PART 9:

Funny thing about technology, people replace it long before it stops working. With the right knowledge, you can make garbage sing. Is that what you’ve been doing? Rebuilding these? Someone has to. These kids can’t afford new computers. Can’t afford the software, either. So I teach them open source alternatives.

Linux instead of Windows. instead of Photoshop. It’s not perfect, but it works. How many students do you have? 23 regulars. Another dozen who come when they can. Some of them are homeless, couch surfing, helping raise younger siblings. They’re not here because they love coding. They’re here because they’re smart enough to know this might be their only way out.

The words hit Lena hard. She’d gotten into tech because she’d loved it, because it had been interesting and challenging. But for these kids, it was survival. A life raft in an ocean that was trying to drown them. What do you teach them? She asked. Depends on the student. Basics for some, how to use a computer, how to navigate the internet safely, how to spot scams and predatory ads.

For others, advanced stuff. Mia’s building a website for a local business. Jamal’s working on a portfolio app for his photography. David wants to get into cybersecurity. Noah’s voice softened when he talked about them. They’re good kids. They deserve better than what they’ve gotten. You care about them. Someone should. Noah finished with the last computer and turned to face her.

All right, tell me about your AI integration problem. Technical details. Lena pulled out her phone and opened the file Sarah had sent her. For the next 20 minutes, she walked Noah through the Genesis architecture, the conflicts they were encountering, the solutions they’d attempted. He listened without interrupting, occasionally asking questions that cut straight to the heart of the issue.

When she finished, Noah was quiet for a moment. Then he said, Your team is trying to solve the wrong problem. What do you mean? They’re treating this like a communication issue. How to get the AI and OS to talk nicely. But that’s not the problem. The problem is philosophical. You’ve got two systems that are both designed to be in control, and you’re trying to make them share control. That’s never going to work.

So what’s the solution? Noah walked to one of the whiteboards and picked up a marker. He started drawing diagrams, boxes and arrows, flowcharts that became increasingly complex. As he worked, Lena saw the transformation that had happened the night before. This wasn’t a defeated whistleblower or a humble janitor.

This was Nathan Brooks, system architect, doing what he was born to do. You need a hierarchical mediator, he said, adding another layer to his diagram. But not the way your team is thinking. They want a simple pass-through that routes requests. What you actually need is an intelligent governor.

Something that understands both the AI’s learning protocols and the OS’s resource management that can make real-time decisions about priority and execution. It needs to be smart enough to know when to let the AI optimize and when to enforce OS stability. That’s what I suggested this morning. My chief architect said it would take months to build.

It would, if you’re building from scratch. But you don’t need to build from scratch. You adapt existing frameworks. Noah added more detail to his diagram. There’s an open source project called Arbiter. Does distributed resource management for server clusters. The core logic could be modified for your use case.

You’d need someone who understands both the source code and your proprietary systems, but the foundation is already there. Lena stared at the whiteboard. In 10 minutes, Noah had identified a solution her team hadn’t even considered. Could you do it? Modify the framework? Theoretically, yes. Practically, Noah set down the marker. I haven’t written production code in 7 years. I’m rusty.

And even if I wanted to help, I can’t. I signed NDAs when I was fired from Cyberdyne. I’m legally prohibited from working in systems architecture for any competing company for 10 years. We’re 9 years in. That’s insane. Non-competes shouldn’t be enforceable for that long. They’re not, usually, but I had access to classified defense projects.

Cyberdyne’s lawyers made sure the restrictions were ironclad. Noah’s expression was bitter. One more year and I’m free. But right now, I I touch your code and they sue me into oblivion. Lena felt the hope that had been building collapse. So that’s it? You know how to fix this, but you legally can’t? I can’t write the code.

But I can teach someone else how to do it. Noah looked at her steadily. If your team is willing to learn from a janitor, I can walk them through it. Consult, not code. That’s legally distinct. You do that? After everything? No, Noah said, but I do it for those kids out there who are going to benefit if your AI actually works the way you say it will.

I do it because the only thing worse than being blacklisted for doing the right thing is knowing you could have helped and chose not to. The door opened and teenagers began filing in, laughing and talking, dropping backpacks on tables. They stopped when they saw Lena, their expressions shifting to guarded suspicion. Mr. Noah? Mia, the girl with box braids, looked between them.

Everything okay? Everything’s fine, Noah said. Everyone, this is Ms. Hart. She owns the company where I work. She needs help with a technical problem. The lady from last night? Jamal said, his tone accusatory. The one who followed you? Yes, and she’s apologized. Right, Ms. Hart? All eyes turned to Lena. She felt like she was back in middle school, facing judgment from peers who could smell weakness.

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