Human++

by Dima Zales

Since he’s looking at me, I say, “Whatever Alex usually pays you, I’ll double it.”

  “Alex can’t afford to just pay me.” Muhomor toys with the arm of his sunglasses. “We barter in favors.”

  “So I’ll owe you a big favor,” I say evenly. “Time is of the essence here.”

  “I hear you pick winning companies for a living,” Muhomor says, ignoring my plea for urgency. “Is that true?”

  “It’s an oversimplification, but yeah, that’s roughly what I do.”

  “Good,” Muhomor says, and I note some untraceable accent in his Russian. “How about I give you a portfolio of fifty Russian startups to check out, and you tell me which one you’d invest in if it was your money on the line?”

  “Deal,” I say confidently. “If your information leads to us rescuing my mom, I’ll review your portfolio.”

  “Your mom?” Muhomor raises an eyebrow from under his shades. “I’d also like a million American dollars in addition to the investment advice.”

  “Done,” I say, and low growls come from Gogi and Nadejda’s direction. I wonder if they’re rethinking how much they should’ve charged Joe to help him—assuming they’re charging him at all.

  “Okay then.” Muhomor loudly cracks his knuckles. “Tell me how I can help you.”

  I take this as my cue to give him an edited version of the story, one that excludes any mention of Brainocytes. I finish with, “Maybe you know people who might know something? Or did anything in my story give you a clue about where my mom might be?”

  Muhomor drums his fingers on the arms of his office chair for a few seconds, his forehead creased in thought. Then he rattles out, “I’d like to see the photos of all the people you’ve mentioned—the one called Anton Pintarev and the two you couldn’t identify—as well as photos of the men who attacked your car.”

  “Sure, but I don’t have any way of emailing you.” I wave my disconnected phone.

  “Here.” He gets up, takes out a CAT-5-to-micro-USB adapter from his pajama bottoms, unplugs his laptop, and plugs the freed-up Ethernet cable into the converter.

  I take his seat and plug in my phone. As soon as it gets on the network, my mind gets sharper, as though I just drank a triple expresso or popped an Adderall (something I’d done a few times back at MIT).

  I restart the chat app and type, “Did you miss me?”

  My friends begin speaking at the same time, and I tell them about the Faraday cage and that I don’t have any time to talk because I need to email pictures to our helper. Not for the first time today, I notice how seamless this sort of mental typing has gotten for me in such a short time. It almost feels like a psychic phenomenon, like the words show up in the chat because I’m willing them to, and I love that. When it comes to using apps, the feeling is even stronger. The mental effort I exerted while using the imaginary video game controller has fallen away, and I feel like the emails go to Muhomor simply because that’s want I want.

  “Done,” I tell him when the emails leave my outbox.

  “Let me plug back in.” Muhomor gets inside my space.

  I warn Ada and Mitya that I’ll be offline for a spell and internally cringe as I disconnect.

  The dumbness, for lack of a better term, is much sharper this time, probably because I know what’s happening to me.

  Muhomor pulls the shades up on top of his head and plugs his laptop back in. I catch him looking at the photos first and then at the bios. He stares at the screen for a bit and then blocks my view as he begins frantically typing again.

  I look at everyone else in the room. Joe looks stony, Gogi shrugs, and Nadejda and Alex seem to be two flirtatious words away from holding hands.

  The typing stops, and Muhomor turns around and puts his shades back on.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, not sounding at all apologetic. “Given how little information I have, I can’t help you.”

  “You what?” Joe takes out a gun and steps forward.

  “Threatening me won’t change the facts,” Muhomor says so calmly you’d think Joe’s gun shoots water instead of bullets. “Maybe if your cousin told me the whole story—”

  “I did,” I say.

  “No, you did not,” Muhomor says. “Nothing in your story even hints at why anyone in Russia would want a bunch of crippled Americans. There wasn’t a ransom demand. This whole thing makes no sense.”

  “Tell him,” Joe tells me. “Everyone else will wait outside.”

  Since he was present in New York, Joe knows about the technology part of the story, though even he doesn’t know about the Brainocytes in my head. Still, he must’ve noticed my earlier omissions, and I bet he understood my need for caution. I also see why he made this suggestion—or more like demand. Given the gruesome video I received, I can’t afford to play games with Muhomor. I have to risk telling him the truth.

  “Thanks, Joe,” I say as he unlocks the door and herds everyone out. “I’ll be quick.”

  Joe closes the door, locking Gogi, Nadejda, and Alex out, and stands by the door like a sentry, arms crossed and face an emotionless mask.

  “How much do you know about nanotechnology?” I ask Muhomor.

  As it turns out, Muhomor knows quite a bit, so explaining the technology part of the story is pretty easy, though I still leave out the part about my own Brainocytes.

  “I think I now have a better idea about what’s going on,” Muhomor says. “And I have a new deal.”

  “What?” I glance at Joe, who uncrosses his arms and balls his hands into fists. “We already have a deal.”

  “That was before you told me the whole story.” Muhomor takes off his shades and rubs his eyes. “I have a theory now, and if it’s correct, I have to either withdraw from our current deal altogether or ask for a new one.”

  I catch Joe’s gaze. He seems to be offering to soften Muhomor up to make him more agreeable. Imperceptibly, I shake my head. It would be better to get Muhomor to cooperate willingly. Despite strongly suspecting what he’ll request, I ask, “What do you want?”

  “I want the Brainocytes,” says Muhomor, confirming my guess.

  I fleetingly consider letting Joe have him, then decide against it, at least for the moment. “For that, you’ll have to do more than provide a theory,” I say. “To get the Brainocytes, you’ll have to basically hand-deliver my mom to me.”

  “Agreed,” Muhomor says, his expression dead serious. “I’ll do everything in my power to help you. How does that sound?”

  “You’ll also have to come to the US to get the Brainocytes,” I say. “After this, I’m done with Russia for good.”

  “That’s not a problem. I’ll probably need to stay in the US afterwards anyway.” Muhomor pulls out a pack of cigarettes, sees my horrified expression at the thought of second-hand smoke, and puts them back in his pocket. “If my theory is right and I help you, I’ll have outlived my welcome in Mother Russia. In fact, I’ll be lucky if they don’t poison my sushi with polonium one day.”

  Stunned, I stare at him. “Wait a minute,” I say slowly, wishing Ada and Mitya could overhear this conversation. “You don’t mean it’s the KGB that kidnapped my mom?”

  For the first time in my life, Joe’s expression approaches something remotely resembling concern.

  “There’s no more KGB.” Muhomor cleans his sunglasses with his t-shirt. “But there is SVR.”

  “And you think they’re behind this?” I ask incredulously. “Some Directorate T or whatever the modern equivalent is?”

  Scenes from one of my favorite TV shows, The Americans, flit through my head. It’s a show about KGB spies in the US during the eighties, and I love seeing the American side of that decade, since I was living in the Soviet Union at that time. It also helps that the Russian-speaking actors are outstanding, allowing me to enjoy the show on a level that non-Russian speakers miss out on. What’s key, though, is that this show is the sole source of my knowledge about the former Russian intelligence agency, and there was definitely a Directorate T featur
ed as an arm of the KGB that was interested in American advancements in science and technology.

  “There’s no official modern equivalent on the books.” Muhomor looks at Joe for confirmation, gets none, and adds, “But old habits die hard.”

  “And you think they—”

  “No.” He gets up and starts pacing the small room, staying at least a leap away from my cousin. “Though this technology seems right up their alley, it sounds like this was done by someone who was looking to gain SVR’s favor, or a group only remotely connected with them. Probably something like a subcontractor, if I were to use your American terminology.”

  “Why do you think that?” I ask, hoping he’s right, since KGB subcontractor sounds less scary than KGB proper.

  “Those brutes”—he waves at the laptop, where the pictures of Anton and his gang are still up—“aren’t your typical agent material.”

  “True,” I say, “but then, wouldn’t they have to use people like them? No intelligence agency would want to get caught kidnapping people in the United States.”

  “The fact that you’re alive tells me we’re not dealing with the might of the agency itself,” Muhomor says in a tone that has me wondering whether he’s trying to convince himself as much as me. “I think someone somehow got a whiff of the tech you’re working on. That person explained the possibilities to a more connected person and got the job—unofficially, of course.”

  “Who in Russia could ‘get a whiff’ of what we’re doing?” I ask. “And how?”

  “The who is a question for you to answer,” Muhomor says. “As to how, I bet you filed papers with the FDA? Applied for a patent, maybe? You Americans are so cavalier with such information.”

  He’s right. Off the top of my head, there’s the Investigational Device Exemption filed with the FDA, as well as a million patents that add up to some useful information. Still, it would take someone watching everything from the start to piece it all together, and no one in Russia—or anywhere—should have paid Techno that kind of attention, unless they were tracking all the research and development of every startup company in America, and that seems hard to believe.

  Muhomor makes the mistake of getting too close to Joe while pacing, and in a blur of movement, my cousin catches the hacker’s slim upper arm in a vise-like grip. “I suggest you get back on your computer,” he says softly, almost politely. “You have your new deal. Now tell us where my aunt is.”

  “Of course.” Muhomor unsuccessfully tries to pull free from Joe’s grip. “All you had to do was ask nicely.”

  Joe gives the thin man a push perfectly timed with him releasing his arm, and Muhomor violently plops into his chair. To his credit, he recovers quickly and opens his keyboard to resume that same frantic typing.

  After about five minutes, I look at Joe questioningly. My cousin shrugs almost imperceptibly. I nod at Muhomor, and we approach the desk, something Joe manages to do quite menacingly.

  “No point in standing over my shoulder,” Muhomor says without a break in his typing. “If anything, you’re distracting me.”

  “How much longer do you need?” I ask, fighting the urge to shut the laptop to get the guy’s full attention.

  “A couple of days,” Muhomor says, his eyes never leaving the screen. “Three at most.”

  Joe slams the laptop cover shut, and Muhomor barely manages to save his fingers. Seems I wasn’t the only one with that violent urge.

  “Hey.” The hacker glares at us. “If you break that machine or my hands, you’ll just slow things down.”

  “We don’t have a couple of days,” I say. As gently as possible, I put my hand on Joe’s shoulder to stop him from doing any more damage. “The video warned me to go back to the US. If I don’t…”

  Joe gives me a look that says, “Remove that hand or lose it.”

  I put my hands firmly inside my pockets.

  Muhomor looks thoughtful for a couple of seconds and then asks, “Why don’t you bluff them out? Go back to your plane. I’ll email you an airport to fly to. We’ll choose a backward town with nineties security, and I can make it so they won’t know you landed there. We can then meet somewhere safe when I’m done.”

  “What do you think, Joe?” I ask. “It sounds doable to me.”

  Joe gives the hacker a onceover and says, “If you cross me, I’ll lobotomize you.” Matching his actions to his words, Joe pulls out a sharp, thin blade he must’ve borrowed from Alex’s arsenal and jams it a few inches into the desk, a mere hair’s width from Muhomor’s elbow.

  Muhomor visibly pales as he examines the blade. I bet he pictured the thing entering his brain.

  Noisily removing the knife from the desk, Joe walks to the door.

  “Try to hurry,” I urge the hacker as I follow my cousin. “If something happens to my mom, the deal is off and you’ll probably have to deal with the SVR—if Joe doesn’t get to you first.”

  Not waiting for his response to that motivational threat, I slam the door behind me.

  The world instantly feels richer, and I feel more alive. I have my brain boost back. I fleetingly wonder how long it’ll take before I become as reliant on internet connectivity as amphetamine addicts are on their drugs, and decide it probably won’t be long.

  “Are you okay?” Ada asks worriedly.

  “Seriously, what’s going on?” Mitya echoes.

  Though the music is back to an eardrum-shattering level, I can hear them perfectly well. I guess it makes sense since the Brainocytes are working directly with my brain, giving me the illusion of hearing.

  I restart the chat window, and once it’s ready, I mentally type, “I’m totally okay, but I’ll explain everything in a minute.”

  Since Joe just started walking away, I take it upon myself to use gestures to explain to Gogi, Nadejda, and Alex that we want to exit the club before we discuss our plans. They understand, and we all follow Joe. By the time we come out by the DJ’s podium, I have all my apps back up, with the AROS icons surrounding me in a surreal tableau that blends surprisingly well with the strobe lights reflecting off the nicely dressed people grinding on the dance floor.

  Suddenly, I hear Einstein’s voice, and I freeze, trying to make sense of the phrase the AI is repeating over and over.

  “Sketchy person alert. Sketchy person alert. Sketchy person alert. Sketchy person alert…”

  Einstein repeats that statement over and over, as if he’s stuck on a loop, but then I realize the face recognition app must’ve scanned my surroundings for people with criminal profiles. Einstein is warning me there’s a bunch of dangerous people around.

  At first I wonder if they’re Alex’s people, but as much as I’d love for that to be the case, it’s unlikely. Muhomor forbade Alex from bringing anyone, and Alex told us Muhomor takes that instruction very seriously. Also, I don’t get repeat alerts, meaning I’ve never met these people before, and I’m certain I met the majority of Alex’s guards when we were at the Palace.

  Still, I have a small hope that the app is bugging out after getting disconnected, so I carefully scan the thousand faces around me.

  The heavy music beat seems to grow distant, and despite the sweat gleaming on many faces, I feel like the temperature in the club dropped by several degrees as I note all the men with red haloes sprinkled around the room. Not a single one looks familiar, but I can tell they’re dangerous men, hardened by life in ways I can’t imagine.

  The nearest one looks at me, then at his smartphone, and then gestures in my direction.

  On instinct, I leap for Joe. Grabbing his arm, I scream into his ear, “Joe, we’re being ambushed!” To highlight my words, I point at the guy who’s gesturing.

  For a second, I’m not sure Joe heard me, but then two things happen at once. Joe looks at the man I pointed out, and almost instantly, there’s a gun in Joe’s hand.

  Before I can blink, several red-haloed men are holding guns as well.

  “They can’t start shooting in here,” I type into the chat, almo
st instinctively. “It’s too public. It’ll be all over the news with a headline like ‘Shooting in a Nightclub.’ It’ll draw too much attention and—”

  I don’t get to finish my thought, because the loud music is interrupted by a thunderous clap that causes my heart to jump into my throat.

  I was wrong in the assessment I just gave my friends.

  Someone just fired a gun in the middle of the dance floor.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  All around me people begin screaming, shouting, and running in random directions.

  Another shot is fired.

  I freeze in place, unsure what to do.

  Joe grabs me by the front of my shirt and throws me backward. Before I can hit the floor, strong, hairy hands grab me and shove me behind the DJ’s podium. I recognize Gogi as the owner of the hands. As soon as he’s done with me, he pulls out two guns with the speed of a gunslinger and fires.

  I duck behind the podium and, in morbid fascination, watch Gogi aim his guns again. Dazedly, I wonder if his laser sights are useless in the ambient laser display in the club.

  My question is answered instantly.

  One moment I see two red dots on the forehead of the red-haloed man who first noticed me, and in the next, two shots blast out and the guy’s head explodes like a brain-filled piñata.

  Amidst the screaming, the people closest to the dead man freeze in place, and a few smarter ones drop to the ground, protectively shielding their heads with their arms.

  Another round of shots follows.

  Doing my best to stay hidden from our assailants, I examine my entourage.

  Like me, Gogi and Nadejda are using the DJ’s podium as cover. He’s methodically aiming his two guns while she’s preparing her Uzi. I don’t know if it’s the same one she used in the car or a newer, better model she got from Alex’s armory.

  Alex is crawling on the floor toward the hallway that leads to Muhomor. It occurs to me we got lucky the assailants didn’t ambush us while we were in that room, as was probably their original plan.

  I seek out Joe on the dance floor. He’s using Gogi’s cover fire, as well as the bodies of panicked people, to execute another gunman.