The Russian Count's Gift to New York

Nick Andreyev's days at New York University (NYU) followed a metronome rhythm of travel to class, library research, seminars and thesis meetings. The staid academic world a comfort to his Asperger angst filled him with the mounting challenge of study linked in connected sequences. Write, sleep, eat, research, clean clothes, different day; theory inspired by greatness of genius.

Subway commute to the downtown campus, sleep in the sacrificial bed of an unchanging hovel and push on, unabated by time and hungry circumstance.

There are the fortunate few who have it paid and made, but most PhD candidates in cryptography and cyber security in its early inception are like Nicholas coming from a life of cornflakes and apple pie. Bitcoin mining for him was easy and a fun mathematical exercise. It took just twenty minutes to mine a coin t its beginning. His personal computer easy up to the task, he had a pile saved on his CPU hard drive.

Driven by determination and persistence, unwilling to accept third place in a Doctorate contest that demands they win the prize mining coins using simple calculations a pleasant diversion from the intensity of his cyber world.

New York City is a living beast, the pressure's always on at full, engineers would love figuring velocity riding in the subterranean, grunge-tagged stations and cars of the Manhattan subway. Travel underground's hypnotic; you're encapsuled for the journey inside a low-key, low-vis shell of yourself. Your body wrapped in a protective, practiced husk thoughts are buried in a read or lost to a dead stare into space. Raising your eyes in a pause of reflection you see strangers riding your land.

A staple of NYU's student's life in the city that never sleeps; research for a PhD in Computer Science. It's done when the computers are available to run and test programing, at night. The best place to win a degree in Comp-Sci, the Courant Institute of Mathematical Sciences.

Long hours of focused concentration of numbers and coding can make one light-headed or dazed. At the worst; confused and disconnected from the humdrum world. Nicholas had a brilliant mind for his profession, mild Aspergers gave him social and stimming quirks but made him genius in his cyber world. University was his life, no girls, parties or wine and cheese forays for the shy son of dairy farmer.

He liked museums they gave him solace; no need to speak to anyone to absorb knowledge. Non-human contact activities, feeding pigeons in the park fluttering at his feet gave him a feeling of peace, goodness and grateful company.

The admin white collars and stylish dressed workers of downtown towers drown the tunnels at suppertime. The anonymous flood heading uptown and beyond to the Bronx, west to Jersey through the Path system and to Queens in the east. The passengers near identical sized and dressed sardines packed in graffiti tagged cans heading in all directions.

The usual, and if traveling at the same time of day, familiar faced crowd south of NYU Washington Square in the Village and those leaving jobs were timed to connect with line transfers. The subway weekends from the downtown core are ghost towns by comparison.

Experienced patrons use the time gaps in the flow (4:40 better than 4:55) to win a seat. And not to hold a filthy ceiling strap, mid-car or cling to a sweat-sticky, chrome post bustle at the door. The last chance for no hassle travel is before the 9:00 PM when the platforms and cars still hold late travelers and the transit police are full force. This last window of safe time to travel offers the last cushion of security to avoid the potential danger timing of a subway passenger's life.

New York City's night streets of double-bright moving car headlights are crawling with human vermin and miscreants waiting things to slow to commit their violence. The city resident's trick is to know where they lurk and avoid spending anytime in, or near, those places. There is no defense to a surprise knife attack it's fast, painless for a moment flashing death. Late evenings until dawn protection from assault and robbery by name brand-footed young men in hoodies with neck tattoos. Insects of the night hunting soft humans easy to invade and feed upon.

Taxis are pricey and scarce in the late-night hours but if you find one it's well horsed knight in yellow armor. A student after dark trying to get home without incident can't sidestep the skulking danger in tagged passageways below the surface streets.

As the crowd thins the anonymity of homeless vagrants fades to give way to hell raising punks. Gang bangers who want to be men find nothing better to prove their manhood than to hunt the timid, weak and vulnerable not smart enough to make their escape. The Brooklyn departing D train connecting through downtown to the 70s, Harlem and the Bronx is one of the worst. It makes every stop, no express run through the danger zones. Off hours travel is rife with rats, real and human, creeps and criminals who crawl out of their garbage life with a taste for easy take.

Nick took one of every, ten-minute running 'D' train north from West 4th Washington Square station, a scuzzy late-night option for the Upper West side dweller. He had a room with shared kitchen and bath in a three-floor walkup, brownstone off Central Park between Broadway and Columbus.

The D train is a crummy, filthy bum's ride that passes through Manhattan to feeds robbers with easy to assault, regular people. Gold toothed, hair trigger losers who live north of Manhattan in the Bronx or south on the embattled streets of Brooklyn put everyone at risk.

Nic overstayed his library time and had to make a rare trip home after hours. Head down, reading, hoping to avoid trouble marked him as an easy take. His mistake was to take last car on the train; the last car offers a quick running getaway into the exit area and to the streets above. The trouble he wasn't looking for found him trying to avoid notice in the almost deserted car. Dressed like a veteran, NY city resident, he blended in with clothing and the inverted aggressive 'leave me alone, I'm a New Yorker' look. But when your turn comes, there's no one to help or anything you can do about it.

A creepy trio of hoodies stepped slick into his car. He was alone, furtive and way too nervous. They eyed him for assault. quick hit and run. Nick, a broad-shouldered farm boy with a square set jaw and Russian steel eyes (not from meanness, but neurodivergence). He looked more than they could handle, so let him be and exited the next stop.

Nic breathed a long sigh of relief, "Whew, friggin a, lucky."

Numbers were his life, and he understood calculated risk but in this numbers game the thief subtracts and turns the victim into a zero too.

He saw them enter the car and knew trouble found him. They sidled down the rattle and clicky clack, screeching brakes on corners and moved toward him full of menace and bravado.

"Hey bro. What ya doin readin' the stock tables?"

They laughed and shoved each other into position circling Nic on his seat.

Nic didn't look up, or dare to respond. His fearful attitude proved they had an easy mark to rob, a soft chicken to pluck.

The other passengers familiar with the looming threat kept their place, heads down at risk of their own lives. A single woman or a woman with child might get support from other passengers or not but a single guy it's season open, and the hunt is on.

"Hey man I bet this here backpack got some goodies in it. Wanna' let us see? We're kinda interested in cool stuff like music and computers n' all."

Nic looked up to glare and the second he did it, wished he hadn't. It lit the fuse that set them into maximum aggression. His mind dissolved to a blur. His body, heart pounding in gut wrenching fear. He couldn't breathe,

"If this is God's will, there's nothing I can do."

His every New Yorker nightmare was coming true and all the thinking and planning he'd done for this exact moment went for naught. He turned to jelly.

It was over fast and they were gone, laughing out the doors into oblivion. Emergency button pushed; train doors re-opened to assess the problem and Nick bleeding stumbled out the door.

After the 'pneumatic squeegee' the doors clicked to open, he crumpled to the platform, face bloody, back pack cut clean. Phone and computer gone, his notes from school sucking out the door, swirling the platform in the departure vacuum of an outgoing train. Transit police running to his aid asking questions to identify the culprits; no answers he could offer to help.

Fellow passengers helped him up and set him on the platform bench seat. He was too shocked to say even say thank you. A lady offered a wad of Kleenex to staunch the blood on his face.

"Here, press it on the cut. Don't worry, it's not too bad. You're lucky they'd stabbed you if you'd put up a fight. You did the right thing."

He sat dazed on the seat with a bloody tissue to his face, mind swirling, dismayed, angry, relieved to be alive. His hands trembled; his chin quivered. Eyes that have seen death calling their name are not the eyes of tender endearment.

Nicholas was a country boy, his demeanor was shy, Asperger's chilled, not physical or aggressive. Dressed in university rigueur tee-shirt, jacket, cheap boots and jeans. His size said he could break them in two if he'd wanted to, the thieves didn't take that chance. The cut to his face stopped him from acting stupid and to keep him from chasing them up the stairs.

The transit police asked the standard questions and scribbled the scrambled in shock answers in their notebooks:

"How many were there?" Followed by,

"What did they look like and what clothes were they wearing?"

"I think it was three. I'm sure, yes, there were three. They looked I'm in big trouble here and my life is over. They got totally close to my face to see me twitch, that's all I remember."

"They put a knife to my cheek and cut me, no way I'm going against these guys. They grabbed me, cut away my backpack and ripped the phone out of my hand. The whole episode was drowned out by the screeching brakes. I froze, it was over fast like slow motion nightmare, and they ran out the doors.

"I didn't say a word. They took, I let go, I was an easy hit and scared me so bad I noticed afterwards I'd pissed my pants. When you're that scared it's not embarrassing, it's humbling."

Nic feared in his guts, as every New Yorker, this would happen, and now that it has and was over, he felt an odd sense of relief.

The passengers who came to his aid knew it could have been them not him. Tomorrow night it could be their turn. With a whoosh, the doors sealed shut, and the train traveled north without him. Medics arrived, asked questions and patched him up.

"We'll use butterfly bandages to seal the wound. It's superficial. Another half inch and it would the emergency for stitches. You're lucky you weren't killed."

In shock he managed to the street, breathed a sigh of resignation into the close night air and hailed a cab to go back to his room. Plodding up the brownstone steps through the front, solid wood door up the three flights of creaking stairs, down the stale hallway. Hot plate's cooking, room lights shining under doors, Petey, the male cat rubbed his leg. Welcome Home my human friend.

Violation brings with it a state of helplessness where fear delays and then, after the thresh is gone, turns to anger. He vowed

"What happened tonight will never happen again, I could have said, done something, struggled at least, screamed for help. I didn't do shit. They came, I gave, and they left laughing at my piss ant defense, making me feel like a coward, a wimp. There won't be a second time, no friggin way."

"I'll take a self-defense course and at least if there's a next time I won't get killed defending myself. Self-defense training should be handy to campus. I'm not goon be an innocent lamb to the slaughter. Screw them."

He needed to stand his ground and put up a fight, better to act and lose than die a cowering, sniveling coward with pissed pants. He offset his trembling fear with false bravado. When a man's challenged in a life-threatening situation and doesn't stand up to it he feels castrated, ashamed and defeated by the experience.

Reaction to violence with violence is a totally guy thing, a macho attitude,

"Screw you, you son of bitch" thing. Younger guys blow up and go into action before they realize they've in it. Guys like Nic, in his early thirties more likely to see it coming don't act in an overtly aggressive mode in the face of danger. They back off.

Women raised in the softer edges of life don't condone testosterone laced, foolish, hot-head attitudes, nor should they; it's dumb.

The, I'm standing my ground and I'll fight, you sucker, let's go feeling belongs to young men. They own it. Wars come from this feeling; men die from it. The common sense of boys eighteen to twenty-two (do they have any) is lost when they feel a need to prove their manhood. Standing their ground comes at a price the primitive response of fight not flight is softened by the modern technological world. If the games ever had to deal with their gaming events in real life, they'd all be dead.

The popularity of Mixed Martial Arts (MMA) fighting and the World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE) testifies to this. Young, testosterone powered men have an inborn need to kick the shit out of something or watch someone else doing it for them. The military feeds on this drive but the soldiers who don't want to fight, are still willing to die for their country, flag or what they believe. Nic resolved; he would to never be a victim again and if he was, he would fight like a man against his aggressors.

Nick returned to university the next day a more determined student than when he left the night before. After his fall from grace and loss of innocence he stood tall, alert, ready, and became more observant. He swore he'd never to take the midnight train in Manhattan ever again.

He replaced his cell phone and computer hardware, no problem; all his data in the cloud. He wanted to upgrade anyway, so this was the perfect chance. Massive killer encrypted passwords and fingerprint scanners blocked them from unauthorized use. Both his iPhone and his laptop would never be functional again and were useless to the thieves.

They robbed two dead instruments worth nothing to play for the new owners. Old time thieves who steal new-time gadgets are surprised to find they have been outsmarted and outclassed by a millennial in tune with technology brains. Nic wasn't lost in the cloud; it was invented by his generation of geeks. The police could track his gear and arrest the thieves but for what purpose, they'd robbed a dead horse. The modern solution to the shock of a personal hardware theft resolved by high-tech-tuned millennials, a joy that lasts all generations a lifetime.

He called, his best friend Paul from the house, land line to share the latest midnight assault news.

"Hey Paul you'll never guess… I was robbed and nicked in the face with a knife on the subway home last night."

"No way dude… You're kidding me man."

"No, it's the truth. The frigging feeling of fear, paralyzed me head to foot. They stole my computer and iPhone"

"And they cut too you geeze Nic, this is wild news bro."

"Yeah, glad it's over, it was freaky. The just cut my cheek to make me stay put when they took off, no big deal."

"Man, I'm happy you're so calm Nic. It would have scared the crap out me too."

A violent assault armed robbery common in New York City rising from the ghetto swamps, hungry crocodiles claim feeding territory in Manhattan.

In city life, danger's part of the excitement. Paul knew the cloud had Nic's data secure and retina scanners blocked access to his tech. He knew Nick had his data under control before he got in the taxi home.

What he didn't know, Nick was next to inherit a mysterious fortune, from a dead uncle, a Count in the Imperial court of Tsarist Russia Another century man who lived in the Imperial grandeur of Tsarist Russia. His ancestor, a great uncle has come to haunt him in the second millennium with the curse of barren marriage and wealth beyond his wildest expectations his to claim.