Human++

by Dima Zales

  “You don’t have to do that, Mom,” I tell her. “We have a protocol. After the initial setup is complete, we want to make sure the participants enjoy the privacy they deserve.”

  “Are you ready to work on the BCI?” Ada asks, looking eager to change the subject.

  Mom glances at me questioningly, so I decipher the Ada-speak for her. “She means learn how to use your new Brainocytes as a computer interface.”

  “Right,” Ada says. “Though I think Nina understood me.” Facing Mom, she says, “To be more specific, you’ll work on learning how to type with just your mind. It’ll be easy. First, we need the Brainocytes to observe you typing for real for a few hours. Afterwards, you’ll learn to type mentally, using your imagination. If all works as planned, my team’s algorithm will catch your imaginary keystrokes, since mental actions light up the same parts of the brain as physical actions.”

  The door opens, and a big, dark-skinned man in scrubs walks in, pushing a wheelchair along.

  “I’m here for Nina Cohen,” he says.

  “That’s me,” Mom says.

  “You’re scheduled for an MRI,” the guy explains and steers the chair toward her.

  Mom leans away and says, “I’m not getting into that.”

  The guy looks confused.

  “She can walk to the MRI,” I tell him. “You can leave the chair here. Will that be a problem?”

  “No,” the guy says, “but Dr. Carter said—”

  “Such an overly litigious country,” Mom cuts in. “These doctors like to cover their asses to the point of insanity.” She stubbornly folds her arms and gets up. “I won’t be a part of this foolishness. Please lead the way, young man.”

  The guy folds the wheelchair and leaves it by the wall. Under his breath, he mutters, “Okay, but the doc said to use the chair.”

  “When will she be back?” I ask the guy.

  “In about an hour and a half,” he says.

  “Do you want anything to eat afterwards?” I ask Mom.

  “A turkey sandwich,” she responds, “with extra mayo.”

  “You got it,” I say and suppress a smile at the look on Ada’s face. I could’ve predicted she’d cringe at Mom’s food choice.

  Mom and her disgruntled guide exit into the corridor.

  “A sandwich sounds good,” my uncle says. “Especially one with extra mayo.”

  Ada takes this one in stride. I guess she’s more invested in my mom’s health.

  “Anyone else hungry?” I ask, looking around the room. “I’m buying.”

  Pretty much everyone takes me up on the offer, supporting my theory that most people—even if they’re fasting or on a strict diet—will gladly gobble down free food.

  When we get to the cafeteria, I realize the staff in Mom’s room must’ve texted or emailed the majority of the other Techno employees, because most of them are here. Grinning, I extend my offer of a free lunch to them as well.

  Grabbing a tray, I pull my uncle along and stand behind Ada.

  She loads her tray with a salad, an apple, two bananas, and a heap of steamed vegetables.

  Uncle Abe gives her tray a dubious onceover. “What about meat and bread?”

  JC chuckles, and I fight a smile of my own. For the second time today, my uncle is about to regret his question.

  To Ada’s credit, this particular optimum nutrition lecture is the shortest one I’ve heard her deliver. It only takes her a couple of minutes.

  “So the easiest formula,” Ada concludes, “is to maximize your micronutrient intake while eating as few calories as possible. The best route to that is whole, unprocessed, plant-based foods.”

  My uncle demonstrates how little Ada’s spiel influenced him by getting a very processed and not very plant-based ham sandwich. He believes in the Russian proverb that states, “Bread is the head of everything,” and worships meat to the point that ham is probably enshrined in his kitchen.

  As I make my own selections, I wonder why Ada decided to trim down her pitch. Is she finally learning to adjust to her audience? She didn’t even go into her reasons for eating this way—reasons that have little to do with vanity. She wants to maximize her lifespan so she can, and I quote from having heard this a dozen times, “catch as many transformative paradigm shifts in technology as possible and, hopefully, live long enough to catch mind uploading.”

  Ada’s nutrient logic must’ve rubbed off on me, because my meal contains half the calories I might’ve chosen otherwise. I also get Mom’s extra mayo in packets instead of slathered on the bread. This way, Mom can decide for herself how junky she wants her meal, leaving my conscience somewhat clean.

  We sit down and start eating. Inevitably, the conversation returns to the topic of Brainocytes, and Ada says, “As much as I try, the implications of this technology are difficult to wrap my head around.”

  “If it’s hard for you, imagine what it’s like for us mere mortals,” I say.

  “We can help so many people,” JC says, his green eyes shining fervently in his freckled face. “We can restore vision to the blind, hearing to the deaf, and memory to those who’ve lost it.”

  “All wonderful, but just scratching the surface of what’s possible,” Ada says. “Eventually, we’ll be able to take a regular person and enhance the very thing that makes us human—intelligence, memory, empathy. Can you imagine the impact on the world if much smarter human beings populated the planet?”

  JC bites into his burger, Twix-commercial style. Like me, he knows and understands Ada’s transhumanist views. I agree with some of them, as do three quarters of Techno employees. JC probably also agrees, but he doesn’t like these ideas bandied around in front of laymen. According to him, talking about human enhancements is bad for business, thanks largely to Hollywood’s obsession with cautionary tales about human hubris.

  “Fine, if you want to keep things prosaic,” Ada says, “just the virtual and augmented realities alone could revolutionize the entertainment and educational systems. Once people start seeing the internet in their minds and watching movies and playing video games in their heads, the daily life of the average person will be unlike anything in history.”

  “Right,” JC says. “We’ll turn into a completely self-centered society. I can’t wait.”

  “You’re wrong,” Ada says, though she knows JC likes to play devil’s advocate. “When text and email will be done in people’s heads, we’ll end up with technology that’s indistinguishable from telepathy. Being able to communicate through thought will connect the human race more than ever before. Though all that is short term. Having this unprecedented look inside the brain will lead to—”

  “—brain simulations,” I say, imitating her voice. “Which will lead to better AI and brain uploading.”

  “Which will also lead to fear,” JC picks up, though his voice sounds like Yoda’s instead of Ada’s. “Which will lead to anger, which will lead to hate, which will lead to suffering, and all this leads to the dark side of the Force.”

  “That’s not the exact quote,” Ada says, and I have no doubt she’s right. She has an eidetic memory when it comes to pop culture references.

  Everyone except my uncle laughs at JC’s joke, but it’s nervous laughter. They all know this work really is scary to some people. This is why JC wants to keep the focus on correcting debilitating conditions for the time being. Even the worst luddites wouldn’t deny Alzheimer’s patients the chance at living a normal life, or quadriplegics the ability to control their environment, or blind people their vision. But as soon as the topic veers into Ada’s favorite territory, improvement of normal function, things get thornier.

  My uncle’s pocket rings.

  He gives us an apologetic look before taking out his phone and glancing at the screen. Whatever he sees there makes him frown. Getting up, he explains, “It’s my son. I have to take it. Misha, I’ll meet you in Nina’s room.”

  With that, he walks away from our table. As someone who knows his son, I shudder an
d mentally wish Uncle Abe good luck.

  The rest of us talk shop for the remainder of the meal, and I learn that Mrs. Sanchez is the next person scheduled to get Phase One enabled. We all know how little this first phase will help her, so the plan is to expedite her treatment and see if the phase that simulates missing brain function will help her more. Ada says she wants to oversee the beginning stages of this, so I volunteer to join her, in part to prove that I do care about the other participants, but also because I don’t have to fake it. Given Mrs. Sanchez’s situation, I genuinely do care about her.

  Like Mom, the reason she’s in this study is because of me. In fact, her life was affected by the same event as my mom’s—that fateful car accident. Mom doesn’t remember what happened, so I had to read about the crash online and in police reports. That’s how I learned that a mentally unstable man was waltzing across the Belt Parkway highway. Mom hit the brakes in an effort to spare his life, and she succeeded in that. Unfortunately, she traded hitting the man for hitting the metal curb. What’s even worse is that an SUV swerved to avoid colliding with Mom’s car.

  It was Mrs. Sanchez’s son, daughter-in-law, and two grandchildren in the SUV. Instead of hitting the guardrail on the left, their car went down the hill on the right side and flipped multiple times. They all died, but the poor woman, Mrs. Sanchez, still doesn’t truly know this. Her Alzheimer’s was already in full swing by that time, and the tragic news about her family doesn’t register when someone informs her of what happened. The problem with not informing her, however, is that she repeatedly asks for her son and his family. She’s a widow, so after the accident, the only family she had left was an older brother who passed away a few months ago. I’ve been paying her bills ever since, and when I got the chance, I convinced JC to include her in the study despite her poor health.

  “Let’s get Mrs. Sanchez something that’s safe for her diabetes,” I suggest.

  Ada gives me an evaluating look. “She likes her junk food, so that’ll be tricky.”

  “We’ll get something healthy and something fried, but only show her the healthy choices first,” I say. “We used to do this with Grandpa.”

  “Sounds like a great plan,” JC says. “You two go do that, and the rest of us will run ahead.”

  I get up, and Ada follows.

  “It is a good idea,” Ada says. “Why don’t I get the healthy choices and you get the rest?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Just don’t get her anything with too many carbs,” Ada warns. “She could go into a coma.”

  “Deal,” I say and walk back over to the tray line. “We’ll drop off Mom’s sandwich in her room on the way.”

  “This tastes like hospital food,” Mrs. Sanchez complains as she eats Ada’s healthier choices.

  It is hospital food, but since Mrs. Sanchez doesn’t recall where she is and hates hospitals on top of that, I see no need to remind her. She’ll realize she’s in a hospital when she looks in the mirror and sees her outfit, which is the same white hospital gown Mom was wearing earlier today.

  Making a face, Mrs. Sanchez looks at Ada. “Are you sure they didn’t have ice cream?”

  “I’m sure,” I lie. “But they did have Jell-O.”

  If I left the answer up to Ada, she might’ve blurted out the truth. She’s almost pathologically honest, a bit like young George Washington, though I have my doubts about him. In Russia, we have an identical story about a young kid never telling a lie, only in that version, it was Lenin, the communist revolutionary leader.

  “Is the Jell-O sugar-free?” Mrs. Sanchez’s kind, chubby face twists in disgust at the very idea of sugar substitutes.

  “No,” I lie again. “So don’t eat too much of it.”

  The real reason I said she shouldn’t have too much Jell-O is because Ada might have an aneurism from watching Mrs. Sanchez eat something chock-full of aspartame, or whatever the name of the “evil” artificial sweetener is in Jell-O.

  When Mrs. Sanchez tastes her gelatinous treat, she rubs her lips questioningly, and I’m ready for her to catch me in another lie, the way she did with the soda earlier. In that case, she got suspicious because Ada had peeled off the label; misleading someone doesn’t count as lying in Ada’s book. Fortunately, Mrs. Sanchez doesn’t say anything this time and continues consuming her Jell-O.

  I study Mrs. Sanchez as she eats, and worry overcomes me again. She and Mom are the same height and age and have similar apple-shaped body types. According to Ada, this increases my mom’s risk of diabetes. Sure enough, Mom’s sugar has been creeping up. Sooner or later, I might have to unleash the full wrath of Ada’s dietary philosophy on her in the hopes that she starts eating healthier—unless the Brainocytes can be used to curb cravings?

  While I’m pondering that, a nurse comes in carrying a syringe and a tray of food.

  “Didn’t Mrs. Sanchez already get her Brainocytes injection?” I whisper to Ada, then realize the syringe is too small.

  “She did,” Ada replies. “This is probably her insulin.”

  “Oh, good. You’re already eating,” the nurse says to the older woman and nods gratefully at Ada. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to give you your insulin.”

  Mrs. Sanchez looks as excited at the prospect of getting a shot as a toddler would. She nervously twists her giant emerald ring, a treasured gift from her older brother, who, shortly before his death, gave her a much better gift in the form of his consent for her participation in this study. I hope the ring doesn’t make her ask about her brother again—a topic as painful for her as the inquiries about the rest of her family.

  My phone vibrates, and I see it’s a text from Uncle Abe telling me my mom is back from her MRI. I want to hurry back, but I decide to stick around a little longer.

  “If it’s your mom, you should go,” Ada says, and to my shock, she gently brushes her fingers against my elbow. “My minions are working on the BCI with her, and it’ll be useful if someone with a brain is there.”

  Ada is a Team Lead for the software developers at Techno, and she refers to them as minions, even to their faces. Contrary to Ada’s statement, they have more than enough brains and are paid triple what they’d earn at a hedge fund, the usual path for New York experts of their caliber.

  “Good luck, Mrs. Sanchez,” I say. “I hope this treatment helps you in the long run.”

  Mrs. Sanchez nods, and I head over to Mom’s room.

  As I walk through the white corridors, I pass the rooms occupied by the other participants. I continue to Mom’s room without stopping because I want to catch her before she finishes her lunch.

  “Hi, kitten,” Mom says in English. Though her English is good, sometimes she overlooks certain subtleties, like the fact that this literal translation of what sounds cute in Russian comes off as fairly emasculating in English.

  David, one of Ada’s brightest minions and a second-generation Russian immigrant himself, gives me a sympathetic smirk.

  Mom is sitting on the couch with a keyboard on her lap, so it looks like she’s done with lunch after all.

  “Your uncle left,” she says, “and you should go too. David tells me I’ll be typing for hours and learning how to control an imaginary dot for the rest of the day after that.”

  “That’s nonsense, Mom. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Surely you have some important business to deal with? Or a girl to take out?”

  “If you insist, I’ll check in with my secretary and maybe read up on some companies on my phone later,” I say, knowing if I don’t give in to this Jewish mom business of “don’t worry about me” at least a little, she’ll keep it up for a while. Besides, my mom is right. A multibillion-dollar fund doesn’t run itself. As good as my analysts are, I still have to vet all investment ideas, not to mention deal with the investors. I cleared my schedule to be with my mom for this treatment, but there’s always work to be done.

  “Good,” she says and picks up her keyboard. “So, David, what do you need me
to do?”

  The rest of the day passes the way Mom said it would. Under David’s tutelage, she masters the art of typing with her mind. Sometimes, her fingers twitch as though she’s really typing, but most of the time, it looks pretty eerie as text shows up on the screen without any outward action. She simply has to imagine herself typing the words.

  The “mental mouse” portion of BCI training is a lot trickier for her, but David assures her she’s doing well and that she’ll have it down in a day or so.

  “Why do I have to sleep here?” Mom asks after everyone’s done eating dinner.

  “Just in case,” David says. “Dr. Carter agreed to assist our research on the condition that we take every safety precaution.”

  “I haven’t even met this Dr. Carter,” Mom says, “but when I do, I’ll give him a piece of my mind.”

  She has met him, and I know because I was there. She actually gave him more than a piece of her mind, which is probably why he stayed away today.

  “It’ll be fine, Mom. I’ll be around if you need me. Everything will be fine.”

  “You’re not staying in the hospital.” Mom takes her ultimatum stance, planting her hands on her hips. “If you stay here, I’ll leave, Dr. Carter or not.”

  “I won’t stay in the hospital,” I say, knowing this is a fight I can’t win. “But I’ll be here first thing in the morning.”

  Mom considers this for a moment, then shows her approval by removing her hands from her hips.

  What I left unsaid is that I’ll be nearby. I booked a room at the HGU Hotel so I’ll be within walking distance, just in case something goes wrong tonight. If Mom knew this, she’d be upset, especially since I booked the six-hundred-dollars per night King Suite, the only room they had available on short notice. Though she knows I make insanely large sums of money, she can’t turn off her legitimate concern over finances, a response she developed when we first moved to the United States. Since I was thirteen then, I didn’t internalize the situation as much as she did. I understand her feelings on the matter, though. We came to the US as refugees with a few hundred dollars in savings, if that. Between the help from Uncle Abe, who let us stay with his family in the beginning, the special immigrant-aid program called NYANA, and the very generous help from the American welfare system, we had just enough to survive while we got settled. Eventually, though, Mom felt uneasy about receiving “government charity” and found a home attendant job on Brighton Beach. Juggling English lessons and a Bachelor’s degree with her grueling job must’ve been a nightmare. I still can’t believe she went through it all. To me, the idea of picking up my stuff and moving to a place where I don’t speak the language and don’t know anyone or anything—say, Spain or Japan—is unthinkably frightening.