hooklinebooks Chapter 69 We Are All Family
Chapter 69 We Are All Family
Chapter 69 We Are All Family
Diana Marne stared at the data charts on her tablet, her fingertips turning white from gripping them so tightly.
The left side of the screen shows California's employment rate curve for the past three quarters.
A parabola that curves sharply downwards.
On the right is the monthly expenditure report for the "Prometheus" AI project, with the numbers showing a large deficit, marked in red at the end.
Funding gap: 37%.
"Damn Noah AI."
The voice was squeezed out of her throat, very soft, but clearly audible in the empty office.
She is a 52-year-old African American woman, an openly sexual minority, a California senator, holds two advanced degrees, and has a political resume that includes titles such as environmental activist and refugee rights advocate.
The buff is fully stacked.
This used to be the perfect combination.
In California, within the Democratic Party's base, this means votes, media exposure, foundation donations, and moral impeccability.
But none of that matters now.
The tariffs imposed by the US have come down like a hammer, and international speculative capital has already slumped.
The net asset value of her three environmental technology investment funds evaporated by 41 percent last month.
Then there's Noah AI.
That thing that came out of Seattle spread like a virus along fiber optic cables into every business in California.
First, customer service and copywriting positions disappeared, followed by junior programmers, data analysts, and financial assistants.
Last week, even contract reviewers at law firms were laid off in large numbers.
Her core supporters, the urban petty bourgeoisie, those who make a living through knowledge and technology, are falling in droves.
United Technologies barely managed to hold on.
The Silicon Valley giants reacted quickly, emptying their coffers to create a counter-project and taking in the programmers who had fled from the north.
But everyone knew it was a suspended sentence.
Noah AI's iteration speed is faster than anyone imagined.
Diana put down her tablet and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window.
Outside the window is San Francisco's financial district, where glass-walled buildings gleam in the afternoon sun.
There was a march in the street with about 300 people holding signs that read "Oppose AI's disintegration of the right to work".
The crowd was sparse, and the slogans were weak and feeble.
She looked at it for a while, then turned around and went back to her desk.
There was an envelope at the very back of the drawer.
She pulled it out; inside wasn't a document, but a stack of photocopies of bills.
My student loans that I haven't finished paying off, the property tax bill for that house in Beverly Hills, and the debt repayment plan left over from last year's campaign.
The numbers added up to an amount that gave her a stomach cramp.
"no."
She spoke softly, as if trying to convince herself, "Everything I have depends on this identity. If I lose this identity—"
She couldn't imagine it.
Once you lose your seat in parliament, and lose those political donations and speaking fees, those bills will tighten like a noose.
Those opponents who were once suppressed by her systemic oppression, and those interest groups whose path to wealth was blocked by her, will pounce on her like hyenas.
Liquidation.
The word jumped into my mind, carrying a chilling, rusty feeling.
She picked up her phone, intending to call the CEO of United Technologies, but her finger hovered over the dial button and then stopped.
What can I say? Urge them to speed up the research and development? They're already working 24/7 in three shifts over there.
Requesting more funding? The state budget is already depleted.
A sense of powerlessness washed over me like a tide.
Countless calculations, deductions, and weighings ultimately solidified into one sentence: "Lord, please bless me. I must not lose."
San Francisco, on the edge of Mission District.
Most of the shops on both sides of the street were closed, and their roller shutters were covered with faded spray paint.
The air was filled with the sour smell of fermenting garbage, and the cloying sweet scent of marijuana drifting from afar.
But amidst this chaos, one building stood out as unusually peaceful.
It was an abandoned church, its Gothic spire in ruins, and its stained glass windows long since broken and haphazardly boarded up.
Where a cross used to hang above the main entrance, something is now embedded in it.
It was a large, viscous, semi-transparent gel-like substance, with a color between dark green and grayish-brown.
It undulates slowly, with a bubble occasionally rising on its surface, making a soft "pop" sound when it bursts.
Sometimes, a few eyes will rise from the inside to the surface to look around, and then sink back down.
There were no benches inside the church; the space had been cleared out.
The mass of matter, or rather a part of it extending down like the pseudopodia of a giant amoeba, was placed at the altar, connecting to a large ceramic jar about half a person's height on the ground.
A person was standing by the jar.
He wore a tattered black robe, styled like a priest's robe, but the fabric was so dirty that its original color was no longer visible.
The front of the robe was open, revealing a rib that had been removed from the chest cavity, exposing the heart directly to the air. The surface of the heart was covered with a layer of fine, pulsating green mycelium, which contracted and expanded slightly with the rhythm of the heartbeat.
He held a rusty iron shovel in his hand.
The shovel reached into the mass of matter on the altar and cut off a large piece.
Thick, clear liquid seeped from the broken end of the gelatinous substance, emitting a smell of rotten eggs mixed with the odor of rotten cabbage.
He threw the cut-off portion into the jar, and then scooped out a few spoonfuls of white powder from a plastic bucket next to it—it was ice!
Then proceed with alchemy!
"Come."
He raised his head, his voice hoarse but steady, "Drink this soup, and be with us, join the Lord in His embrace."
7
There were figures moving around at the church entrance.
The first to walk in were a mother and her child.
A woman around thirty years old has sunken cheeks and dark circles under her eyes.
The little boy she was holding was about eight or nine years old. He was so thin that his ribs were clearly visible, and his arms were as thin as sticks.
Normally, the transfer window should have already opened, but things are so chaotic right now that it's only just escaped disaster.
The little boy looked up at the gelatinous substance being stirred in the jar and asked softly, "If I drink this, will everything stop hurting? Will I stop feeling hungry?"
The woman didn't speak, but simply gripped her son's hand tightly, her gaze fixed on the priest.
Behind them, a dozen or so more people walked in one after another.
There was a middle-aged white man wearing a wrinkled Brazilian suit with a crooked tie;
There was a young Latino man whose left leg was missing below the knee and he used a wooden stick as a crutch;
There was an elderly African American woman holding a dirty rag doll in her arms;
There were also several Asian faces, one of whom had sunken eyes and his right leg was noticeably dragging on the ground when he walked.
Most people's clothes are still relatively neat, and they have probably been out of work for less than two months.
But their facial expressions were already the same:
A look that has been worn down by a long period of torment, leaving only numbness and emptiness.
"Yes, child."
The priest, whose chest cavity was open, stopped stirring, reached out and scratched his stomach, bringing out a few strands of sticky, stringy substance.
He opened his arms, his voice carrying a strange piety: "Those who drink it will join us, becoming part of our common good. There will be no hunger, no sorrow, no pain."
The crowd remained silent.
A few seconds later, the Chinese man who was dragging his right leg moved.
He's not old, just turned forty, but his back is already hunched.
He moved step by step to the edge of the jar, and without hesitation, with his eyes closed, he reached into the jar, grabbed a handful of gelatinous substance, and put it in his mouth.
Swallow.
Then his body froze.
"Ah~"
A long, tearful sigh escaped his throat, followed by a short, childlike laugh: "Hehe—the donuts are so delicious—"
He opened his eyes.
His originally cloudy and lifeless pupils now glowed with a very faint green light.
The tense muscles on his face relaxed, and the corners of his mouth unconsciously turned up.
He tried to move his right leg, the leg that had been dragging for months, and now it was firmly planted on the ground.
He turned around to face the others, his back ramrod straight, his face flushed with an odd redness amidst his paleness.
"Brothers and sisters, it's okay."
His voice became loud, enthusiastic, even excited: "Let's drink it and become family!"
The woman released her son's hand.
The little boy ran over, stood on tiptoe, scooped a handful from the jar, and stuffed it into his mouth.
Then came the young Latina, then the old lady, then the middle-aged man in a suit —
One by one.
Swallowing sounds, inhalation sounds, short sobs or soft laughter.
The stench of decay filled the church, growing stronger and stronger.
When the last person lowered their hand, everyone stood still, looking at each other.
No one spoke, but they were already connected.
The first Chinese man to drink it grinned.
"Ah~"
He said softly, "We're all family."
The others gradually revealed similar smiles.
Their facial expressions are synchronized, and their curves are consistent.
"Family~"