in. What did Grand always say?
“Arise, Nikolas, and take your place among the clouds.”
The house computer introduction system announced: Sonya Lyons, identified. Heart rate: Excited. Condition: Healthy. Geneva infection levels: 0.00. Erik Lyons, identified. Heart rate: Excited. Condition: Healthy. Geneva infection levels: 0.00.
Beep, beep.
House secure.
Nick heard the clop of boots. Fast voices echoed downstairs.
Beep, the intercom alerted.
“Nick and Tim!” Their mom shouted through the intercom. “Get your freaky pyromaniac rears down here now!”
h
Over the mantle was the holographic image of an Asian news anchor in a three-piece tweed suit. “Reports coming in from the villages of the African Federation to the most northern region of Alaska have confirmed that we are, indeed, experiencing the second greatest outbreak of the Geneva virus. There are two hundred and seventy-eight thousand confirmed deaths reported throughout the Global Union. As of last May, more marriages have ended by the Geneva virus than divorce. The U.S. will open its thirty-fifth intranational refugee camp by month’s end. A bill is currently in the international council to replace refugee fences with walls, no longer allowing refugee minors to cross its bord—”
A computer voice cut off the broadcaster. Forgive the interruption, but the bio-rhythm sensors indicate a hostile confrontation between a Sonya and Erik Lyons, and their two sons, Nick and Tim Lyons. Would you like me to record the tele-holo for another time?
“You bet,” their mother said in her twangy, southern accent. She held two large shopping bags on each hand like the Lady of Justice. Fingers flared, sending both bags to the ground. She shoved her sunglasses into her hair, giving the impression of a blond peacock that just got back from a shopping spree. “Oh. My. Gosh. Like, seriously, Nick. Are you and Hannibal Lector pen pals or something? This is so beyond irresponsible. Your son, Erik. Your son is mentally ill.”
Their father was bedecked in his faux gangsta diamond-rimmed sunglasses, an extremely big orange T-shirt, and a hat that read: T.H.U.G.
“Dawg . . .” his father said, snapping his finger. A housedrone whizzed into the room holding two diet soda bottles. “Come on, dawg. I thought you were ma’ gangsta, bro.”
In case one was wondering, yes. Nick’s mom and dad had the collective maturity of a sixteen-year-old.
“Erik and I were sitting there . . .” their mom started, while opening the diet sodas and passing one to their dad. “And I’m like in the middle of a leg wax, and guess what? The fire chief calls me. The fire chief? Again? And they’re telling me you’ve burned a forest down or something? Whatever, Nick. Seriously. What. Ever.” She tipped her head back and downed half the bottle.
“The pyrodrones were there in thirty seconds flat,” said Nick. “The machine singed like ten trees, and maybe an azalea. They’ll inject it with growth therapy, and it’ll be good as new.”
Their dad smacked his lips after an equally deep guzzle from the soda and shook his head. “You both trippin’.” He pointed to them while squeezing in a little air DJ.
“Hey. It’s not my fault, Dad, er, bro-Dad.” Tim pointed to Nick. “He’s trying to build an invention to raise money so he can go home.”
“We had a deal.” Nick gritted his teeth.
“Yeah. We did,” Tim snapped. “And you broke the deal. I told you I didn’t want help with Rocky. And—and he got into your stuff, too, Dad. Took your solar battery and memory chip.”
“My stuff? What do you mean, my stuff?”
“He was in the garage—”
“Doing what?” His dad stood up.
Nick leaned into his brother. “Seriously, Tim. You do not know pain.”
Tim didn’t offer up any more words.
“Doing WHAT-TA?” His dad took off his sunglasses. “I know you ain’t touching my Accolade, Nick? I know you ain’t. What did I say? What. Did. I. Say? I said to stay on your side of the garage. You don’t see me all up in yo’ junk?” Their dad’s sandals flapped quickly as he marched into the garage.
“It worked, though,” Nick called after. “The solar battery worked. I stored the light in it and shot it out.”
“I so don’t care if it worked.” Their mom followed. “Keep your freaky hands off of Erik’s stuff. It ain’t yours. Wait until I tell your granddaddy.”
The garage door beeped.
“Whaaa . . .” their dad’s voice dried up.
“Nick!” His mom screamed, and he heard the shattering of a diet soda bottle. “What did you do to your dad’s Accolade—are you insane?”
Nick had completely dismantled the engine.
“I’ve always put it back together,” Nick said.
“You