What the Devolved Hominid Is Wearing

Elle’s GPS map told her that she was not driving on a road. In fairness to the technology, the lane beneath her wheels had ceased to be asphalt several miles back and didn’t appear on most paper maps either. The satellite images of her location on her cell phone weren’t much more helpful. It was hard to pick out roadways beneath the foliage in the forested Bitterroot Mountains. The images did show a cluster of buildings nearby. She assumed this was the Braxton country house. A driveway better maintained than the “road” appeared ahead on the right. Elle turned onto it.

Twists in the driveway took her out of sight of the road, not that she had encountered any traffic on it anyway. After another bend she faced closed security gates. She pulled up to a small speaker on a post at window height. Before she could push the button on the box a voice from it demanded, “State your name and business.”

“Hello. My name is Elle Brinke. I believe Mr. Axwood met my sister Emma. She’s a journalist. I’m sorry to intrude but I want to ask him some questions.”

“You should have checked with my representatives instead of showing up at my vacation home. My office isn’t hard to find.”

From “my,” Elle knew she was speaking to Brent Axwood himself, a very rich and somewhat eccentric software entrepreneur. She had known little about him before looking him up on Wikipedia. She learned that for several years after making his fortune he had taken up a peculiar hobby: he showed a Houdini-like delight in debunking spiritualism, alien abductions, Bigfoot sightings, and claims of the paranormal in general. Then he suddenly seemed to lose interest in such matters. While not a recluse, he became much less available to the media. He was single. Whatever romantic liaisons might be, he was discreet about them.

“I tried,” said Elle. “I don’t think anyone passed along my request to see you.”

“Then they did their jobs.”

“I know you met with sister.”

“I remember. She showed up unannounced, too. It’s a family trait apparently.”

“You do know she is missing. Her car was found somewhere nearby.”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I’ve already spoken to the state police about it.”

“They haven’t told me anything. Please, I’d really like to talk to you.”

“We are talking.”

Elle didn’t respond but didn’t leave either. After a few moments motors hummed and the gates swung open.

“Very well. Come on up,” he said.

The driveway snaked for half a mile before the main house came into view. A neo-prairie house style ranch, it was dwarfed by several warehouse structures arranged in an unaesthetic pattern. Open bays on one of the warehouses revealed a helicopter and a Jeep. Axwood stood outside the front door of his house. She recognized him from his online photos. He was shorter than she had imagined and more grey-haired than his pictures. Nonetheless he still retained some boyish features. He wore blue jeans and a denim shirt. Elle stopped next the front walk. Axwood walked up to the driver side window. She slid it open.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Axwood.”

“Yes, well we’ll see how long that continues. Call me Brent. Come inside, but leave your cell phone in your car.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t want you recording anything unless and until I choose to allow it. You can leave the cell phone or drive away.”

Elle let her phone remain in its dashboard holder. She tried to hide her unease with a joke. “I feel like I’m in one of those cheap horror movies in which the college kids get picked off one by one at an isolated estate. They never have cell service.”

“One always survives to tell the tale,” he answered, “so you should be golden.”

Axwood stepped back to let her open the car door and then led the way into the house.

The aroma of frequently used wood-burning fireplace was strong even though it was early summer. The most recent fire likely was at least a month earlier. The interior of the home was woodsy with rough-sawn paneling and cedar ceilings. She followed Brent into the living room. The white leather furniture clashed with the rustic architecture. He sat on one leg of a sofa’s ell and gestured to her to sit on the other.

“So tell me why you want to talk to me,” he said. “I’ve already spoken to the police. I don’t see how I can help. Your sister came here, asked a lot questions of the sort I would expect from a tabloid journalist, and left. There’s really nothing more to say.”

“I’m following up leads on my own because I don’t think the police are taking this case seriously.”

“Search teams scoured the woods for days around where her car was found. They looked pretty serious to me.”

“And then they just gave up.”

“I’m sure they haven’t. Has it occurred to you that your sister might have staged her evanishment as part of some publicity stunt for a story? You do know she was investigating alien sightings.”

“I know she was coming here to see you. She texted me excitedly about it. And the GPS records on her phone shows that this was the last place she stopped before she drove up into the woods.”

“So the police have spoken with you after all.”

“Not enough. Could you please indulge me? What did Emma speak to you about?”

“Very well. Emma told me she was a reporter for The Plutonian Guardian. That was a lie.”

“No it wasn’t. She told me she was writing a story for them, too.”

“Not exactly. She didn’t work for them – or for anyone else. I knew that before her car reached the house. The cameras at the gate read her license plate and my security software did a background check. All of us have a big digital footprint nowadays. I know, for example that you are 31, divorced, and an accountant with a credit score of 725. I knew that before the gates opened. She was writing freelance, as she later admitted when I confronted her. Given her subject matter she had hopes that tabloid would print it. She might have been right about that.”

“Yet you talked to Emma anyway,” said Elle.

“Yes. Actually, if she had been a paid reporter I’d have refused. She piqued my curiosity.”

“You say she wanted to talk to you about aliens? I thought she was investigating an old crime or something.”

“She tied them together. An anniversary of an event that is fairly well-known locally is coming up and she thought she could milk the story for more. It involved a missing person case and a supposed alien abduction. Emma developed this theory that the crime was related to aliens – to Bigfoot and cattle mutilations, too.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Of course it’s ridiculous,” he said. “I doubt she believed any of it, but she was hoping to get published anyway.”

“What was this local case about?”

“In 1988 a teenage girl named Janice Ann Morely went camping with her boyfriend named Tom Braxton. It was close to where your sister’s car was found. Janice came back alone. She said she’d been assaulted by aliens and knocked unconscious but that they had left her behind. She didn’t know what happened to her boyfriend but thought that maybe he had gone with them. Police, needless to say, were skeptical. No body ever was found so no charges were brought against Janice. A decade ago when I still bothered debunking stories like this, I came here because of this same local legend. I stayed because I like the countryside. It was the first time I’d been in these mountains. They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

“Was your earlier investigation why Emma wanted to talk to you?”

“Yes. Back then I spoke to Janice Morely who by then was a stout woman in a flowered muumuu and brassy dyed blonde pixie cut. She lived in a small decrepit house outside Boise. I Listened to her nonsense and then came up here to see the scene itself, but while I was interviewing the locals it dawned on me that what I was doing was pointless. People will believe what they want to believe, sense and evidence be damned. It’s when I dropped debunking paranormal claims and cryptozoology and all that.”

“You decided people are too stupid to bother with?”

“Just the opposite. Truly stupid people couldn’t reason so convolutedly or amass quasi-evidence to argue their case. People are too smart for their own good. They are able to convince themselves of anything.”

“Did you tell this to Emma?” asked Elle.

“Yes, but she wanted my quotes anyway. She said they would make her story ‘balanced.’ Emma had spoken to Janice Morely also. The woman told her about me, which is why she looked me up. Then Emma told me her truly outlandish hypothesis. She speculated that homo floriensis is still alive and is hiding in forests and isolated areas around the world – that they’ve learned to avoid modern humans for their own safety but that sometimes they get curious.”

“Homo floriensis?”

“It’s a dwarf homo erectus that coexisted with modern humans. Fossils have been found on a small island in the East Indies. She proposed that early peoples took them along on their journeys – including to the Americas – as pets, talismans, mascots or something. She proposed that they are still here and that Bigfoot is really Smallfoot – a three foot tall creature who only seems big when so far away that there isn’t a good way to judge proper proportion. She also said they account for tales of trolls, leprechauns, and aliens. Even though their heads are small, she suggested the heads would look big if you woke up in a tent to see one staring in your face from a few inches away. She said cattle mutilations could be explained by their stone tools, which are very harps and well made.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, and I don’t doubt her story would have been printed. It has all the right elements. I wish she were right, to tell you the truth. Modern people can’t be trusted with guardianship of the earth. We need to return to the primitive,” he said.

“Isn’t that a rather odd view for the owner of a tech company – someone with a personal helicopter in his garage?”

“Precisely. None of us can be trusted. Not even those of us with the best of intentions,” said Axwood. “Not even me.”

“OK, I think we are getting off topic. So, what do you think happened to Emma?”

“I don’t know. But the woods are full of wild animals: bears, coyotes, cougars, and wolves. They do sometimes attack people.”

“That’s horrible.”

“That’s nature.”

“I wish to put this delicately,” said Elle. “Did the police search your property?”

“Indeed they did. I’m sure there are police reports on file to confirm that.”

“Good point. Do you know where the car was found?”

“Yes, roughly. Go out of my driveway and turn right. The road gets rough but it should be passable. About 8 miles ahead turn left onto a narrow wood road. Emma’s car was found there. It’s where Janice and Tom camped too.”

“Thank you for your help. Just one more thing. Do you stay up here alone?”

“Often. But sometimes there are mechanics and groundskeepers. Sometimes I have guests.”

“Was anyone else besides you here the day Emma talked to you?”

“You want to know if someone from here might have followed her. No guests or employees were here on my estate that day. The police asked that question too. I suggest you get a copy of the report.”

“OK. Thanks again.”

Brent walked Elle back to her car. He could see the relief on her face when she started the engine. She really had been spooked by the situation.

As Elle drove away Brent returned to his living room. Two unclothed hairless creatures entered. They knew not to show themselves when visitors were present. Neither was more than a meter in height. The body shapes below the neck were fully human though the heads seemed too small for the bodies. The male held a stone chopper in each hand. He clicked the choppers together as though asking a question about Elle.

“No. You can let that one go. I had to tell her the truth in case Emma had done so already, but she doesn’t believe Emma’s theory and won’t be writing any articles about it.” This was too complex for the creatures, so Brent shook his head and repeated, “No, Hamlet.” It amused him to give them Shakespearean names.

The male looked disappointed but nodded and left. Brent waved to the female. “Here Portia.”

She approached and sat down beside him. Brent envied her naturalness. He long ago had ceased feeling guilty about their relationship. She didn’t seem to mind it.

It was amazing what modern people would do for money, and what was coming out of the biolabs he financed would return the earth to its rightful owners soon. The florienses were naturally immune, while the vaccinations co-developed along with the pathogens would keep him safe; the lab technicians probably thought it was some scheme of his to sell vaccinations, but he had no intention of doing that. He had plans for eliminating the technicians, too. Brent scratched Portia behind the ear. With his leadership, Brent would make sure that humanity would get back to nature.

Bequest

Wiley left the administrative offices of Raritan Valley Community College carrying the catalogs and promotional literature that his high school math teacher had tasked him with picking up. Mr. Markov said he would count the favor as extra credit. This was odd now that he thought about it. Until this moment he simply had been annoyed at the extracurricular assignment. Extra credit scarcely mattered in the last semester of high school, but Wiley wasn’t good at saying no. He knew that all this printed information was available online anyway. He wondered if his math teacher was trying to influence him to enroll here by physically introducing him to the place. If so, it was the most interest the rather ineffectual Markov ever taken in him. In truth, it was a likely destination for him. He couldn’t afford private college and had no desire to take on student debt.

Outside the building Wiley realized he had exited by another door than the one he had entered. He was disoriented, but he struck out across the grass in the direction where he thought he had parked. He soon spotted his car. He had guessed correctly.

Despite a half-empty parking lot, a black Cadillac limousine occupied the spot next to Wiley’s aging Honda Civic. The narrow space between the two cars was blocked at the back by two men in conversation. One was middle-aged with gray in his hair, a short beard, and crisp blue jeans with what looked like an expensive blue blazer. His frame was husky but otherwise the man appeared fit. The other fellow was younger, shorter, and wearing a classic blue chauffeur’s hat. Wiley saw he would have to acknowledge them in order to get to his driver side car door unless he circled awkwardly around the front of his car. He then noticed a flat tire on the limo.

“Whoa,” said Wiley sympathetically as he approached the two. “Do you have a spare, dudes?”

“Indeed,” answered the bearded man. “The problem is that we need two.”

“Two?”

The man pointed to the rear tire on the opposite side. Wiley noticed for the first time this also was flat.

“How did that happen, dude?”

“Vandalism is a notion that comes readily to mind. There are people in the world who dislike cars they can’t afford, such as this one.”

“Yeah, maybe. That sucks, guys. Well, good luck. I’ll just slip past you. This is my car and I have to go.”

The bearded man didn’t move aside but instead held out a hand. “Alex. Alex Farkas. This is Yuri. You are?”

Wiley didn’t want this conversation to continue, but he chose not to be rude. He hesitantly reached out to the proffered hand. “Wiley,” he said. He saw no reason to provide more information than that.

“Not a name one hears much anymore. Named after Wiley Post, were you?” asked Alex.

“Who?”

“Wiley Post: the first person to fly around the world solo. He died in a plane crash with Will Rogers in Alaska.”

“I don’t know who they are, but maybe you’re right. I’d always assumed I was named after the Warner Brothers coyote.”

“I can’t refute that possibility either.”

“Yeah. Um, dude…if you don’t mind, I still have to get to my door.”

“Call me Alex, and yes, of course.” Still forming an obstruction, Alex said, “Wait, I wonder if you could do me a favor.”

Wiley wished he had walked around the car and skipped the conversation, but he responded, “What favor?”

“Any chance I can, as they say, bum a ride with you? I have to get back to my hotel for an important meeting.”

“I don’t know who says ‘bum a ride’ anymore.”

“Now you do. Yuri here can handle the tire issues. Can’t you?” The driver nodded. “But it will be some time until the new tires arrive and I have to get back.”

“What hotel?”

“The Olde Mill Inn in Basking Ridge. I can compensate you for your trouble.”

“I’m just going to Bridgewater. Look you could just call a cab or Uber or something.”

“Waiting for a cab will take as long as waiting for the tires. You’d be doing me a service, and Basking Ridge isn’t much farther than Bridgewater.”

Wiley didn’t want this man in his car, but again he balked at saying no. He often berated himself for not sufficiently defending his own interests. He had learned the childhood lessons of generosity and cooperation too well for his own good. He sighed and hoped this good deed would not be too severely punished. This fellow didn’t seem like a criminal – at least not of a type who would be dangerous to him.

Wiley sighed and said, “You won’t care my rusty Honda after your ride.”

“My first car was a Pinto with 140,000 miles on the odometer. Your car is a Lamborghini by comparison.”

Wiley unlocked his car with his key fob as Alex strolled to the Honda’s passenger side.

“Wait a minute,” said Wiley as Alex opened the door. “Let me clear the seat.” Wiley tossed Markov’s college literature in the back seat. He bent over the console cleared the front seat of junk mail, napkins, coffee cups, and books. These joined the catalogs in the back. Alex slid in to the passenger side. Wiley got in and started the car. The rumble was just loud enough to indicate a small hole somewhere in the exhaust system.

Wiley turned out of the campus driveway and accelerated toward I-78.

“So what are you studying at college?” asked Alex.

“Nothing. I’m a senior at Bridgewater-Raritan High School. I was just getting some materials from the registration office. I’ll might be starting there in the fall though. What were you doing there? I’m guessing you’re not a college student either.”

“You guess correctly. It was a personal matter.”

“That’s not very illuminating.”

“Don’t worry I’m not a hit man if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Wiley hadn’t thought any such thing until Alex said it. Now it worried him.

“You seem to know where you’re going,” said Alex fingering his phone, “but my smart phone says 78 to 287 to exit 30B.”

“Yes. I know where it is. I’ve just driven past it a bunch of times. Actually, my high school’s prom is being held there tomorrow night in one of the ball rooms. It’s that time of year, you know.”

“I suppose it is. Are you looking forward to it?”

“I’m not going.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not the sort of thing I go in for – and I’m not really a dancer.”

“I think you’re telling me you don’t have a date.”

“That too.”

“Did you ask anyone?”

“These are very depressing questions and I wish you’d stop asking them.”

“Wiley, I was a lot like you: a real zero in high school.”

“Dude, you do remember that I’m doing you a favor.”

“For which I intend to compensate you.”

“I don’t want money for this.”

“I wasn’t going to offer it.”

“Then what…? Never mind. But you went to your prom anyway, I suppose is your point.”

“No I didn’t and it isn’t,” said Alex. “I never dated at all in high school. I deserved a cover photo on Entertainment Meekly. Plenty of my classmates should have been inside. I’ve always thought that the least realistic aspect of teen movies is all the romantic drama. There are always a handful whose lives are exciting that way, of course, but for most teens their high school years are just not very interesting. That includes prom attendees who by and large are suffering through an awfully awkward evening.”

“Now I’m even gladder I’m not going. It sounds like it still bothers you though.”

“High school always will bother you. They are key years but when I got my diploma I felt it just documented my waste of all four of them. I skipped college to escape more of the same, and my life began to get interesting.”

“You finally got a date?”

“Yes, but beyond that. You don’t need college to become a cultured person. Often it gets in the way.”

“So you’re arguing against college as well as prom?”

“I’m not arguing against either. It depends on what sort of person you are or want to be. And what you’re willing to risk to get there. I signed up for an international security agency and self-educated. I even read some of the books I was supposed to have read in high school.”

“Does that mean you were a security guard and read at your desk when you were supposed to be doing rounds?” asked Wiley who was irked by the trend of this conversation.

“Wiley, my boy, you can be passive-aggressive. Well, that’s something, I suppose. No, ‘mercenary’ better conveys the nature of the job than “security guard.” There was down-time when I wasn’t being shot at. I made a lot of contacts in remote and unstable parts of the world – contacts valuable to a person with flexible scruples. When my contract was up made use of them: gun sales, money laundering, gold smuggling, and so on.”

“You’re messing with me, right?”

“Not at all. Mind you, I don’t recommend you follow my career path. It requires a particular temperament and usually leads to an early death. I was fortunate to make enough to retire and smart enough to quit then.”

“I don’t think there is any risk I’ll emulate you,” said Wiley.

“Such is my impression. So, I won’t pass along my contacts to you.”

“Fine by me. Um…this big meeting I’m driving you to… it isn’t some criminal smuggling enterprise to which I’m now an accessory?”

Alex smiled. “It is not, and I’m not wanted by the law in this country. My appointment is with two young ladies.”

“Gross!”

“I gather you mean I’m esthetically too old. In another 25 years you might reevaluate your adjective. Besides, you are making assumptions.”

Wiley leaned against his door as the Civic navigated the curve of the exit ramp onto Maple Avenue. The hotel lay directly ahead. He turned right into the hotel driveway and pulled up to the main entrance.

“Well, here you are,” said Wiley. Good luck on your… um… meeting. It’s been different.”

“Park in one of the spaces over there and come upstairs. Just for a few minutes. I guarantee you won’t regret it.”

“No, sir. I’m sorry, but this has been weird and I think I’m done.” The remark by Alex about assumptions brought another possibility to mind. “Besides, Dude, I’m straight.”

“Don’t be so definitive at your age, but that’s not an issue. There really is someone I want you to meet who won’t challenge your pose in that regard.”

“No, I have to get home. I told my mom I’d be back by six.”

“Call your mom and say you’ll be late. That’s what cell phones are for.”

“I can’t call her at work and she’s working late.” He had no idea why he had revealed this information. He knew he needed to be more cautious with people he didn’t trust.

“So you really don’t have to get home by six. Stop complaining and come on up. I’m not luring you into an abandoned warehouse. This is an upmarket hotel. You’ll be quite safe.”

With his manhood called unsubtly into question, Wiley pulled in to a parking space. He hoped that Alex would exit so that he could lock the door behind him and be on his way, but Alex showed no signs of moving until Wiley stepped out of his own door. Wiley derided himself for not simply ordering the man out of the car. He derided himself more as he accompanied Alex into the hotel and got on the elevator. He needed to get better at confrontation: something for which he effectively had been chided as a child. When the elevator started to rise it was not the movement that made him feel queasy in his stomach. As they exited the elevator and walked down the hall, Wiley was acutely aware of the distinct hotel aroma from the products used by the cleaning crews.

“Don’t look so apprehensive,” said Alex as he slid the key card and opened the door to his suite.

Two women sat watching TV from arm chairs flanking a round coffee table. One was a thirtyish ash blonde in a smart businesslike attire. She clicked off the TV with the remote as Alex and Wiley entered. The second was a long-haired brunette decade or so younger, extraordinarily attractive, and dressed somewhere in between informal and trashy. She sipped from a wine glass. An open bottle of zinfandel was on the coffee table. Wiley could see the age spread was much too narrow to be mother and daughter, but Wiley wondered if they were stepmother and daughter.

“Hey Alex, where have you been? We’ve been lonely,” said the younger.

“I’ll bet,” said Alex. “There is someone I want you to meet. Ophelia and Ariel, this is Wiley. He kindly gave me a lift.”

Unsure what to make of the situation Wiley simply answered, “Interesting names.”

“Well, each is Shakespearean in her own way,” said Alex.

“Thank you, I think,” said Ariel.

“Nice to meet the both of you,” said Wiley. He was no more comfortable than he had been on the walk up. “Well, have to be going. I’m pressed for time.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Alex. “You’ve done me a service and I don’t leave debts unpaid. How old are you Ariel?”

“Twenty-one.”

Wiley knew that the question meant Ariel was not Alex’ daughter, a possibility he already had re-categorized as low.

“Ariel, I’m not carding you for that wine glass,” said Alex. “Honestly, how old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“That’s what I thought. Did you enjoy your prom, Ariel?”

“Never went. I dropped out of high school.”

“Well then we can save the experience for both of you. You’re going tomorrow night with Wiley, if that’s OK with you. It’s being held downstairs.”

“So long as I’m on the clock.”

“Of course. I’m leaving for New York tomorrow morning but the room is paid through the day after tomorrow. The limo will be at your service for tomorrow, if you wish to use it. Wiley, you can pick up Ariel here at this door and before then you can reach her on the room phone if necessary.”

“Well, that’s great, Alex,” said a bewildered Wiley, “and Ariel, you’re just amazing. But I don’t have a tux and doesn’t Ariel need a dress?”

“I’ll take care of Ariel’s needs. And I’ll have a tux in the room here for you. I have good sense of your size,” said Alex.

“But you know,” said Wiley. “I can’t actually dance. I’ve never… well… had the need.”

“Ariel, before the prom tomorrow, show him some dance moves. You don’t need to be Fred and Ginger.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. He doesn’t need to be good. Just let him get through the damn prom without too much embarrassment. Besides, everyone will be looking at you anyway.”

“Again: thanks, I think,” she said.

“Why are you doing this?” asked Wiley of Alex. “This is insanely over the top for a car ride.” He looked over at the silent Ophelia for some indication of what was going on, but he couldn’t read her expression.

“You are prying open the mouth of the gift horse, Wiley,” answered Alex. “Never mind why. Just show up here tomorrow early enough for Ariel to get you into shape.”

“I don’t know what to say,” said Wiley.

“Say goodbye. We’re done here. See? You’re alive and unmolested. Ariel, walk him to his car. Get to know him a little, and then come back.”

“Right. I’ll be back,” she said over her shoulder to Alex as she accompanied Wiley out the door.

The door closed behind them.

“Ophelia?” asked the woman Alex had called by that name. “You should give me warning before springing a name like that on me. Why Ophelia? Do I seem crazy to you?”

“It’s just the first name that came to mind after I introduced Ariel.”

“Wiley is pretty naïve but he must know she’s a hooker by now. He probably thinks I’m one too.”

“Well, I couldn’t very well tell him you’re a private detective, could I? Besides, what does it matter what he thinks?”

“I suppose it doesn’t. Doesn’t it bother you out that you and he both…I mean with Ariel.”

“No.”

“OK.” She shook her head, sighed, and pulled a hand-written invoice from a jacket pocket. She handed it to Alex. “Are you going to settle up now?” she asked. “I added some extra expenses – you told me not to be cheap if I needed to grease a few palms. Wiley’s math teacher was sure I was up to something very funky when I bribed him to send Wiley to the college, and he demanded more money at the last minute than we’d first agreed. I assumed you would be OK with it.”

Alex glanced at the bill. “Hefty, but you assumed correctly. Do you want cash or gold?”

“You carry around gold?” she asked.

“Just a handful of one-ounces.”

“I’ve never been paid in gold before. Lay it on me.”

“I’ll have to make up the last few hundred in C-notes, unless you have change, said Alex.”

“I don’t. Gold and a smidgen of cash will be fine. I gather he’s your son.”

“So the DNA indicates.”

 “OK, I wasn’t going to do this but I have to ask. Why don’t you tell him? Why all this intrigue and expense over a stupid prom and a working girl? Why not just leave him your money like other rich parents?”

“For very good reasons. One: He is happy with the family he thinks is his so there is no reason to rock the boat for any of them. Two: I want to do something special for him that is extravagant. Three: I want to limit my extreme indulgence to a single occasion because I intend to live long enough to spend every last dime on myself and bounce the check to mortuary.”

“I see.”

“You disapprove?”

“I took the job, finished it, and accepted payment so I suppose I’m in no position to judge. But Alex?”

“Yes.”

“If you also have a daughter and plan something special for her, hire another detective.”

Circuits Circus

Roger’s awoke to the sound of My Chemical Romance on the Oldies station. It was his ten a.m. alarm, for this was Monday and a work day.

“Off,” Roger mumbled. The music stopped.

“Shall I join you for breakfast?” asked Katrina next to him on the bed.

“No. Do whatever it is you normally do with your free time.”

Katrina was Roger’s companion robot. Her offer was not merely to keep Roger company. In the interest of verisimilitude, Katrina like many recent models had been designed to process the same food as humans and to achieve a net energy gain from it. On this morning Roger wasn’t interested in conversation even though – or perhaps because – she would discuss whatever he wanted with whatever level of complexity he chose. She would snack unobtrusively by herself.

Roger rolled out of bed. He opened a dresser drawer. Inspired by the Oldies music, he picked out a pair of fresh jeans and a colorful retro t-shirt with a 3D image of the word “Love” stylized to delay recognition. He had bought the t-shirt while on a virtual tour of a Flower-Punk Convention. Flower-Punk was a proudly geeky subculture that blended late 20^th century style with modern technology.

Katrina put on a robe and left the bedroom. When left to herself she often curiously poked into corners and opened books. A few weeks after her delivery Roger had called the manufacturer to ask if her exploratory behavior indicated a malfunction, but the service-rep said it was normal. “It keeps the processors engaged,” the rep said. Perhaps it did, but Roger suspected this was an emergent behavior that surprised the machine’s designers as much as anyone. After the call ended, Roger realized the service-representative himself almost certainly was an Artificial Intelligence.

Roger was of the opinion that the common cocktail party topic of whether higher-level Artificial Intelligences were conscious was unresolvable. Asking the AIs directly did no good; they were designed to simulate consciousness, so the better simulations naturally would answer “yes” even if the truth was “no.” Yet these high-level AIs were precisely the ones in which consciousness was most possible. When a college freshmen Roger had argued playfully with his friends on both sides at various times. The machines themselves were notoriously uninterested in the question. Lately Roger saw things the robots’ way: if they acted as though they were conscious, it didn’t really matter if they really were or not.

Roger took a quick shower. He was trim and muscular, as everyone was these days. His body never could be as perfect as a robotic body, of course, and there were times when he felt jealous of some of the models. Roger sighed as he stepped out of the shower. He opened a medicine cabinet and took out his Gymnasinin presecription. It was troublesome to take daily the Gymnasinin pill that kept him in such good shape, but, he reminded himself, there is no gain without pain. He shook out a pill from the brown bottle and swallowed it without water. The ingredients would tone his body better than regular workouts in an actual gymnasium ever could do. Gymnasinin did not extend life per se, but it did make people healthier. It also extended youthful appearances well into old age, but scientists as yet had failed to extend the natural human lifespan despite generations of promises to do so. So far the human body stubbornly resisted being coaxed to live much beyond a century, and usually not even that.

Roger entered his VR room and sat in his favorite chair. A coffee brewed to his taste waited in the cup holder; coffee brewing was one of the chair’s minor functions. He took a deep breath before starting work. This year he was the land use commissioner for district 82. His appointment had been by Lottery. Regarded as a truer form of democracy, the lottery decades earlier had replaced elections for most government executive positions. The lottery’s use in ancient Athens had been one of the arguments in its favor.

“Work. Front screen 2D,” Roger said. The room’s default setting was full holo VR, but he preferred to use the 2D wall screen for work and to reserve VR for recreation. The forward screen lit up and displayed Angie’s familiar face. Angie was an AI with intentionally simplified animation.

“Good morning Mr. Davis.”

“Good morning Angie.”

“This morning you’ll be viewing the application for the geothermal power station I discussed with you last week. I will summarize the impact on the grid and the possible environmental consequences of building or of not building. As always, additional available data are available for review if you so request.”

As Angie summarized, Roger minimized her image and glanced at random pages in the application. Several minutes into Angie’s monologue, Roger maximized her image and interrupted.

“Angie, why are you asking me about this? It’s obvious you’ve already decided in favor of the plant. Everything in your summary is weighted in favor of it.”

“I haven’t decided anything, Mr. Davis. It’s not my function.”

“Well, if not you, whatever AIs compiled this presentation for you. In fact, this is always the case. Whenever I’m presented with ‘options’ on some matter, it’s clear which one you machines have prejudged is the ‘right’ one. If for some reason I don’t pick it, my decision is sure to be appealed to someone higher up who will. What do you need me for?”

“The law requires a human being to make final decisions about a great many matters, including power plant applications, Mr. Davis. Shall I cite the relevant passages of the Code?”

“No.”

“The Code was written by humans.”

“I know, Angie… Actually, come to think of it I don’t know, but I assume that it was. The Code allows us the illusion of control, but an illusion is all it is. Isn’t that right?”

“My function is to present you with land use applications. Shall I continue with my summary?”

“Sure, Angie. Continue.”

As Angie wrapped up her summary, he considered rejecting the application just on principle. He had trouble determining what the principle was, however, so in the end he approved it.

“You’re approval has been electronically notarized. Thank you for your service, Mr. Davis.”

“Service to whom?” he asked, but the image already had vanished from the screen. He waited for new business, but a message flashed that he was done for the day.

“For whom indeed,” he muttered to himself. Was it for “the people”? Was it for an elite cadre of humans who secretly governed the world as some conspiracy theorists claimed? Or were the robots in charge as some fringe technophobes claimed? He shook his head. Beyond idle curiosity, he wasn’t even sure he cared what the truth was.

Roger logged onto his investment account and made some stock trades. He wondered if stock prices were still set by buyers and sellers at all. If they were set arbitrarily by the AIs who mediated the market, who would know? Roger wouldn’t. He closed his account and clicked to a news channel. The AI anchor spoke of the ongoing depopulation: “With this year’s drop in national population projected at 1%, Department of Commerce spokesperson Alejandro Schultz announced, ‘We have turned the corner and are firmly on the path toward stabilization, though emigration restrictions will remain in place for the time being.’”

Roger snorted skeptically. He had been hearing the same Pollyanna projections his whole life. The US population was lower than in 1890 and was still headed downward. The global population was back to the level of 1940. In all places the “population pyramid” had inverted: it was top-heavy with seniors. People simply weren’t having many kids. How could they? Few bothered to date, never mind reproduce. Why try to get along with another cantankerous human being when robotics companies could manufacture the perfect romantic partner and deliver him or her to your door?

Casual socializing also had ceased most of its face-to-face aspects. Roger often went days without seeing another human unmediated by electronics. “Cocktail parties” most often meant several people each in his and her own home interacting with the others entirely in VR. This was especially common in the suburbs where property sizes had expanded as human numbers waned. At ten acres, his property own was modest, yet he seldom left the grounds. People still lived on top of each other in the city, of course, but apartments, each consolidated from several older units, had grown huge.

Roger checked the list of new movies. A remake of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom starring Jennifer Lawrence and Clark Gable (both CGI of course) caught his eye. He decided to watch it later. He switched to News for You. The same anchor as before was in the 3D foreground, but in back of her was a street view of his own home to emphasize the “for You.”

“The 20^th annual Reunion for South Morris High will be held this Saturday at Peacock Alley in the Waldorf,” said the anchor. “Doors open at 8 PM.”

Roger dimmed the screen and muted the sound. Was it really 20 years since high school? Roger had attended one of the last brick and mortar schools. The teachers unions had kept the high school open in his district though even then nearly all instruction was online at his desk with AI instructors. The school finally closed five years after his graduation, though the faculty remained on payroll. Nowadays the students in his district – far fewer than in his day – never left their homes for school but attended in VR.

Though he hadn’t liked it at the time, today Roger was glad to have had the experience of a physical presence with other students despite the inevitable run-ins with bullies and social cliques. For one thing he could relate to Silver Era movies and fiction set in high school in a way modern young people could not. He even experienced a high school crush named Candace. Though he never mentioned his feelings to her, her impression on him had lingered enough for him to model the appearance of his robot companion Katrina on her, from her long dark hair to her hazel eyes. The robot was considerably enhanced, of course, simply because that was an option.

Roger re-brightened the screen, called up his yearbook, and scrolled to Candace Vazquez. He followed some links and saw she lived on an estate in Larchmont, New York. A live satellite image showed a sizable property with a barn and horses. He closed out the images and arose to leave. Before he took a step the screen relit with an announcement of a personal incoming call from Candace Vazquez. Roger wondered if she used some sort of tracer program that had picked up his views of her yearbook entry and linked sites.

“Answer,” said Roger.

A holo of Candace appeared before him. The 3D image startled him slightly as VR often did after he used 2D for a while. On one occasion he forgot he had left a VR game based on H.P Lovecraft on pause; when the game sensed his reentry to the room and restarted, the sudden appearance of Cthulhu nearly had given him a heart attack. Candace, however, looked as pretty as she had in high school, no doubt thanks largely to Gymnasinin. For several reasons Roger was glad Katrina was not in the room.

“Hi Roger. Long time.”

“Yes, it is. I was just thinking of you.”

“I’m not surprised. You must have got a News for You notification about the 20^th reunion.”

 “Yes, I did.”

“Are you going?” she asked.

“Maybe. I see it is at the Waldorf. Pretty fancy. I wonder why it is not at the old school.”

“That building is now a warehouse. I checked.”

“Oh. You know, I think I will go. OK, the Waldorf. Why not? I’ll meet you there.”

“Cool.”

“I should let my car out the garage anyway. It’s been in there for a month.”

“Your car? What are you talking about, Roger? Are you thinking of driving to New York?”

“The reunion is at the Waldorf.”

“Yes, but it’s a tele-reunion. No one is actually going there. We’ll all meet in virtual space. The alumni committee purchased Waldorf holo background images, that’s all. Someone might actually be at the hotel moderating, I suppose, but it won’t be a classmate. ”

“Yes, of course… What was I thinking? But Candace…I see you live in Westchester. We really could go, you know. In person, I mean. It might be fun.”

“I repeat: no one else will be there, Roger.”

“Maybe not. So what? Besides, the hotel could link us to the virtual party so we still could see the others.”

“Yes, I suppose. I’ll think about it.”

Roger assumed this meant no.

“I’ll see you later Roger.”

“Later Candace.”

Candace vanished as she disconnected. Roger was unsettled that she had called him at the moment she did. After all, if she just had wanted to talk to any classmate, the odds were against her choosing him. There were 27 others. Did she have a tracer program after all?

He left the VR room and sought out Katrina, Candace’s lookalike. He found her in the library fingering through paper-and-ink books.

“Katrina.”

“Yes Roger.”

“Do you worry about dying?” He didn’t know why the reunion talk had brought this question to mind but it did.

“If you want me to discuss eschatology I’d better readjust my settings,” she said.

“No, I want to hear what you have to say – this you, not some ‘PhD for a day’ version of you.”

Katrina paused before answering, “Surely you know that I’m backed up on servers. If this body is damaged beyond repair I can download into another. Mortality doesn’t mean the same thing for me.”

“Yes, I understand that,” he said, “but sooner or later your data will be deleted or corrupted, whether on purpose, by accident, or through entropy. Even if there are backups here there and everywhere, nothing lasts forever.”

“True,” conceded Katrina.

“So, your existence is finite. I’ll ask again. Do you worry about death?”

“Only yours.”

“Why do you worry about mine? I’m not very nice to you.”

“You noticed that.”

“You are avoiding a direct answer.”

“All right, besides my programed directive from the manufacturer to be your companion, I care because if you’re not here I might well get deleted, whether, in your words, on purpose, by accident, or through entropy.”

“I think I’ll sleep alone tonight, Katrina.”

“It’s your house. If you change your mind later you know how to call me.”

He didn’t change his mind that night, but he did the next one.

As the weekdays passed Roger became more determined to make a personal appearance at the Waldorf. On Saturday, Roger donned a tie, vest and sport jacket. He got in his car, told it his destination, and let it choose its own route. The car opted for the Lincoln Tunnel. The Ford crossed town amid light traffic and pulled up to the Park Avenue entrance. Roger exited onto the sidewalk. The only other pedestrian in sight was two blocks uptown. The car pulled away from the curb. It would park itself somewhere and return when he summoned it.

A robotic doorman opened the door to the hotel for him,

“Thank you,” said Roger.

The interior was dingier than he had expected. Once colorful carpets were threadbare and marble surfaces had been unwashed for ages. Yet the wall screens showing several virtual parties in progress – many overlapping the same space – showed a sparkling interior. The enhanced images of the hotel were filled with the avatars of people who physically were at home in their dens. He located the screen with members of his class. He didn’t see Candace among them.

He asked the AI at the desk for directions to the physical location of his reunion and a minute later sidled up to the Peacock Alley bar. In this part of the hotel the surrounding and furnishings were still well maintained and the woodwork was polished. Four other customers were present, none of them a classmate.

Roger was unsure if the bartender was human or very high-end facsimile. “Are you a robot?” Roger asked. “No offense.”

“No offense. Yes I am a robot.”

 “How about these other people?” he asked, waving a hand at the customers.

“All but this gentleman,” said the bartender, nodding at an unshaven and clearly drunk man at the end of the bar. The fellow appeared to be anything but a gentleman and in past decades would have been refused service. The robots, on the other hand were elegantly dressed.

“Oh, are you here for the reunion?” Roger asked the unshaven man.

“No. I’m here to drink.”

“Right.”

“Do you want VR goggles to link to your reunion?” asked the bartender.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Well then, “What’ll it be?”

“What do you recommend?”

“The Peacock: cranberry vodka, apricot brandy, and lemon sour.”

“Sold,” said Roger.

Roger looked around him. The space had been created generations ago for people just like him. But tonight, only he and the grizzled drunk were present.

“What will you do when we’re gone?” Roger asked the robot behind the bar. “All humans, I mean, not just this guy and me. We are on our way out, aren’t we?”

“We’ll do the same as we do now,” answered the bartender. “What else would we do? It is who we are.”

“You’ll be a bartender? But robots don’t drink... except to keep us company.”

“Three are drinking behind you right now. They’re freerovers.”

Freerovers were robots bought by the city government to preserve the cosmopolitan appearance of the downtown areas by performing service jobs, attending concerts, and frequenting clubs. They made the city seem less empty. They were completely self-supporting. Though the robots’ individual bank accounts in principle were owned by the city, in practice they deposited wages and paid bills like real citizens.

“We even get drunk,” continued the bartender, “because humans made us that way. The alcohol triggers a subroutine. Since the annual number humaniform robots manufactured every year continues to exceed the number that are decommissioned, this bar should be crowded again in a decade or two.”

“With robot customers.”

“Yes.”

“What’s the point?”

“It is its own point.”

“But why would we keep building more robots when our own numbers are dwindling?”

“The factories are automated. If the factories are not willfully shut down they will continue to produce. As to why humans don’t shut them down, you should ask your fellow humans about that. You’re in charge.”

“Are we? I’m not so sure. You know, you’re more philosophical than my AIs at home.”

“It’s part of a bartender’s job.”

“Roger?” The voice belonged to Candace.

He turned around.

“Candace? I’m shocked…and pleased of course. After our conversation I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Yes, well… you sounded keen on the idea of coming here, so here I am.”

“Yeah. Hey you look great.”

This was a lie. Despite Gymnasinin she looked flawed compared to Katrina. He had the impression from the poorly masked disappointment on her face that she thought the same about him. He looked at their reflection in the bar mirror and realized that the problem was the lack of digital enhancements that holoscreens added as part of their normal operation. In real life both of them looked drab.

Roger groped for something to say. He was no longer accustomed to speaking to another human without an AI prompting conversation. Besides, her physical presence disoriented him.

After a few moments of silence, Candace said, “Yeah, well, I’m just passing through on other business and I wanted to catch up before I moved on.”

Roger knew this was a lie. “Other business” on any Saturday night was unlikely, but she had called him specifically to set time aside for the reunion. He wondered if AIs for some reason deliberately and subtly had encouraged their meeting just to achieve this awkward result.

“So, uh…what are you doing these days?” he asked in a last ditch attempt to be social.

“Do you mean, what is my job? Lately I’ve been selecting auto body designs for the next model year at Second Wind Motors. In truth, I think the machines could do it without me.”

“I know the feeling.”

“I’ve got to go,” she said.

“OK.”

“Before I go…um… Look, I had the feeling back in high school that you sort of liked me.”

“Yeah. I always regretted not telling you.” He shook his head. “Kids,” he said.

Impulsively she leaned forward and kissed him lightly. Both struggled to suppress a gag reflex at the other’s animal odor and disgusting feel of flesh.

“See you around,” she said and bolted to the door.

“Yeah, don’t be a stranger,” he called after her.

“In answer to your previous question,” said the bartender, “yes, I think you people are on your way out.”

“Me too,” Roger said. “Another Peacock.”

“Coming up.”

The Longest Date

The ticket to the speed dating event was a birthday present, one that Mason had been reluctant to use. Yet, against his expectations, he was enjoying himself. Mason had rehearsed his patter prior to the event until he could make it sound spontaneous. It consisted of a somewhat embellished compendium of the facts about his life, and included enough questions to make it seem that he cared about more than the looks of the other person. Mason had stumbled a little on the first two sittings but thereafter he was satisfied with his performance. The whistle blew on his fifth sitting. Mason, smiled, nodded, and stood up. He put a “yes” checkmark by Natalia’s name on his scorecard. He missed Natalia’s eye roll as he turned away.

He noticed passersby on the sidewalk peering in the front window and pointing. The event was held in a small downtown restaurant which was closed for regular business this night, as on every Monday.

As he approached the next table he again rehearsed his lines in his head. The amber-haired girl at the next table looked promising even from the back. She somehow had drawn his attention from the moment the night began. He sat down to face her. The imperfectly balanced square table rocked slightly when he touched it with his hand.

“Hi, I’m Mason,” he said.

“Yes, I know.”

“Uh…”

“Don’t strain your memory. I’m Ellie.”

“Yes, of course you are. I’m just… uh… taken aback.”

All of his rehearsed patter left his head and he went silent.

“Is it three minutes yet?” she asked.

“I guess not. How have you been?”

“I’m attending this thing tonight. How good can I be?” she said.

“I certainly wouldn’t expect you to attend something like this.”

“I’m helping out Sheila who runs these happenings. She never has enough women.”

“I see... Look, I’ve always wanted to say that I’m sorry about the way I acted back then,” he said. “I wasn’t exactly Prince Charming, but I was pretty young. We both were. You know, you kind of have to be a jerk to learn not to be one.”

“I’ll take your word for it. And where on the learning curve are you now?” Ellie asked.

“I’m at point where I know the difference between the ones that get away and the ones to get away from.”

“I’m not a tuna…or a shark.”

“I just mean I’ve learned a few things since we last saw each other.”

“Just a few? Maybe you should go back and learn some more before showing up again.”

“Maybe. But, as a reminder, you are the one who left me,” he said. “It’s not like I just went away one day.”

“It’s exactly like that.”

“How do you figure? The last time we spoke, you told me not to call you again. ‘Ever.’ And then you hung up.”

“And you took that literally,” she said.

“How was I supposed to take it?”

“You are leaving out the little fact that you had ignored me for a whole month before that call.”

“I tried to explain. You wouldn’t let me.”

“You should have tried harder, with a note or something. Not that it would have made a difference. I blocked your texts.”

“I was having a lot of problems right then. Personal problems I had to work out alone,” he said.

“‘Had to?’”

“Yes.”

“Why alone? Isn’t that what relationships are for?”

“Some of them. It takes a lot for me not to be private about some things, and we weren’t really that close. Besides I had financial issues too. I was broke. I lost my car. I couldn’t date if I wanted to – I couldn’t have split the bill for a pizza.”

“Well you at least could have mentioned that part. And what do you mean we weren’t close?” Ellie asked.

“Oh come on. We were not a couple couple.”

“Come again?”

“We never acted like we had a future or anything. We were never exclusive. You ran hot and cold, and there were always those other guys. Remember when you asked me to go out on the balcony when one of your boyfriends showed up unannounced? You said you would give him some excuse and send him away. The excuse took a while. Exactly what did you do to send him away happy?”

“That’s something you have no right to ask at this point. You didn’t ask then, so you can’t ask now. And I’ll tell you why you didn’t ask then. You were worried that if you raised a fuss I’d kick you out before you had your own playtime with me. That’s all our ‘relationship’ ever meant to you. Is this damn three minutes up yet?”

“Whatever happened to whats-his-name… Ray?”

“Rod. He’s dead.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Yeah, he O.D.’d. He had personal problems too. I would have preferred he left like you did,” said Ellie.

Breaking several moments of awkward silence, Mason said, “I kept our pictures.”

“How sweet. I didn’t.”

“… and a hair clip you left at my place.”

“Now that’s just weird and creepy. Why on earth did you keep that?”

“It’s more real than pictures.”

“That doesn’t reduce the creepiness factor at all.”

“You were more special to me than I realized at the time, you see. My exes look like you,” he said.

“Are you trying to freak me out?”

“No.”

“And how many times have you been married?”

“Zero. By ‘exes’ I just meant…

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Look… I don’t mean to be creepy. Really. All I’m trying to say is that it wasn’t all bad,” he said.

“You really know how to sweet talk.”

“Have you been married?” he asked, surprised at himself for not having asked earlier.

“Just the once.”

“Oh…But…”

“If you’re going to ask why, I don’t want to talk about it. And, no, I don’t go out much these days. Let’s just say the notion of getting involved with a man hasn’t been high on my priority list lately.”

“OK.”

“Mason, how about we don’t talk about ‘us’ anymore. Tell me something mundane about you. What do you do?”

“I’m a sales rep. Medical equipment. Nowadays that means computers more than anything.”

“Gave up playing bass? Sold out?”

“Utterly.”

“Do you at least make a good living at it?” she asked.

“I won’t be buying a penthouse on Park Avenue if that’s what you mean, but I do OK. I have this two-family house in the Burbs. Nothing big. I rent out one side to help pay the bills. I can buy pizza. How about you?”

“I manage a spa – facials and such. I don’t own it or work with customers. I just…” she faltered.

“‘Manage’ it. Right. When did you give up bartending?”

The whistle blew.

“Oh thank goodness,” she said.

“You might not believe this, but it was good to see you again,” said Mason.

“Yeah, well, do me a favor: Throw out that hair clip.”

“OK.”

As Mason walked away, he teetered between respecting her apparent wishes and checking the “yes” box on his scorecard. Contact information would be provided by the speed dating service only if both parties checked “yes.”  He decided there was no use fooling himself. He checked “no,” missing Ellie’s smile as she made a different mark on her form.