Human++

by Dima Zales

  What she said is not only a record amount of information about my father, but also a record amount of cursing. If I were to sum up what Mom has told me about my father throughout the years, it would boil down to him not being a good man and me being better off without him. My grandparents used more colorful language to describe him, but the overall gist was the same. Of course, I’m only human, so sometimes I did wonder about the man, especially when I was younger. As I grew up, I thought about him less and less, to the point where, as I now realize, I never even bothered Googling his name, even though it’s something I routinely do with mere acquaintances.

  “I can’t believe I share DNA with him,” I say, nauseated at the thought.

  “He isn’t all bad.” Mom rubs her eyes with the tips of her fingers. “You have to realize I wasn’t completely insane when I decided to have an affair with a married man all those years ago.”

  “He was your boss.” The words come out harsh, and to make sure Mom doesn’t think I’m being hostile toward her, I add softly, “In America, what he did to you is called sexual harassment.”

  “Well,” Mom says sadly, “something wonderful did come out of the whole mess.” She looks at me warmly. “You couldn’t be more different from Felix if you tried.”

  “Did he say anything about me?” I ask, wondering if some of my guesses are correct. “Something to explain how he knew about the Brainocyte project?”

  “Yes,” Mom says. “I already knew he was keeping tabs on me, but as it turns out, out of fatherly pride as he called it, he kept tabs on all your accomplishments too, including your work.”

  “So my earlier insight about the kidnapping was right,” I say, less to Mom and more so to say it out loud. Even as I used the face recognition app on his face, I knew, somewhere deep down, that Felix being behind all this made the puzzle pieces fit together. “This answers the biggest question of all: how did someone in Russia learn about Brainocytes in the first place?”

  “I guess it does,” Mom says. “To corroborate something your friend Muhomor suggested, your father indeed mentioned the FDA papers you filed, as well as patents, but it was really my memory condition that clued him in.”

  “So he figured out what we were working on,” I whisper. “Hell, he might’ve understood more about it than most, since you two worked together in that company where theories of nanotechnology were discussed.”

  Mom nods. “He claimed he wanted to use this as a chance for us to reconnect, but I knew it for the bullshit it was. My guess is, he understood enough about your technology to get tempted by the possibility of fame and fortune. The man has an ego bigger than his head. From there, he must’ve reached out to someone who eventually introduced him to the right people, and things escalated from there.”

  “I think you’re right,” I say. “I think he eventually started working for a man named Govrilovskiy, a man who’s still out there, now that I think about it. He’s probably a threat to us—”

  “About that,” Muhomor says into the earpiece, making me realize the conversation is less private than I thought. “Didn’t Gogi tell you? I continued searching for this Govrilovskiy guy since that was our contingency plan, and around the time you jumped out of the airplane, I found him and passed the information on to Gogi.”

  Gogi turns around and hands me his phone, saying, “I called in a favor with some fellow Georgians and told them there’s a million dollars in it for them. Joe said you were good for it.”

  I take the phone, dreading what I might see, but I look anyway, hoping I’m sufficiently desensitized to violence by this point.

  Sure enough, a brutally beaten man is sitting in front of the phone’s camera. He’s staring down the barrel of a gun.

  “Turizmi,” Gogi says loudly in what I assume is Georgian.

  The word must mean something like “go,” because the gun on the other end goes off, and the man—who I presume is Govrilovskiy—falls to the ground with a substantial hole in his head.

  Mom must see me flinch, because she puts her hand on my arm reassuringly.

  I hand the phone back to Gogi, and Joe says, “A couple more million will take care of his associates. I can put up a portion—”

  “No,” I say, catching my breath. “I’ll cover all that too. I like the idea of no one being left to try this again.”

  As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize what this offer is—a commission for assassinations. It makes me, the person paying for it, directly responsible for ending their lives. Nevertheless, my conscience doesn’t raise any alarms. I feel as much guilt as I would if I offered to pay for Joe’s medical or legal bills.

  “There’s still your father,” Mom says, taking me out of my ruminations. “If anyone might try this again, it’ll be—”

  She notices my expression and stops speaking. I take in a breath, unsure how she’ll react, and say, “I don’t think he survived, Mom. I’m sorry.”

  “I see,” Mom says, her voice even, but her face is paler than I’ve ever seen it. Her throat works as she swallows; then she mutters, “I guess he dug that hole himself.”

  She looks away, and I spot her wiping tears from her eyes.

  We ride in silence for a while, and I wonder if the fact I’m not crying over my deceased father and all the people who died today means I’m morally bankrupt or empty inside.

  As I try to sort through the tangle of emotions again, I discover the most prevalent one is numbness. It blankets me, covering everything in a soothing fog. Behind that layer of numbness, I feel like I’ve been shattered into pieces that someone put back together the wrong way. I have no idea if I’ll ever be the same again, but I suspect I won’t—not after seeing so much death and violence up close.

  Determined to escape my dark thoughts, I decide to get some pet therapy and ask, “Gogi, can you please pass me Mr. Spock?”

  As a bonus, this distracts Mom from her brooding. When I told her about Mr. Spock’s assistance during the rescue, she reacted well—at least on a purely intellectual level. Now, though, she’ll have to tackle the reality of having a live rat in her proximity.

  “Hmm,” she says, catching me looking at her expectantly. “If he’s going to be your pet, I’ll try not to freak out around him.” Her uncertain tone doesn’t match her words, and she ends weakly with, “Especially if he’s as well behaved and clean as you claim.”

  As though he waited for her to be okay with it, Gogi opens the glove compartment. Before he can grab the rat, Mr. Spock jumps onto Gogi’s arm, then scurries up to the big man’s shoulder and leaps right into my outstretched hands.

  “He looks a bit like a squirrel, or maybe a guinea pig,” Mom says, sounding like someone unsuccessfully trying to convince herself of a falsehood. “I hope it’s okay if I never touch him.”

  “I don’t think he likes anyone but me and Ada touching him,” I say, though I don’t know if that’s actually true. “So it’s preferable if you don’t touch him.”

  “Good,” Mom says, as though touching the rat was an important debt she had to pay, and she’s relieved she doesn’t have to pay it.

  “Now for the most important part,” she says, her tone suggesting she’s about to teach a big moral lesson or complain about a grievance. Once she has my full attention, she firmly says, “If I’m ever kidnapped again, I want you to promise to let law enforcement handle it. That goes for you too, you hear me, Joseph?”

  Joe grunts something unintelligible, and I say, “I’ll make sure your Brainocytes allow us to consult with you if you’re ever kidnapped again. How does that sound?”

  “Oh, about that,” Mom says. “I almost had a heart attack when I got your message in my Terminator interface.”

  “We call that the AROS interface, Mom,” I say, finally managing a smile. “And you can thank Mitya for that message when you meet him.”

  “Speaking of Mitya… is that his plane?” Mom points into the distance.

  Her eyes are wide, and I can’t blame her.

&n
bsp; Mitya’s plane is a sight to behold, and where it’s parked is just as awe-inspiring as the aircraft.

  There’s a huge abandoned Soviet-era warehouse by the road, with a parking lot covered by cracked, winter-beaten asphalt. It looks like it was originally meant to store trucks and the like. The shiny new plane is standing on the lot, looking as out of place as fried chicken liver inside a birthday cake.

  It takes ten minutes to load everybody onto the plane. As soon as everyone is on board, we roll out of the parking lot to use the empty highway as a runway—one of the million reasons why our mission had to be done in the dead of night.

  Natalia, the flight attendant nurse, tends to Mr. Shafer first, Gogi second, and me last. As I look at the bandages on my hands, I have to hand it to Mitya’s wisdom, assuming there was wisdom involved in hiring her. Having a model-hot nurse tend to injuries cuts down on male whining considerably, even from me, a person who isn’t interested in Natalia’s charms.

  “Do you want us to fly you back to Moscow?” I ask Gogi and Lyuba.

  “Actually, if it’s possible, I’d like to visit the United States,” Gogi says.

  “I need to go back to the Gadyukino hideout,” Lyuba says.

  “Okay, I think that can be arranged,” I tell them, trying not to think too hard about what Lyuba needs to do back there with Alex. Getting up, I walk over to the pilot’s cabin and make the appropriate arrangements. As I come back, for Mitya’s benefit, I mentally type into the chat, “Your lawyers need to start working on those H-1B visas.”

  “Already on it,” Mitya replies out loud. “I’ll give them real jobs too if they want. Gogi can be your bodyguard or mine, and Muhomor—”

  “No more business talk,” I mentally reply. “Need sleep.”

  As though on the same wavelength as me, Joe hands out his Ambien to anyone who wants one, like it’s candy. I bet my cousin’s generosity is calculated and meant to incapacitate this rowdy bunch so he can get some sleep. I ask for a pill too, but I don’t take it right away, because I need to call Uncle Abe and tell him Mom’s okay. After that conversation, I call the authorities and explain everything as well as I can, promising that yes, we’ll come down to the station to make a statement, that we’ll obviously bring everyone wherever they want us to, et cetera, ad infinitum.

  The one good part about the unpleasant phone calls is that they sufficiently distract me from the much worse unpleasantness of the liftoff. When I’m done with all the calls, and since Mom and the others are already in Ambien dreamland, I swallow my pill and wait for the drug to kick in.

  Instead of counting sheep, I think about everything that’s happened and examine the scabby wound that is my biological father’s fate. For now, my turmoil has settled into a deep numbness. Given how little I thought or cared about the guy before I met him, that might be a normal reaction. Alternatively, this could be a psychological defense mechanism hiding a deep sense of loss of something I never thought I’d value. It’s hard to introspect the truth. What I do know is that I’m the least qualified person to examine my feelings. I was never good at it, even under better circumstances. Maybe, despite my negative view of psychiatry, I’ll give therapy a shot after things settle down. I might need it to properly deal with the gruesome things I’ve seen these last few days.

  On the bright side, given my experience with Brainocytes so far, I have no doubt this technology will help Mom’s condition. If she wants, she can even end up with a mind superior to the one she had before the accident. Judging by her extremely lucid behavior since the kidnapping, Phase One might’ve already had some positive effects.

  As for me, even though I haven’t fully adjusted to the bigger brain boost, I already feel like I could never go back to not having it. In fact, I want more. I guess I’ll need to speak with Ada and read up on transhumanism, because in the very near future, I foresee us getting smarter and more capable than the smartest human being currently alive.

  “Good night,” Ada’s voice says softly in my ear, interrupting my sleepy musings. “When you wake up, I’ll probably be there in the flesh.”

  I’m not sure if it’s Ada’s soothing words, the drug, or the post-adrenaline crash—or even the feeling of a warm rat bruxing next to me—but my eyes get pleasantly heavy and I close them, sinking into sleep.

  I wake up to people leaving the plane.

  “I was worried,” Mom says. “I called out to you, but you didn’t answer.”

  “This is nothing.” Gogi chuckles. “Upon his arrival into Russia, I helped him sleepwalk to the car.”

  “Whatever,” I say groggily. “I’m going to the bathroom. You’re welcome to sleepwalk me there if you want to hold something for me.”

  Gogi and Mom laugh, and then she says, “I’ll meet you outside.”

  They follow the rest of the research participants off the plane, and I head in the opposite direction to one of the dozen bathrooms.

  By the time I wash up and use the facilities, I feel like a slightly more lucid approximation of myself, though a triple espresso wouldn’t hurt.

  As I exit the plane, I feel like I’ve aged a couple of decades on this trip. Every bone and muscle in my body is aching all at once. Then I see Ada, and all my discomfort evaporates. It’s as though I drank that triple espresso, and it was spiked with a shot of vodka to boot.

  Maybe to make an impression on me—at which she succeeded—or maybe as a trick to make sure my mom doesn’t think she’s a boy again, Ada is wearing a strappy pink summer dress. It still manages to look punky somehow, though that could simply be from her attitude.

  I increase my pace and Ada does the same, but she’s forced to hold down her skirt, Marilyn Monroe style, because of the wind.

  “Oh, you poor thing,” she says when she sees my mummified hands. “And your face.” She touches my left temple, probably my only non-swollen part. “I didn’t think it could get worse than the injuries you had after the accident, but I was obviously wrong.”

  Instead of replying, I gently clasp her waist and pull her to me.

  “Wow,” she whispers as she looks up at me. Her amber eyes twinkle, giving her the charm of a mischievous puppy. “All that danger must have—”

  I press my lips against hers, channeling all my gratitude for her help, as well as all my longing for her, into the kiss.

  She responds with an unexpected fierceness, and to my surprise, her small hands grab my buttocks, giving them a noticeable squeeze.

  We’re at it for what feels like hours, and I fully expect someone to say, “Get a room, you two,” but no one dares.

  After the kiss, I take Ada’s hand and let her lead me to the limo, where Mitya, my uncle, Muhomor, my cousin, Gogi, Mom, and JC are waiting for us. To my shock, JC is holding my mom’s hand—a development I’ll have to process later. My friends and family smile at me knowingly, and I know a lot of girl talk—and teasing from Mitya—is coming my way. I don’t care, though. My steps are light, and despite the lingering tightness in my chest, I feel like I’m floating on post-kiss endorphins and oxytocin.

  The numbness is still with me, shielding me from the worst of the turmoil, but underneath that, I’m aware of a strange contentment, a feeling I never expected to experience after all the horrors we’ve been through. For that matter, I didn’t think I’d feel this hopeful after being repeatedly beaten and shot at and having the person closest to me kidnapped. Yet, paradoxically, that’s exactly how I feel—hopeful. Hopeful for my future. Hopeful for Mom’s future. Hopeful for the future of the study participants, and that of Alzheimer’s patients, paraplegics, and other people we’ll soon help. I even feel ambitious enough to feel hopeful for the future the Brainocytes will bring to the whole human race—though that might be a delusion brought on by my post-kiss high.

  In a gentlemanly fashion, I let Ada enter the limo first and then follow, ready to share my feelings of hope with these people, who, in one way or another, for better or worse, are now my closest companions in the world.


  “Poyekhali,” I say to the driver, echoing the Russian cosmonaut again for Ada’s benefit. Then, on the off chance Mitya’s driver doesn’t speak Russian, I clarify, “Let’s go.”

  THE END

  Thank you for reading! If you would consider leaving a review, it would be greatly appreciated (please click HERE).

  If you'd like to know when the next book in the Brainocytes series comes out, please sign up for my new release email list at www.dimazales.com.

  Other series of mine include:

  The Last Humans (please click HERE) — futuristic sci-fi/dystopian novels similar to The Hunger Games, Divergent, and The Giver

  Mind Dimensions (please click HERE) — urban fantasy with a sci-fi flavor

  The Sorcery Code (please click HERE) — epic fantasy

  I also collaborate with my wife on sci-fi romance, so if you don’t mind erotic material, you can check out Close Liaisons (please click HERE).

  If you enjoy audiobooks, please click HERE to check out this series and our other books in audio format.

  And now, please turn the page for a sneak peek at Oasis (The Last Humans: Book 1), The Thought Readers (Mind Dimensions: Book 1), and The Sorcery Code.

  Excerpt from Oasis

  My name is Theo, and I'm a resident of Oasis, the last habitable area on Earth. It's meant to be a paradise, a place where we are all content. Vulgarity, violence, insanity, and other ills are but a distant memory, and even death no longer plagues us.

  I was once content too, but now I'm different. Now I hear a voice in my head, and she tells me things no imaginary friend should know. Her name is Phoe, and she is my delusion.

  Or is she?

  Fuck. Vagina. Shit.