“I meant in the preserve,” he says.
I blink. I hold my breath.
“With the drone,” he adds, like I could have forgotten. But I did black out, so maybe I did forget some of it. I touch the back of my head. It’s tender but not too bad.
“Gene says you don’t have a concussion. Just take it easy and you’ll be fine.”
I look around again. “Gene?”
“Me,” a friendly man’s voice greets me. “I’m the family AI.”
Ah. Of course. I’m not sure I’m ready to let another AI into my life. “Hi, Gene,” I mumble.
“Gene is just my nickname,” he continues. “I’m the first member of T-Six’s Generation E of artificial intelligence. And Generation E eventually got shortened to Gen-E. Which became Gene. Get it?”
Gene is not the first word Gen-E. sounds like. “Not genie?” I ask.
The AI laughs.
“I told you,” the guy says, throwing his hands up in the air. “I told you it was a better name!” He turns to me, smiling wide. “Genie felt like the perfect name. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be Aladdin? But then he started calling me ‘master’ and it creeped me out. So we settled on Gene instead.”
He starts laughing and I find myself laughing too. It feels good. Surprisingly good, if I’m honest.
I’m also blown away by Gene. It’s about the only thing that could take my attention from my new blond friend. People have had voice assistants in their homes for years, but they have always been poor facsimiles of what T-Six has created. I can tell immediately though that Gene is top of the line. And Generation E… wow. When I was at T-Six Generation B (like Lara-B, I remember) had already been out in the world for a year or two. And my internship was focused on programming updates to the C generation. D was only in planning stages. So E…E must be years ahead of its time. The first member of that generation should be the most valuable AI on the market. Who would pay so much for tomorrow’s technology just to waste it as a mere family AI?
“I’m Keir,” the blond tells me and I bring my eyes back to his.
I nod and smile. “Pen.”
“Penny Davis,” Gene corrects.
My heart rate spikes. How does he know my full name? The back of my head starts to throb like I just landed on another rock.
“Give it a rest, Gene,” Keir says.
“Your wish is my command…” Gene says, “master.”
Keir rolls his eyes at me and scoots his chair closer to the bed.
“How does he know my name?” I ask.
Keir smiles. “He’s pretty sharp. But you probably figured that out.”
“Yeah, I managed that much. AIs still need data, though.”
Keir nods. “You’re right. He read your DNA.”
“You stole my DNA!” I exclaim. I rub my fingers together looking for a telltale sign of a blood draw but there’s nothing.
“He didn’t violate your privacy,” Keir says. “He got it from loose skin cells of yours floating in the air. Fully legal. Then he compared that with T-Six employment records and government tax records—well, your dad’s taxes, since you’re his dependent. And all the public data out there about you.”
I purse my lips. “You have access to my employment records? To tax records?”
“He’s Generation E. He can get pretty much whatever I ask for.”
“Like a real genie,” I murmur. “And what question did you ask that made him so willing to check all those places to find the answer?”
“‘Who is this pretty girl in my bed?’” Keir says, that wry smile back on his face.
I snort—despite myself—and look away. I hope I’m not blushing.
“And,” Keir continues, “was she really behind the wheel when the semitruck rammed through the wall of a casino?”
“What casino?” I ask, playing dumb.
Now it’s his turn to snort. “I’m not the police, Pen. You don’t have to pretend.”
I don’t say anything.
“Fine,” he says, nodding. “I get it. Play it safe. Gene is pretty sure that it was you in the truck that busted out of the casino. If they can capture the truck, they’ll probably be able to prove you were behind it. They can ask for the video records and DNA evidence that Gene’s collected. But so far, we don’t think they’ve identified you.”
“Wait,” I say. “They didn’t get the truck?” I picture the way the drones were circling in on James and Lara-B. How could they not have gotten them?
Keir looks momentarily troubled. “Gene doesn’t actually know for sure what happened. For now, at least, he’s lost track of the truck.”
“Wouldn’t it be announced publicly if the police had successfully gotten it? Or at least a form filled out somewhere. I mean, if Gene can read my dad’s tax records, why not a police report?”
“Yes. But so far, no word on what happened. Which he thinks is unusual and so do I.”
My heart suddenly goes out to James. What are they going to do to him if they catch him? Do they have him now? I can’t imagine how Lara-B could have possibly escaped. But the fact that Gene can’t confirm she was caught gives me a slim hope.
As I picture them, there’s a part of me that thinks I should have been on the truck. We were in it together. Like the three musketeers—all for one and one for all. But then I went and screwed it up, probably several times. It makes me want to be in the foxhole with them.
But there’s another part, maybe the larger part, the part closer to the center, that is relieved I escaped. Not through any skill of my own. I get that. It was dumb luck that I wasn’t on the truck. It was dumb luck in the preserve that…well, actually, how did I escape the drone on the trail? Luck isn’t enough to explain how I got out of that one. That drone had me dead to rights.
In the silence, I bite my lip. “What did happen in the preserve? How did…” I trail off.
“How did you end up here?” Keir asks. Again, his face looks like it’s all a big joke, but one I’m invited to share with him.
“Yes.”
“I run in the preserve almost every day. I was just nearing the end of my regular route when I heard the drones. Right as I turned into a clearing, I saw that drone sink behind a bush, almost right in front of me. I rushed over to see what was happening.”
I remember now. “The commotion in the bushes. That was you.”
He nods. “I practically had to dive through a bush. I didn’t actually end up doing much—I got stuck in the bush like an idiot. But I had a connection to Gene on my phone and he did all the hard work. He interfaced with that drone almost immediately. He’s the real hero.”
“Uh, thanks, Gene.”
“Keir directed me to help,” Gene says.
I want to thank Keir, but he sees it coming and waves it away. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t like strong-arm tactics.”
“What did Gene do to get rid of the drone?”
“He told it that it was trespassing on T-Six’s private property. Even though it was hovering, and not technically on the land, Gene used some legal mumbo jumbo—”
“Air rights,” Gene cuts in.
“Yeah, that. Air rights,” Keir continues. “To give a trespass order to the drone. The drone must have decided it was risking a lawsuit after it had been officially warned. It was enough to stop its programmed mission. It headed out after the truck. Once it was gone, I came over to check if you were ok. You weren’t dead, that’s about all I could tell. But Gene said you’d just knocked yourself out, so I took you out of the preserve the other way and brought you here.”
“How long ago was all that?”
“Not even an hour ago.”
My eyes widen. I try to picture what Lara-B and James are up to now.
Keir pats my knee through the duvet and I sense that his fingers want to linger. “That’s probably a lot to digest. I’ll give you a break. Come downstairs when you’re up for it and I’ll have lunch ready.”
I’m hungry but more than that, I hav
e to pee. I take care of that as soon as he’s gone.
I also check my bag. I can’t tell if he’s gone through it or not. Everything looks normal, but who knows. And even if he did, he’d probably say he had some good reason for it, like figuring out my name or something. I find my phone and there’s a series of texts from my dad. They are from a few hours before, probably when I was in the mountains and not getting service. But the more time passes without me replying, the more frequent his texts. I can tell he’s getting nervous. He must have some weird sixth sense about when I’m in trouble. The last text was sent less than ten minutes ago. It reads:
A penny saved…
I groan. I can’t believe he’s pulling that out now. Growing up with just my dad at home, he went through a brief Serious Parent phase about halfway through my freshman year of high school. It was like, up until then he had forgotten boys would be interested in me, but then he suddenly remembered and tried to address it all at once.
So he created a code. And made me swear that no matter what was going on between us, no matter what fight we were having, no matter how angry we were at each other, that this code was serious. If I needed help, I could ask for it by texting him a code phrase. And if he was ever worried, he could text me the same code phrase.
A penny saved…
For anyone who knows the proverb, the natural reply would be is a penny earned. Except that’s not the “safe reply.” If I were to text that back to him right now, he would know something was seriously wrong. That’s code for “I’ve been taken hostage, call the cops” basically. But if I’m ok, my reply to A penny saved is supposed to be is what they’d call me if I found Jesus!
Which, c’mon. It’s terrible. I think the idea was that we would be like spies in one of the Cold War movies he liked. Some guy in Budapest sits down at a table and says, “The ducks are calling in the pond.” And then some other guy responds, “But only during a full moon.” And then they’d know they’ve met the right person. Say the wrong thing, and he’s probably a Soviet or something. Dad came up with it to make something that was a big deal feel more like a game instead.
I tried to tell him it was stupid. But he was so eager when he came up with it that it was hard to say no. He was being an active parent! (Suddenly.) So I agreed. In the years since then, I’d never asked him for help. But every time he ever texted me A penny saved I took it seriously. And I’d always given him the “I’m safe” reply back.
As I stare at my phone, though, I can’t help but wonder…is this finally the time to throw up the Bat Signal? I have no money. Apparently, I’m wanted for questioning in Las Vegas. The only person who is looking out for me is gone, likely in custody—or soon to be. And I’m in the bedroom of a total stranger whose intentions are still…unclear. (Sure, so far Keir has been a gentleman. But waking up in his bed under the watchful eye of him and Gene is right on the edge of creepy. Probably just over it, though, I can’t decide for sure. On the one hand, he rescued me. On the other hand, there’s something…odd about the whole thing. But on the other other hand, he’s handsome and staying here would solve all my money problems. Which is a strong argument for a third hand.)
Keir notwithstanding, it’s pretty clear—even to stubborn ol’ me—that I’m in over my head.
I type in is a penny earned.
I could use someone parachuting in to save me. But I can’t bring myself to press send. My thumb hovers over the little blue button on my phone screen. It stays there, ready. So close to tapping.
But finally, I move my thumb away from the button and start deleting the text. Because the truth is, I’ve been in over my head since I jumped in front of Lara-B. Maybe since I walked out of my dad’s office on the morning of my birthday. Calling for help now is…failure. And I can’t go back home like that.
I think about just ignoring my dad’s text but I relent. He’s sufficiently impressed upon me how important this is, and I guess somewhere inside, I still take it seriously. I send the reply that means everything is fine and I slip my phone back into my bag.
Then I turn my attention to really exploring the palatial bedroom…the cavernous bathroom…the shower and bath that could be its own grotto. I can’t quite believe that anyone can truly live in a house like this.
Down the spiral staircase, I find the kitchen is—surprisingly—small and cozy. Like a French bistro, all white subway titles, black accents, and silver and copper pots. Keir is setting out two plates of food for us. Two bowls of salad with a couple thin slices of rare steak on it.
“Gene says the red meat will help,” he tells me. And then before I can say anything, “Don’t ask me why, I’m not a super computer.”
“Thanks. You made this?” I ask, looking over his shoulder at the pristine kitchen behind him.
He laughs as we sit. “Hardly. This kitchen is mostly just for show. The only people who ever eat in here are Mom or me. The real kitchen, where they make the food, is two floors below. It’s a lot bigger since we entertain so often. Last weekend, we served four hundred in the ballroom.”
“Four hundred?” I ask, my fork paused midair. “Ballroom?”
He shrugs. “Some fundraiser for a senator or something. It was super lame.”
I look around the room again.
And the pieces start to come together.
The way Keir runs in the preserve every day… Gene was able to give a trespass order on T-Six land to the drone… He’s attending fundraisers for senators…
“You work for T-Six,” I say.
His face recoils. “Hardly.”
But of course he doesn’t. I know it practically as soon as the words are out of my mouth. This place isn’t his. Guys my age, or even a couple years older, like he is, don’t host parties in ballrooms, even if they become mega rich.
The only people who ever eat in here are Mom or me…
I put my fork down. “You have a top-of-the-line AI as your family assistant. A generation that’s not even on the market yet.”
He smirks. “It’s true.”
“Let me take a wild guess. Keir…Irons?”
He holds his hands up like I’m pointing a gun at him. “Guilty, officer.”
“And that means your mom is—”
The door opens and a woman walks toward us, her heels clicking on the tile floor. “Hi, Keir. Who’s your friend?”
I can’t believe I went through all that just to land in the home of Ainsley Irons, the CEO of T-Six, my former boss, and the woman who laid me off.
Twelve
Ainsley puts a hand on Keir’s shoulder as she looks calmly at our meal and at me.
I’m stupefied. Literally stupefied to find this woman in front of me.
How many times did I see her when I was an intern at T-Six? I try to remember.
Probably two weeks into my internship, I passed a glass wall where I saw her standing in front of a conference table on the other side.
About a month after that, when the workforce was already in the process of being reduced, I was in the conference room during a meeting, except I wasn’t actually at the table. The team leader of the intern programmers was. I, on the other hand, was in a rickety chair against the wall, invited to the meeting because I guess they thought it would be a privilege or a dreaded “learning opportunity.” Mostly I spent the meeting angrily calculating how little it would have cost the world’s most valuable company to put decent chairs in the room for the interns. I don’t remember what anyone said.
I only interacted directly with Ainsley Irons once. By that point, my team leader had been laid off. His team leader too. Some of the interns stopped coming in. There weren’t many of us left. Just senior management, and us.
Ainsley walked into the interns’ common area. By that point, we interns were basically unsupervised on a day-to-day basis. We were supposed to work at a big table together, elbow to elbow. But when everyone who had a cubicle was laid off, we took over their desks. Then at some point we realized that no one cared. No on
e was checking in on us. So we hauled couches into the common room from break rooms across the building and created a lounge. That’s where Ainsley found us—sunk low in couches, our feet up, and our computers on our laps. One of my sandals was dangling from my toe. The other was on the ground.
“Who are all of you?” Ainsley asked. “And what are you doing in my building?”
Everyone in the room froze. Clearly, no one had noticed her enter—too engrossed in our code or listening to headphones to hear her heels clicking on the floor. And then we all scrambled upright. I had to sort of lunge into a roll to get off the couch. By the time I was standing, my sandal had somehow ended up two couch cushions away from me.
Looking around, I realized what a sorry state we were in, even by the standards of Silicon Valley’s notoriously lax dress code.
“Well?” Ainsley demanded. There was something of a challenge in her voice.
“We’re interns, Ms. Irons,” I said, stepping forward after a moment of awkward silence.
“Interns?” She rolled her eyes skyward. “Lord help me.” When she looked us over again, her face was all plastic-y—the same expression I would later see on her face during her televised press conference. Her voice was saccharine sweet. “I regret to tell you this. Brian should have told you…before he was let go, I guess. But we’re closing the intern program—effective immediately. Well, effective a few months ago, actually.” She looked puzzled. “Haven’t you all stopped getting paid by now?”
There were some troubled glances between the interns. But most looked at me since I was the one who had stepped forward. “I’m supposed to get a stipend every six months,” I answered, although I hated to say it because I knew that we didn’t all have the same deal. “But the rest of the interns are just getting college credit.”
“Will we still get our credits?” another intern asked, his voice high and sharp enough that Ainsley almost did a double take.
“I have no idea,” she answered. “You’ll have to talk to HR.”
“There’s no one left in HR,” I said, an octave lower than the panicked intern, but still forceful enough to get her focus back to me. “There’s no one left anywhere outside the executive suites. And we’re not disposable. We actually think we’ve discovered a pretty serious security flaw in the administrative permissions code.”
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