Neural Web

by Dima Zales

  Meanwhile, in the VR room, our conversation continues full on. Ada looks at Mitya. “How are things going on the delivery front? I’m tired of explaining these patches.”

  “We’ll be able to put Brainocytes into the drinking water shortly.” Mitya has been driving this initiative, and it’s clear he takes great pleasure in showing off how quickly he’s accomplished this task. “We’ve honed it to the point where Brainocytes will only activate in adult humans, but I still don’t think we ought to put it in water where people don’t want or know about Brainocytes.”

  This is an old argument between Mitya and Ada, one that the rest of us haven’t taken sides on. Ada wants to put Brainocytes into the water supply in places where the government oppresses the populace, as these are usually also places where the government doesn’t let us deliver or market Brainocytes to willing customers. But Mitya thinks that despite the tyrannical regimes in those places, we have no right to put machines into people’s bodies without their consent, even if they would provide greater freedom for said people.

  “It’s going to be a moot point soon,” Alan chimes in. “Every dictator and tyrant now has Brainocytes in his head anyway, so eventually they’ll want it for their people too.”

  “Ah, the naïveté of the young.” Muhomor’s VR shades hover in the air without temples or a nose bridge, making him look like a poker player from space. “Just as with any other form of power, the dictators will want to hoard Brainocytes for themselves.”

  “You’re wasting time on these arguments,” I interject. “We know thousands of patches got smuggled into even the most closed-down countries. Once the dissidents, or whoever the users are, tell regular citizens about the benefits of our tech, people might start a revolution to get their hands on Brainocytes.”

  “Which segues well into our next real-world point,” Ada says.

  She’s right, because I say out loud in Curaçao, “At the very basic level, this technology can replace a personal computer of any kind, as well as your TV, your music player, your smartphone, GPS, AI assistants such as Siri, Alexa, and Cortana, devices like the Kindle, gaming consoles, and pretty much all other gadgets. We’re revolutionizing education and how people work. Widespread Brainocyte adoption is taking the internet revolution to the next level…”

  “Our PR people have dumbed down the message,” Alan complains back in the VR room. “When I finally get a chance to speak at these conferences, I’ll write my own speech.”

  “So what does the wise toddler think we should be saying?” Even through his shades, it’s clear Muhomor just rolled his eyes.

  “People might worry about self-replicating nanotechnology,” Alan says. I feel proud as a father on a couple of levels but particularly when I realize how stoically Alan just ignored Muhomor’s insult—proving that in many ways, Alan is the more mature of these two. “You should tell them about our nonreplicating nanofactories and how—”

  “Too technical,” Muhomor counters. “And if we tell them why we’re being careful with nanotech replication, they’ll just get scared.”

  “Then we should at least tell them about the opportunity to get premium services.” Alan’s avatar now resembles Ada, and I wonder if he’s created an algorithm that morphs his face based on the topic of conversation.

  My son is talking about Ada’s initiative: paying people to create content that’s beneficial to humankind. Ada wants to encourage people to write wiki pages and blogs, to create original art, and to even put up nice pictures of themselves so that other people might enjoy them. The idea, as she puts it, is to “encourage an era of cultural expression.” To that end, we created a version of Einstein to trawl the internet for such activities. When he finds any, he rewards the content producer with special points that can be turned into cash or premium services.

  “That program makes us seem too Machiavellian,” Muhomor says. “And we don’t want people to know the truth about that.” His glasses float upward, and when they clear the middle of his forehead, his right eye winks conspiratorially.

  “You also don’t mention some of the benefits of Einstein.” Alan’s face now morphs to more closely resemble mine—I guess because he knows I like Einstein’s features more than Ada does. “Einstein’s getting to know each user better than they know themselves. He’s on the cusp of helping people with critical decisions. He’ll be a sort of digital consciousness for many. He might tell them whom to date or remind them not to make deals when their blood pressure is too high or their dopamine levels too low.”

  “It makes Einstein sound like Big Brother,” Ada says.

  She so rarely agrees with Muhomor on anything that everyone in the room exchanges glances.

  I chuckle. “Alan actually sees Einstein as a big brother—but in a literal sense, not in a 1984 way.”

  “If our users wanted to fear anyone, it should be us, not Einstein,” Alan says.

  “And therefore, you shouldn’t write your own speeches,” Muhomor says with finality. “If Marcus in PR heard what you just said, his Brainocytes would explode out of his brain.”

  We move on to less contentious subjects in the VR room, while in the real world, I explain how Brainocytes will work with Global Terahertz wireless internet, a Human++ freemium product Curaçao already utilizes. Global Terahertz will keep Brainocytes users connected to Human++ servers at all times (unless some evil scientist puts them in a Faraday cage with thick lead walls). Many eyes light up as I explain the potential, including voting with one’s mind, crystal clear air in large cities, VR dating and relationships, and a slew of other sweeping societal changes.

  The conference is going smoother than usual, yet something begins to bother me.

  The events of four and a half years ago taught me to trust my paranoia. I put an end to all my parallel activities, leaving my attention on the VR conference room and the real world. In a fraction of a second, I beat ChessMaster, the world’s best AI algorithm, and refuse it a rematch; I complete four Rubik’s Cubes I’ve been solving in parallel; and I stop writing my fifty-sixth novel and submit all the unfinished code I was just working on to source control.

  As often happens, the extra attention I now direct to the real world gives me the illusion that I’m watching reality in slow motion. On the surface, everything looks routine, like the many conferences we’ve done before. Yet despite the BraveChill app, I’m overcome with a strong sense of dread.

  Parts of my mind are identifying dangers before my conscious awareness can catch up.

  Frantically, I scan my surroundings through the eyes of the robots next to Ada, Mitya, and Muhomor. At first, I can’t even verbalize what I see. Then my vision zooms in on a guy in the crowd around Mitya, and I understand what’s been bothering me.

  This guy’s clothes are way too bulky for the unforgiving Middle Eastern heat.

  Now that I know what to look for, I see men wearing something similar at every location, including my own.

  “Suicide bombers!” I shout in the VR room.

  In an instant, I text images of the suspects to Joe and his security teams in every region, and put them up on screen in the VR room. If I’m wrong and these aren’t suicide vests, I’d rather apologize for being paranoid.

  While everyone’s reacting to my revelation, the guy in Mitya’s crowd inches toward the stage with wild eyes. I jump my awareness into a robot, using his camera eyes to zoom in on the man’s hands, and my metallic robot jaws clench with an audible clunk.

  He’s closing his hand around a device clutched in front of his chest.

  I analyze the device in a picosecond. It can only be a detonator.

  The man’s features contort in fear.

  Someone else, probably Mitya, takes control of the bulkier robot to my right. I make my robot follow his and prepare to jump toward the bomber.

  I don’t need a brain boost to realize that the robots will not make it in time.

  “Run!” I scream through metal lips as my robot flies through the crowd.


  “Run!” I yell at Mitya in the VR room.

  The robots might as well be miles away, because the bomber’s fingers finish squeezing the detonator.

  All cameras at Mitya’s location show a flash of fire.

  I leave my robot before it’s ripped apart, but not before I get a horrific glimmer of flesh exploding around me. The microphones roar with soul-piercing static. Then all video and audio goes silent at Mitya’s location.

  “Mitya!” I scream. “Are you okay?”

  Mitya doesn’t reply.

  We all stare at Mitya’s VR room avatar, who stands wide-eyed and uncomprehending. Then the avatar lets out an inhuman scream and turns pixelated—like a ghost inside a machine.

  Chapter Five

  I’ve never felt this disjointed.

  It’s as though there are four distinct versions of me operating completely independently of each other. One, a purely emotional one, is beginning to grieve for Mitya, whose avatar is still disappearing from VR like a mirage.

  In complete contrast, the other versions of me exemplify bloodthirst and pragmatism. Enraged, I slam my consciousness into a robot at Ada’s right and leap for the bomber in her crowd. I’m glad we overdesigned the strength and speed of these metallic bodies, as I’m flying at an incredible speed. But even this breakneck rescue might not be fast enough.

  No.

  What just happened to Mitya isn’t going to happen to Ada.

  I won’t let it.

  I operate on pure instinct. Grabbing my left robotic arm with the right one, I rip it off. The swell of pain is sharp, but I ignore it.

  Teeth clenched, I hurl the separated limb at the approaching bomber.

  The metal arm whooshes through the air and smacks into my target’s right shoulder. The man stumbles back, the trigger device clattering to the ground.

  Before I can rejoice, he recovers and crouches to pick it up with his uninjured left arm.

  I’m grateful the crowd flees from the bomber, because no one impedes my progress. The one-armed robot body lands in front of the crouching man, and I use its remaining left hand to punch into the mushy human body of my enemy. My metal fingers rip through the rib cage and close around a piece of pulsing flesh.

  “He was about to kill Ada,” I say grimly in VR, as though someone were about to criticize my actions.

  No one replies as I pull the asshole’s beating heart out of his chest like a priest in some macabre Aztec ritual. The people around us scream. A video of this kill will undoubtedly end up on YouTube, confirming all the fears the paranoiacs have about our robots, but I’m beyond caring.

  Back in my real body, I reach into my pocket for the gun one of Joe’s people handed me earlier today. The security team around me already has their weapons out, but my training at the range pays off yet again. In less time than it takes the bomber to blink, I put a bullet in his brain.

  In the past, I might’ve worried about taking a life, but paradoxically, it’s my respect for life that makes me take the headshot. If the bomber got the chance to squeeze the trigger, hundreds of people would’ve died. And hey, the asshole was in the process of killing himself anyway. If Ada gives me crap about this later, I can truthfully tell her that a headshot was the best and safest solution.

  At the same time as I’m rescuing Ada and myself, I also take charge of a robot near Muhomor. But as soon as I begin to move, I see that I’m too late.

  The bomber squeezes the trigger.

  All the blood drains from my face.

  “I’m sorry.” My voice cracks in VR. “I tried.”

  “Don’t worry about me.” Muhomor manages to sound smug. “I found a way to jam that signal.”

  Stunned, I realize the bomb didn’t go off. And though my robot is no longer running toward the bomber, another one is.

  Wild-eyed, I scan the VR room. “Who—”

  “It’s me,” Alan says. “I think—”

  In the real world, the bomber realizes his bomb isn’t going to work, so he pulls out a gun and aims it at Muhomor. In the time he takes aim, I’ve blocked my friend with my robotic metal body. Joe’s security people also move to shield him, but Muhomor is already on the move, his exoskeleton legs outpacing even the robots.

  The bomber must’ve realized he won’t be able to hit him, because he turns the gun in his own direction.

  It takes me less than a millisecond to recognize his plan. The bomber wants to plant a bullet in his own chest, probably to activate the bomb. I have no time to research if this maneuver will succeed or not, so I assume the worst. Though Muhomor is running quickly, he can’t outpace the spread of an explosion. Frantically, I grope for solutions as the bomber’s hand continues its deadly arc, but nothing comes to mind.

  This is when Alan’s robot lands next to the bomber. Before the bomber can finish turning the gun at his chest, Alan rips off the guy’s suicide vest with the smooth motion of a hungry ape insta-peeling a banana.

  The bomber stumbles back, his gun turning upward.

  “Alan, stop him!” Joe yells in the VR room. “I need him alive.”

  But it’s too late. Before Alan can command his robot to do anything, the bomber aims the gun under his chin and presses the trigger.

  The shot is deafening, bits of blood and brain matter flying everywhere. In every crowd, people are screaming in different languages, but their behavior is uniform: everyone is trying to get away from the bombers and the stages.

  Overwhelmed, I allow Joe’s security people to take over. In Curaçao, I’m ushered backstage and swiftly led to a bulletproof car. Through the eyes of the robots, I see everyone else getting into other bulletproof cars.

  As we speed away from the presentation sites, I finally recover my wits enough to say dazedly inside the VR room, “Someone coordinated an attack on us.”

  Alan nods gravely. “There’s also an anomaly going on with our Ohio data centers. It might—”

  “You’re both focusing on the wrong thing,” Ada says hoarsely. Her punky avatar is sitting in the corner of the virtual room, her knees clasped tightly against her chest. “Don’t you remember? Mitya is dead.”

  I freeze, feeling like I’ve just been hit by a tsunami of ice. The heat of battle pushed Mitya’s fate out of my mind, but it’s all I can think about now. My chest is painfully tight, my heart like a block of lead inside my ribcage. Mitya’s avatar is still evaporating, one pixel at a time, and in desperation, I wonder whether Ada could be wrong.

  Maybe my best friend isn’t truly gone.

  Filled with sudden hope, I tap into satellite imagery and zoom in on Mitya’s position. As soon as I get a clear view of the blast site, though, I have no choice but to accept that Ada is right. Our smart bones are stronger than regular bones, and the Respirocytes in our bloodstreams allow us to go for a while without breathing, but none of these advantages could’ve helped Mitya. The pieces of charred human flesh around the stage leave no room for doubt.

  Not a single person on that stage could’ve survived.

  The pain is so intense it steals my breath away. I feel like I’m about to shatter. It’s too much, too overwhelming—the horrified faces that mirror mine in the VR room, the knowledge that I was too late to save my friend.

  That I’ll never see him again.

  Dragging in a shallow breath, I wrap my arms around my real-world body, and in VR, I create a separate room to be alone.

  The worst part about my pain is that Brainocytes allow us to manipulate what and how we feel. Ada has been experimenting with apps that expand her circle of empathy, as she calls it, so that she’s able to fully empathize with the suffering of non-humans. In this moment, I’m tempted to manipulate my experience in the opposite direction with an app that would make me numb. The only thing that stops me is knowing that if I feel numb after learning my friend is dead, I might as well be effectively dead myself.

  It quickly becomes clear that seclusion is not helping, so I do what I always do when I feel down: I invite Mr. Spock
into the room. The rat is now savvy enough with the VR interface that he has an avatar, a largish white rat that looks much fiercer than the real Mr. Spock. As soon as my furry companion runs up to me, I make my own avatar small enough that I can hug him to my chest like a teddy bear.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks in Zik. He and his kin now have the vocabularies of unenhanced four-year-olds. “Are you cold? Are you hungry?”

  I hug him tighter. I guess he can tell I’m not in a talkative mood, because he begins to brux, a behavior I’ve grown to find soothing.

  “Maybe we should have an unscheduled session?” asks the accented voice of Einstein’s shrink instantiation. True to his current role, the AI looks and sounds more like Freud than the famous physicist.

  “Maybe later,” I tell him grimly. “Let me be.”

  In the real world, Joe’s people move me from the bulletproof car into a helicopter. I go along without complaint.

  Being with Mr. Spock helps me get a grip on my chaotic emotions, and I return to the joint VR room. Ada’s avatar is quietly crying, so I approach her and pull her into my embrace, feeling awful for leaving, even if it was only for a brief time.

  Mitya might not have been her best friend, but she needs consolation as much as I do.

  As I hold her, gently stroking her back while I battle my own grief, I notice something strange. Mitya’s remaining pixels have stopped dissipating. In fact, they may be slowly regenerating. His avatar is re-solidifying, like the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland.

  I wait for a few moments to be sure, then clear my throat. “Guys, if Mitya is dead, what’s going on with his avatar?”

  “I don’t think of myself as dead,” says the reappearing avatar, and goosebumps spread all over my body as he continues. “I prefer to think of myself as facing some physical challenges—or whatever the current politically correct term is for an invalid. Think of me as an amputee who just happens to have lost every part of his body.”