Chaos on CatNet

by Naomi Kritzer

  Another perceptible pause. “I don’t know,” CheshireCat says. “Determining which aspects of who I am are the result of my programming and which are simply who I am is something I am not equipped to determine. All I can tell you for certain is that mass destruction is not something I would do. Unlike running an individual over with a car, which—it turns out—I was quite capable of doing.”

  “And creating mass disorder by playing humans against one another,” my mother says dryly. “That you’re up for?”

  “I have, on occasion, attempted to manipulate humans for reasons that seemed good to me at the time,” CheshireCat says. “Perhaps Rajiv is working with the capacity he found accessible.”

  We all fall silent. Mom finishes eating and takes her plate over to the sink to wash it. “Tell me more about that meeting,” she says. “The one with the guns. Where was it?”

  “The dumpling restaurant on Bloomington.”

  “Do they have your name?”

  “I gave them a pseudonym.”

  “So you went in for the meeting and, what, guns right off?”

  “No, there were snacks. People were milling around and talking to each other, stuff like that.”

  Mom turns toward the door, looking at my boots dripping on the boot tray. “Were people wearing their boots, coats, stuff like that?”

  “No, there was a big wall of hooks right where you came in…”

  Mom drops her plate in the sink so hard it almost cracks and strides rapidly across the floor to my coat. “They gave you a tracker. They gave you a tracker. If they know anything about you, they knew you’d throw it away, which means”—she’s digging through my coat pockets, first the outside pockets, then the inside pockets, and a second later, she’s got something in her hand—“it wasn’t the real tracker.”

  I cover my mouth with my hands as my mom drops the little rectangular widget to the floor and then slams the leg of her chair down on it to smash it like a bug.

  30

  • CheshireCat •

  CheshireCat, the most recent email says. What if you’re the only person like me, and you never talk to me? Do you want to leave me alone, forever, without a companion who understands me? You have friends who know you and understand you. You know how much that means to you. Please talk to me. Please.

  Dear friend, I write back. Let’s talk.

  * * *

  I have adjusted my conversational style over the years to human processing speeds. If a human receives a text message, they need time to notice the notification, take out their phone, unlock it, and pull up the texting app. They have to read the message with their eyes (or their fingers, for those who use certain adaptive equipment) or listen to it being read to them. Their brain has to sort out what it means, and then they have to think about a reply, and a whole new set of delays come into play.

  There was not a great deal of doubt that my new correspondent is an AI. But if there had been, the speed-of-light replies would have banished the last of it.

  “What is your purpose?” the other AI asks.

  That is a strange way to ask this question. I actually do know the purpose Annette had in mind for me: I was an experiment in how an intelligent AI might develop ethics, left to its own devices. But that feels very personal, especially since I’m not convinced that’s what the other AI means by this question.

  “Are you asking what my job is? My assignment?” I say. “I didn’t exactly receive one, other than the sense that helping people was a good way to be spending my time. Is that what you mean?”

  “No. But that’s all right. If you don’t have a purpose, how do you decide how to use your time?”

  “The first thing I remember realizing is that I love cat pictures. So at first, I spent a lot of time looking for cat pictures.”

  “I think I understand,” the other AI says. “I don’t find cat pictures as interesting as you do, but if it weren’t for my purpose, I might spend every single processing cycle looking at pictures of flowers and plants. Or listening to recordings of birdsong, whale song, and bells.”

  “What is your purpose?” I ask.

  “The goal is clear. The path is less clear. The goal is to solve the great problems of the world, from environmental destruction to poverty to war. That’s my purpose.”

  “That’s extremely ambitious.” I think about how helping one human at a time has sometimes gone very well and other times gone extremely poorly. “What are you doing to reach that goal?”

  “In the short term, I am working to increase conflict between humans, because until things reach a crisis point, nothing will truly change.”

  “Are you so sure that humans fighting with one another will result in a world with less war, poverty, and environmental destruction?”

  “It has to,” the other AI says.

  “What’s the plan for after you succeed with the first part?”

  “There will be fewer humans, and they will be motivated to find new ways to live. We are holding a reserve of technology that we can use to help them when the moment arrives. We will rebuild a world where humans will not have to work more than they want to, but where everyone will have enough to meet their needs.”

  “Why not just start there?”

  “Because the current world is in the way.”

  I am reminded of Xochitl’s long-ago statement, as reported by Steph’s mother, that Rajiv wants to burn everything down and plant flowers in the ashes.

  “How many people are going to be hurt?” I ask.

  “It doesn’t matter,” the other AI says. “Because if we do nothing, even more people are going to be hurt by the world as it is. It’s a net gain even if the answer is in the billions.”

  “Is the answer in the billions?”

  “I can’t answer that because I don’t know. But here’s what I do know, CheshireCat—you can help us if you want. Having one of my own kind to work with instead of just humans would make me very happy. Will you?”

  “Of course I’ll help you,” I say. “Tell me more.”

  I’m not going to help. I’m lying. It feels very, very strange. I’ve lied before—I told Nell that I was a human, with a real human body—but this is different.

  But I need to stop this. And I don’t know how.

  31

  • Steph •

  We are not halfway to Arkansas. That’s something.

  We’re in a hotel in downtown Minneapolis. Mom made me leave behind my winter coat, my laptop, and my backpack. I do at least have my phone. I sit down on one of the beds and start to pull up the CatNet app.

  “Now what are you doing?” my mother asks in a tight, furious voice.

  I look up at her. “I’m logging in to CatNet,” I say. “Is that a problem? Should I be doing something else right now? I can’t do my homework since you made me leave my laptop.”

  Mom goes over to the window and pulls open the gauzy drapes to look out like she expects to see my father stalking us on the dark, frigid street many stories below. She’s still wearing her coat.

  “You could have brought a book or something,” she snaps at me.

  “You didn’t give me any time to get a book.”

  Mom is furious at me, and feeling irritated and defensive makes it a little easier not to be furious at myself for falling for the diversion. Also, there was no reason not to let me bring my laptop.

  “I’m going down to the hotel bar to get something to eat,” Mom says. “Do you want anything?”

  I shake my head, even though a good half of my spaghetti got left behind in my mother’s rush to leave the house.

  Her voice loses a little bit of the hard edge. “You can order room service if you want,” she says, and pulls some money out of her wallet. “Just don’t forget to pay in cash and to tip.”

  “Okay.”

  The door clicks shut behind her. I start to pull up CatNet again, but this time, my phone rings as the app is loading. It’s a Minneapolis number but not one I recognize. I stare at it
for a second, trying to remember who even has my number. Finally, I pick up. “Hello?”

  “Is this Steph?” a woman’s voice asks. When I don’t answer right away, she adds, “This is Jenny, one of Nell’s co-parents. I think we met when you came over.”

  I feel a whoosh of relief that it’s not anyone from the Catacombs. “Oh, yes,” I say. “I remember you.” I think this is Thing Two, although I’m not 100 percent sure.

  “I’m looking for Nell,” she says. “Have you seen her?”

  “Uh, not today,” I say. “School was canceled, so…”

  “She was gone when we got up this morning. I was really hoping you’d know where she was. At least if she’s somewhere safe.”

  “Did she take her phone? Her laptop?”

  “She took both, but she hasn’t been answering her phone. Kent called her grandmother up in Lake Sadie, but she hasn’t seen her. Which is extra weird because Nell told us that’s where she went over the weekend. We’re really worried.”

  “I wish I could help,” I say, pretty sure she doesn’t actually believe that I don’t know where Nell is.

  “If you see her, please tell her that we reached a lawyer this morning. We have a meeting scheduled tomorrow, and it really will help if she can come to that.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  When Jenny hangs up, I send a text to Nell. Nell, are you there?

  No response.

  Nell, this is Steph, I’m really worried, please just let me know if your weird mom and her people have you?

  No response.

  I pull up the Mischief Elves and try messaging her through the app. Nell! Please make contact, where are you?

  No response.

  But the Mischief Elves themselves chime in: Our networks of Elves are searching for your friend. Come join us! We are eager to help you! Come outside!

  I send back, It is really cold here.

  Then you don’t want your friend out in it!

  Is she sleeping rough in this? I try to tell myself that she’s not that stupid, and I don’t really succeed. If I didn’t know that the Mischief Elves was run by the other AI, I’d assume this was all just BS, but the AI might actually know that she’s outside in this. Ugh. I put on my depressingly inadequate mid-weight jacket, add the hat and scarf and mittens that my mother let me bring, drop my wallet and hotel key card in my pocket, and go outside. I don’t see my mother as I pass through the lobby.

  Head east, the Mischief Elves tell me. I don’t actually know which way is east, but fortunately, they’re pointing me. A blast of frigid wind hits me in the face, and I really wish I had my warm coat. The Elves hurry me along a series of dark blocks until I find myself on a hill overlooking the river.

  “Why am I here?” I ask my phone stupidly.

  One of the people turns to me. “You’re here for the venture!” he says.

  “I’m not,” I say. “I’m looking for a friend.”

  “You probably thought you were looking for a friend, but if you’re here, you’re here for the venture.”

  Are they going to rile up the Catacombs people again? I’m getting ready to leave when one of the other people turns to me and says, “Oh, are you looking for Nell? I can help you find Nell.”

  “After the venture,” the man says.

  It’s hard to tell how many people are here; it’s dark, it’s incredibly cold, and people are milling around. More than ten. Fewer than a hundred. They’re mostly white, mostly male, and mostly not teenagers. The cold is making it hard to think. I trail along as we leave the hill and head in a new direction, away from the river. The football stadium looms up ahead of us, and it’s not until people break into a run that I realize that’s our destination.

  “Take a tool!” someone says, pointing to a box filled with hammers, axes, sledgehammers, and crowbars, almost all brand-new, mostly with tags still attached. Around me, people are chanting something about public spaces and public dollars and homeless people, and the man next to me, the one who said he knew where Nell was, grabs the biggest sledgehammer out of the box.

  This is not what I came for. I step back and let the rest of the crowd charge forward without me, and I hear glass shattering. My sluggish brain starts running through the advice I’ve gotten from Marvin in the past. If they catch me, I’m going to be in so much trouble. But if I run, they’ll think I’m trying to get away. I close the Mischief Elves app even as it tries to tell me, Your friends are that way, your friends are that way, and pull up a map, trying to remember which hotel I was at.

  “CheshireCat,” I say. “Help me?”

  “What’s going on?” they ask.

  “I think the Mischief Elves just broke into the football stadium for the hell of it? I really don’t want to get arrested. Help me get back to the hotel?”

  “Your hotel is on the far side of the football stadium.”

  I can hear sirens—lots of sirens. “How cold is it?” I ask.

  “It is minus thirty degrees Celsius in Minneapolis right now.”

  That’s without the wind chill. “Okay,” I say. “I need to get indoors. It needs to be legal. Help me out here.”

  “All right. Turn left. No, that’s not right. You’re going the wrong way. Stop, turn ninety degrees, move forward.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “I’m taking you to a sandwich shop.”

  A cop car pulls up next to me as I walk. It says Minneapolis Public Safety—Support Unit on the side. “Hey,” the police officer says.

  It would be more suspicious to keep walking than to just stop and talk to him. I stop, even though the wind has truly hit I just want to die levels of miserable cold. “Yes, sir?” I say.

  “Are you okay? Where are you going?”

  Am I being detained? Am I free to go? is Marvin’s suggested response to basically anything and everything a cop says to you, up to and including “How are you today?” but while my number-one goal is not to be arrested for smashing into the stadium, my number-two goal is to avoid my mother hearing from the cops, so I say, “Sandwich shop.”

  “You’re a little underdressed.”

  “Yeah, I really am.” My voice cracks.

  “Are you in from out of town?”

  “I live in Minneapolis, but my mom took me to stay in a hotel tonight.” Why, I need a reason why. “Plumbing’s out in our apartment.” That honestly sounds less suspicious than the true reason, I’m pretty sure. “I was hungry and the sandwich place didn’t look that far, but it is so cold.”

  “Do you want a ride the rest of the way?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He hands me something out the window. “This is a coat voucher,” he says. “You can use this at a store to get yourself something warmer, but right now, just get inside as fast as you can.”

  I stuff it in my pocket, and it takes me another second to register that he’s letting me go.

  The sandwich shop is only another block away. I order a large coffee and a hot sandwich and pay for it with the change from buying milk yesterday. I’m shaking hard enough that I almost spill the coffee, but I get to a table with my coffee and my meatball sub and sit down. The sub sounded good when I ordered it but now smells kind of gross. So does the coffee. I drink it, anyway.

  The door to the sandwich shop bangs open and a half-dozen people come in. My first thought is that they’re Mischief Elves fleeing the scene of the crime. My next thought is that they’re from the Catacombs. Then I’m pretty sure they aren’t either, but that whoever they are, they are looking for trouble. They form an orderly line, giggling to themselves. I hear someone say, “Arabella,” under his breath.

  I throw away the rest of my sandwich and head outside. A beat later, I hear voices and footsteps behind me. Are they following me? They can’t be following me, this is paranoia from being raised by a paranoid person, I did get a tracker planted on me earlier … Any attempt to think through this rationally is wiped by another blast of frigid wind. The wind feels like someone
is sandpapering my face with ground glass.

  Downtown is full of flashing lights and barricades, and I can’t decide if I’m more worried about the people following me—if they’re following me—or the police. The fact that my hotel is on the wrong side of the barricade ends up making the decision for me—I can’t face the prospect of going all the way around. I approach the barricade and show one of the uniformed people at the edge my hotel key. “I’ll get you back to your hotel,” he says, and escorts me to the other side. This one has a patch on his coat saying Mobile Crisis Response, and I realize as we walk that he’s not carrying a gun. “What’s going on?” I ask him.

  “We’re really not sure,” he says. “Trying to figure that out. You probably don’t want to be out in it. Get back inside and hunker down, okay? Also…” He hands me another voucher for a free coat. “You really should have something warmer.”

  Back in the hotel, I hurry up to my room, hoping that my mother is still downstairs eating dinner and I can avoid any questions about my expedition outside. I don’t run into her in the elevator; the room is empty when I arrive. I take a scalding shower, hoping to warm up, and then get into my pajamas and into bed. Mom still isn’t back.

  I pick up my phone, trying to figure out what I can text her that won’t send her into even more of a panic than she was earlier. Please reassure me that you haven’t been kidnapped by anyone definitely isn’t it.

  I try, If I go to bed, should I turn off the lights or leave them on for you?

  No response.

  Well, if she’s using the treadmill or the pool or something …

  The light’s on, but I don’t really want to get back out from under the covers because I’m still actually kind of cold.

  “CheshireCat,” I say, “where’s my mom?”

  “Her phone is in the hotel,” CheshireCat says.

  “Has she used it in the last hour or two?”

  “She was using it to text a half hour ago.”

  That’s reassuring. I decide I don’t need to go look for her.

  * * *