Parched (14 page)

“You all sleep in here?”

Ling nods. “You sound surprised.”

“I just thought there'd be more of you,” I admit.

“We're growing,” Ling says. “But it's hard to find people we all trust.” She gives me a quick smile then inclines her head toward the back door. I can hear chatter and someone playing a guitar. “C'mon. Everyone's dying to meet the famous Tess Rockwood.”

“Then meet her they shall,” I say, affecting a touch more bravado than I actually feel.

The large backyard is filled with a couple dozen people, all roughly my age or a few years older. The person playing the guitar is a gorgeous boy with coal black skin. He smiles broadly as he strums. Next to him are a couple of pixieish girls who are messing around with stream design, beamed up from a square of scratch. They both have strawberry blond hair cut uneven and shaggy, and thin arms covered with swirling tronics. One has a lip piercing, and the other has silver rings threaded through both eyebrows. Their fingers draw jagged red lines that hang in the air like frozen lightning.

A faded yellow hammock has been strung up between a huge tree to my right and the corner of the house. A gangly boy with short dark hair and olive skin lies in it. His fingers swish in a busy stream featuring maxed-out muscle men pounding on what look like wolves with wings.

Behind the tree, a half dozen fat chickens peck around the edges of a sprawling vegetable garden. A guy in a pair of overalls and rubber boots is tying up a vine that's heavy with ripe red tomatoes. Nailed to a wooden post nearby is a pockmarked dartboard that another guy is using. Darts whiz fast to the bull's-eye. Beyond the veggie garden, I can see empty fields full of sunlight. The air smells sweet, like honey—I wonder if they have beehives somewhere.

On the other side of the backyard is a medium-sized shed. In front of it sits a muscular, tough-looking girl with dark, hard eyes. Her head is completely shaved and a hand-rolled cigarette is pressed between her lips—the kind you can get in the Badlands. But that's not why I find myself staring at her. She is oh-so-casually tinkering with a razer. I've only ever seen razers in the hands of Tranquils.

Kudzu HQ is a hotbed of rule breakage. For starters, they're growing their own food. No one cares if you have an herb garden or fruit tree, but large-scale gardening throws off the equal distribution of resources. Not to mention the weapons (double illegal), and that they're presumably all undocumented and operating without IDS (triple times a million illegal).

“Ling!” The two pixie girls spot her first. They abandon their stream and run over to us.

“Hey!” Ling laughs as both girls throw themselves on her, light as birds. Like Ling, they have red string necklaces with little silver Ks on them. “Everyone!” Ling calls, extracting herself from the giggling pixie girls. “I found her!” She gestures at me grandly. “Meet Tess Rockwood, the robot girl!”

At once, every person in the backyard is heading my way.

“Hi!”

“Hey, Tess!” The pixie girls bounce in front of me eagerly.

“We've heard so much about you!”

“Pretty tronic! Does it glow it the dark?”

“Uh, thanks. Yeah, sort of.” Everywhere, eyes are on me: curious and excited.

“Gem and Kissy,” Ling introduces the pixie girls. Gem's the one
with the lip piercing, Kissy's the one with eyebrow piercings. “Sisters, obviously. The guy in the garden is Tomm—”

Names and faces blur around me. “Hi,” I keep saying, shaking hands and bumping fists. “Hey, how's it going?”

“Did someone say ‘robot girl'?” A boy's voice rings out from way above me. A pool of rope falls from the sky. The sound of friction—
vvvvvvvip!
—and a grinning blond boy lands squarely in front of me.

“Benji!” A voice calls from around the same point, high up in the tree's branches. A second rope drops down. “You were supposed to wait for”—
vvvvvvvip!
—“me!” A girl lands confidently. Golden-blond hair spills out around her shoulders.

These two look different from the overall vibe of Kudzu. Blue-eyed and supremely healthy-looking, their lithe bodies are free of tronics and piercings. I would've assumed they were brother and sister, except the girl has a lilting accent that makes every
s
sound like
Z
.

“Nice.” Benji grins at her.

“Thanks.” She grins back, and they high-five.

“Should've guessed you guys would want to make an impression,” Ling says. “Tess, meet Benji and Lana.”

“Nice to meet you,” Benji says, shaking my hand. He's wearing thick black gloves lined with a bumpy grip.

“Welcome to Kudzu, Tess,” adds Lana. Her handshake is just as strong and assured as Benji's.

“Thanks,” I say. “Happy to be here.”

“We're psyched to have you on board,” Benji adds, running a gloved hand through his short blond hair. “This mission is going to be awesome.”

“For sure.” I try to sound as self-assured as they do.

Benji grins at Lana. “Race you back up?”

Lana frowns. “No, it's nearly lunch—” But before she finishes, she leaps for her rope. Gripping it expertly with her feet, she begins moving up it lightning fast, like a spectacularly attractive monkey.

“Hey!” cries Benji, racing to do the same.

I turn back around to see the guitar player sidling up behind Ling. He circles her waist with his arm and plants a loud kiss right on her ear. For some reason, I assume the tough and competent Ling would be put off by this, but instead she squeaks in surprise and whirls eagerly into his arms, kissing him hard on the mouth. She grins at him happily, then turns back to me. “This is my boyfriend, Bo.”

“Hey.” I smile, stepping forward to shake his hand.

“Welcome,” he says with an easy grin, then steps back to consider me with mock disapproval. “So. You're the reason my girlfriend was running wild in the Badlands all month.”

“She'd probably be running wild no matter what she was doing,” I say, and they both laugh. I breathe in the warm fragrant air, so sweet it makes me crave chocolate. “What smells so good?”

“That's the milkwood.” Ling gestures to a row of white flowering bushes that line the left side of the backyard. “Actually, that's what we call this place. Milkwood.”

Milkwood.
I roll the new word around in my brain. This place does seem like a Milkwood. Pleasant and peaceful, but strong and solid.

“Okay, kids!” Henny materializes behind me, her voice booming over the backyard. “Lunch is served. Get it while it's hot, chickens.”

Everyone begins moving past me to the kitchen. I glance at Ling, half hoping she'll help me navigate lunch, but she's dragging Bo off around the corner of the house and out of sight.

“Coming to get some lunch?” Lana asks. “Henny is an incredible cook.”

“I, um, ate before,” I find myself saying.

“Okay.” Benji and Lana smile at me again, then head inside.

I'm not sure why I lied like that—I am actually starving, and whatever Henny was cooking made my mouth water.

I take a seat in an empty folding chair and try to organize my memories into some sort of narrative for the meeting. I think I know how to destroy an artilect. Obviously it wasn't anything Mom told me directly, but I was around enough that I do have something of an idea. I remember the way Mom's eyes would glaze ever so slightly when describing how science could make the world a better place, as if she were looking inwardly at her own private utopia.

Kudzu begin filtering back outside, carrying bowls of soup and hunks of fresh bread. I fish the muesli bar out of my backpack. Nibbling on the corner of the hard, dry bar is like eating rocks. I can barely bring myself to swallow one bite. Giving up, I toss the stupid bar in the direction of the scrub.

“Hey! What are you doing?” The girl with the shaved head picks up my muesli bar accusingly. “Did you just throw this away?”

Mortified, I stare at her. Even though she's a full head shorter than me, she is completely terrifying.

“My family is starving to death in the Badlands and you throw away a whole bar?” Furious, she holds up the uneaten bar for everyone to see. “I knew you would be trouble!”

“I—I'm sorry.” A deep, hot blush crawls up my cheeks. The entire Kudzu contingent is looking at me and the bar.

“It's just a bar, Naz,” someone mutters, but she cuts him off decisively, growing angrier by the second.

“
No
, not just a bar. This is proof she
doesn't
think like we do, she
isn't
Kudzu—”

“Naz!” Ling reappears from around the corner of the house, hair slightly mussed. “Calm down!”

“She doesn't know how to live like we do—”

“Oh, shut up, yes she does,” Ling snaps, striding toward us. “She survived a whole year in the Badlands; she can take care of herself.” Ling snatches the bar from Naz's hand. “Now unless
you
want to walk us through Aevum, keep your mouth shut.”

Naz scowls, muttering a low
fuega
at me before stalking off. She speaks Mal—doesn't surprise me. She's got Badlands written all over her.

Ling exhales angrily, rolling her eyes. “Sorry about that. She's a hothead.”

“Yeah,” I say. “She's very . . . spirited.”

Ling laughs. “Right, spirited. You should see her with one of her tricked-out razers. Spirit central.”

“I thought Kudzu were nonviolent,” I say, watching Naz disappear into the weapons shed.

“We are,” Ling says. “But sooner or later, the Trust will come for us. And we want to be ready.”

“So, Naz—she's weapons gal?” I clarify.

Ling nods. “Best in the biz. She's also got opinions. You'll see.” She frowns at the offending muesli bar in her hand. “C'mon. Let's get you some real food.”

After lunch, everyone converges in the front room. Among the jostling, chatting bodies, I recognize Gem, Kissy, Bo, Tomm—the gardener in the rubber boots—Henny, and, of course, Naz, looking as surly as ever. Carlos lies curled at the feet of Benji and Lana, who sit right at the front, holding hands. After scanning the room, I count twenty-one people. I sit close to the front, but on the side, against the wall.

Ling stands before the group, eyes glittering in the semidarkness. “Aevum,” she announces, quieting the chatter. “I'm finally ready to give everyone the full briefing on Kudzu's next mission.”

A small volley of whoops and whistles follows.

Ling continues, “This mission is both a stunt to draw attention to the unfairness of such a resource-heavy undertaking while the Badlands are dying, as well as a way to stop the Trust from creating a powerful, self-aware being.”

“Why should we care about that?” Naz asks.

“If the Trust creates an artilect,” Ling explains, “they're basically the artilect's parents, right? The Trust can tell it whatever they want. Like it needs to keep them in power forever. Who knows what it might do then.” Everyone is listening attentively, nodding in agreement.

I catch the eye of the olive-skinned boy who'd been lying in the hammock. He is sitting comfortably in the large red swivel chair, which I assume makes him Achilles, lord of all things tech. He gives me a quick, confident nod, as if to say, “I'm on board.” I nod back, then refocus on Ling.

“As most of you know,” Ling says, “we have someone helping us with this one—Tess Rockwood. Tess's mom designed the first attempt at an artilect, Magnus.” A flash of pain cuts through me. “She knows Simutech, she knows artilects. We're lucky to have her on our side.”

“All right, Tess!” Lana grins.

Ling gestures for me to take her place at the front of the room. The room is a sea of eyes, heavy with expectation.

“Okay, so I'm not exactly sure what I'm supposed to do right now,” I begin, half joking.

“Tell us about this stupid robot, Rockwood,” Naz drawls sarcastically. “You're the freakin' expert.”

I bristle, suddenly filled with a sharp desire to prove myself. “First off, it's not a robot. It's an artilect; an artificial intelligence. A machine that can think and feel like we can.”

“How is that even possible?” Bo asks.

“My mom was aiming to create something with free will, morality, and empathy,” I explain. “Basically what the science types agree could constitute a living machine.”

“Why?” Achilles asks.

I shrug. “She was idealistic. She thought a new life force could make things better—see the world in the different way, and try to fix things.”

“So, why does the Trust want one?” asks Benji.

“Yeah,” adds Achilles. “The Trust doesn't want to make things better. They think they've already done that.”

I shake my head. “I really don't know why they want an artilect. It doesn't make a lot of sense to me, either.”

“How do you make one?” someone calls.

“Robotic neurocircuitry,” I reply. “They'd have an artificial central nervous system, with an artificial brain called a singularix.”

“What's the difference between an artilect and a substitute?” asks Tomm.

“Artilects are alive, substitutes aren't,” I explain. “We control substitutes, right? We tell them what to do. Artilects will be able to think for themselves and make decisions on their own.”

“Substitutes just emulate emotions,” adds Achilles, “instead of really having them. Right?”

“Exactly.” I nod. “But Magnus could feel things, and Aevum, theoretically, can too. Hypothetically, they'll be capable of wanting things, and then acting on their desires to get what they want. Free will. As well as having a sense of right and wrong, a sense of morality.”

“Morality created by Simutech, and the Trust,” Ling says.