Nanobots, Murder, and Other Family Problems

I zoom the diagnostic display in on the neuron clusters that control the muscles of my left hand. They’re different than they were a couple of weeks ago. I think that explains why I’ve been able to type and use my hand for other things at the same time. The axons of the neurons have connected out and recruited nearby cells, splitting the node into new distinct groups. I think I’m seeing neuroplasticity in action.

In his lecture on the subject, Mr. Johnson talked about how when someone has brain damage, the brain uses other areas to compensate for damaged tissue. It rebuilds itself as needed, remodeling so that the functions that need to get done steal cells from less critical areas. If I’m reading the scans right, my brain is rewiring itself in response to the way I’m using my implant. The impulses from the implant seem to stimulate it, making the process unnaturally fast.

I wonder if this explains some of the strange behaviors from the siblings in my class. Maybe it’s not just that they grew up in this crazy cult compound. Their brains could have been rewiring themselves since they got their implants. Not that the younger kids are exactly normal, but I swear my cohort is weirder.

This might be a problem for me. I have big plans for my implant, and I’m planning to use it a lot. I wonder what the price will be. I only have so many brain cells. If they’re getting commandeered to improve my interface to the implant, what are they getting pulled away from?

Maybe I’m being paranoid. It can’t be all that bad, right? Father’s been using this tech for decades, and he’s fine. Well, fine-ish. Of course, we Butler children got the newer, less tested versions, and mine is the most experimental of all of them.

Maybe I should cool off how much I use the nanobot emulator. No. That’s stupid. The implant and the bots are the only path to power I have open to me. I need to be better with them than even Father is.

Besides, it’s been surprisingly fun learning to use the things. The training exercises are basically a library of video games that I can control with my brain. It even has scoreboards. I’ve beaten everyone’s scores on everything except for the thousand nanobot maze, where Jeff still holds the lead. It’s hard to control that many at once, and that game doesn’t let you do formations. The only one that doesn’t have a scoring system is the drawing game. Most of my sibs only did the minimal required diagrams. Andrea has a whole portfolio of art in there, which I think are the basis for her floating icons.

The electronic ding-dong that schedules my life sounds and I make my way to the cafeteria. The smell of grilled chicken hits my nostrils as I walk in. It reminds me of a takeout place near home, where Mom and I used to get dinner if she didn’t feel like cooking. I choke down sadness and anger as I stand in line.

Up ahead, Marc gets a little cake put on his tray. Must be his birthday today. When I get my lunch I swing over and stop by his table.

“Happy birthday,” I tell him.

“Thanks, Noah!” he says with his usual enthusiasm. “The big one-seven today!”

“Congratulations,” I say. “Sorry I didn’t know it was your birthday, or I would have ordered you something.”

Marc looks confused for a moment, then smiles. “Oh, presents. Like in the shows.”

“Yeah, presents. Do we not do presents here?”

Come to think of it, no one gave me anything on my birthday. What was I doing that day? I can’t even remember. I should go back and put my old paper journals into the implant log. Maybe I can even get Evan to help me with details I didn’t write down.

“Yeah, we don’t do that here,” Marc says with a slow shake of his head. “But that would be really cool, just like in Hillside High. Of course, we already have everything we could want,” Marc says, smiling wide. “So maybe we don’t really need to do presents. I did get my special cake, though, see? Want a bite?”

Marc’s really not so bad. I’m not even sure why I don’t like him sometimes. It’s not like he ever did anything bad to me. I should make more of an effort with him.

“No, it’s all yours, Marc,” I tell him. “But happy birthday again. Catch you later.”

At some point while I was talking to Marc, Evan came in, got his food, and made it to our table. I head over to sit at my usual seat with him and Louise.

“Hey,” I say as I park myself at the table. “Want to help me put together a surprise party for Marc tonight? I’m thinking it’s time we start some new traditions around here.”