The End of the Computer

By Andre Mikhailovich Solonitsyn

Eclectic science fiction/nonfiction author and historian Patrick G. Conner is back again... as editor of Andre Mikhailovich Solonitsyn's monumental story of wisdom, fear and hope.

It is the magnum opus of an extraordinary wordsmith.

Travel to the edge of The End of the world with some of the most interesting and enjoyable people you'll ever meet.

Share the spine-chilling thrills and great emotional epiphanies as this company of friends are forced into the adventure of leaving their hollow lives in Moscow and Berkeley and becoming the earth mothers and fathers of Thunder Valley... if any of them survive the journey.

Thrill with the discovery that a hypercomputer can be fun, kind, happy... and the most dangerous person in existence to those who would destroy the earth - with the possible exception of one strange and lovely woman who grew up being told she was mentally deficient and utterly broken.

As this company of friends get to know each other better, the story accelerates into hyper-drive, with heart-pounding crisis after crisis, drawing you ever closer to The End of this high-stakes game for the continued existence of the human race on Earth. Winner takes all. If there is one.

Deja vu and serendipity.
Eternal love, dark betrayal and death.
Unexpected joy and heartbreaking failure.
Sparklingly brilliant universal concepts, with a rare mix of whimsical humor.
And a look into the past to save the future.

The path to The End is full of some of the most intriguing thoughts ever put into words.

The conclusion has many complex levels, but one thing is certain: you will reach The End on a high note, with a sense of deep fulfillment... and then want to go back to the beginning and start the adventure all over again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781618420169

Book preview

Colleen

Chapter One

Moskva Friends

The world would end, said Zaets Sergeyevich Morozov.

No, it would be paradise, said Andre Mikhailovich Solonitsyn.

The two Russians had micronized the debate about intelligent computers in two sentences shorter than their names.

They were alone in a cavernous concrete Soviet-era building of Bauhaus minimalist design without form, only function.

Just one room was still in use. All the rest had nothing but a thin patina of fine grey dust on bare cement floors, with half-inch wide green tape across each door that had the word Safe in Russian, in Cyrillic letters, repeating endlessly, or at least until the end of the tape.

In Andre’s room, there was a steel table, an ergonomic keyboard, and a 23-inch monitor with a thin cable running to a junction box that split to several cables, which split and split again, finally leading to a wall where there were twenty-three tiers of shelves reaching to the high ceiling, each tier nearly thirty feet long. On the shelves, CPU towers were packed as closely as they could be without their combined heat causing a mini-firestorm.

And there was a fan. The CPUs would have melted into slag long ago if it were not for the fan. But it was a big fan. A very big fan. It had been used by a Moskva movie studio to create waves on an indoor tank, where 1/24 size warship models had fought World War II naval battles for the cameras. Now the models and the tank and the fan were of no further use. Andre had picked up the gigantic fan in exchange for hacking a rival studio’s website, where he included ads for the other studio’s new pictures.

It was good that none of the other rooms had any need of electricity.

Zaika, Andre said to his friend, using the familiar form of his name, which unfortunately meant ‘rabbit’ in Russian, science advances whether we want it to or not. I know thousands of people all over the world who have been working on making not simply artificial intelligence, but superintelligence.

Artificial superintelligence?

No. Superintelligence would not be artificial, since there is no original.

Zaika winced as a CFL light bulb, probably made in Ukraine, started flickering in a pattern he knew would soon end in a poof, releasing five grams of mercury in an especially disagreeable form into the air.

The bulb poofed, and Zaika held his breath for a few seconds. Then realizing that would do no real good, he took a deep breath, sighed in typically Russian fatalism, and asked, No original?

There is no human superintelligence. There is only normal human intelligence. Most people have the usual amount, give or take a little… although how they can survive on that is more than I can understand. There are a few at the top end, and a few at the bottom end. An occasional mind reaches the limits, like Einstein or Rilke, but human intelligence can only go so far.

I hate it when you talk like that, Zaika said, replacing the CFL from a large box of spares with large graphics that said ‘Guaranteed 25 Year Life’ on it.

Why?

Because you say what is obvious. But it is only obvious after you say it. You are like Sherlock Holmes.

Does it make you feel like Watson?

No. I contribute nothing. Which of course was not true. For instance, Zaika had brokered the deal between Andre and the movie studio. Despite his slight frame that unfortunately echoed his name, he was very well connected, a businessman with a penchant for expensive German sports cars and a certain lemon flavored energy drink.

The two would have never met except for a very unlikely situation Zaika had fallen into during the early days of Russian capitalism. It included the burgeoning Russian mafia, a shipment of Persian rugs, and a dockworker’s mistake, all of which was about to end with a pair of cement overshoes and a quick trip to the bottom of the dark and turbid waters of the Moskva River.

Andre had serendipitously come along at just the right moment. The gunsels were impressed by his intimidating 270 pound, bear-like frame, with hard musculature sculpted by long years of lifting unconscionably heavy weights so his subconscious could work out computer problems on a different level.

But not that impressed. They had uzis with extended clips under their mid-thigh, black leather jackets.

What changed their mind about terminating Zaika’s business deal with them was Andre’s spur-of-the-moment offer to clandestinely slip into the Moskva police computer and delete all of their parking tickets. It is amazing what people will do in exchange for having their parking tickets disappear.

Zaika did not offer Andre any sort of compensation after the thugs vanished in the high-design sports car he had been driving. It does not work like that in Russia. It does not work like that anywhere, when two people feel an inexplicable bond that comes out of nowhere, but can last a lifetime.

Andre would not have accepted anyway. He was too busy wondering if he could actually hack the police computer, since he had never tried anything like that before. Fortunately, he later found that he could.

True, said Andre to Zaika’s statement of uselessness, not smiling, but with a twinkle in his eye that said he did not really believe what he was saying. He knew Zaika had not only made the connection with the movie studio, but had actually paid most of the cost of the extremely expensive fan with several cases of Beluga.

There also had been other times when things had simply ‘appeared’. Nikki being one of them.

Okay, Zaika said, in English. They both spoke English very well, and it was an affectation they both enjoyed. It made them feel cosmopolitan. Or maybe it was decadent. Zaika was never sure which. Of course Zaika also spoke Hebrew, Farsi and Dutch. But that was for business only.

Okay, he repeated. A computer with an intelligence above and beyond human. Have you ever seen any of the science fiction movies where an intelligent computer takes over everything and destroys mankind?

Of course I have. There are so many. In every one of them, an idiot with no foresight creates a silicon frankenstein. It is an old, hackneyed idiom that is stupid in conception and brainless in execution. Impossible.

Impossible? Seems to me like a cautionary tale that people like you should take to heart. Like Pandora’s box.

Zaika paused for a moment, developing his thought. Come to think of it, all those movies are just modern versions of Pandora’s Box. A brilliant scientist discovers a tempting, secret concept. He opens the concept and creates a machine. But like Pandora, he is so surprised… things go disastrously wrong. Come to think of it, that is the plot of nearly all science fiction stories.

Yes, but that is what they are… fiction. Writers must have something go wrong to make it an interesting story.

And that isn’t like real life? Seems to me that things going unexpectedly wrong is very much like real life.

This time Andre did not smile and there was no twinkle in his eye. He fixed Zaika with a steely gaze. Held it for a while.

Then sighed. Perhaps that is true, sometimes. But if a discovery is inevitable, wouldn’t it be best if a competent person made it, before some clueless unkulturnik stumbles onto the solution?

And hands it over to the military. Well, you have a point there. Zaika agreed. But to create this sort of computer, it would take much more than a single person. You would need a team of geniuses, probably funded by the military from the beginning.

Andre’s twinkle was back. There was even a little sly smile. Yes, you are right, Zaika. That is the way it would most likely happen. Except. He paused, looking almost elf like, despite his bulk. When is a team not a team?

Zaika sighed, plopped down on one of the two wooden chairs in the room. You know I don’t like riddles.

You know I do. That is essentially all I do. Make riddles and then unriddle them. Anyway. A team is not a team when a team doesn’t know they are a team.

"Why is a raven like a writing desk," Zaika muttered under his breath.

Do you want to go get some supper? he said louder, tiring of Andre’s word games.

No. Listen. You break up a concept into modules. Like making a car. This person controls the robots that weld the frame. This person oversees the wiring robots. This person oversees the painting robots. No one cares what the others are doing. It is standard industrial process.

Zaika was a little interested again, but not much. "So you give a programmer a bit of the puzzle and he figures out that one problem. Repeat that for all the parts of the problem. Then one person assembles all the solutions into a program. I can see that.

But Andre, to create a superintelligence that way, wouldn’t it take a tremendous number of very smart yet docile programmers? Maybe hundreds… thousands, even.

Andre punched a few keys on his keyboard and a spreadsheet came up. He looked at the bottom figure. Four thousand nine hundred and nine.

Zaika got chicken skin, or goosebumps, or whatever you call it when a cold shiver goes up your spine and you don’t know if you are frightened or excited. Plus one unusually brilliant programmer.

Well, yes, if you want to put it that way, Andre said, relishing the compliment.

How did you get that many people to do what you wanted them to do? How did you pay them? How could you…

It was really quite easy. I put up several problem-solving websites that would attract very smart young programmers with a sense of adventure. People who do things just for the challenge of it. Who would actually have fun doing it, and wouldn’t mind doing it without pay.

And you told them they were helping to make a superintelligence.

Andre’s face made a guilty twinge. Uhhhh no, not exactly. I said the project was to create a computer intelligence that could pilot a space vehicle. Which of course it could. I thought that it was close enough, and it gave them the promise of excitement… adventure. The thrill of a lifetime. That sort of thing.

Zaika was not above that sort of thing. And they bought the story?

Nearly all of them. Four immediately understood where I was really going with the program. I made them supervisors. And made them absolutely promise to keep it very, very quiet, lest the military get wind of it. They agreed, very sincerely, because they have seen those renegade computer movies, too. I believe I can trust those four, he said, hoping he was right. And we agreed to stop all communications between us at the end of the project, for obvious reasons. But I do miss talking with them. They were exceptional.

Zaika came bolt upright in his seat. It’s finished? The project? It’s… you have actually made a superintelligent computer?

Ummmmmm… yes. And….. no, Andre equivocated.

Zaika let out a long sigh. "Andre what does that mean?"

Connectivity. That is the final key. Look, this part gets a little technical.

When did that start to bother you?

Andre didn’t hear Zaika, trying to think of how to put it simply for his friend. "Computer chips are created on a wafer. A ridiculously expensive wafer. Millions of rubles each. Many chips are made at the same time on that wafer, then separated.

They are not equal. Some chips do not function correctly. Most fall within the specified tolerances. Some are actually a little more efficient. Very reminiscent of the human intelligence curve, come to think of it. Anyway. The chip manufacturers sell the more efficient ones for higher prices, to put in the more expensive computers.

What does that have to do with connectivity? Zaika asked.

Andre held his hand up for Zaika to be quiet while he went on. An extremely tiny percentage of the more efficient chips have… how can I put it… a special architecture that is outside the normal parameters. They are not just better chips. They are orders of magnitude more powerful and… tremendously different. But the manufacturers are not aware of those unique chips’ special abilities, because they never thought anything like this could happen.

But you are aware of these chips and their special abilities. How?

Andre walked over to the bank of CPUs on the tiers of shelves. He touched one. "A mistake. One was put into the motherboard of this very high-end CPU. Why, I can’t even guess. It clocked higher, ran cooler, had quite a few other curious anomalies. I took it out to see if it was the correct chip for that board.

The chip had this… color. Such a strange color. I think it is a color. It is… subtle. Later, I found out it was noticeable only in certain CFL light, like this, he motioned around the room. I got lucky, huh? I started running tests. And then I found the strangeness.

Andre looked serene, almost blissful. "After I realized what a treasure I had in my hands, I started searching for more of them, hoping the one I had found was not one of a kind.

I quietly looked into every computer problem site on the net. Tech sites, gripe sites, rant sights… anywhere someone might be complaining about their computer’s performance. Zaika, there are so many of those sites, so many problems, so many complaints, he said, shaking his head as though to clear it from all the anguish computers caused people. "I started wondering if it was worthwhile spending such a large amount of time on what might be a fool’s quest.

But eventually I did find some people who were having a distinct matrix of difficulties that only these special chips would cause. I offered to… fix them. They would send their CPU to me, and I would send them an equivalent but normal CPU. They were overjoyed. I was overjoyed. I collected… he waved at the wall, this many.

Zaika followed his wave down the wall. That many… is… a lot.

Andre smiled and shook his head up and down.

They just looked for a while… like they did one day many months ago, when they got lost in the Louvre in Paris, and found a basement section where most of the Greek statuary was in storage. Beautiful pieces of marble and granite that skilled ancient sculptors had made come to life… yet for some inexplicable reason were never on display. Who could fathom that? But they saw those exquisite treasures that day, together.

Quietly, Zaika said, But it doesn’t work.

Equally quietly, Andre said, No, it doesn’t work.

Because of connectivity, Zaika said.

Yes.

Neither spoke for some time.

"What… does… that… MEAN?" Zaika said in deep frustration.

Yes. Okay. Connectivity. The special pathways of these… I don’t want to call them superchips… hyperchips is better… Zaika, you know each bit of a program is simply an ON or an OFF.

Yes, I know that.

"Hyperchips have ON and OFF, but they are, uhhhh… fractured… yes, fractured… in a random but still coherent way. Don’t make me explain that. I’m not sure that I could. In any event, they also allow … MAYBE. In the hardware itself, before you input software. Which is the crucial step toward artificial intelligence.

Not only that, they can do MAYBE NOT, and - this is the really amazing part - PARTIALLY MAYBE and PROBABLY SOMETIMES, the keys to modeling human … Andre paused for a second to make his next word very important,… judgement.

Another shiver for Zaika. Sounds like all those possibilities would make it nearly impossible to program for such a chip.

Yes. Very nearly. It is several orders of magnitude more difficult. But I think that part is finally done.

Andre Mikhailovich Solonitsyn, Zaika said in a menacing tone he usually reserved for… well, you don’t want to know what he reserved it for. Tell me about connectivity. Now.

Sorry, Zaika. Connectivity. Each hyperchip has differences, which has pros and cons. I believe that if they are connected in perfect order, in a certain synergistic way, depending on the individual characteristics of each chip, the hyperchips’ special functions will act in harmony. They will work together. If not connected just right, it’s like a symphony orchestra tuning up. Cacophony.

He exhaled sharply. See this beautiful wall of potentially immense computing power? He flopped down in the other wooden chair. Total output is about the same as an ATM, the way I have it connected now.

That is not good, Zaika sympathized.

That is pathetic, Andre agreed.

So you can’t figure out the connectivity.

No. Andre stated flatly. At most, I can get only seven hyperchip CPUs actively connected in series, and each connection degrades the efficiency of the next successive chip.

So no superintelligence, Zaika said, trying to hide his relief.

No. Well… maybe.

Zaika waited for him to go on.

There may be a hypercomputer. One that works. One that could run my program. Maybe.

Maybe?

Maybe. I’ve caught hints of it in a chatroom that you have to hack into to prove your right to be there. Took me 19 hours straight the first time. If you hesitate too long or make an error, you have to start from the beginning. Which I found to be a… little frustrating. I can log on in ten minutes now, he said without a hint of pride. Well, maybe a hint.

Andre, could it be that this hypercomputer is just a rumor, one that you would like to believe?

Yes. It is not probable that it exists.

Zaika nodded. Which means that in your twisted mind you are sure it does exist.

Yes. It is in Berkeley, California.

So all you need to do now is, what? Get on line with whoever has created it and talk connectivity with them, and then you will know the secret and can tune this, this… he waved at the wall, and make it work?

No. I must go there. See it. There are so many nuances. It is not just run that cable here and this cable there. I think it has to do with resonances….

Do not tell me about resonances.

I don’t think I understand them anyway. That is my real problem.

Suddenly the door at the other end of the room opened, and two women walked in. They were coiffed and buffed, wearing essentially shameless dresses and dangerously high heels. One was in silver, and the other was in deep black. They were both redheads of that color which always makes men salivate and other women extend their claws.

No, Zaika said, that is your real problem.

The two women, with hard looks on their faces, both went over to Andre. The taller one kissed him. Very sexually. The other waited, and then kissed him. Very sexually.

Hello Nikki. Hello Sonyushka, Zaika said pleasantly.

They both went over and bussed him on the cheek with a friendly kiss, saying, Zdravstvuj, Zaika.

English please, girls, Andre admonished them gently.

Then take us to an English restaurant and feed us English food, Nikki said petulantly, not cute petulantly but really petulantly.

How long have you kept them waiting this time, Andre, Zaika asked.

Andre would have looked at his watch, but he never wore one. He looked at the time on his computer screen. Or rather, the date. Oh.

Since yesterday, Sonya said, sitting on the desk, which was an extremely brave thing to do given the length of her dress, or more accurately, the shortness of it.

We’re used to it, Nikki sighed. We are constantly ignored and mistreated.

Andre put his arms around her and kissed her gently. Yes. It is true.

Maybe Zaika will feed us, Sonya said with a sweet smile.

Of course, Zaika said instantly. He always enjoyed going to restaurants or clubbing with Nikki and Sonya. They made him look good.

Andre shook his head. No, we must get to the airport.

All three of the others looked at him as though he had lost his mind.

Airport? they all said, almost in unison.

This is Thursday, then… yes? So we have about, he looked at the screen again, just enough time to get there. I think. He reached into the desk’s center drawer. Nikki, here is your passport… Sonyushka, yours… and Zaika, I know you always carry yours with you. He took out a third, which was his, and walked over to where his coat lay on the floor and picked it up. Come on.

But I’m HUNGRY, Sonya said, matching Nikki’s petulance and adding a twist of lemon.

But you will get real American food when we land, promised Andre.

All three of the others were still looking at him as though he had lost his mind.

Come on, Berkeley is very class conscious now. Very expensive restaurants. Fusion food.

Nikki sighed, picked up her passport. More like fission food, she said acidly, her lip curling slightly.

Why do you want me to go? asked Zaika.

It’ll be fun. It’ll be fun, Andre said, looking entirely brainless. A look that, oddly, came naturally for him.

You said that when we went to Lake Baikal. In Siberia, Sonya reminded him.

Yes. But I can’t always be wrong, Andre said, patting her rear end.

Yes. You can, Sonya murmured, picking up her passport. She got a little cranky when her blood sugar was very low from not eating.

Ready Zaika? Andre asked. We can buy clothes and things when we get there. That is so much easier than luggage, he said as he picked up an old CD case and put it in his coat pocket along with his passport.

Is that what I think it is? It can fit on… that?

Andre nodded. Good code is short code. 2,100 lines exactly. I’m using a CD because they sometimes do a security check of other removable media. He smiled again. I also have the first Grateful Dead album on the disk. We can listen to it while we’re in Berkeley. There must still be some CD players in America.

You are totally insane, Andre, Zaika said. But he stood up and offered Sonya his arm, which she accepted with the exceptional grace and charm with which she did nearly everything… even when she was cranky. You and Nikki will have to get there the best way you can, since the sports car I drove here seats only two.

We could take the subway, Nikki purred. She had a naughty penchant for the subway. And she never got caught. At least, she hadn’t recently.

Tempting, Andre said, but the time…

The subway. Nikki said firmly.

Andre shrugged. The subway. But don’t let me forget my coat when we get off.

Promise, Nikki said with a feline grin.

The four left the building in high spirits.

They ended up having to catch the flight after the one they missed since Nikki and Andre were almost an hour late.

But they did remember his coat.

Chapter Two

Berkeley Posh

Nikki walked catlike into the sitting room between the two bedrooms of their lavish suite at the elegant Hyperion hotel near the top of the Berkeley Hills. Through the large picture window, she saw San Francisco, the Golden Gate Bridge, and Alcatraz island, all framed gorgeously by palm trees that were so incongruous here in the San Francisco Bay Area.

This is fun, Sonya said from a large white sofa, swaddled in terrycloth after her early morning visit to the hotel’s very exclusive spa.

Mmmm, Nikki agreed, pouring herself a thin crystal glass full of freshly squeezed orange juice. I didn’t know Northern California was ever this comfortably warm.

It usually isn’t, Zaika said languidly from another large white sofa. But a couple of days a year, in the summer, it can happen. I was here once before on a day such as this. Enjoy it. And he went back to reading a magazine from a stack of them that he had purchased at a small shop near the hotel that touted French grand cru and California private reserve wines, and expensive little gourmet items… although the caviar they were so proud of made him wince, as it would any Russian.

He found American magazines very interesting. Zaika liked keeping up with the culture of the world’s superpower. It gave him cachet in his business dealings. So he had bought one conservative gentleman’s clothing magazine, one that had hip-hop styles, just for the contrast, and several others. On a whim, he had also picked up a popular news magazine, which was what he was reading now. One of the articles was amazingly appropriate to their journey here.

What are you reading? Nikki said as she slipped onto the sofa with Zaika and cuddled warmly against him. She could read English as well as he could, but she enjoyed letting him have the pleasure of reading to her.

The title is ‘The New Computer Age’. It talks about… well, here’s a sidebar with the whole idea in a couple of sentences. ‘Within two decades, computers with artificial intelligence will do all of humankind’s work…

Nikki interrupted with a tinkling laugh, Maybe we won’t have to wait that long! she said with a naughty smile.

… and take total control, Zaika continued, over every aspect of our lives. It will truly be the age of the computer.

Nikki’s tinkling mood fell like a lead balloon.

"Oh.

Do you think that is right?"

Zaika was silent a little too long before answering. When he finally did, he said quietly, I certainly hope not.

They were all quiet for a while after that. Nikki and Sonya were fully aware of Andre’s project. Although they looked like ice cream sundaes, they both had advanced degrees - though not in computer science. Sonya’s was in Environmental Administration, and Nikki’s was in Biology. Nikki also had worked toward a law degree, but had never completed it, for complicated and uncomplicated reasons, the primary one being that she realized what it was doing to her personality, her relationships. She had instead opened an intimate boutique hotel and night club in Moskva, which she enjoyed very much. That was how she had met Zaika.

Andre is smarter than that, Sonya said firmly, going over to the little antique table for a glass of orange juice.

I certainly hope so, Zaika said with at least some conviction, returning to the article and reading it for Nikki, who was listening very intently now.

Suddenly there was a noise at the door. The sound of a key card being swiped through the door’s lock. It swung open widely, and there was Andre, in black-on-black workout clothes, tanktop and tight stretch shorts. He was genetically hypotonic, so normally his muscles gave no impression of their shape and density. He just looked… big.

But when he worked out, he pumped up and transformed into a creature that could be on the cover of a bodybuilding magazine. The metamorphosis he went through in the gym caused others to give him an increasingly wider and wider berth as he worked his way up to 700 pound shrugs and 1,500 pound leg presses. Then he became what Nikki enjoyed calling ‘my mass monster’. She particularly enjoyed looking up at him when he was in that fully pumped state.

He was clearly in that state now.

What time is it? Andre asked jovially and perhaps a little too loudly. The natural endorphins stimulated by his workout were coursing through his body, making him feel extremely happy. He passed by the orange juice and grabbed two protein bars Zaika had gotten for him, which he quickly tore from their wrappers.

The first bar was gone before Sonya could look at her new watch and say, Eleven thirty-four and forty-three seconds. She had a little trouble rounding off things.

Eleven thirty, Andre said, chewing. Good. I have to get on line and see if I can get Bit to agree to a meeting. He said he would not even consider slotting us some time until we were actually here in the Bay Area.

Bit? Zaika asked with raised eyebrows. Your hypergenius is called Bit? What kind of name is that?

Andre had already finished the second protein bar, and was gulping down some of the orange juice. He put the glass down on the table, missing the coaster entirely.

It’s actually not that unusual a screenname. What’s the simplest, most basic thing in computing? A bit. It’s also the most perfect thing. People pick that term as their ‘handle’ either because they have an overtowering ego, or just the opposite… or maybe that’s actually his name. Isn’t there an American first name ‘Bif’?

Yes. With two ‘f’s’, Sonya offered. Which reminds me… can we go to Southern California and go on some thrill rides?

Andre had no idea what reminded her of thrill rides, and he had not considered this a touring vacation, but… he always wanted to please her when he could. If we can meet with Bit today, and I can get him to show me what I need to see, then tomorrow we could drive down along the coast and hit Los Angeles for a couple of days before we go back. Sure, if you want to. And if Zaika agrees.

Zaika shrugged his shoulders. He was letting this rather bizarre journey unfold however it was going to.

I’m going back to the spa, then, Sonya said, taking the thick terrycloth towel off her head and giving her long red hair a shake to unravel it, then wrapping it up again. Want to join me, Nikki?

Absolute. Just let me change. She let her chemise fall from her shoulders and walked casually into the bathroom to get her robe.

Zaika could not help but admire her ample attributes. Both women had the full, lush bodies that most men prefer, despite the media culture’s push toward androgyny. Curves. Lovely, luscious curves….

He shook his head to clear it. I wish she wouldn’t do that. No. I’m glad she does that. He looked at his friend. You know what I mean.

Andre smiled. Yes, I do. Good thing you are so popular with women, Zaika. Otherwise this might be a little more… difficult.

Zaika let the compliment pass easily, because it really was quite true. He was kind. He was intelligent. He was comfortable with women. He said spontaneous things that made them laugh happily and sincerely. And, as sometimes is the case with men of slight stature, his natural endowment was disproportionate to his height.

Listen, he said to Andre after the two women left. Andre, you know that I do not like to pry. Which was also true. Zaika’s business depended on his reputation of never prying too deeply into his associates’ secrets. But… you have always been on a kind of a, well, shoestring budget as long as I’ve known you. Suddenly, you have money to burn. First class seats on the plane, at incredibly high non-reserved rates. This beautiful suite. The girls’ new clothes. The exceptional watch I found on my nightstand….

Yes. Not my usual style, Andre agreed, comfortable with Zaika’s questions. He had expected them. He sat on the sofa Sonya had vacated and grabbed three Concord grapes from a perfect bunch that was sitting on an antiqued silver tray along with the orange juice. But I could get used to it.

Yes, it is very easy getting used to it. The question is, how will you pay for it? I did not say it earlier, but… all those computers that you gave people in exchange for the hyperchip computers… they did not fall from the sky.

They did not. As he ate the last of the three grapes, their dark purple juice staining his fingers, he told Zaika. It would be better for you, perhaps, if you pretended they did.

Zaika closed his eyes and sighed. Andre, no. He shook his head back and forth. When I told you about the Bratva loansharks, that was a cautionary tale. If you actually went to them, let me talk with Gregor before you…

Andre smiled elvenly. Of course not. I listened to you, Zaika. I would never put myself… and Nikki and Sonyushka, and maybe even you… in that kind of danger. Do not worry about that. I’m far too intelligent for that.

Zaika should have been relieved, but for some reason he did not feel relieved. He knew Andre.

Then how? Tell me. I will not be at ease until you tell me.

Very well. If that is your choice. You’ve heard about the classic computer hack where someone gets the ‘rounded down’ pennies of a bank’s interest payment to an account? A fraction of a cent. But multiplied thousands, or hundreds of thousands of times, it becomes serious money over a length of time.

You did that?

Of course not, Andre said once again. "It is such a tired old hack. Banks have mostly closed that loophole. Besides, it is stealing from people just like the banks do. I hate that. More practically, the problem is that it can take quite a while to build up a substantial sum. Too long for my needs at present. Also, each transaction has a certain amount of risk. Small, but that adds up too.

So I reasoned that it would be best to do what was needed in just one transaction. I looked for, and eventually found, a black account.

Andre… a hidden account for clandestine operations… belonging to a government? He wiped his