OtherLife
Page 25
James Ogubu gave me a list of names—people he thought had the expertise and integrity to form a panel. Professors, engineers, ethicists and business leaders. They reviewed each innovation and determined whether it was likely to help or harm humanity. In the end, almost everything was dismantled and destroyed. We kept three important artifacts. The simulation video that the Company created. And the clones they built of Kat and me.
* * *
—
The wake is almost over when an old man stops in the aisle beside me. “You’ve got to be the grandson,” he says to me in a thick Brooklyn accent.
“Yes,” I say.
“Your grandfather sent me to jail. If I’d known he was alive, I would have killed him myself.”
I feel Kat tense, but I’m not concerned. “I’m sure you’re not the only one here who feels that way.”
The old man breaks into a smile. “I saw you on television the other day. Knew who you were the second I saw that nose. It was a commercial for that big news show everyone watches. You’re going to be on the next episode, am I right? Commercial said you were going to blow our minds. Wanna give me a hint?”
“Wish I could,” I say. “But you’ll just have to watch.”
As he walks away, I catch sight of another older gentleman paying his respects at the front of the room. He’s wearing the same glasses and guayabera he had on the last time I saw him.
“Look, it’s the Phantom,” Kat whispers in my ear.
He saved our lives back in Texas. Without him, I’d be dead. The same goes for the Kishka. And Kat. And my mother. Nasha, Busara, Elvis, Declan and Carole. They all saved my life at one point or another. Without all of them, the Company wouldn’t have fallen.
None of my friends crack jokes about the One anymore. We all know there’s no such thing. No single person can save the world. We have to band together and save each other.
A lanky eighteen-year-old kid and his wild-haired girlfriend sit on a stage in front of a studio audience. He’s dressed simply in blue jeans and a T-shirt, while the show’s stylist has given her a gorgeous black dress and heels. Doesn’t seem entirely fair, if you ask me. Even without the fancy clothes, she already looked way out of his league.
“Can you tell us your names?” the celebrity interviewer asks.
“I’m Simon Eaton,” says the kid.
“My name is Katherine Foley,” the girl tells the man.
“You’re a couple of high school students from Brockenhurst, New Jersey. And the country knows you better as—”
“The Tech Avengers.”
“Shall we show the video?” the host of the show asks the producer, who’s standing off camera.
The studio lights dim and a giant screen behind the trio lights up. The video shows the tech mogul Scott Winston exiting a Manhattan office building. Two people in black on the back of a Vespa enter the frame. Guns are produced, and Winston is shot. As the attempted assassins make their escape, we see their faces. The video freezes and zooms in. The faces are clearly those of the two people onstage.
“Is that you?” the host asks.
“No,” says the girl.
“You’re kidding,” the host pretends to scoff. “That’s obviously the two of you on the back of that Vespa. Or is it? What do you think?” he asks the audience.
The crowd roars. There’s no doubt in their minds.
That’s our cue. Kat and I step out onstage, and the audience seems to gasp in unison as we take seats beside our doubles. I hope the cameras don’t pick up the streams of sweat that are trickling down my face. This is my first time in front of a crowd this large. We chose the show because it reaches most of America—a fact that’s making my stomach churn at the moment.
Below the stage, I spot my mother sitting beside Kat’s. Elvis and Busara are right behind them.
“Do you mind telling the folks here who you are?” the host asks.
“Umm, sure,” I reply, gaining confidence when I hear that my voice is unexpectedly steady. “My name is Simon Eaton.”
“And I’m Katherine Foley,” says Kat.
“But I don’t understand,” the host says, gesturing to our clones. “Who are these people?”
“They’re not people,” Kat informs him. “They’re robots.”
She reaches over and removes the fleshy panel that forms her robot’s face. Beneath it is a mechanical skeleton—not unlike those the Empress made in Otherworld. Someone in the audience literally shrieks at the sight.
“I know,” the host commiserates. “I felt the same way. So, Simon and Katherine, are you claiming that these are the people we just saw in that video?”
“Nope,” I reply.
The host throws his hands up in the air. “Okay, now I’m really confused!”
“The video was a fake,” says a man just offstage.
The audience is perfectly silent as a thirty-something man in jeans makes his way toward us.
“And you are?” the host asks.
“My name is Scott Winston,” the man says as he sits beside me. “I was the person who got shot in the video.”
The audience is eating this up.
“I saw the people who shot me. None of the people or robots in this room were there that day. The people involved in the attempt on my life used a special software to make it appear as if Simon Eaton and Katherine Foley were on the Vespa in the video.”
“How do you know that?” the host asks.
“The software they used was developed by the company I own. I gave it the green light—even though it was dangerous—because I knew it would be profitable. Then my company’s innovation was turned against me—and against Simon and Kat. If we don’t do something about it, technology like this could end up being used against anyone in this room.”
“What are we all supposed to do?” the host asks.
“Start paying attention,” Winston says. “Force companies like mine to take responsibility for their creations. Make them accountable to society—not just their shareholders.”
“Let’s get back to the robot clones,” says the host, who seems a bit bored by Winston’s lecture. “According to reports, the Company made a few of these things. Is that right?”
“At least four that we know of,” Kat replies. “They were incinerated.”
“Who else did the Company clone?”
Kat glances at me. “We’re not able to discuss that.” The vice president himself asked us not to speak of it. We agreed—in return for his resignation.
“But you’ve decided to keep yours?” the host asks.
I look over at the other Simon—and he looks back at me. Kat and I discussed it, and we feel the same way.
“They’ll both be destroyed immediately after the show,” Kat says.
* * *
—
“You guys done being celebrities now? Ready for your first day on the job?” Elvis asks as our car makes its way from the studio to the old Company headquarters on the opposite side of Manhattan.
“The security sweep is complete?” I ask.
“Our best people oversaw it. They say the place is a fortress.”
“And you got rid of all that crappy corporate décor?” Kat wants to know.
“It’s at least sixty percent less evil empire now,” Busara answers.
“Plus, we made sure there are lots of snacks,” Elvis adds. “You’ve got to have snacks to keep employees happy these days.”
“Good thinking,” I tell him. “So today’s our first meeting with the team. What’s on the docket?”
“First up is a biomedical company that’s using gene editing to create custom babies for anyone with a million dollars to spare.”
I’m stunned. “You’re kidding,” I say. “They’re messing with the human genome? Don’t they know how da
ngerous that is?”
“Like I always say, humanity’s just a bunch of monkeys playing with a box of matches,” Elvis tells me.
“What does that make us?” Kat asks.
Elvis turns to her. “Monkeys with fire extinguishers,” he says.
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