by Sarah Fine
Behind me, I hear someone jump up from the table, and then Anna tugs at my arm.
“What the heck just happened?” I ask.
“You hit his one sore spot,” she says.
“Which is?” I’m the one who gets to be mad. What in the hell does Percy, king of the fashion vids, know about violence, about death?
“His parents.”
“Okaaaay.”
“They were murdered.”
My breath leaves me in a rush.
“It was this random thing, apparently,” she tells me. “It happened about two years ago. Percy didn’t come to Clinton until about a year after they died. We haven’t known him for that long, except through his vids.”
I’ve never seen them, but that explains why he looks familiar—he’s actually famous, just not for something that I think is important. But he probably thinks the same of me.
“It was a big deal when it happened. His parents were both scientists. His dad was kind of a controversial figure.” Her cheek dimples as she gives me a wry smile. “My mom hated the guy.”
That actually makes me prone to like him, but I certainly don’t say it. Anna Fortin is being nice, and today, that’s a blessing. As we cross the atrium I see a quiet corner and sink down. Anna sits down beside me.
“Anyway, they were at an addiction treatment clinic for some kind of business meeting, and one of the patients just . . . attacked.”
I cringe. “That sounds awful. Percy wasn’t there, was he?”
She shakes her head. “But don’t ask him about it directly unless you want to hear his theories about who’s responsible.”
“Not the violent patient, then?”
She shrugs. “That’s what it was, but he doesn’t accept it. He thinks his parents were targeted. And silenced.”
“Why?”
A group of girls walk by and wave at Anna while glaring at me. She waves back. “Like I said, his dad was a controversial guy. I just wanted to give you a heads-up. He’s not usually keen to argue, but you kind of raised the temperature in the school today. Maybe that’s what’s getting to him.” She stands to go.
It’s a kind way of blaming me for upsetting the guy, who seemed perfectly willing to goad me into upsetting him.
Suddenly, I’m feeling very tired. I don’t want to be on anymore. But the daughter of the enemy—an enemy who could be very useful, if she were to cooperate with the president’s agenda—is standing right next to me. “Anna?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for being nice to me. I know we’ve been on opposite sides.”
She offers me a ghost of a smile. “I campaigned hard against Sallese. I was president of the DC Young Technocrats. Kyla was a big part of it as well.” Maybe she translates the curiosity on my face, because she adds, “Percy wasn’t—he hates politics. But Winston was our social organizer—his mom is the outgoing secretary of AIR.”
No wonder he wanted to call me names. His mom just lost her job to the new administration. Uncle Wynn appointed a fiery guy named Ron Gould, who is way more committed to AI regulation, and the Senate is spoiling for a fight. The technocrats in Congress are terrified of him.
“—and Bianca was our vid editor,” Anna is saying. She bites her lip. “Her dad is CEO of Parnassus.”
I can feel the blood draining from my face. “Oh,” I whisper.
Parnassus Inc. Creator of the Aristotle program.
“I know you’ve probably hated Aristotle since it was released.”
“You’re wrong,” I say hoarsely. “When we first got word of it, my dad couldn’t wait to work with it.”
Her brows draw together. “But he was a teacher.”
“We had no idea what would happen. He thought it would be a supplement, like it is here.” I blink fast to hold in the tears. “He thought it would help his students learn. We needed every advantage we could get.”
“After Congress made tailored individual learning a federal mandate, the Zao administration made sure the program was cheap. That was supposed to make it easier for poor districts to get it.”
“Right,” I say, anger hardening my voice. “So what did cash-strapped cities like Houston do? They laid off all their teachers and made Aristotle the only teacher. My dad lost his job to AI on January 4, 2068. He killed himself on January 5.”
I clench my fists to ward off the sharp smell, the sight of him slumped against the door, my ragged scream. My nostrils flare and I swallow hard, fighting the sudden urge to puke.
“That was the day you fed that first vid,” Anna says. “The one that went megaviral.”
The one where I howled my grief and rage into the electronic wind. The five minutes that changed my life. “Yeah.”
“And that’s how the Sallese campaign found you.”
I nod. “It hit a nerve, that’s for sure, and El—he was managing the campaign—felt like I was a symbol for what Wynn Sallese could offer the American people. What happened to my dad wasn’t fair, but it’s happened to so many others. Not here, maybe, but . . .”
“You really believe in him, don’t you?” she says softly.
“He’s never given me reason not to.”
“I guess we’ll see how his first hundred days go. He’s made a lot of big promises.”
Our eyes meet. Those promises include twisting the arms of tech moguls like her mom to try to get some price controls and inventory increases, limitations on canny manufacturing, new laws restricting use of cannies in certain positions, restrictions on Cerepin use as a job requirement—an agenda technocrats like Anna must hate. “He sure has.”
There’s an electronic hum that reverberates through the atrium. Aristotle is waiting.
Chapter Four
Marguerite
I’ve just gotten into Jenny for my second week of school when she alerts me that I have a com.
From the president of the United States.
My voice is shaky as I say, “Yes, I’m available!”
President Wynn Sallese’s face appears above the control panel. “Good morning,” he says with a smile. His blue eyes twinkle with pride and fondness. He has thick, graying auburn hair and a smile that suggests everything’s going to be just fine. It instantly dissolves some of the dread that has been sitting so heavy in my stomach at the thought of going back to school this morning. “Before they left for their tour of the Department of AIR this morning, El and Colette let me know that your first week of school was a little rocky.”
“And you’re comming me with a pep talk? Don’t you have . . . I don’t know, briefings? Or meetings with important people?”
“You are important, Marguerite. I didn’t bring you here to Washington to be miserable, but I also know you can take on anything you set your mind to. I wanted you to know that I’m proud of you.”
My eyes sting with happy tears. “That means a lot, Mr. President.”
“Uncle Wynn,” he says with a reproachful shake of his head. “You’re the daughter I never had, and although I know I could never come close to standing in your father’s shoes, I like to think he’d be happy, knowing you had me looking out for you.”
“He would,” I whisper. “I wish you two could have met.”
“Me too,” he says sadly, and then clears his throat and throws his shoulders back. As he does, I can see he’s sitting in the Oval Office. This is crazy. I’m talking to the president. The president. “Now—you haven’t made a vid since the inauguration.”
Anna’s words about me being a threat to my classmates if I post my hurt and rage on the Mainstream have kept me from uploading. Not that it hasn’t been tempting—since last Monday, most of my classmates have just offered me more of the same bullying, shunning, whispering grossness. I’m not going to break or whine, and I’m not going to let anyone silence me forever, but I also don’t feel able to hold it together in the way I’d need to if I were to post to my thirty million followers. “Well . . . I’ve been focused on my schoolwork. And last night, El came over
for dinner. We were up late, talking.” My mom crawled off to bed early, claiming a headache, and we stayed up, talking politics—and what might help Mom finally climb out of the pit of her grief. El said he was looking into possibilities, but wouldn’t tell me what he meant. “He told me he was headed to the Department of AIR this morning to have a tour with the future secretary.”
“Yes. We’re going to be making big changes over there, assuming the Senate confirms Ron. I know he was a controversial pick. But when he is in that seat, it’s going to be a lot harder for people like Gia Fortin and Simon Aebersold to get anything from this government unless they start thinking of the American people instead of their own bank accounts.”
A chill runs down my spine. Simon Aebersold is CEO of Parnassus Inc. Bianca’s father. “That’s good,” I say. “They’ve created such amazing things—I hope they’ll work with your department.”
“They’re going to have to, Marguerite. The days of cushy exclusive contracts, development grants, and shameful under-regulation are over.” His bushy silver-flecked brows are low. “I have a sacred trust to fulfill. This is part of why I wanted you to stay on the team. You deserve to have a front-row seat to the changes that are going to start this very week. Whenever I think of compromising, I’m just going to remember Dan Singer and his love for teaching. I’m going to remind those tech moguls that AI is meant to serve us, not to steal our reason for being.”
“I’m honored to be a part of it,” I say, wiping a stray tear from my cheek.
“Oh, look what I did,” Uncle Wynn says, clucking his tongue. “You can’t head into school with tears in your eyes! I meant to cheer—” His brow furrows, and he looks down at his desk as a quiet voice emanates from its screen. “Marguerite, I’m sorry. I have to go. You have a good day, and we’ll talk soon.”
His holographic image disappears, and I sit back, reminding myself that the president is responsible for a million things. He could be talking to world leaders or have the Speaker of the House on the phone, but he took the time to com me and try to cheer me up. My chest swells. No more feeling sorry for myself at the thought of dealing with people like Bianca and Percy and Winston. Maybe I can make friends with Anna and Kyla, and since they’re so politically involved—and yet also seem like decent human beings—I can help them understand what Uncle Wynn’s agenda is going to achieve. Both of their parents are critical to the mission, and both of my new, friendly-ish classmates seem like they could have some influence if they wanted to.
With that goal at the top of my mind, I smile as we descend to street level, and for a moment I watch my classmates flowing like ants toward the school. From up here they seem pretty harmless. The Secret Service is a little pulled back today at my request, and the cannies don’t even get out of the car as I slide out of the backseat, telling myself today is a new day.
As Jenny’s door slides shut, I hear someone gasp. I look around to see my classmates suddenly frozen on the sidewalk, some of them midstride, some of them with their hands plastered over their mouths. Students stand on wheelboards that have stopped moving, perhaps sensing the distraction of their riders. I walk to the entrance and peer into the school. I see the same thing in the atrium, scores of kids just staring into midair or at the ground.
“What—”
A flurry of movement startles me, and I turn to see Percy burst through one of the front doors and run toward a landing black car. His gait is smooth and swift, and he dives into the backseat with his tailcoat flapping. The door closes, and the car rises into the sky an instant later. I am the only one who seems aware that he’s gone. Stillness and silence reign until they’re shattered by a scream.
“No!” Kyla staggers out of the school, Anna and Bianca flanking her. Anna has tears running down her face, and Bianca’s gaze lasers over to mine. For the first time, there’s not hatred there. I see only fear.
Shuffling sounds behind me are my only warning before I’m grabbed and carried backward. “For your safety, Ms. Singer,” says one of the canny Secret Service agents. He and two other agents surround me, pushing me toward the open door of one of their black vehicles. As soon as I’m in, we’re off.
“What just happened?” I ask all of them.
“There has been an incident.”
“Yeah, I gathered!” We’re not flying, I realize—we’re rolling on the car’s spherical magnetic wheels, over the smooth streets of the city. “What’s going on? Why aren’t we airborne?”
“The skyway has just been closed down.”
I close my eyes and pray for patience. “Okay, but why?” I bet this was the reason Uncle Wynn got off the phone so fast and why everyone was frozen like that—they were all getting news via their Cerepins, while I was in the dark. “What’s the incident?”
“An explosive device appears to have detonated at the Department of Artificial Intelligence Regulation.”
“What?” Panic rises in me so fast that I can’t keep my voice level. “My mom was there today!”
“We are taking you to a secure facility at the request of the president.”
Oh my god. Oh my god. I can’t lose both of them. This can’t be happening.
“—will wait for further instructions once you are secured,” the agent is saying, but I can barely hear him. The buzzing in my ears is too loud.
Wait. That’s my comband buzzing. Hoping to see my mom’s face, I look down and find myself looking at Anna. Her brown skin is ashen. She’s streaming with the fingertip-cam connected to her Cerepin, holding her arm out in front of her. “Where did you go?” she asks.
“They’re taking me to—”
An agent covers my band. “You are not to disclose your location.”
“I won’t,” I snap. “Now, if you don’t mind.” I poke the back of his hand and draw back quickly at the feel of his synthetic skin. He removes his hand, his face blank.
“Sorry about that,” I say to Anna. “This is crazy.”
“Tell me about it,” she says. “They herded us inside, and now we’re on lockdown here in the cafeteria. I’ve been trying to reach people, and the comlines are jammed because everyone else is trying to do the same thing. I was just hoping . . . have you heard anything?” In the background, I can hear all sorts of things—someone is crying, and it might be Kyla. There are distant sirens and the hum of anxious conversation.
“You know more than I do,” I say, tapping my temple at the spot where a Cerepin nodule would be.
“Kyla needs to reach her parents.” Anna’s voice is hushed, and she moves the cam closer to her face. “The streams from people in the area of the Department of AIR are horrifying. There’s nothing left.”
Oh my god. “I’ll com you if I find out anything I can share.”
She sighs. “Okay. I’m just . . .” She turns, and in the gap over her shoulder I see Bianca with her arms around Kyla, practically holding her up. “Worried.”
“Me too,” I say quietly. “My mom was supposed to be there this morning.”
“Oh, Marguerite, I didn’t know.” She sounds genuinely concerned. “Have you heard from her?”
I shake my head. The distress on her face is amplifying mine. It must be real. It must be bad. “I have to go,” I manage to choke out. “I’ll com you later, okay?”
“Please. Stay safe.”
“You too.” I end the com and gulp in a deep breath. It comes out as a low sob.
I might be an orphan. Like Percy, I guess—I’m remembering what Anna told me about his parents. This is a club I so do not want to join. As we race down the streets of DC, I can’t get my mind off my mom. “Colette Singer,” I say to the agent on my left. “Is she accounted for?”
“I am not authorized to send inquiries via the president’s channel,” he replies.
I clench my fists and face forward. This is why I hate cannies. If this were a human being, he would have some understanding of what it might be like to wonder where a loved one is. But this robot next to me? He probably doesn’t e
ven have a basic empathy chip installed.
Anna would understand. She wanted to get answers for Kyla. It occurs to me as I mentally review my convo with Anna just now that I was talking to her as if she were a friend. Am I actually starting to like the daughter of a woman I absolutely hate? We streak through red traffic signals and past a ton of stopped cars. Patrol cannies stand in the intersections; they have thick arms and wide-set legs to help them maintain crowd and traffic control. Everywhere I look, robots have replaced people.
My fingers grip the seat as we swerve to the side and descend a ramp leading to a municipal parking structure—and then speed straight toward a concrete wall. I scream, then gasp as a door slides to the side. The car glides through it and stops. My stomach bobbles—we’re descending. Another door opens, revealing a tunnel. We go down a sharp dip, and then darkness surrounds us. When the lights come up, the car has stopped in a small parking area next to a row of maybe ten other vehicles—and from the seal on the side of the one next to us, I know it’s the presidential motorcade. My heart beat kicks against my chest as one of the guards gets out and opens my door. I avoid his dead eyes as I slip past him. The other guard leads me through a doorway with a brush of her palm against a sensor.
“Oh, thank god!” My mother’s arms are around me before I can look around, so all I see is thick black hair and a flicker of light through her curls.
She grasps my shoulders and holds me away from her, and I touch her face. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” I say. I can’t stop shaking.
“Me too,” she says in a thin voice. “We had just left when the explosion happened. Ron was a few minutes behind us.” She swallows and winces like her throat hurts. “He was hit by debris and is at the hospital, but he’s going to be all right.”
We’re in what seems like an office space, cubicles in the center, a hallway that reveals several other rooms with closed doors, and a conference room on the other side of the hallway entrance. Its glass walls reveal the president meeting with a bunch of people, including El, who excuses himself when he sees me. He looks exhausted, his hair standing on end. “You okay?” he asks when he reaches us.