by Dima Zales
“Having done neither of those drugs, I’ll take your word for it.” The nagging aches throughout my body and my overall tiredness make it hard to hide the hint of irritation in my voice as I add, “But this would’ve been great information to have before I enabled this thing in my brain.”
“I didn’t think it would matter.” Ada takes a tiny step back. “It went away for me, and you can disable the whole thing at any moment.”
I instantly feel bad for putting her on the defensive. “Sorry if that sounded accusatory.” I blow out a breath. “I’ve had a long day.”
“It’s not a problem,” she says, though I can tell she’s still miffed.
“How can I make this process go smoother?” I ask, knowing that letting Ada geek out might improve her mood.
I was spot on with my question. Her bad mood forgotten, Ada rattles out, “My advice is to put a load on your brain. The bigger, the better. Double your reading material, check out those startup financials or whatever it is you do as a venture capitalist. Try your hand at programming again. You can create your own apps that’ll run inside your head, and my IDE will make coding easy, even for a noob like you. At the very least, use games like Brain Age; they stimulate all sorts of brain regions and help you see your progress as you go. My Brain Age is nine, which is very good. Take IQ tests or the SATs and the GRE test repeatedly, and you’ll see daily gains, for whatever that’s worth. In general, any new intellectual pursuit is a good idea.”
“Got it. I’d say I’m covered for a while, since just playing with this new toy in my head should keep my brain stimulated on multiple levels.”
“You’re one hundred percent right,” Ada says. “To that end, I advise you to start getting rid of your reliance on the keyboard and controller.”
“Sure,” I say. “What do I do?”
Ada sets things up for me to learn how to use my mind instead of the keyboard. The protocol is identical to what the people in the study were doing yesterday, but because I can type around a hundred words per minute, the process is quicker and easier for me. I start by typing out predetermined text while the Brainocytes keep an eye on what happens in my brain. Afterwards, using the same text, I mime typing in the air, and the Brainocytes report to Ada an extremely high degree of correlation between “real” and “mimed” typing. I progress to needing less and less physical involvement and eventually just mentally pretend to type. Again, the Brainocytes prove something neuroscience has known for a while: many regions of the brain that activate during regular typing still activate when I mentally type. It’s a lot like how athletes can mentally run through their exercises and achieve actual gains.
When I can type by thought alone, I picture what this aspect of the technology will do for people with disabilities and swell with pride at being a small part of it.
Dealing with the controller is even easier since I’m more proficient at video games than I am at typing. Ada isn’t surprised and jokes that our generation of gamers might actually have a large portion of our brain dedicated to video game controllers.
“You know, it’s possible,” I say and mentally bring up the email app. “I read about neuroscience experiments that found the brains of pianists were noticeably different from the average person’s.”
“Anything you do changes your brain.” Ada yawns the most contagious yawn ever and adds, “But yeah, very absorbing and challenging activities have an even bigger impact, and video games can certainly be that.”
Unable to suppress my retaliatory yawn, I use the email client window hovering in front of my face to mentally type out an email to Ada, writing, “So is this that technologically enabled telepathy you spoke about?”
She looks distant for a moment, then gives me the widest grin I’ve ever seen.
In utter silence, I hear a ding in my head and check my email, finding an email response from Ada that says, “Exactly.”
“The only issue is that the NSA can, in this case, intercept our thoughts,” I joke out loud.
“Sure, having part of your thinking in the cloud could indeed expose your private thoughts to the NSA. That’s a potential worry if you’re the paranoid type,” Ada says. “I say we can cross that bridge later, probably by using heavier encryption.”
A text message arrives in my head in the form of a jumping green sphere with a little text balloon icon next to it. I mentally click on it, and the message reads, “I prefer using texting for telepathy rather than email, if you don’t mind.”
I notice Ada sometimes closes her eyes when she works with her version of AROS. For some reason, that makes her look even cuter, which I didn’t think was possible.
Closing my eyes is a great idea, so I do it as I play with my mental apps for a few minutes. What I end up experiencing is icons hanging in the darkness without the distraction of the surrounding room. It’s definitely a good way to use the system, but having my eyes closed has one big flaw: I instantly feel the weight of the crazy day press against my eyelids, and another yawn creeps up on me.
“Okay, I’ll take that as a hint that you want to go to sleep,” Ada says through yet another yawn. “I can’t blame you.”
“Let me call a cab,” I say, opening my eyes and glancing around uncomfortably.
“Nonsense,” Ada says. “You should stay here.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to impose on you.”
I’m deathly tired, so I was actually fishing for her to extend this exact offer, but now that she has, I find myself wondering what it means, if anything. Besides, where would I sleep? Her apartment is big, but—
“There’s a couch in the library room,” Ada says, and for a moment, I get the creepy feeling that the Brainocytes somehow let her glimpse my private thoughts.
“That’ll work,” I say, perhaps a tad too quickly. “Thank you.”
The adrenaline that was covering up the pain from my injuries must be fully out of my system, because my shoulder’s killing me and my legs feel so wooden I can barely stand. I contemplate taking pain pills but decide that might make me miss the alarm Ada set up for Mom’s locator app. I just hope I can fall asleep as is.
“Alternatively, you can take my bed and I’ll take the couch,” Ada says, playing the role of mind reader once more.
“No.” I step toward her. “I can’t let you do that. I’ll take the couch.”
“I fall asleep on it with a book all the time,” Ada says, looking up at me. “You’re what, six-one, six-two? You probably won’t even fit on the couch without having to fold your legs under you.”
“Can you show it to me?” I shift from foot to foot. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”
She leads me into the library, and I realize she might’ve actually downplayed how unsuitable this sleeping arrangement is. The so-called couch is a glorified loveseat. Even with her barely above five-foot petite frame, she might feel cramped on it.
“It’s fine,” I fib and try to hide my disappointment by looking at the rows of books in the room. The subject matter varies greatly. There’s a big philosophy of science tome on the shelf to my right, and adjacent to it are a bunch of science fiction novels that I’ve either read or always meant to. A row of computer science books sits below that. Sadly, I’ve read these or similar ones before. I have a flashback to the college years I’ll never get back as I glimpse exciting titles like Design and Analysis of Algorithms and Data Structures and Other Objects. I chuckle when I spot the Introduction to Ada textbook, a volume that teaches Ada’s namesake’s programming language—not how to pick her up.
Ada doesn’t buy my lie or my avoidance strategy of looking at her books. She waits until I catch her gaze and softly says, “Neither of us has to sleep on this torture device if you promise to be a gentleman.”
Stunned, I notice her eyes are the same translucent smoky brown as the thousand-dollar cognac bottle I have sitting in my bar at home. I stare into them for a few moments before I remember she’s waiting for a coherent response. “I can pretend to
be a gentleman, sure.”
She smiles, steps closer, and brushes the backs of her fingers over the extra swollen side of my face. “You poor thing.”
I catch her hand and hold it. It’s small in my hand and almost painfully warm against my battered face.
Ada waits a couple of beats, then steps out of my reach, pulling her hand away. “Let me use the shower first. I’ll put some towels out for you,” she says. “Do you want to wait here or go to the lab?”
“I’ll wait here,” I say, gesturing at the couch.
Ada leaves, and I take a seat, my world whirling from that brief touch.
As the pleasant haze of excitement fades, I feel all the aches and pains of the day again. It’s as if I’m one hundred and seventy. Closing my eyes, I call up the AROS interface and use the apps I didn’t get a chance to fully examine. When I tire of the apps, I set the alarm app to make sure I don’t oversleep tomorrow and dismiss the interface.
Before I can open my eyes, I feel something moving on my leg, followed by a crawling sensation on my shirt, followed by a sudden stop and a small pressure on my chest.
Something just scurried up my body.
“What the—?” I exclaim in panic and open my eyes.
A giant pair of creepy pink eyes are staring me down.
And they look hungry.
Chapter Nineteen
Okay, so on second thought, the eyes aren’t giant. They’re actually pretty beady, and they’re not that creepy either, just those of an albino.
A white lab rat is sitting on my chest. Upon closer inspection, besides hunger, I also notice a glimmer of intellect in its gaze, though maybe that’s just my jittery imagination.
“Mr. Spock,” Ada says sternly from the doorway. “How many times have I told you to be mindful of my guests?”
The rat looks at Ada, then back at me, its eyes seeming to say, “I can read your thoughts, Mike, and I’m warning you, here and now, don’t try any funny business.”
Ada scoffs at Mr. Spock and comes toward me.
I ignore the rat long enough to notice what Ada is wearing, or more specifically, what she isn’t wearing, which is pretty much anything other than a large towel. The towel is wrapped midway around her chest, and her breasts are perkier and lovelier than I imagined—and my imagination has worked overtime in this area. Even more interesting is the fact that the towel only extends a few inches past her bikini area.
I suddenly feel like I’m in a banya—a steam bathhouse Russians like to visit in winter. It’s as if the temperature in the room just tripled.
Seemingly oblivious to my reaction, Ada gently takes the rat off my chest, and I glimpse even more of her flesh. To avoid breaking my promise about being a gentleman, I try not to gawk as she walks away. Still, I’m only human, and I can’t help noticing her shapely legs and the dancer-like muscles of her back. I also spot a brightly colored tattoo on her shoulder.
“Let me feed you, my furry troublemaker,” Ada says to the rat in a voice people usually reserve for babies or dogs. In a normal, or perhaps slightly playful tone, she tells me, “Come if you want to watch.”
I’d watch her do her accounting, knit, or perform any other boring activity as long as she was wearing that outfit. I get up, suddenly feeling spryer, and follow her into the kitchen.
Putting her little charge on the floor, Ada reaches into a drawer and pulls out a box.
“These are lab blocks,” she says, forestalling my question, and gives the box a shake.
I hear the scurry of many little feet on the floor as Ada takes out some blueberries and spinach from the fridge.
She pours the brown pellets from the box onto six teacup saucers and then adds a little fruit and veg. Each plate is instantly taken over by a white lab rat.
As I watch them eat, I notice the rats’ fur isn’t perfectly white. Someone, probably Ada, added colorful streaks on top, like a Mohawk. There’s a green-streaked rat and a blue one, while Mr. Spock’s streak is a very un-mister-like pink, though I guess the color does match his eyes.
“That’s Kirk, McCoy, Uhura, and Scotty.” Ada points at each rat. “That there is Chekov, and I bet if he could speak, his accent would be stronger than your uncle’s.”
“That’s kind of racist, specist, and maybe ratist.” I snicker, then add seriously, “They all had Brainocytes in their heads?”
“Not had. They still have them,” Ada says and pours water into a big bowl. “It’s all still up and running. Why do you think my babies are so smart?”
I examine the rat crew with renewed interest. When developing Brainocytes, Techno initially experimented on so-called brainbow rats—rats that were genetically modified to have a spectrum of florescent colors added to their neural cells, making them ideal for study under a confocal microscope. To see real-life versions of these famous critters, plus ones with a brain boost to boot, is a big surprise. It also makes me wonder if maybe I didn’t imagine the intelligence I saw in Mr. Spock’s eyes. Maybe he took better advantage of his rat version of the intelligence boost than I did.
“Can I pet him?” I ask, looking at the pink-streaked rat.
“He’d love that,” Ada says. “But not while he’s eating.”
As though on cue, Mr. Spock stops eating, drinks from the water bowl, and scurries over, giving me an uncannily cat-like stare that seems to say, “I’ll tolerate you, mortal.”
I gingerly reach out and rub the fur. Spock graciously allows it, or at least he doesn’t bite me, which I think is the rodent equivalent.
I guess I never inherited my mom’s deep-seated fear of rats. Quite the opposite, I find this little encounter kind of soothing, and I wonder if rats can be employed as some sort of pet therapy. Then again, given the day I’ve had, it wouldn’t take much to lower my blood pressure.
“Where’s the shower?” I ask softly, afraid I’ll spook Mr. Spock.
“I’ll show you,” Ada says and leads me down the corridor, past her office, and to the bathroom all the way at the end.
Since I’m still trying to be a gentleman, I primarily study Ada’s tattoo as we walk. Unfortunately, I have to give up and look elsewhere, because the towel is hiding most of it.
“You can use those towels and wear those boxers once you’re done.” Ada points at the pile of fluffy towels and the pair of purple shorts.
“Where did you get those?” I ask cautiously. I don’t want to come across as ungrateful, but if they belonged to her ex-boyfriend, there’s no way I’m wearing them.
“I like sleeping in boxers,” Ada says, and I worry I might start drooling at the image. “They’re clean, and I don’t have cooties.”
“I definitely didn’t mean to imply you have cooties.”
The Enterprise crew in the kitchen might have something worse, but I don’t mention that.
“Do you need help?” Ada asks, her expression unreadable. “With all your injuries, is it hard to undress?”
“I should be fine,” I say quickly. Inhaling a breath, I discreetly swallow and add, “Thank you.”
She nods toward the kitchen. “I’ll go hang out with the gang. See you in a few.”
“One moment,” I say, and Ada stops in the doorway.
“What’s your tattoo supposed to be?” I ask, and maybe it’s my imagination, but I think I see slight disappointment flit across Ada’s delicate features. Maybe she hoped I’d ask for her help undressing?
“It’s the donkey and the dragon,” Ada says. “I got it after watching Shrek. It’s also why I never mix pot with alcohol anymore.”
She turns around and lowers the towel just enough for me to get a good look at the ink. Now that she told me what it is, the big pinkish-purple head and the small creature next to it make perfect sense.
Then I realize something else, and a nervous chuckle accidentally escapes me.
The towel goes back up, and Ada gives me a stern look. “Are you laughing at me?”
“No,” I say, but a new bout of laughter is on the tip o
f my tongue, itching to escape. “Don’t you see what this makes you?” I gesture at her short haircut, which isn’t sticking up as usual since it’s wet. Then I mime typing on a keyboard.
“No.” She narrows her eyes at me. “What does it make me?”
“The girl with a dragon tattoo,” I say, grinning.
“You’re clearly tired,” Ada says, but her sneaky Mona Lisa smile touches the corners of her eyes again. “Shower so we can go to sleep.”
She closes the door behind her, and I hear her chuckling down the hall.
Taking off my clothes is painful, but I manage it. Maybe I should’ve said yes to her offer.
The shower only hurts where my shoulder is stitched up, but the pain’s tolerable. It might not have hurt at all if Ada had helped me get soaped up—assuming that was even on the table. I decide that the coconut shampoo is Ada’s trademark scent, so I opt to wash my hair with baby soap instead.
After I finish and towel off, I put on the boxers. They’re snug, and I wonder if that means Ada and I have approximately the same butt size. Given our height and weight differences, I figure my heinie is proportionally small, which is manly, while hers is rather curvy, which is awesome. I wisely decide not to discuss this with Ada, especially since I’m in her apartment and she could unleash her rats on me, like that Willard guy from the old horror movie.
Ada meets me outside her room, wearing comfy-looking PJs. Part of me hoped she’d decide to sleep in a pair of boxers, but I can respect her more conservative choice. Besides, it might help me be a gentleman as promised.
Her bedroom is dark, but I can still make out the stripper pole by the closet. I fight the urge to rub my eyes as they widen at the mental images of Ada using that thing.