by Dima Zales
“Does anyone have any snacks?” I ask and gently stroke the rat’s soft white fur.
“Glove compartment,” Lyuba says, reacting to Mr. Spock with a lack of curiosity bordering on indifference.
I open the drawer in front of me and see it’s full of Russian-style junk food, which is actually a bit healthier than the American variety. I give Mr. Spock a few pine nuts and a piece of Alyonka chocolate bar. Spock gratefully eats his share, and I follow his example by consuming a much bigger handful of nuts and the rest of the candy. Once the worst of my hunger is satisfied, I gobble down a Tula Gingerbread—a treat from my childhood that tastes like pure nostalgia.
“He looks much better,” Ada says when Mr. Spock’s aura turns the blue-green color associated with a moderately relaxed state. “And he seems to be acting normal, just like his recently enhanced brothers and sisters.”
“Wait,” I type into the chat. “You already tested that resource allocation rigmarole on them?”
“I applied it when you went incommunicado in that room,” Ada says. “Mitya and I flipped a coin, and I’m about to become the first official human test subject.”
“Be careful, guys,” I reply and watch Mr. Spock for any deviance in his behavior.
The little guy’s color turns blue, and the only strange thing I notice is how intensely he’s looking at the cup holder.
“Are you thirsty?” I ask him out loud, and again, Lyuba doesn’t bat an eyelash, as though talking to your pet rat is as unremarkable as whipping one out of your pocket.
It could be my imagination, but I think Mr. Spock gives me a barely perceptible nod.
“Ada, do your rats know how to nod?” I mentally type into the chat. “Because I think he just did.”
“Well,” Ada says, “while I haven’t observed that behavior before, I figure with the brain boost and all this human socializing, they might be learning things like that.”
“May I?” I ask Lyuba as I reach for the water bottle.
“There are unopened ones in the back,” the woman says. “But of course, you can also have mine.”
Before I can retort something hopefully clever, Gogi’s hairy paw shows up, holding a sealed bottle, and I take it from him.
Water bottles clearly weren’t designed for rats to drink out of, and more water spills onto my jacket than into Mr. Spock’s mouth. However, it must’ve been the final thing my furry friend needed, because his aura turns violet—the nirvana-like rat state.
I drink the rest of the water, and we drive contentedly for a while.
When the area turns rural and we’re the only car on the road, I overhear Joe talking, which is strange, because he usually only speaks when he’s about to hurt someone. When Joe falls silent, Alex says something, his voice sounding beyond terrified.
My heart rate speeds up.
Picking up on the same vibes, Mr. Spock scurries back into my pocket, and in the next instant, the car is filled with an inhuman shriek, followed by the smell of human feces.
I recognize the shriek as Alex’s.
As far as I can tell, he just soiled himself and is screaming like a psychotic banshee.
Chapter Thirty-Three
A list of gloomy possibilities flashes through my mind, each more unrealistic than the other. Are the cops shooting at us again? Or is Alex watching another video where a hostage is brutally murdered?
I turn around and see it’s something else.
Something to do with Joe towering over Alex and moving his arms around.
“Please, stop!” Alex shrieks. “Please, don’t!”
I glimpse the point of Joe’s knife piercing the tip of Alex’s finger. Alex howls.
I finally comprehend what’s happening, if not the why of it.
My cousin is torturing Alex while questioning him about something. The exact questions are hard to hear over Alex’s screaming.
Muhomor’s face is as contorted in fear as mine. In contrast, Gogi and Nadejda look utterly placid.
“Give him a chance to speak,” Gogi says academically in the brief silence between screams. “He’s probably ready.”
Joe stops his grisly work, but it takes a few minutes for Alex to downgrade from shrieking to helplessly crying.
“You better talk,” Nadejda says, her pseudo-friendly voice making me wonder if she’s trying to capitalize on their earlier flirtations. “That isn’t even a fraction of what Joe will do to you if you don’t start speaking.”
“Oh boy,” Ada’s angel form says. “If she’s the good cop, I don’t envy poor Alex.”
“Yes,” Alex whines. “It was me, but I didn’t have a choice. Govrilovskiy has things on me. I had to tell them where you were landing and about the club, but I tried to stop you from going, remember? That’s why I made the video—”
Joe slams his fist into Alex’s head, cutting off the rest of his sentence.
My cousin’s face is filled with more emotion than I’ve ever seen from him, but unfortunately for Alex, that emotion is wrath.
I cringe as I watch Joe deliver blow after hard blow, inflicting the kind of damage Alex might never recover from.
I know that I shouldn’t be watching this, that I’ll have nightmares for the rest of my life, but I’m hypnotized by the cruel precision of each strike and the sound of bones breaking.
In a surreal underscore to the violence, Muhomor starts typing on his keyboard again.
I’m in a strange stupor as the car pulls over to the side of the road, and Nadejda and Gogi restrain Joe. To me, it feels as if only a moment passed between Joe beating on Alex and my cousin’s people holding him cautiously.
Slowly, my daze clears, and I process what happened. Just to make sure I’m not crazy, I share my revelations with my New York allies via the chat. “Alex confessed. He told someone, a guy named Govrilovskiy, where we were landing and about our destination—his residence. That was enough information for them to figure out what path we’d take. They also had enough time to dispatch the car that nearly drove us off the road. Since we survived that first encounter, Alex shared our plans to visit Muhomor at Dazdraperma. That’s how the squad knew to ambush us there.”
“I’m afraid you’re spot on,” Mitya says. “I’m so sorry I put you in touch with this traitor. I didn’t think—”
“It’s not your fault,” I reply. “This Govrilovskiy was blackmailing Alex, a common occurrence in this country.”
“But I should’ve figured this out,” Mitya says. “The club thing could’ve had several explanations, but I should’ve considered that first attack. Besides you, me, Joe, and Ada, only Alex knew where you were going to land. True, there were your cousin’s people to consider, but they seem very loyal to him, and they’re also outsiders in Russia, so that only leaves Alex as the traitor—something Joe must’ve realized.”
I recall Joe asking me if I trusted Mitya and Ada after the first attack and decide Mitya is right. Joe’s paranoia made him realize the truth first.
“I just can’t believe Alex could eat and drink with you in his home while planning to lead you to your deaths in the club,” Mitya says in disgust.
“I don’t mean to defend Alex,” Ada says, “but he did try to stop you from going to the club. Before, and especially after the video, he insisted—”
“The video,” I say out loud as another part of Alex’s confession registers. “It was fake?”
“Yeah,” Muhomor says. “Now that I had reason to suspect it, I checked it out and verified it’s a clip from an obscure Russian horror flick called The Handy Man. Also, because we now know both the sender and the receiver, I should be able to link the email to Alex, though that would be overkill since he already confessed.”
So this is what the thin man was doing on his computer during the beating. I feel a sense of relief mixed with a desire to punch what’s left of Alex for making me think someone might put a drill to my mom’s head. I also realize this is why Joe went berserk. In his own way, my cousin must’ve been worried
about my mom, and when he learned Alex had created that video, he acted on the same impulse I’m currently suppressing.
“Let me go,” Joe orders his allies, “or you’re next.”
Gogi releases Joe, and Nadejda follows.
They calmed him down enough that he doesn’t resume beating Alex’s limp body. Instead, he pointedly draws his gun and says, “Take him out of the car.”
Gogi and Nadejda grab Alex and begin dragging him out.
“Wait,” Muhomor says frantically. “Alex is a very high-profile individual. You can’t just shoot him and leave him on the road. It’s better if he disappears, and I know people who can make that happen. I can also make his digital trail look like he took a long vacation in Australia or some other faraway place.”
Nadejda and Gogi stop, but Joe looks unconvinced.
“There’s also your mission to consider,” Muhomor adds. “We might still need Alex for that. If I don’t get any hits when I search for this Govrilovskiy character, I might need more names.”
“Fine,” Joe says and gets into Gogi’s seat. “Ride next to him.”
The Georgian gets in the back, checks Alex’s pulse, and says, “Alive for now.”
Lyuba restarts the car, and we ride in sullen silence all the way to the village.
“This place isn’t actually called Gadyukino,” Mitya tells Ada when she comments on the discrepancy. “I realize why you thought so, given Muhomor’s comments about the ‘Gadyukino hideout,’ but Gadyukino is just a nickname we Russians sometimes give to hole-in-the-wall places like this little community.”
Gadyukino, or whatever the real name of this place is, is at its core a former kolkhoz, the dysfunctional Soviet collective farm. There aren’t any paved roads here, and the village houses look exactly the same as when I visited a similar place all the way back in the eighties—poor and impossibly drab.
One structure stands out, however: the really worn-down and abandoned-looking warehouse we’re heading toward.
“How do you feel, Ada?” Mitya asks in the chat. “Any insights?”
“Hold on,” I interject. “You already got the resource allocation thing to increase your intelligence boost?”
“Yes,” Ada replies. “Right before your psycho cousin went all Vlad The Impaler on Alex’s ass.”
“And?” I mentally type. “How do you feel?”
“I’m fine,” Ada says out loud. “I feel a lot like when I first got the original boost.”
“So, like nothing at all,” I say. “At least that’s how I felt.”
“I wouldn’t say nothing at all,” Ada says. “I feel the potential, and the fact I’m feeling fine is a significant result in itself.”
“I guess I’m next,” Mitya says.
“Shouldn’t it be Mike?” Ada asks. “He might need it more.”
“Fine,” Mitya mumbles, almost under his breath. With an exaggerated sigh, he adds, “I guess I can wait a little longer.”
“You up for it, Mike?” Ada asks.
I think about it, then decide whatever extra advantage this boost might offer is welcome. “Okay, hit me.”
“I’ll set it up and let you know in a sec,” she says. “You might want to pay attention to your surroundings for now.”
I catch myself sitting with my eyes closed—a bad habit I’m developing when using the AROS interface. I open my eyes and realize we’re already inside the warehouse and Lyuba is parking the car.
I look around.
If a twister decimated a couple of high-end datacenters, plus a RadioShack and maybe the computer department at Best Buy, the aftermath might look like the inside of this “hideout.”
Muhomor exits the car, hands the DJ’s laptop to Lyuba, and says, “The machine needs to disappear completely, and Alex needs to be kept alive for the moment.”
Without waiting for Lyuba to reply, or even inviting us to follow, Muhomor prances toward the big wall of monitors.
Gogi shrugs and heads in the same direction, and the rest of us follow.
“It’s all set,” Ada says. “Just click on that little blue brain when you’re ready.”
“I’m crossing my breath and holding my fingers,” I mentally jest while locating the icon in question. Initiating the app, I say, “This is it.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Part of me thought this time would be different, yet I feel almost nothing again.
My vision might be slightly sharper, but that could be from the lights Muhomor just turned on. Also, my hearing seems keener, almost like I can tell which keys Muhomor is banging on his keyboard, but this could be an illusion as well. I guess I’ll feel more as my brain adjusts to its new capabilities, like before.
“It might help if you get on a better connection,” Ada says when I complain to her. “I had more effects than you described.”
“Okay,” I say, “but I’m not sure I want to get on Muhomor’s Wi-Fi.”
“Speaking of the devil, I think he has something,” Mitya chimes in.
I look over and see everyone huddling around Muhomor as he turns around and says, “Govrilovskiy was a solid lead and proves I was right about the intelligence community connection.”
At his audience’s blank stares, he asks me to explain and resumes typing. I go through his SVR-contractor theory for those who had to leave the room and for my NYC friends. Since Muhomor is only paying attention to his computer, no doubt working on this lead, I guesstimate the answers to all their questions. I even go as far as proposing theories about the sinister applications the Russian government—and especially the KGB’s offspring agency—might have for the Brainocyte technology.
I’m in the middle of discussing the benefits of having telepathic-like coms and various Augmented Reality overlays on the battlefield, when Muhomor stops typing and says, “Like I thought, Govrilovskiy is the head of a group that acts as a contractor for the agency. He has connections in the government, in business, and particularly in the criminal underworld. The good news is I just got into his organization’s systems and located a few facilities where his people might keep important research subjects.” He works on his computer for a few seconds, and maps of different parts of Russia appear on several screens. “The bad news is there are twelve locations.” More maps show up on the screens. “The worse news is that each and every location is pretty much a fortress.”
“Can you locate this Govrilovskiy?” Gogi strokes his mustache with his index finger and thumb in a movie-villain manner. “If we had him, we could find out where our quarry is.”
Bile rises in my throat as I picture the methods they might use to find out this information. Alex’s ordeal is still very fresh in my psyche.
“Let me try,” Muhomor replies without turning. “This might take a while, so why don’t you all stretch your legs a little?”
Given Joe’s body language, it’s clear he’s considering making Muhomor work faster by putting a gun to the thin man’s head. He doesn’t actually get his weapon out, though, so maybe he decided that’s not the best motivational tool at his disposal.
I locate a dingy chair a few feet from Muhomor and close my eyes for a second. It’s a mistake, because it makes me realize how utterly tired I am. There’s jetlag, and then there’s jetlag combined with the crash you experience after a monstrous release of adrenaline. Despite all this, a spark of an idea—something that might avoid more torture and improve our chances at a successful rescue—keeps gnawing away at my weary brain, keeping me awake. I rub my temples as though trying to physically jumpstart my brain, and in a jolt of inspiration, a way to locate Mom comes to me.
Hopefully, Muhomor is as good a hacker as I think he is.
Before I speak up, I mentally share my idea with Ada and Mitya. When I’m done, Ada says, “See, the boost might already be working. That’s a great idea. I’m ashamed I didn’t come up with it myself.”
“I feel like I would’ve suggested it with time,” Mitya says, his avatar bashful. “I’ll send you the spec
s you’ll need.”
“I have an idea,” I say, walking back to Muhomor.
“This guy is very careful when it comes to his whereabouts,” Muhomor tells me over his shoulder, and I suspect he didn’t hear my soft-spoken proclamation. “No obvious calendar entries, no—”
“I know how to locate Mom without him,” I say firmly. “Can you look at me, please?”
Muhomor turns around, and for the first time since the shootout, he looks like himself. He even located another pair of sunglasses, and they’re back in place, sitting on his nose.
“According to an app I wrote with my friends,” I begin, “my mom’s Brainocytes aren’t currently on any network, either Wi-Fi or cellular.”
“Understood,” Muhomor says. “Otherwise, we’d know where she is.”
“Right,” I reply. “But think about it. The Brainocytes are probably trying to connect to the Wi-Fi at these locations you mentioned. The network must be secure, and thus her connection requests keep failing.”
Muhomor’s eyes widen with excitement. “Of course. But if I hack into the Wi-Fi and leave the right ports open—”
“She’d connect and we’d know her location,” I finish. “I’ll send over the ports and the specs for the logins.”
“Actually,” Mitya mentally chimes in, “we could also communicate with your mom once she’s on Wi-Fi. Given enough time, I can write something to piggyback on her current interface.”
I don’t mention what Mitya said to Muhomor because the hacker is already working on the problem, and I don’t want to delay him. Instead, I walk around his hideout, collecting parts for another, much less defined idea I have.
It takes me half an hour to locate a small night-vision camera, and a few more minutes to find something I can use to make a tiny harness.
“I can modify this stuff into a camera like the one I’m wearing and turn Mr. Spock into a spy,” I mentally type.
“Sure,” Ada says. “That’ll work great at night. During the day, we can capture what Mr. Spock sees through his Brainocytes.”
