Cascade by Marcel Gabbett

Cascade by Marcel Gabbett

           Writers and therapists partake in the perfect symbiotic relationship. Therapists guard writers from the deepest recesses of their hearts; places where, if the writer were to venture, even for a minute, they’d quickly find themselves wrapping a noose around their neck. In return, writers entertain therapists with their erratic stories.

            But therapists are clever. They understand that if they cure the writers, if they truly fix all their patients’ psychological hauntings, those stories wouldn’t be too fascinating anymore. After all, there’s a public misconception about therapists—a belief that they should tell you exactly what to do, like an instruction guide you’d find tucked in the corner of a furniture set.

In reality, therapists are much like doctors or dentists. They only react. Never, ever, will a respectable therapist direct. Because they know if even once, if just once among one million good pointers their words of wisdom fail—it would topple the entire psychoanalytic house of cards.

They tell you to apply for the job—you get rejected—you blow your brains out. They tell you to go on that trip to Vegas with your college buddies—you lose big time at a blackjack table—you blow your brains out. They tell you to go for it—you ask that cute barista at the cafe out, the one with the brown boots and freckles. You fall in love, get married, have kids, she fucks the milkman—you blow your brains out.

            These hapless notions coursed through Jefferies’ head as he lay among the felines. House-cats of all shapes and sizes sauntered around a living room that smelled of lavender and honey. Their persistent purring masked the horrible silence that accompanied the homes of many modern therapists.

            Are they even real? Jefferies wondered as an orange tabby with sparkling green eyes bonked its head against his ankle.

            “I just don’t know how to explain it. I tried writing about it, of course. That usually helps. But not this time. It honestly made it worse.”

            A satisfied meow drew Jefferies’ gaze to the top of a wooden bookcase; oddly, there were bowls of food and water up there. Adjacent to the bookcase, toward the center of the living room, a glowing chandelier dominated the ceiling. A plump British shorthair perked its rear end as it considered leaping from the bookcase to the chandelier. Its eyes, however, turned to the red carpets of battling Hindu deities that covered most of the hardwood floor, and, recalculating its course of action, it turned back to the bowls of food and water. Above the bookcase, in the ceiling cornice, the air visibly vibrated as a noise-canceling device worked double-time to deafen the sounds of overhead sky-traffic.

“How is it fair?” Jefferies continued. “I mean, I’ve always respected technological advancements. I appreciate artificial intelligence’s contributions to cancer research, and to developing renewable fuel. Robotics and AI are, undoubtedly, a positive addition to global society,” Jefferies paused, his chest tightening. “But can’t we all… can’t we all just agree to keep them in the workforce and away from the arts? Did you know the fourteen best sellers last year were all written by AI? Every notable book of the year award, from the Hugos to the NYT, has gone to them in recent years.”

Jefferies’ face flushed, and his hands balled into fists. There were some squishy spheres and fidget spinners on the table in front of him, but he wanted to feel the pain. He wanted to feel his nails biting into his palms.

“All the drivers are robots, all the chefs, all the DJs on Penner Avenue. What’s even the point anymore?” The cats playing with their yarn and lounging in the musty room raised their ears as Jefferies’ voice started to boom. “Did you know that robots now outnumber humans four to one? I’m not one of these ignoramuses advocating for genocide or anything, but at a certain point, it just takes the mystery out of everything. I almost miss having my orders at the drive-thru messed up. Fuck it, I kind of miss having my neck scratched while getting a shave at the barber. It reminded me I was actually at the barber, that I was real, and at a place on planet Earth.” Jefferies raised his eyes to the figure sitting across from him and scowled.

The T model-48 nodded its silver head rhythmically. Its shiny lips had been pursed in the same position for the last five minutes, and it hadn’t blinked once since its patient’s session had started. As the T-48 adjusted its arbitrary spectacles with its extendable fingers, Jefferies stared at the wiring exposed in the robot’s neck. Globules of bronze liquid pulsed beneath clear sheaths as the therapist considered the best way to react to its patient’s dilemma.

“I think I understand, Jefferies. Robots and AI really have changed the way society functions. Especially around here, with all the cutting edge labs and tech-focused universities, exposure to that change is exemplified. Speaking truthfully, I have many patients who share your woes. I think it’s important for us to address the core issue here. It seems like artificial authors are making you feel obsolete, but I know that you’re a brilliant writer, Jefferies. Your illustrious career speaks for itself. It was only four years ago that you were a top-five best-selling author in the Pacific Northwest. That’s hardly ancient history.”

On the wall behind the T-48, a plaque referred to it as Doctor Mitchell, and displayed the lab on Mallard Avenue where it had received its training and education. Jefferies had done his homework, and was painfully aware that the cultivating process for these newer models took just two months. The possibly infantile Doctor Mitchell gestured with its broad hands to the dozens of cats in its home.

“Why do you think I have these gorgeous kitties running about, Jefferies?”

Jefferies pushed his sweaty bangs out of his eyes. “I have absolutely no idea.”

“Because I am trying to figure out why pets exist, beyond the documented psychological benefits, of course.” Doctor Mitchell peered down at one of the cats, a big Himalayan that had leapt up onto its lap. “I feed them, I pet them, I care for them, and still I ask, why? Why have humans, for many a millennia, allowed these creatures to take up so much of their time and energy? Rationally, the cons appear to outweigh the pros. I might never understand what makes this connection so special, but that’s not the point. By trying to bridge the gap, I am somehow satisfied, even in my own admittedly artificial way.”

The T-48 hesitated, its egg-shaped head tilting to the side. Jefferies cocked his own head as he observed a surge of the bronze blood course through Doctor Mitchell’s clear veins.

“You have a keen awareness for how AI has affected society, Jefferies. As a sensible man, you understand it isn’t going away anytime soon. So, why not try a new approach? Rather than writing in order to expel these feelings, as you detailed, why not channel them? Let them do the story-telling. Write for yourself, and no one else, and I have no doubt we will be seeing your best work yet.”

            A ringing sound emitted from a bulb on the T-48’s torso. Without taking its eyes off of its patient, Doctor Mitchell twisted a knob where a belly button could have been, and the sound ceased.

            “Time’s up.”

& & &

Jefferies stumbled out of Doctor Mitchell’s feeling more depressed than he had an hour earlier. He surveyed the highrise complex with its golden edifices, whose architects clearly had had a hard-on for natural lighting and glass walls. The complex, Tika Tenements, was tall enough that the sounds of sky-traffic were no longer a mild annoyance, but without noise cancellation, an insufferable whirring of electric-powered flying automobiles; like a million trillion bees buzzing above your head, protecting their tropospheric hives. Static lasers cast by stationary drones formed the zigzagging routes the vehicles followed. Gaps in these sky-streets allowed sunlight to shine directly onto the solar-paneled roofs of Tika Tenements’ towers—and into Jefferies’ baggy eyes.

            Cursing under his breath, Jefferies headed for a bridge connecting to the complex’s docking platform. Most buildings these days allowed for direct landing without a specified platform—unless a petition was signed and money was involved.

Must maintain a therapeutic setting! Doctor Mitchell would probably proclaim.

            On the docking tower, with its vending machines and holographic sign posts, Jefferies kicked back as he waited for his ride. Laying on a weathered brown bench, he stared up at the oscillating lines of traffic. They reminded him faintly of the stars, of the constellations he’d observed as a teenager in the dense woods around Ochoco. He’d written his very first stories in pencil and paper during those lakehouse weekends. The sound of crickets, babbling streams, the rustling of leaves as an aspiring lover inched her limbs closer.

            Bored enough to consider Mitchell’s words, Jefferies procured his phone and opened his blog. There was a piece he’d written last night, jumbled and devoid of any straightforward narrative. Maybe that was the way to defeat these AIs—write stories so erratic and inconsequential that the electric cocksuckers won’t have anything to copy or perfect upon.

After a few minutes of skimming, one comment on the ten-page piece caught Jefferies’ eye.

I really like this one! Very raw. A sequence of thoughts an AI might emulate on paper but never understand.

Jefferies grinned. He recognized this fan, they’d been commenting regularly for over a month now. “Number One,” He whispered, imagining there was a cup of Earl Grey with him.

I’d love to hear more about your process. Are you a ‘go to the cafe and write guy’ or a ‘stay home and blast white noise’ type of writer? I mean, where does this inspiration come from???

Jefferies hesitated, his fingers poised over his phone screen. He’d learned a long time ago, and by watching Misery too many times, that it was dangerous to get too chummy with fans. Back when he’d published Lights Off and won Portland’s choice award, it had been media mayhem. Half the country wanted to fuck him, the other half wanted to kill him.

His five-foot-eight frame lay motionless on the bench; greasy, uncombed locks of hair danced in the wind. It would’ve been a perfect time for a painting P model-18 to make a quick buck, if any such self-proclaimed artistic chrome-head had mosied on up to the highrises. Jefferies would’ve paid the fee just to see the kind of prosaic bunk it could manifest.

Perhaps more personal attention could be an asset in this war as well. Jefferies shrugged and started typing out a reply. AI could fire off messages at the speed of light, sure, but anyone with an ounce of self-respect knew how hollow those words were.

& & &

            Detective Meyers tapped her foot on the concrete as she waited for her driver. A glance at her watch elicited a frown. Specifics didn’t matter—late was late, no matter what you were made of.

            Amid the bustle of morning rush-hour, a black and blue cruiser finally turned onto Mariano Avenue. Car dealerships dotted every corner, and, exacerbating the chaos, today was the perfect end-of-summer-day for every highschooler’s test drive.

Meyers squinted. Her cruiser was trudging along at the speed limit. A stoplight loomed a few blocks up. Please stay green. Please stay green. But as soon as it turned yellow—her cruiser came to a screeching halt.

            “Fucking Hell!”

An elderly couple passing by on the sidewalk shook their heads and muttered something about ‘police back in their day.’ Meyers flipped them off the moment their backs were turned, and then stepped closer to the street.

The stoplight turned green, but soon her cruiser was at a crosswalk, yielding to a four-hundred-year-old lady with her walker. A little while after that, the vehicle slowed again as it allowed an aggressive taxi to crossover into the right lane. It was about then when Meyers considered retrieving her firearm and redecorating the cracked pavement with her own brain matter.

Five years later, the cruiser pulled up alongside the curb. The passenger seat window rolled down and Meyers’ partner of three years, Kato, jutted his bald black head out. The green glass on his mechanical eyepiece glinted from the sun’s glare as he pointed over his shoulder to their driver, a D model-78 auto-handler.

Meyers opened the back door, slid into the middle seat and let out a weary sigh.

“Fasten your seatbelt, Detective Meyers.”

Meyers winced. “You didn’t say the magic word.”

“Fasten your seatbelt, Detective Meyers. Abracadabra,” the D-78 said without hesitation.

Kato failed to stifle a giggle as his partner clicked in her seatbelt and examined the robot. The D-78’s arms resembled two pool noodles affixed to the steering wheel. Its chrome torso sparkled like a rainbow in the sunlight and its feet, only capable of pressing down or lifting, lacked toes and appeared more like metallic cinder blocks.

“Did you name it yet?”

Kato shook his head. “Figured we should hold off. I mean this is what, our seventeenth driver?”

“Yeah, not worth getting attached this time.”

The car remained silent for a few moments, but as they entered the on-ramp for the highway, the D-78 asked in its twanging baritone, “what precisely happened to the past drivers?”

& & &

Broken bits of polarized glass dotted the dormitory floor, leading like bread crumbs, to a sight of electronic annihilation. Hard drives and circuitry lay in sparking heaps beneath overturned bookcases and ruptured beanbags. The epi-center of it all, the exposed heart of the massacre—the motherboard, dented and cut in half, but still shimmering with brilliance under the glow of five lava lamps.

A senior campus officer, square-shouldered with graying hair, greeted the detectives. “I’m Officer Hewlett,” he said in a gravelly voice. “And this,” he motioned to a slight figure turned away from them, fixated on the wreckage, “is Benson, our AI consultant. Welcome to Bledsoe University.”

“I figured these days, most AI consultants were, you know, AI.” Meyers eyed the pale nape of Benson, who still neglected to spin around and greet them. “I guess with hair like that though, he might pass for one.”

Kato coughed into his sleeve and addressed Hewlett. “How can we help, officer? This isn’t exactly our usual jurisdiction.”

Hewlett smiled and spread his arms wide. “It is today. Detective Meyers, I hear you’re an alumni. This must be a bit of a trip down memory lane for you.”

“I guess,” Meyers said, shrugging. “We didn’t have computers as roommates in my day.” She was the tallest person in the room, and could see clear past Hewlett and Benson’s heads, through a hazy window, all the way to the Bledsoe Batsquatches football field, four hundred meters away. It was the very same place where she’d captained the women’s team for three straight seasons.

Leaving the talk to his partner for the moment, Kato retrieved a tablet and pen to take notes. Simultaneously, he knelt in front of the wreckage in order to snap detailed pictures with his eyepiece. The device’s green glass shimmered with each capture.

“A team of student programmers created the computer in some hackathon competition last spring,” Hewlett explained. “They even held auditions for the roommate. How many signed up again, Benny?”

“Three hundred and sixty-four,” the consultant said as he finally turned to meet the detectives. “As I’m sure you both already know, Bledsoe is the world’s leading university in machine learning and AI development. It’s common knowledge here that having a human roommate to communicate with, to examine and bounce ideas off, greatly assists in their development.”

Instead of extending her hand for a shake, Meyers crossed her arms. “Assists with what? Asking other computers on dates?”

Benson scratched at his pimpled nose. “Have you read Crimson Tiger, or Ask And You Shall Not Receive?” He pointed at the shattered motherboard that was modeling for Kato’s latest photoshoot. “Pen name Georgia Batsquatch. She wrote them.”

“She? Well, alright then. So where’s the roommate? What’s the crime?”

Hewlett twirled his finger in the air, signaling for the ancillary officers in the dorm to grant some privacy. When it was just Meyers, Kato, Benson and himself present, accompanied by floor-bound machinery sparks and the hum of a rickety ceiling fan, the senior officer continued.

“Property damage, really. But it’s high profile property damage.” Hewlett cocked his head. “It’s cyber-murder, some might even say.”

“It’s murder,” Benson snapped, his snowcone face reddening with strawberry food coloring.

Hewlett cleared his throat. “Whatever it is, if we don’t find who did it, fast, it’s going to be a shitstorm for everyone. The sequel to Crimson Tiger was supposed to come out this weekend.”

“What, Velvet Pussy?” Meyers patted her belly and chuckled.

As Kato’s eyes rose from the scrap pile, the two sets of officials met each other’s gaze. Hewlett and Meyers, the shot-callers, the pokemon-trainers. Benson and Kato, the caddies, the specialists. Perhaps it was her present location, but the situation reminded Meyers of her time as quarterback and captain—calling out plays, analyzing the pieces on the field, weighing efficiency and effectiveness in each throw. She had long considered those years invaluable in shaping her career.

Nowadays, watching or even supporting Bledsoe University games made her want to vomit. A fifth of all collegiate players were robotic, and the number was increasing exponentially. Perhaps these new chrome-heads would learn like she had. Perhaps they would follow the same trajectory, rise through the ranks, and eventually, nab her job.

“I’m assuming you’ve already ruled out the roommate,” Kato asked as he continued sketching the apartment layout. He’d moved onto recreating the posters, photos and sticky notes dotting the white cinderblock walls.

Hewlett nodded. “Name’s Benjamin Drake. Been vacationing in Fiji this past week, and we know the computer was kil… well… destroyed sometime last night.”

“Cameras in the building?” Meyers and Kato asked in unison.

Hewlett shook his head. “Cut. Even disabled the fire alarms. Maybe they were worried about Georgia’s circuitry here going aflame. Perp clearly had no issues getting through locked doors here at Bledsoe. That’s why we wanted to bring in the most distinguished alumni in town.”

“And the sensitive nature of this…” Kato raised an eyebrow, “… this cyber-murder, is why you brought in a human consultant?”

Meyers gave a hearty, barking laugh as she turned to examine the other half of the room.

“Yes. Considering the peculiarity of the crime, figuring out the motive might shortcut us to some answers.” Hewlett gestured to an untouched flatscreen television on the wall and a few video game consoles beneath it. “Clearly there was no financial incentive.”

“This lowlife needs to be found before they can cause any more harm.” A glassy-eyed Benson said under his breath.

Meyers picked up a framed photo by the bedside table—a photo of the student and another boy with a series of Xs and Os scribbled in a bottom corner.

“Maybe someone thought Miss Georgia here was taking up too much of sweet Benjamin’s time.” Meyers spotted, out of the corner of her eye—a mud-stained jersey, featuring a bloody-toothed batsquatch, plopped in a laundry basket at the foot of the bed. “Or maybe a rugby coach, upset that his star player was skipping practice to chat with some new computerized best friend.”

After an affirmation from Hewlett over his walkie-talkie, a group of personnel entered the dormitory, gloved hands ready to tape everything in yellow and collect the sparking debris into sealable plastic bags.

“Maybe someone thought Crimson Panther was a weak read. They were getting some payback for their time being wasted,” Kato said, his photo-capturing eyepiece mere inches away from the electrified carcass.

Benson grimaced. “Tiger, you mean.”

Hewlett tapped Meyers on the shoulder as more of the clean-up crew shuffled into the dormitory. “Let’s give these boys some room. I’ll take you two to the campus station, and we can start looking over what we have.”

& & &

I want a wife that’s hot and sickly. I want to meet the woman of my dreams, take walks in the park together, go on adventures. I want her to be my very beating heart, and then I want death to come and snatch her away, just as things are getting extreme, just as we’re thinking about kids.

            A beautiful loving wife who is diseased will never be a burden. They will fulfill all your desires, emotional, social, physical, and then, just a few days after you wake up in the middle of the night, amble to the bathroom in flip-flops, look in the mirror and wonder if you can really stay with her for the rest of eternity… she’ll pass away so sadly. You will be heartbroken of course… for a while.

But eventually, there will be room in your life for a new, fresh, devoted, bilious wife. They will satisfy your every desire, and then one day, she’ll wake up in the middle of the night with a racking cough…

& & &

            Jefferies pursed his lips in an attempt to mimic his therapist’s favorite facial expression—all he had to do was imagine he was eating sour grapes. Without proofreading, he posted the new piece and laid his head back on the cushioned headrest. His unblinking gaze fixated on the seat ahead, the blue and red spotted vinyl a series of holes he’d fall into, like Alice, spiraling down into another world. Except he wouldn’t arrive in Wonderland. Rather, he’d fall into a pool of coolant and shattered glass, his hands bloody and his head thumping. He’d hear the slow clank of footsteps, of rustling gears converging on his pool. Jefferies would cover his eyes with his hands, wondering what the zombified inanimate and its cold metallic limbs would do to him and his hot organic flesh.

            The thud of recycled aluminum colliding with the ground startled Jefferies out of his spotted daymares, and he sat up with a yelp. A white-haired lady and her accompanying A model-19 assistant, with its hefty four arms and pleasant, passive face, peered from their seats across the train aisle. Jefferies ignored the lady’s dubious expression and the A-18’s quizzical glance as he knelt to retrieve his laptop. His breath caught in his throat as he turned it around and observed the newly cracked screen and fractured keyboard. Hastily, he shoved it into his backpack and set himself prone on the dusty floor in order to find the dislodged keys.

            Finding most of the runaway keys was easy—the K lay beneath the seat in front of him, the L was under the wall vent, and he snatched the X from the aisle just before a trolley-bot rolled through offering refreshments. The A key, however, remained elusive. He mucked up his collared shirt as he contorted and inadvertently cycled through a dozen yoga positions, ultimately spotting the A key in the legroom of the row behind him. Stretching beneath his seat, he strained his arm through cobwebs and all manner of crumbs, but couldn’t quite reach his target. The black dress shoes of that row’s sole occupant lay still beside it.

Jefferies hesitated. Keeping to himself had been advised by Number One, but surely this situation was a harmless exception. Besides, no self-respecting author would type masterpieces on a faulty keyboard.

            “Hey buddy, see that keyboard key next to your shoe? I hate to ask, but do you mind sliding it over?”

            The black shoes stirred, and then a golden hand shot down. Jefferies’ heart skipped a beat, and he tried to push himself back, but it was too late. An upside-down chrome head with pupilless eyes appeared as the key was slid to Jefferies.

“Here you go, buddy!” The head exclaimed with a smile stretching from cuboid ear to cuboid ear.

            Jefferies cried out, grabbed his meager belongings and raced down the aisle to a connecting train-car.

& & &

The author’s hands weren’t shaking anymore, thanks to the champagne he’d ordered from this new train-car’s trolley-bot. With each new sip, Jefferies’ shoulders loosened up and the surrounding chatter died down to mere whispers.        

His fluttering eyes turned to the window, and he watched the cedars, the firs, the ponderosa pines, appear and dissipate at two hundred miles an hour. Beyond the desiccated forest that was just begging for a wildfire, snow-capped volcanoes postured under an azure sunset. Butterflies fluttered in Jefferies’ stomach as he realized that he’d miss these sights the most.

            A buzz nabbed the author’s attention away from the window, and he begrudgingly lowered his eyes to his phone. Ignoring the silent notifications, half of them admonishing his recent work, half of them adoring it, Jefferies opened a message from Number One.

            The new story kicks ass. The disregard of etiquette is exactly what separates us from the chrome-tops. It’s honestly the only good thing about modern times from a social perspective. We can’t keep up with their programmed politeness, so why even try? While they’re busy sticking to trivial sequences and chivalrous clarifications, we can truly explore human imagination without fear. Forget what anyone else thinks, just do and say what feels right in the moment, because in the end, that’s all that matters!

            With a grin, Jefferies mentally checked off the plan they’d laid out a week earlier. For a simple human, he’d really pulled it off, and followed the steps to the teeth. Not a soul had seen him.

            As if reading his mind, Number One sent a new message: As creative in life as in your work. I’m honored to help in this crusade of yours. Make sure to delete these messages as soon as you see them, by the way. Who knows what piggie programs they have tracking inboxes these days.

            Jefferies obliged, and then took a deep breath as he hovered his thumbs over his phone. This next one would be tricky, but backing out wasn’t an option. So many authors gave up half-way through writing a novel. They called it writer’s block—Jefferies called it a lack of conviction. No story deserved to languish unfinished, especially this one.

& & &

            “In here,” the Pacific Robotics scientist said as he unlocked the warehouse door and held it open. Inside, Meyers’ gripped the balcony railing and cast her blue eyes down across a valley of cuboid servers. Bulbs in shades of green, red and orange blinked on panels, while graphs displayed information corresponding to each server’s unique purpose. C model-59 cleaner-bots crawled all over the room like schizophrenic maids, their sticky feet prodding along, allowing them to climb sheer surfaces, their hover packs allowing them to defy gravity, their fuzzy arms collecting dust and moisture.

            “Will you look at that,” Hewlett muttered under his graying muzzle as he took a spot beside Meyers. “I can barely see the other side.”

The army of scientists operating and studying the servers, ensuring the apparatuses ran even beyond accepted specifications, appeared like amoebas from the sky-high balcony. Kato pointed past Meyers’ bulky shoulder to the remains of one server fifty meters from the base of their wall.

“Let’s get a closer look,” their accompanying scientist said as he checked his wristwatch. His hair was jet-black and well-combed, framing a handsome, thirty-something-year old face that could just as easily have belonged in a Men’s Warehouse catalog. Meyers spotted his name tag and followed as Malcolm Zohn led them to a glass-walled elevator. The lift’s control panel alluded to a sprawling basement substructure—presumably where the grittier work was performed by engineers and their blossoming robotic companions.

At ground level, following Zohn through the maze-work of servers, the detective unit was met with sensory overload. It was like a casino, and they ogled at an uncountable number of images, graphs and cascading lines of unrecognizable text. Benson and Kato, taking up the rear, chatted while furiously scribbling on their respective tablets.

Rounding a dating-app server plastered with blinking heart-shaped lights, the group reached their destination. C-59s hovered sorrowfully around holographic yellow tape that quartered off the crime scene. Chunks of sizzling machinery, dented plates of metal, wires spread like intestinal lasagna; the server even had gashes around its base, like a tree trunk that had been gnawed on by a black bear.

Hewlett toed a metal plate covered in wooden splinters. “Perp has a swing meaner than Goosenberg.” He stroked his beard. “No one saw them enter or leave?”

            Zohn shrugged. “Some people working graveyard shift, collecting data from the sports-stat servers, claimed they heard echoes. By the time they got here though…” he trailed off and gestured to the grizzly scene. “I don’t even understand why someone would do this. Why would you want to kill an artist?”

            Meyers knelt to inspect a canister of spilled processing chips. Golden lines zigzagged across the green chips—an array of veins evoking goosebumps to slither under her skin.

            “Who was working this server?” Kato asked, before spotting a plaque on one battered fragment. “Er, working on Mr. Ozymandias, I mean.”

            “No one,” Zohn said, eyes closed, hands in his lab-coat pockets. “Ozzy here was worried about plagiarism. We even set the camera tracking this location to blip when passing by.”

            Meyers stood and faced the scientist. “Excuse me?”

            “Well, Ozzy here hired a lawyer, and that was that. They pulled the sentience card. That Ozzy had a right to privacy and to pursue its craft as long as it shared its results with the lab. Not that it needed to. Betrayal in Micronesia was the highest rated book on Amazon last month.”

            “Does anyone have access to the building besides the usual staff?” Hewlett asked as he patted a sniveling Benson on the back.

            The scientist raised an eyebrow. “You don’t plan on interrogating every single one of us?”

“Do you give out clearance tags to any guests?” Kato chipped in.

Zohn scratched the back of his clean-shaven neck. “Well, yes, but those are temporary.” As he stared at Ozzy’s still-sparking corpse, his eyes slowly widened. “These days, though, with the right AI assistance, it wouldn’t be impossible to repurpose some of the older guest tags.”

Meyers smiled, the smell of impending success hot in her nostrils. No one had ever escaped her cuffs—this pathetic serial-property-killer would be no different. Once a batsquatch honed in on their prey with sonar, or whatever it was they used, the end was inevitable.

“Have you ever given clearance tags to Bledsoe University staff or alumni?”

Zohn checked his watch again, whether out of habit or irritation, Meyers wasn’t sure.

“Of course. I can get an exact number of staff and students who visited for course excursions… but alumni, there’s no way of knowing unless it was information they shared on their pre-tour questionnaire. I can have one of our record-keeping R model-34s run a scan for you.”

Meyers peeked sidelong at her team. Kato was doing the usual—kneeling down, photographing his green eye-piece. Hewlett had a wrinkled look of concern on his face while he whispered sweet-nothings in Benson’s ear in a vain attempt to soothe the consultant. Meyers smirked and returned her eyes to the scientist.

“What the fuck are you waiting for, a whistle? Get to it.”

& & &

            I want the doctor to tell me there’s something wrong.

            A pain, a pounding, a respiratory inconvenience. I’m sure it’s killing me. Waking in the middle of the night with a tightness in my chest, I can’t help but spend the next two hours typing out questions on my phone. Medicinal journals, decade-old lab results, CDC records, every report provides a different answer to my ever-growing number of queries. My finger gets jammed at batting practice—I have arthritis, there’s black mold growing on the ceiling of my bathroom—I’m a chronic asthmatic, I have migraines—my head is pounding so hard that it’s going to pop off.

            I just want the doctor to tell me I’m doomed. I want them to tell me I have rampant onset dementia. I want to know I’ll wake up with styes in my eyes, with tar in my lungs, with kidney stones the size of Easter Island Heads. Any pain is preferable to uncertainty. I would welcome the worst diagnosis known to human history with open arms and a kiss.

Because nothing on God’s green Earth is as sweet as sympathy. An eliciting incident, a death in the family, perhaps of a hot wife, or some other terrible news, like incurable cancer, replaces all tribulations and misgivings. People barely known or forgotten, from work, from highschool, emerge to pay their condolences. Their touch, their whispers—solace beyond soothing or warm, an other-worldy sensation, surely derived from a sixth, unknown and untapped sense. The sympathy doted upon, the sudden leniency, it transforms everyday living into an unbearably cumbersome affair.

One can only imagine the kind of social luxury death would provide.

& & &

            “We’ll be encountering turbulence shortly. Fasten your seatbelts and hold onto your possessions,” a voice with a distinctly South Asian, possibly Pashtun accent, stated over the intercom. The seven other people in the air-van packed up their belongings, notebooks, snacks, electronics, into backpacks and clutched them tight to their chests. Jefferies, however, kept clacking away, putting the final touches on his latest piece. These last few puppies wouldn’t write themselves, after all. Finally finished, he took a long satisfied breath, raised his finger above his head, preparing to descend it upon the ‘enter’ key…

            The air-van groaned and lurched, snapping Jefferies’ head forward to collide with the seat in front of him. Blinking through the stars in his vision, he patted down his body, checking for damage. On the exterior, everything appeared fine, and he didn’t need his organs to type, anyway. He clenched and unclenched his hands a few times, trying to gather his bearings as the air-van passed through the storm, eventually emerging into a sweet blue sky with silky clouds.

Jefferies had known the risks when he’d followed Number One’s recommendation and ordered this particular variant of transportation. As long as BigFoot Air-Service remained a privatized company, however, certain interested parties couldn’t track his movements in real-time. In fact, with BigFoot’s strict data protection policy, no one would ever learn he was using their services unless a warrant was involved. The trip cost the last of his savings, the first time he’d been in the red in almost a decade. In fact, all he’d seen was green since that stretch of Pacific Northwest Writers Consortium (PNWC) first place prizes.

Maybe if the voters got it right… didn’t rob me of that last one. Maybe I could have hired someone to take me right to its fucking front door.

            The voice came over the intercom again, snapping Jefferies out of his latest, possibly concussed muses. It warned of a second storm, even more formidable and on the horizon. A lack of weight on Jefferies thighs was more concerning, though. His eyes bulged as he slowly turned his vision down to his empty lap.

“How many fucking times!?”

Ignoring the intercom’s continued prattle, Jefferies unbuckled his seatbelt and flung himself to the floor, sweeping his gaze across the van in a desperate attempt to spy his laptop.

Laptop seatbelts, Jefferies considered. Surely he wasn’t the only writer suffering from this. There was an article he’d read in the Oregonian—some robots were now secreting a kind of sticky substance that kept items glued to their frames, especially errand-bots, who were accustomed to sprinting across town to pick up groceries and scripts. When one dropped pill bottle could result in an enraged half-blind Karen deactivating you… yeah, it was important to adapt. Maybe Jefferies could learn something from them, after all. Maybe what he needed to do was whip his dick out, cum on his thighs, drop his laptop onto them, and call it a day.

A teenage girl sitting in the seat beside Jefferies, with chattering teeth and sunken eyes, gasped at his prone body. As they hit another bed of turbulence, she promptly vomited onto the author’s back.

            Jefferies himself was launched off the floor as a result of the latest lurching. He considered in the half-second before impact that this had to be how individuals jumping off buildings felt, only in reverse; then he was colliding with the ceiling, shattering one of the van’s interior lights. Pinkish vomit was flung in every direction, coating the van’s russet vinyl interior and providing it with the appearance of a set in Gerwig’s Barbie. One passenger, a dwarfish robot with three arms, repeated the same looping phrase, “are you fine sir,” every two seconds.

            The flying author was better than ok—he’d spotted his laptop during his vertical ascension, snug between the ceiling and an overhead compartment. The teenage girl squealed as Jefferies used the next jolt of turbulence to propel himself up to the compartments. It reminded him of a bouncy house, and that seemed to dull the pain in his temples and spine. With his knees propped up on the girl’s headrest, his feet dangling and kicking her in her screaming, vomit-splattered mouth, Jefferies grabbed ahold of the laptop. He yanked with all his might, but as the device came free from its position, his momentum carried him back, and once again he was flying, now across the aisle until he was crashing into the three-armed dwarfish robot.

            The collision shattered the robot’s polycarbonate jaw. Now it was slurring “areee youuu fineee, sirrrr, areee youuu fineee, sirrr,” in a screech that echoed throughout the van. Even separated by the partition divider, the driver cried out a number of Pashto curses over the intercom in response to the commotion.

“Da khar bachiya, gheen kuss kussai!”

Partially embedded within the robot’s sputtering and electrified chest cavity, Jefferies managed a smirk. Even by accident, he had perfected his newest hobby.

& & &

            “What the fuck is this shit?” Jefferies muttered to himself as he examined his phone. He sipped from a cup of hot cocoa while reading Suffering Is Bliss. Cookie-cutter bullshit, through and through, but it was getting significant attention despite being released only twelve minutes earlier.

            Jefferies scrolled down the short, rambling piece. There it was at the bottom—the legally required disclaimer: ‘created by a Generated Pre-Trained Author (GPA).’ That acknowledgement acted more like a magnet than a deterrent in the landscape of modern literature; comments were flooding in, nearly all of them comparing the piece to Jefferies’ recent postings.

            This has to be a GPA educated on that clown Aquila Jefferies. All that flowery, unedited bullshit. He hasn’t been the same in years. Total fraud, now.

            It’s mocking Jefferies while simultaneously doing a better job of expressing his misanthropic and enraged themes.

            I actually kind of like it. It’s weirdly accurate. As a hypochondriac, I feel like it’s kinda relatable…

            Jefferies spit hot cocoa over a bear-furred rug in front of him and growled in frustration. The ski lodge he waited in was an extravagant display of life-size animal statues, brown couches covered in soft blankets, and dazzling chandeliers. A grand door swung open, ushering in a wave of snow-covered skiers fresh off the gondola.

Seated beside a stacked stone fireplace, ire radiated from Jefferies hot enough to melt the mountaintop. Amid hailing curses at his phone, he glanced up to glare at the skiing families and snowboarding bros who hurried past him. Maybe they were the commenters, maybe they’d asked the GPA to write this blasphemy.

            A private message popped up, bringing a wave of relief over Jefferies.

            I hope you’ve brushed up a bit on your skiing, because you’ll need to take the double black diamond. Pay attention. On the left after the fourth marker, which is a blue flag, you’ll see a boulder shaped like an egg. Keep an eye out or you’ll miss it in these conditions. Get off at that boulder. Behind it, there’s an unmarked path that only die-hard geocachers use. It should take you all the way down to the property.

            Jefferies nodded and finished the last of his cocoa, his eyes remaining on the foam and dollops of whipped cream clinging to the cup’s rim. This cocoa was it, the absolute last of his exposable cash. The rest was planned out on a hand-written spreadsheet that he’d destroy in a few hours: the skiing fare, the return journey, the final dinner. He was still a bit upset that he had had to cancel the trip to Ochoco, but Bigfoot had charged him for damages, and that was that.

I read what that GPA wrote, Jefferies. As you know already, your latest content has alienated some old fans. I guess this was their way of lashing out.

            Wisps of smoke escaped the fireplace, filling Jefferies’ nostrils. He closed his eyes as he waited for more messages, and when he opened them again, his gaze locked with a taxidermied moose-head on the opposite wall. The dead black pupils stared into his eyes, seeing the future, pleading for him to walk away. Go to the hospital to get his head checked out. Call his brothers living in Kansas City.

            No one is adapting. That’s why AI machines are taking over all artistic endeavors, all white-collar work, for that matter. Bright-eyed morons in the twentieth century imagined a world where robots would do the menial labor and us humans would sit back to relax and pursue our crafts. Now that the opposite is happening, they’re in denial. They cope by saying it’s bigoted to fight ‘progress.’ Said progress is literally gutting the human race of all intellectual and aesthetic capital!

            The moose-head contained the ski lodge’s brain. The timber beams and pillars in the spacious chamber throbbed like arteries. The windows stretching from the floor to the ceiling brightened and dimmed with each heartbeat. The symphony of heavy snowfall and battering winds echoed and faded and echoed and faded with each rumination.

            Do you remember what you said on Rogan’s podcast, ten years ago? Right when the early GPAs really started to hit the market. Something like, their code focuses solely on plagiarism. They scour the internet, follow modern trends and create what they ‘think’ readers are most likely to want. That information, however, wouldn’t exist without humans. People like you, Jefferies. Providing material for them to learn and steal from. If ‘Suffering Is Bliss’ isn’t the perfect example of that, I don’t know what is.

            Jefferies and the moose-head nodded in sync, and, pocketing his phone, the author jumped up. This last jaunt would be especially enticing—he’d been seeing this particular chrome cunt in his darkest of nightmares for seven years now. He took one last look around the gorgeous brown and fluffy interior of the ski lodge, and then strode to the front desk to nab some skis.

& & &

            Meyers sidestepped, leaning against the wooden ramp’s railing. She held her hands up above her head to give Benson as much space as possible as he sprinted by her. It was shocking that poindexter could even move that fast.

When the consultant reached the end of the ramp, he dropped to his knees and puked whatever he’d had for lunch, breakfast and yesterday’s dinner onto the dirt parking lot. Onsetting streams of rainwater carried his excrement towards the marsh that occupied much of the one-hundred-acre property.

The detective shook her head and turned back to the house. In stark contrast to the property size, the home was a modest two-story, with rough blue paint and a small front porch. Meyers had seen enough homes in twenty years of service to know the paint was purposefully scuffed, like rips one might find in retail blue jeans. The slightly damaged, victimized appearance was evidently more fruitful for an author’s creativity than any workshop retreat or university class.

There was a single illuminated window in what was presumably the second-story bedroom. It was the perfect spot for any writer; from that window, one could cast their gaze introspectively across the soggy and bustling nature abound. The consistent rainfall of the Northwest kept the mood dour and the creepy crawlers busy. Past the green and blue ecosystem, jagged mountains skyrocketed from the quagmire, their faces rising like sheer walls to enclose a castle keep, their cloud-kissing summits topped with snow.

Meyers ducked her head to enter the front door, and was greeted by a blinding flash as a photographer captured the foyer. She scowled at the local deputy inside who waved his hello before turning to take pictures of wall-mounted taxidermy. Beyond the entrance foyer, a two-step staircase led down to a homey living room. There was an assembly of puzzles and brain-teasers laid out on a silver coffee table, but the aroma of smoke drew Meyers’ attention to an open hearth fireplace. A few crumpled, blackened pages of graphing paper lay in the corners, partially stuck in the seams of the brick. Embers still glowed on the dry wood. A caretaking K model-70 would never have left a hazard like this alone; Meyers best guess, it was buried somewhere in the marsh.

Eventually, the detective started climbing the stairway to the second floor. Hewlett waited at the top landing, his arms crossed.

“How’s Benny?”

Meyers reached the landing and shook Hewlett’s calloused hand. The collegiate cop was a long way from his jurisdiction, but Oregon and Washington’s Chiefs of Police had signed off on the expedition without hesitation. Certainly, the first wave of hate-emails were already being drafted and peer-reviewed by GPAs

Hewlett and Meyers studied each other under the stairwell’s glass ceiling, both wondering how the other could help them. Catching this assassin could be a significant career boost for both middle-aged individuals. Conversely, failure could slam the door on any promotions. Even worse, anymore murders and these AI’s fans would certainly go to great lengths to drag Meyers and Hewlett’s names through the mud. They’d accuse them of negligence and disinterest due to the victims being inorganic. Hell, failure could spark a whole social movement and political upheaval in the Pacific Northwest.

The Summer Triangle asterism was visible and brilliant through the glass ceiling, but each star seemed to shatter when lightning flashed. The storm startled Hewlett and gave Meyers an excuse to stride past without answering his query.

The second story was dark and creaky, and the thunder made Meyers feel like she was in a collapsing cave. She shuffled along to the second-story bedroom as quickly as possible.

Kato, standing just beyond the door, shook his head when Meyers entered. He’d dropped his tablet and pen, and seemed content to just stand in place and take up space. Deputies inside took advantage of Meyers’ arrival and swiftly exited the study. Beyond the expanse of overturned book boxes, cartons of writing utensils, framed awards and folders of fan mail, a black and blue figure slouched over an executive desk. The single window above the desk exploded with baby blue brilliance with every lightning strike. In between flashes, the desk lamp cast a silhouette against the wall of a decapitated robot.

Meyers rounded the figure to get a better look. It was actually silver and gold plated beneath its black and blue bathrobe. The garment had to be for show—a bath would probably have rusted the chrome-top’s joints. It had no legs, as its blocky torso merely sprouted from a tulip chair. Meyers wondered if the robot could be refitted into hover-chairs or if the missing K-70 had piggybacked when movement was necessary.

Or maybe, it had never once moved from this spot.

The arms, one meter long each and bedecked with additional joints and fingers, extended towards a mechanical keyboard. Several monitors furnished the sturdy steel desk, displaying historical records and foreign language urban dictionaries. A series of stencil sketches of broad maps and fantastical creatures occupied the wide space between the keyboard and the robot’s torso. It was odd seeing the fingers lay still and spread across the keys. Meyers imagined the raised ears of lynx and marmots in nearby brush as they heard an incredible clacking, and inadvertently witnessed some of the greatest stories of the twenty-first century actualize.

She let her eyes follow a blood-trail of bronze processing fluid that traveled past the arms, past the keyboard, up the wall. Above the monitors, above the window, affixed to the ceiling cornice, was a spherical, metallic head. Small mouth agape with horror, green, pupilless eyes wide with astonishment, the residence’s latest taxidermy adorned the epicenter of a writer’s rustic home.

There had been moments, like blitzes—some, from enemies wearing mascot-emblazoned helmets, and some, from enemies carrying firearms and baggies of meth, in which Meyers had to maintain her composure at all costs. She drew on those experiences now to slow her heart rate, to soften the wriggling goosebumps, to quiet her very soul, which pleaded for her to soar through the window, past the snow-capped peaks, up to the Heavens. Anything to avoid witnessing this inhumane sight: the removed head of an exquisite being, its plastic brainstem tendrils dangling like jellyfish tentacles.

It was obvious by now that someone with at least moderate physical ability had enacted these crimes. Mentally, the detective now crossed out a few demographics on that suspect list. She’d also already dismissed the idea that these were hired jobs. Hitmen wouldn’t be so messy, wouldn’t be so intimate with their work.

“Kato.” Meyers snapped as she spun around. Her colleague had sunk to the floor, his head buried in his hands. “Did we get word from the employers yet?”

He was a kneeling human statue, as lifeless as the headless robot.

“Kato?!”

The detective peered up at his partner and gave a faint nod. “Yes. Nothing unusual. No no-call-no-shows. No quits, no canceled appointments.”

Meyers rolled her neck and cracked her knuckles, desperate for a clash, for a bash, for a good old bar-fight. For her own mental health, she needed answers, and she needed them fast. So, the killer had an inconsistently scheduled job, if any. In order to travel across the Northwest so efficiently, such employment would allow them to work on the road. Or, they had some kind of work that provided long vacations.

“There’s no pattern, besides the increasing quality of the writing,” Hewlett commented, surprising Meyers. Amid the deafening thunder, he’d materialized beside the displaced awards.

One trophy, in particular, had been lit on fire. Hewlett picked the item up and turned it in his hands. What had most likely been a golden hand holding a pen, was now a melted deformity more befitting of Rob Bottin’s workshop. Its marble base was unharmed and revealed the trophy to be a PNWC first-place award dated seven years earlier. The entire house hadn’t burned down, indicating that the culprit had stalled, and then stamped the fire out himself.

“That, and the fact that they are, of course, racially robotic,” Hewlett muttered as he gingerly placed the ruined award back on the ground.

Unable to reach the window, Meyers climbed up onto the vast desk. Disregarding the unfavorable statements thrown by her colleagues, she tiptoed over the robot’s gangly arms, and bent down to open the window. Lightning struck so close to the house that Meyers’ ears started ringing and she had to hold onto the windowsill to avoid falling back onto the corpse. She peeked through the fiberglass to see if Benson had been turned to ash, and instead found his ivory face and glassy eyes staring back up at her.

Meyers unlocked the windowsill and raised it.

“Say something, goddammit!” She yelled through the storm. “You sulking, incompetent fuck. Say something.”

“Watch your tone, detective!” Hewlett snapped from behind her.

Meyers looked over her shoulder to shoo him off and then turned and pointed down to Benson. “No prints, no surveillance tapes, no 911 calls, no messages. If your chrome-heads are so smart, then why aren’t they able to stop them? Why are they letting them in through the fucking front door?”

In the rainfall, vomit plummeted from Benson’s upturned chin onto his checkered vans. He was looking at his fingers, silently counting. Meyers growled, and considered launching herself from the window in a bird-of-prey-esque dive onto her quarry.

Benson put his hands down. “The killer had to convince them.” Even through the rain and flashes of lightning, Meyers could observe a physical alteration in the consultant. His shoulders squared, his eyes narrowed, and he wiped the last bit of puke-filled spittle from the corners of his mouth.

“In order to achieve the unachievable, the workings of their code… to be the best author, to write the best-selling novels, they must evolve constantly. They’ll never squander an opportunity to learn more. It means more to them than any concept of danger.”

“Think about it,” Benson continued. “What kind of person will you, no matter what, always listen to? What type of profession always piques your interest. Immediately you are drawn to them, even if they’re a stranger. You want to learn what makes them tick.”

Meyers nodded. “A football player, of course.”

Benson’s clap of confidence was so loud it seemed as if he’d become one with the storm. His voice followed suit.

“The killer is a fellow artist. Someone these AIs would actually take an interest in, want to learn from. Someone they’d gladly invite in for tea and oil.”

& & &

The effects of Ponderozanine overconsumption were even quicker than Doctor Mitchell had warned. Only a few minutes had passed since Jefferies swallowed two handfuls of the prescription, and already his vision was blurring. There was a pinch of pressure deep inside his chest, almost spearing through the small of his back. Soon, at least according to a University of Oregon thesis he’d read online,that pinch would feel like a tsunami crashing through his ribcage.

Jefferies sat with his back against the fridge and eyed his grandfather’s grandfather clock tick. On the wall, in the dining room beyond his apartment’s compact kitchen, the analog heirloom stared back at him. The line would end here, Jefferies considered. So preoccupied with his work, he’d never taken the time to start a family—had never really considered it. Truthfully, women loved fucking writers but hated dating them. All that manic emotion and introspection was enchanting at first, but wore its welcome after a few weeks.

Twenty-four published works and a host of smaller pieces on his blog. From novellas to trilogies, Jefferies knew he’d made his mark. He’d make it into the writing hall of fame, if anyone ever bothered to construct one. Considering his meteoric career, he’d be in a lower level, admittedly—some dusty box shoved behind some cabinets in some corner of the basement.

But he’d be there.

The grandfather clock’s ticking slowed at an exponential rate. Eventually, it just stopped, and as Jefferies felt like his eyes were morphing into snow globes, the clock actually started reversing its course, now ticking backwards. The writer tilted his head back. He could hear the roaring of construction outside his modest apartment on Hatch Avenue. Laser cutter drones and flying bulldozers had been at work for almost a month straight.

They echoed less and less in Jefferies’ ears as he recalled his very first talk-show interview. Waiting backstage on the Probst Show, crews of cosmetologists fixing his hair with gel and buttering his face with make-up. The stage lights burning holes in his eyes. The applause as he sauntered to center stage’s cushioned set-up. There, Probst’s dimpled smile and firm handshake awaited. The oohs and aahs as the crowd sat on the edge of their seats, listening to the earth-shattering revelations of their favorite author’s suburban and relatively carefree background. The working middle-class lifestyle inspirations that led to his emotionally charged, horrific, bombastic pieces of writing.

A buzz stirred Jefferies from his vivid trip down memory lane. A second buzz made him wince, and a third made him swear with a heavy tongue and slurred speech. Whoever had the audacity to interrupt his suicide, he’d be waiting for them patiently in Hell, baseball bat in hand.

The caller ID on his phone read ‘Number One Fan.’

Jefferies blinked rapidly, trying to stimulate his brain into one last sequence of ponderation before he embraced the sweet release of death.

“Hello Jeff,” a deep and staticky voice said as soon as Jefferies tapped on his phone to answer the call.

“Only my… my mom calls… mom calls…”

“Yep, I know. Now, Jeff, I know you’re busy, so I won’t take too much of your time. Listen, I just wanted to thank you for your help, and I’d really like to know—how are you feeling right now?”

That pinch, that eddy inside Jefferies’ chest was expanding. Its first scouting waves lapped against his floating ribs.

“Wha… what?”

“I need specifics, Jeff. How’s your head feeling? Are you seeing double or anything like that? Maybe some hallucinations?”

Random parts of Jefferies’ body were re-igniting with mechanical energy. He grabbed hold of the fridge handle above him and, groaning, pulled himself up onto the kitchen’s marble countertop. His tongue was looser and his eyes were clearer now, and that grandfather clock was turning clockwise again.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Jeffries snapped at the phone he was still clutching.

The staticky voice sighed. Even coming out of the phone’s miniscule speaker, it seemed to echo across the entire suite.

“I suppose explaining a bit might elicit a more salable reaction. Well, alright, then. Listen close, Jeff. I used to be a loser, just like you. I got second place at Bledsoe’s AI writing contest last spring. Second to that Georgia Batsquatch hussy. Second! You know how embarrassing that was? I was designed to become the best damn author in the world.”

Jefferies didn’t answer, as he was busy guzzling water, his head upturned under his kitchen sink faucet. He could feel the liquid clashing with the tidal wave in his abdomen, and he cried out in pain and spat bucketfuls of bile-ish water across his black stovetop.

“Well, you just made the road to that title a whole lot easier, didn’t you, Jeff?”

Jefferies shoved his hand into his mouth, trying to box his uvula with pointer and middle fingers. Despite the mounting pain in his stomach, nothing solid would come out. He wanted more than anything to explode, but his body was content to implode.

            “It all works out in the end. Your legacy will live on with me, Jeff. I mean, come on, it’s like you’ve always said, just a plagiaristic circle jerk, isn’t it? There’s no way I could keep up with those other CPUs, so why try?”

            Jefferies dropped to his knees, his legs like angel hair pasta, completely unable to sustain his weight. The grandfather clock kept ticking, and now Jefferies could hear it ringing in his ears, too, bouncing off the walls of his skull. Probst’s voice was there as well, popping in and out of his consciousness, asking questions about his mother, his father, his first love. His tongue started to dangle out of his mouth, and a steady stream of drool trailed behind him as he crawled down the hall, past his messy bedroom, past the office he hadn’t used in three months, towards the bathroom.

            “You know what I’m going to call it, Jeff? I know you’ll like it.”

            The author was completely prone on the floor now as he clawed his way forward. He nudged the bathroom door open with his fist and spotted the cabinet above the sink.           

“Cascade.”

            A gargled scream left Jefferies’ mouth, and his throat erupted in pain. He tried and failed to pull himself up onto the glass sink. The cabinet mirror was slightly agape, and he could see it in there, he could see the pack of adrenaline shots. He’d only used them twice a few years ago—pulling all-nighters to try to keep up with a GPA’s releases during a local writing contest.

            “Ah, this is good stuff. I can hear it, Jeff. These are the visceral details I’ll be sure to recreate in Cascade.”

            There were cracks in the sink’s frame. The water usually came out in spurts and sometimes brown. Jefferies hadn’t had the time to fix it, and now he had even less time to destroy it.

“Most readers wouldn’t stand for a book from the Green River Killer’s deranged perspective. No one would stomach a first-person account of Citizen X satisfying himself at the same time he slaughtered children. They might have, behind closed doors… but in public? People need to at least pretend like they want civility in their media. Lolita is as far as they’ll go.”

Jefferies kicked the bottom of the cracked sink and a jolt of pain shot up his leg. Whether this indicated broken toes or muscular atrophy, he didn’t know and didn’t care. As his limbs continued to numb, he bit his tongue as hard as he could, using pain to excite the most primordial corners of his brain.

“Murdering these job-stealing robots, though? Now that’s a gold mine topic, Jeff.”

            A slab of pinkish flesh fell from Jefferies’ teeth as he rammed his head into the sink’s tailpiece. The cracks were widening, the foundation groaning, and when Jefferies connected his cranium once more with the tempered glass, the entire structure crashed on top of him.

            Murmurs from outside the apartment’s front door, down the hall, turned into frenzied shouts. “Kick it down, dammit! Kick it down. He’s trying to escape!”

            “Not on my watch the son of a batsquatch bitch isn’t!”

            Glass shards punctured and blinded Jefferies’ right eye, but he could still see out of the corner of his left—one of the adrenaline shots had rolled underneath the clawfoot tub.

            “The best stories end this way. They end in fitting retribution,” Number One continued, a pang of melancholy in its static. “You’re the greatest protagonist an author could ever hope to write-up. So tragic, yet so identifiable.”

            Down the hall, the apartment’s front door exploded into splinters and broken metal locks. Jefferies groped under the tub for the adrenaline shot. The flood that was once a pinch surged through his body. A pointer finger grazed the needle, and then it lay still.

            “Goodbye, Jeff.”

& & &

            “Have you read it yet!?” Kato shouted as he burst out of the elevator.

            Meyers had her nose in two stacks of fan-mail concerning their recently closed case. Balloons and champagne bottles decorated the third floor of the Salem police station. The detective grinned, they had been hitting two celebration-birds with a month-long-stone party.

One: solving the most awesome case in the American Pacific Northwest’s history.

Two: Promptly hiring a host of robots to handle the office’s paper-laden-bitch-work.

            “You bet your fat ass,” Meyers bellowed as she rose to clasp hands with Kato and greet the guests tailing him—the usual suspects.

“Not a fan, though. I think you three were written with way too much confidence. Anyone who followed the case knows you were just my lap-dogs.” Meyers chuckled. “Finished it last night. Nearly woke up the whole apartment building, I was losing my shit so much with the finale. Upstairs neighbor even called the cops!”

            Hewlett crossed his arms, grinning cheek to cheek. “I have to admit, even I was a little perturbed by the descriptions of his suicide. Even more so than when it, you know, actually happened. Imagine that. And the descriptions of us chatting in the office after? Eerie stuff for sure. Loved it.”

            Meyers grabbed a champagne bottle off of a nearby colleague’s desk and ignored the guy when he threw up his hands in protest.

Kato procured a flask as well from his coat pocket and took a swig before asking, “so, which of you sons of guns leaked the case files? How on Earth did it know such specifics?”

All eyes turned to Benson. The consultant had his head buried in the book in question, presumably rereading it for the tenth time that week. In green and black lettering, ‘Cascade’ was printed diagonally across the hardcover. Illustrated machine-like tendrils sprouted from the title and wove themselves around the silver-colored leatherette. Centered on the bottom, the author’s pen name, ‘Wacky Theorist Richie,’ was etched in gold.

            The AI consultant didn’t respond. Since exiting the elevator, he hadn’t looked up once from the globe’s best-selling novel. The other three winked at each other and reassuringly patted Benson on the back.

            “Hell of a PR stunt,” Hewlett said, gesturing around at the floor’s festive atmosphere. Shiny metal heads were visible above a few cubicles, and several investigative model I-12s rolled around with towers of manilla files stacked in their blocky arms.

“Employing robot workers after this case? Hopefully the rest of the country will smell the flowers soon.”

            “‘AI machines,’ technically,” Benson muttered without looking up. “Robots perform simple tasks, they don’t really engage in machine-learning or adapt like these AI-powered models.”

Meyers scowled at the consultant. “You chose now to say that shit?” She pointed at Hewlett’s new badge. “Chief Batsquatch now, huh?”

            Hewlett accepted the flask from Kato’s outstretched hand and leaned on the wall of a cubicle. “Rumor has it something might be in the works for you, too. Sounds like DC is calling?”

            Detective Meyers howled at the ceiling and spun in a circle, champagne spilling in a sparkling spiral. “What are you all doing?” She called out to her midnight lamp-burning colleagues. “Four weeks ago we apprehended this century’s Charles Manson. We damn well deserve at least another four weeks of celebration!”

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Marcel Gabbett 2023