Heir Apparent

Chapter one Happy Birthday to Me It was my fourteenth birthday, and I was arguing with a bus. How pathetic is that? Even before the bus had started in on me, my mood wasn't exactly the best it's ever been. Birthdays do that to me. This year I didn't even have a good excuse: I had actually received my birthday gift from my father on time, which might have been a sign he was making an effort to be a more considerate and involved dad. Of course, if he was really considerate and involved, he wouldn't have had his secretary call to ask me what kind of gift certificate I wanted for my birthday. Whatever. Birthday = don't-mess-with-me mood. So there I was, on my way to cash in my gift certificate, riding on a bus powered by artificial intelligence-emphasis on the artificial. I saw the picketers just as the bus paged me: "Passenger Giannine Bellisario, you asked to disembark at the Rasmussem Gaming Center, but there is a civil disturbance at your stop. Do you wish to continue to another destination, or would you prefer to be returned to the location at which you boarded?" The voice was kind and polite and only slightly metallic. I was not polite. I sighed. Loudly. "Are they on strike?" I asked into the speaker embedded in the armrest. There was a brief pause while the bus's computer brain accessed Central Information. "Rasmussem employees are not on strike," the bus reassured me, at just about the same time that I could make out the picketers' signs. "The demonstration is by members of CPOC." I sighed even louder. They pronounce it, C pock. It stands for Citizens to Protect Our Children. As a fourteen-year-old, I qualify-by society's definition-as a child. I am willing to accept protection from stray meteors, ecoterrorists, and my seven-year-old cousin, Todd. But I don't feel in need of protecting by CPOC, which strongly believes that only G-rated movies should be made and that libraries should stock only nice, uplifting books that promote solid family values-nice being defined as nothing supernatural, nothing violent, nothing scary. That about kills my entire reading list. I think there are a couple alphabet books they approve of. Still, as far as I knew, this was the first time they'd ever come after Rasmussem. I have excellent timing like that. As the bus passed by the patch of sidewalk the picketers had claimed, I could read their signs: MAGIC = SATANISM and VIOLENCE BEGETS VIOLENCE and INAPPROPRIATE FOR OUR CHILDREN. "Why can't you drop me off?" I asked. "Legally, they aren't allowed to obstruct anyone from going in." I'd learned that in Participation in Government class. "Rochester Transit Authority is prohibited from letting a minor disembark into a situation that might be hazardous," the bus told me. A little bit of artificial intelligence can be an annoying thing. "What are they going to do: smack me on the head with a pamphlet?" I asked. The bus didn't answer and kept on moving. I was not going to win an argument, I could tell. "Well, then," I said, "let me off at the next stop." "Not if you intend to return to the Rasmussem Gaming Center stop," the bus responded. I checked our progress on the real-time electronic route map displayed on the back of the seat in front of me and told the bus, "Of course not. I want to be dropped off at the art museum." "That is on this vehicle's route and is only one block away," the bus told me. "Estimated time of arrival, thirty seconds." So much for artificial intelligence. A human bus driver could have guessed that I had not developed a sudden craving for culture. Then again, a human bus driver probably wouldn't have cared, any more than the other passengers did. The bus stopped in front of the museum. "Have a nice day, Giannine Bellisario," the bus told me. I smiled and gave a Queen Victoria wave, and muttered under my breath, "Your mother was a toaster oven." AS I APPROACHED the gaming center, IVande Velde, Vivian is the author of 'Heir Apparent' with ISBN 9780152051259 and ISBN 0152051252.