New Jersey, Thursday, July 14, 2044
Hugh Parsons tuned his guitar, waiting for his bandmates to arrive. He felt most comfortable performing this task while standing. His height made him look like a giant on stage. His long curly black hair fell into his eyes.
The bar was off Route 280: a quick drive from Newark. Of all the bars in the area, Hugh liked the atmosphere of Crazy Ray’s the best. The sun shone through the windows, illuminating the stage in a kaleidoscopic array of light.
He was still fine-tuning. The strum of an out-of-tune instrument was distressing for Hugh; he took care of all his musical equipment, but his guitar was special.
Don’t wanna sound like shit, Hugh thought.
Crazy Ray’s was one of the last venues in New Jersey that embraced humans who played instruments. Many businesses had either switched to robotic DJs or used synthetic instruments, which they leased out like rental cars.
Hugh looked toward a woman in her late twenties as she approached the stage from the dining area at the back of the bar. She was holding a tray with bottles and other dishes. She gave him a smile. Hugh thought she looked breathtaking with her long wavy brown hair.
“When’s the baby due?” the woman asked as she held out a bottle. She had to crane her neck to look Hugh in the eyes.
“Any day now, Linda,” Hugh said.
He took the cold beverage from her. Hugh savored the sweet, tangy, amber liquid as he finished it in a couple enormous gulps. He handed the bottle back to Linda.
Hugh started playing an original composition. The chord progression was diverse and complex. He played his guitar with slow, deliberate rhythms that gradually increased in tempo. He closed his eyes, trying to feel the music coursing through him.
“That sounds . . . great, Hugh. It’s different from all the other bands who play here,” Linda said as she put her tray on a nearby table.
“Which bands?”
“They had a strange name—Machinedom, I think.”
“The Machine Domain?” Hugh asked.
“Yes, that’s it. What a strange name for a band.”
“That’s an all-robot band. I didn’t think Ray was keen on letting those in, but the robots are looking more like us with every new model,” Hugh said.
Linda gave Hugh a thoughtful look. “That is scary in all the worst ways,” Linda said.
Hugh nodded; he was listening to her, but the music demanded his full attention now. Linda left him as she resumed her work.
He stared into empty space as the music took him; it was a feeling that was hard for him to describe, but when the moment was right, it was almost as if he were transported into another world. He began strumming with a moderate tempo. The opening melody hung in the air for a moment. Then he changed some chords for variation, but otherwise he held the tune. While in the zone, Hugh often played without the benefit of visual aids such as sheet music. This tune he knew by heart, because he had written it for his baby girl who would be born into the world at any moment.
The door to the bar opened. Still playing, Hugh felt the rays of warm sunlight as it shone through the door frame. He opened his eyes; a tall, skinny man with an unkempt beard, along with a shorter, stocky, balding man, had entered.
His bandmates knew better than to interrupt Hugh while he was in his creative mode. The tall scraggly haired guy got onto the stage, sat at the piano, and began playing along with Hugh; the piano and guitar melodies seemed to intertwine. If the sound were a painting, this one would look like a portrait of a green field with yellow flowers.
The bald man also got onto the stage and took his bass guitar—which had been leaning on a nearby stool—and started playing.
Then another man entered the bar; his face had several scars, and he was covered in tattoos. He moved directly to the drums. All the band members knew this song well. Hugh had made them all play it at every practice session, but this was the first time live. A full band—with a piano, guitar, bass guitar, and light drumbeat—brought out the song’s full potential.
When the song finished, Hugh opened his eyes. Most of the bar patrons had stopped whatever they were doing and gave Hugh and his band a round of applause.
“Thank you—but we’re just getting warmed up,” Hugh said.
The crowd cheered.
An hour later, Hugh’s band was in full swing. They specialized in anything with a rhythm and had a vast song selection. Hugh especially liked playing old tunes; he preferred the sound and energy of music from the 1960s. He felt empowered when playing them.
Suddenly, mid-show, Linda ran from the bar and whispered into Hugh’s ear. He stopped playing.
“Got to run, boys, I’m late for an appointment to see my baby girl,” Hugh yelled as his eyes glistened with moisture. His smile was infectious. Linda hugged him, and the bald man took Hugh’s guitar and joined in the embrace.
“Go! We’ll finish here. We’ll catch up with you at the hospital,” the bald man said.
“Thanks, Lawrence. You’re a good friend.” Hugh ran out the door.
Empire Diner, New York City, May 30, 2071
Alice rolled down the window of Lawrence’s Neon Five-Thousand as it passed several closed businesses. The late-night air felt refreshing. Moments later, the top-of-the-line luxury vehicle stopped in front of a diner on Tenth Avenue near 22nd Street. Alice stepped out. She could hear music from the late 1960s pulsating out the diner’s open door. Is that Diana Ross? she wondered. After a brief moment, Lawrence followed. He was dressed in an expensive-looking business suit.
I’ve missed diner food, Alice mused. Dad used to bring me to places just like this. Her father, Hugh, used to take her to local dives in Newark. She had fond memories of a favorite place called Kip’s. Her father would let her order milkshakes; she liked the strawberry the best.
Alice was looking forward to gorging herself on Lawrence’s hospitality—especially since her bank account was still frozen.
“Are you ready to go inside, my dear?” Lawrence said.
Alice nodded, then entered. As she walked through the diner’s front entrance, the decor inside reminded her of something out of the 1950s; it featured glass and metal trim, portal windows, and . . . old rock and roll music! She glanced up at a clock on the diner’s wall; the place sure was busy for 11:32 p.m. The waitress seated them at a booth in the back.
Alice’s stomach grumbled, and she immediately scanned the menu. Alice looked up for a moment and found Lawrence staring at her.
What’s up with this guy, anyway?
“Order anything you want, Alice, it’s on me,” Lawrence said. Alice smiled. “You’re probably wondering why I wanted to speak with you.”
“We’re not on a date?” Alice said as she winked at Lawrence. He straightened his tie like he was on his way to a business meeting. Lawrence didn’t seem to be in the mood for her jokes. “Relax, Larry, I’m just messing with you.”
“Please, address me as Lawrence.”
“Sure, Larr . . . Lawrence,” Alice said, correcting herself.
The waitress came over. She looked like she was in her mid-fifties and hadn’t slept in a week.
“What can I get you two?” she asked wearily.
“I will have a black coffee, and whatever she wants,” Lawrence said, pointing to Alice.
“Well . . . I will start with coffee, and then the lumberjack breakfast, eggs runny and a side of bacon well done with lots of butter for the toast,” Alice said.
“The lumberjack comes with four strips of bacon, miss.”
“I know—but there’s always room for more bacon.” Alice chuckled.
At that, Lawrence smiled and Alice smiled back.
The waitress collected the menus and walked away.
“You are a special person, Ms. Parsons. And I don’t think you appreciate how special.”
“What are you going on about, Lawrence?” After a moment of awkward silence, the waitress dropped off their coffees, then left without saying a word. “When you first met Elias, he thought you were disrespecting the role of the Emissary,” Lawrence explained, recalling that strange night Alice had visited Elias’s—the Reverend’s—tent. “But when he heard you play the chromatic scales, he changed his mind. He told me that he had seen no one play with such passion before.”
Alice dropped her coffee mug with more force than she had intended. It clanked loudly onto the retro formica coated table. She noticed some looks from people at nearby tables.
“Music is my life,” she stated, looking right into Lawrence’s eyes, “and it pisses me off when I see companies like MuseFam spewing out thousands of songs, all of which are spin-offs of what humans have composed for thousands of years. The AIs can scan all the sheet music and use whatever algorithms to create new music, but it’s not the same—it lacks soul.”
Lawrence seemed surprised by her reaction. They said nothing for several moments. Alice realized she was hunched over the table; she leaned back into her seat when the waitress brought several plates of food.
Wow—that was quick!
One plate contained a short stack of pancakes, several gooey eggs, burnt bacon, hash browns, and toast. Another plate had a small pile of bacon. The waitress leaned over and whispered into Alice’s ear, “I put a few extra strips of bacon on the plate for you.”
Alice thanked her and started shoveling food into her mouth. She ate like she was starving.
“You say that the music lacks soul—can you elaborate?” Lawrence asked.
Is this guy for real? Alice sighed, then began. “Any trained monkey or robot can try to play a tune, and we will hear sounds. But when someone like Louis Armstrong, for example, plays the trumpet, the sound resonates from deep within him—he plays with passion. When a robot plays, it sounds mechanical, like it’s just going through the motions. It might sound good for some, but not me.”
Lawrence shot Alice a confused look.
“Louis who?” he asked.
Is he serious? How can you own a music club, and not know who Louie is? “He’s only the greatest trumpeter of all time! He died a hundred years ago, and people still enjoy his music. MuseFam did try to clone his music, but the robots cannot play it,” Alice said while pointing a piece of bacon at Lawrence.
“Well, as I said, your passion for music makes you the perfect emissary.”
Alice ate the last strip of bacon.
“Satisfied?” Lawrence asked, looking at the empty plates.
“You’re right—this diner has a great menu.” Alice leaned back in her seat, the plastic creaked as she got comfortable.
“As you know, the Emissary has many responsibilities.”
Alice narrowed her eyes, crossed her arms, and stared at Lawrence. He shifted in his seat and loosened his tie.
“Pretend I know nothing,” Alice said. “Can you explain these responsibilities in more detail?”
Lawrence gave her a patient look, considering for a moment. “One of the responsibilities is preserving the sanctity of human culture—and that includes music.”
Now you’re speaking my language! Alice slapped her hand on the table, rattling the silverware.
“That’s right!” she said. “For centuries, humans have produced music the old-fashioned way—handwritten, then perfected it using the proper instrument.”
“Why do you care so passionately if a company like MuseFam produces music using computers?”
“Nothing—as long as a human creates it. Computers are a tool, and they are great for remastering music, but not for composing it.”
“Many people would disagree with you, but I think you are sincere. You are probably the most passionate person I’ve met.”
“I left the music program at Columbia because I had to play with robots,” Alice explained. “I walked out of class one day when a robot I was playing with played a piece of music wrong. Its instrument, a violin, wasn’t even tuned. I reported the incident to the dean, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”
“Did you drop out?”
“Out of the music program, yes, but I graduated with a fine arts degree.”
Lawrence fiddled with his empty coffee cup for several minutes before he spoke. “I have a proposal for you, Alice.”
Two of those in one day! First, helping Mr. Watson bring down the CEO of MuseFam, and now this. How do I know I can trust this guy?
“Be careful—there is something off about this guy,” Doris, her AI, said softly. Although Alice’s visor was resting on her forehead, Doris could monitor her conversation via an earpiece.
Alice gave Lawrence a wary look.
“Okay,” she asked slowly, “what do you have in mind?”
“You have already gained the Goth Queen’s confidence, and she doesn’t give her trust easily,” Lawrence said.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
Lawrence paused, then laid it out. “If you work with us, you can unite the all-human clubs against pending legislation that threatens to force all-human clubs to accept all patrons, including robots.”
Alice stared at Lawrence for a long moment. Then she narrowed her eyes and said, “They can’t do that. What about the right for owners to refuse service?”
“I don’t know all the details, but I have it on good authority that this legislation is not only real, but it is being championed by someone you know.”
“I don’t know anyone—”
“Before you say anything, you should know that the attorney who filed the motion is Brian Reynolds,” Lawrence interrupted.
Alice felt like someone had just hit her with a bat.
Lindsey’s husband? That bastard! “What?” she asked in shock.
Lawrence let Alice process the information, her mind searching for a scenario where this made sense.
“How do you,” Alice trailed off.
“Elias is more than some kook—he’s well connected in the city, and people tell him things. We want to make sure the Emissary has all the weapons at her disposal for the war to come.”
Alice rubbed her eyes. After several moments, she sighed heavily, as if she were carrying an enormous weight.
“It’s getting late—I need to be getting home.”
“I will have my driver take you wherever you wish, but please consider what I’ve said.”
Alice nodded, thanked him for the food, and left the diner. She was skeptical about accepting a ride from Lawrence—but she felt dazed. The Neon Five-Thousand was still parked by the curb.
“Lawrence has instructed me to take you anywhere you want to go,” an enormous man dressed in a suit said as he opened the car door.
“Penn Station, please,” Alice said.
“Are you sure? The boss said to take you anywhere.”
Alice couldn’t think; it was like someone had dropped a bowling ball on her head.
The headaches . . . no!
After several moments, Alice got in the car and said, “Yes, I’m sure.”
The driver got behind the wheel and then looked back at her with a concerned look.
“You okay?” he asked. “You don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine—I just didn’t sleep much.”
Alice watched the sparse foot traffic moving along the city streets as Lawrence’s car made its way to Penn Station.
About ten minutes later, the driver dropped Alice off near the Eighth Avenue entrance to Penn Station. She barely remembered getting out of the vehicle. Her headache eased a little as she made her way onto the platform for the Newark-bound train. A few people were also waiting nearby.
She heard music in the distance; it was a guitar, followed by a harmonica. Then a scratchy, older-sounding voice echoed from some place. The voice was male. The acoustics in the train’s area platform made it difficult to pinpoint the man’s location, but he was getting closer.
Where is that voice coming from? Alice wondered. The ticketing area?
The voice and music got louder as a tall man rounded a corner and entered the waiting area. He was playing a guitar and, occasionally, a harmonica. He was singing about being a man controlling his destiny; the sound was distinctive, and it sounded like a country song to Alice. He changed direction and seemed to zero in on her. He played the guitar with more intensity as he approached. Although he was performing alone, a small group of three adolescents followed at a distance. The scene reminded Alice of a small nomadic group. They shook tambourines and maracas. She thought she heard a kazoo. The man continued playing and singing until he stopped at the end of the platform, right in front of Alice. She looked at the man. He was tall, had long white hair, a white goatee, and an enormous cowboy hat.
He must be at least seven feet tall, Alice thought.
The small cadre of two adolescent girls and a boy surrounded the man. One of the girls was wearing a head covering that reminded Alice of Middle Eastern clothing.
Is that a burka?
The man stopped singing and gave Alice a compassionate look.
“Howdy, ma’am, I’m Bart,” the man said as he tipped his hat.
“Hey,” Alice said, waving a hand and offering him a weak smile, still nursing her headache.
“What’s the matter?” Bart asked. “You look like you’re in some pain.”
“It’s just a headache—I’ll be okay.”
“Do you get those a lot?”
“I used to, when I was a kid, but they’ve come back.”
“I’m sorry—headaches are some nasty business. Would playing a song help? We’d like to.”
Alice smiled. I like these people. “You can play,” she said. “This headache will go away soon enough.”
The girl wearing the burka approached Alice and made a motion for her to lower her head. Although the girl was a foot shorter than Alice, she understood what she wanted. The girl rummaged through an oversized purse until she brought out a washcloth and a bottle of some clear liquid. She put some of the liquid on the washcloth, then handed it to Alice. It smelled of medicine, like eucalyptus. The young woman looked at Alice.
“My young companion wishes to help you,” Bart explained. “She is giving you a healing salve. Put it on your forehead and your headache should lessen, at least.”
Alice considered for a long moment.
“It’s an herbal remedy? What’s the worst that can happen from accepting strange substances from strangers? Try it if your feeling adventurous,” Doris said.
Alice put the washcloth on her forehead. In less than a minute, she felt better. Alice gave the young woman a thumbs up. The young woman smiled, then gave Alice a hug.
“Crystal likes to help others. Nothing makes her feel better than to help those in need,” Bart said.
Alice bent down to face the girl.
“Thank you, Crystal, my pain has gone away.” Alice smiled. “You are so sweet and kind to help.”
Crystal let out a strange sound. It sounded like a cheerful mouse.
“Does she speak?” Alice asked.
“I’m afraid not—I found her sleeping on the ground in front of a church off 28th Street about a month ago,” Bart said sadly. “The boy is Jake, and the other girl is Roberta. They are my children.”
“If Crystal doesn’t speak, how do you know her name?”
“Jake came up with that name. He said her eyes were like crystals. The girl seemed to like it, so the name stuck.”
“Good to meet you all,” Alice said to the young group.
Crystal tugged on Bart’s shirt and pointed to her maracas.
“Crystal wants to dance for you,” Bart said.
Jake took out a kazoo, and Roberta took out her tambourine. Crystal readied the maracas.
Alice noticed that the people gathered on the platform had moved, giving the group room to perform. To Alice’s surprise, Jake started playing the kazoo with some proficiency. The sound was crude, but it had definition, and it sounded good to Alice. Roberta tapped the tambourine, and Crystal shook the maracas. Bart began strumming his guitar and blowing into the harmonica strapped to its holder. The whole sound of the ensemble was distinctive; it sounded exotic. Crystal began shaking her instrument as she danced with grace. Alice began dancing with her.
The group bowed to Alice when they finished, who—along with everyone watching—rewarded their efforts with applause.
“Thank you for the performance, it was memorable,” Alice said.
The man took off his cowboy hat and held it out.
“I’m sorry,” Alice said, looking down. “I don’t have any money.”
“No? But I have something for you. Look inside the hat.”
Alice did as she was told. The only thing in the hat was a folded piece of paper. She unwrapped the paper; it was a note addressed to her.
“How did—”
“Whatever is in there is for you, and it’s for your eyes only,” Bart said.
Alice heard a whoosh of the train’s brakes as it pulled into the station.
“Come on, kids, let’s go to Times Square.”
Alice looked behind her. She wanted to wave at Crystal again, but she just saw their backs as they departed.
Then she looked at the note. It was written on a folded piece of notebook paper. Alice opened the note, which read:
Alice,
I promised your father that I would look after you.
To be there, the moment you needed me.
For now, know that you are not alone.
L—
Who the hell is “L,” anyway? And I thought my life couldn’t get any stranger.
Moments later, Alice boarded the train, taking her favorite spot next to the window, and closed her eyes.
New York City, Sunday Morning
Alice climbed the stairs of the Spring Street subway station. Foot traffic was light for a Sunday morning. She loved walking the streets of New York in the early hours.
“You are a six-minute walk to St. Pierre’s restaurant from your current location,” Doris said.
“Thanks, Doris.”
“You’re welcome!” Then Doris changed her tone. “Alice, you don’t seem like your usual self. Why so glum this morning? If you don’t mind me asking, that is.”
“You don’t miss much, do you?” Alice said.
“Not when it comes to your well-being, Alice. I’m here for you, always. Is there something I can do to cheer you up?”
“No, let’s get this over with!”
“Are you referring to the brunch appointment with Elizabeth Parsons? Based on inferences I’ve made from your person data files, I’m 98.3 percent certain that this person is your mother.”
“You got that right, but she has been little of a ‘mother’ since dad died.” There was bitterness in Alice’s voice.
“Perhaps if I had some more information, I could help you with your emotional misgivings about your mother.”
I’m not getting therapy from an AI. “Doris, how did you determine that I have any emotional misgivings about my mother?”
“Judging from the tone of several texts and voice conversations you’ve shared with her since I’ve been active, I’m 99.2 percent certain that you’ve had some emotional trauma with Elizabeth Parsons. As you already know, I’m a powerful modern virtual assistant capable of handling most of your needs. This extends into some basic counseling. Think of me as a friend with a sympathetic ear.”
“Thanks, Doris, but I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
Alice opened the door to St. Pierre’s, her favorite restaurant in the city. Her mother was already waiting for her in the small waiting area.
Mother is dressed for a cocktail party, not brunch! Alice thought.
“Hello, dear, you look tired. How is the job coming? Lindsey tells me you are never around,” Elizabeth Parson said in a rush.
Two personal statements sandwiching a question, and all in one breath—that’s my mother!
Alice rubbed her eyes with her palms.
“When did the headaches come back?” Elizabeth asked, noticing right away.
“Right after getting fired and thrown out of my apartment. And a lot has happened since we last spoke.”
Elizabeth gave her daughter a hug. Alice was frozen in disbelief; her mother hadn’t been this affectionate since her father passed.
“It’s good to see you again, Alice, even if it’s for a short while.”
Alice gave her mother a tired smile.
François, the maître d’, greeted them. He gave Elizabeth a hug. “Madam Parsons,” he said, “how long has it been since you were here last?”
“Too long, François. This is my daughter, Alice.”
“Alice,” François said in a slow, deliberate manner. “I’ve seen you here before. You were just in here a few weeks ago, were you not?”
You know I was in here, you pompous prick.
“Yes, I was here with my friend Lindsey,” Alice said.
“Oh, I remember now,” François said. Then he turned and ushered them into the dining area. “This way, ladies. I have a nice table waiting.”
After they were seated, and an older man brought bread and water to the table. He gave Alice a wink and a smile before walking away. She recognized him.
Is that Donato? The accordion player I met in the park a while back?
Alice returned the greeting with a smile of her own.
“So, what do you feel like having today?” Elizabeth said as she opened the brunch menu.
“Just eggs. I’m not starving,” Alice said.
A waiter, who looked a few years older than Alice, appeared. Alice recognized him; he waited on her before, his name was Paul.
“Wonderful morning, ladies, can I get you anything to drink right now?” Paul asked.
“I will have a vodka and tonic, with some extra lime,” Elizabeth said.
“An expresso and some water,” Alice said.
Paul departed silently.
“Do you want to tell me what’s been going on with you?” Elizabeth asked. “Last we spoke, you seemed happy. What happened?”
“Life happened!” Alice said, becoming defensive. “There’s not much else to say!”
“Alice, I’m your mother, and I worry about you. Even more so now, since you are . . . homeless.”
“I’m not homeless—”
“Well, you’re not living in your own apartment,” Elizabeth interrupted.
Paul returned, set the drinks on the table, then left.
Alice rubbed her eyes again.
“Headache?” Elizabeth asked.
Alice nodded.
“I think you should see our friend, Dr. Ruben.”
“Why? He’s a surgeon, not a general doctor. It’s not like I need surgery,” Alice said.
“He’s excellent, and he knows a lot about headaches. You don’t remember this, but he helped you with them when you were a baby girl.”
“I’ll take it into consideration,” Alice said.
“Are you ladies ready to order?” Paul said.
Shit—where did he come from?
“How is the quiche?” Elizabeth asked.
“Very good, it’s a house specialty. It has vegetables and ham. It’s like a quiche Lorraine, but our recipe has bits of broccoli. It’s good.”
“We will take two orders, please.”
There she goes, ordering for me like I’m a kid.
“Very well,” Paul said as he took the menus and left.
“What do you know about this?” Alice handed her mother the folded-up piece of paper.
“Where did you get this?” Elizabeth said as she examined the note.
“From a guy in Penn Station.”
“I recognize the writing—I believe he used to play in one of your father’s bands.”
“What’s his name?”
“Lawrence.”
Alice’ brow furrowed as she sipped her espresso.
“What can you tell me about him?” she asked.
“I know little, but he was in the hospital after you were born. He arrived shortly after your father. They had been playing a song your father had written for you at a bar just before you came into this world.”
“Why did dad stop composing music?” Alice asked. “Do you have any of his original compositions?”
“After you were born, we had some unexpected expenses. He sold his collection of antique instruments. He refused to sell his music, even when we were starving. Your father was talented, but not a businessman.”
She is evading my question!
“After the accident,” Elizabeth trailed off.
Alice looked thoughtful. She didn’t remember much of her father—he had died when she was seven—but he would take her to picnics, the zoo, and other places. Alice remembered the outings, but not much else about her father.
“The settlement from the insurance company was generous,” Elizabeth said. “I had enough to raise you and put you through college.”
We didn’t have country club memberships or even that much of a social standing when Dad was alive, Alice thought.
“Where’s his music?” Alice insisted.
“I have it . . . for now.” Elizabeth looked down.
“Are you selling Dad’s music?” Alice asked with shock.
Her mother said nothing. Paul brought their food.
“Enjoy, ladies,” Paul said as he took his leave.
They ate in silence for a long time.
“I don’t want to sell your father’s music. I know he would want you to have it.”
“Then don’t!” Alice said.
Elizabeth gave Alice a pained look.
I think mom’s having some financial trouble.
The two ate in silence for a long time. Eventually Elizabeth waved; moments later, Paul appeared with the bill. St. Pierre’s was one of the few establishments that still used paper checks. Elizabeth glanced at it, then handed a credit chip to Paul for payment.
“Keep the change,” Elizabeth said.
“Thank you . . . for the generous gratuity,” Paul said.
That’s Mother, always trying to show off her wealth!
“It was great catching up, dear,” Elizabeth said. “If you change your mind about coming home—”
“Thanks, Mother!” Alice said, cutting her off.
Elizabeth smiled, then picked up her belongings and left. Alice watched her go.
Mister K was sitting in his basement, which served as his base of operations, in front of a variety of monitors. He opened an extra-large can of Extreme Bolt Cola: the kind of beverage with extra caffeine, sugar, and lots of chemicals he couldn’t pronounce. As he was taking a gulp, cola splashed on his AR visor. He cleaned it with his shirt. Then he unwrapped the rest of his lunch: a Choco-chip Munchie Bar and string cheese.
A loud ringing sound suddenly echoed from speakers in the room and Mister K’s earpiece. A picture of Mark Olaf, his MuseFam client, appeared on the large, central monitor. Since Mister K didn’t have voice commands enabled for his visor, he tapped “accept call.” His dog, Mr. Winkles, barked once at the sudden noise, then settled again at Mister K’s feet.
“Mr. Olaf, how can I help you today?” Mister K asked.
“I have a job for you,” Mark said in a cold and calculating tone.
“What kind, and how soon do you need it by?”
“It involves an unauthorized banking transfer. I need it to leave a specific trail pointing to a certain individual, and I need this done tonight.”
“Hmmm . . . consider it done. Send me the details—but it will cost you.”
“Fine, just make it happen,” Mark said as he disconnected.
Less than a minute later, Mister K received the information on his visor. Two subjects appeared: a man in his late twenties, and a woman he recognized.
Mr. Winkles stood up and started whining. Mister K disconnected from his AR headset and picked up his portable tablet. Mr. Winkles was a small dog, and Mister K had trained him to use a litter box in the basement since he was a puppy, but today Mister K wanted a break.
Time to walk Mr. Winkles. Both of us could use the fresh air.
After several minutes of searching his basement and the hallway upstairs leading to his front door, Mister K checked the pockets of his bathrobe and found what he was looking for: his sunglasses and Mr. Winkles’ leash. He secured the dog.
The light assaulted Mister K’s eyes as he opened the door of his apartment. He squinted and put on his sunglasses. How long has it been since I went outside? he wondered. His groceries were on automatic delivery, and in general, he didn’t enjoy the outside, so he rarely left his house.
Closing the door behind him, Mister K looked down the street, left then right. He only saw parked cars, and the townhouses of his neighbors.
What happened to the tree?
The tree on Mister K’s front walk that Mr. Winkles visited on the rare occasion was missing, a hole left in its place.
Why would they cut down a tree? Dammed public works department, screwing with things. I guess we’ll go to the park instead.
Mister K’s legs ached as he walked the two blocks to the park.
“Hmmm, now look what you made me do. All this exertion is bad for my health,” Mister K said to the dog. The dog responded by trying to run in the park’s direction. Mister K thought his arm would pull out of its socket.
“Slow down, Winkles, I’ll have you there in a minute.”
Mister K noticed that people gave him strange looks as they passed him, or they crossed the street, avoiding him. Mister K smelled his armpit.
Guess that’s part of the reason, he assessed. Good, cross the street. Don’t like you, anyway.
When Mister K and Mr. Winkles arrived at the park, the former was out of breath. He sat on a nearby park bench and let the dog run without the leash. A loud chirp emanated from one of his pockets. He took out the tablet. Several alerts were visible on the locked screen. The biometric lock disengaged as soon as he held the tablet up to his face. He tapped, then swiped to reveal the messages. Several images of Alice Parsons appeared: one in a train station, and another on a train platform, with an old man and some kids surrounding her.
Who are these freaks?
He checked the timestamp on the second photo: 12:28 a.m. He had programmed his machine-learning algorithm to gather as many images near his subject—Alice—whenever an alert or her presence appeared. Which gave him the eagle-eyed view that he needed to make the correlations of her movements. Drawing from another camera feed, he noticed that she had boarded a Newark-bound train.
It would be easy to tap into the cameras on the train, he thought.