Neural Web

by Dima Zales

  Battle Mode starts by highlighting the trajectories of all the nearby fists, bricks, crowbars, and booted feet in my Augmented Reality. It then overlays a ghostly outline for the various dodges and strikes I can make. Each offensive and defensive choice is based on my own brain regions and thus polished by countless hours of fighting Gogi, Joe, and the best sensei that money can buy.

  The tricky part, and the reason I choose not to use the Emotion Dampener add-on to Battle Mode, is that I don’t want to hurt these people too much. After all, they don’t pose any threat to my life. Ultimately, the only thing they’re guilty of is trying to damage some (albeit important) corporate property. I don’t even have evidence that they’re in league with the bombers, though it does seem likely.

  Before anyone gets a chance to blink, I choose Action Option 50 and allow the robot body to begin moving. As expected, a fist misses my head and crashes into the shoulder of a drunk behind me. A kick does land, but at such an angle that I feel only the barest vibration in the robot’s left side. The owner of the foot probably has a broken toe.

  “They’re ignoring all damage to their bodies.” Mitya’s frantic private thought echoes something that’s been gnawing at my awareness for a few seconds now. “Like the bombers, these idiots are utterly dedicated to their cause—or crazy.”

  “Not that there’s a difference,” Alan mutters.

  I don’t reply, because my robotic ears ring with the bang of a gunshot that comes as a complete surprise. I hadn’t registered anyone with a weapon when I scanned the crowd earlier.

  The bullet hits the right side of my metal head, and I’m grateful that I only feel a fraction of the pain I would’ve experienced if this happened to my real-world flesh. Still, it’s as bad as the sparring session last week when Jacob landed a hit on my jaw.

  Battle Mode gets help from Einstein when it comes to ballistic trajectories, and soon I have the location of the shooter highlighted in my view, as well as the movements I’ll need to take to reach him. I begin to execute the suggested maneuver, even at the cost of getting smacked by a nearby crowbar. The crowbar dents my robotic shoulder blade, but I manage to grab and crush the gun, along with the guy’s hand.

  Unfortunately, Battle Mode is only good at anticipating rational behavior. It cannot foresee the drunk with missing teeth who purposely drops under my feet while some assailant behind me tackles me with the intensity of a football player on cocaine. Both men will likely end up in the hospital after this, but they accomplish what they set out to do, because I begin to fall. Waving my metal arms reflexively, I manage to bring down two people along with me.

  The attackers savagely kick me, and though most of the kicks reach my metal body, some of them end up striking their fallen allies, presumably by mistake. Here again, these people are causing more damage to themselves than the robot (especially if you count all the toes they’re breaking right now).

  Someone lands a lucky kick that hits me in the joint of my metal neck with a loud clang. Emboldened by the sound, someone smashes a red brick against the same spot, and the diagnostics complain about structural damage.

  I struggle to get up, but a couple of heavyset men are hanging onto my robotic legs, so all I accomplish is a half roll on the ground. I use my arms to throw off some of the nearest attackers. I’m clearly beginning to forget about the desire not to hurt people over a robot, because my flailing breaks a dozen bones and dislocates a handful of shoulders.

  Undaunted by the damage I dish out, the drunks keep pounding away at me. They remind me of a starving man with a can of tuna but no can opener. Slowly and methodically, they begin to damage my metal body, undeterred by the cost to themselves. One insane man bites my camera, losing some teeth but loosening the sensor enough that the next man’s kick leaves me blind.

  It doesn’t take long to locate a security camera in a nearby liquor store, but all that viewpoint does is allow me to see the robot massacre continuing to unfold.

  “My robot is dead,” Mitya says. “Joe’s will soon be a goner also.”

  “Not much better on my end,” Muhomor complains.

  I remove my mind from what’s left of the robot body. “Same here.”

  I look through everyone’s views. Joe is the only one whose robot is still semi-functional, and that’s only because he wasn’t hesitating to kill the drunkards over it. Completely covered in blood and brain matter, his robot slips on gore and finally goes down. The drunks still alive proceed to beat the poor machine with the dismembered limbs of their comrades, proving without a doubt that they are at least as crazy as the people who were willing to blow themselves up earlier today.

  Two more waves of onslaught extinguish the last spark from Joe’s robot.

  When I get back to the VR room, Joe has broken the virtual glass table again, and no one has run the app to repair it because he looks like he’d break it again, possibly with his glare.

  I look at the grim faces one by one. “Seems like someone really doesn’t want us investigating in Russia.”

  “I wouldn’t rule out a group that hates technology.” Alan’s grown-up avatar seems smaller, almost frail. “The savagery they showed toward the robots smells like fanatics to me.”

  “We’ll soon have someone to talk to about that,” Joe says, his eyes such that I could swear his VR avatar is about to morph into a lizard.

  “This whole thing doesn’t make any sense,” Mitya says. “Those drunks out there wouldn’t have the resources to locate each of our robots on their own, no matter how much they hate machinery.”

  “Can we hire people who live in Russia to investigate?” I ask, looking warily at Joe. “Gogi has those Georgians.”

  “All dead.” Joe squeezes a fist so hard I expect blood to pour out of his palm. “All our Russian contacts are gone. And this”—he puts up an image of an explosion—“is what’s left of the Human++ Moscow office.”

  We stare at the ruins in silence. I have trouble processing the horror of it. There were at least a thousand employees in that Moscow building, including a dozen people I worked with on a weekly basis and a management team that I personally interviewed.

  I feel a bout of nausea in the real world, and frantically scan my physical body’s surroundings. Zapo X is pulling into my home building’s parking lot, and Gogi is staring at my green face with solemn determination. He’s clearly in the loop about the events, including the death of his Georgian comrades.

  I get Einstein to stop the car so I can open the door and make a mess of the otherwise spotless pavement. As I do so, I make a mental note to give a huge tip to the janitor.

  Feeling a modicum of relief, I close the door, resume the car’s parking progress, and speak both in VR and out loud. “We need to go on the defensive. I want Alan and Ada in that bunker we bought in New Jersey. I think all of us should stay there. We must also evacuate everyone in the Human++ buildings and send a mass email for everyone to work from home tomorrow.”

  Mitya and Muhomor nod, but Joe just stares.

  “Route the arriving planes to the airport nearest the bunker,” I say. “Joe, can you have your man in Ada’s plane wake her up so we can tell her what’s happening?”

  In the real world, Gogi frowns. “We’re not just going to run with our tails tucked between our legs.”

  “I’m not suggesting we stop the investigation,” I say. “Just that we take safety precautions, regroup—”

  “And then strike with everything we got,” Gogi and Joe say in unison, one in VR and the other in the car.

  We exit the car, and Gogi is herding me toward the stairs when a screech of tires echoes through the parking lot.

  My gun is in my hands before I make any conscious decision to take it out, and Gogi and I leap behind the nearest parked cars, prepared for battle.

  Chapter Twelve

  Before either of us gets a chance to shoot anything, I recognize the old-school (and now illegal) manual-drive Ford Mustang that must cost Joe a fortune in tickets and gas.
Once electricity became nearly free, oil production plummeted and prices skyrocketed, as expected for a luxury item.

  I lower my gun.

  Joe gets out, stalks toward his back seat, and grabs something there. I expect it to be many things, but not a small, curvy, and seemingly unconscious woman.

  “Who is that?” I ask in a stern tone I’ve never used on my cousin before. Reasonable scenarios, such as “drunk friend,” don’t even cross my mind.

  Joe ignores my question, strides to Zapo X, and deposits the woman inside. I find both the way he carries and puts her down creepily gentle, as if he’s afraid she might break prematurely.

  “According to facial recognition,” Ada says to me privately, “that’s Tatum Crawford. She’s a de facto leader of the Real Humans Only group.”

  “You’re awake.” I confirm what Ada said with my own facial recognition. Indeed, the round and highly symmetrical face belongs to the RHO leader.

  “Woke up to a nightmare,” Ada says. “They told me about Russia—and now this.”

  “I guess we now know why Joe went to the protest,” I reply telepathically. Out loud, I say, “Joe, I thought it was understood that Human++ is not in the kidnapping business.”

  He doesn’t deign to reply. Taking out a syringe, he rolls up the woman’s sleeve. After a barely perceptible hesitation, he pushes the needle into the exposed pale flesh, presses on the plunger, pulls the needle out, and closes the door. He then turns around and must issue a command to Einstein, because Zapo X’s back window rolls down.

  “Nice touch,” Ada says. “He doesn’t want his captive to suffocate.”

  “A real humanitarian.” I match her sarcasm in my telepathic undertones.

  “In his defense,” Gogi whispers when Joe is no longer within earshot, “these people are at the top of our suspect list, so talking to their leader might be just the thing we need.”

  “Joe,” I call out and head after him. “You can’t just pull something like this and say nothing.”

  “She’s just our guest,” he says when I catch him by the elevator. “If this has nothing to do with RHO, you can let her go.”

  I eye his security people guarding the elevator, but they show no sign of listening.

  Frustrated, I stab the elevator button. “It’s not that simple. She’ll press charges and crucify us in the news. Also, as soon as you let her wake up, she’ll use her Brainocytes to summon the authorities.”

  “Her Wikipedia page states that she doesn’t have Brainocytes,” Mitya says to everyone in VR. “Those RHOers are crazy.” When Ada focuses her displeasure on him, he adds, “Not that I approve of taking her captive, of course.”

  Joe’s icy stare makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. Maybe I overestimated how much conscience his brain boost granted him.

  “Hope you didn’t just convince him to kill the poor girl,” Ada privately states. Not for the first time, her telepathic message echoes my thoughts.

  “Let’s deal with one problem at a time,” I say more calmly as the doors to the penthouse open wide. “Getting our family to safety comes first.”

  “Mishen’ka!” Mom exclaims from the living room. “Dominic is saying something about a road trip to New Jersey.”

  “Hi, Dad.” Alan is right behind his grandmother, an unreadable expression on his tiny face. “I’m ready to go.”

  “Sir,” Dominic says telepathically after I hug my mom and son. He can speak through a special voice box in his exoskeleton, but he prefers mental communication. “Get whatever you need so we can head out.”

  Joe looks at his man approvingly. As per Dominic’s preference, I’m using Augmented Reality to overlay his real-world face with a virtual avatar that looks exactly as he would have if not for explosion. The avatar’s noble features look worried—and if Dominic is worried, we mere mortals should be peeing our pants.

  “What about Uncle Abe?” I ask Joe as I look around for anything I should take with me.

  “We’ll pick him up on the way.” Joe moves to the large safe where he and his people stash weapons and begins openly unloading a large arsenal of guns and rifles.

  Mom eyes me questioningly, so I give her a simplified rundown of the situation, downplaying the danger as much as I can. Mom’s blood pressure has been a real issue lately.

  “It’s mostly a precaution,” I finish. “I prefer to think of this as a fire drill. This way, we’ll know what to do in case of a real emergency.”

  “What about Mom?” Alan asks telepathically, mindful not to worry his grandma.

  “Still flying back, but when she lands, I’ll be there to pick her up,” I reply.

  “Can we bring the rats with us?” he asks, still telepathically.

  “Of course.” I give him a real-world wink. “Just make sure your grandmother doesn’t see them.”

  Alan asks Dominic to help him “with something,” and they head to the eighth bedroom in the penthouse, also known as the Rat Room—a room my mom likes to pretend doesn’t exist, since Mr. Spock and his kin have made it their home.

  It takes me only a minute to get ready. It’s amazing how few physical possessions a person needs once they have Brainocytes in their heads. For another ten minutes, I gather all the stuff Ada requests, even though I’m ninety-percent sure our personal assistants have already gotten these items for the bunker—even Ada’s high-powered blender that I nicknamed “The Chainsaw.”

  The most urgent tasks complete, I walk the hallways Ada and I jointly decorated. The ultramodern design, with all the blues and grays and the smart home devices at every turn, feels like home. Thanks to the million sensors spread around the place, “feels like home” takes on a new meaning for me because I can literally feel the apartment when it comes to temperature, lighting, water and chemical levels in the indoor pool, the contents of the fridge, and even how much dust is on the floor. I hope we don’t have to stay in the bunker too long, because I’ll miss this place.

  “Hi, friend,” Mr. Spock says in Zik as he scurries up my body into my pocket. “Can I ride on you?”

  “Most would ask before diving for my pocket,” I tease. “But of course you can.”

  Mr. Spock rewards me by bruxing, then gives me an update on where his family is hiding from Mom.

  The trip downstairs is quick. After I get Alan into the car, I hold the door open for my mom.

  “Who is this girl?” she asks as I take what would be a driver’s seat, if this car needed one. “Is she okay?”

  I give Joe a narrow-eyed look. When he ignores the question, I say, “She’s Joe’s friend, Mom. She’s just napping after a red-eye flight.”

  “Hmm.” Mom looks over Tatum Crawford’s plump, petite frame. “Josya’s friend.” She looks like she’s tasting the idea. “She’s pretty.”

  I debate correcting her but decide there’s no harm if she thinks Tatum is Joe’s girlfriend. That implies two nice fantasies: that Tatum isn’t kidnapped, and that Joe is capable of feelings that lead to having girlfriends.

  “In the Caucasus Mountains, where our friend Gogi is from,” Mitya says in the VR room, “they have a famous but barbaric custom of kidnapping brides—”

  I don’t find out the punchline, because my attention ricochets back to the real world as the sensors in the penthouse scream in the smart-device equivalent of horrific pain. The roar of destroyed door sensors quickly follows the screeching of malfunctioning appliances, and sparks blind every camera.

  It’s an explosion—one that shakes the building with such intensity the car alarms in the parking lot start blaring.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Not being in the building, we’re alive, so I capitalize on this small bit of luck and bring up the most up-to-date version of the Batmobile app to steal control of Zapo X from Einstein. The tires squeal as the heavily customized limo catapults onto the Manhattan street.

  Taking over one of the myriad delivery drones flying around, I assess the damage and immediately wish I didn’t. As I feare
d, the explosion came from the penthouse. The place is totaled. Our extra-thick, hurricane-proof windows are raining down on the street in tiny shards.

  People on the street are gawking at the flames, their faces pale. Many New Yorkers, including myself, get unpleasant flashbacks when an explosion happens in a high-rise building.

  Mom’s voice quivers. “At least we all got out in time.” She puts a shaking hand on my shoulder, as though I’m the one who needs consoling.

  “Yeah, Dad,” Alan says, nodding at her words. “We can replace material stuff.”

  His words reassure me that he’s okay—child or not, my son is more mature than many adults—so I push aside my shock and telepathically reach out to Ada. “How are you?”

  She opts to show up as an AU avatar next to Alan, her eyes suspiciously puffy. “Intellectually, I understand that it’s just stuff. But I still feel like I just lost a piece of myself.”

  I swerve onto Lexington Street as we ride in silence.

  After I recruit a couple more delivery drones as air support, I notice that everyone in the car is privately asking me to check out the news, so I do. The media is already obsessing about the Midtown explosion, as they’re calling it.

  “My inbox and voicemail are filling up with questions from the government and the media,” Mitya complains.

  I check and realize the same is happening to me.

  “We don’t know if we can trust the authorities,” Joe says. “Don’t tell anyone where we are and especially where we’re going.”

  “In that case, I wouldn’t even take calls or open emails,” Muhomor chimes in. “We don’t know how sophisticated our adversary is.”

  I turn onto the West Side Highway and speed up. By the time I reach the tunnel, I’ve earned a couple of thousand dollars in speeding fines, not to mention several tickets for manually overriding the navigation system. Despite being hosted in our data centers, Einstein squealed on me just as he would on any other driver.