did this before?” said their mom.
“One time—”
“Ten times,” Tim corrected.
“I swear, Nick Lyons,” their mom said. “You better put every wire and chip back in its place.”
“Yeah. About that.” Nick took a step back. “The experiment was a resounding success, but it sorta blew up the Accolade’s battery and—and the motherboard.”
Nick’s dad kept attempting words, but none seemed to relate to the English language. He was beet red, and his mouth looked like it was trying to decide between screaming and crying.
“What did I tell you would happen if you got your hands on one more electronic device?” their mom said.
Nick’s eyes grew.
“I’ve had it with you, freak! You’re getting the inhibitors tonight.”
“What?” Nick looked to his dad. Everything just turned really serious. Neural inhibitors were given to kids who were considered dangerous and out of control. Nick would be seventeen the next time he could string together an entire sentence.
Their mother pointed upstairs. “Get up to your rooms now! The doctor will transmit a prescription to your nannydrone.”
The brothers retreated to their bedroom.
“Why don’t you shut your mouth?” Nick said. “I protected you from Rocky. You know what? The next kid can ape all over you for all I care.”
“I told you I didn’t want your help. Besides, you ruined Dad’s Accolade. And for what? Another arson attempt? Sorry, dude, but electronics are the last thing you should touch.”
“It was coming together. Almost had it ready. Would have won that money, too.”
“You almost burned down a forest, Nick. Someone has to stop you.”
“If you want to make an omelette, you gotta crack a few eggs.”
“Exactly! You know who said that, Nick? Stalin said that. Stalin—who committed genocide against his own people.”
“Well—we don’t know who really said that.” Nick pounded the intercom. He had rewired it two-way, so he could eavesdrop on his parents. It came in handy when planning a sneak out.
His dad’s voice trembled. “My Accolade! That crazy punk kid took apart my Accolade!”
“I told him what I’d do,” said their mom. “He’s insane. He’s just insane. . . . Yes? . . . Um. Yeah. I need that doctor—you know, the one who gives neural inhibitors. He’s on the Medinetwork, right? . . . Yeah . . . No. We already have a file opened in the psychiatric wing. . . . Yes. We have a nannydrone. . . . Yeah, she better be able to process all forms of medication. We paid, like, a fortune for her.”
“Whatever.” Nick fell back on the bed. “It is time I leave this den of parental totalitarianism.”
“Call the national guard. The monster is loose and headed for Tokyo harbor.”
“You know what, Tim—”
“You seem distressed, Nick Lyons.” The nannydrone crept toward him.
“Now is not the time,” Nick said. “Planning my escape.”
“How might I make you happy today?” the nannydrone continued.
“Disassemble yourself,” Nick said.
“Please wait while I process your request . . .” A clock symbol appeared over her face. “I am sorry, Nick Lyons. I cannot perform such a task.”
“Of course you couldn’t. Wanna know why? That would actually make me happy.”
“Oh dear, Nick Lyons. Now my bio-rhythm sensors tell me you have been upset by an unidentified object within this room.”
“Really?” Nick smacked his forehead.
“I am formulating a solution for you, Nick Lyons,” the nannydrone offered. “This solution is brought to you by Pappy’s Popsicles. Lick your way to happiness. Due to a decreased level of serotonin in your brain, dilated pupils, and small but noticeable constipation—”
“Gross!” Tim sat up.
“You would be best served by having a Pappy’s Popsicle. Chocolate.”
The nannydrone buzzed out the room and returned with a chocolate Pappy’s Popsicle. Nick turned to his side as the nannydrone rose to meet him eye-level.
“Enjoy, Nick Lyons.”
“I don’t want it,” Nick said.
“Everyone wants a Pappy’s Popsicle.”
“I. Don’t. Want. It! I don’t want a Pappy’s Popsicle, and I don’t want a digital head floating in my face, selling me junk all the time!” Nick grabbed the popsicle and threw it.
The nannydrone spun, shooting several laser beams to intercept the popsicle fragments before they hit the wall.
“That was a close one.” The nannydrone grabbed the popsicle stick. “Cleanliness is next to happin—Please standby. Receiving a transmission from St. Mary’s Medinetwork . . . I have received your mother’s request to administer the neural inhibitor, R-5235.” The popsicle-free hand flipped like a switchblade, revealing a long, silvery needle. The nannydrone moved slowly toward Nick.
“Crap.” Nick sat straight up.
“Dude,” was all Tim could say.
“Nothing to be concerned about,” the nannydrone said. “This medication is