April 16, 2035
Dmitry Medvedev, nearing 70, attended Putin’s funeral. Age and the watchful eyes of the KGB-rooted siloviki made returning to the presidency daunting. He planned to assume the role briefly and pass it on. After the funeral, he climbed into his limousine and called his aide. “(Russian) …So, Andreyev, any news on the ‘Pilgrims’?” Andreyev hesitated over the phone. “…They’re a paramilitary group formed by Renya Group, a new food corporation. Modeled after the American ‘Pilgrim Fathers.’ Since Renya’s chairman is North Korean, it’s no surprise they’ve recruited heavily from North and South Korea—laborers from the North, soldiers from the South. They’re even planning a small city in Siberia.”
Medvedev nodded. “…I heard Renya’s factory in Verkhoyansk boosted the population there. And their paramilitary’s been active in Ukraine lately. My first trip as president will be Verkhoyansk. We’ll award them as an exemplary company.” As Medvedev hung up, Andreyev sighed, sorting Renya Group documents in the secretariat. Ignoring a roaming charge warning, he dialed again. When the call connected, he snapped, “Grekov, when are you coming back to Russia?”
…
In Rio de Janeiro, Dmitry Grekov lounged on the beach under a parasol, taking the call. He removed his sunglasses, handing them to a woman beside him. “(Portuguese) Hold my shades, sweetheart.” Returning to the phone, he said, “…Can we drop this? I’ve got a life, comrade.” Andreyev’s curses crackled through. Calming down, he tried reasoning. “…Grekov, you’ve got nowhere else to go. Come back to Russia and restart your business. You know how much I’ve invested in your company?” Grekov dug in his ear, flicking away wax. “…Dunno. I left the company to Gamamusa, and I’m worry-free. Why’re you stressed? Bye.”
He shut off the phone, tossed his straw hat, and lay back, hands behind his head. “…This is paradise. If only the pests would leave me alone…” Spotting Ko A-young and Baek Hyung-jin emerging from the sea, his mood soured. They approached. “…Sir, time to go. Back to Russia. Get up,” Ko A-young said. Grekov rubbed his tanned belly, donned his hat, and stood, smirking. “…When’ll you two stop sticking together? Too old to be a couple.” Ko A-young blushed. Baek Hyung-jin steadied her shoulder, glaring at Grekov. “…Sir, no time. North Korea’s sent about 30 assassins after you. Be careful.”
Grekov ruffled Baek Hyung-jin’s hair. “Worry about yourself, kid. You really believe Gamamusa sees everything?” Baek Hyung-jin shook his head. “He does. Gamagogi spent 20 years diving to tap undersea cables. Sometimes he used unmanned submersibles due to pressure. He hasn’t mapped the entire ocean floor, but he’s tapped most coastal cables.” Grekov chuckled. “…Right, and that data feeds into the chip in Gamamusa’s brain? Got it. But that’s not the issue.” Ko A-young and Baek Hyung-jin exchanged glances. Grekov’s smile turned bitter. “…The server collecting that data is in North Korea, right? Secretly running for research. Gamamusa defected in 2005, and for 30 years, nobody noticed his chip receiving server data. That’s a miracle.”
Ko A-young nodded, grimacing. “…Yeah, I nearly fainted when Gamamusa told me. That was… the day I got my surgery, I think?” She glanced at Baek Hyung-jin. He sighed. “…Well, true, but Gamamusa’s sent the ‘Pilgrims’ to handle it. Jung Sun-beom’s fired up, laying wiretaps across the world’s ocean floors. Once done, the data’ll feed to Verkhoyansk’s servers. About 80% complete. If we hold out till then…” Grekov folded his arms, nodding. “…So, when Gamamusa finishes the servers, I’ll return to Russia, yeah?” Ko A-young rolled her eyes, incredulous. “…What if you get killed? Wanna tank our company?” Grekov grinned slyly, pulled out his phone, and dialed. The call dropped instantly. Seconds later, a tall man sprinted from two meters away—bronze-skinned, half-shaved head, 180 cm, Middle Eastern features. Grekov pointed. “Meet my bodyguard, Palestinian-Brazilian, Kalkhan Tirak. Gamamusa recommended him. No complaints, right?” Kalkhan Tirak bowed silently.
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