The Power Trip

J. Cafesin’s

The Power Trip

—

—

It’s just a game. No one was supposed to die. Especially by suicide—the very thing I’m building Drew to prevent. I knew it was a bad Trip. Kara did too. But we didn’t stop it, and neither did Drew…

—

Chapter 1

I’m up coding again. 4:22am glows red overhead. 

Drew’s win ratio spiked with the last run. Either I’m brilliant, or this is another short-lived glitch. A few tweaks and I kick off another test. Consider a quick nap but nix trying.

I pace between my bed and desk. Holoclock projects 5:31a.m. in ultraviolet. Stop and stare at my screen. Drew is annihilating the expert in twenty six percent of the games now. How to bring that number up…

I’m back at my desk coding before I realize I’m sitting.

My mom passes my closed door. 6:44a.m. glows in deep blue above me. Sunrise is coming. 

Drew may be reaching true cognitive General Intelligence with the latest win rates. Could get me a Nobel before 25. I’d finally matter— beyond my mother.

She’s in the kitchen. I hear her making my lunch, like she has every school day for the past 11 years. Won’t tell her I’m not taking a sack lunch to my first day at college.

7:01 a.m. floats in sky blue near the ceiling. I wanna stay on Drew, but it’ll take hours for results on this run with my ancient hardware. Be in my first class at Stanford by then. Tingling in hands and along my scalp. One more time I’ll be the odd one out—younger, tagged smarter, a child pariah inadvertently challenging everyone to a dick contest over IQ.

“Here we go again.”

I dress. Jeans. Black tee. Clip on my old iBand and slip on my optiglasses. Not smartglasses, like most everyone has now. I don’t really care. Don’t need the distraction of another connected device. My Univiz5’s are fine for vision correction.

Stand in front of the long mirror. Hair’s a mess. Don’t comb it. Trying to pull off college caj, but just look lame—a geek trying for cool. I wilt, then grab my moblet, slip it in my backpack and go to the kitchen.

“Morning, baby,” Mom says, folding the top of the roll over sliced turkey. “How ya doing? You ready?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Drop my backpack on the table and get a protein bar from the cupboard. “Had a hard time sleeping. Kinda dreading today.”

“You’ll be fine, I’m absolutely sure of it.” She’s said this every time she signed me up for a club or sport. Cub scouts to middle school band to high school robotics, I never made the friends she promised. “Stanford’s full of kids just like you. You’ll fit right in. No worries.”

“Hmm… seriously?” I lean against the counter and eat the protein bar. “Sure as hell ain’t looking forward to a repeat of my public school experience.”

“It won’t be. You’ll get involved in internships and class projects with kids at every grade level. You’ll find your niche there, Guaranteed.” Her hazel eyes behind her ancient optiglasses twinkle with rare lightness.

“ALERT. ALERT!” in white letters scroll over a red banner on the fridge monitor. “Due to the power demand exceeding supply, Seer has implemented a load shedding Stage 1 ROLLING BLACKOUT for the MILLBREA and BURLINGAME sectors from 9:00am until NOON today. ALERT! ALERT!…”

“Damn it.” Mom’s lightness vanishes as she looks at her smartband. “This is absurd,” mom says. “We have to pay their obscene bills to make a few top-tier execs even richer whether they deliver connectivity or not. And they get away with it—fully supported by our fascist president and the kangaroo congress and court that he and his father before him…”

I kinda tune out her rant watching her move fluidly from one end of the kitchen to the other gathering the components of my lunch—a small bag of chips from the cupboard, a couple of her homemade brownies, then puts them, along with the sandwich, in a casein bag. I eat my chocolate caramel protein bar wondering how they get away with selling it as health food when it’s literally a candy bar.

“I’ve gotta get going, honey. It’s already past 8:00, and traffic’s gonna be a mess without GPS now,” she says as she gathers her long auburn hair into a ponytail and fastens it high up in a skrunchy yellow hair tie. She looks so young with her hair up like that, like she’s barely out of her twenties. She’s 42. “Don’t forget to take your lunch. And remember you’re on BART until University Station, then—”

“I got it, mom. I don’t need micromanaging. Go to work. I’m good.”

She gets serious. “May turn out to be your best day ever, Rocket.” She’d dropped the end word Science long ago. “Never know. Just don’t take crap from anyone and you’ll be fine,” she adds, but I’m not sure to me or for herself. “I love you, Ian. And I’m so very proud.”

“You’ve said.” I smile. She frowns. “I love you too, mom. And thanks for making me lunch.”

“Like always, kid.” She hands me the sack lunch, then gently pulls my face to hers and kisses my cheek quickly. “See ya tonight,” she says, gathering her things. “Can’t wait to hear about your first day.” And she’s out the back door. 

I drop the sack lunch on the kitchen table. The oak is worn, water-stained and scorched from hot pans on the rare occasions my father cooked before he left. 

Pull the brownies from the bag and stuff them into my backpack, then toss the bag in the trasher and turn it on. It hums while igniting her gracious efforts, and most of my guilt, to dust.

Chapter 2

I scroll through Chatter on my way to BART. A sink hole swallowed up half a strip mall in Shoreline. Residents are screaming over the satellite network blackout, shutting down remote workflow to street lights to air traffic control at SFO. It won’t matter. Corps do whatever they wan—

White light blinds me, then a piercing sting bores into the top of my head. I yank out my earbuds, swipe at my hair and the air.

“Ian Michael Wheaton,” the drone booms. Blue and red lights of the police drone flash two feet from my face. “You are in violation of California Education Code, 601.2. Mills High School has reported you a minor truant.”

“Shit,” I whisper, hoping it didn’t hear. I’ve never been stopped before, but know better than to run. “I’m not truant. I graduated Mills last June. They obviously haven’t updated their records yet. Please check San Mateo Unified School District for my status.” I’m more annoyed than scared. They don’t arbitrarily shoot people anymore. But I’d rather avoid another bee sting.

“Please stand by,” the drone announces.

I stand in the hazy daylight feeling lame as cars slow to ogle me. The few walking cross the street or disappear into a shop. Any sudden movement triggers the drone to release a strong enough shock to drop me until cops arrive. The sting was to get my attention. Everyone’s plugged in these days.

“You are clear to proceed, Ian Wheaton.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, resisting the urge to flip it off. It takes off in hot pursuit of someone else to harass.

Make it to Stanford without getting tagged again. I’m probably the youngest in all my classes, though it’s hard to tell. Especially with me at almost six feet, with a shadow of facial hair, which I don’t shave so no one marks me for a kid.

Meet a guy named Vijay in both Math41 and CSAI. Brown skin, brown cropped hair. Dark eyes behind last year’s Lunar4’s. We walk to Bytes cafe for lunch. Ironically, I follow his lead and buy a turkey sandwich. We talk about our developing projects. Everyone here’s hoping to develop the next big thing.

“It isn’t totally working yet,” Vijay says, soft Indian accent. “But it is learning.” We sit at a table outside. “I hacked Chatter and InstaPin. Endless training data. My ‘Empath,‘ that’s what I call it, can now detect mood changes in real time.”

“Cool,” I say, instead of deflating his derivative idea. Emotional classifiers have been around for decades. “So, what do ya wanna do with your Empath?”

“Sell it to advertisers, of course. Depressed? Buy our energy drink. Feeling empty? We’ve got a sale for you!”

“Harsh, dude.” Can’t help shaking my head. “But we’re all ad blind now. Everyone knows we’re being targeted and ignore the assault for the most part.”

“Yes. Yes. Everyone thinks advertising doesn’t affect them. Of course it does. None of us are immune to every device we own telling us how to think. Even what to believe in. Get behind what people feel in the moment, and they’ll buy into all kinds of crap. Hope is an enticing siren,” he says, followed by a smug grin.

“You’d have an even better one if instead of predicting, you can get them to actually do what you want.” I’m teasing, irked so many of my gen are developing tech to sell more crap.

“Right. Like mind control. Good luck with that.” Vijay’s gaze drifts to a redhead walking towards us, deep in dialog on her smartglasses. She passes without glancing our way.

“I’m working with AI too,” I blurt, maybe to feel seen. “Building a biological neural net that simulates human brain development.”

“Like the Brain Initiative?”

“Not quite. The NIH is modeling an adult brain, inputting controlled responses. My software learns from first principal, like a child’s brain does. I call it Drew, after Andrew Ng, founder of Google Brain.”

“And what do you hope to do with Drew after achieving the brass ring of synthetic cognition?”

I know he’s ribbing me but don’t care. “If we can track brain development from infancy, it’ll show us what makes us tick.”

“Where’s the money in that?”

“Well, I’m still tightening the code. I’ve only got the processing power to simulate 500 million neurons on my Parallax. The human brain has billions.”

“You can turn it into a therapist. Or a diagnostic tool for crazy people.” Vijay’s characterization that dysfunctional behavior rendered one ‘crazy,’ though typical, is still annoying.

“Yeah. Disease too. MS. Parkinson’s. Alzheimer’s, even brain cancer.” I savor the last bite of my sandwich.

“You may have a unicorn for the right market,” Vijay says as he shoved his detritus into the bag his sandwich came in and stands. “The risk, of course, is someone using your brain maps to mess with people’s minds.”

Unlike your ‘Empath,’ I don’t think to say until I’m in my CS221 class.

Chapter 3

I don’t see Vijay again until the following Tuesday. Mid-morning we walk over to Byte’s for lunch.

“Been thinking about our chat last week,” Vijay says. “My dorm mate, Maki, which he says is short for Machiavelli, is into game dev.”

“Seriously? Naming your kid after an infamous power monger?” I ask as we go into the Packard building, and into the cafe.

Vijay laughs, shakes his head like I missed his joke, which, of course, I did. There’s an awkward silence and I feel stupid, on the outside again. “Anyway,” he says, “I talked to him about what you’re developing. Hope that’s cool.”

It’s not, but I feel lame if I say so, so I don’t. Why is there a moral code against talking out of school if everyone does anyway?

“He seemed super into your neural net. Asked me a ton of questions I couldn’t answer. So I suggested we all get together and share what we’ve got.” Vijay takes a gulp of the bottled water he’s pulled from the cooler shelf. “Mak’s working on a MMORPG he calls The Power Trip. Players use subliminal recommendations to motivate other players to do stuff they wouldn’t normally do, or maybe would. I’m not sure,” he says, and takes another gulp of water. “If they do what you suggest, you get points.”

“What can players suggest?” My mind floods with newscasts of murders, suicides, and mass shootings. “And who creates the game’s subliminal recs, and how are they deployed?”

“No clue. He doesn’t have an MVP yet.” Vijay shrugs. “Not even a buggy demo. But if we team up—your bio net, his game, and my emotions classifier, we can make it whatever we want it to be. There’s money in game dev, my friend.”

I pull a turkey sandwich from the bin. “What do the points buy you?”

“Don’t know.” Vijay gets a pasta salad and we sit outside. “I bet between the three of us we can come up with something cool, that’s worth something. You free tonight? We can meet at Arrillaga Commons, split a pizza. I’m in Wilbur Hall, Cedro House. What house are you in?”

I look down at my turkey on sourdough. Mom graciously supplies me with a weekly allowance now. I don’t have the heart to tell her that forty bucks buys me two meals a week. The other three days it’s power bars from home. “Uh, I don’t live on campus. I know I’m like the only freshman at Stanford who doesn’t, but I’m underage, so I live at home, with my mom, in Millbrea.” I don’t tell him the real reason I don’t live on campus is because we can’t afford the extra sixty grand a year.

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen last month.” I smile, both embarrassed and empowered. Never liked the spotlight, but am proud I got here before most everyone else.

“Whoa, you a kid genius or what?”

I laugh, trying to look chill after being marked ‘different.’ Again. “No. My mom got me into school early. She needed childcare. And I skipped a couple grades because my scores were good. Anyway, I’m probably not that much younger than you. You’re a freshman too, right?”

“Yup. Turned 18 last June.” He takes another bite of his pasta salad. “Hey, come over to the Commons after class. 5:30? You can meet Maki. I’ll buy the pizza. Could be the start of something big.” Vijay finishes his pasta, sucking in the last spiral noodle in a comical way, then wipes the grease off his lips with his shirtsleeve, but his smile remains.

“Yeah. OK. Sure,” I say, trying to sound casual, but I’m buzzing. Energized. Vijay called me a ‘friend.’ For the first time ever, I’ve been invited in.

I text my mom I’m going to be home late on the way to Biochem. She’d left a message on the fridge monitor this morning: Pollo y Arroz for dinner, complete with a sombrero on the P. I don’t want her to hassle making the meal if I’m not there to share it with her.

Chapter 4

The Commons is huge, and packed. Students fill plates with campus-grown veggies, pile trays with hot soups and sandwiches, or wait for made-to-order pastas and burgers. Smells like privilege in here. My stomach growls.

Never been to the Commons. Way beyond my price range. I scan the crowds but don’t see Vijay at the long tables by the windows, or the round ones filling the center of the massive room. Sunlight pours through steel french windows washing out the floating holopages streaming CNET, BBCNN, and CardinalRT.

My iBand buzzes. Vijay’s face is on my screen. “We scored a table outside.”

It’s hard to hear him through my iBuds above the din of students and clatter of dishes. “Come out to the balcony,” I think he said.

“kk. B right there,” I text, to avoid yelling.

It’s quieter outside as I step onto the narrow balcony overlooking palm trees surrounding the courtyard below. I see Vijay at a round table at the far end. He’s with a gaunt Asian kid wearing all black. Shoulder-length dark hair falls over his forehead like an anime bad boy.

Vijay stands and waves me over. “Ian. Maki,” he says. “Maki. Ian.”

It seems to take great effort for Maki to look up at me. The supple plastic of Apple’s new iSite’s wraps his eyes, his forehead and cheeks glow blue behind the tinted lens. “How ya doin, man,” he says coolly, then he takes a long draw off his Zambam—the energy drink with the sonic blue ribbon that’s like ten bucks a can—then returns his attention to his moblet.

“Pizza’s coming,” Vijay says, then sits, and gestures for me to. I do, feeling incredibly awkward sitting there as he slowly gulps his Zambam. “Wasn’t sure what you drink. You can grab something inside.”

Maki types on a translucent keyboard projected on the table from his MacletX. I don’t like them. Too hard to finger, which is why I still use the UI’s keyboard on my Legion. That, and it’s way cheaper than Apple’s lineup.

“Give me one sec,” Maki says. “I just wanna input this before I forget it.”

Vijay shrugs. “So, glad you made it.”

My iBand buzzes. I hesitate looking at it, conscious of my inferior tech. It buzzes again. An ultra-blue ribbon sways against a shimmering silver background. I swipe my screen to remove the ad and my wallpaper of igniting synapses returns.

“Maki’s on the four year DS track,” Vijay continues. “Started programming when he was like seven.”

Maki chortles but doesn’t look up. “I’m sure the kid genius here started before me.”

Three minutes into meeting Maki and already I don’t like him. I’ve taken his kind of crap since elementary school—stroking the dog but always holding the leash. “I’ve been coding since preschool. Was designing organic systems by five. My dad was a bionics engineer. Got me into neural nets for prosthetics,” I recite my standard for people I’m looking to bash in an IQ contest. “Well, that, and the old cartoon Envirotron.” I joke, to hide my rising ire.

“Oh, I remember that show,” Vijay says. “The wacky professor and his robot that went around fighting corporate villains to save the planet.”

“That’s the one.” I smile, flash on watching the series under the covers on my old Galaxy tablet. “I kinda got how the robot moved mechanically. I didn’t get how it thought, how its brain worked. So I’m coding a dynamically evolving, learning brain—like ours—to show me.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Maki says, still without looking at me. “That’s why I called this meeting.”

I tense. Thought Vijay arranged this meeting, but Maki’s clearly pulling the strings.

He stops typing and lifts his Zambam, the sonic blue ribbon shimmering with beads of condensation. He gulps theatrically, almost in slow motion.

I glance at Vijay. He doesn’t acknowledge me, seemingly lost in drinking his Zambam. I’m getting that sinking feeling I am once again the butt of a joke.

Maki sets the silver can down, closer to me than himself. A wide smile emerges—like the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland. “I’m working on something too,” he says. “Like everyone else here, right? Vijay said he told you a bit about my game?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Sounds like another rec engine. Pushing products, brands, politics, religion?” I pause to give him an opening, but he doesn’t respond. “All of the above?”

“I wanna develop an AGI that will blow the doors off anything out there,” Maki finally says. “This won’t be just another role-play strategy game. Combine our talents, and together we’ll build The Power Trip into an artificial general intelligence engine that will show us what makes people tick.”

I glare at Vijay finishing the last of his Zambam. Asshole! Maki is quoting me—almost verbatim—from what I’d said to Vijay.

His Lunar’s pulse soft blue. “Pizza’s ready,” Vijay says, standing. “Come grab a drink while I pick it up. But be quick. I’m starving, and Maki’s a pig, so I can’t guarantee you a slice.” He glances at Maki. Something passes between them.

And I’m on the outside looking in again.

Chapter 5

I follow Vijay back inside and queue up at the drink kiosk. Fifth in line for the soda machine. I’ll get water. Cheapest option at a buck for the cup, and four more for the water. I’ll pretend it’s all I wanted if they ask.

My iBand buzzes. Another ZamBam ad. I swipe my screen, but the blue ribbon stays, swaying with my finger against a shimmering silver background. A flash of outrage. Since when do carriers let corps hijack our wallpaper?

My iBand7 is three years old—a birthday gift grandma Bubs. I tap, swipe, shake my wrist, but the blue ribbon just flutters across the screen as I inch forward in line alongside bins of soda and water on ice. The last bin before the soda machine is stacked rows of ZamBam.

I’ve had only one power drink in my life, a can of PowerPop courtesy of our advisor Mr. Reed, during a Robotics League all-nighter. Bob, our two foot tall polyamide robot nailed the Jeopardy Nationals. Mills High got twenty grand for our win. Got our pic in the Chronicle. One of my few glory days.

Swiping, tapping, and shaking my wrist I’m still locked out of my smartband. The shimmering blue ribbon flutters, almost mockingly. Inching forward, my ire is rising. My iBand’s my only way to pay.

“Excuse me,” a guy cuts in front of me and grabs a ZamBam. He glides through checkout without alarms going off or security drones going after him.

I force reboot my iBand. Two spots ahead, a stunning brunette starts filling her twenty-four ounce cup with Diet Coke. I’m absolutely sure Vijay and Maki are halfway through the pizza already. My stomach growls. Hunger sharpens my irritation. Consider blowing off the water, but I’m thirsty from the turkey at lunch, and pizza will only make it worse.

Screen lights up with my synapse wallpaper. I sigh heavily. Shouldn’t have panicked. I get ads all day. Cheapest plans come with them. Disable the ads like I did when I was eight, and the rates shoot up. Mom patiently explained this when I found her crying over the bill my first day of 5^th grade.

iBand buzzes again. Another ZamBam ad. POV rides their blue ribbon like a magic carpet through sparkling cityscapes that morph into firing synapses, then out through optic nerves to a twinkling blue eye. “ReCharge Your Day,” then their logo “ZamBam!” crackling with electricity.

Reboot my iBand again. A wave of exhaustion then vertigo—the room spins. Noise fades. I lean against the cool metal ledge of the kiosk, resting my hand on the ice in the Zambam bin, the cold grounding me.

A classically hot blonde joins the cover girl brunette still filling her cup. They exchange a quick cheek to cheek kiss, then she flashes a smile at the guy ahead of me. She chats him up while filling her twenty-four ounce cup.

I groan, the dizziness fading with my growing irritation.

“Come on!” The woman behind me huffs, then grabs a ZamBam and leaves.

Check my iBand. My synaptic wallpaper is back. Relax! I dig my fingers into the crushed ice nestling the ZamBam. Ten bucks a can. Exactly what’s left in my account for the week.

Buzz of my iBand tingles my wrist and fingers. Zambam again! Some college-age dude is drinking a Zambam in the same theatrical way Maki and Vijay were. Half-eaten slice of pizza is on a paper plate on the table beside him.

My stomach clinches. I’m starving, and I need eat to stay sharp.

Swipe my iBand screen hard, and my wallpaper returns to firing synapses—the green light for accessing my mobi to purchase.

I grab a ZamBam and head back outside dreading there’s no pizza left, and suddenly regretting not going home for Mom’s killer Pollo y Arroz.

Chapter 6

Half a large pizza left in the box on the table. Vijay and Maki are on their second slices, chatting. Until I join them. Awkward silence as I sit, and again I wish I was home. Full. Safe.

“Help yourself.” Vijay hands me a napkin. He glances at Maki and again they exchange something to which I’m not privy.

“Thanks. I’m starving.” I lift two slices onto my napkin. Take a bite of a slice. The pizza is warm, saucy, cheesy, crispy crust, temporarily quieting my gnawing, relentless hunger.

“See you got a ZamBam,” Maki says. His iSite’s are almost clear now. His eyes are black—no distinction between his pupil and iris.

“Packs quite a punch, doesn’t it,” Vijay adds, smiling like a kid with a secret.

“Never tried it before.” Put down my slice and lift the can. Twist off the top with a pop. Smells like coffee, chocolate, and chemicals. Tastes the same, and I can’t help wince in disgust.

“Didn’t think you were into power drinks, or even soda,” Vijay says. “I’ve only seen you drink water.”

“Need a boost tonight. Got a sentiment analysis project due for my BMI class, so I’m gonna have to pull an all-nighter.” I lie, take another gulp of ZamBam. Tastes as gross as the first.

“So, Ian, does your build use Dynamic hologramic Microscopy models in combination with LAMs?” Maki asks.

I’m amazed Maki even knows what a DHM model is. “Partially. I’m replicating a cell body, you know, axons, dendrites, synapses, to map chemical and neurological connectivity.”

“Impressive,” Maki says, then takes another bite of his pizza. He chews slowly, like he’s mulling over what I’ve said. “Remind me what you’re hoping to map brain activity for…”

“Fixing our brains,” Vijay mocks.

‘Don’t take crap from anyone,’ I hear my mom say. I take another swig of ZamBam, suddenly feeling a jolt of energy, “If we can track how the human brain develops from conception, we can repair or eliminate cancers, birth defects, retardation, autism, depression to psychopathy.” And I care less by how arrogant I must sound.

“Ya gotta love this guy,” Vijay says. “A true humanitarian. Rare, at best, especially around here. Bravo, man.”

Can’t tell if he’s mocking, or lightly teasing, but I’ll be damned to play the fool again. I look at Maki. “Wanna fill me in on The Power Trip?”

Maki and Vijay exchange a glance and both smile, then Maki swipes his MacLet. A projection keyboard blankets the half eaten slice in front of him. “Before I get into the game,” he says, moving the pizza aside. “Why did you buy the ZamBam, in particular, I mean. By your own admission, you’ve never had one, so why now?”

Now I’m sure I’m the brunt of some joke. “I told you. I need energy for a BMI project due tomorrow—”

“No. You don’t.” Maki taps the projected keys on the table. A holopage pops up of what looks like a calendar. Takes me second to read the heading and date through the translucent page. It’s my Biometrics class calendar, clearly showing the SA project is due October 15, two weeks away.

Heart’s pounding. Pulse spiking. I can barely swallow. My outrage robs me of words. How the hell did these guysaccess my class schedule? And why?

“Relax, Brainiac,” Maki says. “Before you get all bent outta shape, I figured it’d be more fun showing you the game then just rambling about it. And you were just playing it. Well, we were, on you.”

“And it worked!” Vijay grins. “You bought a Zambam!”

I’m speechless, trying to process what’s just occurred. “You…you put the ZamBam wallpaper on my iBand?”

“Yup,” Maki says.

“And their ads too?”

“Yup.”

“How?”

“Easy. I created the assets in StudioPro, and Vijay hacked you open,” Maki gloats. “Your contacts, near perfect SATC scores, robotics awards, to your two bed, one and a half bath in Millbrae, your mom’s $145k salary, plus the $40k from side gigs since your father’s suicide—”

“Screw you,” I snap, and get up to walk away.

“Whoa, chill, man,” Maki says, standing. “I don’t care if you’re rich or poor or whatever the hell. You’re lucky you don’t have your old man down your throat trying to dictate the rest of your life.”

Vijay is standing too. “Ian, dude, we’re not dissing ya, man. Swear. Sit down. Have another slice, and let’s just talk.” He puts his hand on my shoulder.

I shake him off, almost slugging him in the process. He recoils but stays standing next to me. Students at other tables watch us, including the blonde and her stunning brunette friend at the soda machine earlier. I sit back down, burning with humiliation. Vijay sits but I don’t acknowledge him. I glare across the table at Maki.

I’m shaking, feels like my heart is coming through my chest. “Don’t take crap from anyone,” echos. I should leave, storm off. But I don’t. Just beyond my fury, I’m intrigued. They pulled it off. Dumb luck? Pure chance? Or do they actually have something?

Vijay and Maki are watching me, and either sense my change in demeanor, or maybe I’m smiling, because they both grin. I shake my head, laugh.

“But how…” I mutter. “I mean, I could’ve pulled any drink, or none at all.”

“Maybe,” Maki says. “But my probability matrix gave you an 8% chance you’d buy a Zambam. We can increase the game’s predictability by a lot with your neural net, ‘Drew,’ I think Vijay said you call it,” he stares at me, like looking for me to flinch or something, but I already know Vijay can’t be trusted. Nor Maki, for that matter. “Vijay’s tapped into InstaPin, gBlast, UView, Chatter—”

“I’ve hacked into a dozen of the most popular social platforms,” Vijay says proudly. “And that’s just so far.”

“With your system, we’ll be able to track what makes the brain activate,” Maki continues. “Learn what triggers an action. Change destructive behavior patterns.” Maki grins, like he’s throwing me a bone.

“Do you have any idea the compute power we’d need to pull off what you’re talking about?” I look at both of them.

“My dad has an ExPANS6000,” Maki says casually, like everyone has one. He swipes his MacLet. Holopage of my class calendar vanishes. Keyboard fades. He pulls his half-eaten slice in front of him. “And I get we need tons of data, which is why it’s a game. The more people play, the more the system will learn what motivates behavior.”

“Build an MVP and we’ll have VC throwing money at us,” Vijay interjects. “Or we can crowdfund and keep the equity.”

“What about messing with people’s minds?” I eye Vijay.

Vijay looks at Maki, then back at me. “We can use it for good. Get players to help each other out. Make friends. Be more productive, or just have fun. We’re building the software. We can make it whatever we want.” Vijay seems very sure of this.

It’s bullshit. Implementing an organic neural network that learns through experience will eventually teach itself. He’s right about one thing: We’ll have advertisers pitching us if The Power Trip ever gets traction.

“So, you in?” Maki asks.

I finish the last of my ZamBam before responding. “What specifically do you want to get people to do?” And again my mind travels to some very dark places.

They glance at each other and shrug simultaneously.

“Not sure yet,” Maki says.

Bullshit.

“We’re still working on proof of concept.”

“It’s why we need you,” Vijay says.

“You’ll have to sign an NDA if you wanna go deeper.” Maki finishes his ZamBam, then crushes the can into a disk. “Look, if nothing else, The Power Trip evolves your neural net. Best case? We change the world.” Maki raises one eyebrow. Smiles.

“And we could make bank!” Vijay smiles.

So do I.

Chapter 7

Suburban twilight passes in a twinkling blur from my BART window bench. I consider what I’ve just signed up for.

Three reasons I agreed to get on board with the Power Trip:

1. If I help build the game, I won’t be played again.

2. I can make sure the software has real, broad-scale value.

3. Maki has an ExPANS6.

That machine has the processing power to simulate billions of neurons in real time. Drew could become a truly cognitive system, one that can recognize even obscure patterns of our behavior before we act.

Ricocheting around my head is another reason I signed on today… I’ve been invited in. Not left outside again, but part of a real Stanford startup.

I get off at Millbrae and walk the mile home. Cameras on every streetlight. K9 robots patrolling every business and parking lot, and hovering police drones. Still doesn’t feel safe.

Wireless tasers can drop you from 25 feet. Under $50 on Amazon. Muggings, hate crimes, violent protests, riots, are at their highest levels since the tech gold rush. My mom says the ‘Great Economic Divide’ began back then, with ‘corps using our personal data to turn most everyone into automatons.’

She’s at the kitchen table when I come in. A large holopage with a dozen or more middle-aged faces hoping to get a job floats in front of her.

She asks about my day, my dinner. I pluck one of her chocolate-dipped strawberry meringues from the pile on the counter. Melts in my mouth. I tell her about pizza at the Commons with Maki and Vijay, but leave out The Power Trip. No need to trigger an apocalyptic dissertation on the ethics while she’s prepping to teach.

“Told ya you’d find your niche at Stanford, Rocket.” She beams at me. I come close, lean in, touch my forehead to hers. She lifts her hand to the back of my head and we’re connected, then I notice the red banner across the top of the holopage scrolling a monthly bill notification from PGE.

Sustainable Grid: $657.30.
Meter Monitoring: $580.
Taxes, fees, surcharges… Total: $2,285.40 for the month.

“Pacific Grid Electric are thieves,” my mom snaps. “The energy exchange was supposed to cut bills in half,” she mocks. “What happened to that?”

We both know it’s my fault, but she won’t say it. I’m running tests and analyze the results 24/7 on my Parallax. And that eats a ton of energy.

“I’m sorry, mom. I can get a job—”

“Ah, Ian.” She looks at me, her earnest face on. “We’ve been over this how many times? Right now, your job is getting the best education you can.” She looks tired. “And I’m absolutely sure you’ll be a smashing success at whatever you endeavor, Rocket.” She deletes the banner temporarily. It will pop up every hour until she approves payment. “In fact, I’m counting on you to help build a better future for everyone, instead of just the select few.”

“I love you, Mom.” It’s all I can think of to say. ‘I won’t let you down’ seems a hollow promise.

“I love you, too.” She lifts her optiglasses, rubs her eyes, then turns back to the holopage of students. “Good evening. Let’s get started. Who has their market analysis to share tonight?”

I go to my room and shut the door. Sit at my desk and pull up the results of my latest test. A palpitating thrill crosses my chest. Drew has won nearly 25% of the half million games in my last run. It’s learning faster than ever. The thrill passes quickly hearing my mom lecture, knowing what my mental itch is costing her.

I flash on a different life once Drew is fully-functional, and commercialize to improve lives. Accolades. Limitless funding. I’d buy one of those mansions in Woodside or Atherton, with a chef’s kitchen where my mom could start the bakery she’s always dreamed of.

Chapter 8

Saturday morning Maki’s parked in the red zone at the Atherton BART station in a vintage black Porsche Carrera convertible. Vijay’s shotgun.

“Hey,” they say—casual, cool.

“Hey,” I say, climbing into the back.

Maki commands the car to drive. The sudden acceleration pins me against the seat. Can’t speak without yelling, or hear what they’re saying over the wind, but I see them talking. Like I’m not there.

Iron gates open automatically. Car pull onto the circular drive of a sprawling two-story, California ranch home. The Porsche parks in a redwood-shrouded alcove near the columned porch.

I follow them through double glass doors into a long, pristine room—white couch, white sofa chairs, white marble fireplace.

Vijay follows Maki, and I follow Vijay into a massive kitchen. Huge granite island. Brushed steel smartfride. Glass dining alcove, seats eight.

A brunette stands at the sink, rinsing a Japanese eggplant. She gives Vijay a quick “Hey,” and flashes me a wide smile. Moss green eyes behind her rimless Ray-Ban’s. Her long, dark hair falls over her shoulder like satin. “Hi,” she say, stroking the long, thin, purple fruit under the streaming water.

“Hey,” Maki says to her. “Dad leave?”

“Yeah.” Her voice is soft but resonant. “Good timing, Mak. He told me to tell you if you hack into his HBI research again, he’s revoking your access to Alfred.”

Vijay sits at the island. I hover beside him. Maki goes to the fridge.

“Ian, my sister Kara. Kara, Ian,” Maki says, pulling cans of ZamBam.

Kara flashes her wide smile again. “Hi.” She looks familiar, but I can’t place her.

“Hi.”

“I’m making a stir fry. You boys want some?”

Yes!

“Nah,” Maki says, sliding ZamBams across the granite top to Vijay then me. “We got work to do. We’ll be on Alfred most of the day.”

“Dad’s serious, Maki. He was really pissed when he left this morning.” Kara rubs the eggplant in slow strokes. “I’d watch out, or he’ll lock you outta the system for sure if you go into his business again.”

“He lets you in.”

“Only to Genosphere, for their biometrics stuff,” Kara says. She turns off the faucet and pulls a knife from the magnetic strip on the wall. “It’s for school, not gaming.”

And it hits me—where I’ve seen Kara before. Filling her 24oz cup at the Commons. She was a plant—part of the set up to push me into buying a ZamBam.

My scalp prickles. Heart’s racing again. I glare at Maki, then Vijay, then Kara. “You…” I whisper in spite of myself.

She looks up from chopping the eggplant. “I’m sorry.” she says, eyes wide. “Please don’t be mad.”

And suddenly I’m not. Her apology is clearly genuine. Disarming.

“I was just helping my brother out.”

“And I thank you, baby sister,” Maki says, coming round the island.

“Three minutes, Maki,” she yells. “Three minutes will never qualify me as your baby sister, pinhead.”

Vijay and I follow Maki towards the French doors to the backyard.

Clearly fraternal twins, Maki has classic Asian features. Kara doesn’t. Her eyes are large and almond shaped. Her nose straight, but prominent. Full lips.

Leaving the house, I look more closely at framed photos on the fireplace mantle in the white room. Family trips to Disneyland, Yosemite. Their dad is Asian. Mom’s Caucasian.

We cross the slate patio—easily bigger than my entire backyard. Beyond it is a half acre of manicured lawn, and a long, Grecian-style pool, diving board on the far end.

We follow a paved path to a structure almost the size of my house behind the four-car garage, practically hidden by a huge old oak. Stepping-stones lead to double French doors flawlessly integrated with the floor-to-ceiling French windows of the building’s facade. This is one hell of a garage startup.

Chapter 9

“What exactly do your parents do?” I ask Maki, trailing him and Vijay across the stones, blown away by the scale of the place.

We enter a huge room, divided from another by a shared fireplace. Sunlight dapples the Zen-like garden beyond the double french doors across the room.

“My dad’s a managing partner at Accel—Biotech, in Beijing. My mom’s dead,” he says flatly. “Ovarian cancer, little over a year ago.”

Maki drops into a black leather chair behind a massive redwood and steel desk easily ten feel long. Two more desks extend from the sides, forming a U. The setup reminds me of a UN war room.

Vijay sets his moblet in the center of the left desk. I stand there feeling awkward as hell. I am completely out of my element.

“You can setup there,” Maki says, nodding at the right desk. It’s shorter than the left desk but still has room for two more people.

I drop my backpack on the polished wood, pull out my moblet, and sit in the middle of the three ergonomic chairs. Three sleek white projection bars are mounted on the walls above us.

A holopage floats above Maki’s desk, reflecting his image. Fine green lines of a facial scan crawl over his face. A moment later, the red LEDs on the XR bars turn green.

An avatar of an older man, in a dark gray suit with a neon blue tie appears standing in front of Maki’s desk. “Good morning, Maki,” he says in a clipped English accent.

“Morning, Alfred,” Maki replies, looking directly at the avatar as if he’s actually there. “Please pull up my latest changes to The Power Trip in carousel display.” He looks at me. “My dad programmed Alfred only to respond to eye contact, and politeness. His warped way of teaching manners.”

A dozen or more holopages open simultaneously in a carousel configuration in the vacant center of the U, slowly spinning.

“Will that be all sir,” Alfred inquires.

“Yes.” Maki stands, eyes on Alfred. “Thank you, Alfred. Now go away.” The avatar vanishes. “OK,” He crosses behind me to the carousel and swipes at the translucent pages. “This stack is PLAYER one’s profile.” He stops the spin and pulls out a holopage with an Asian kid popping a zit in a bathroom mirror.

The feed’s from the smartglasses wrapping the kid’s head. Fine green lines crawl over Tom’s reflection.

“Meet Thom Wong,” Vijay says.

Pus splatters the mirror. Thom leaves it there and walks down a long, dim hallway lined with dorm doors, rubber soles squeaking on the corian.