Brainrush 04 - Everlast 01: Everlast (2 page)

I
’D USED 547 WORDS
in the past week—19 more
than the week before and 47 more than the previous week—but I could have gotten
by with only four:
I love you, too.
Those are feel-good words. It’s what
I’d say when Mom and Dad tucked me in and told me they loved me. Other words
were a waste of time—for the most part, anyway. What’s the sense in having a
conversation with someone when their words are intended to hide the truth?
You’re better off watching.

Sensing.

Mom was behind the wheel. The smell of the ocean slipped
through the slit at the top of her window. Houses and palm trees blew past as
we made our way through the neighborhoods of South Redondo Beach. One more turn
and we’d be on our street in the Avenues, just two blocks from the sand. She
was worried about something. It was a big worry, bigger than anything I’d
sensed from her in a long time.

“Mom, is everything okay?”

She glanced my way, the smile coming a bit too late to be
convincing. “Of course, honey. I was just going over a list of things I need to
pick up at the store.”

Yeah, right.
Sometimes I swear she forgot I was her
son, that I shared her empathetic gift…and then some. I guess the fact I was
only seven made it hard for her to remember. Especially when I had a thirteen-year-old
sister who happened to be a musical savant, and an eighteen-year-old brother
with a brain implant that sometimes made him talk too much.

Earlier at the VA hospital, it had been the same between Mom
and Dad—and even Uncle Doc. He wasn’t really my uncle but we called him that
anyway. Dad said anyone who saves your life should be treated like family. Anyway,
there had been a whole lot going on beneath the surface of their words this
morning, and they weren’t just trying to hide something from me, even though
that’s what they tried to make one another think with their fake nods and
expressions. They were hiding stuff from each other.

A person’s eyes hold more truth than a thousand words.

At least that’s the way I see it.

Of course there was also Mississippi Mike. Now
that
had been a conversation. When I took his hands, I felt his pain. It wasn’t
physical. It was a sense of hopelessness that seemed to crowd out everything
else in his consciousness.

Mike was more interested in dying than living.

I’d felt his surprise when I connected with his thoughts.
His eyes had bugged out and his grip had tightened to the point it had begun to
hurt. But he’d realized it right away because of our bond so he’d eased off.
From there it had been easy to change his focus to what he
could
do
rather than what he couldn’t. When he’d stood up and taken his first step, I
knew he’d be okay. I can’t explain how I did it. My dad called it letting my
brain go on autopilot, same as what he did. Beyond that, all I’d done was
imagine myself inside Mike’s brain and body, connecting his desire to walk with
the electrodes that linked spare nerves in his chest to his new robotic legs.
He’d done the rest.

 Mom kept the motor running after she pulled the Fiat into
the driveway. “I’m going to run to the store,” she said. “I’ll be back in about
fifteen minutes. Tell Sara and Ahmed to stick around. I want to speak to all
three of you when I return.”

I didn’t ask what it was about. Why bother? I grabbed my
backpack, jumped out of the car, and walked up the steps to the porch. The
front door swung open before I could grab the handle, and Ahmed stepped out and
nearly speared me with the end of his short board.

“Whoa!” he said, twisting to one side. “Sorry about that. Hey,
I’m headed to the beach. Would you like to go?”

“Mom says we have to stay here.”

“Huh?” Ahmed leaped down the steps as the Fiat backed down
the drive. “Mom, wait!”

It was no use. She waved a finger to indicate she was in a
hurry and then drove away. Ahmed’s mouth stayed open longer than necessary, the
palm of his free hand jutted into the air as if to ask what had just happened.

Beyond him, a car with blacked-out windows pulled away from
the curb and followed Mom around the corner.

Jake and Doc had found a quiet booth
in the hospital cafeteria. Jake waited for the other shoe to drop.

“Late last night two more servers got involved in the
chatter,” Doc said. “Timmy tracked them to San Francisco and San Diego.” Timmy
was Doc’s lead science engineer at Area 52. The young whiz kid had saved Jake’s
life by hiding him in Italy after Jake had awakened from his six-year coma.

“Crap,” Jake muttered, his nerves bristling.

 “That’s not the worst of it. Timmy’s pretty sure one of the
sources is a Chinese triad.”

 “No way.”

Doc nodded. “These guys are bad news, one of the oldest
criminal organizations ever known, with connections everywhere.” He hesitated
before adding, “They’re known for being among the top black-market arms dealers
in the world, specializing in advanced weaponry. Unearthing the Grid tech would
be a dream come true for them.”

Jake stood abruptly and exited the booth.

“Don’t panic,” Doc said, rushing to catch up. “Timmy’s team
has fended off hundreds of similar searches since the Grid. Dead ends and phony
death certificates—that’s all anyone’s ever uncovered.”

Jake stopped to face him. “Then why are you here in person?
Why not just call?”

 “Because yesterday Timmy discovered a tap in our phone
system at Area 52. We’re not even using our cell phones for sensitive
information.”

“Jeez, Doc,” Jake said, double-timing it toward the lobby.
“You couldn’t have led with that info?”

Doc kept pace. “But that part of it probably has nothing to
do with you!”

“Probably?” Jake said, pulling his smartphone from his
pocket. “Probably isn’t good enough when we’re talking about my family’s
safety.” He speed-dialed Francesca’s number.

Francesca knew Jake and Alex had
sensed something was wrong. She’d been hiding it pretty well until today. But
after the meeting she’d had with Alex’s doctor this morning, the situation had
gotten the better of her.

 “We’re not sure what’s going on,” the doctor had said, “but
the activity in his brain is all over the map. I’m afraid it’s affecting his
entire system.”

When he’d explained what that meant, the news had shattered
her.

She pulled into the Walgreens parking lot and made her way
to the counter. The doctor said the pills would help get her through the day.
She hoped so.

 “Name?” the pharmacist asked.

“Francesca Bronson.” Saying her married name out loud
usually brought a smile to her face. Not today.

The pharmacist checked the computer. “Your doctor phoned in
the prescription and we’re preparing it now. It’ll be ready in just a few
minutes.”

She sighed and took a seat in the small waiting area,
dreading the thought of telling Jake. He’d blame himself, even though it wasn’t
his fault. That’s the way he was—he shouldered responsibility and guilt for any
repercussions that occurred in the wake of the accident that had enhanced his
brain, saved his life, and ultimately changed the world. They’d argued about it
more than once, and while he agreed with her intellectually, she knew he
harbored a deep-seated belief that everyone would have been better off if he’d
simply died eight years ago from his brain tumor.

Now, Alex’s health issues would reopen old wounds, since
their root cause had likely been his contact with the alien Grid. But she had
to tell Jake. Keeping secrets in their family wasn’t easy, not with her
empathic abilities and his uncanny brain. She’d let her guard down this morning
when she saw him with Doc at the VA hospital. Doc’s unexpected visit couldn’t
have come at a worse time.

They’d have much to discuss this evening.

Her phone sounded. The ringtone was Andrea Bocelli singing “
Vivo
per Lei”
—“I Live for Her.” Jake had installed the song as his ringtone. Her
husband was an unabashed romantic and she loved him for it. Nevertheless she
let the call drift to voice mail.

She needed to steel herself before they next spoke.

I
WAS SUPPOSED TO BE
some sort of genius, but I
got confused just as easily as the next kid. Even more so, since my brain never
seemed to slow down. It gobbled up information day in and day out—cataloguing,
memorizing, analyzing. A part of me realized it came naturally to me, but
another part wondered how long I’d be able to keep it up.
What happens when
my brain gets overstuffed?

My dad had the same gift, if you want to call it that,
though he wasn’t nearly as good with computers as I was, and Dad’s abilities
seemed to be coming and going lately, like something was changing in him. I
catalogued that in the Worried About Dad drawer.

I’d have to start a drawer on Mom, too, after the way she
was acting this morning.

The drawer system worked pretty well for me. I kept the bad
drawers closed so that the uncomfortable feelings they gave me didn’t distract
me from the important stuff, like online gaming. There’s nothing like diving
into a role-playing game, where you control the character’s choices and
actions, or a first-person shooter where quick reflexes mean the difference
between life and death. Living inside a good game pushed away the constant flow
of data that bombarded me all the time in real life. In a game, the world is…
finite
.
I liked that word, even though most seven-year-olds would screw up their face
if I used it. But my vocabulary was pretty much only limited by whether or not I’d
been exposed to a word. Between books, TV, and the Internet—not to mention my
brother’s occasional bouts of jabbering—I’d learned lots of words. And I
never
forgot them. My brain stuffed them into drawers and I could recall them
whenever I wanted. It’s the same with videos, pictures, people, and places. You
name it, I remember it. And math and numbers? Don’t even get me started on
that.

I had lots of drawers.

It’s pretty cool, I guess, but when most everyone around me
had trouble even remembering what they ate for breakfast that morning, it kind
of made me stand out. People look at you funny when you’re different. That’s
why I didn’t play with kids my age.

They didn’t get me.

But my family did, and like my dad said,
In the end,
family is all that matters.

I was hungry but I figured I could wait a while. Mom should
be home soon, and I was hoping she’d bring something good for lunch. I climbed
up on the bar stool and scooched it up to the kitchen counter. I liked to sit
on the end that butted up against the wall. My dad’s Snoopy helmet hung there
on a peg. He liked to wear it when he flew acrobatics in one of the old planes
at his work. Sometimes he put it on my head when he told me stories about his
Air Force days. It smelled like old leather…and Dad.

Sarafina and Ahmed were at the kitchen table. She wore
shorts and a cut-off tee shirt that Dad would say showed too much for a
thirteen-year-old, and if Mom noticed the touch of makeup my sister had on,
she’d be in trouble. I don’t know why she bothered with face paint, especially
around her eyes. They were her best feature, big and friendly. As usual, she
was texting someone on her iPhone. That’s what she did if she wasn’t playing
music on her keyboard.

 Ahmed was still in his board shorts and tank top. His right
knee bounced up and down so I could tell he was anxious to go to the beach like
he planned. He didn’t have many friends but he loved surfing at the beach down
the street from our home. He said his Afghan skin was built for the sun, and oceans
were among Allah’s greatest gifts. Right now, he was focused on his laptop,
which was connected to two external speakers. He tapped a key and a loud karate
kiai
made me flinch.

Sarafina looked up and crinkled her brow. “You’re kidding,
right?” she said. “Pleeease use your headset. Those screeches are enough to
give a person a headache.” She should know since she had perfect pitch, and the
ability to compose amazing songs in her head and play them with her eyes closed
on a piano or keyboard. I loved listening to her play. We all had coping
mechanisms. Hers was music.

“Uh-huh,” Ahmed said, without looking up from the screen—or
putting on his headset.

He was studying a recording of his last sparring event, playing
it over and over. When he focused on something, it could be hard to break him
loose. I’d learned it was best to let him be when he got into that mode. Even
though the brain implant he received years ago had done wonders to eliminate
most of the adverse affects of his autism, he still suffered from bouts of
paranoia. When that happened, he couldn’t stop talking. It could be annoying
and he knew it. So over the last year or so, he’d been trying to channel that
energy toward karate classes.

The video ended, and I cringed when he tapped the screen to
start it all over again. Another loud
kiai
sounded. Sharper this time. I
flinched again.

“Really?” my sister said, glaring at him. Ahmed didn’t
notice, so she huffed and plugged in her own earphones, turning her back on him
as she texted.

I pulled my tablet from my backpack and propped it up on the
counter. Then I donned my neuro-headset, which was about the coolest thing ever
invented. The wireless device was a human-to-computer interface that allowed me
to control online games using nothing but my thoughts. Talk about hands-free! The
game developer named it the Spider because of the way its eight legs draped
around your scalp and forehead. If it had been up to me, I would’ve named it
the Octopus, since each of the legs was embedded with rows of circular probes
that reminded me of tiny suction cups. Either way, it was the latest device of
its kind, way better than anything else out there. The headset was still in
beta testing, but a bunch of them had been distributed to select gamers around
the world—the best of the best—each user getting a unit registered exclusively
for his or her use, no exceptions. It was no surprise that Uncle Marshall—who
wasn’t my real uncle, either—was invited to join the beta testing group. He’d
been a gamer elite for ages, same as many of his friends, and was probably on
top of the distribution list.

But he’d been swamped lately with government contracts for
his cyber-security consulting business, and right now he was in Rome visiting his
wife, Lacey. She was an actress and she was on location for a film. So he’d let
me test it out for him on the sly. I was supposed to pretend I was him whenever
I used it online. He’d even added his own twist to the software so that when
the server at game headquarters pinged for a location address, it was rerouted
to wherever Uncle Marshall’s laptop was.

I slipped the Spider onto my head, activating the
noise-canceling feature to tune out the world. It felt like home. The instant I
switched it on, the application on my tablet responded with an audible cue.
“Good
morning, Marshall. Are you ready to play?”

Oh, yeah! I thought, and the screen automatically drew me
into the online game in progress.

As usual, while I played, I blocked out the endless stream
of underlying images, words, and numbers that accompanied the data stream, figuring
it was some sort of subliminal advertising gimmick the game makers were testing
out. As I dodged explosions and returned fire with all sorts of cool weapons,
my mind drifted on autopilot, exploring the network of other players,
connecting to their emotions and thoughts in a way that didn’t allow them to
notice the intrusion. I could tell the exact moment when each of them
recognized Uncle Marshall’s TurboHacker call sign—by their emotional groans. That’s
because I didn’t lose very often, and when I did it was usually because Mom
interrupted my play. But none of the other players ever gave up. In fact, they
seemed more determined than ever to beat me.

My favorite weapon was the robotic swarm. It became
available after you used conventional weapons to kill twelve players without
dying yourself. The swarm consisted of twenty-four dart-sized drones that hovered
and zipped around like hummingbirds. The player could switch his screen view to
any one of them, and a single strike from a drone’s needle-tipped nose spelled
instant death. The key to my success with them was multitasking. Players tended
to maneuver a swarm as a single unit. A few of the better players had learned
to split their drones into two groups and they had a far higher kill rate than
everyone else—other than me, of course. I used an entirely different strategy,
my brain separating the drones into twenty individual units so they could
either move with the swarm or operate independently. It came naturally to me, so
I guess it wasn’t very fair to the other players, but heck, war isn’t fair,
right? Besides, the better I got, the more the other players teamed up against
me to even the odds.

I loved it!