He makes a huffing sound then swipes through several screens, angling the tablet so we can see. There are financial records, shell companies, transfer logs that look like hieroglyphics until he starts translating.
“Viktor Kozlov has been trafficking people for decades. Eastern European refugees, mostly from the battle of Ukraine. Women and children. History keeps repeating itself, doesn’t it?” His voice is flat, clinical. “What you don’t know is where some of those people end up.”
“And where is that?”
“Global Dynamix research facilities. Three of them. One outside Seattle, one in Jersey, and one that moves.”
My stomach drops. “So they are buying trafficked people…”
We suspected as much, but still, to hear it like this…
“Not buying.Receiving. As payment. Kozlov supplies test subjects for a program called Project Prometheus. In exchange, Global Dynamix looks the other way on his other operations and provides certain, shall we say, technological assistance.”
“Test subjects for what?” Kat asks.
The man hesitates, licks his lips. “There was an analyst. Indian guy, worked for Global Dynamix’s internal security division. He started asking questions about discrepancies in the research logs. Missing subjects, falsified death certificates, that kind of thing.”
“Kapoor,” I say absently. “Raj Kapoor.”
His eyes widen slightly. “You know about him?”
“We know he disappeared,” I say cautiously, not about to out one of our assets, even though he’s most likely dead.
“Disappeared is one word for it.” He swipes to another screen, a document heavily redacted but still legible in places. “Before he vanished, Kapoor managed to get a copy of thePrometheus project brief to a friend outside the company. I’m that friend.”
He turns the tablet toward us.
I read the visible text once. Twice. A third time, because my brain keeps rejecting what my eyes are seeing.
…consciousness transfer protocol…successful integration of human neural patterns into synthetic substrate…mortality rate of source subjects: 100%…ethical classification: N/A per executive override…
“They’re putting people’s minds into machines,” I say slowly. “And killing them in the process.”
“Not just people.Specificpeople. The trafficking victims are expendable to them; ergo, they are test subjects—they refine the process on them, figure out what works and what doesn’t. Turns out, there’s a lot that doesn’t work.” He pauses. “But that’s not the end goal. The end goal is someone important, someone valuable enough to justify the body count.”
I go still.
“Do you know what that end goal is?” I ask carefully.
“Not completely, but I have a theory.” He swipes to another screen, schematics this time, technical drawings that look like anatomical diagrams crossed with circuit boards. “The consciousness transfer process has a near-total mortality rate for the source subjects. The trafficking victims are disposable—they use them to refine the process, figure out what works—but the ultimate goal isn’t just to transfer minds. It’s toreplicatethem.”
“Replicate how?”
“Imagine a soldier who can’t die, who can be rebuilt if damaged, copied if destroyed. An army of perfect weapons with human intelligence but none of human weaknesses.” He taps the screen.
“They want to build an army? Like a robot army?” I say in disbelief.
“It’s not just a want. I believe they’re already doing it. I think they’ve moved onto that next stage, and if they haven’t, they will soon.”
“But why bother with human consciousness at all?” I ask. “Why not just build robots? Program them from scratch?”
“Because AI is predictable. You can hack it, pattern-match it, counterprogram it. Human consciousness brings unpredictability and intuition—the ability to adapt, improvise, sense things that can’t be coded. Human instincts are valuable, and the ability to control them is even more so.” He pauses, his expression darkening. “And let’s not forget the real implications of successful consciousness transfer—it means the oligarchs can theoretically rule and live forever. That’s the real end goal.”
Bloody hell. I’d never even thought about that, about how someone like Conrad Marsh or Julia Van Veen or the next asshole politician could actually live forever, that the world would never be free of them. The realization is so terribly heavy, I feel my shoulders sink.
Good lord, is that what they plan to do with Elron Masters?
The dude glances around, as if someone might be listening. “They have already succeeded once. They have a prototype.”
