“Genie,” he said.
Nothing in response.
“Genie?”
Still nothing.
It’s prob’ly broken.
His rush of adrenaline was waning, and the pain from his ankle was excruciating. The autonomous vehicles were his only hope. Most were programmed to instantly report accidents to a database used by police and other autonomous vehicles.
22
Jacob, Drunk on Tiger Bone Wine
Tiger bone wine was 58 percent alcohol. A fact Jacob didn’t know until it was too late. He stumbled into his house. Their robotic dog, Spike, stood in the dark foyer. The small doglike bot was one foot tall when on all fours, but it’s long neck added two more feet. The robot’s head watched Jacob, like a snake coiled and ready to strike. As soon as its facial recognition software identified Jacob, it sat down, returning to energy-conservation mode.
Jacob went to his home office. He placed his phone on the charger and his wallet and keys in his desk. Then he went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. Jeeves stood in the corner, plugged into an outlet.
After hydrating, Jacob tiptoed up the curved staircase and into his master bedroom. He opened one of the double doors and crept inside. Rebecca slept on her side of the canopy bed. Jacob crept past their bed and the sitting area to the en suite bathroom. He thought he might vomit, but the feeling passed. He peed, brushed his teeth, and tossed his clothes into the hamper. Wearing only his boxers, he padded back to the bedroom. He placed his glasses on his bedside table and climbed into bed.
Shortly after he’d drifted off to sleep, he was wrenched from his slumber by a chiming cell phone. Jacob turned toward the noise.
Rebecca grabbed her phone from her bedside table. “Hello?” she whispered, raspy from sleep. “This is Rebecca.” She listened for a minute. “Is he okay?” She listened again. “Did he ask you to call me?” Rebecca paused. “Oh, I see. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” She disconnected the phone and looked at Jacob. “Derek is in the hospital.”
Jacob sat up, rubbing his eyes. “What happened?”
“He was in a car accident.”
“Why are they calling you?” Jacob grabbed his glasses from the bedside table and put them on.
Rebecca frowned at his callousness. “I’m still his emergency contact person.”
“What about his mother?”
Rebecca cocked her head. “The one who’s battling cancer in the hospital as we speak?”
Jacob cleared his throat. “I forgot. Doesn’t he have a girlfriend?”
“I think so, but I don’t know what’s going on between them. Maybe they broke up? Maybe he doesn’t trust her to be his emergency contact?”
“You’re not his wife anymore.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Why do you care so much about him?”
“He’s Lindsey’s father.”
“Biological father.” Jacob crossed his arms over his hairy chest.
“You know what I meant.” She sniffed and narrowed her eyes at Jacob. “Have you been drinking? You smell like alcohol.”
“A client offered me tiger bone wine, and I felt obligated to accept. I didn’t realize that it has a very high alcohol content.”
Rebecca slipped from bed. Her bikini underwear showcased her thin legs. Her new breasts proudly pressed against her camisole top. “I need to get dressed and go to the hospital. He’s in surgery, and somebody should be there when he wakes up. I’d like it if you came with me. I’d rather not go by myself at this hour.”
“Is he all the way out in Luray?”
“No, he’s at Warren Memorial Hospital in Front Royal.”
Jacob blew out a breath. “Fine. What about Lindsey?”
“It’s better she hears about this in the morning. Or do you want to wake her at this hour to tell her that her biological father has been in a car accident?”
23
Summer’s Stash
Summer was on her knees, heaving, her breakfast coming up in a chunky red slop. The tile was cold and hard on her knees, her scrubs offering little protection. She stood and flushed the toilet, her legs shaky. She went to the sink, washed her hands, and rinsed her mouth. Summer glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Her face and neck were flushed and blotchy. Her wavy brown hair was disheveled. She popped a mint, smoothed her hair, and left the bathroom.
She’d taken the Sunday morning shift to earn some extra Fed Coins. Babies were expensive. She’d come a little early to complete that secret mission for Mark. She walked down the hall toward the stairs. Robotic orderlies and nurses moved past, some on wheels, some on titanium legs, never tiring, never faltering in their missions.
Their human counterparts moved with more grace but less energy, often stopping to look at their phones or to shoot the breeze with coworkers. Summer took the stairs to the basement. The hospital was mostly covered by cameras, but nonessential areas weren’t monitored. She walked to the end of the hall and entered a room marked Storage.
Inside, old computers and office furniture were piled in rows, like cemetery plots. A thick layer of dust covered everything. She looked around, thinking about where to hide Mark’s flash drive. A million places were there to hide it, but what if the hospital cleaned out the office furniture or the computers?
She looked up at the dropped ceiling. She moved a chair to the back corner of the room. Standing on the chair, she removed a square from the suspended ceiling. The ceiling tiles covered ductwork and wiring. She fished a plastic floss container and a roll of heavy-duty tape from her pocket.
Connor had taken the floss roll from the plastic container and had placed the flash drive inside the empty container. Summer taped the plastic container to the top of the ceiling tile, then reinstalled the square. Unless someone took down the ceiling tile, nobody would find the flash drive.
24
Naomi and the Next President
“Good morning, Naomi,” Doris said. “What would you like for breakfast?”
Naomi sat in the breakfast nook of her Georgetown home, still in her pajamas. “Just coffee and cream.”
“Coming right up.” Doris, the robot domestic, turned on her three-wheel base and rolled to the coffeemaker.
Naomi tapped on her tablet, scanning the headlines for November 24, 2050.
Cat 2 Hurricane Landing in the Gulf
Antigovernment Demonstrations in Panama
Elite Still Hiding Ill-Gotten Gains in Panamanian Banks
Pollinator Decline Affects Orange Harvest
Our Next President
Naomi tapped the link to Our Next President. She scanned the New York Times article, scowling at the Corrinne Powers puff piece. Doris placed a steaming mug of coffee on the coaster within Naomi’s grasp, then drove back to the corner of the kitchen to await further instruction.
Alan bounded down the wooden steps, wearing faded sweats advertising his alma mater, MIT. He approached the breakfast nook, which was a wooden booth, similar to a restaurant.
“Good morning,” Alan said.
Naomi looked up from her tablet. “Is he still sleeping?”
Alan wedged his lanky frame into the bench seat opposite Naomi. “I think so.”
“Did you tell him that he can’t stay here?”
Doris approached the table. The bot was stark white, with two arms, a large round head, and dark sensors for eyes.
“I think you’re being too hard on him,” Alan said.
“Good morning, Alan,” Doris said. “Would you like some breakfast?”
Alan ordered his breakfast by tapping on the tablet attached to the robot’s chest.
“The reason his life is a disaster is because we haven’t been hard enough on him,” Naomi said.
“Coming right up,” Doris said, rolling away from the breakfast nook.
Alan returned his attention to Naomi. “Blake’s life isn’t a disaster. He’ll graduate in the spring with his classmates, and he’ll have his whole life ahead of him.”
Naomi frowned. “His classmates graduated last spring.”
“So, he’s a year behind. It’s not a big deal.”
“I don’t want him here during the campaign.”
Alan looked to the stairs, then back to Naomi with his finger to his lips. “Not so loud. He’ll hear you. He’s leaving this afternoon. No need to have a confrontation. I’ll have the car take him to the house upstate.”
“He needs rules too,” Naomi replied. “I don’t want him trashing our house. No parties. No drugs. Period. If he can’t handle that, he can live off UBI for all I care.”
“I’ll talk to him about taking care of the house. Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.” Alan glanced at Naomi’s tablet, eager to change the subject. “What are you reading?”
She sighed. “The New York Times thinks Corrinne will be the next president.”
“That’s not surprising.”
“They think we need a moderate Democrat to bring the American people together.”
“What do you think?”
“I think that’s the last thing we need.”