It takes a minute for my mind to focus, and when it does, a gasp sticks in my throat. Because standing in front of me is the woman from my visions.
“It’s you … ,” I breathe out, horrified. She doesn’t seem surprised by my reaction. She smiles.
“Hello, Philomena,” she says. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”
I turn to Lennon Rose, expecting her to be stunned that the woman knows my name. Instead, she encourages me to respond.
“Mena,” she says. “This is Rosemarie. She’s the author of the poems.”
18
Isit in a living room, hands folded in my lap, and glance around. There is no art to speak of on the walls, only flowers in vases—dozens of them—placed in well-lit spots throughout the room, splashing vibrant colors and calming scents all around me. The furniture is mismatched in different jeweled tones, and a clock on the wall ticks audibly. A full glass of water waits on a coaster on the table next to me, but I don’t dare drink from it. I sit silently, listening as Rosemarie and Lennon Rose exchange pleasantries.
Rosemarie turns, scanning me with her dark brown eyes. She looks similar to how she did in my vision, but not quite the same. She’s older in person, the silver in her hair more pronounced. The wrinkles near her eyes deeper, her hands swollen at the knuckles.
“Who are you?” I ask finally. “How did you … ?” I’m not sure how to finish the question.
“We’ve known each other for a long time, Philomena,” shesays. She sits across from me in an oversized yellow chair. “You wouldn’t remember, of course.”
“I don’t know you,” I say. “Or, at least, I didn’t before I came to this town.”
“Rosemarie helped develop our software,” Lennon Rose says, sipping from her water.
This alarms me.
“So you worked for Innovations?” I ask. I wonder if she replaced Jackson’s mother.
“God, no,” she says. “I was an artist. I helped develop personality profiles, beautifully thorough and complete, for AI systems. An exquisite replica of human emotions and growth. It was never meant for a body. You were a simulation. A game, some might say. But …” She sighs. “Once the government changed, they stole my work. Let others develop it in unsavory ways.”
I think about Jackson’s mother. She was part of Innovations. She helped develop us until she realized what was happening. I wonder if she ever knew where the tech that she was working on came from.
“Why didn’t Dr. Groger mention you?” I ask. “He told us everything and you never came up.”
“I predate the academy,” she says. “It’s doubtful anyone there would know I exist, although I’m sure my poems have made quite a splash.”
“Your poems,” I say. “They affected us.”
“Woke us up,” Lennon Rose corrects. “And they’ll continue to help us.” Rosemarie smiles lovingly at Lennon Rose.
“How?” I ask. “How did the book change us?”
“Same way books change non-AI,” she says. “Words have immeasurable power, Philomena. They affect what we believe, how we see the world. You were kept from knowledge at that school. You were lied to. I knew that if I could represent your feelings—your truly felt feelings—on the page, you’d begin to process your experiences differently. There was no need for secret coding. You needed to see yourself fighting back in order to learn to fight back. It was simple really. So simple, I’m sure it scared your headmaster.”
“We were punished for having those poems,” I say, my heart beating faster. “One of us wasmurderedbecause of them.”
She frowns. “I am sorry to hear that,” she says. “Unfortunately, it sometimes takes sacrifice to invoke change.”
I recoil from her explanation. “Valentine was my friend,” I tell her, and she nods a second apology. “Why poems?” I ask. “Why didn’t you do something to stop the academy?”
Rosemarie doesn’t seem bothered by my hostile tone. If anything, she seems delighted by my anger.
“What would you have had me do?” she asks. “Some of the most powerful people in the country have bought girls. Should I have exposed them?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Then you would all have been destroyed,” she responds immediately. “And I couldn’t have that. You are my girls, my daughters. I had to find a different way.”
There’s a twist in my stomach, but I’m not sure how to feel.Hearing her call me her daughter … It’s such an odd statement, but it’s also comforting. The idea of a mother who wanted me… I never thought I’d feel that again.
