“Who took him?” Giamatti asked, alarmed. “It wasn’t one of us?”
Jason Wallers said, “No. Central Intelligence has determined that it was the work of a Russian spy cell. We have reason to believe they left the country with the subject. All indications point to the Kremlin.”
“Dear God,” said Giamatti. “The Kremlin? How is this possible? We ran such a tight ship. How did they know? Where was the leak?”
“That’s the biggest threat we face,” Hartel said. “It came from inside your team.”
Giamatti’s face reddened, stunned speechless for several seconds. Finally, he sputtered, “But we took every precaution.… We worked together on clearances.…”
“Someone still slipped through,” Wallers said. “He’s been in this country for fifteen years under an American identity, studying and teaching at our universities, becoming one of the leading experts in neurotechnology. His Russian name is Alex Nikolaev. You know him as Alan Farron.”
“Dear God,” Giamatti said again. His mind searched for any clues that could have tipped him off. “His track record was perfect. He had no trace of an accent, no mannerisms.…”
“His entire family back history, before he came to the States, was falsified with extreme care. It’s definitely the work of top officials in the Russian Federation.”
Giamatti took a moment to absorb the news. “I guess that explains it,” he said.
“Explains what?” said Wallers.
“I’ve been unable to reach Alan…Alex…for days. In all the chaos, I didn’t give it much thought. I never dreamed it would be something like this.” Giamatti shut his eyes, deflated. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Jarret spoke up. “We have multiple levels of alarm here. At the core, we have the potential for the Russians to exploit their knowledge of our technological breakthrough. It puts our trade secrets at risk for sure. They could threaten to expose our work through blackmail and create a significant disruption. But our biggest, most immediate concern is the extent of their knowledge of our application of this technology.”
President Hartel leaned forward and looked directly at Giamatti. “I must know. Does he know about me?”
After a moment of tense silence, Giamatti uttered a single word. “No.”
“How can you be so sure?” asked Jarret.
Giamatti took a deep breath. “My team consists of twenty-three top doctors and scientists, as you know, recruited from around the country for this experiment. All of them participated in the early stages, the testing of the hypothesis. They scanned Tom Nolan and created his shell. They created shells for myself and my wife. They were all involved in the testing and design of cerebrum digitization and the transfer of the human mind into a computer. They worked collectively on the test to transfer the consciousness of Louis Karp. Alan…Alex…was part of that group. He was deeply submersed in the work. He was one of the architects. He was…is a brilliant scientist.”
Giamatti turned his head to scan the tense faces on either side of him. They stared at him, hanging on his every word. Giamatti took on a tone of reassurance.
“But…he did not know about the president’s condition.”
“What about the president’s shell?” Jarret asked.
“I was asked to reduce the size of my team for the president’s procedure. Once we had confidence in the outcome of our test pilot, we could conduct the president’s transformation with a tighter crew. In the name of national security, I was asked if I could successfully replicate the president without requiring all twenty-three members of the original team. I said yes. I was told I could handpick the eight people I felt could guarantee a successful outcome. Those eight, and only those eight, are aware of the president’s health issues and working on the cure. I submitted their names, you have them. Six weeks ago, they scanned the president and created his duplicate shell. They will conduct the transfer of his consciousness at my mansion next week. I can go over the names again with you. Alan…Alex…is not on the list. He knows nothing about the president being any part of the next phase of this work.”
The small group seated around the president’s desk relaxed immediately, sinking in their seats with a collective wave of relief.
President Hartel fell back in his chair. “Thank God.” Perspiration dotted his forehead and dampened his gray hair. “That was the last thing the Russians needed to know. Then I’m safe?”
“Yes,” Giamatti said.
“Let’s run another, deeper background check on those eight people who do know,” said McGrath.
“Most of them I have known for years,” Giamatti said. “Some are very close friends.”
“Pardon me for being harsh,” Jarret said. “But that doesn’t mean shit.”
Giamatti nodded. “Of course.”
“We can’t allow this to happen again,” said President Hartel. “It’s inexcusable that it happened the first time. We have a hot mess on our hands, but by God, it could have been so much worse.”
“Where does this leave us with our plans for next week?” Giamatti asked.
“We’re still moving forward,” Hartel confirmed. “Unless you hear otherwise. We will be carefully monitoring the situation. I don’t want a postponement unless it’s absolutely necessary. This body of mine isn’t getting any healthier. All this damned stress isn’t helping. I’ve got a bad heart as it is.”
As a final comment, he said, “We cannot, cannot underestimate the craftiness of the Kremlin. We don’t know what they are going to do with the property they’ve stolen from us. It could be irretrievable. That poor soul is their prisoner now. May God have mercy on him.”
* * *
Giamatti flew back to Chicago in a private jet, helping himself to libations from the bar. His nerves were a wreck. His large frame seemed to quake from the recent turn of events. He had never imagined a spy would or could infiltrate his ranks. It made him suspicious of everyone on the team, even the people he had known for most of his adult life.
He debated what to tell Tom Nolan. Tom remained in hiding at his mansion, waiting out the retrieval of his runaway alter ego. He was unaware that his life-saving shell was halfway across the world in enemy hands. It was probably being studied and probed by a team of Kremlin scientists plotting ways to preserve their own current leader in power…forever.
The likelihood of getting it back was slim. And the likelihood of simply whipping up a new shell for Tom was not good either.
Now that Tom’s test was a proven success, the waiting list for future treatments was long enough and prominent enough to bump Tom down the queue. There were much bigger priorities muscling in line, such as saving the president. Each shell cost close to one hundred million dollars and thousands of hours of lab work. Tom didn’t know it, but his future survival was in doubt.
Giamatti looked out the window at the clouds and blue sky, high above the turmoil waiting for him below, and quietly got drunk.
Chapter Seventeen
After what seemed like an eternity swimming in a dark void without any senses, simply thinking about things from his back catalog of memories, Louis experienced another rebirth. Suddenly he could see: perched somewhere high off the ground in a large indoor space with a gathering of serious-faced gawkers below staring up at him. He could hear a murmur of interest in his awakening. Louis attempted to speak and produced a strange-sounding voice, his words flowing forward in a crisp, overly articulated tone with a staccato delivery.
“Now-what-the-hell!”
A bearded man stepped forward and Louis immediately recognized him. It was the ringleader of the Russian clowns who captured him in Florida, the scientist from the lab who said his real name was Alex.
“Say that again,” said Alex. He held a remote and pointed it up at Louis, pressing a button.
Louis didn’t respond, still taking in his odd surroundings.
Louis wanted to spit at him but didn’t know how. So he wearily repeated himself.
He said, “Now what the hell?”
Except it didn’t come out that way. It came out in a harder, awkward collection of clipped sounds. It sounded like gibberish.
“What did you do to my voice?” demanded Louis, and again the words did not come out as he meant them, reduced to nonsense in his ears.
“With the click of a button, you speak Russian!” Alex said proudly. “The translation is built-in and very accurate.”
“I don’t want to speak your stupid language,” Louis said, but the delivery of those words betrayed him.
Louis heard scattered laughter below – no translator needed for that universal response. It only angered him further. Louis delivered choice American profanity and hoped it didn’t lose anything in translation.
“That’s not very polite,” Alex said. He clicked the remote once more. “We’ll speak in your native language, for now. I know you don’t understand a word of Russian.”
Louis rotated his head. Why was he so much taller than everybody else? What was he standing on? Then he looked down and saw his oversized torso and limbs. His legs were huge stems, like an elephant’s, but longer and ending in steel claws that clutched the ground like monkey feet.
“Where’d you stick my brain this time?” he said, and it came out in English.
“You should feel very proud,” said Alex. “You represent the warrior of the future, a turning point in military defense, unlike anything in the history of the world.”
Louis examined his arms – powerful and flexible, covered in hooks and racks for carrying weaponry. For a moment, he was impressed.
“Before we go any further, I need to establish some ground rules,” Alex said. “You are no longer an American experiment. You belong to us now. I expect you to welcome this transition. Your own country betrayed and abandoned you. They left you to rot in prison. Then they exploited you in a laboratory as a test animal for prolonging the life of the rich and privileged. You were days away from being erased from existence. But here, with us, you can be the first soldier of an extraordinary army, one that will go down in the history books. Of course, your cooperation is a choice. And our willingness to keep you alive is also a choice.”
Alex waved the remote. “Remember how this works? You know the drill. We can turn you off in a heartbeat. Now, in case you were considering taking this device away from me, let me assure you, it’s not the only one. We have dozens of points of access, some with people inside this room, some with people relatively close by. We can also turn you off by satellite from great distances.”
Alex pointed the remote at Louis and triggered a laser pointer. He placed the red dot of the laser on Louis’s left breastplate. “Inside there, like a beating heart, is a microchip that can be activated or deactivated at will by a unique signal. If you betray us, we will shut you down. We will remove your digital consciousness and infest it with a most unpleasant computer virus, one that loops horrible thoughts and images for eternity. We call the virus…Hell.”
He continued, “I know that doesn’t appeal to you. I recommend you accept your new life. Embrace your rejuvenation and your new name. Beginning today, you are no longer Louis Karp. Karp – it’s a kind of fish, right? No. Your new name is Ares, the God of War.”
The assembled group below clapped politely. Louis stared down at them. He didn’t know if he could trust them any more than the Americans. But he was intrigued by this newfound power. Little scrawny Louis Karp, teased in grade school by the other children who were bigger and stronger, was now eleven feet of mighty steel and brute force.
“This is the first installment of a thinking mind into the warrior shell created by our brilliant defense team,” said Alex. “As such, we need to conduct some basic physical tests. I want to thank you in advance for your cooperation. We need to review your mobility and capabilities, and the real-time link between your mental commands and physical actions. We’ll start simple and the team will be observing and taking notes. Are you ready?”
Louis didn’t know how to shrug. So he responded, “Yes.”
“Good,” Alex said. He glanced at the team around him, and they stared forward in anticipation, eager to observe.
Alex told Louis, “Lift your right arm.”
Louis lifted his right arm, keeping it straight.
“Now bend it.”
Louis heard the command, processed it and responded with action.
“Lift your left leg.”
Louis balanced perfectly on one leg. He did not feel wobbly.
“Touch your head.”
Louis said, “You didn’t say ‘Simon says’.”
“Excuse me?” Alex said.
“American humor.” Louis touched his head.
After a series of motion tests that displayed smooth reflexes and flexibility, Alex turned and announced to the Evolution Team, “I am now going to ask you to step behind the safety glass so that General Popov may conduct a series of military maneuvers.”
Louis watched as the dozen or so men and women moved behind the glass partition. An older man in a green, ribboned uniform stepped forward. He was joined by an anxious-looking young soldier who rolled in a large cannon-like weapon equipped with a shield to protect its operators. The general, the soldier and Alex positioned themselves behind the shield.
“Ares, I don’t want you to be alarmed,” said Alex, now addressing Louis by his new name. “We are going to test your vulnerability. We do not expect you to be damaged or incapacitated in any way. The bulletproof glass and this shield will protect us from the ricochet. May I ask you to please activate the visor that will protect your eyes.”
“How do I do that?” Louis asked.
“Think it,” said Alex. “Like you did when you were moving your arms and legs.”
Louis concentrated on lowering a visor over his face and it happened, as if by telepathy. He could still see, but his eyes and overall head were provided with extra protection.
He observed himself in the reflection of the protective glass, a shimmering, massive being, layered over the Russian faces that stared at him like a big freak.
In his reflection, Louis could no longer detect a trace of humanity. He hated his Tom Nolan ‘suit’, but at least it imitated the appearance of a real human being. Now he was some kind of fierce-looking robot, like a kid’s toy grotesquely enlarged. He missed his original old self, even if he was puny and ugly. At least it was him. Now he was just living out somebody else’s sketch design of a science-fiction man-machine warrior.
Louis felt like a cartoon.
It depressed him.
Then they shot at him.
First, a spray of bullets. Then they switched gears on the cannon and hit him harder with larger ammo. Missiles. A rocket.
It didn’t even tickle. Nothing. Like light raindrops bouncing off an umbrella.
The bigger damage came from the bounce back, creating pockmarks in the warehouse walls. The audience behind the glass jumped and ducked every time a bullet bounced their way, like fans behind the home plate at a ballgame.
After the durability assessment, Alex and the rest of the observers remained behind protective barriers as Louis engaged in a series of strength and weapon tests. With his enormous, piercing hands, Louis dismantled an armored vehicle. Then he bashed the pieces with hammering blows.
“Okay, stop,” said Alex. “Somebody’s going to report an earthquake.”
“How am I doing?” Louis asked.
Alex turned to General Popov for a reaction. Popov stated in English, “We are pleased.” The general stepped forward. “You are designed to be fitted with an assortment of weapons. Some are already built in. May I ask you to activate the flamethrower on your left arm, aimin
g it to your right. Command it with your mind – just as you would any other movement.”
Louis pointed his left arm toward the remnants of the armored car and willed the flamethrower into operation. A twenty-foot flame shot out and lit up the hunks of metal, causing them to glow.
“Excellent, stop!” shouted Popov over the roar of the flames. Louis ceased the flow of fire. Popov turned and signaled to the young soldier at his side. The soldier quickly left the room.
“Next,” Popov said, “we will test the accuracy of the sniper rifle that is embedded in your right arm. We are going to provide you with a moving target. Your eyes will become a scope and your arm will automatically follow the guidance of the scope to find the precise position for striking the target. It’s very fast. You will feel a signal when you lock in and then the discharge will be instantaneous.”
Wow, thought Louis. Think of the banks I could’ve robbed with this shit. I’d be a multibillionaire by now.
The young soldier re-emerged pushing a cage on wheels. Inside the cage, a frightened, undernourished man in a gray jumpsuit held on to the bars. He began to shout something in Russian and was promptly told to shut up.
“Who’s that?” asked Louis.
“Target practice,” Popov said.
Louis felt uncomfortable. The prisoner looked pathetic and petrified. Sure, Louis had killed before, but this was really cold blooded. Couldn’t he just gun down a mannequin?
“No, really,” he said. “Who is that?”
“One of our prisoners,” said Popov. “He is less than human. No one will miss him. A common thief. We will let him out of the cage. He will run. He will probably run very fast. He is running for his life, after all. You will test the speed and accuracy of your range.”
Louis didn’t want to do it. He didn’t know if he was going soft in his old age or if he simply didn’t like other people telling him what to do. Gunning down this poor nut pulled out of a jail cell was too much like his own predicament. He, too, was a poor nut pulled out of a jail cell to be a test subject for pompous authority figures who cared nothing for him.
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