“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 is 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 should 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. She knew if she so 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 where her own perspective was coming from.
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— 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 am working with the wrong people.”
“You’re working with me,” Oma said, “because I am 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 sons, 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 takes, 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 would not 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 do not 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 no 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 0800 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.