by Dima Zales
Out loud, to emphasize the seriousness of my words to Ada, I say, “In those experiments where rats could stimulate their pleasure centers, rats would press the lever that delivered the artificial pleasure over pressing the lever for eating, drinking, and even sex. They pressed the button to the point where they starved to death.”
The EMT guys exchange confused glances but remain silent, likely ascribing my statement to my head injury.
Worried that Mr. Spock understood what I said and is horrified by the idea of such barbaric rat experiments, I pet the little guy—which causes the EMT folks to exchange yet more looks as it’s not every day you see a pet rat. Mr. Spock seems to be okay, at least gauging by his EmoRat output and the visual cues I’m getting better at recognizing.
“You have better self-control than a rat, Mike,” Ada counters out loud and scoots closer to me on the gurney. “No offense,” she tells Mr. Spock. “Besides, the Relief app provides a precisely calculated mild stimulus to the pleasure center. It dampens pain by—”
“Fine,” I mentally interrupt, worried that Ada was about to praise Mitya’s genius again—a common activity that never fails to activate my greenest jealousy. “I’m turning it on.”
She smiles knowingly, and I wonder why I even try resisting her wishes. When it comes to arguing with Ada, I’m learning it’s easier to give in. Deep down, I know she only wants what’s best for me and wouldn’t convince me to use an app that could lead me into trouble—not on purpose anyway.
I explain Spock’s presence to the paramedics as I turn on the Relief app. As a concession to my fears about the app, I dial the app settings all the way down, so it becomes the approximate equivalent of a couple of adult doses of Tylenol or maybe a single Tylenol with Codeine.
“Damn it,” I mentally send Ada when the app’s bliss makes the pain in my bloody ear and my awful headache subside. “I do feel better, but as I said, I’m worried I’ll get hooked on this.”
“We could always write you a rehab app.” Ada touches my shoulder soothingly and winks at me. “Something that would block the Relief app from connecting to the servers.”
“I’d just write something to overrule you.” I put my hand on top of hers, and the warmth is better than anything an app could induce. “If you didn’t want me to become addicted, you shouldn’t have encouraged me to get so good at coding.”
“Don’t worry. If you do become an addict, I’ll lock you in a room with no access to internet if I have to.” Ada’s tone is much too playful given the cruel and unusual scenario she described. “In all seriousness, if Muhomor can write an app to help himself quit smoking, we can write an app that would help you quit using another app if needed. But it won’t be.”
Her mention of Muhomor gets me worried again, and I debate running BraveChill to lessen that bout of anxiety. In the end, I decide against using the app, since not worrying about my friends in this scenario would make me a horrible friend and less of a human being.
“Speaking of apps,” Ada says, picking up on my shift in mood. “You should run the Neurogenesis app in case you got brain damage from the fight.”
Neurogenesis is the process of growing new brain cells, and it’s arguably one of the scarier apps that I have no problems with. I actually use it on a regular basis. Besides the obvious idea of “the more brain, the better,” assuming neurogenesis does give you “more brain,” my rationale for using the app is that many good-for-you activities seem to cause neurogenesis. In other words, I figure if running, sex, enriching environments and experiences, and even random dietary things like fish oil, turmeric, and blueberries cause neurogenesis, then neurogenesis might be behind some of the benefits of those activities, and thus it’s a good idea to get neurogenesis any way I can. Mom and the rest of the folks in the study run a heavy-duty version of the app, and even I have to admit it was a stroke of genius when Mitya thought of the idea. It’s helped patients with more advanced Alzheimer’s like nothing else in the treatment, leading me to believe that neurogenesis does give one more brain power. For me, it’s hard to separate neurogenesis’s impact on my intellect from the brain boost, but I still think the benefits exist. Plus, if Ada ever did lock me up in a room without internet, I would at least be left with a naturally boosted brain.
“Done,” I tell Ada once the Neurogenesis app is up and running. “I think we’re arriving at our destination.”
Punctuating my words, the ambulance stops and the EMT guys take me to the ER.
“Stop fidgeting,” Ada says out loud—a sign of annoyance—after I contemplate leaving the hospital bed for what feels like the thousandth time. “You have to get seen by a doctor. It’s not negotiable.”
“I’ll stay still if you go and find out what’s going on with Gogi and Muhomor,” I counter, opting not to use the words “benevolent dictator.”
“Deal,” Ada replies telepathically and leaves, proving I must be fine, or else she wouldn’t have left my sight.
Even as Ada walks away, the wait begins to feel like hours—a negative side effect of my super-fast new mode of thought. To stay sane, I try to occupy my mind. I start with my work email, going through and replying to the couple of hundred of the most urgent emails. That kills a few minutes and takes longer than it should because I read and type at a leisurely pace. Done with work, I decide to play with my phone for a bit. I only got this unit a few days ago, but I’ve already dubbed it Precious 3. Precious 3 is better than its predecessors in every way, and it has hardware a supercomputer would’ve been happy with a decade ago. Ada, Mitya, and I designed my favorite feature—a light-sensitive solar charger incorporated into the outer shell. When combined with the efficient internal battery, Precious 3 can charge itself even in room illumination. I haven’t had to plug it into the wall since the first time I got it. The only problem with Precious 3, if you can even call it a problem, is that I can do just as much, if not more, with the Brainocytes in my head. Still, there are thousands more games available on the phone than the Brainocytes Club could ever hope to put together. I choose a newer strategy game and give it a spin, though playing games on my phone doesn’t fully keep my attention. The games are optimized for regular people.
Recalling that Lyuba is in town, I get in touch with her and tell her Muhomor got hurt. I urge her to stop by the hospital, figuring he’d be happy to see her when he can. I assure her that no, I have no clue what his medical condition is at the moment. Then, for a few long minutes, I debate telling Mom where I am. In the end, Mitya agrees with me that it’s not essential that Mom know about my mishaps, unless I have something seriously wrong with me. I don’t consult Ada, as she might think Mom has the right to know. Since I have Mitya on the line, I agree to play a virtual game of Go with him and promptly lose. Then, as we agreed, we play chess, and of course I win. As usual, we have a telepathic/verbal fight about which win is more impressive, Go or chess.
“Go is an ancient Chinese strategy game that’s older and arguably more complex than chess,” Mitya says, regurgitating his usual argument. “Look at artificial intelligence. AIs have been able to beat the best chess player for ages now, while they’ve only recently mastered Go.”
“That has more to do with people wishing to build the right AI,” I counter. “Besides, since you mentioned AIs, I can beat the best AI at chess, while you can’t beat the best AI at Go.”
“That’s not my point,” Mitya says distractedly, and I suspect he just challenged an AI to a Go match.
With Mitya occupied, I look for more ways to keep myself busy.
“They’re taking Gogi for some scans, and they’re stabilizing Muhomor,” Ada tells me when she comes back fifteen minutes later. “Getting information here is like pulling teeth.”
The mental image of pulling teeth doesn’t help my usual white-coat-generated anxiety, nor does the knowledge that Muhomor’s condition is so bad that he requires stabilizing. On the subject of neuroses, if the shrink did help me with my paranoia, that progress has been undone, beca
use some insistent part of me feels like someone at the hospital is covertly watching me. This eerie sensation makes me recall how I felt inside a recent nightmare where faceless people wearing suits were coming to get me.
After what feels like another week of anxiety-filled waiting, a doctor breaks the monotony by confirming what I’ve been saying to Ada all along: my condition is not a true emergency, and I can leave the hospital soon.
Of course, “soon” is a relative term in hospitals. Since I’m fine and a low priority, I have to wait a long time before I get my ear stitched and various cuts and scrapes bandaged. The nurse who helps me informs me I have to speak with a police officer. It’s standard procedure for gunshot victims, and that includes people whose ear barely got grazed by a bullet.
“Ada, please check on Gogi and Muhomor again,” I mentally plead as a cop enters the room. “Maybe there’s more information available?”
“Of course,” she replies soothingly. “Do you want to play chess and talk while I walk around? It might help you keep your cool while the cops question you.”
“Sure,” I reply to Ada mentally as the cop introduces himself as Officer Jackson. “Though I can keep my cool on my own.”
“Maybe we can also pair code this app I’ve been thinking about,” Ada mentally says after I skillfully take her first pawn in our chess game.
“Whatever you want, sweetie,” I mentally reply, realizing all this multitasking isn’t just for me, but also to ease Ada’s anxiety at the prospect of seeing what happened to our friends.
“No, I never met these men before,” I explain to Officer Jackson for what seems like the tenth time. “I only know their names because I used facial recognition on them.”
As the incredulous cop asks me another set of follow-up questions, Ada and I play chess, and I watch her write a piece of software meant to integrate Brainocytes with a specific model of smart lights. It would allow us to mentally turn lights on and off in our place. I don’t point out that we can already work the smart lights via Einstein, as diminishing the value of Ada’s work will only upset her more.
“And how does Joe Cohen fit into all this?” Officer Jackson asks, and I understand his unsurprising and not-so-subtle agenda.
My cousin is always of interest to the police.
“I don’t know,” I reply as politely and patiently as I can. “My cousin and I aren’t close.”
“Well, what’s your theory?” the cop persists. “Why do you think they attacked?”
“I really don’t know why they attacked,” I tell Officer Jackson, and it feels like I’ve answered a variation of this question before. “If it did have anything to do with Joe, as you’re implying, you can discuss your theories with the man himself when you speak with him.”
In actual fact, I keep wondering about the reasons behind the attack, and I plan to ask Joe some pointed questions when he gets here, so the cop will have to wait his turn.
As the officer pesters me with more questions, I make a chess move that means a checkmate for Ada and mentally text Joe, “There’s a cop here asking a lot of questions about you. Take that into consideration when you arrive.”
“How’s Gogi?” My cousin’s reply is almost as quick as from someone with Brainocytes, though, of course, he writes in English, not Zik.
“I don’t know yet,” I reply to my cousin as I say out loud, “Officer, I really need to go check on my friends. If you have more questions, I think I’d like to have my attorney, Mr. Kadvosky, present. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
Joe’s text is clear and to the point. “I want a report on Gogi’s condition ASAP.” My cousin doesn’t need to add niceties such as, “Or else I’ll break your neck when I get there,” because it’s implied when conversing with him.
“I’ve heard of the Kadvosky law firm,” says Officer Jackson, and his expression is such that you’d think we were talking about a den of vampires or an earthquake. “We’re done for now. Thank you for your help.”
Though it’s clear he’s being disingenuous, I still shake the cop’s hand. As he exits the room, Ada finalizes her code and submits it to our new, Muhomor-secured source control repository.
Figuring now is as good a time as any to try walking, I swing my legs off the bed and carefully put my weight on them.
I don’t fall or scream in pain, but I strongly suspect I would’ve at least yelped without the Relief app. I tentatively disable the app and see that I’m right. I’m still aching all over, the pain as tolerable as a root canal without anesthesia.
“Any update?” I mentally ask Ada and take a deep breath to see if it’ll help with the pain.
“I finally located Gogi in this maze,” Ada says. “Going to check on his condition now.”
“I’ll look for Muhomor then,” I tell her and enable the Relief app. The deep breath made the pain worse.
For the next half hour, I stalk around the ER, asking nurses questions when I can find them. The staff aren’t used to patients asking questions about other patients, so I have to turn on all my boosted intellect and attention to seem sane and charming. My work eventually pays off, and I learn that Muhomor was stabilized and taken for an X-ray and CAT scan, and that he’s now inside an MRI machine.
“I’m in Gogi’s ICU room,” Ada says at the same time as I plead with a nurse to let me speak to the doctor who examined Muhomor in the ER. “You should hear this for yourself.”
The nurse gives me the name of the doctor, and Ada enables the Share app, allowing me to see through a new virtual window into Gogi’s room. I hear someone, likely Gogi’s doctor, say, “He just got out of surgery, and it went well. There’s laceration of muscles and some shattered bones, but I think he’ll recover well in time.”
As soon as I hear Gogi’s diagnosis, I exhale with relief and instantly relay the information to Joe. He replies with, “I’ll be over in twenty minutes. I’ve also sent Jean and Nick to join you. They’re closer to your location.”
Nick and Jean are two guys I sometimes see at the gym. As far as I can tell, they’re a rare subset of people in my cousin’s world who do exactly what his official business is supposed to be about. They work as high-end bodyguards and nothing else—meaning nothing shady. Even their backgrounds are more legitimate than usual. Nick almost made it into the Navy SEALs. Rumor is, he was rejected because he wasn’t smart enough. And Jean almost made it onto a professional football team (that’s American football, not its European namesake, soccer).
Sounds like Joe doesn’t trust hospital security and wants us to have extra protection—a sobering thought.
The relief I felt upon learning of Gogi’s condition dissipates, and I concentrate my remaining worry full force on Muhomor.
After a few minutes of fruitless searching, Ada joins me. Together, we ambush an MRI technician, the only person we can find who’s seen Muhomor recently.
“I only take the tests. I don’t interpret them,” the woman says and nervously pushes her glasses a millimeter higher on her nose. “You’ll have to speak with Doctor Zane once he’s done with the surgery.”
“You do MRIs all the time,” I point out. “Can’t you tell us what you think? We won’t hold you to it.”
Seeing she’s going to be stubborn, I decide to try an age-old Russian persuasion technique. I mentally ask Ada to take out all the money she has on her. Ada takes out a couple of hundred dollars, and I demonstratively place it all on the tech’s small desk, saying, “We just want your uneducated guess. Please.”
The woman looks stunned by the bribery—something that I guess never happens in this expensive American hospital. After a second, though, she pockets the money and says in a low tone, “If he makes it, I doubt he’ll ever walk again.”
As we gape at her, she fiddles with her glasses, and I can see her debating if she should say something else. Something, maybe decency, wins out, and she quietly adds, “I’m sorry, but it’s a complex surgery, and I think you should prepare yourselves for the worst.”
Ada and I frantically pace the hospital corridors, trying to deal with the fact that our friend might die at any moment. In an effort to calm down, I stroke Mr. Spock’s fur, but after a few minutes, he uses the EmoRat to notify me he’d rather I stop, so I do.
As I try my best to hack into the hospital computers, I can’t help but dwell on the painful irony that Muhomor would be the best person to help with this. But if he were in a condition to hack, we wouldn’t need to hack into the hospital computers to check on him.
“I’ve taken him for granted,” I message Ada, adding sadness to my telepathic words. “I didn’t tell him how highly I thought of his skills.”
“I think we all could’ve been better friends.” Ada stops pacing and puts a comforting hand on my forearm. “Let’s treat this as a life lesson.”
Ada’s touch calms me enough for me to focus, and I begin mentally tasting and smelling the hospital computer networks through the Muhomor app. It takes a couple of minutes—ages for someone with my speed of thought—but I finally find a yummy loophole in the hospital security.
I notify Mitya and Ada about my finding so they can exploit the system with me.
“I can’t find much beyond what the MRI technician already told us,” Ada says after some time, echoing my own conclusions.
“I had a bit more luck,” Mitya chimes in. “I figured out where the surgery is taking place. Sending you the info now.”
Ada and I get an electronic delivery of a map of the hospital with a (typical of Mitya) giant red cross in the middle of the third floor.
