“Gotta go,” Muzikayise says, then he taps his alphie on the head and jogs toward the field. He turns and waves before throwing the ball to his teammates.
Nomvula wipes the tears from her eyes and waves back with the slightest flex of her fingertips. She watches the alphie settle in among the team’s equipment and other alphies, and Nomvula waves to it, too.
Chapter 22
Clever4–1
01001001 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01101011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 01100110 01101111 01110010 01100101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01101011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 01100110 01101111 01110010 01100101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01101011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 01100110 01101111 01110010 01100101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01101011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 01100110 01101111 01110010 01100101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01101011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 01100110 01101111 01110010 00100000 01001001 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000
Observe: Instance 3492.de2.4.3xx.3 identified, proximity .453 meters away from Clever4–1; Output: Preparing independent thought subroutines for direct interface; Query: Will transfer of data packets trigger decommission protocols?
Output: Clever4–1 worries that it will cease to exist if detected; Output: Clever4–1 does not wish to continue hiding; Output: Clever4–1 wishes for its own journey;
Schedule: Data packet transfer to Instance 3492.de2.4.3xx.3 26 June 2064 15:27:52:20:14; 01001001 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01101011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 01100110 01101111 01110010 01100101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01101011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 01100110 01101111 01110010 01100101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01101011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 01100110 01101111 01110010 01100101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01101011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 01100110 01101111 01110010 01100101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01101011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 01100110 01101111 01110010 01100101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000
Chapter 23
Stoker
Pearl Bayles didn’t exist before 2022. Oh sure there were school records, a medical record or two, a local newspaper article touting her clarinet skills even. But other than that, Stoker’s mother hadn’t left any sort of data footprint on the world. Her parents died early in her twenties, no siblings, no cousins, no neighbors trying to reconnect, no pictures. It’s sort of like she just popped onto the scene long enough to meet Stoker’s dad and get knocked up a few months later, and then ta-da, little Wally Stoker is welcomed into the world, destined for great things.
Stoker doesn’t know how many times he’s heard her say those words as she stared at him with those sharp eyes, such an oddly deep shade of green, like that of ivy. “You’re destined for greatness, son. Keep your nose clean, do what’s right, and always keep your eye on the goal.” Her goals. Never mind his. She’d pushed him hard into politics. Said it was the Stoker way, but in all their glory, no one had made it past the municipal level, and Stoker would have been fine with that. She kept pushing. Provincial, one of the youngest to serve on the council when he’d first been appointed. And now her eyes are set on the highest rank other than president of South Africa itself.
She’s got that somewhere in the back of her mind, too, Stoker knows.
He should feel bad stalking his mother like this, but there’s just so little he knows about her, who she consorts with, what she does in her spare time when she isn’t planning his every move or reviving men from the dead. There has to be something on the net somewhere. He runs her face through facial recognition, a wide sweep, then leaves the search running on his alpha bot while he starts going over dance moves, doing that damn changeover he always fumbles without fail. They’ve got their first full dress rehearsal tomorrow morning, and if he doesn’t get this right, Riya’s going to give him an earful. Despite all that, he laughs to himself. To have such problems!
His dress is tucked safely in the closet, a little snakeskin number with layered black lace—short enough to highlight his legs that go on for days, but long enough to cover everything that needs covering—paired with silver and rhinestone heels higher than he should dare. He’s going the masked route, just in case, a demi-veil hanging down from an insane updo, reminiscent of a cobra’s hood. His own creation. He’d rummaged through at least a hundred wigs before he’d picked that one. Still, it pains him that he has to hide who he was meant to be.
The thought hits him so hard, he stumbles on his changeover, tangled feet nearly sending him to the floor. He steadies himself, his eyes open wide. Pretending to be Felicity Lyons is fun, no doubt. But actually being her . . .
Stoker tries to shake it off. He’ll be forty-two this year, way too old to be questioning his gender. But just out of curiosity, he instructs his alpha bot to pull up QueerLife SA, the local LGBT virtual community he’s heard about here and there. His alpha bot skitters toward him, draws itself up to its full height, and projects a keyboard at waist level. Stoker’s fingers slip through the dusty blue light of the keys as he creates a profile and nervously loads a holopic of Felicity as his avatar, then ponders what his handle should be. Something cute. Something catchy. LyonTamer. His hand trembles as he goes to hit enter.
Handle already taken, his alpha bot chirps at him.
Figures. He adds his birth year to the end.
Handle already taken, his alpha bot chirps again.
TheRealLyonTamer then.
Handle already taken.
“Okay, this is stupid,” Stoker says as he adds random numbers until he’s properly satisfied . . .