Chapter 1

“Do you think what I am doing is brilliant, or madness?”

       As Dr. Peter Thomason transported Brad Zanger's brain to its hibernation chamber, he chided himself for asking his dead wife the question. Natalia never answered. She only questioned. Questions he feared.

       Peter touched a button on his tablet. The transport clamp locked to points on the beach-ball-sized sphere that held Zanger's brain. Operation status lights circling its equator changed from green to blue, from sequential blinking to solid.

       He pulled the digital joystick back. The sphere released from a concave impression on the treatment wall. It moved along a ceiling rail across the lab. As it approached the chamber, its door slid open, allowing the sphere to enter.

       “Connection complete,” A voice reported from a speaker. “Hibernation mode, activated. Vitals: Normal. Brain function: Normal. Neural connections: Intact. Now assessing nanobot functionality. Would you like the report now, Doctor?”

       Peter said nothing. He felt no need to give the same answer to the daily question posed by an AI agent. He turned his attention to a large monitor on the treatment wall. Scrolling data, stopping occasionally to make a note. 

       An alert box appeared at the top of the tablet screen: NATAS REPORT. Peter touched the box and scanned the report. 

       “Nanobot status complete,” NATAS said. “Ten percent nanobot replacement needed. A reduction of 8.6% from the previous session. All other operations are normal. Would you like my analysis of today’s treatment?” 

       Peter didn’t answer. Instead, he made a mental note to tell Okoro to change NATAS’s voice. Peter preferred male voices. Better yet, the digital voices of 1980s computers. The less human, the better.

       “Doctor?” NATAS said. 

       “No,” Peter said. “I will meet with Dr. Okoro tomorrow morning, and we will review the analysis report together.” 

       “Of course,” NATAS said. “Is there anything else I may help you with? Perhaps, preparing your report for tomorrow’s–” 

       “As I mentioned before,” Peter said, “I do my reports.”

       “Of course,” NATAS said. “Please feel free to ask for assistance should you change your mind.”

       Peter said nothing. He had spent his career doing everything himself. He had no intention of handing it over to a computer program he did not write. In Russia, such precautions kept you safe from government interference. At least, it helped you believe it kept you safe. 

       Unfortunately, Peter’s self-reliant example failed to persuade his team to reduce their reliance on AI. Okoro disappointed him on that point. He had an almost peer-level rapport with the lab’s AI agent. He even shortened its acronym NATAS to “Nat.” Peter hated the name. Too close to Natalia.

       “May I help with anything else, Doctor?” NATAS said.

       “No,” Peter said.

       “Then, I will say, good evening,” NATAS said. 

       Peter reviewed the regimen for the following day. After half an hour, he pushed back from the hologram screens, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. They burned from too much screen time. His mind drifted back to the recurring question: brilliant or madness? 

       He was months away from fulfilling the wish Natalia had made so many years ago. Would she care in the manner that he fulfilled it? Would she think his treatment inhumane, even sick? Peter remembered how Natalia held his face in her hands as she made her wish. She always did so when she wanted his undivided attention. Her jet-black hair fell around ice-blue eyes that pierced his soul. Thirty years had not diminished her beauty or the softness of her voice, saying, “Pyotr, when will you do what you must do?”       

Peter opened his eyes. “Soon, Solnyshko, soon,” he said to the empty lab. He looked around, shaking his head. You old fool, Peter thought. Your Sunshine is gone. Natalia thinks nothing. Stop clinging to her and finish your work.

But, as it always did at the end of long days, ghosts of the past visited. The promise he made to her, the escape from Mother Russia’s grip, the day he stopped being Pyotr Trofimov and became Peter Thomason.

****

New Year’s Eve, 1999
Sarov, Nizhny Novgorod Oblast, Russia
2300 hours (GMT+3)

Dr. Pyotr Trofimov was determined to ring in 2000 by drinking alone. His pace quickened as wafer-size snowflakes filled the deep ruts of the icy street flanked by the cold, lifeless buildings of Sarov. Though the pub, Lisya Nora, The Fox Hole, sat a few blocks from the All-Russian Scientific Research Institute of Experimental Physics, the trek had numbed Pyotr’s feet. He needed alcohol for his extremities and to dull the sting of Kremlin threats about his slow progress in developing the weapons they needed.

As Pyotr approached the pub’s doorway, he noticed a cloud of exhaust rising from a black Mercedes parked across the street. It might as well have been a neon sign flashing “Kremlin.” He stepped through the pub’s first door, stomped snow from his boots, and entered the second door into revelry. Loud talk fought rock music; a lively mood for a dark saloon. Cigarette smoke and dim lighting masked faces sitting at small round tables. The bar to the right offered bright light from neon and small LEDs that lit an impressive wall of booze.

Pyotr motioned to the bartender as he walked by, pointing to the rear where he liked to sit. The large man nodded and grabbed a bottle from the lineup behind the bar. He arrived at Pyotr’s booth as Pyotr did, placed a shot glass over a bottle of vodka, and slid it to the center of the table. The unshaved man scraped payment from the table into a dirty palm, dumped it into a shirt pocket, and walked away. Pyotr served himself a shot glass of the bottle’s contents and wheezed. He studied the room. He recognized the crowd, but knew none of them. He poured another drink, but left it alone. He needed a sober mind.

Pyotr noticed a grossly overweight man enter the pub and speak to the bartender as he returned to his post. The bartender nodded and pointed in Pyotr’s direction. The man, smothered in a heavy overcoat and large fur hat, lumbered over like a drunken bear. The look on his face suggested he wasn’t on his way to the toilet.

“Doctor Pyotr Trofimov?” The man spat saliva as he spoke. Pyotr pulled his drink closer and nodded. “I am Agent Jurek Kafarov.” He squeezed into the booth across from Pyotr. Pulling a leather wallet from his breast pocket, he offered the credentials of a younger, but still well-fed, Kafarov. “I am with Federal Security.” He punctuated the statement by snapping the wallet closed.

Pyotr gave him an odd look. He glanced around the room, wondering if Kafarov had company. Pyotr knew that the FSB monitored counterintelligence, antiterrorism, and the military. Yeltsin had recently given it extra powers, with agents even entering homes to investigate.

Pyotr knew better than to suggest Kafarov had overstepped his boundaries. “What can I do for you?” Pyotr said.

Kafarov scoffed. “I can see your concern. Do not worry. Much has happened in our country in the last few hours. I understand your confusion that I may be a danger to you. I am here to help you.”

“What makes you think I need help?” Pyotr made sure his question didn’t reflect the irritation he felt.

“We must go to private place to talk. It is important to President Yeltsin.”

“You mean Putin?”

“Both great heroes of Mother Russia.” Kafarov raised a glass, eyeing Pyotr over its rim. “I salute our new leader – Vladimir Putin.” The toast landed a little of Kafarov’s spit into his

graying beard. Pyotr tapped the glass with his own but didn’t drink. Kafarov downed his drink without noticing. “Let us go,” he said. He wrestled his belly from the booth’s grip, grasped the neck of the bottle, and threw out his arms as if he were going to hug Pyotr. “Come, young man. I share with you your destiny.” 

Using the large man’s wake, Pyotr navigated through patrons. Outside, he steadied Kafarov as he stumbled over the street’s glassy tracks of ice. “Thank you, my friend,” Kafarov said, opening the rear door of the idling limousine Pyotr had noticed earlier.

       “Doctor Trofimov, please come in from the cold.” The man spoke English – American. Pyotr ducked inside with Kafarov close behind. “Doctor, Trofimov,” Kafarov said in English, as he squeezed into the seat across from him. “May I present esteemed Doctor André Rosenthal from US government. He worked with President Yeltsin on cooperative scientist initiative.” Rosenthal extended a thin hand. His face was kind, though quite angular, ending with a gray goatee.

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Doctor Trofimov.” Pyotr shook Rosenthal’s hand. His grip displayed unusual strength for the man’s age. “Our governments agree that mutual scientific efforts are more effective,” Rosenthal said. “Unfortunately, with the continued uncertainty of the future, those opportunities have been cut short.

“Putin doesn’t share Yeltsin’s vision,” Kafarov said. Pyotr cut Kafarov a look. Was Kafarov a traitor?

“Please, hear me out, Doctor,” Rosenthal said. “Yeltsin’s government agreed to the offer I’m about to make. Before the new government could counter it, we’d like to bring it to your attention.”

“It’s late,” Pyotr said.

“It would be wise for you to hear what the Americans have to say, my friend,” Kafarov said. “You do not know what Russia has in mind for you.”

Rosenthal explained how the US government planned to transition scientists from Russia’s ten nuclear cities–the core of its nuclear program–to projects in the US. “So you see, Doctor Trofimov, I’m authorized to give you an offer of employment to continue your work.” He handed Pyotr a document.

Pyotr scanned the offer, noting it had been signed by his superiors and several Kremlin officials with names he didn’t recognize. “Five thousand US dollars per week?” Pyotr said, not sure he had read the compensation amount correctly.

Kafarov laughed, slapping his leg. “What did I tell you? A new life.”

“What is it you want from me?” Pyotr said.

“Your work with nanotechnology,” Rosenthal said. “We want to apply it to a new initiative that has no military application. It is for medical purposes.”

“America fears our scientists fly away to their enemies,” Kafarov said, curling fingers like wings.

Rosenthal gave the agent a sour look. “Yes,” he said, “other governments are recruiting Russian scientists. But that has nothing to do with this program.”

“Perhaps you are a threat to their national security?” Pyotr said.

Kafarov’s laugh bounced him in his seat. “This is a smart scientist, Rosenthal,” he said. “Are you sure you are offering enough?”

Rosenthal’s face tightened. He pushed wire-framed glasses up his pointy nose. “The Nuclear Cities Initiative allowed Soviet scientists to use their abilities for the betterment of mankind,” he said. “We don’t want that opportunity to end because your leadership has regressed back to the Soviet mindset.”     

Pyotr frowned. “My work is in chemical nanotechnology for weapons of mass destruction,” he said. “How does that fit with bettering mankind?”

“I’ve studied your work,” Rosenthal said. “It’s brilliant—perfect for my program. Your theory in application,” Rosenthal said, raising his palms as if measuring some grand scope. “Could end disease, even war.”

Pyotr looked out the window. All he saw was a frost pattern on the window. Who had put Kafarov up to this? He wouldn’t risk his position, and possibly his life, on something not yet sanctioned by Putin’s government. Perhaps Rosenthal had made him an offer for a new life in America, too?

“So, what do you say?” Rosenthal said. “I know you have wished to do such work here in Russia. I’m offering it to you now.”

Pyotr turned his gaze back to Rosenthal. He had heard such promises before. Rosenthal represented nothing more than the government that currently enslaved him. “I can’t help you,” he said.

Rosenthal gave a look of surprise and glanced at Kafarov.

“Russians are not known for doing what is best for them,” he said. He squinted an eye shut and pointed a finger toward the sky. “We trust no one, not even God, to look after us.”

Rosenthal’s eyes lowered as he gave a reluctant nod. “Regretful,” he said. “I so looked forward to working together,” He pulled his glasses and cleaned them with a lens cloth he took from his coat pocket. “It’s a pity. The potential of what we could have accomplished together…” The man’s voice trailed off. He pulled his glasses back on and gave a final nod as Pyotr reached for the door latch.

“Think carefully about this, young man,” Kafarov said. His stern face framed dark eyes. “I have risked a lot to give you this.”

Pyotr murmured an apology, opened the door, and stepped into the snowy street. Kafarov rebuked him by slamming the door closed.

As Pyotr started back for the bar, a conversation with Natalia played in his head. They lay together beside a fireplace. They looked into the flames as if they held the future.

“Pyotr, why do you do work that destroys?” she said.

“I have no choice,” he said. The glow of firelight rimmed her hair. He stroked a strand away from her eyes. “You know I have no–”

She put a finger to his lips. “One day,” she said, closing her eyes. “One day, Pyotr. You will not have such an excuse. You will stop being afraid.” She replaced her finger on his lips with her own. Pulling away from the kiss, she whispered. “I will be glad to see that.”

“Solnyshko,” he said. “You are such a dreamer.”

She smiled at hearing his pet name for her—Little Sun. Pecking his lips again, she whispered, “Promise me, then. Promise.” She tickled his ribs. “Make my dreams come true. Promise.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, laughing. “I promise. If ever the chance comes for me to save this world, I will.” She giggled as he pulled her closer, a lilting memory that died on the walls of stone buildings bordering the icy street.

Flakes again caked Pyotr’s lashes as he stood, wishing for courage. A moment later, his tap on the limousine’s window lowered it a few inches, revealing Kafarov’s yellow smile.