The Destructives by Matthew De Abaitua Page A

of the video – older and in a cubicle at work.
    She told Oliver that their daughter was being bullied by a girl in her class, and that she wasn’t sure that the school were going to deal with it effectively. His body language indicated that he would have preferred to discuss this matter at home, that it was insufficiently urgent for work; tiny tells of reluctance that he stifled. Oliver counselled caution.
    “No,” said Verity. “This is damage, Olly. This girl is psychologically damaging our daughter.”
    “It might just be teen stuff. We have to let it run its course.”
    “Soshul puts the bully in our house. In her bedroom. She can’t get away from Mala. Every time she goes on soshul another loop appears and then it is destroyed before she can respond. It’s like someone is hiding in her wardrobe and they disappear every time she opens the door.”
    “We should limit her exposure to soshul.”
    “And punish her for the actions of this girl?”
    Oliver, the weary husband, remembered that this was a domestic problem, and not a work one, so he did not have to come up with a solution. His manner shifted, and he adopted a slanted, listening posture.
    “What do you want to do?” he said.
    This approach annoyed his wife.
    “You don’t have an opinion on this? Really?”
    “I’m trying not to be angry about it.”
    “We should be angry.”
    “This girl sounds troubled.”
    “Yes. Murderers are troubled. Thieves are troubled. Bullies are troubled.”
    “Let the principal speak to her. Then we’ll see if the loops stop.”
    “You should see the way Meggan’s data aggregates on the hearth. It’s deep blue.”
    “I’ll take you all out at the weekend. Dim Sum. She’ll eat that.”
    A flicker of distraction on her husband’s face, something in the office wanting his attention.
    “How’s the team?” she said.
    “Still missing you,” he replied.
    “I want to come back to work,” she said.
    “I know.”
    “I’ve been feeling so off the pace I couldn’t imagine coming back to Monad. Motherhood wrecks you, physically and mentally. But since we got the hearth, I can feel my mental muscles hardening up. I got my pelvic floor back and now I need to work on my psychic floor.”
    “We could do with another income again.”
    “I’m interested in some of the newer mining and pattern matching tools. Could you upgrade my permission? I’d like to train myself up.”
    He was distracted. He did it. Verity took the permission and turned it into an icon, then placed the icon in her invisible bag.
    “Give my best to everyone there,” she said, smiling. “And tell them to watch out. I’ll be back on campus kicking ass before they know it.”
----
    She smiled all the way to the end of the call, and then as soon as her husband was off the line, she reached into the invisible bag and removed the icon he had given her. She opened it up on the hearth. A toolkit. One tool in particular caught her eye. A tricorn hat. Jester. She initiated the program. Jester asked her to select a username. She slouched back in her seat, thought for a moment, and then keyed in her new name. Totally Damaged Mom.
----
    At midnight, with all the family members sleeping, Theodore returned to the guest bedroom, took off his sensesuit and gathered his notes. He was reviewing them when Patricia visited. She opened the bedroom door, said hi, removed her comms from her earlobes and fingers, unclipped her protective collar, sat lightly on the edge of the bed, and hefted off her boots.
    “Productive day?” she asked.
    “Yes,” he said. “Do you want to go over my notes?”
    She went through his notes.
    “And what happened after she chose her username?”
    “Jester requested access to the hearth. She refused. The program booted her out again. A dead end. Then she went through her own soshul, made herself a salad, and went out. The hearth went to sleep so I couldn’t follow her. I waited in the house alone all afternoon, and then she