Pink Slip Prophet by George Donnelly Page B

vacuum-sealed lid off of it and gently slid the spoon into the gelatinous mass.
    “We usually use a knife for that,” Ian said.
    Maria continued working. “Due to the nature of the grape jelly, sir, a spoon is less likely to spill any of the raw material.”
    Ian thought back to all the times he had jammed a flat knife into the jelly jar only to have the gloopy goo slip right off and onto the counter or floor.
    Jack entered the kitchen. “She’s smart, Dad. Smarter than you,” he said with a nod.
    Ian looked at him, a twinge of hurt and envy in his gut. I guess that’s quite a compliment. I was so smart that I created something smarter than me. Yes, I think I’d better look at it that way. He laughed internally at himself.
    Larry stood up. “You can’t count on third world programmers, Ian.”
    Oh my God. The Somalians. Ian pulled out his screen and typed off a message to Qasim. If he doesn’t respond… Maybe that’s what I’ll do. I’ll go to Somalia and do… whatever it takes to free them. Ian nodded.
    “So you agree?” Larry asked.
    Ian awoke from his reverie. “What?”
    “I said, you can’t count on third world programmers. You should try again, Ian. I know a great programming team. They can fix all the bugs in Maria and they’re not really that expensive.”
    “A new programming team?” Ian asked absently.
    “It’s just what you need. I can help you finance it, too. They’re very flexible.” Larry looked up at Ian and rubbed his hands together. “And I can practically guarantee regulatory approval with the right team. We have to ensure appropriate quality standards, of course. That’s just basic. Everyone knows—”
    “You’re babbling!” Ian said.
    Maria handed him the completed peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It was centered on the plate and the bread was pristine - nothing spilled or smeared.
    Ian took a bite and through a mouthful said, “Seems fine to me.”
    Larry shook his head and walked up to the breakfast bar. “Good inventions simply can not come out of a garage, or a storage box or be funded by the sale of one’s kidneys! That’s not the twenty-first century—”
    Ian’s eyes went wide and a choking gasp like a rolling snore came out of his mouth. He tried to exhale but only sputtered. He looked at Larry and pointed repeatedly to his back.
    Larry relaxed and shook his head. “I warned you, Ian.”
    An intermittent gasp came from Ian’s throat. He pointed more frenetically to his back, then collapsed to his knees and issued a final puff of air.
    Larry turned his back to the kitchen. “I warned him. Damned terrorist programmers probably sabotaged it.”

Chapter 7
    Jack scanned the morning’s headlines on his screen. He sighed. There was nothing new about it. He rolled up the screen and stuffed it into his special cargo pocket. He walked into the kitchen. “Maria, I need a drink,” he said.
    “If you are referring to an alcoholic or vitalic drink, then your father has asked me not to give you any until you are at least sixteen,” said Ian’s final Maria. The last of its kind, it traversed the kitchen with grace, opened the refrigerator and retrieved a pod of milk. She popped off the plastic cap, which was connected to the body of the rounded pod by a thin tether, and poured some into the tall, thin, tubular glass that already sat on the counter.
    “But that glass isn’t clean,” Jack said.
    “I pulled it out especially for you, Master Jack, as you ask for a glass of milk around 11 AM every morning.” Maria replaced the pod of milk in the refrigerator.
    “Oh, okay.” Jack grabbed the glass and downed it. He put the empty glass in the sink. “Thanks Maria,” he said. He went into the living room and laid down on the couch. He sighed.
    There was a knock at the door. Jack ran and opened it.
    “Can you help me with this old junk?” Ian asked. His hands were full with Maria parts, desk components and other stuff from the storage box.
    The boy grabbed a