Only a robot teacher could sound that calm, Nick thought.
Why hadn’t he and Eryn and all the other kids noticed before?
Because we always thought that’s just how teachers are, Nick told himself. That’s how all the grown-ups act.
Trying to figure that out made him miss the chance to stop Eryn from answering. It was too late for even the most drastic effort. There wasn’t time to spring up from his seat at the back of the room and tackle her and use his hand as a gag over her mouth.
“I need to speak to my mother,” Eryn said.
Of all the things she might have said, that wasn’t too bad. She sounded calmer and less crazy than Nick.
But maybe she was just warming up.
“You know we have begun letting students use their cell phones at lunchtime,” Mr. Carrera said mildly. “Perhaps you can text your mother then.”
“I need to speak to her right now,” Eryn said. Her voice was still calm and controlled, but it got steelier with every word she spoke.
Nick knew his sister. When she got like this, nobody could stop her.
Nick bolted from his seat. In his haste, he forgot how much he’d grown since the beginning of the school year, and how the desk was just a little too small for him now. His leg slammed against the desk’s leg, and he imagined himself sprinting down the aisle toward Eryn with the desk around his ankle; he’d be like an escaped prisoner dragging along his chains.
But Nick didn’t stop or even slow down. Maybe he was just as stubborn as Eryn.
He did shake his leg a little, disengaging from the desk.
“I’ll take my sister to the school nurse,” Nick volunteered. “I’ll make sure she’s all right.”
Mr. Carrera’s eyes constricted slightly. It was such a mechanized movement it made Nick wonder if the man—er, robot—had some way of mentally calling up Nick’s and Eryn’s behavior records dating all the way back to kindergarten. Maybe even preschool. Robots were essentially computers in human form, weren’t they? And Michael had said robots were linked kind of like the Internet. So couldn’t Mr. Carrera have something like Google Glass even when he wasn’t actually wearing glasses?
Stop thinking about stuff like that, Nick told himself. You’ll freak yourself out and just freeze. Focus on rescuing Eryn from making an even bigger mistake.
Mr. Carrera seemed to be deciding Nick could be trusted. His eyebrows relaxed; his eyes went back to normal.
Or what if he already knows what Eryn and I found out last night? Nick wondered. What if he’s decided Eryn and I need to be quarantined from the other kids?
Maybe Mr. Carrera and the rest of the teachers would decide Nick and Eryn had to be to be homeschooled like Ava and Jackson. Maybe they’d be kept locked in their rooms to study.
That would be awful.
Nick was so busy imagining what could go wrong, he almost missed hearing Mr. Carrera say resignedly, “Yes, Nick, you may take Eryn to the nurse. That is far preferable to having the two of you continue to disrupt class.”
“Thank you,” Eryn said, drawing out the words as if she and Mr. Carrera had been facing off in a fight, and she’d just won.
Nick grabbed Eryn’s arm and dragged her toward the door. She walked alongside him, but acted like he wasn’t there. She didn’t even glance his way until they were out in the hallway and far enough away from Mr. Carrera’s room that nobody would hear them.
None of the other kids would, anyway. If Mom and Michael were paranoid about being overheard in their own home or car or driveway, who knew who might be listening in the school?
“What did you think I was going to do?” Eryn finally asked. She sounded offended.
“What are you doing?” Nick asked.
Eryn didn’t answer right away. Her footsteps echoed too loudly in the silent hallway. This just wasn’t normal. Nobody left the classroom in the middle of class unless it was an emergency. You had to be vomiting or gushing blood or . . .
In danger of extinction? Nick thought.
He gulped, and his hand slipped off Eryn’s arm. That was the revelation he’d heard last night that he was having the most trouble thinking about. So he didn’t. He wouldn’t.
But maybe he had to?
“I’m going to tell Mom she has to come and pick us up,” Eryn said. “And then we’re going to go see the president of the United States.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
“The . . . president?” Nick repeated numbly, and his eyelids sprang wide open. His pupils stayed big and dark; he looked like someone who’d just had a concussion. Or was still in shock. “Why would the president talk to us?”
“Because of what we found out,” Eryn said impatiently. “Because we’re the first kids to know anything, and we need to know more than the mayor or anyone else around here can tell us. A little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing.” She thought maybe that was a quote. “It doesn’t have to be the president. Just someone who knows the truth. Someone who can tell us . . .”
“Why people went extinct before and what we can do to stop it now,” Nick finished for her. She was torn between wanting to hug him for finally catching on, and wanting to shove him behind her to protect him if he was going to get in trouble for saying those words aloud, out in public.
But there aren’t any other kids nearby, and it’s only kids we have to worry about hearing that particular secret, she reminded herself. Only human kids.
There wasn’t a single other person—or robot—in sight. The school hallway was silent and still, except for the sound of their own shoes against the hard tile floor.
Eryn stopped walking.
“The nurse is just going to ask questions,” she said. “Do you think it’s safe to stop right here and call Mom?”
They were in the long stretch of hallway without classrooms. The school library was on one side, and they could see nothing through its windows but the soaring shelves of books. The gymnasium was on the other side, and it must have been the P.E. teacher’s open period, because Eryn couldn’t hear even the muffled thud of basketballs hitting the wall.
Nick responded by grabbing Eryn’s arm again and pulling her down to the floor.
“If anybody asks, I can say you got really sick,” he told her. “Too sick to go on.”
Is he a little too good at coming up with lies and excuses? Eryn wondered.
But she let Nick tug her down to sit on the floor. She pulled out her phone and dialed.
Mom answered instantly, which made Eryn think that Mom also must have been having trouble sticking with her usual routine—her usual pretense.
“What’s wrong?” Mom said.
Normally, Mom would never start a conversation like that. Now it was almost becoming a habit.
“Everything’s fine,” Eryn said, as if she was the grown-up and Mom was the kid who needed comforting. “It’s just, we have to have more answers. You know it’s human nature to be curious.”
Did Mom know that? Did she really understand, or was it just some rote thing she’d repeated to the kids because she was supposed to: Human beings are curious. It’s perfectly normal and natural for you to feel this way.
“You need more answers about . . . ,” Mom prompted cautiously.
“She’s afraid it’s . . . you know,” Nick whispered. He had his head pressed against Eryn’s so he could hear Mom too.
Eryn knew he meant Ava and Jackson. The secret they weren’t allowed to tell anyone.
“Answers about . . . the extinction,” Eryn said. She found that her hand was trembling. She braced the phone against her head to stop it. “We have to know how to stop it from happening again.”
“I understand you have a desire for more information,” Mom said. And this was her school psychologist voice, her reflective listening trick—which always made Eryn mad.
“It’s not about yo
u understanding me, Mom,” Eryn said, and now she kind of wished for bouncing basketballs in the gymnasium, to cover the sound of her own voice. She was getting a little screechy. She kept talking anyway. “It’s about action. We have to find out. We have to do whatever it takes. Take us to the governor or the president or—”
“That wouldn’t do any good,” Mom interrupted, still in her most calming voice. “The governor and the president don’t know what caused the extinction either.”
Then why are they the governor and the president? Eryn wondered. How could our elected officials be so stupid?
“Okay, never mind them,” she said abruptly. Because right now, they didn’t matter. “Take us to whoever does know. I don’t care how far we have to go—we have to find out!”
“Oh, Eryn,” Mom said, and she sounded truly sad, truly apologetic. Even if she was just a robot. “It’s not that I don’t want to help you through this difficult time of revelation. It’s not that I want to frustrate you in your very human quest for truth. It’s just—”
“Just what?” Eryn asked, exasperated. She realized that Nick had chimed in, speaking the words with her.
“Just that nobody can help you,” Mom finished. “Because nobody knows what caused the extinction.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
“How do you know nobody knows?” Nick asked.
Mom had come to pick them up from school, and now they were driving home. On the phone, she’d told them she’d explain later; at least she hadn’t made them wait until the end of the day. Instead, she’d given their school a flimsy-sounding excuse about them being out in the cold too much the day before and needing to “rest.” Nobody questioned it.
Because they’re robots, Nick thought. The principal, the vice principal, the school secretary, the school nurse . . .
He realized Mom hadn’t answered his question. He repeated it, leaning forward so he could poke his head over the back of Mom’s seat.
“And really,” Eryn added, hitting the dashboard as if she’d just figured something out, “how do you know the president and the governor and maybe even the mayor don’t keep lots of secrets from you? How do you know there isn’t lots of information they say they don’t know but really it’s just top secret or classified or . . .”
Mom sighed.
“They’re public officials,” she said. “Every citizen has the right to examine all of their memory banks, all of their programming . . .”
“You can read their minds?” Nick exclaimed. “Anytime you want?”
Mom seemed to be gritting her teeth.
“That’s one way to put it,” she admitted. Now she seemed to be concentrating very hard on steering the car. She acted like she might need to turn on a dime. “Michael said he told you how robots can connect, kind of like the Internet. Let’s just say . . . you know how you might use your phone to connect wirelessly to the Internet just about anywhere, anytime? We can do that too, to access certain public information. We just . . . don’t need to use phones.”
We, Nick realized, were all the grown-ups. All the robots.
So he had been right to think that Mr. Carrera had something like Google Glass without actually wearing it.
“Is it public information that Nick and I saw the video?” Eryn asked. “That we know?”
Mom was silent for a moment. Then she said, very softly, “Yes.”
We’re famous! Nick thought. Everyone thinks Eryn and I are brilliant!
He looked out the window, and even though they were driving down a quiet residential street, he suddenly felt like there might be a million eyes watching him.
Maybe it wasn’t such a good thing to be famous. Especially when they were supposed to be keeping an illegal secret, too.
“So, this connection between robots . . . is that how the school officials knew not to ask questions when you came to pick us up today?” Nick said. He had to know how much the robots knew. “Is that how Mr. Carrera knew he had to let Eryn and me leave class? Is that how you knew I broke the window at Teddy Vickers’s eighth birthday party even before his mom told you? Is that why you and Dad never seem surprised by anything we tell you that happened at the other parent’s house . . . ?”
Once he got started, he could think of so many instances to ask about. But Mom put her hand out to stop him.
“You’re bringing up too many different cases,” she complained. “The first two examples—yes, those are from the public connections. But the others, those are just from parents conferring privately. Parents sharing necessary information, which other adults are required to provide from their own memory banks upon request.”
Nick saw Eryn’s jaw drop.
“But we always try to model responsible verbal communication in front of you,” Mom went on, pursing her lips primly. “We do talk, too. Because when your generation grows up, you won’t have the advantage of—”
“Constant spying?” Eryn exploded. “You’re trying to tell us that every adult can find out anything every other adult knows, if they really want to? Every adult can see and hear anything any adult has seen or heard? Then how in the world could anyone keep a secret? Any adult, I mean—any robot. How did Michael and the rest of you ever think you could keep it a secret when—”
Nick knew her next words were going to be about Ava and Jackson. Mom seemed to know it too, because all of a sudden, she slammed her hand against the horn. The blaring sound made Nick jump, and Eryn gasped rather than saying another word.
“Oh dear,” Mom said, a bit too loudly. “My eyes must be playing tricks on me. Didn’t that snowdrift at the side of the road look just like a goose that was about to step out in front of the car?”
The snowdrift at the side of the road just looked like snow. Nobody could have imagined it was a goose.
Mom isn’t saying that for our benefit, Nick thought. She’s trying to make it seem like she had a reason for honking the horn just then, besides wanting to keep Eryn from finishing her sentence. Mom thinks someone might be listening. Or will listen to the conversation in the future. Maybe even the way it sounds through her own ears?
This thought totally creeped him out.
Mom turned toward Eryn.
“Honey, I know you’re trying to understand a lot of complicated information, but you’ve got to wait for me to explain before you start making wild accusations,” Mom said. “Public officials are the only ones who are required to make all their thoughts and memories publicly accessible. Everyone else can shut off certain segments of their memory banks if they wish. And if it’s reasonable. Because humans value privacy. We need to model that for you as well.”
Nick guessed that was her way of telling Eryn how Michael and the others had managed to keep the truth about Ava and Jackson secret for the past twelve years.
“So then, couldn’t someone who isn’t a public official know what made humans extinct?” Eryn asked. Nick was impressed at how she could shift an argument back to what she wanted to know. Even if he himself felt a little queasy about finding out anything.
“And then,” Eryn continued, “couldn’t that person just keep that information in his secret memory banks? You can’t have it both ways. Either people can keep secrets or they can’t.”
“They can, but not if someone sends out an all-call begging for facts,” Mom said. “Then they’re required to reveal even secret information. They can’t resist that call—not without violating their programming. And I just made a call like that. I just asked every person on the entire planet to tell me if they knew anything about what made humans extinct. And every person on the planet said no.”
“By person, you mean robot, right?” Eryn asked in her snarliest voice.
Mom winced.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “Some people sent in their speculation about what might have happened—climate scientists concerned about human effects on the environment, p
eace activists theorizing about nuclear war, epidemiologists worried about the worst plague ever, or weaponized Ebola virus, or something like that. When we get home I’ll download their ideas onto your laptops, and you can look through them if you want.”
Mom went back to looking straight out the windshield and driving carefully. Eryn turned around and peered at Nick. Her eyes were narrowed into her most extreme squint ever. Nick could tell she was trying to send the message, Isn’t this insane? How could it be that no one knows what made every human being on the planet die? How can we believe anything Mom tells us? She’s got to be lying!
Looking back at Eryn, Nick opened his eyes as wide as he could. This probably made him look scared, but he didn’t care. Because what he wanted to say to Eryn was, I’m not so sure. What does it mean if she’s actually telling the truth?
THIRTY-NINE
Eryn hated computer research.
If she needed to find out something, she always tried every other source she could think of before opening her laptop. One time for school she’d mixed an entire bottle of vinegar with an entire carton of baking soda and watched it explode—and then had to clean up the mess afterward—rather than watching a single video of someone else doing the same experiment.
But now here she was, staring at tiny print on the computer screen. Nick sat beside her on the couch, peering at his own laptop.
Mom had disappeared into her bedroom.
“You have to understand, this is upsetting to me as well,” Mom had explained. “It is perfectly valid that you wish to make this exploration. But it is also perfectly natural that I feel slightly rejected, that your quest for information beyond what I possess feels like a judgment of my adequacy as a parent. . . .”
Eryn had had to bite her tongue not to snarl back, Mom, you’re a robot! You can’t feel anything! You’re just pretending!
Now she bent her head lower over the computer screen. Phrases leaped out at her, the theories robots from around the world had come up with for why humans had originally gone extinct: “excessive carbon emissions . . . ,” “overpopulation and depletion of resources . . . ,” “air pollution and irreversible destruction of human lung tissue . . . ,” “global pandemic . . . ,” “viral mutation . . . ,” “warring nations and mutually assured destruction . . . ,” “natural disasters such as volcanic eruption . . .”