“Mom, I’m scared,” Kai messages me. “They shaved Eloise’s hair off this afternoon. I think they’re going to put something into her brain. I want to come home.”

Regular communication between Academy students and their families is strongly discouraged, and Kai has not messaged me since enrolling in September. His note crushes the air out of my chest.

Of course, I panic. I floor it from Forest Cove to Sugar Glen, past the Monsanto Crispr AminoSoy fields, Night Market distribution centers, holovideo poker parlors, and Poppy Cig lounges.  The Academy has no need for an iron gate because they have electric fencing, twenty-four-hour surveillance, and robot security guards. At Parents’ Weekend last month, I was reassured the Academy was protecting Kai from predators and conspiracy theorists. Now, I’m scared they’ll turn my kid into a cyberman. But I’m the one that enrolled him, the single mom desperate for her son to get a leg up. So, what does that make me?

I pull up in my beater Toyota in front of the glass-walled gates and roll down the window. 

A voice comes through hidden speakers: “State your name and business, please.”

“This is Rachel Tsai here for Kai Tseng,” I say.  “His grandmother passed and I need to take him home.”

“We have no record of any communication from Rachel Tsai regarding a planned absence,” the voice says.

“It literally just happened. I need to bring Kai home, now,” I say.

“All absences must be authorized in advance,” the voice says.

“This is the advance notice. An emergency. When would be a more important time for him to be with me?” I squeak. My hands clutch the steering wheel.

“Public record shows paternal grandmother Eileen Tseng died in 2021,” the voice says. “Maternal grandmother Wei-Feng Tsai lives in Annapolis and public record shows her alive and well as of 10:42 am today. PeopleCorps protocol is clearly delineated in the parent handbook. Violators may lose scholarship assistance,” the voice says.

“Look,” I whisper. “I’m about to lose it. My car is on a lien. I miss my kid. I don’t think I can make it through the holidays without him.”

The voice pauses for a moment, but maybe it’s my imagination. 

“Please refer to Section A1-C of the Student Enrollment Agreement and call us with any questions. We at PeopleCorps have your child’s best interests at heart,” the voice says.

I glimpse a cadre of students exercising in sync, in a holo studio.

What the hell did I agree to?

#

Turns out, it wasn’t just me that had a horrible afternoon. All told, thirty-three parents gather in Esther Kagan’s mom’s basement. Esther’s mom blows two fuses in her house with her hair dryer on extra-high, to make it look like an accident that the wifi is off.  We’ve unplugged the VoxAdmins, shut down laptops and tablets, and turned off our cell phones to avoid any eavesdroppers.

Esther’s mom clangs on a pipe in the basement with her pen. “Thanks for coming, everyone. Most of us have received some cryptic communications from our kids today. Whatever sick shit is going on, it stops now. Tomorrow, we storm the school and take our kids back.”

“Just a reminder,” Sonya Chen’s mom says.  “We don’t want the police arresting us for un-American conduct, so try not to get a speeding ticket on the way.”

“She’s right,” Javon Earle’s dad says. “PeopleCorps just bought the City of Sugar Glen. So, you know they own the cops too.”

I let out a sigh. I was just lucky I didn’t get stopped on the highway this afternoon. I raise my hand.  “How are we going to outsmart an army of robots and octillionaires?”

“I got this,” Monroe Schulz’s mom says, pulling out large maps on butcher paper.  “I’m the urban planner for Sugar Glen and I have access to the school blueprints. I think the room housing the PeopleCorps servers are on the fifth floor. If we can hit them there, they’re done.”

Sonya’s mom breaks down and sobs. “What if they’ve turned Krista into a robot by now? What if shutting down the server kills her?”

A chill passes through the room.

I don’t think that’s how it works,” Monroe’s mom says. “But if my Monroe is that far gone, she’s not really alive anyway.”

“I never meant for this to happen,” Satish Khan’s dad says. “Satish wanted to be a cardiac surgeon, like me. I said, ‘There is no future for you in PeopleCorps’s medicine. Your boss will be an algorithm for profit optimization. To get ahead, you should help yourself, not others.’”

A wave of nausea slams into me and I grip the back of a chair for support. “I just wanted Kai to have a better life. He kept telling me, ‘Mom, money’s not everything.’ I said if he didn’t aim for the one percent, he’d be bottom-feeding the rest of his life.” I bury my head in my hands. “I pushed him to apply for the academic scholarship. What have I done?”

Monroe’s mom puts her arm around my shoulders. “We’re all doing the best we can.”

We split into tactical units to divide and conquer. A little after eight pm, the Alpha Team plants the diversion: bait for the media tomorrow morning.  Javon’s dad organizes the posting of hundreds of links on Meows, PictoFlash, and SentiLines.

Protest Tomorrow at PeopleCorps Academy – North Entrance

Tuition Price Hikes Unfair to Struggling Families Burdened with Thirty Percent Health Tax.

PeopleCorps Scholarships for the Ninety-Nine Percent:  Tokenism at Best?

That night, shame and guilt riddle my conscience. What could I have done differently for my baby boy? All I ever wanted was for Kai to enjoy the fruits of his labor without drowning in perpetual debt. The Academy scholarship was as good as gold, a lotto ticket out of the American morass.

I try to sleep, dreaming of Kai safe at home with me. 

#

It’s six am on D-Day and the Alpha Team’s strike works.  NetCast Chicago’s Got You Covered and ScreenMundo vans with big microphones and drones materialize in front of the school. The human suits, the teachers, and CorpsMasters greet the media, scripts in hand, smiles white.  No one likes bad publicity. Meanwhile, the Beta Team waits with vans lined up for our getaway.  

The Kappa team and I pull up in a city fire truck up to the south end of the building and hoist the ladder. Tate Nicholson’s dad shatters a third-floor window with his fireman axe.

“I’m going to hose the servers,” Tate’s dad says.  “It’ll take an hour, tops. You get our kids to safety.”

I scramble up into the hallway. Monroe’s mom follows close behind me, along with several burly dads. We open the doors to empty dorm rooms, bedsheets tucked underneath mattresses.

“They’re onto us,” I say to Monroe’s mom.

“Bastards,” Monroe’s mom says. “Maybe they’re already installing the mods on the kids.”

She leads the way up a stairwell to the fourth-floor research facility. The hallway is stark white, and smells of antiseptic. The lights flicker in fluorescent Morse code, and the buzzing hurts my eyes.

We bang on the door, and a woman in scrubs answers. 

“Security!” she says, and two seven-foot-tall robots appear at her side.

“Where are the kids?” I say. “Give me my son. You can’t keep him prisoner.”

“You signed an agreement regarding modifications at the discretion of PeopleCorps,” the woman says. “All children may decline of their own accord.”        

The robots watch us.

We enter the operating room theater, where no less than thirty students sit, heads shaved, watching the spectacle. I see my Kai, his big brown eyes shining. I push my way past the robots, desperate to reach my boy.

“Kai!” I scream.

He turns to me and his eyes light up.

Kai’s head doesn’t have stitches in it or anything. Maybe he’s next up on the chopping block.

“Mom,” he says. “You’re just in time.”

Unease tingles on my biceps. He doesn’t sound as terrified as I feel.

“Kai, I got your message. I’m here to save you.” I crawl over the knees of his classmates and stand before him.

Kai smiles and gives me a hug, then nods at the operating room, in its blinding bright light. “Watch, Mom. It’s Claire’s turn.”

On the other side of the floor-to ceiling glass walls, two giant robots drill open Claire’s skull. A voice speaks, the same one from yesterday at the gate.

You enrolled in PeopleCorps Academy to gain an edge: the Neuramods. The surgeons are inserting a carbon nanomesh around Claire’s amygdala, enabling her to process human motivations, intentions, and obstacles with lightspeed. Her Neuramods guarantee unparalleled success in HoloAdverts, NetClicks, and BaitSwitch consumption. Her OptimSurge implant allows her to manually override the nanomesh to make the best decision for CorpsDollar profitability.  Claire will be dominant in her field of advertising.   

“Yes,” Kai says with wonder. “Mom, I got on the Honor Roll this semester. I was going to surprise you at Thanksgiving. I can get a good job right out of the Academy. You don’t have to work at the lounge anymore, and I can help you pay back your student loans.”  

“Kai.” I wheeze.  “We gotta leave. You don’t want this. We can’t change your brain. You’re my boy.”

But Kai’s eyes are bright at the possibility of everything I could not give him.

In the corner, Satish brings his father to tears. “Dad, I’m learning to write the playbook. In BarrelFish 102, I put a pharmaceutical plant next to a river, and the residents got Bast’s disease. But I owned their medications, so it was a positive feedback loop! Record profits!” 

“Dad,” Jessica Kim says. “They’re giving us a point-five percent bonus incentive on all future sales!” 

Monroe’s mom grips my hand. “It’s a trap. They don’t want to be rescued at all.”

“Then why did they message us?” I say.

The voice hears me:

For the parents who have elected for an unscheduled visitation, we have this to offer: join us in implementing your own NeuraMods.

“Never,” Monroe’s mom whispers, scanning the room for her daughter. “I gotta find my baby.” She peers down each row of students, shakes her head, and leaves the room.

The RetroLegacy Generations Program offers a place for you in your child’s life as an intellectual and emotional peer, in addition to your loving role as a parent.

Satish’s dad hiccups and sobs in the corner. Javon’s dad perches on his knees, trying to bribe his son away from this nightmare. Jessica’s dad stays silent, holding her hand, looking unsure of himself.

We must leave. But I’m not strong enough to carry Kai out by force and the other parents are impotent, paralyzed, in shock. 

Employment is not mandatory, but we do welcome Generation Alpha as as part of our continuing AgeEncompass campaign. Please note your neuronal data may be used for Alzheimer’s pharmaceutical targeting.

I sit eye-level with Kai and try not to pass out. I realize I’ve been holding my breath out of stress for an interminable amount of time.

“Kai,” I say. “Baby. I love you. I’m sorry I brought you into a world where I thought this school was ever a good option. I don’t want you to struggle, but this can’t be the answer.”

“Mom, it’s like you said. If we’re not at the top, we’re bottom feeders. You were right.”

My mind rests on a knife. I can yank my son out of the Academy and we can work at the Poppy Cig lounge together, forever. I think of the scholarship Kai worked so hard to get, the PaydayScholar loan I’ve been chipping away at for twenty-two years, and the dry drudgery of AminoSoy patties for dinner.

The alternative is grim:  we can turn off what makes us human. Kai will make so much money, we won’t need the empathy, or anyone else, for that matter. 

I jump up out of my seat and grab Kai’s hand.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” I say.

Kai rises from his seat, and together, we enter the operating room.

– Vivian Chou

Author’s Note: I wrote this story when pondering what to advise my sons to do for a future career path (and have thus far come up short).