“That’s crap!” Martin said. “You’re a kid. You’re not supposed to save the world. You’re supposed to”—he searched through his memory for girl things—“carry around breath mints and try out weird colors of eye shadow and whisper with your friends and stuff.”
William wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her T-shirt. “That’s easy for you to say.”
It was easy for him to say. He knew it as soon as she said it. He hadn’t had to watch the rest of his class die around him until he was the last one standing. He remembered taking tests and tried to imagine that his life had been on the line. Or David’s life. Or Matt’s.
“Is that what it’s gonna be like for Cassie now? Locked in a room, taking tests to see who makes it to dinner?”
“Oh, no,” William said. “Rudy stopped all that when he was named deputy. No more competitive studies; that’s his rule. He isn’t like you said he is. That’s what I was trying to tell you.”
“Yeah, I know,” Martin muttered. “It’s just, I thought he was a hero. I wish my heroes would quit turning into regular people.”
The sound from the rails changed abruptly, from soft to very loud. “I think we’re in a tunnel,” Martin said.
William shifted uneasily. “Central’s packet bay.”
The car slowed down, then rolled to a stop. Zebulon came to pull Martin to his feet.
“Time to go, kid,” he said. “Sorry about this, but better you than me.”
Martin shuffled out of the little cell. In the big room, Abel had Chip’s oval pancake under one arm, and the sight of Martin’s denatured dog upset him even further.
Rudy clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“No touching, sir,” Zebulon reminded him.
“We’re walking together,” Rudy said to Martin as he removed his hand. “Before I surrender the location of the Wonder Babies, I’ve asked to meet with the President. It’s one of the privileges of a lab head, and I thought now was a good time to exercise it.”
“I’d like to talk to the President,” Martin muttered. “I’d tell him what’s wrong with this place.”
“Would you?” Rudy said. “Because I’ve asked for you to join us, and the President has already agreed.”
A faint spark of hope kindled in Martin. The President had been part of his family every day for as long as Martin could remember. The President cared so much about them. He wouldn’t let anybody execute a kid for being a kid.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll go if you let me talk. I wanna tell him all the stuff that needs to be fixed around here.”
Rudy smiled at his fierce scowl. “That’s just what I think you should do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
They climbed down from the packet car into a somber, cavernous space paneled in black marble. The distant ceiling was also black, coffered into big deep squares. Inconspicuous pinpoints of artificial light shone down from it, as impersonal as the stars. The enormous space looked gloomy, but Martin could make out every detail on the uniforms of the military bots who advanced in formation to intercept them, from their deep blue coats to the bright red flash of their ribbons.
Lining the walls were squared-off black columns arranged in pairs. They carried shallow triangular pediments across their tops. Each set of columns looked to Martin like an enormous front doorway, as if he stood on a huge street lined with porches built for giants. Their bases were higher than his head.
“Doesn’t it make you feel small?” William whispered to him. Zebulon immediately pushed her back.
“No fraternizing, ma’am. We don’t want trouble.”
Martin felt worse than small. He felt insignificant. And the floor continued the impression. It was laid out in a crossways checkerboard of black-and-white diamond shapes, but each tile was at least ten feet across. Traversing them, Martin felt as if a giant shoe might come down from the heavens and crush him like a bug.
The platoon of gray-faced bots arrived and conferred briefly with Zebulon. Two soldiers tried to lead William away.
“No! She’s my assistant,” Rudy said sharply. “She stays with me.”
The officer made them wait while he communicated with his superiors. Then the soldiers formed a protective square around the entire party and marched them across the packet bay.
Ahead of them blazed an orgy of gold. Massive gilded banisters sloped down to the black-and-white floor, and enormous gold steps rose up between them. The columns on either side of the stairway and the triangular pediment across the top were gilded as well—an enormous golden porch. A sparkling chandelier hanging in the huge doorway struck such radiance from the gleaming surfaces that they shone out like a sunrise. A thirty-foot-tall titan could have walked up those steps without ducking his head.
Next to the banister stood a green metal woman two or three stories high, with a long green robe on and spikes around her head. She held up a torch that carried an orange glass flame and frowned sternly out at the incoming packets. As they walked by, Martin read the inscription on her base: I LIFT MY LAMP BESIDE THE GOLDEN DOOR.
“It didn’t used to mean that,” Rudy said sadly. But Martin didn’t know what else it could mean.
Regular stairs had been cut into the enormous ones, three steps to each gigantic gold block. They had looked tiny from a distance, but Martin had to lift his knees high to climb them. Beside him, the agents puffed with the effort, and the military bots had to pause and adjust their steps to match.
The entrance hall was only slightly less enormous than the packet bay had been. A parade of heroic murals covered the high walls from ceiling to floor. Titanic figures in bizarre clothing struggled with one another as mobs surged around them. Men with solemn faces addressed assemblies of stonefaced elders while fighting raged outside. Martin tried to get some idea of what the paintings meant, but none of them corresponded to things he knew. The fighting mobs weren’t wearing designer colors or carrying fancy weapons like they did in the game show world.
Brass and colored mosaic were underfoot now. He was walking across a large round seal. Beside him, Abel clutched Chip’s pancake of silver gel to his chest as if it were a shield. On his other side, Zebulon tramped along, poker-faced, as grave as the serious men in the murals. William was pale. Rudy noticed Martin glancing back and gave him a reassuring smile.
They came out under a blue rotunda. Its ribbed dome was covered with painted clouds. In the center of the rotunda stood a huge white marble statue of a man. He frowned down upon them and held up a bronze tablet deeply etched with a blueprint of a dome. Gilded letters across his base proclaimed him THE SAVIOR OF OUR NATION. Several marble children clung to his legs, gazing up at him trustingly.
Martin looked up at the empty white eyeballs of the marble man and thought he was going to be sick.
“This way,” Zebulon muttered, catching him by the arm, and they turned down one of the hallways that radiated out from the rotunda. Their military escort stopped at a pair of brass doors and knocked on them with a hollow bong. When the doors opened, the soldiers swung out of the way two by two. Zebulon gave Martin a shove, and he stumbled in.
The first thing he saw, against the far wall, was the President’s podium. Behind it ranged the line of draped flags. They glowed with color in the dim room, illuminated by a series of stage lights. A black tangle of camera equipment clustered before them.
Martin stopped and glanced around instinctively for his living room. He couldn’t be here, not really, not in person, on the other side of the television screen.
Aside from the burst of magnificence around the podium, the big room was dreary and bare, with dull gray carpet loops and nondescript stucco walls. A fat leather armchair sat to one side of the camera equipment. Against the other wall stood a plain straight-backed kitchen chair, with not even a cushion to pad it.
On that chair sat the President, with his hands on his knees. He stood up as they entered and came forward to meet them, a tremulous smile on his lips.
&n
bsp; Martin glanced around for guidance. Zebulon and Abel appeared to be attempting to blend in with the gray carpeting. William was looking around in confusion. Rudy caught his eye and nodded, so he stepped forward and cleared his throat.
“Mr. President, I need to talk to you.”
The President stopped right in front of him, surveying him with that same earnest gaze that Martin had grown up associating with coffee smells and the blinking YES or NO of the television input screen. Go on, the dark eyes prompted him. I’m here for my citizens, and that means you.
“Look, I don’t wanna shock you,” Martin said. “But things have gotten a little out of hand here. I got this dog for my birthday, and he got me in a lot of trouble because they say he’s a fake. Not that he’s not a dog. He is. Chip’s a great dog.” He pointed at Chip’s pancake of gel, with its ragged slash from Zebulon’s pocketknife. “They say they demolish bots like him, but Chip tries to do the right thing. Do you think it’s fair to kill him just for trying to be a good dog?”
The President stepped over to Abel and gently lifted the oval away. Then he set it down on the floor. The dark reset chip clung to its shimmering surface like a stylized wood tick.
“Mr. President,” Zebulon began. “Sir, it’s not advisable— Maybe it’d be best—”
The President silenced him with a look. Then he plucked off the reset chip.
The gel trembled, rippled, pulsated faster and faster until it resembled a penny spinning on its edge. Then it burst with sudden swiftness into the shape of a German shepherd, who crouched down against the floor with a frightened howl.
“Chip!” Martin cried. “Chip, it’s all right!”
Zebulon grabbed Martin’s upper arm. “Abel! Call for backup.” But the President froze Abel where he stood with another pointed look.
Trembling all over, Chip slunk to Martin’s side. Martin bent down to stroke his dog, and no one tried to stop him.
“Thanks, Mr. President,” he gulped. “Really, sir, really, thanks a lot. I guess that’s one problem solved, but there’s a whole lot more. For starters, I’m supposed to be executed for breaking the Secretary of State’s hand. And then there’s Mom and Dad. They may already be—I mean, I think they’re still alive, but I don’t know for sure. See, I wanted them to see what it’s like outside because it’s just great outside—have you been there? So Mom and Dad came outside with me, and just for that, they put them on a game show.”
Martin felt a burst of righteous indignation.
“And let’s talk about that game show for a minute. Mom and Dad don’t know there are cameras sneaking around and picking up what they say. And that’s not fair. I mean, that’s private. The whole world is watching them hold hands and kiss, and they don’t even know. I don’t think you should let them do that to people, even if they have to die. Mom and Dad voted every day when you asked them to, and they thought you were looking after them. Like you say in your speeches, you look after the weak and helpless people so we can all be strong together.”
He paused, confused. The President was still watching him gravely. Adults didn’t listen to him. They interrupted him and talked over him at once.
He fell silent. But the President was still silent. Martin didn’t know what to do.
“I mean, that’s right, isn’t it?” he continued desperately. “So . . . isn’t there anything you want to say?”
“If you’re waiting for him to talk, you’ll wait a long time.”
They all turned, and Martin saw Agent Abel’s face blanch with fear. The Secretary of State lounged in the fat leather armchair now, with the twelve Ursulas clustered around him. Martin didn’t know how they could have come in so quietly. Maybe the room had a trapdoor or a trick wall.
“That was very entertaining,” the Secretary murmured. He leaned back in his chair, and Ursula handed him his cup of coffee. “But it isn’t going to do you the slightest bit of good. Your President only talks to me.”
The President stood with his head down now, staring at his fine leather shoes. The Secretary of State chuckled.
“He’s just a bot. A modified bot, in fact. He’s not allowed to leave this room. He gives the orders I tell him to and reads the speeches I write, and that’s about all he’s good for.”
“How could he be modified?” Rudy asked mildly. “Those bots are produced in an automated plant.”
The Secretary smiled broadly. “My people got to him the minute he walked out their door. He has a secondary board, and it limits the group he serves to a population of one. I am your President’s entire nation. My happiness is all that matters.”
The President looked up from his shoes, and his eyes were anguished. Martin felt a flash of anger twist through him. The President was a victim, just like they all were, and Martin was tired of meeting victims.
“You’d never know to look at him, though,” the Secretary purred. “That worsted wool suit does inspire confidence, doesn’t it? I designed the look myself. So, Dr. Rudolph Church, brand-new laboratory head, I have an execution to plan, and you have experiments to conduct. What was it you wanted to say to your President? Go ahead and get it off your chest.”
“I’m finished, Mr. Secretary,” Rudy said. “Martin here spoke for me. I can only agree with what he said—particularly about the strong serving the weak. Compassion lies at the heart of government: talented people using their special gifts to solve the problems of their citizens. It’s what every leader does, or what they should do.”
The Secretary of State glared at him.
“I thought you were supposed to be extraordinary,” he growled. “But you’re as naive as a schoolboy. I’m not interested in serving the weak. I scrape the weak off the soles of my shoes.”
Rudy smiled. “I have no doubt of that, sir. I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to him.” He pointed at the President. “And him.” He turned and looked at Chip. “And, gentlemen, I hope you were ready to listen.”
The President looked Rudy in the eye. He buttoned his coat and straightened to his full height, every inch the leader of the nation Martin had known from childhood. His gaze lingered on the magnificent podium, with its colorful backdrop of flags. Then he took a step toward the armchair.
“You’ve been cruel to me, Ron,” the President said, and although he spoke softly, his warm, rich voice filled the room. “You don’t know how cruel you’ve been. The only thing I wanted in all this was to spare my successor what I’ve been through. I didn’t mean to hurt you by it, and I knew you wouldn’t want to have to train a new President. I hid him in the suburbs. I didn’t think he would show up to jeopardize your happiness. And I didn’t mind the extra work.”
The Secretary sat bolt upright in his armchair. His fat eyelids opened wide.
“My term has been up for weeks,” the President said. “I’m tired, but I did it all for you. But he’s here now, Ron. I can’t do anything about that.”
The Secretary’s face turned brick red. “Ursula!” he bellowed.
Nervous, uncertain, head and tail down, Chip crept forward until he was at the President’s feet. He glanced back at Martin and thumped his tail. I wish you could tell me what to do, his dark eyes said.
“Ursula, get that dog out of here!” yelled the Secretary of State. “Are you listening? Did you hear me?”
“Our terms are both up, Ron,” the President said. “I’m ordering you to be transferred to the brain trust. It saves you from indictment or revenge, so I believe it’s for the best. For you, and for the nation I didn’t serve.”
He reached down and touched Chip on the head, and what happened next happened very quickly. The President shrank as Chip expanded, like a big drop of water sucked into a straw. In an instant, the President was gone, and Chip wobbled like an unsteady bubble. He solidified into a new man, a lanky man they’d never seen before, in a bulky black sport coat and tan corduroy trousers.
Beside him, where the President had stood, a pair of circuit boards clattered to the ground.
Martin seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. He could only stare.
Rudy laughed. “Who gives a free pass to a bot? It could only be another bot. No one else thinks about the feelings of a machine. And the orders came through at the highest level, too. Which bot gives orders at the highest level? The President, of course.
“Welcome, Mr. President. We’re looking forward to your new administration.”
“But—,” Martin whispered.
The Secretary of State collapsed back into the leather chair. His little eyes bulged, and his fat hands tugged at the knot of his tie.
The Ursulas moved in their morose, unhurried fashion to form a protective half circle around Chip. The one nearest to the front plucked Agent Abel out of line and pointed at Martin’s handcuffs.
“We think you should let him go,” she advised Abel, her eyes as patient and pessimistic as if he were a toddler whose potty training had gone awry.
“Urk!” gasped Abel, dangling helplessly in her hands. Zebulon released Martin, and the Ursula turned Abel loose.
“But—,” Martin said. He got no further. That appeared to be as far as his mind could go.
“Ding-dong! Hello in there. May we interrupt?”
A young man and two women flounced into the room. They were bots, of course; no one else could have such perfect skin. The young man wore a black tuxedo and a highly mobile expression. The two women wore little black dresses and high, strappy heels, and no expression at all.
“Attention! Attention!” the young man called, clapping. “Who is Mr. Ronald Bailey?”
The Secretary sat wheezing in his armchair. “Ursula,” he mumbled. The young man, turning in a circle to survey the room, quickly picked him out.
“Mr. Bailey!” he exclaimed, rushing up to the Secretary. “It is my great, great honor to inform you that you have been appointed to our nation’s brain trust. Girls! Get over here! Help him to his feet.”
The two female figures minced over to the Secretary of State. “Ursula,” he gurgled as he dropped his coffee cup in his lap. His face had turned dark purple.
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