by Dima Zales
Olga points at an image, and in a gesture of uncharacteristic thoughtfulness, Joe turns it my way.
“That’s the guy I saw,” I say, disguising my voice again.
“Okay,” he says to the woman. “Are you sure you don’t know anything else? If I find out you do, if I think you lied to me, I’ll come back and—”
“I told you everything,” Olga whimpers. “I swear on my mother’s health.”
She rambles some more until Joe stomps on Grisha’s leg, causing a loud crunch, and says, “Shut the fuck up.”
Olga stops talking, and the silence is broken only by the man’s ragged breathing from the floor.
“If you speak to the cops, everyone you know dies,” my cousin says with as much emotion as someone complimenting her kitchen. “I’ll start with him.” He gives Grisha another kick.
Tears stream down Olga’s face, but she keeps quiet and simply nods.
Satisfied, Joe steps over the broken body and looms over the phone. Then his palm gets huge, which I take to mean he grabbed the phone. He walks out of the apartment, and the screen shows blurry movements for a while.
The glimpses I get of the building’s hallways and windows have a distinct grayness about them. That, combined with Olga’s nationality, screams to me “somewhere on Brighton Beach.”
My nausea makes a comeback and not just because I’m seeing the world spinning on the screen.
Taking in deep breaths, I unpeel my eyes from the phone and glance at Ada. She’s still wearing her headphones and clicking away as though nothing’s happened.
I turn off the video on my side so Joe doesn’t spot Ada and say, “Joe, you realize I’m still on the line?”
My cousin stops walking and says, “Looks like that was a dead end.”
I resist the urge to yell, “It almost literally turned into a dead end, you maniac.” Instead, I say, “Not really. The fact that they paid for information supports our earlier suspicion that they want the technology. I was actually about to call you with an update of my own.”
In the heavy silence that follows, I tell Joe what I know so far and finish with our airport findings.
“A private airport.” He grunts. “They have money. I don’t like the sound of this at all. Do you know who owns that place?”
“No.”
“Fine. I need to talk to a few people. I’ll call you back. Let me know if you find out where they flew to.”
“Okay, I will,” I say. “But before you go, can you email me the pictures you showed Olga? The ones with the kidnappers?”
“Sure,” my cousin says and hangs up without so much as a goodbye.
Chapter Sixteen
I put my elbows on my knees, cradle my head in my hands, and wait until my breathing evens out.
This is exactly what I needed on top of everything else, to become an accessory to a crime. The righteous part of me wants to call the cops, but a more practical part vetoes that idea. First, if Joe found out—which is likely—he wouldn’t hesitate to do something worse to me than what he did to that poor schmuck. Second, rightly or wrongly, Joe had good intentions, or at least intentions that will benefit my mom, and Olga certainly wasn’t innocent in this mess. Plus, Grisha looked like he could’ve kicked Joe’s ass, so that makes the beating somewhat defensive. Of course, the latter rationale is more of a rationalization, since self-preservation is more than enough to persuade me against ratting on Joe.
I briefly wonder if I should at least call an ambulance anonymously, but then I remember I don’t even know where to send help. Olga can call 911 herself. Plus, since she’s a nurse, she can give Grisha first aid if he needs it.
My conscience more or less appeased, I check my phone for the kidnappers’ images and find that my cousin came through. I recognize the pictures from earlier, particularly Anton’s, the guy who attacked me. Encouraged, I call Mitya and give him the rundown—minus Joe’s interrogation of the nurse.
“So I can stand down?” Mitya’s desk is filled with unopened bottles of Red Bull, bags of Cheetos, and a jar of green M&Ms, reminding me of our MIT days. “Sounds like you don’t need the Brainocytes’ privacy bypassed anymore.”
“Yeah, that’s the main reason I called,” I say. “I didn’t want you pulling an unnecessary all-nighter.”
“I appreciate it,” Mitya says. “Let me know if there’s something I can do.”
“Is that Mitya?” Ada asks from her desk, pulling off her headphones.
“Yep,” I reply. “I was about to let him go.”
“Wait a minute.” She walks over, kneels next to me, and leans in close so the phone camera can see her. “Hi, Mitya. I need a favor.”
“What’s up?” Mitya clearly noticed Ada’s proximity to me, and I can see he’s itching to say something, so I surreptitiously show him my fist while pretending to rub my chin. He notices, winks, and just says, “What can I do for you, Ada?”
“You know the brain simulations we run on your STRELA servers?”
Strela means arrow in Russian, though I believe Mitya has a clever acronym behind it. Next to his personal time, the STRELA servers is the most generous resource he provides to the Brainocyte project. As of last year, this stupendous hardware topped the list of most powerful supercomputers in the world—or it would have if Mitya had disclosed the exact specs to anyone, which he hasn’t. However, he did hint that it’s multiple orders of magnitude more powerful than China’s famous Tianhe-2, and that behemoth can do a whopping 33.86 petaflops. The plan is to use STRELA to run brain simulations that will allow Brainocytes to make the rest of the brain think the damaged tissue is up and running. It’s at the core of Mom’s later treatment.
“Yeah,” Mitya says, his eyes glinting curiously. “Pricey buggers. What about them?”
“Can you double our allotment?” Ada asks.
“Mind if I ask why?” Mitya pushes up his glasses, and I know that means he’s excited.
“Would you not do it if I refused to tell you?” Ada tenses up next to me.
“I’ll do it since it’s to help Mike,” Mitya says. “But if you don’t tell me why, I’ll be pretty disappointed.”
“I want Mike to hear the reason why first,” Ada says. “Then, when things calm down a bit, I promise I’ll explain, especially if you promise to keep quiet about it.”
“Mike knows I can keep a secret,” Mitya says. “Regarding more STRELA resources, consider it done.” He grabs a handful of M&Ms, chews noisily, and adds, “Because it’s already done. My old mentor at MIT gave up his research with their neuroscience department about a week ago, and since that was the only thing sharing your STRELA servers, those cycles are yours in one, two…” He starts typing on his computer—way too long for a three count, if you ask me—and finishes with, “Now.”
“Sneaky.” Ada’s shoulders relax. “But thank you anyway.”
“Yeah, thanks, dude,” I say, pretending I’m not completely clueless about the reason for Ada’s request. “I owe you big.”
“We’ll continue this conversation when I see you in person,” Mitya says. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to jump into my limo and read the thousand emails that have piled up thanks to you.”
“Wait, what do you mean in person?” I nearly shout, trying to catch him before he signs off.
“Oh, I’ve had my private jet prepped, and my driver is on standby. In less than ten hours, I’ll be in NYC.”
“I really appreciate your help, but it’s too much. You’re—”
“Your best friend, and I didn’t say I was flying out just to help you,” Mitya says. “There’s some business I need to take care of on the East Coast, and I want to visit Gramps, so don’t worry about it.”
“Still. Seriously, thank you,” I say. “Is it possible to reach you in your jet?”
“I had to spend a quarter mil, but I now have Gogo’s Wi-Fi on my plane.” He gives us a smug grin. “And even if I didn’t, didn’t I show you this?” He takes out a clunky satellite phone an
d dangles it by its long antenna.
He didn’t, and he knows it. When it comes to gadgets, Mitya loves showing off.
“Happy flight,” I say, translating the traditional Russian farewell for Ada’s benefit. “I owe you so big I don’t even know where to start.”
“I’ll take your Tales of Suspense #39 and call it even,” Mitya says. “Or your Kamakura katana.”
“They’re both yours,” I say without hesitation.
“You know I’d help without any rewards,” Mitya says, his tone turning unusually ceremonial.
“Of course. I know that,” I say.
“Oh, and there’s actually something Ada can do for me when I arrive,” he says, his voice back to normal.
Jealousy floods me in a kind of “protect Ada’s honor” alpha maleness that makes me want to reach through the phone and flick my friend on the nose.
“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Mitya says when he sees my expression. “I mean she can give me the Brainocytes too. That lady who died, her backups are now useless, so…”
I feel a slight pang of disappointment. He really meant it when he said he’s not just coming here on my behalf. This is probably what he wants most out of the trip. I should’ve guessed. With Mitya, everything he does has layers of benefit for him, but—and this is key—also for the people close to him, which includes me.
“We’ll discuss that when you get here,” Ada says evenly.
“Sounds good,” Mitya says. “You should know that I already figured out why you want those extra STRELA servers. If it’s for what I think it is, did you know I have more where those came from? In a matter of months, I can do better than double those resources; I can put a couple of zeroes behind what you have today.”
Ada’s eyes shine so brightly with avarice I bet Mitya can see it through the phone. She’d make a terrible poker player.
“It sounds like we do have things to discuss,” she says, her voice betraying her almost as much as her eyes.
“We sure do,” Mitya says and signs off.
I look at Ada, who only now realizes how close she is to me. Or I assume that’s what happens, because she jumps to her feet and returns to her chair.
“That Tales of Suspense is when Iron Man first shows up in the comics, and it’s in pristine condition,” I explain. “And that katana is from the thirteenth century.”
“I knew all that, except for the condition of the comic,” Ada says, and I’m not sure whether she’s boasting.
“Anyway,” I say. “Let’s get back to the reminder app.”
“Right, that,” Ada says. “To make my life easier, I’ll give you a different build of AROS that will, among other things, include that app. Afterwards, we’ll talk.”
Before I can reply, she clicks Enter and I feel that slight “disturbance in the Force” that happens every time she reloads the software in my head.
More icons fill the room. In the middle of it all is the same sphere.
“Load it.” Ada gets up and hands me the Xbox controller again.
I do as she says and tell her, “Nothing happened.”
“And nothing will happen until your mom connects to a cell tower or a Wi-Fi hotspot,” Ada says. “Once she does, not only will you get an alert, but so will I.”
“Good. Is it loud enough to wake us up?”
“Oh yeah,” Ada says mischievously. “It won’t be easy to ignore, I assure you.”
“Okay,” I say. “Now tell me whatever it is you’ve been teasing me about.”
Worry replaces the mischief on her face. “You must be hungry,” she says. “Let’s talk in the kitchen. You can press the A button to dismiss the icons.”
I press A, and all the AROS images go away. When I get up, my legs and body want to scream, but I don’t let Ada see it. She leads the way, and I scramble after her into the modern-artsy kitchen.
“You can sit there.” She points at the metallic barstool.
After I sit, I tell her, “I’m still not that hungry.”
“I have something very light in mind,” she says. “Banana ice cream. You’ll love it.”
I raise my eyebrows at the idea of ice cream being light, especially for a health-obsessed vegan like Ada, but I don’t say anything. I’m determined not to get sidetracked from whatever secret she’s been building up to.
Ada goes to the freezer and takes out a plastic-wrapped packet filled with frozen, peeled bananas. The freezer is actually chock-full of these, making me wonder if she has a monkey living in her apartment somewhere. Ada takes out four bananas, walks up to a big blender, and puts them in. Before I can object, she starts the machine, and its roar sounds like it has either a chainsaw or a Harley Davidson motor inside. My brain tries to jump out of my skull, and I cover my ears as tightly as possible.
The noise stops, and Ada worriedly says, “I’m so sorry. Your concussion—I didn’t think. Are you okay?”
“Sure.” I cautiously let go of my ears, though they’re still pulsing in pain. “Please don’t do that again, or at least not for a couple of years.”
“Sure,” she says. “I don’t know if it’ll be worth the literal headache, but here you go.” She scoops two-thirds of the smoothly blended banana into a pretty bowl. It looks a lot like ice cream, and I reach in with my finger, curious to taste it.
“Wait,” she says and rummages through a cupboard. She pulls out a bag of mixed nuts and sprinkles them over the ice cream.
Before I can use my finger again, Ada places fancy spoons into our bowls and nods approvingly.
I taste the dish. The texture is spot on, but I’m not sure I’d go so far as calling it ice cream in terms of taste. Then again, it could easily pass for some kind of gourmet banana-flavored gelato, and given the simplicity and healthiness of the recipe, that’s pretty impressive.
When she looks at me questioningly, I say, “It’s yummy, but I think you’ve danced around the subject you’re hiding long enough.”
“All right.” She licks her spoon nervously. “I’ll just come out and say it.” There’s a long pause, and then she solemnly says, “I have Brainocytes in my head.”
I nearly choke on a walnut, cough, and then stare at her, unable to shake off my incredulity. Of all the things I expected to hear, this wasn’t on the list. In all honesty, some part of me was hoping she knew something about the kidnapping and was about to tell me Mom was safe and sound. I guess I’m kind of single-minded that way.
Clearing my throat, I put my spoon down and ask, “How? Why?”
“Early on, during primate testing, I stashed a prototype set before we added all the ID security stuff to them.” Ada looks down at her quickly melting ice cream. “I guess that makes me an embezzler. I used my position to—”
“Look, Ada,” I interrupt. “If you’re feeling bad about this, you shouldn’t. I don’t care about the costs. I’m one of the primary investors, so whatever you took, it was mainly my money. But if you wanted Brainocytes, all you had to do was talk to me.”
She looks at me, her eyes glinting with hope despite the suspicious moisture there. “I was impatient, and I didn’t think anyone would understand.”
“So you put hardware that was meant for a chimp inside your head?” I chance another small spoonful of dessert.
“Aside from security, the Brainocytes haven’t changed since then,” Ada says with a sigh.
Epiphanies explode in my head, and I say, “So that’s why you kept insisting how safe the treatment is.” I rub the bridge of my nose. “You already went through it.”
“It’s also where all these advanced apps and the custom OS for the Brainocytes came from,” she says. “Or did you think what I gave you was just meant for your mom?”
“I wouldn’t know the difference,” I say, but realize that it does explain why her home office is set up better than the one at Techno. “When exactly did this happen?”
“A few months back, right before Kathy broke things off with you. The timing was poor.” She look
s at my bowl and says, “It’s melting.”
I shove a couple of spoonfuls of ice cream into my mouth and ignore the resulting brain freeze. So this is why Ada was acting so strangely around me. I was wrong when I thought it was because she was wary about me asking her out; it must’ve been her guilt about the Brainocytes. I swallow the pulverized banana and say, “Okay, I guess I get the how part, and I can probably guess the why, but I want to hear you say it.”
“That part’s simple.” Ada looks at me steadily, almost challengingly. “I did it for the same reason Mitya is helping us, for the same unspoken reason everyone at Techno is working on this technology. I simply didn’t want to wait.” She takes a deep breath. “I did it so I can transcend being human.”
Chapter Seventeen
Maybe I expected Ada to use slightly less pompous verbiage, but I did suspect that transhumanism was behind it all.
“Can you be more specific?” I scrape the bottom of the bowl for the last bit of ice cream. “What exactly did you do to yourself?”
“Well, for starters, I can almost seamlessly do anything that usually requires a computer with just my mind, at nearly the speed of thought,” she says. “They say a modern cellphone allows its owner to have access to more information on the internet than President Clinton had during his presidency. My abilities are those of this modern cellphone owner, only taken much further. I can do advanced calculations, access Wikipedia, and Google any question, all in my head. You get the idea?”
The implications are truly incredible, but I put all that aside and say, “Okay, it’s not that far removed from Phase Three, which Mom and the others were about to get.”
“True. Working on my own, I never really went far beyond what we were going to do for your mom. I just expanded on it,” Ada says. “But it was enough of a starting point. Mind-computing access aside, when you combine our brain region simulations with a healthy brain, you get a boost in intelligence, and not the metaphorical kind based on apps like I was just talking about. A much more literal one. You know, the topic JC never likes to talk about.”