Chaos on CatNet, Naomi Kritzer [bill gates books recommendations txt] 📗

I am not going home with this pocket knickknack that she basically told me was a tracking device, but I don’t want to just ditch it in a snowbank, either, and it’s gotten so cold out I don’t want to try to figure out what the hell to do with it while I’m standing out in the wind. I step inside the convenience store at the end of the block and duck back into the dairy aisle, where I take out my phone and text CheshireCat. WHAT EXACTLY DID SHE GIVE ME?

Take a picture?

I take a picture of it.

Is it heavy or light for its size?

I can’t tell.

Well, she certainly implied to you that it was a tracking device! I think it’s an RFID tag. They’d need to be in range to find you.

What sort of range?

A few blocks. Do you want her to be able to find you?

Absolutely not.

Then you probably want to get rid of it.

There’s a trash can near the front of the store, and I drop the little shield inside as I pass on my way out and realize that, for once, my paranoid panic is entirely reasonable. This is a tracker, given to me by people I don’t trust. My desire to get rid of it as quickly as possible is not the result of being raised on the run; this is actually an entirely sensible response.

The apartment is still empty when I get home. I hang up my coat and lock the door. “Why do you think they wanted to track me?” I ask CheshireCat.

“She said they want to keep you safe. Maybe this is true?”

“When they opened up the big closet full of guns, I didn’t hear what they said right after. Did you catch it?”

“I can play you my recording of it,” CheshireCat says, and I hear the man’s voice again. He talks about preparation, warns people to stay away from the local sports stadiums and malls “unless you’re a strike team member,” and then says, “There will be a signal. A clear signal. It may come through the app. When you receive the signal, it will be time for war.”

I close my eyes and try to think, which is hard when I’m this freaked out. “Okay,” I say. “So first of all, the Mischief Elves and the Catacombs are being played off each other. Maybe other groups, too, like Marvin’s future reenactment had him making armor and there’s that conversation I overheard about a brawl. It has to be the other AI coordinating this, but why?”

“I don’t know,” CheshireCat says. “This is very distressing.”

“And why plant a tracker on me? How many of these are they giving out?”

“How certain are you that you saw Rajiv at the compound on Saturday?” Cheshire asks.

I think about the face, which has already faded and blurred. “All I can say for sure is, when I looked up at that window, I was sure I was looking at the person in the pictures my mother showed me. Why?”

“You brought up last night whether there was a coordinated goal, and I’ve been thinking about what your mother said about Rajiv’s goals, and what Nell told you about the cult thinking they needed to make the world worthy.”

“I assumed that was just some sort of Christian thing.”

“It’s not. Even among Christians who are focused on the apocalypse, the idea that they will have to fight for these particular goals during the Tribulation appears to be common only among those who spend a lot of time talking to the Elder.”

“Well,” I say. “If Rajiv is involved, that might explain why they’re trying to track us. He joked about kidnapping my mother—maybe he’s going to come back for another try. Do you think he could be the creator of the other AI?”

“Your mother would probably give you the best answer to that question. Or Xochitl.”

“And do you think he might be involved in other groups?”

“What I think is that all these games that are persuading people to do things that seem harmless but add up to destruction have some things in common,” CheshireCat says. “At the very least, I think they all share in the work of the other AI.”

The obvious thing to do is to talk to my mother about this.

She knew Rajiv. She knows about CheshireCat. And I’ve been trying to talk to her about stuff, just like she’s been trying to talk to me about stuff.

And I didn’t bring the tracking device home, so there’s no reason that she’s going to hit the road with me.

I take the robot out of the packaging and set it up to charge. Then I start water boiling for spaghetti. If my mother is going to freak out, at least she’ll do it on a full stomach.

Mom is so late getting home I start thinking about possibilities like “new medical emergency” or “kidnapped by the Catacombs people.” I don’t want to make the spaghetti until she gets home, so when the pot of water comes to a boil, I turn it off. And then enough time passes that I turn it on again because I want it to boil quickly once she gets home. I’ve reboiled it three times when she finally comes in.

“Where were you?” I ask.

She looks surprised. “Downtown,” she says. “Dealing with lawyers.”

“It’s almost eight.”

“You don’t say. At least I got the good non-rush-hour fares to get back here.”

I turn the water back on. “I’m making spaghetti,” I say.

“Did you wait for me? You’re such a good daughter.”

“That’s good to know,” I say.

My tone clearly makes her suspicious, but she sets out plates for us and stays out of my way as I heat the sauce and cook the spaghetti. “How was your day off from school?” she asks as I sit down to eat.

“Fine.” I eat spaghetti and wonder exactly how to bring up Rajiv. “How were things with the lawyers?”

“I may have to go back to California this summer