Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
“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 the Prometheus 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. Specific people. 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 to replicate them.”
“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.”
“Who?” asks Kat, and I hold my breath.
“Paragon,” he practically spits out. “That’s my theory, anyway. He appeared out of nowhere—no origin story, no background, just suddenly Vanguard’s partner.”
“You think Paragon is synthetic?” Kat asks.
“I think he’s their proof of concept. First successful integration.” He pauses, and something uncertain crosses his face. “I can’t confirm it, of course—Global Dynamix keeps him locked down tighter than Vanguard. But the timing fits. The way he moves, the way he speaks. There’s something off about him.”
He leans in, his voice lowering. “And if I’m right, then they know it works. They want more, an army they can sell to the highest bidder—soldiers who follow orders without question because their loyalty can be programmed. That’s what Kozlov is supplying minds and bodies for. That’s why a lot of those detention centers from the Dark Decade never really shut down. That’s why Kapoor had to disappear—he found the connection between the trafficking and the research, and he was going to blow the whole thing open.”
I sit back, trying to process it all. Global Dynamix isn’t just experimenting on people against their will—they’re building weapons, synthetic soldiers with human minds, created through a process that kills the original. And somewhere in that pipeline are Kozlov’s victims and who knows who else, people who thought they were escaping to a better life. Instead, they became raw material for something monstrous.
Holy fuck.
“Does Vanguard know?” I ask abruptly. “About any of this?”
“I doubt it. He’s their golden boy, their public face. They wouldn’t risk contaminating him with the ugly details.” He starts gathering his things. “That’s everything I have. The rest is up to you.”
He’s gone before I can ask anything else, slipping into the red-lit darkness like he was never there.
Time’s up.
The walk back to the subway is silent. The autumn air nips at my nose, but I barely feel it. My mind keeps circling back to the same questions: How much does Nate know? How deep does the rot go?