Milo 02.0

There’s no precise English word for it, but Milo’s mother might have called her son’s current state of mind toska. It’s Russian for that feeling of wretchedness or angst with no identifiable cause. But as his days in the closet go on, Milo does identify the cause. Precisely. And he tucks it away. There’s too much to do now. So much to be gained. And with very few distractions, he can get the work done. Plus, it’s a good living. Finally.

The NSA work for Project Raven had been good for Milo’s ego, and good for Miloslav Isloynov’s résumé. Of course, none of that work experience would ever be written down. His sort of curriculum vitae is only ever passed along in a whisper—and likely encrypted. But that gig, prestigious as it was in some tight-lipped circles, didn’t pay for shit. When Milo’s new employer found him, he was living in a barely-two-room apartment, eating packaged meat on week-old bread, the stale ghost of the smoker who lived there before, unevictable. The best thing about that place was the family of exquisite cockroaches he shared the flat with—something he knew a little about from the time before—Milo 1.0.

Milo’s new boss is no worse than most. Smart man. Determined. But also crass, overbearing. Vlastnyy, his father would’ve said. And perversely wealthy. So to be fair, or at least more accurate, the “closet” is really a butler’s pantry in his employer’s palatial home. And it’s outfitted with everything Milo needs to do his work. The sliding pocket door closes, so if the old man ever does get visitors—very rare in Milo’s time there—he can seal Milo off.

Milo’s work needs to be sealed off from the rest of his employer’s business. What Milo is doing moves that other enterprise only by induction. While his boss’s real business is news and news-like entertainment—meant to inform and influence and, on a good day, provoke public debate—the business Milo conducts for him is different. And it’s all about the data. What people are searching for. What they buy, like, and loathe. What they read or ignore. Knowing what they drink to, dance to, masturbate to feeds the hungry algorithms. These algorithms that Milo birthed and coached and then set loose. Algorithms that ingest all those patterns and proclivities, make sense of them, somehow (he can’t quite explain), and spit out the tactics Milo will claim as his own. A thousand tiny morsels of media, fabricated and aimed perfectly to create trickles of doubt that find their way to streams of discontent which, in turn, flow into raging rivers of conspiracy—drowning any notion of pesky rational discourse. His employer’s words.

Oh, how the 24-hour news cycle craves chaos.

If he had lived to see this modern world, Papa might’ve marveled at its intelligent machines. But he surely would have sent its ill-imagined social media contraption back to the drawing board. Mama would’ve called it an affliction. An anti-social infection. A viral variant of the old propaganda organ but even more insidious. The thing is, Milo needs the work. And so he takes all that wisdom and courage and conscience, and he folds it up—and he buries it. Deep.

Out there—outside his little box and the bigger box it sits within—thunder rumbles.

—

Vadim

As winter surrendered to the spring of 1942, Vadim Isloynov’s fortunes began a turn. In stature, Vadim was on the short side, though by most accounts, handsome and very funny. But it was his intellect and self-assurance that earned him the rank of sergeant—the youngest in the 3rd Tank Army. He was stationed in the town of Voronezh where he and his men and the rest of their weary contingent of Soviet forces had taken up a defensive position against the Nazis and their Hungarian and Italian lackeys. It was there, amidst the budding chestnuts and gunpowder and gauze, he met Milo’s grandmother, Ilsa.

When he landed in the city’s battered hospital after a skirmish, Vadim was first scolded by Dr. Pavlichenko for refusing her field dressing of his “minor” gunshot wound. Then he was snubbed by her when he asked if un-dressing was an option. When Ilsa’s wintry blue eyes made it quite clear who was in charge, he was smitten by her. With that settled and the war pressing, they quickly married, undressed and, together, made Ilsa pregnant. Later that year when Axis forces invaded and overtook the half of the city east of the Voronezh River, Ilsa fled to the countryside with their newborn son.

By winter, after months of fierce fighting, the city was decimated, with only a smattering of buildings left to suggest a grid of streets. But not for the first time, the dogged Russian spirit shook off the beating it had taken. The troops gathered their strength and their wits and readied to launch a killing blow.