by Bob Mayer
"As long as the computer has it in its database," Dalton cautioned. "Correct?"
Hammond stared at him. "Sybyl has over-" She paused. "Suffice it to say I can't think of any information you would need that Sybyl doesn't have somewhere in its memory or couldn't access through the Internet."
Raisor had been standing in the back of the class. "Time, Doctor," he said.
Hammond nodded. "All right. You've seen the equipment that you’ll use in the isolation tank, and I've told you how it will help you. The other part of your classes here will consist of some refresher training on mind control techniques." She pulled down another chart. "These are some of the techniques our experts will be reintroducing you to:"
Biofeedback
Attitude
Visualization
Relaxation
Cognitive Task Enhancement
Conscious Physiological Control
Meditative States
Death and Dying
Mission Commitment
"Whoa," Dalton said, reading down the list "What the heck is ‘death and dying’? And ‘mission commitment’?"
Hammond held up her hands, palms out. " 'Going over' is transcending to another level. A level most people never experience. In fact, the closest experience to 'going over' that I've heard of is those people who have near-death experiences. Who travel out-of-body while their body passes into what is often momentary physical death. Some of our RVers experience an initial panic when they go on missions. The feeling that they may never return to their bodies, that they have indeed died.
"We have found the best way to deal with that is to train you on the emotional problem you will experience, to make you feel more comfortable with the theoretical concept of death and dying."
"I don't find death to be theoretical," Dalton said. "I've seen it many times and it's damn real."
Hammond shook her head. "But it's not real when you go to the virtual plane. There's another aspect to it. We're talking about the concept of virtual death also. That you might encounter some conflict on one of your missions and your virtual self is wounded or killed but your real self is still alive. We want you to be prepared for that so you can come back to your real self."
"So," Dalton said, "what you are in essence saying is that you want to teach us to accept the virtual death?"
"Correct."
Dalton shook his head. "I don't like that. To me that means you want us to give up. To surrender our will. There's a big difference between accepting a situation and surrendering one's will."
Hammond sighed. "It’s what we think will be best."
"Has anyone ever been 'killed' in cyberspace?" Dalton asked.
"We haven't had that occurrence." Hammond's eyes shifted once more to Raisor.
Dalton caught that look He also noted that the CIA agent was no longer leaning against the wall. "So this, like the other stuff you're talking about" Dalton said, "is still theoretical. For all you know, if someone's cyberself, their psyche, gets killed, they are dead."
"Well, that's theoretically possible," Hammond said, "but the body will still be alive. The structure of the brain will still be intact. So there's no reason to believe the self can't be restored."
Dalton shook his head. "But if you turned that thinking around, wouldn't that be like saying if you programmed everything a person knew into a computer, that computer would be alive? Would be that person?"
"I think if you were truly able to do such a program," Hammond said, "that the computer would indeed be alive. But no one's been able to accomplish that yet, so your argument holds no weight. As you noted, the situation is exactly the opposite here—your real self remains here at Bright Gate, while the projected self, with the aid of the computer, will be out there on the mission."
"Enough theorizing," Raisor snapped. "We have a very tight schedule, Dr. Hammond. We need to get started."
She nodded. "The first thing we need to do is fit all of you for your TACPADs."
***
Oma had dismissed Barsk, letting him rest after his journey from Kiev. She turned to the window and looked out on Moscow, a city she could rightly call hers. If she desired, she could wipe out the other six clans that also worked the city. But there was no point to that. Because the effort required would not be worth the reward gained. It would be like a jackal fighting the others over an already eaten carcass. Oma had no trouble seeing herself as a jackal. She believed that self-awareness was the trait that had led her to her current level of success. One always had to be aware of one's capabilities and limitations, or else any other kind of awareness was worthless. She knew she could not judge others unless she was very certain of her own perspective.
In the midst of her musings, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck tingle and she turned, recognizing the feeling. A shadow flickered in the corner of her office. She waited as the shadow took on the form of a large creature. A Chyort.
"Yes?" she said.
"Very careless to have a GRU turncoat be your grandson's bodyguard."
The voice echoed in her head, the rough edge giving it an inhuman quality.
"Really?" Oma said. There was a rumbling sound that she supposed was the creature's laughter. It caused even her hardened stomach to feel queasy.
"Ah, so maybe it was not such a mistake? Wheels within wheels perhaps?"
"What I do with my personnel is none of your business," Oma said.
"It is if it threatens this operation."
"I felt confident you could deal with it if there was a problem" Oma said. "And you did. So shall we move on?" There was a pause. She felt the red eyes burning into her.
"So perhaps you are bluffing. Maybe you didn't know about Dmitri. Maybe I’m working with the wrong people."
"You're working with me," Oma said, "because I’m the most powerful and because you know that we can achieve our goals together."
"Remember, old hag, that my goals are the only ones I care about"
"I assumed that long ago," Oma replied. "My main concern is who else you are working for. Who made you what you are? The KGB? The GRU?"
"Perhaps I am from the devil."
Oma shook her head. "I know there is no God and I need no Satan to accept the evil that men do. I saw enough horror in the Great Patriotic War to convince me of both of those things. When I saw what the Nazis did to my parents, my village, I knew that man could make greater evil than anything written in the Bible. Men made you, of that I am sure."
The shadow seemed to grow behind the monster. "Keep in mind that I know what you fear. Everyone has something that controls them. A chain in their own mind that if someone yanks, they can make you do what they will. I know what controls you inside your own head."
Oma stared at him. "If you knew such a thing, I think we would be talking differently."
The creature moved, shadows shifting in the corner. Oma had never really been sure of the form other than it had two arms and two legs. Occasionally she thought she could make out claws at the end of the huge hands, and a ridged spine on the back flaring into two large, leathery wings, but it was like trying to watch the water come in with a wave, always changing a little bit, nothing of permanence.
"The Americans are aware that there is a plot."
She clenched her steel teeth together. "Was there a leak from my organization?"
"If there was, I wouldn’t be here right now," Chyort said. "They found out from the same source that led to them stopping the beryllium shipment in Vilnius last year. The Americans put a very high priority on maintaining an eye on nuclear material. They don’t trust our government. Should we be surprised by that? They know how incompetent those fools truly are."
"Do the Americans know of Phase Two?" she asked.
"Not yet."
Oma considered the way that answer had been phrased. "I will move up the timetable."
"That would be prudent."
She stared at the demon. "Was Dmitri really working for the GRU? I suspected, but I had n
o proof."
"Is proof necessary? But, yes, he was turned by the GRU. Your grandson needed a lesson, one that the death of Seogky was not enough for. Also, it reduces his power, does it not? Which keeps your hand strong, does it not?"
"This is my organization," Oma said, surprised at the demon's insight. "I have run it for over forty years. I do not need your help."
"I care nothing for your organization. Only that you keep it together long enough for me to accomplish my goal. The target will be at the location I gave you at oh eight hundred local time two days from now."
“Two days? You told me it would be seven!"
Chyort moved again. Oma swore she could hear the click of claws on the hardwood floor. A scaly hand with three-inch claws came into the light and picked up a Faberge egg that rested on the desk. She could see the egg through the claw. It took all her willpower to not move her chair back.
"The GRU is not as stupid as you’d like to think," Chyort said. "They’ve moved up the timetable while keeping a train on the original schedule as a decoy. They hope to move the bombs before anyone can plan anything. I suggest you call that big Navy ape of yours."
"I can handle it."
"You have the papers on the weapon's location?"
"Yes."
"And the computer program to run the weapon?"
"Yes."
The egg dropped back into its holder. The room seemed to expand again to normal size as the shadow disappeared. Oma's anger at being told what to do had never even had a chance to get started. She was simply grateful the demon was gone.
Oma sat still for several moments, reflecting on the conversation. It was something her husband had taught her how to do many years ago. To always go over every encounter or conversation immediately, to sift through and find the hidden meanings, the things said that had not been meant to be said. And what had not been said.
She didn't know who the creature was. For all she knew, he was Chyort, the devil, but as she'd told him, she didn't believe in such things. The first time he’d appeared in her office, three months ago, it had taken all her considerable willpower to control her fear. Chyort was the name he had given himself or someone had given him. She had had some of her people make inquiries, and they had learned of a myth in the army, a myth about a creature with such a name that dated back to the war in Afghanistan. But there was nothing more than those vague rumors. She had them checking further, trying to uncover the truth behind the myth.
The only thing she held on to was that Chyort wanted something. And he needed her help to achieve his goal. That told her his power was limited. She’d long ago learned that every relationship, whether personal or business, was a rope that pulled both ways. So far, Chyort had done all the pulling, but in doing so he had firmly handed her the other end of the rope. Oma smiled. She would wait and pull when it was most opportune for her own goals.
She didn't know exactly what Chyort's objective was, but each encounter they had she learned something more. Another thing he’d said today that she found curious was the comment about the "Navy ape." That meant he knew about Leksi, which was not surprising; everyone knew Leksi worked for her; what was more interesting was the way he had said it. She had picked up a note of derision. She considered that. Afghanistan and a dislike of the Navy. That pointed to an army man, someone who was in an elite unit and thus able to sneer at Leksi's naval commando background. That meant Spetsnatz, the Russian version of the American Special Forces. Oma mentally marked that tidbit for further investigation.
She hit a number on her phone and it summoned who she needed. Then she leaned back in the comfort of her chair, feeling the ache in her spine as she continued to consider what she had learned in this latest encounter. She was still pondering that when a green light flashed on the edge of her desk. She pushed a button and the wood-paneled steel door slid open.
The man who walked in drew attention wherever he went. He was just shy of seven feet tall, and his head was completely shaved, revealing a jagged scar running from the crown down the left side, disappearing inside the black turtleneck he wore. He was not only tall, he was wide, his broad chest and thick arms indicating extreme strength. He walked to the front of her desk and halted, waiting, his manner indicating his military training.
"We must move up our timetable," Oma said.
Leksi waited.
Oma's left hand moved, writing the information Chyort had given her onto a piece of paper. She slid it across the desk. One of Leksi's massive hands reached down and carefully picked it up. He peered at the Cyrillic writing, read it a second time, then handed it back to her. She tossed it in an opening on the left side of her desk and there was a flash, destroying the paper.
"I know it’s not much time, but the window of opportunity grows tighter. You must accompany Barsk on Phase Two first. Then you must immediately return and complete Phase One."
Leksi still had not said a word, a trait that Oma valued. He was a former naval commando, an expert in weapons and martial arts. But more importantly, he would do whatever she asked, without the slightest hesitation. He was not particularly imaginative but he was thorough. She’d already gone over the plan for this operation with him several times and felt secure that he would follow it through to the letter. Today's news only changed the timetable and the order of events, not the mode of execution.
She held out the papers. "This is the location you must go to for Phase Two."
He took the papers.
She slid the CD-ROM across the desk. “Take that. I’ll supply you with the man who knows how to use it."
Leksi put the CD-ROM in his pocket.
"Go," she said.
Leksi went out the way he had come, still not having spoken a single word. The door slid shut behind him, leaving her alone in her aerie.
*****
A door slid open twenty feet up and food was thrown down, the first indication to Vasilev that he wasn't really in a metaphysical hell. There were only torn pieces of bread and some meat that was suspicious at best, but Vasilev wolfed it down.
When he was done, he was disappointed with himself. He should have eaten more slowly. What else did he have to do?
The air crackled. Vasilev rose to his feet, swaying from weakness. The two red-coal eyes appeared. Vasilev squinted but all he could sense in the darkness was a deeper shadow in the black of the pit.
Vasilev waited, not saying anything, but the eyes only watched him for a while. Finally the voice came.
"You should have died."
Vasilev blinked. "What?"
"You should have died with the others. You were as guilty as those who did die."
Vasilev swallowed, trying to get moisture to his dry throat. "I don't know-"
"Special Department Number Eight."
Vasilev's throat seized and he could only make a strangling noise.
"You must pay for what you did."
Vasilev fell to his knees, curling into a ball, whimpering his apologies, his sorrow for what had happened so many years ago.
"You will do what I tell you to do and forgiveness will be yours. Only then will you know peace. Do you understand?"
Vasilev could only nod, while his mouth moved in half-articulated apologies.
Then, just as suddenly as they had appeared, the red eyes were gone and he was alone once more.
Chapter Seven
Dalton was surprised the embryonic solution was warm. It felt like molasses as his feet sank into it. He resisted the urge to shake his head; the TACPAD helmet weighed heavily on his neck, and his vision was blocked by the pad of the cyberlink completely covering his eyes and wrapping around his head. The helmet was fastened on very securely, the location determined after four hours of fitting by two members of Hammond's staff in a white room that was completely sterile. They’d told him the location had to be exact, within one hundredth of a millimeter. And they had only been able to do that after doing complete MRI, CAT, and PET scans of his brain.
As they wo
rked, the two technicians had talked in a lingo that Dalton had not understood. They had sent cryoprobes and thermocouples into his brain to test locations, reading results off a bank of machines and then making adjustments to the inside of the TACPAD. Hammond had been right: the insertion of the little wires had caused no pain, or any other sensation for that matter. Still, it had been disconcerting to simply lie there, knowing that they were penetrating directly into his brain, over and over again.
Just putting the fitted TACPAD on had taken forty-five minutes, with another thirty of testing, before they had strapped him into the lift harness in the main experimental chamber and lifted him into the air and swung him over the isolation tank.
He wore a slick black suit that covered his torso, leaving his arms and legs free. An electrical lead was attached directly to his chest, and a microprobe had been slipped through the material and into his chest just before they'd lifted him. Even though Hammond assured him as she slipped the probe in that the wire was so thin he couldn't possibly feel it, Dalton was very aware that something had gone into his heart—a distinctly uncomfortable feeling. The last thing he considered himself capable of doing, encumbered as he was, was conducting a mission. Of course, he still didn't know the mission they were being prepared for, but it wasn't the first time in his career he'd received training without knowing exactly what it was to be used for.
Dalton took steady, deep breaths through the mouthpiece as he was lowered further into the isolation tank. He knew that a few members of the team were gathered around, watching, as he was first to experience being inside. The others were still being fitted.
The solution came around his waist, up his chest, and then he was all the way in. The worst feeling so far, other than the microprobe into the heart, was the feeling of the embryonic fluid seeping into the TACPAD, pressing up against his face. Dalton also didn't like the fact that he could see nothing. He felt neutral buoyancy, something he was used to from his scuba training.
