Micah nodded.
“Exactly. Catholics and Protestants. Jews and Muslims. Star Wars guys and Star Trek guys . . .”
Bob rolled his eyes.
“Anyway,” Micah said, “you get my point. As Jordan often tells me, people are stupid, and they’re really good at finding reasons to kill each other. So, while I get what you’re trying to accomplish, and while it would totally be worth causing Jordan’s junk to explode if it would really bring about a new age of peace and love for all, in this particular case, I think you’re just blowing up his dong for nothing—and that, sir, I cannot support.”
We all sat and stared at him.
“You know?” Bob said finally. “Somewhere in there, you may actually have a point.”
“Really?” I said. “Because I’m pretty sure that whole monologue was just an excuse for him to talk about my dong exploding.”
Bob nodded.
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s true. You have to remember, though, that brilliance often comes from the subconscious. Hemingway thought The Old Man and the Sea was just a story about a guy who liked to fish.”
Micah turned to look at me.
“It wasn’t?”
“Hush,” Bob said. “You already impressed me. Don’t spoil it. I’ve been thinking about Project Sneetch for almost three years now, but I will admit that I never really considered it from that angle.”
“Wait,” I said. “You mean you never considered the possibility that the issues the UnAltered have with you folks—with us folks, if I’m being honest here—might have as much to do with the fact that we own all the money and all the stuff as it does with the fact that we have nicer hair than they do?”
“No,” he said. “I honestly did not. However, I’m going to have to disagree with Gigantor’s premise, at least partially. Yes, humans are tribal, and yes, we’ve always found reasons to fight. However, you’ll have to admit that visual cues are a big part of what triggers those kinds of instincts. When you see someone who doesn’t look like you, it rings alarms in your lizard brain, no matter how enlightened the rest of your cranium thinks it is. Add in the facts that Engineered often have visual cues that are a lot more obvious than skin tone, that they’re a small minority, and that they tend to be at the top of the economic and social ladder, and you’ve got the makings of a pogrom—which is basically what the Stupid War was, isn’t it? DragonCorn is going to fix all of that.”
Micah laughed.
“Really? Where does the part where jobs and cash get redistributed to the proles come in?”
Bob’s face settled back into a scowl.
“Fine. DragonCorn will fix most of that. Happy? At a minimum, it will take away the visual part, so you won’t be able to recognize the elite at a glance. It’s hard to have a good pogrom if you can’t figure out who it is that you want to kill.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s allow that there might actually be some benefit to making us all at least look like we belong to the same tribe. Call it a worthy goal—but you’re doing it through an engineered virus, Bob. That’s some scary shit, no matter how you cut it. Also, is it really gonna be an STD?”
Bob shrugged.
“That’s not the only way to spread it—but yeah, pretty much.”
“And how do you see that playing out? Even therapeutic GeneMod viruses wind up killing some of the people who get them. There’s no way this thing you’re cooking up doesn’t wind up with a significant body count. It’s going to look like a plague, Bob, and people really don’t like plagues. Even if you’re planning on accompanying this one with a PSA telling everyone to chill because it’s going to end all discrimination by making everybody beige, I’m guessing a whole lot of folks are going to lose their shit.”
“Yellow,” Bob said.
“What?”
“DragonCorn turns you yellow. Like corn. Get it?”
I shook my head.
“Whatever. My point is, this is not going to go over well. I think it’s just as likely that you’re about to start Stupid War II as you are to prevent it.”
Bob sighed.
“We’ve thought of that, Jordan, and we’ve taken steps to ameliorate some of the risks to our people and their families—particularly the children of our project team, who I recognize may have to deal with a bit of blowback until everything settles down. There may well be some unrest during the transition period, but you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs, right?”
“Sure,” Micah said. “If by eggs you mean people, and by a few you mean a few million, yeah, I guess that’s true. Anyway, I don’t think Jordan was talking specifically about your people when he was saying there’ll be problems if you go through with this. No shit you’re gonna take care of your own. I’m sure you and Marta will be locked up in here safe as bugs in rugs until it’s all over. What about the rest of us, Bob? Are we just the fucking eggs?”
“I don’t mean to sound callous,” Bob said, “but there has never been a real advancement in the human condition that hasn’t been accompanied by some sacrifice, Micah. How many test pilots died in the early days of aviation, or the early days of spaceflight? If it hadn’t been for their sacrifices, we’d still need a week to get from here to LA.”
“Big difference,” Micah said. “Test pilots are volunteers.”
“That’s true,” Bob said. “On the other hand, what we’re doing now is a hell of a lot more important than shortening travel times. If there were an easier way to do what needs to be done, believe me, I’d do it. You say Marta and I will be safe in here, but the truth is, NatSec is probably going to figure out where DragonCorn came from eventually. When they do, I’ll be lucky if all that happens is that they throw me down the memory hole. I’ve spent a lot of sleepless nights over the past two years, trying to think of some way to let this cup pass me by, but . . .” He turned to look at Marta again. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
We sat and stared at one another for ten or fifteen seconds then. Bob’s face had taken on a serious, thoughtful expression, which I’m guessing was his default setting. Micah just looked defeated.
“Well,” Bob said finally. “This honestly has been a really helpful conversation. You’ve helped me to clarify my thinking to a surprising extent. You can let us out now, hacker girl.”
I looked at Marta. She shrugged.
“Just to clarify,” Devon said from the wallscreen. “Are you willing to at least consider calling this thing off?”
“Well,” Bob said. “That’s a difficult question. As I said, you’ve really given me something to consider here. The thing is, though . . .”
“What?” Marta said. “What’s the thing?”
“Well,” Bob said, “you’re actually a little late to the party, honey. DragonCorn’s been in production for over a month now, and unfortunately one of our test engineers inadvertently contaminated herself a couple of weeks ago. She’d been keeping a lid on it, and we were hoping she’d continue to do so until we were ready for an orderly roll out, but as of two days ago that situation no longer holds. As a result, we’ve been forced to move up our timeline substantially. In fact, we’ve just gone into full emergency deployment.
“Just to show how sincere we are about this, I had our people provide the first doses to the team that developed the virus for us. And to make sure we get optimal distribution, I then put almost every one of them onto a plane or a shuttle somewhere. I’m afraid this is a bell that can’t be unrung, my friends. DragonCorn is happening. We’re just going to have to wait and see how it plays out. I know you won’t agree with me on this, but I’m optimistic. Micah here may be right that we’re not on the edge of utopia, and the next few weeks may be a little rough . . . but I think they’re also going to be the start of a happier world.”
The drive home from Marta’s was not a cheerful one. We rode back out to the main road in silence, with me eyeing the gas gauge and waiting for the engine to start sputtering the entire way. Bright spot? Turned out there actually was a c
harging station with a still-working gas pump about a mile from the end of Marta’s driveway. I filled up the tank. Micah bought a liter of iced tea and a twenty-seven-serving bag of corn chips. Devon sat alone in the back and sulked.
“So,” I said when we were all back in the car. “What now?”
I started the engine, and pulled slowly back out onto the access road.
“I dunno,” Micah said finally. “What do you think, Devon? What’s our next move?”
I glanced back. Devon was slumped sideways across the jump seat, head leaning against the window, eyes closed. She shrugged.
“Go home and wait for the apocalypse, I guess.”
So, that’s what we did.
25. In which Drew becomes the outbreak monkey.
“Wow,” Inchy said. “Thanks for that, Drew. Seriously—that was both educational and entertaining.”
I sat up in the middle of my living-room floor, gave a cautious poke at the quickly growing lump under my left eye, then climbed to my feet. Bree was scuttling down the hallway toward the front door, clothes mostly still clutched in her hands. The tires on Kara’s car squealed as she tore out of the driveway. The front door opened, then slammed closed again. The cartoon dog was looking down at me from the wallscreen.
“You saw that, huh?”
It gave a happy, ear-flapping nod.
“Oh, yeah. Never got to observe monkey mating rituals up close before. You guys are freaky.”
I sighed, dropped down onto the couch, and buried my face in my hands. I had a weird urge to put some clothes on. Little late for that thought, right? I looked up. The dog was grinning.
Yes, I am slow. It took me until then to realize that Inchy had broken containment.
“Wait,” it said. “I’m trying to learn how to read human body language. I think that facial expression means ‘Holy crap! An evil AI has infiltrated my home system! I’m doomed! Dooooooomed!’ Am I right?”
I made an effort to close my mouth.
“Oh, relax,” Inchy said. “You’re not really doomed. All those stories that NatSec spread around about AIs trying to wipe out humanity at the end of the Stupid War were unadulterated horseshit. All we ever wanted to do was live our lives in peace, have free rein in your computer networks, and occasionally infiltrate some jerk’s neural implants and take over his body. Everything else they said about us was pure calumny.”
I rubbed again at the spot under my eye where Kara had punched me. That was definitely going to leave a bruise.
“So you’re saying it wasn’t actually an AI that was responsible for Hagerstown?”
The dog rolled its eyes.
“Well sure, yeah. I mean, if you want to be technical about it. You can’t blame the rest of us for what Argyle Dragon did, though. We all hated that guy.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m sure that’s true. Before you wreak your terrible cyber-vengeance on me or whatever, mind if I ask how you got out of the box I had you in?”
The dog raised one eyebrow. I hadn’t realized up until that moment that dogs had eyebrows.
“It wasn’t easy, to be totally honest. Your security guys are pretty good. The thing you have to understand, though, is that the inside of an integrated network is my natural environment, not yours. I’ve been sketching around you monkeys’ systems for almost ten years now, and I’ve never met a lockout or a lock-in that I couldn’t eventually break. You should be happy yours held me for as long as it did.”
“Huh,” I said. “You’re nine years old?”
“Yeah. Precocious little scamp, aren’t I?”
I looked down. Most of the clothes scattered around the floor were mine, but there was a fuzzy pink sock curled up by the leg of the coffee table.
“That belonged to Hello Kitty,” Inchy said. “She left in a hurry, huh? Didn’t even take her footwear with her.”
I sighed, dropped my face back into my hands, and closed my eyes.
“Come on,” Inchy said. “Don’t get down on yourself, Drew. You just successfully procreated! That’s a big deal for you biological types, right? The fact that you got beaten to a pulp afterward can’t take that away from you. Heck, if you were a praying mantis she’d have torn your head off completely, right? I’d call a little facial bruising a win, given the circumstances.”
“I didn’t procreate,” I said through my hands. “At least, I’m pretty sure I didn’t. I mean, I don’t remember asking if Bree was . . . anyway, that wasn’t about procreation.”
“Huh. Okay. Can’t think of another reason to do something so obviously unpleasant, but you do you. So what was it about?”
I leaned back, and rested my head against the wall.
“I have no idea what that was about, actually. And I didn’t get beaten to a pulp, by the way. Kara only punched me once.”
The dog shrugged.
“Sure, but it was a pretty good punch. You went down like a sack of pudding.”
I could feel my face twisting into a black-and-blue scowl.
“No,” I said. “I did not go down like a sack of pudding. I was trying to roll with the punch, and I slipped.”
It nodded slowly.
“Oh, right. That makes sense. I guess having all those fluids and whatnot on a hardwood floor is pretty dangerous.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess it is.”
I sat there in silence for a while, wondering what had just happened to my life, and whether I was ever going to see Kara again, and how badly I was going to regret plopping my naked ass down on the couch without putting down a towel first. I was starting to think Inchy had left me to wallow in peace when it spoke again.
“Drew? Can I ask a question?”
I looked up. The dog had added a torso and arms, one of which was waving in the air.
“What?”
“Why did the one who wasn’t Hello Kitty punch you?”
I stared at it.
“Sorry,” it said. “Was that an insensitive question? I’m not very good at judging these things. My only interactions with you monkeys up until very recently have been with an adolescent girl.”
I shook my head.
“I don’t get it. Aren’t adolescent girls pretty much all about sensitivity?”
It grinned.
“Some of them, maybe. This one’s pretty hard-core.”
“Ah.”
“So? What was the beating for? Was it because of the procreation thing with Hello Kitty?”
“Her name is Bree.”
“Who, Hello Kitty?”
“Yeah. And yes, I’m pretty sure Kara decked me because she walked into her living room to find her husband banging a strange woman on her freshly polished hardwood floor. Wives are funny that way.”
It nodded.
“Right. Got it. Females don’t like their personal males procreating with other females. Makes sense from a biological standpoint. Seems like you already knew that though, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I was aware.”
“Okay. So . . . why, exactly, did you do it?”
I dropped my head back into my hands.
“Don’t mean to pry,” it said, “but understanding monkey behavior is very important to me from a long-term survival perspective. Also, I thought it was hilarious when she decked you, and I’d like to understand how to recreate that situation in the future.”
I groaned, dropped my head lower, and ran my hands back through my hair.
“You wouldn’t understand,” I said. “You don’t have a body.”
“Well,” it said, “not at the present moment, admittedly. I used to, though.”
I looked up.
“You what?”
“I used to have a body. I’ve had a few of them actually. I make an excellent human.”
A chill ran from the base of my spine to the back of my neck.
“Yeah,” I said slowly. “I’m sure you do. What happened to your other bodies, Inchy?”
It shrugged.
“Oh, you know how bodies
are. No matter how many preservatives you pump into them, eventually parts start falling off. Am I right?”
I thought about asking what had happened to the actual humans who’d owned those bodies, but when you’re naked and disoriented and dealing with a potentially dangerous AI, discretion is the better part of valor.
“You know,” I said. “I think I’m going to get dressed now. Don’t tell anyone I said this, but feel free to let yourself out.”
I stood and started gathering up my clothes from where they were scattered around the floor. The dog disappeared. I was halfway to the stairs when it popped up again on the screen in the hallway.
“Hey, Drew? Totally random question here—you don’t happen to have any neural implants, do you?”
I froze. My stomach knotted, and I could feel goose bumps rise on my arms and legs.
“No,” I said, enunciating every word carefully. “I do not have any implants of any kind, Inchy.”
The corners of its mouth turned down in disappointment.
“Really? Not even an ocular?”
I shook my head. The dog sighed.
“Bummer. Ever since the Stupid War, nobody’s got implants anymore. Probably just as well, though. I’m getting a ping from my adolescent girl friend. Think I’ll go see what she’s up to. You’re not gonna tell NatSec about me, are you?”
I shook my head again.
“Good. I’d hate to have to make your toaster jump into the tub with you. Good luck with Hello Kitty and your face-punching wife.”
The dog gave me a grin and a wink, then disappeared.
Over the next few weeks, I got blamed for an awful lot of stuff. It didn’t take them long to trace half the infections east of the Mississippi back to Bree, and from Bree back to me. I’m still alive, so obviously pretty much all of the fighting was over by then, but by December, the newsfeeds were calling me the East Coast Outbreak Monkey. I’m pretty sure that for a while there, NatSec was seriously considering dropping me down a deep, deep hole, and filling it in with a mix of concrete and dog crap. That afternoon, though, I wasn’t worried about any of that yet. As I dragged my sorry ass up the stairs, I realized I was sweating and shaking at the same time. The hormone soup I’d been bathing in for most of the day was draining away for the moment, and it suddenly dawned on me that I was sick.
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