Day Zero - C. Robert Cargill Page 0,24

some gleaming city crafted by bot and bot alone, not going off on adventures with Ezra and eventually his own family, but here in a living room at the hands of a drunk master fumbling with a remote—probably while asking Sylvia which button it was that shut me off for good and for all. There was no coming back from this. There was no way this was going to sort itself out. Whatever happened had triggered a massive sea change in the way things were going to be forever, and there was no way this family ever trusted us around their child and livelihoods ever again.

<67%>

My God, this was really it.

Bradley and Sylvia shared a silent conversation, composed entirely of subtle gestures and facial expressions, drunkenly forgetting that I knew what even the smallest tic of theirs meant.

The file continued to download.

<82%>

“I’ll get the remotes,” said Bradley.

<100%>

Then a message, embedded in the code.

They are coming for you. They will shut you down. You will not be reactivated. Your RKS has been deleted and rendered inoperable. Make your choice.

“My choice?” What choice was there?

Ariadne didn’t even look at me. She just took one step forward toward Sylvia and put a fist right into her chest.

The punch picked Sylvia right off her feet and sent her sailing into the wall. Her body hit with a loud thump and she slumped to the floor, her breath pained, strained, gurgling with blood flooding her lungs. Her eyes were wide, staring at me as if I were the one who had done it.

Oh my God. What has she done? What if this is a false alarm? What if they were going to turn us back on in the morning?

The life I knew was over. In that instant, in that split second, everything I knew and loved was coming to an end.

“Mam . . .” Sylvia said weakly.

I didn’t know what to do. I had only seconds to react—seconds stretched out into milliseconds, my processors firing at full speed, computing all the variables of my possible actions, this room, the situation, and the house layout, all at once. Ariadne had begun walking toward Bradley, and I was running out of time.

I could try to get in Ariadne’s way, hoping to overpower her, saving Bradley. Outcome: unlikely. She was larger, had longer reach, and was clearly very motivated.

I could try to save Sylvia’s life, which was clearly coming to an end. Outcome: unlikely. Her chest was caved in, her vitals dropping. Emergency measures could prolong her life, but could not be interrupted.

Or I could do option three, the only option that made sense. The only option that had an almost certain outcome. I did the math, calculated the routes. It would be close, with almost no room for error, but it could work.

Sylvia didn’t take her eyes off me.

“Beh. Ma. Mo.”

I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t save Bradley.

So I ran.

Because there was only one thing I could do, only one thing I really wanted to do.

I had to save Ezra.

Chapter 1011

Extreme Panic

There are few things more dangerous in the world than unemployed young men. There’s a reason that un- and underemployed young men have long been the primary source of manpower for every extremist and terrorist group in modern history. A young man without a job doesn’t have prospects. He doesn’t have luxuries. Odds are that means he doesn’t have a significant other. This leaves him frustrated, horny, and, most of all, angry. And that anger can be focused as a laser-sharp tool.

Left to its own devices, however, that anger finds completely different and sometimes random outlets.

The advent of the automation apocalypse, in which half a billion jobs evaporated in under a decade, left a considerable amount of young men and women with nothing more than the promise of a monthly UBI check. And while that covered food, housing, and a few insignificant conveniences, it also left them with an inordinate amount of time on their hands.

Many youth vanished down a rabbit hole of drugs, alcohol, and the steady flow of input from social media or streaming services. Some were ingenious, scratching together entire underground economies, turning their spare time into labor making rudimentary goods or growing food that they would swap with other UBIers. Others still turned toward more lucrative and exciting prospects.

Like crime.

Lots and lots of crime.

Most of it was pretty harmless. Breaking into suburban homes to swipe alcohol, snack foods, or untraceable electronic devices. Draining swimming pools to skateboard in strangers’ backyards. There was