Like Boris, they must be guns for hire.”
“Too bad the robots are still an hour away.” Muhomor points at the map of upstate New York where a number of dots are moving ever so slowly in our direction. “We have a hundred of them, which would be plenty to deal with these guys.”
“Speaking of resources, Dominic is running toward you on foot.” Mitya wipes his hands on his hoodie and puts a tiny dot on the map. “With his exoskeleton, he’s almost as fast as the robots. He might get to the mansion in an hour and ten minutes if he keeps up that pace.”
“Do you have anything more immediate than the robots?” I ask. “It’s nice to know I can be avenged after my death, but I’d be even happier if I could stay alive in the first place.”
“I’ve got three drones zeroing in on your location,” Muhomor says proudly. “They should be there in about twenty minutes.”
