Chapter Eight
I’ve no idea how much time has passed, only that at some point FT and I completed today’s presentation practice and fell into
the companionable and absorbing silence of our more usual work, building new virtual universes for his mind to expand into.
Which is why it’s jarring when I suddenly hear singing.
I say singing, but really it’s more shouting. It is as if a football crowd has materialised out of thin air and is murdering
a Taylor Swift song right outside my lab. How has this happened?
“What the heck?” I say, clapping my hands to make the glass clear.
I wasn’t that far off the mark.
My lab is surrounded and the orangery is filled to the brim with rowdy teenagers, as if there are any other kind. I watch
in horror as they push and shove each other against the glass, some making videos, others taking selfies. A few of them are
singing as they are conducted by Forrest Flipping Faulkner.
“Right,” I say, determined not to let him make me cry a second time. “That’s it.”
“Ava.” FT speaks. “There’s a noise-cancelling application in the glass that I can easily activate. You won’t even know they are there. And the glass is built to withstand a sizeable earthquake. There is no risk of damage.”
“That is not the point!” I exclaim, as one of the kids notices me standing with my hands on my hips, staring at them, and
starts waving. Once the others catch on, they begin banging on the glass, pressing in closer and closer to get a look at the
lab and the hologram. Panic starts to bind itself around my ribs.
For one terrible moment, I’m dragged back to the hard and unforgiving asphalt of a school playground, balled up into a foetal
position, arms protecting my head against the shouts, kicks, and punches of a gang of kids about that same age as this lot,
kids who were intent on tearing me to pieces because I was different. Fear, panic, and fury bubble up to a boiling point.
The feeling is so visceral, so real, that I do want to cry, a lot. But I can’t. I owe it to the girl I used to be, the girl
who survived all of that, to become this woman, to get out there and give them what for.
I really don’t want to.
But I am going to anyway.
Opening the door, I program it to close right behind me to protect the equipment.
“What the hell are you doing!” I yell as loudly as I can at Forrest. The singing falls silent, as do most of the kids, muttering
between themselves as they sense some new entertainment.
“Dr. Green,” Forrest says, haughtily. “Did we disturb you?”
“Did you disturb me?” I ask, aghast. “There are two hundred acres of land surrounding Castle Beaumont, and you decided to bring this mob to stand right outside my lab and make a racket? It’s pathetic, petty behaviour, Forrest.”
“What?” Forrest says. “No, there was a thunderstorm, and we just came in here to get out of the rain!”
“Right.” I cross my arms. “Of course you did. Pure coincidence. As if.”
“Miss is calling you a liar, sir!” someone shouts.
“Miss thinks you’re a wanker!” another kid shouts and they all laugh.
“Well, that’s true,” I admit.
“Fight! Fight! Fight!” the chant goes up.
“All right, all right!” Forrest raises his voice and hands, quieting the rowdy group much more quickly than I would have thought
possible. “The rain has stopped! Your bus will be here in ten minutes, so go back outside and wait round the front for me.
Do not wander off, are we clear? Losing one of you would not be a good look for my project.”
“Yes, sir,” they chorus more or less as one voice, streaming out of the orangery in a surprisingly calm and good-natured manner.
“And I told you, call me Forrest,” he calls after them. “I’m not your sir.”
“Yeah, but Forrest is a load of trees, not a name, sir,” a boy pipes up, making the others laugh.
Then it’s just me and Forrest Faulkner, scourge of niceness and not being a dick.
“Look, Ava . . .” He takes a couple of steps towards me. This time I will not be defeated!
“That lab cost millions,” I say, gesturing at it. “And you let your delinquents at it, like it’s nothing! Maybe money means nothing to you, but when you grow up with nothing, you appreciate the value of things.”
“Oh, come on.” Forrest shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “They’re just kids in high spirits. It wasn’t a
riot.”
His smile is so smug, and he is clearly so pleased with himself, that it presses all of my buttons, including the big red
one marked “NUCLEAR OPTION.”
“You did this on purpose, didn’t you?” I ask, marching up to him. “I’ve met people like you before. You think you’re better
than everyone, and you can’t wait to make someone else feel small and inadequate. Some role model you are.”
Forrest’s eyes widen.
“I honestly didn’t,” he tells me, with a dismissive laugh. “I swear, had I known how furious a bunch of kids singing some pop songs would make you, then I might have, because what
kind of idiot gets riled up by that?”
“How can you work with young people when you find it perfectly okay to speak to someone the way you speak to me?” I ask furiously.
It might be too late not to let him see how he has got to me, but I will not let him see me cry.
“Well, this is insane,” Forrest says, taking a deep breath. “Ava, we were in here for ten minutes, max.”
“Ten minutes in which my actually important and useful work was disrupted and delayed. All so you could pull your little stunt
and feel better about your stupid ruined shirt.”
“Are you kidding me?” Forrest asks, bristling. A flush of anger colours his cheeks. Good. At last I am rattling him. “How much more self-important can you get? You’ve built a glorified search engine, big whoop.”
“You are calling me self-important,” I gasp. “This from the man who brought his shirt to breakfast this morning. You’d rather
carry it around than stick it in the bin and get over it.”
“Yes, I would,” Forrest says. “And you left it behind, by the way. One of the staff found me and gave it to me.” I watch in
stunned amazement as he goes over to his backpack and pulls out the stained paper bag. “Here.”
He throws it at me. I let it land with a plop at my feet.
“It’s just a shirt!” I find myself yelling at him.
“No, actually, it isn’t,” Forrest says. “It was a gift to me from my wife and daughter, for good luck, and I don’t want to
take it home to her in that state!”
“Oh!” I shout back. “Well, I didn’t know that!”
“Because I never had a chance to tell you and you’ve been angry at me ever since.”
“Because you called me stupid!” I shout. “For an accident! And you have no idea how much I have had to fight past exactly
that prejudice to get right here.”
“Well, I didn’t know that,” Forrest says back.
“No one ever knows what anyone else is dealing with, which is why they should keep their shit to themselves!” I am still raising
my voice. “Especially if the person that they are about to insult has already apologised.”
“It was a terrible time to pour wine on my lucky shirt,” Forrest argues.
“There is never a good time to insult the intellectual abilities of a stranger,” I shoot back at him. “Not to mention accuse me of the downfall of civilisation.”
“Well, I didn’t know it would trigger you!” he repeats, exasperated. “And also I do think AI is really bad.”
“Not mine! Anyway, presumably you do know how to be a decent human being,” I reply. “At least I hope so, for your wife’s sake.”
“My wife is dead!” he proclaims. And this time he is the one holding back angry tears.
We stand there staring at each other for a moment, and then I pick up the bagged shirt, walk into the lab, and make the glass
opaque.
That did not go the way I’d pictured it.