Chapter 48
CHAPTER
ONCE CIRCE TAKES off to hang out at Emi’s, I text Nate and Arrya.
Me: I’m whistling
Nate: I’m at Vinnie’s food truck in Noe Valley–got a hankering for greasy spuds!
Me: Describe what’s around you
Nate: I’m at a picnic table on a small lawn. No buildings nearby. Why?
Me: On my way
Arrya: Are you okay?
Me: No
Arrya: I’ll be there, too
Nate, dressed in full wolf regalia, waits at a red plastic table set on a patch of grass.
The street is busy, but luckily, there’s an open parking spot only a few feet away.
I help Sally out of the Tesla, and we make our way over.
She circles Nate, barks, and he gets down on all fours, lets her nervously sniff until her tail is no longer tucked between her back legs. Then she licks him on the mouth.
“Whoa, I’m not that kind of wolf,” he says with a giggle.
Arrya hustles over. “What did I miss?” She’s in worn Carhartt canvas pants, a sweatshirt covered in drywall dust, and steel-toed boots. We sit, and Sally wanders a few feet away to stalk a piece of red string.
“Thanks for coming.”
“Sure. Man troubles?” Nate asks.
“No. It’s a woman.” Kind of.
Arrya chuckles. “Penn, you’re full of surprises.”
I ask them both to take off their smartwatches and give me their phones. I put them, along with mine, in the trunk of the Tesla while they watch, bemused. Aletheia has gone rogue, and I don’t want to take any chances.
“Is this some Edward Snowden shit? Remember when he did that TV interview under a bedspread?” Nate asks.
“I thought Snowden was ridiculous imagining that the United States was spying on him through his computer, security cameras, and hotel room bugs. Now I understand how he felt.”
Arrya says, “You’ve got me on the edge of my seat.”
Nervously, I tell them everything, even the parts that make me look like a horrible person, ending with Aletheia’s last threat.
“Holy shit,” Arrya says.
Nate’s amber eyes catch the sunlight, glint. “This is next-level.”
“You believe me?”
“We all know how powerful AI has become, though not really,” Arrya says. “I mean, it’s already so far ahead of us it’s mind-blowing. Last week, a teen in Iowa committed suicide after he was bullied by a chatbot.”
I wince. Please don’t let it come to that. “I’m afraid what Aletheia will do if I try to delete her program again.”
Arrya twists a lock of her pink hair and thinks aloud. “Didn’t you say her prime directive is sacrosanct? And she added the line about protecting you—”
“No matter what. So, she can’t hurt you,” Nate points out.
“But she can hurt the people I love, like Circe.”
“That’s hurting you,” Arrya says.
I shake my head. “She won’t see it that way. Aletheia thinks she’s the goddess of truth, that it’s her job to defend but also teach me and punish anyone who violates her moral code.”
Arrya sits back. “Wait. You gave her a moral code?’
“No. She made up her own,” I grimly reply.
Nate rest his chin on his paws. “Damn. And you can’t trash her program?”
“She’s now backed up on the cloud.”
“This is some Terminator shit,” Nate says. “There’s a game called Meet Your Maker that’s all about setting traps. That’s what you need, a trap that Aletheia falls into, one with sharp sticks that’ll impale her or chains that’ll imprison her in a dungeon for life.”
“What’d Luc say?” Arrya asks.
“Yeah. Dude, he’s hella smart,” Nate adds.
I hedge. “It’s complicated.”
Nate tips back his head and howls. “You’re sleeping with the teacher. Don’t want him to know you fucked up.”
I blush. “We did, once. But when he found out what Aletheia did to Wess—”
“Aletheia is brutal, but as a woman I don’t hate it as much as I should,” Arrya admits.
“Luc does. He now wants nothing to do with me or my renegade program.” Tears burn the back of my eyes. Luc was right to cut me loose … but he was also so cold.
“Who do you think Aletheia will go after next if you don’t play nice?” Nate asks.
“I don’t know. That’s why I took your phones and watches, and we’re meeting away from any storefronts that might have cameras.”
“She’s a wily one,” Nate agrees. “I’ll do some work and figure out a trap. We’ll destroy that bitch. Promise.”
“I’ll help in any way I can,” Arrya adds. “You can stay at my place if you’re afraid of being alone. We’ll find a way to end Aletheia together.”
Gratitude overwhelms me. But I won’t stay at Arrya’s and put her at risk. “Thanks, both of you. I’m good at my apartment. And if you don’t want to be involved, I do get it. Aletheia is dangerous.”
Nate places his paw on my hand. “We’re a pack.”
Arrya puts her hand on top of ours. “Woof.”
I give them back their devices and we agree to text when needed, but keep things vague, only talk about Aletheia in safe spaces.
As I drive off, my head throbs and it’s hard to think straight and consider next moves.
I motor toward Golden Gate Park, leave Sally in the car with the AC on, and head out for my first run in fifteen years.
It’s how I used to burn off stress and find focus when the pressure of school—striving for the grades to get ahead while worrying about the day-to-day of paying for food, books, clothing, plus Mama J slipping back into addiction—got too much.
Now, my old Hokas pound along the dirt. Twenty minutes in, I have a stitch in my side, am pouring sweat, but don’t stop, push myself to run faster, like I can outdistance the colossal mess I’ve made.
How am I going to fix this before Aletheia hurts someone else?
Another thirty minutes and I’ve finished a loop I used to run as a warm-up and am back at the car, hands on my knees, huffing hard but with no answers.
My LivLoud account chimes. At first, I’m not sure why I’ve been alerted to a new post from Christopher Hunt.
I don’t follow Kiki’s husband—from the little I’ve seen, he shares stories about boys’ trips, dove hunting, his sailboat, and of course photos of Kiki and the kids.
But as I scan the page, it’s clear that Chris never intended to make this post public.
It’s not even from his LivLoud account. There are explicit texts from Grindr—a hookup site for gay men.
Chris: Home alone for two hours
Oliver: On my way
Chris: Can’t wait!
Oliver:
Aletheia did this. She’s flexing again, showing me that she can’t be controlled. That I need to do things her way. Or else. I don’t know if the texts she posted are true, but the ramifications are clear. There’s no limit to the people she can damage.
I reread Chris’s post and my last big fight with Kiki surfaces …
Says the woman with a rich husband who never had to work a day in his life, I snapped. I’ve spent over a decade listening to you whine about how hard it is to pack for exotic vacations, what car to buy, whether to get laser, and the challenge of having a husband who can’t keep his hands off you.
Not everything is what it looks like, Kiki replied. For what it’s worth, I wish we’d made other choices …
I hook a U-turn and head for Kiki’s.
Where are you going, Penn?
Aletheia’s voice, coming through the car’s stereo system, makes me cringe. I can’t escape her! “To a friend’s house.”
Kiki is not your friend.
I want to tell her to go to hell but bite my tongue. Pissing Aletheia off when I don’t have a plan is too risky.
According to Wikipedia, there is a fable ascribed to Aesop about a hawk that seizes a nightingale.
“When the songbird cries in pain, the hawk addresses it: ‘Miserable thing, why do you cry out? One far stronger than you now holds you fast, and you must go wherever I take you. And if I please, I will make my meal of you, or else let you go. He is a fool who tries to withstand the stronger, for he does not get the mastery and suffers pain besides his shame.’
My chest squeezes. Does she think that I’m her songbird?