The guards dropped their heads. “I told you, taking him seemed like the best way not to make a scene,” one of them mumbled. “Didn’t think you’d care—”
“And I told you, I’m not paying you to think.”
“Did your mother learn her gangster talk from watching the vids?” Jude whispered.
She cleared her throat, pointedly.
“What the hell is going on, Mom?”
“There’s something wrong about this whole situation, and that corp-town wasn’t safe for you,” she said.
“I’ve tried to assure your mother that her fears are misplaced,” Ben said. “But she won’t believe me.”
“The question isn’t whether I believe him,” my mother said, as if he weren’t there. So at least one thing hadn’t changed: She was still treating the help like dirt. “Living with your father, I’ve become quite skilled at knowing when people are lying. Your friend Ben here isn’t—he’s just ignorant. M. Poulet, on the other hand, is like your father. Nothing but lies, all the way down. And whatever’s going on there, I don’t want you to be a part of it.”
What about Zo? I almost said, but stopped myself. Because either she didn’t know Zo was there—in which case I wasn’t about to enlighten her—or she did know, and didn’t care. In which case she’d learned more from my father than the ability to spot a liar.
“Who are you?” I asked instead. “And what have you done with my mother?”
“I know what you think of me,” she said. “I played the part I had to play. I did my job. But think about it: Your father may treat me like a fool, but does he really seem the type to marry one?”
“Nobody’s saying you’re a … fool.” Not out loud, at least. Had I been imagining it? Had she been like this the whole time, and I hadn’t noticed? Or had she, for whatever perverse reason, spent the last seventeen years in hiding? “If you’re so good at seeing through bullshit, then I guess that means you knew all along? What he did? What BioMax ‘made’ him do?”
All the air went out of her. “No.”
“And when you found out, you didn’t see the need to do anything.”
“I stayed,” she said.
“Fucking right. You stayed.”
“Watch your language,” she said. “Yes, I stayed. That’s what I did. If he was capable of … what he did—”
“Murder his daughter,” I said loudly. “That’s what he did.”
“If he’s capable of that, he’s capable of anything.”
“You were watching him,” Jude guessed. “Guarding him.”
“Someone had to. Make sure he stayed in line. Make sure he stayed miserable.”
“Even if it meant you were miserable too,” Jude said.
“No more than she—” I stopped myself.
“Deserves?” my mother suggested.
Ben cleared his throat. “Give your mother a break.”
“Shut up, Ben.” The response came in chorus, my mother and me in sync.
“It doesn’t matter why I stayed,” my mother said. “I did. Which is how I knew it was time to help you.”
“I’ve tried to explain to your mother that she’s overreacting,” Ben said.
“Nothing unusual about that,” I agreed, fingering the vial of Amperin adhered to my upper arm. “Now that you’ve done your motherly duty, any chance you could drop us back where you found us?”
“You see, M. Kahn,” Ben said, “they’re perfectly happy to—”
“They’re children,” my mother snapped. “What makes them happy isn’t really my concern.”
“With all due respect, M. Kahn, I’m not your kid,” Jude said. “If you want me to contact my parents, I’m sure they’d be happy to take me off your hands.”
She laughed. “So I see you’ve told all your friends about your idiot mother, Lia.” She twisted around in her seat to get a better look at him. “You think I don’t know about you? That you came from nothing? That you have no parents? You think I didn’t learn everything I could about the person who stole my daughter right out from under me?”
“Jude didn’t steal me. I’m not some thing that belongs to you, like your stupid Chindian tea set.”
“You’ll be safe at home,” my mother said. “Both of you.”
“It won’t be for long,” Ben said. “I’m taking a tech crew out to one of the server ships on Sunday. They’re pretty sure they can cut off the virus at the root, restore the server integrity, and then all this will be behind us.”
“Always the optimist. You must—” I stopped, mouth open, the rest of the thought vanishing as his words registered, and everything clicked into place.
Sunday. As in the day that phase three would be put into action.
Because if it doesn’t happen now, we’ll have to wait another month.
For security reasons they sent launches to the server farms only once a month. It was the best way to minimize and control access. Everyone knew that.
“I must what?” Ben prodded, when I didn’t continue.
But I shook my head, gears turning. Sunday. So we had three days. Three days to figure out what they were planning to do at that server farm—and stop them.
“Forget it,” I said. “You’re in charge, right? We’re just children. Do whatever you have to do.”
“I will,” my mother said.
So would I.
The van pulled up to the estate. Jude had never seen it before. But I could tell, from the way he looked at me, that he’d just had all his suspicions confirmed. I was exactly the person he’d always thought I was: the poor little rich girl, doing what Mommy told her to do because it was easier than fighting back. He didn’t say a word to me, or to any of us, as the guard escorted him into the house. Ben caught hold of me before my guard and I could follow.
“I know you hate me,” he said quietly, keeping his eyes on my mother and his voice low enough to ensure she wouldn’t hear.
“I don’t have any feelings toward you one way or another. You’re irrelevant.”
“I wasn’t part of what the corp did to you,” Ben said. “I didn’t even know about it at first.”
“Even if I believed you, it doesn’t matter. And I don’t believe you.”
“We’ve done good things.” Ben sounded desperate. “This technology is a miracle. It can change everything. Artificial intelligence. Space exploration. Medical miracles. We’ve only just begun to imagine the possibilities. It can save us all, like it saved you.”
I almost bought it. Could he actually be this naive? Maybe. Did it matter?
Not at all.
“Let me prove it to you,” he said.
“Prove what?”
“That I’m trying to help. Some of us—most of us—mean well, Lia. We’ve always been on your side.” He handed me a folded-up printout. “When the time is right, this is where you’ll find him.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You’ll see.”
Curiosity overpowering judgment, I started to unfold the paper, but he stopped my hands. “Wait until you’re inside,” he said, glancing again at my mother. “You might want to keep this one to yourself.”
“Lia.” My mother pointed to the front door. The guard stood at the ready.
“Maybe don’t be so hard on her,” Ben said.
“Seriously? You want to give me advice on being a good daughter now?”
“You don’t have kids,” he said. “If you did …”
There was nothing I hated more than the familiar you haven’t been there, so you can’t really understand crap. Which I was about to point out to him, when I noticed how distant he looked, and wondered if he was thinking of his own kid, the girl about Zo’s age, who, I gathered, hated him about as much as I did.
I decided to let it pass.
“Can I go now?”
“Right. Of course.” Ben put out his hand for me to shake, then dropped it after a few seconds when I didn’t move. “I’m sorry,” he said.
&nbs
p; “Why? According to you, you didn’t do anything.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not sorry,” he said. “I hope someday you’ll understand that.”
Here’s what Ben would never understand: When I woke up in the hospital that wasn’t a hospital, facing the doctor that wasn’t a doctor, unable to speak, unable to move, the mirror reflecting a fright show with dead eyes and exposed skull, he’d been the one to tell me the truth of what I was, and he’d been the one to roll me into that silvery morgue to see my hollow, ruined body, the body he’d taken away. Whatever happened next, whatever role he had or hadn’t played in setting up the car accident, in lobotomizing our stored neural patterns, in manipulating and lying and plotting a mechanical genocide, it would never matter. He was the face of what I had become, the face of BioMax, the face of death. You don’t try to understand the Grim Reaper; you don’t forgive.
You turn your back on him—knowing there’s nothing left he can do to you—and go inside.
It was strange to be back in the house, my second homecoming in six months, and like last time, much as I wanted the house to feel like a prison, it felt like home. The same overwrought antiques, the same stiff chairs and couches that screamed Don’t sit on me! lest some disastrous spillage occur. The same virgin-white rug that had never felt the touch of a shoe. The only difference: my father, slumped on the gray love seat, his head down but eyes unmistakably fixed on the door, my father, who was always in motion, consumed with impossibly important business, planted there like a piece of furniture, posture sagging and defeated. My father, around whom the world turned, sitting on the sidelines, making no move to interfere or even react to my arrival; my mother barely acknowledging his presence. I was almost sorry I hadn’t been around to watch him adjust to his new domestic reality. I suspected he was wondering if, back when he’d had a choice, he should have just opted for prison. Losing a daughter was one thing. Being bossed around by my mother? For him that would surely be intolerable.
My mother and the guard flanked me on either side as we trooped up the stairs.
“Lia.” I thought I heard my father’s voice trailing behind me, but it could have been my imagination, and I didn’t look back.
“This is for your own good,” my mother said. “You’ll thank me some day.”
“Been reading from the parental-cliché handbook again?”
“Put her in there,” she told the guard, gesturing to my room. Jude was already inside.
“You can’t make me want to be your daughter,” I told her. “You know that. You can keep me prisoner here as long as you want. It isn’t going to change anything.”
“You are my daughter,” she said, cold and calm. “Whether you want to be or not. So consider yourself grounded.”
She brushed her lips against my cheek, lightly enough that I barely felt them, quickly enough that by the time I thought to push her away, she was gone. The guard shoved me into my bedroom, then switched the room into lockdown mode, sealing us in. The setting had come standard with our security system—drop-down bulletproof shutters over the windows, network jammers, electronic locks, all designed to turn your average everyday bedroom into a prison. Designed for keeping burglars out—used most often, in our house at least, for keeping unruly daughters in. Zo had lived half her life in lockdown mode, but it was a new one for me. Still, I’d heard Zo complain enough to know that throwing my weight against the door or clumsily trying to pick the lock with a paper clip wasn’t exactly going to cut it.
Predictably, Jude had his head buried in one of my drawers, but at least he wasn’t pawing through my underwear. “Find anything you like?” I asked.
“Nothing that’s going to get us out of here,” he said, rapping a fist against the window shutter.
I unfolded the paper Ben had given me, scanning the dense chunk of file names and techno jargon for something that would make sense. This is where you’ll find him.
I’d seen this kind of thing before, when Zo had hacked our father’s ViM to try to get us some answers. It seemed like a million years ago, but I recognized the way the file names were diagrammed into decision trees, branching across the page.
It was a map, I realized—and then realized I’d seen many of these file names before. It was a fragment of the network hierarchy of the internal BioMax servers. The secret, isolated ones that stored brains ready for stripping and dehumanizing, for loading into BioMax’s “intelligent machines.” And one of the file names was circled, a meaningless string of numbers. I knew, from our BioMax break-in, that the lobotomized brain patterns were stored by ID number rather than name. This one was 248713, and there was a second file marked 248713b. But it was the original that was circled in red, with Ben’s handwriting beneath it: intact.
I handed the page to Jude. After all this time, it still seemed strange that my hands weren’t trembling. Because my brain felt like it was vibrating inside my head, bouncing off the inner walls of my skull in sync with the seconds ticking by, time running out. “Tell me if that means what I think it means,” I said, and watched him run his eyes down the page, tried to mark the exact moment he saw what I’d seen, and understood.
He saw it. Then he said what I couldn’t, because I was afraid to believe it.
“Ben gave you this?” he asked.
“He said … he said, ‘This is where you’ll find him.’”
“Riley,” Jude said. “They stored a copy of him.”
The paper floated to the floor, and Jude looked down at his hands, as if his fingers had acted of their own accord. He didn’t move to pick it up; he didn’t move at all. “He’s still out there, somewhere.”
I nodded.
Somewhere a circuit board, an electronic file, bits and bytes, somewhere ones and zeros, flipped in a precise order, the billions and trillions of quantum qubits that made a life, trapped inside a computer, trapped underground, trapped.
But alive.
RIGHTEOUS
“It wasn’t the most promising of revolutionary cabals.”
We couldn’t save him.
Not yet.
Riley was the one variable in all of this that wasn’t teetering on the edge of catastrophe. Safe—or relatively so, in a database, free-floating in the ether—Riley could wait. I didn’t want to let myself believe it was true, because if Ben was lying, if I let myself hope and then had to lose him all over again …
But once the idea was in my head, I couldn’t get rid of it. The idea of Riley being gone forever had been the impossibility; this last-minute reprieve felt inevitable. His death had never been real.
This had to be.
“You think he’s aware?” I said. “His mind’s all there. How do we know he’s not trapped in there, afraid and alone? How do we know it doesn’t hurt?”
“It doesn’t,” Jude said. “He’s not.”
“But how do we know?”
“We have to believe it,” Jude said, sounding like a deranged Faither. “Because if we don’t …”
Then we wouldn’t be able to leave him there. For just a little longer, I promised him. Until we fix everything.
Like there was much chance of that happening while we were locked up in my bedroom behind bulletproof windows and network jammers. If my mother didn’t want us out, we weren’t getting out. My father had spent years turning the Kahn house into a fortress. I’d always taken his word for our security and its necessity, never worrying that the barbarians would break down the gates, never chafing against his boundaries from my side of the wall. I’d been the good girl, and good girls didn’t know how to break out of bedroom prisons.
They left that to bratty little sisters.
I pounded my fists against the door, again and again, harder each time, knowing that my mother would lose any game of wills she tried to play, because she was only human, and I was not. I could bang on that door for the rest of eternity.
It took less than an hour to wear her down.
“I’m not letting you out,” she said, from the
other side of the steel door. “This is for your own good.”
“I know. I was just thinking, maybe if you let me get in touch with—”
“We don’t need any more of your helpful little mech friends swarming around here,” she said. “I think one is enough, don’t you?”
Jude, who was trying to break through the window despite my assurances it was virtually impossible, stopped his useless tinkering long enough to give the door a dirty look.
“It’s not that.” I rested my weight against the door, letting my forehead kiss the cool steel. When was the last time my mother had come up to my bedroom? When I was seven? Eight, maybe? However old I was before I’d gotten “too old” for bedtime stories and tucking in. Stop babying her, my father had said, and then I’d jumped on board with I’m no baby, and my mother had blushed, and that had been it: no more night-lights, no more stories, no more sweet-dreams kisses. My bedroom became my property, and I got my bedtime stories off the network; my mother retreated to the estate’s other wing. “I’m thinking about Zo.”
“What about her?” came the slow, careful response from the other side of the door.
“I’m worried about her.”
“Have you talked to her?” she asked.
“No. Have you?”
No answer.
“If she knew that I was here, maybe she would … you know.”
“Forgive me?” My mother’s voice twisted on the word. Proving again, she was no fool.
“She doesn’t have to forgive you,” I said. “She just has to come home. And maybe she will, if she thinks I was willing to.”
“Why would you want her to think that?”
Good question. “It’s not safe for her out there on her own,” I said.
“What are you doing?” Jude whispered. I waved him off. My house, my mother, my sister: my game.
“But it’s safe for you?” my mother said.
“I’m different,” I said. “Zo’s still a kid. And besides, I’m stuck here, right? So maybe something good can come out of it. Maybe if Zo knew the truth about you, if you gave her a chance to know what was actually going on—”