Cyber Thoughts Page 3

  I consider her words. Continuing pet therapy is easy. I feel Mr. Spock against my pocket as we speak, and I sense happy thoughts coming from him while the little guy munches on a piece of dry mango. Regarding meditation, we recently developed an app that helps us concentrate, and Mitya claims it’s done wonders for his ability to meditate, so maybe I’ll try that. I had an ex who tried to get me into yoga, and Ada goes to yoga as well, so I might join her. I hate massages, but for the sake of my sanity, I’m willing to give it a shot. Perhaps I’ll start with a foot rub?

  Thankfully, intimacy is one aspect of my life I have completely covered. Ada and I have so much sex that running out of condoms has become a real hassle, though I’m not sure I want to discuss this with this older woman, who’s also a complete stranger.

  As though psychic, Dr. Golovasi says, “I completely understand if you’re not comfortable talking about your romantic relationship with me at this time. Just know it’s an important part of your life, and we’re bound to discuss it eventually.”

  “No, I don’t mind,” I lie, as much to myself as to her. Double-checking that the Share app is off, I tell the doctor, “There’s not much to say. On my end, I think the relationship is great. I love her. I think she’s amazing, caring, brilliant, and gorgeous. She gets me like no friend or girlfriend ever has. She loves me, though she doesn’t like saying it. The intimacy, especially the sex, is beyond my wildest dreams… I just worry she’ll get tired of my problems someday.”

  “What makes you think she will?”

  “Nothing.” I cross my arms over my chest. “If anything, she’s extremely supportive. For example, she’s the one who made this appointment for me. She cares about me and wants me to be well. It’s just that, well, it goes back to that feeling of being followed.”

  What I don’t mention is that Ada has been acting more than a little strange lately, and this change in behavior terrifies me. I hope I’m just being as irrationally paranoid about Ada’s weird behavior as I am about being followed. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that Ada wants to have a big talk with me about something, and when girls want to have a big talk, it’s never good news. But I don’t want to go into any of this with the shrink. I really am not comfortable with her yet.

  Realizing I won’t add anything more to this subject, Dr. Golovasi says, “Are you worried she’d terminate the relationship if you developed the same condition as your half-sister?”

  I look down at the Persian rug, glad I killed the Share app when I did. “That’s one of my biggest fears, yes.”

  “Maybe I can put your mind at ease, then,” Dr. Golovasi says, and her voice turns exaggeratingly soothing. “Given what I’ve heard, and speaking with you like this, I doubt you’re schizophrenic. If I had to diagnose you—and I don’t yet—in the worst case, I would say you might be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s more likely, though, that you’re having a normal reaction to a horrific situation—if the word ‘normal’ can have any meaning in this context. I think more sessions will allow us to sort through all this in more detail, but I don’t think you should worry about becoming like your sister.”

  I exhale in relief. “Okay. So what do you recommend I do?”

  “Let’s start by having you come see me once a week. We’ll do talk therapy like today and try cognitive therapy to control your negative thoughts. I’ll also teach you some relaxation techniques that will help you cope with stressful situations. Your homework for today is to reduce the stress in your life as much as possible. Consider spending more time with your friends and family. Continue to exercise. Research meditation—though it’s also something I would be happy to teach you down the line. Develop healthy sleep habits by only using the bedroom for sleep and sex, not TV, and go to bed at a regular time. Don’t drink caffeinated drinks or other stimulants. And make sure your bedroom is dark and free of unwanted sounds.”

  “Okay.” I store my ongoing recording of everything I just heard and saw during the last hour to the data servers in case I want to replay what the doctor said at a later date. Then I mentally text Gogi my desire to have a training session today, since it’s what the doctor ordered. I also text Mom, telling her I’ll come visit today, and call a meeting of the Brainocytes Club for later in the day, since that’s also in the doctor’s prescription.

  Thinking of Mom reminds me of a joke I’ve been itching to tell the doctor, so I say, “You know, Dr. Golovasi, it’s been nearly an hour and we still haven’t blamed my mother for anything.”

  “As a mother, I find that stereotype insulting,” the doc replies, her eyes crinkling into laugh lines.

  “My mom is amazing,” I say to make sure she knows I was kidding. “If I’m messed up, it’s either my own fault or by random chance.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, when you can excel at your job, have fulfilling relationships with friends and family, and maintain a romantic relationship, you’re not formally ‘messed up,’” the doctor assures me. “If I were to use a car metaphor, I’d say you just need a little tuning, that’s all.”

  I smile and shake my head. “Normal people don’t need to see a shrink.”

  “Everyone should get therapy,” she retorts. “I visit a therapist myself, as does my son.”

  “Forgive me if I remain skeptical when a professional tells me everyone should use their services,” I say, but my tone is light.

  A soft alarm sounds, and Dr. Golovasi looks at her watch. “I’m afraid this is the end of our session. We should have more time in our next session.”

  “That wasn’t so bad,” I tell her and realize it really wasn’t. I know it’s probably pure placebo, but I already feel somewhat better. I read about this in one of the psychology books I studied for this appointment. The act of making changes in your life makes you feel more in control of your destiny and often provides noticeable relief. I wonder if I’ll feel like someone is following me at any point during the rest of the day.

  “To make the next appointment, please speak with Monika.” Dr. Golovasi gets up and offers me her hand.

  “Thanks, Dr. Golovasi,” I say and give her a firm handshake.

  “Please, call me Jane.”

  “Of course, ma’am.” I’m guessing if we continue this, in a year or so, I’ll be able to address her so informally. “See you next week.”

  Chapter Four

  “Begin,” Gogi says and throws a punch at my shoulder.

  I dodge and telepathically tell Ada, “Given that I didn’t feel like anyone was watching me on my way to the pet sitter and here to the gym, I’d say therapy is already working.”

  “That’s encouraging,” she replies, her thoughts imbued with happiness. “I do wish you’d stop these brutal sessions, though.”

  There’s a lot of hippie in Ada, and that includes a deep dislike of violence. She refuses to watch overly violent movies, even though some of them are awesome. So it’s not a huge surprise that she hates my trips to the gun range and worries about Gogi’s lessons. Trying to keep any defensiveness out of my mental reply, I send, “The doctor approved this. Actually, she suggested I exercise more.”

  “Yes, but if the good doctor saw this so-called training, I bet she’d recommend simple cardio, or lifting weights, or, my favorite, resistance band exercises.”

  “You mean the exercises my mom does?” I reply.

  What I leave unsaid is that those puny resistance bands aren’t necessarily Ada’s favorite exercise, given how fond she is of dancing on that stripper pole in her bedroom. I don’t feel comfortable even thinking about that in front of Gogi, lest he sniff out my thoughts and make a comment over which I’d have to kick his ass for real.

  “Just because your mother does it doesn’t make it less cool,” Ada counters, though we both know she lost this round. Deciding to fight dirty, she plays the girlfriend card. “I just can’t watch you get hurt.”

  “I can disable Share,” I warn her and fling my fist at Gogi’s solar plexus. “Or you can stop looki
ng.”

  “Someone will need to call the ambulance when you eventually cripple each other,” she says out loud in my head.

  “Suit yourself. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to focus on this. I think the warm-up is over.”

  “I’m just a fly on the wall,” Ada says, and I feel a mental disconnect, telling me she shut down her Telepathy connection.

  I try to focus, but my thoughts scatter, as often happens when I first bring all my attention to my physical surroundings. The white-floored dojo looks brighter and the mirrors on the walls shinier.

  To get myself more in the mood, I use the Music app to play Metallica in shuffle mode. As with everything Brainocytes, the music is only in my head. That’s fortunate, because if I blasted my tunes this loud in the real world, the dojo would shake, and Gogi and I would have permanent ear damage.

  As though in sync with the frantic drumbeat in my head, Gogi chops at my neck, but I step back just in time.

  Unbeknownst to Gogi, I decide to expand the scope of our session and enable the new app I named after its designer—the Muhomor app.

  The room appears subtly different, and I get a strange set of synesthetic sensations that are part of this app’s user interface. I see the Wi-Fi networks that permeate this space as slightly colorful shimmers in the air. In addition to the colors, these networks possess qualities reminiscent of something between taste and smell.

  Gogi blocks my punch with his elbow and counters, so I keep most of my attention on him, but I also allow the Muhomor app to hack into the Wi-Fi it feels is the “tastiest,” for lack of a better term. The app makes short work of whatever security the Wi-Fi possessed, and once I’m on it, I see a web of connected devices as Augmented Reality. Like the Wi-Fi, each device has a sensory perception associated with it. The brightest one is the security camera behind Gogi, my target from the get-go. A moment later, I can see his movements through the camera.

  Someday soon, I’ll have to convince Gogi to let me fight him blindfolded so I can look like a cool character from those old kung fu movies where the master hones the pupil’s senses that way. For now, I use the camera feedback as an extra pair of eyes. The trick helps. I find it much easier to watch Gogi’s legs from this vantage point, and I jump away from a shin kick in time. Gogi rewards the accomplishment with a grudging grunt.

  As per my research, the majority of Gogi’s moves come from a Russian martial art called Systema. If what I read about it is true, it’s a pretty lethal system with plenty of creative ways for hurting people, which is ironic given how uncreative the title of the fighting style is. Systema means “the system” in Russian. Gogi definitely has his own take on Systema, though, with some influences from Chidaoba—a form of Georgian wrestling. These influences are apparent when Gogi gets his opponent (typically me) on the floor. Gogi also occasionally utilizes a move or two inspired by Khridoli—an eclectic, traditional set of Georgian martial arts that is so old and comprehensive it includes fencing and archery—as well as moves from Greek wrestling that he likely picked up from the late Nadejda.

  I dodge Gogi’s attempt to seize my elbow and realize I’ll eventually need to hurt Gogi’s feelings by getting another trainer. The intelligence boost helps me learn how to fight nearly as fast as any other activity, so I’ve made great progress in these few months of training. Once I learn everything I can from Gogi—likely in another couple of months—I won’t want to limit myself to his style. Like Bruce Lee and many others before and after him, my long-term ambition is to form my own fighting style, something I’ll get around to after I get a good sample of existing martial arts.

  Daydreaming about my own style doesn’t lower my battle awareness, so when I see an unusually fortuitous opening, I take great pleasure in kicking Gogi in the groin. Though he’s wearing a protective cup, his face contorts in genuine pain, and I realize I applied too much force for a friendly sparring session.

  Gogi’s face reddens, and I can tell things are about to get serious. Everything about Gogi screams, No more Mr. Nice Georgian.

  He chops at my neck, and I twist away to avoid getting my clavicle shattered. Then I barely dodge a frantic array of punches. Keeping me on the defensive, Gogi goes in for my right knee. Only my camera view allows me to catch his intention and step back in time.

  Grunting something that I think means “good” in Georgian, Gogi leaps at me and grabs me by the shoulders.

  I try to break his grip but realize my error a moment too late.

  Gogi grabs me by the waist and does a maneuver he probably learned from Nadejda. Before I register the how of it, I’m flying toward the mat at a speed that’s hard for even my enhanced mind to estimate.

  “Careful!” Ada screams, as though I can control my flight in this fraction of a second.

  I land on my side, and Gogi lands on top of me, causing me to lose what little air was still in my lungs.

  I debate whether I should surrender, but something stubborn drives me onward.

  If there’s one part of Gogi’s fighting style I haven’t mastered yet, it’s wrestling.

  The Russians have a strong stereotype about Georgians. They think Georgians are horny all the time and swing both ways, leading to a whole genre of anecdotes (what Russians call jokes). Coincidentally, the butt of these Georgian jokes is almost always a guy named Gogi. I hate labels and discrimination of any kind, and it’s not like I’ve done any statistical analysis on the behavior of the typical Georgian male, but this limited sample of one Georgian, Gogi, fits the Russian stereotype eerily well. He seems to enjoy this wrestling part of our training on a level I’m somewhat uncomfortable with—especially when, like now, I feel something poking me in the back. I hope it’s Gogi’s gun, or a Sharpie marker, or anything but him being too happy to be wrestling me.

  Trying my best to convince myself of the educational value of wrestling on the ground, I decide to put in an effort and grab for Gogi’s ankle.

  My reward is a light kick to the face.

  Before I even understand what happened, my face is under Gogi’s armpit—a horrific place—and I can’t see much with my eyes.

  Struggling for air, I look at us via the camera feed. Though it looks like we’re having rough, kinky sex, I’m in too much pain to find any humor in the situation. Instead, I tap the mat in surrender.

  This is when I notice Joe standing at the dojo’s entrance.

  “Not this again,” Ada’s voice intrudes. “Just run away. Now.”

  “Remember what we agreed last time?” I remind her. “You just overstepped your bounds, and I’m turning off the Share app.” Before Ada can object, I terminate all the communication apps.

  My true reason for breaking contact with her is the very real chance that I might embarrass myself. I don’t want my girlfriend witnessing my humiliation.

  For good measure, I even get rid of the EmoRat app. The latest version of the software has created an almost empathic link between me and Mr. Spock, a feature that lets me know how the little guy is doing and lets him know when his behavior is upsetting me. It rarely does. Not for the first time, I wonder if you can say “he’s such a good boy” about a rat? In any case, EmoRat might make him aware of my anxiety, and there’s no reason for that. He’s probably playing with his two friends, Kiki and Boss, at the pet sitter’s place. Kiki and Boss are two strangely rat-friendly Chihuahua brothers that the owners of the Furry Ritz have vouched for. I think the Chihuahuas decided that Mr. Spock is a runt of a dog from their breed, or maybe they formed an alliance with the rat based on the age-old logic that the enemy of my enemy—cats—is my friend.

  Getting up, I dust myself off and prepare to leave the mat as though Joe isn’t there at all.

  “Show me what you’ve learned.” My cousin is already on the mat, standing in a fighting stance.

  “I’m good, Joe,” I say, though I know full well it won’t work. “I already got my blood pumping today.” With faint hope, I try a lie that appeals to Joe’s sense of professionalism
. “I’ve got to hurry to get to an investor meeting in Midtown.”

  Instead of replying, Joe interlaces his fingers and stretches his arms so that his fingers produce a loud, painful crack.

  Then he approaches me with the inevitability of the Titanic iceberg.

  Chapter Five

  Behind my cousin’s back, Gogi gives me a thumbs up that seems to say, Hey, I think you can handle him this time, but if not, better you as his punching bag than me.

  “Einstein,” I mentally command. “Please monitor my vitals. If I break something or pass out, I need you to call an ambulance immediately.”

  “You got it, boss,” replies Einstein, and even though he uses Zik, he somehow still has a German accent. “Your blood pressure is already elevated. Your adrenaline levels are above normal. Your caffeine level is too high. You’re—”

  “Einstein, please don’t use ongoing commentary,” I say and feel a bit guilty for interrupting him. Then I feel silly about the guilt since, being my AI personal assistant, Einstein has no feelings to hurt. If Einstein had feelings, I wouldn’t want to piss him off because he has a lot of information on me via a bunch of “lab on a chip” biosensors imbedded in my body. After spending two years in development at Mitya’s BioInfo company, the sensors can detect increased levels of hormones, as well as the presence of alcohol and other pharmaceutical or illegal drugs, and they can even diagnose some diseases.

  Seeing a blur of movement, I focus both my biological eyes and the camera on Joe. If the intensity of a stare could hypnotize a person, Joe would surely go into a trance. I turn off my music and debate disabling the camera view as Joe strikes with a speed a cobra would be jealous of.

  If I wasn’t watching his back muscles through the camera, I would now have a broken jaw. As is, I block with my left forearm (even though my physical therapist suggested I leave it alone for a month), and it explodes in pain.