by Dima Zales
Cyber Thoughts
Human++: Book 2
Dima Zales
♠ Mozaika Publications ♠
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2017 Dima Zales and Anna Zaires
www.dimazales.com
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All rights reserved.
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Except for use in a review, no part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
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Published by Mozaika Publications, an imprint of Mozaika LLC.
www.mozaikallc.com
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Cover by Najla Qamber Designs
www.najlaqamberdesigns.com
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e-ISBN: 978-1-63142-254-6
Print ISBN: 978-1-63142-255-3
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Excerpt from Oasis
Excerpt from The Thought Readers
Excerpt from The Sorcery Code
About the Author
Chapter One
I walk through Times Square with the unsubstantiated conviction that someone is following me. This has become an ongoing issue for me. Wherever I go, I think someone or something is there, lurking at the edge of my awareness.
It’s like a canker sore you can’t help but touch with your tongue. No matter what, I can’t just chill and stop worrying about secret surveillance. The problem with this situation is that I know the name of the condition—paranoid schizophrenia—and the knowledge scares me more than my unseen stalkers.
I glance up at the flashy billboards, but the models in the ads aren’t the culprits. Next, I look around and see thousands of happy tourists staring at the Naked Cowboy and taking selfies with all the unauthorized Disney and Marvel characters. I decide these aren’t my mysterious followers either—which is fortunate. If I thought Mickey Mouse or Spider-Man were after me, I’d commit myself to an institution this very moment. Nor do I think it’s any of the multitudes of annoyed New York natives who are following me, because all they want is to get through the hive of people and return to their offices.
Then I freeze in place because, for the first time since my paranoia began, I think I spot one of my stalkers.
It’s a man whose face I can’t discern. The only detail I can distinguish about this guy is that he’s dressed in a perfectly tailored designer suit.
As soon as I spot one guy, I see a dozen more—all dressed in identical black suits.
When the Suits notice I’m aware of them, they abandon stealth and begin pushing through the crowd, eager and ready to grab me.
Since it will take too long to escape through the dense human fog on the street, I hurry toward the road instead. My walk quickly turns into a sprint toward 6th Avenue, and I push and elbow my way through to the car-beaten asphalt.
A black limo screeches to a stop, blocking my way. The limo window rolls down, revealing more Suits inside it.
Backing away, I glance in the direction of the traffic and spot a slew of cars descending on me—all driven by the Suits. I turn to look down the street and see an impenetrable traffic jam.
I turn back, only to face a wall of running Suits—except now I notice something about these men is horribly wrong.
As I attempt to register what I’m seeing, the ever-present bustle of Times Square quiets, creating the feeling that all the people and cars around me have frozen in place, perhaps as shocked by the Suits as I am.
There is a reason for that.
The Suits have no faces.
No, that’s not exactly accurate.
They have no eyes, nose, or lips, and where the face should be, I see a smooth mirrored surface instead. Their hands are also reflective, as though their skin is made of aluminum and covered in glass.
What shocks me more is my reflection in their spherical mirrors. I look crazier than the homeless guy with Tourette’s syndrome I often see on the ride to Techno’s offices. My hair is long with a year’s worth of grease in it. I’m missing teeth, my bloodshot eyes with the pupils the size of nickels are darting in random directions, and my face is concentration-camp thin.
The Suits approach me, and I have no choice but to assume a fighting stance.
Before I can land a single strike, however, strong arms grab me and throw me at the One Times Square building. As the impossible arc of my flight takes me toward the fortieth-story window, I again question my sanity—because every person in Times Square now lacks a face, their features replaced with smooth reflective surfaces.
I hit the window, and the glass shreds my skin with a million shards.
More Suits are waiting for me in the room.
They raise their hands, and mirrored blades eject from their fingers.
A dozen of them approach me.
I punch the nearest one in the stomach and wish Gogi were here to see the perfection of my movements, because he would be proud. Unfortunately, I don’t have time to dwell on that for long. Instead of doubling over in pain like a normal human, the Suit slices my face with his shiny claws.
The pain is exquisite, and I realize something I should have long ago.
I’m having a nightmare. Again.
“You have been unconscious for four hours,” Einstein reports somewhere in my groggy brain. “Current time is 4:37 a.m.”
I’m about to mentally say something snarky to the AI but decide against it. I asked him to keep track of my brain awareness because I had a half-baked idea of dealing with my nightmares by asking Einstein a question along the lines of, “Einstein, am I sleeping right now?” The problem is that it’s hard to remember about Einstein while inside a nightmare. Also, if my nightmare were extra creative, I could potentially dream up Einstein’s answer.
My eyelids fly apart, and I’m faced with the pools of amber that are Ada’s eyes.
“Another nightmare?” she whispers and cups my face in her hands, her delicate features contorted in a worried frown.
“Da,” I whisper, trying to fight the grogginess. Then, realizing I just spoke Russian, I say in English, “Second one tonight. Must be some kind of a record.”
“Are you being followed again, or did your dad try to kill you?” She sits up, and the sight of her perky upper body distracts me from the nightmare better than anything she could’ve said.
“Being followed.” I force myself to refocus on her face. I know what she’s about to say, but truth can be an annoying habit, so I also add, “I’ve been feeling like this a lot lately.”
“Then will you finally go see a professional?” As she did during those few earlier pleading
attempts, Ada uses the puppy-eyes tactic to make it extremely hard to say no.
“Shrinks did nothing for Mom when she needed help,” I remind her. “Besides, what if I am being followed?” We’ve had this argument before, and it doesn’t take enhanced intelligence to know I’m about to lose this battle.
“Gogi doesn’t think you’re being followed.” Ada spikes her limp hair into a sad mockery of her usual Mohawk. “And the nightmares about your father are—”
“Fine,” I say. On some level, I’ve been preparing to give in and see a shrink for a few days now. “I’ll see him.”
“Her,” Ada corrects. “Dr. Golovasi.”
“Of course that’s her name.” I snicker because the psychologist’s name sounds like the Russian word golova, meaning head. “Your doctor is lucky she’s not a proctologist.”
Ada chuckles weakly. Her Russian has improved over the last five months, so she undoubtedly understood my joke. “Your appointment is at 11 a.m. later today. Now let’s go back to sleep so you can get enough rest.”
That she already has the appointment scheduled doesn’t surprise me. She either just made it using her AROS—Augmented Reality Operating System—interface, or, more likely, she made it earlier in the hope (or certainty) that she could convince me to go. In fact, she probably scheduled and rescheduled this appointment every day for months while she was chipping away at my reluctance.
We both yawn and get into our routine spooning position, her petite frame a perfect fit in my embrace.
As though on cue, I feel a small, warm body cozy up to me from behind my neck. It’s Mr. Spock. He’s peacefully grinding his teeth in a monster bruxing session, which tells me he’s in rat nirvana. I launch the new version of the EmoRat app, and it allows me to feel what my furry friend is feeling—a blissful, in-the-moment calmness that us humans, at least the New York types, can only envy. He’s happy to be in bed with us and his fellow rats for the night, though the others are cozying up in front of Ada.
“Good night,” I say. I almost add, “I love you,” but I stop myself.
Before moving in together, Ada and I said we loved each other, the first time either of us has felt this way about someone. Sadly, I also learned that Ada is peculiar when it comes to the L word. She wants to see actions that show love rather than hear the constant repetition of those words. For some unfathomable reason, she finds them corny. I suspect this whole issue is something she should see a shrink about, but if she doesn’t want to hear me wear out the phrase, I’ll play along. This way, when I do say it on some auspicious occasion, like our twentieth anniversary, it’ll feel more powerful—and I think that might be Ada’s point.
Feeling more relaxed, I focus on breathing evenly, and after about thirty more inhales of Ada’s coconut-scented hair, I fall asleep.
If I have any more nightmares that night, I don’t remember them.
Chapter Two
“Dr. Golovasi will see you in a moment.” The plump receptionist blows a bubble with her chewing gum. “Fill these out for now.”
I take the forms, but before I fill them out, I locate the Wi-Fi and switch over from the slower cell connection. My whole world brightens, and I inwardly sigh at yet another confirmation that I’ve become as reliant on Wi-Fi (and connectivity in general) as a severely nearsighted person on their glasses. It’s gotten to the point where I would’ve canceled this visit if they didn’t have Wi-Fi—a purely hypothetical scenario since Ada made the appointment and she has the same quirks in this regard. Plus, this is a doctor in Manhattan, so Wi-Fi is pretty much guaranteed.
I mentally instruct Mr. Spock to stay in my pocket in case they don’t allow pets at this office, and then I make quick work of the paperwork and hand it back. Once I’m back in my chair, I take out two Rubik’s cubes and busy myself by speed-solving both puzzles simultaneously. Once I solve and mix the cubes a few times, I try the same feat blindfolded, after first memorizing the state of colors on both cubes. This second way of solving the Rubik’s cubes is more interesting, but it only keeps me busy for a few minutes, plus the receptionist gives me weird looks. Bored with the physical world, I remove the blindfold, close my eyes, and launch the Telepathy app.
Ada’s pride and joy, the Telepathy app is like a text messenger on steroids and amphetamines. The app uses Brainocytes to activate the areas in the brain that give the message receivers the eerie feeling that the thought they’re getting from the sender is making an audible sound in their head. The sender can also imbue the thought with a range of preconfigured emotions—like emoticons, but way cooler since you can feel them. On top of that, Mitya, Ada, Muhomor, and I developed a statistically optimized language to express ourselves quicker and more effectively via electronic communications, and that includes the Telepathy app.
We call the new language Zik, short for yazik—Russian for language. Zik is as terse as we could get away with, so, like in Russian, articles such as “a,” “an,” and “the” don’t exist in Zik. The Zik alphabet, if you can even call it that, is simply numbers in base two, also known as binary. We took the most commonly used words in Russian and English and represented them using binary numbers according to usage. The least commonly used words get bigger numbers, and thus longer strings of binary, while the most commonly used words get smaller numbers, and thus shorter representations. For example, the word “have,” statistically the ninth word in our usage, is simply the binary for nine—1001. Something like “ossify” (turn into bone), though relatively short in English, becomes the binary for thirty thousand (111010100110000) in Zik. The number would be higher if it weren’t for Mitya’s penchant for boner puns raising the odds of that word getting used. Just for contrast, the original English “have,” when represented in ASCII form (one of the ways the alphabet can be encoded in computers) is a whopping 01101000 01100001 01110110 01100101. It might not seem like a big deal to a layperson, but using smaller binary numbers greatly speeds up communication for people with a brain boost.
In any case, now that we have Zik, speaking with people in the outdated verbal manner is a chore. I’m constantly tempted to interrupt the slow-motion speech of my investors because I usually know what the person will say thirty percent into their sentence.
“Hey, sweetie,” Ada greets me telepathically in Zik. A warm, fuzzy emotion that’s the Telepathy app’s equivalent of the smiley face emoji (with the little heart emoji thrown in) accompanies her words.
Emojis are also numbers in Zik. That might sound cold, until you remember the standard smiley face emoji everyone texts to each other is merely the characters “:” and “)” or the number 00111010 00101001 in binary. In fact, in Zik, we can add intensity to our emojis, allowing for a wide range of subtlety in the emotional subtext we use.
“Hi, babe,” I reply, imbuing my message with the Zik equivalent of a confident wink. “I’m here at the shrink’s office, in case you thought I’d flake out at the last minute.”
Ada’s avatar appears in the air in front of me. She opted to look like a mischievous imp, so it must be another Monday.
“Do you mind sharing?” she asks and waves her hand around her body.
She’s requesting that I launch the relatively new app we call Share. When running, this app allows Ada to see what I see and hear what I hear—not unlike the rat version she developed for Mr. Spock and his kin.
I activate the app, and the imp looks around the room.
“You’re not in the office yet.” Ada’s voice rings throughout the waiting room. Obviously, her speech isn’t really here; it’s merely the Brainocytes stimulating the auditory center of my brain. More specifically, it’s a Zik message that our newly advanced version of the Teleconference app converts into speech experience. This is how we now “speak,” even when within earshot of each other and not in public. In public, we speak out loud so people don’t think we’re a couple of weird mutes who don’t even use sign language.
“The appointment is for eleven. It’s 10:58 on the clock here.”
I nod toward the digital wall clock. On Ada’s end of the conversation, my avatar looks like Misha, the Russian Bear mascot of the 1980 Summer Olympics in Moscow and my namesake. “I guess the doctor is punctual.”
“Awesome, we have two minutes to kill. Time enough for a chat,” Ada says out loud, but she must’ve also used the Telepathy app, because I receive an emotion that’s probably smugness. I’m still not as adept as Ada at interpreting emotional subtext.
With our current brain boosts, two minutes is plenty of time to have an actual conversation, albeit a light one. In the past five months, Mitya has stripped several of his companies of high-end servers in order to throw these resources at the brain boost project. This has given us all cognitive capabilities we’re still learning to exploit. We accepted Mitya’s servers because making money with boosted intelligence has become so easy for us that we can easily compensate the affected companies. And even without that, the companies will be better off because we used our boosted intelligence to design replacement servers that will be head and shoulders above the ones we’ve borrowed. In fact, many of these super servers are currently in the pipeline at major manufacturers. Among the new hardware available today, the highlight is probably the Braino servers, built with IBM’s custom and highly experimental neurosynaptic computer chips. Then again, if you asked Muhomor, he’d probably say the best hardware we have is the Qecho. The 100-qubit quantum computer isn’t yet used for brain boosts, per se, but it does help us solve several important and difficult problems, including encryption and decryption of secured messages—a branch of computer science that gives Muhomor the equivalent of what normal guys would call an erection.
