It was the stress. That's why everything was so irritating.
Working on compounds that might free his mind from Dave's compulsion while surveillance cameras followed his every move was nerve-wracking. He could always claim that he was developing something for Dave, and neither Losham nor the hive mind of Dave knew enough about chemistry to challenge him, but it was still risky. The stakes out here were much higher than back home.
Back there, the punishment for insubordination was Siberia. Here it was execution.
The mushroom extract sitting in a small vial to his left was the fourth iteration of the formula, refined after days of trial and error. The mushrooms were supposed to open his mind to alternative channels of perception that Dave wouldn't know how to access, and the stimulant compound he'd synthesized from readily available precursors was designed to counteract the hallucinogenic effects so he could think clearly.
The trick was to achieve the right balance. Too much mushroom extract and he'd be useless, lost in the world of hallucinations. But too much stimulant would make his heart race and his hands shake, and he would be useless as well, just for a different reason.
Thankfully, he was young and healthy, so he didn't need to worry about it causing a heart attack, but if he also wanted to free Petrov, he would need to be careful.
Dave's compulsion forced him to work on improving the enhancement drugs, which would make the eight stronger and more resilient. But the better the drugs were, the more powerful Dave's compulsion became.
Dimitri was forced to forge the chains that bound him, with every successful formula making those chains tighter.
It was a classic example of a Catch-22.
The one loophole he'd discovered so far was that the compulsion was result-oriented and required precise phrasing, like them not sabotaging anything, not talking about their work with anyone other than Losham and Dave, and not straying beyond a certain perimeter, which made it impossible for them to reach the docks and try to escape.
Other than that, as long as he and Petrov continued to improve the formula, Dave and Losham didn't care what they did once their workday was done. That's how they could spend their evenings in the bar, and how Petrov could spend most of his nights at the brothel.
Dimitri had also realized that wording mattered in compulsion, and precision meant limitations. There were gaps and loopholes he could exploit as long as he was smart about it, but the surveillance cameras made things more difficult.
With that in mind, Dimitri turned sideways as he drew the combined solution into a clean syringe, putting his back to one camera while hiding what he was doing behind an equipment rack from another. It was a smaller dose than he'd used in the last tests, and hopefully, it would prove to be the sweet spot.
He found a vein, injected, and braced for the effects.
The compound worked fast.
The familiar fog descended first, which was the mushroom extract doing its work, but this time, instead of the disorientation, he felt the stimulant kick in.
Sharp, sudden, and almost painful clarity.
He could feel the pressure at the edges of his thoughts, a subtle insistence that he should focus on the enhancement drugs, but it felt distant. Manageable. Like hearing someone talking from another room instead of having them directly at his ear.
His heart rate increased, his hands developed a faint tremor, but his mind was almost his own.
For the first time in days, his thoughts didn't have to navigate around invisible barriers. He could think about escape even ifit seemed impossible. At least he could embrace the concept without developing a debilitating headache.
"It's progress," he murmured.
"Wha'?" Petrov's slurred voice came from the cot. "What you say?"
Dimitri looked over at his mentor, who was struggling to sit up, his hair wild, his eyes bloodshot. The man had passed out hours ago after consuming what was the last of his personal vodka stash.
"Nothing," Dimitri said. "I was just talking to myself."
"Must be a very stimulating conversation." Petrov rubbed his face with both hands. "What time is it?"
"Nearly seven."
"In the evening?" Petrov squinted at the windows, which showed the tropical dusk settling over the island. "How long was I asleep?"
"Two hours."
"Feels like five minutes." Petrov swung his legs off the cot and stood, swaying slightly. "I'm sobering up, and I have no more vodka. Let's go to the bar."
Excitement bubbled in Dimitri's chest at the prospect of seeing Mattie again, but since he'd just injected himself with a combination of a hallucinogenic and a stimulant, he didn't trust his responses.
