Neural Web Read online

  Neural Web

  Human++: Book 3

  Dima Zales

  ♠ Mozaika Publications ♠

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  * * *

  Copyright © 2017 Dima Zales and Anna Zaires

  www.dimazales.com

  * * *

  All rights reserved.

  * * *

  Except for use in a review, no part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

  * * *

  Published by Mozaika Publications, an imprint of Mozaika LLC.

  www.mozaikallc.com

  * * *

  Cover by Najla Qamber Designs

  www.najlaqamberdesigns.com

  * * *

  e-ISBN: 978-1-63142-304-8

  Print ISBN: 978-1-63142-305-5

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Oasis

  Excerpt from The Thought Readers

  Excerpt from The Sorcery Code

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  I’m seventeen thousand feet up, on the 102nd floor of one of the newer tourist magnets in Manhattan, One World Observatory. The crowds around me are flattening their noses against the floor-to-ceiling glass to gulp down a view that can turn a normal person acrophobic. I join in and stare. Every borough is visible under our feet, like a detailed 3D map of New York City.

  A vague sense of déjà vu sweeps over me, filling me with overwhelming dread. It’s hard to say if I’m scared of the heights, the large crowd, or something more ephemeral.

  A dark shape moves in the crowd, and I pivot on my heel to deal with it.

  I’m faced with a man with two noses. He has pierced nostrils where his eyes should be, and a cyclopean eye in the center of his face.

  My facial recognition app reports an error, and the biological equivalent of a system failure happens in the part of my brain responsible for recognizing faces.

  The nose-eye man takes out a gun, and before I can theorize how he got it through the security downstairs, he raises it, aligns the sights with his one eye, and squeezes the trigger.

  Without the earplugs I typically use at the gun range, the gunshot blasts my eardrums, likely hastening age-related deafness by at least a year. The humongous window next to me shatters into small pieces that twist and oscillate, doing their best to cut as many tourists as possible.

  I ignore more shots fired, as well as the blood and screams all around me, because another man with the same eye-and-noses face appears right behind me. I spin and try to punch the abomination in the one eye, but he dodges.

  I do a double take. If I used Photoshop to duplicate the eye, delete the extra nose, and move it all to the right places, the face in front of me would look a lot like the face I see in the mirror every day (minus the nose piercings).

  My attacker uses my distraction and momentary lack of balance to push me toward the broken window.

  I scream, but it’s too late. After a cartoon-like moment during which I look down and take in the impossible height, I begin to fall.

  This building is so tall there are clouds around me. The feeling of déjà vu gets stronger as I race past the surrounding skyscrapers. From here, they look tiny. The Statue of Liberty is like a toy in the nearby water, and the people on the streets are too small to see, like bacteria.

  My heart realizes I’ll splatter on the pavement in around ten seconds and tries to evacuate my chest cavity while it still can. The terror in every cell of my body deepens the feeling of déjà vu.

  I choke on my scream as a fiery figure swoops in from nowhere, like the legendary Firebird from the Russian legends. As it approaches, I realize it’s a glowing human being. In a whoosh of fiery wings, it cradles me in its arms, and we hover around the eightieth floor of the skyscraper.

  My savior’s hair forms a telltale Einsteinian halo around his head. When I recognize the AI’s face, I instantly know what he’s about to say.

  Sure enough, he announces with a German accent, “You’re safe. As part of your nightmare reduction therapy, I’m letting you know that this is a dream. You also wanted me to suggest that you try lucid dreaming, which would require you to stay asleep.”

  “Of course.” I barely resist smacking myself on the forehead. “That’s what that déjà vu feeling was about. I’ve had this nightmare before.”

  “You’ve had other dreams of falling as well.” Einstein’s glow is completely gone, and he no longer possesses fiery wings. “We can discuss your dreams later. Your window of opportunity for lucid dreaming is closing fast.”

  He’s right. If I want to take control of my dream world as all the books on the subject suggest, I need to act now.

  First, I focus on turning my unpleasant dream of falling into a dream with a similar physical action but nearly opposite subjective value. I wish to fly, and a moment later, I find myself soaring through Manhattan and enjoying views that passengers on a tourist helicopter tour would envy.

  The now-ordinary Einstein and I form a flock of two, his arms in front of him like Superman and mine out like wings.

  “This is awesome,” I tell the AI. “If falling feels overwhelmingly stressful, flying is pure joy.”

  “Just watch out,” Einstein replies. “Exhilaration can wake you just as easily as—”

  I wake up in my bed, a rat nose at my back and Ada’s warm body spooned in front of me.

  “You have been unconscious for two hours and thirty-seven minutes,” Einstein’s voice says.

  “Another nightmare?” Ada whispers over her shoulder.

  “Nothing bad,” I say—a euphemism I use to mean I didn’t dream about family members being slaughtered in front of my eyes nor any of the other horrors I’ve dealt with. “Just some weird faces and falling.”

  “I bet it’s a manifestation of stage fright. After all, our trip is the day after tomorrow.” She switches on the soft bedroom light with a mental command to Einstein and turns to face me, her amber eyes glinting with a surprising level of alertness for the time of night.

  She might have a point. We’re going to be doing presentations about our company in several new markets, and I’ve been increasingly dreading these trips—and not just because, like any normal human, I don’t like speaking in front of huge crowds.

  “I’m actually more concerned about telling our offspring,” I say to Ada in a private Zik message. Illogically, I feel like our son might somehow overhear us if I so much as vibrate the airwaves in the
house. “It’s right after his birthday, and I don’t want to ruin the big event for him.”

  “Don’t worry about that for now.” She strokes my shoulder. “If you’d like, I’ll be the bad one this time around—anything to help you sleep.”

  “You’re the best wife ever, but this is something we’ll have to tell him together. Now let’s sleep.”

  “In a few minutes.” She shifts closer, and as her lips approach mine, I realize what she wants. My anatomy reciprocates—strongly. “After you fulfill your marital duties, you’ll sleep even better,” she adds in a huskier voice, making sure her lips brush mine as she talks.

  “VR or for real?”

  “Why not both?”

  She yanks down the blanket with a flourish, and sleep becomes but a distant memory.

  Chapter Two

  “S dnyom ​​rozhdeniya, Alan,” Uncle Abe says to my son and raises his shot glass.

  “Happy birthday! Four years old.” Mom also raises her vodka excitedly. “You’re such a big boy.”

  Flanked by Gogi and Joe, my progeny is standing next to his avatar, which he has made visible only to Ada and me so that we can privately see him roll his eyes.

  “Be nice to your grandma.” The newest version of the Telepathy app allows Ada to sound kind, firm, and slightly scolding at the same time—something you can’t do with just voice. The emotions the app conveys have nuances that can only be understood and felt by people with Brainocyte-enhanced brains. “If you really were as mature as you think you are, you wouldn’t mind phrases like ‘baby’ or ‘big boy,’” she continues.

  “Or ‘kid,’” I add, winking at Alan. “Or—”

  “Thanks, Grandma,” he replies on a public thought channel, without a hint of negativity. His public Zik message shows proper gratitude and happiness; it’s scary how good of a liar my son can be. “You’re right, of course, Mom,” he adds in our private chat. His avatar’s head bows impossibly low and his foot paints an arc in front of his body, telling me he’s overacting his contrition. “Some words and phrases just seem to trigger my inner primate—something I’m working on.”

  I look over my son, both his real-world visage and his digital representation. If you take Ada’s amber eyes and double up on the mischievous twinkle, you get Alan’s real-world eyes. If you take my smile—specifically, the smile I get when I’ve done something truly devious to someone who totally deserves it—you get Alan’s smile. The rest of his face is a mixture of my wife and me with a slight simian twist, as though we’d spliced capuchin monkey genes into our offspring (which we didn’t, though we now have the technology to do that or anything else Dr. Moreau would be jealous of). Alan must be able to see the monkey in his own face as well. How else to explain that “inner primate” comment?

  In contrast to his tiny real-world self, Alan’s digital avatar looks like a twenty-year-old man who, quite literally, is a mixture of Ada and me. He created this avatar using a neural net he designed a few weeks ago, a specialized AI whose sole purpose was to scan every picture of Alan’s parental units and produce a 3D face that perfectly blended our features. He didn’t use us as inspiration for his body, though, opting instead for something he must’ve seen on a cover of some magazine—hence the broad shoulders, chiseled abs, and precancerous tan.

  Everyone in the real world clinks their glasses together, and I join in.

  “You know,” Mitya thinks at me privately, his real-world self chewing on a caviar sandwich, “it’s crazy that we have a table filled with Russian cuisine in the middle all this.”

  I look around and acknowledge that Mitya is right. This party doesn’t belong here, in the dinosaur exhibit of the Museum of Natural History. When I rented Night at the Museum a few weeks ago, I didn’t realize how obscenely expensive that movie rental would turn out to be. Then again, what’s the point of being one of the richest people in the world if you can’t rent your son a museum on his birthday?

  “Do you like my gift?” Muhomor asks after he stops grimacing, something he does after every shot of vodka.

  Muhomor is wearing the latest model of his Brainocyte-controlled power suit, which means he can walk for days nonstop, run a hundred marathons, and beat a world record in sprinting. If he wanted to, he could leap up and dance a jig on the skull of that giant dinosaur skeleton that happens to be the centerpiece of this enormous hall. Golan Dahan, our Director of Nanotech, thinks we’re mere months from fixing Muhomor’s spine—and the spines of anyone else who needs it.

  “Who doesn’t love reading about blockchains?” Alan’s private avatar rolls his eyes again. “I always wanted to know how bitcoin works in as much detail as possible.”

  Only Ada and I can detect the sarcasm in Alan’s real-world voice. Muhomor takes his words at face value and grins as though he managed to hack yet another bank. Ada and I exchange glances and decide that since we ourselves roll our eyes at most of Muhomor’s statements, we should let Alan’s impertinence stand. After all, he learned this behavior from us.

  “I just want to make sure this ‘gift’ doesn’t include any ideas on how to hack bitcoin’s cryptographic functions.” Ada’s pointed smile makes Muhomor nearly choke on his lamb kebab. “I hope we all agree that something like that would not be suitable as a gift for a four-year-old?”

  Alan suddenly looks a lot more interested in his gift. Muhomor hastily gestures at it, and the virtual gift box changes, the new one noticeably smaller.

  I consider having one of the myriad parallel instances of myself examine the gift in detail but decide against it. Instead, I think to Ada, “If Alan were to set his sights on bitcoin, it would be toast anyway.”

  Alan got Brainocytes as soon as he was born, long before US laws set eighteen as the minimum age for Brainocyte eligibility (our expensive lobbyists are working on overturning those laws, along with any other hint of legislation against our products). Alan also got Respirocytes with the rest of us. The only thing we didn’t give him—because he’s still developing—are Bone Servers. That’s what Dahan, our Director of Nanotech, calls the beta product that allows us to have stronger bones that can serve as computing resources in a pinch.

  In any case, when it comes to brain enhancements, Alan got as many as the rest of us in the Brainocytes Club inner circle—and that’s an impressive number indeed. He was also the first human to have his complete brain connectome mapped in a digital substrate, though the rest of us followed shortly. Like with us, his digital brain parts in the cloud far outstrip his meager biological parts. His mind is distributed among the top-of-the-line servers that only enhanced brains could’ve developed in such a short span of time.

  As a result, Alan has as much in common intellectually with a typical four-year-old as we do with a vanilla, unenhanced human being. Alan could speak Zik when he was a month old. He recently completed his PhD thesis in Computer Science and plans to study more fields. If he wanted to get into hacking, he’d be a frightening force, but I don’t think that activity would be stimulating enough for him.

  “He won’t bother with something as mundane as hacking,” Ada says, echoing my thought. “He has more interesting projects to keep him busy.”

  It’s true. Alan’s current intellectual challenge is advanced video game environments that use virtual reality—or as he likes to call it, world simulations. I think he first got interested in this when he learned I used VR to help me cope with PTSD-like symptoms. He has now created a whole virtual world for Mr. Spock and the rest of our enhanced rats to roam. This world is a rat nirvana, and Mr. Spock and his kin now spend most of their time there. In fact, Rat World is where they are right now, virtually, though their actual biological bodies are at home. Being stimulated like that helps enhance rat life expectancy, as do the nanocytes that we’re experimenting with (and which we’ll eventually use to triple human life expectancy). The most interesting part about Rat World, though, is that Alan populated it with virtual rats with brains mimicked at such detail that the resulting creatures ar
e, for all intents and purposes, real rats (unless you want to get philosophical about it, which Alan likes to do). When I walked through Rat World and saw the multitudes of his rat creations, it wasn’t hard to picture my son growing up to create whole universes, like a self-made deity.

  “Nor does he have a financial incentive to crack bitcoin,” I add when Ada looks at me expectantly.

  “Exactly,” she agrees.

  Ada and I set up a multi-billion-dollar trust fund for Alan a year ago. His monthly allowance is in the millions. However, he won’t need our funds for long because his many businesses will soon show profits. The kid has more patents than Thomas Edison.

  “If it’s gift time, I have something for the little bunny,” Mom says, and I notice JC, her new husband, touch her elbow in warning. He understands Alan better than she does. “Here”—she grabs a box from under her chair and brings it out with aplomb—“it’s from your grandparents.”

  Mom insists that Alan think of JC as his grandpa, but Alan insists on calling JC by his initials like everyone else does. In part, this is because Alan supersedes JC on the Human++ corporate hierarchy. JC still leads Techno, which is now just a small part of the giant corporation that Mitya, Ada, and I formed together, while Alan is a major shareholder of that corporation.