by Dick Wybrow
He was right. In front of us, the double doors were wrapped in a thin red rectangle, but it wasn't some LED setup to simply make it look futuristic.
"The light… is coming from the other side," I said.
The Actor stepped away and trembled for a moment then slapped me with the back of his hand. "Now who's doing the horror-movie talking! Don't do that! I'm already creeped the fuck out!"
"Look."
He moved his head to where I was pointing and read the single word. "Marge."
"What does Marge mean?" I asked. "You think it's an acronym for something?"
"No. And don't start coming up with what it might be if it were."
"I wasn't."
"You were," he said then went back to examining the door. "I can see it in your beady little eyes."
"Whatever," I mumbled. "Not beady. They're my mother's eyes."
"Then your mother had beady eyes." He hopped down on all fours, examined the bottom of the door, then came up again. The Actor took a few paces back, looked at the top, then down both sides. "There's no way in. There must be a remote or something."
I pointed. "What about that black panel there?"
He looked over, moved his head around for a moment, then finally saw it. Square in shape, it was the only other marking on the otherwise smooth surface of the concrete tower.
"Oh," he said. "Yeah, I'm a bit color blind, so…"
"You're not."
"Yes, I am. It's even in my Twitter bio."
"Yeah," I said. "But I thought that was some social statement to make people think you're not a dick."
He sighed. "Can we just focus on the panel? It's probably like a handprint reader."
"Don't tell that to Uncle Jerry," I said. "He's still got his Ginsu."
We both stared at it for a moment until my curiosity got the better of me. I reached out and put my palm on the black glass. It briefly lit up, a horizontal line—red, naturally—passing from top to bottom like a grocery checkout scanner. Nothing.
He turned to me. "Did you think it would open for any handprint? It'll be coded. Probably to the CEO, that Hood guy."
"Or," I said, squinting at it, "something else. Something darker."
"Would you cut it out?"
"Fine, fine." I nodded. "You try."
"No way."
"Why not?" I asked. "Come on, you give it a shot. If you don't, I'll tell the other guys you were too scared to."
He clenched his fists and scowled. "You are such an infant. Fine." The Actor extended his hand slowly as I watched. Then he pulled it back and wiped it on his pants a few times. "What? It's warm in here. I'm sweaty."
"Uh-huh."
He moved his hand toward the black panel. With a deep breath, he laid it on the dark glass, and again, it lit up, and the line scanned his print. Nothing.
"Damn," he said, pulled back, let a small breath burst from his lips, and jammed his hands into the pockets of his tattered yellow robe.
Then, slowly, he pulled one back out, dangling something shiny from his fingertips. In his hand, he held the key to Sally's motorcycle with its tiny key chain and tiny skull. He looked at me, and I shrugged.
His handle trembled, making the dangly bit of silver in his fingertips softly jingle. Holding it to the panel, it did the strangest thing. The knifelike key reformed itself before our very eyes, going through a complicated series of configurations—solid, silver circles and stars and tiny broken pyramids, then more complicated, faster and faster.
All the time, the red line passed up and down, scanning.
It got faster and faster, changing at such a rate, it was impossible to see each iteration, until it finally stopped on a bizarre, asymmetrical design that looked like something a mechanical dog might cough out after trying to swallow a Brillo pad, a discarded cell phone, and a handful of bottle caps. The door slid open.
We were both washed in a brilliant burst of red light. Holding my hand out in front of my eyes, I tried to block the glare of the glowing red tubes embedded in the walls.
In the middle of a room that looked incongruously like a homey reading nook was an elderly woman wearing wraparound sunglasses, reading a magazine.
I said, "You must be Marge."
* * *
Uncle Jerry and Anza passed over the threshold of FriendBook's headquarters. As they did, a massive blast of wind hit them from above and below.
"What in the hell?" the old pilot said, high stepping over the three louvers in the tiny grate at their feet.
A young man with a headset, dressed in a tight white T-shirt and yoga pants, looked up from a tablet computer in his hand. He smiled. "That's to keep the flying critters out," he said, walking over to them slowly.
Anza hooded her eyes, giving nothing away.
"We try to cut down on pesticides and poisons as much as we can."
"I see," Anza said, her expression flat.
"Eventually all those toxins end up in you and me," he said and laughed lightly. "You know, we poison a bug, a lizard eats the bug, a chicken eats the lizard, we eat the chicken. All that poison builds up in our organs."
"Probably why everybody's going sterile," Uncle Jerry said, nodding.
"What chicken eats lizards?"
Uncle Jerry took a step toward the man with the headset. "Heya, I came here to change my status since I can't do that online."
The man knit his eyebrows together.
"Why can't you change your status online? It was designed—"
Uncle Jerry said, "Well, because I'm locked out of the account."
"Why?"
"Because my current status is listed as 'deceased.'"
The man nodded gravely and said, "I'm sorry for your loss."
The old pilot started to say something, forgot entirely what it was, then came up with another way to come at the problem.
Anza put her hand between them and said, "Where are the chickens that eat lizards?"
The man pointed at Anza with a quirky smile. "What is she talking about?"
"So, since you've got me listed as dead, y'all don't allow me to update that," Uncle Jerry said. "To, uh, not dead. How do I change that to, um, alive or whatever? Single, maybe?"
"It's complicated."
"No, no," Uncle Jerry said, putting his hands on his hips. "Wasn't a fan of that status, not at all. It makes me sound sexually confused."
The man blinked. "No, sir, I was saying the process can be a bit compl—"
"Last thing I am is sexually confused. I'm very confused in all matter of things," Uncle Jerry continued, unstoppable, "but not when it comes to sex."
"I'm sorry," Headset said, shaking his head slowly. "I'm not explaining myself very well."
"You can start with the lizard-eating chickens!" Anza said, pointing a finger in the young man's face.
The man put his hands out, tugged on the tiny microphone near his mouth, and said, "Let me see if I can find someone who can answer your questions." He flashed a quick glance at Anza. "Some of your questions."
"All right," Uncle Jerry said, hands still on his hips despite him desperately wanting to move them since it made his shoulders sore, but he felt he was projecting real power and didn't want to let up.
The man turned and tapped furiously on his tablet. As he walked, he called out over his shoulder, "There's a smoothie bar just in there." He offered a wavering smile. "I recommend the beetroot-lemon zest one."
Anza and Uncle Jerry turned, walking toward the adjoining area, larger than the first. Along the walls, large depictions of fruits and vegetables on massive, square white backgrounds hung around the room.
"I am not drinking beet smoothie," she said, talking low.
"Wouldn't worry about it." Uncle Jerry strode next to her, hands still on hips. "They probably test 'em out on the chickens."
* * *
Marge, a very fit woman of about seventy, looked as though she were hanging out at the beach. One-piece bathing suit, aforementioned sunglasses, open-toed sandals, and wha
t I could only describe as an extremely next-gen hat.
We stood in the door, our mouths hanging open.
I let my eyes wander the crimson-stained room, trying not to stare at the old lady, but could only make out hard lines and curves. When my mind tried to piece together what I was actually looking at, hidden beneath the explosion of red light, it didn't compute. "What—"
She held up a finger for a moment, and we waited.
After twenty seconds, she gave a slight chuckle and put the magazine down. Then she smiled, gave her shoulders a slight wiggle, and said, "Well, boys?"
Again, we were left speechless.
Her left hand moved to some squarish-looking thing to her left, and the bright-red light dampened, settling into a warm amber glow.
In the basement of the massive, high-tech, billion-dollar superstructure was what appeared to be a sitting room with someone's nana. Among the hard lines and shapes I'd seen earlier were a small table with one chair. Atop it was a tea service, one cup. On one wall was a long bookshelf next to an antique Victorian settee. In front of it was a massive and expensive-looking afghan rug.
On the other side of the room was another sitting area with a plush love seat, doilies over its armrests. A blanket lay folded on one cushion. On the floor was a set of pink dumbbells crossed at their bars. A huge wooden cabinet sat on the far side of it. It was a Philco radio, like from the nineteen thirties, vintage, immaculate, and gorgeous.
She tried her question another way. "What do you think?"
I pointed at the radio. "It's a model 10391? Maybe a 42-1226?"
The woman looked over at it and waved her hand once. "Pshaw, it's an old radio. Doesn't get any reception down here, but he gives me any music I want to hear. For free," she said and smiled.
Slowly, we both looked back to her as she stared at us, waiting for an answer to a question neither of us understood.
The Actor squinted for a moment. "You look familiar. I can't place it."
The woman rolled her eyes at us, extending her arms, looking from one to the other. Finally, she said, "Well, does my skin look soft and supple?"
"Uh," I said because, at that point, it was the only thing that would come out. Then, I managed, "Are you okay? Are you being held here against your will?"
She frowned. "Heavens no."
I whispered, "Are they listening? Blink once if you're in trouble."
The woman sighed and closed her eyes, shaking her head.
"Was that a blink? I couldn't tel—"
"No!" She tried again. "How does my skin look?"
"It… it looks fine. Did they hurt you?"
She regarded her own body. "The brochure says the red light is supposed to help with fine lines and wrinkles while regenerating collagen and elastin, whatever that is. Also reduces cellulite, fades age spots, and gets rid of stretch marks."
"Uh, well, from what I can see…" I was lost, grabbing at words like they were flitting butterflies. "It took care of any stretch marks, so—"
"Didn't really have any stretch marks before. No kids, you see, so juries out," she said. "Ah, no harm. Wasn't my money. Hood gives me anything I want. I just ask for it, and I get it."
I looked around the room, taking it in. The books on the shelf ranged from classics to pop garbage. Next to the love seat was a handcrafted shoe rack filled with a variety of slippers.
I said, "Except company. They keep you isolated."
"No," she said and crossed her arms. "I keep me isolated. I hate people and do just fine without them, thank you very much."
The Actor finally found his voice. "The sign on the door says Marge. So, are you… Marge?"
"In the flesh," she said and chuckled. "As it were."
Finally, I noticed something about the hat. It wasn't a hat. It looked like an overturned spaghetti colander with twisted multicolored wires streaming from it.
She saw my gaze, grinned wickedly, and flicked it with a finger. It clanged as she did. "Got me hardwired in through the headgear." She stood slowly from the recliner and went to the table. As she did, a huge coupling holding the other end of the wires moved along the ceiling in a latticework of metal tracks. She sat down, took a quick sip, and winced.
She then muttered something about the tea, but I heard none of it. My eyes were locked on the trail of wires coming out from her headgear. There had to be dozens, hundreds of them, white lights passing up and down their glass fibers, some slow and languid like bubbles in a tub and others racing like lightning bugs in a hurricane. At a casual glance, it almost looked like she had a long, long mane of electric hair.
I looked toward the Actor, who was staring down at his hands, eyes wide and unblinking. As he wandered, lost in his own world, I turned back to Marge.
"Why are you here? What is"—I waved at the headgear and toward the wall where the glowing wires fed—"all of this?"
She set down her cup and placed her hands in her lap. "Hood's social media empire has the world's most advanced artificial intelligence, rivaled by none, but in the end, it's not all hardware and ones and zeroes. To be able to coddle, control, and manipulate not just millions but billions of its users," she said, standing and crossing the small room toward the bookcase filled with hardbacks, "I mean, a personal construct for each and every one—school teachers, all-star athletes, world leaders, factory workers, plush-doll fanatics… a solipsist, virtual world for all of them, there just isn't that kind of processing power in the world."
She selected a thick, dusty book and walked toward her lounger. I caught a glimpse of the cover and saw that it had been written by James Joyce.
I took a half step back.
Once she settled in again, she crossed her legs and propped the book up on her knees. Her fingernail tapped the metallic interface on her head. "Only the human mind has that kind of processing power. So," she said, opened her book, licked a fingertip, and flipped a page, "that's what I am."
I said, "You are the AI?"
Smiling, she held up a finger-gun and dropped her thumb. "Got it in one, Rasputin," she said. "In my lesser duties, part of my brain controls this building's functions—the environment, security, custodial maintenance."
I looked around the room, trying to look casual, searching for something that might help us. I said, "Oh, so you're the one sending the cleaning robots out to dump shit in the creek. I think that's a felony."
Marge sighed. "Just temporary. Our ring of hellfire down here is out. Usually, the busy bots just dump in there, and it burns up everything, except latex, it turns out."
"Latex burns?"
"No, apparently," she said. "Seems latex is the only thing that doesn't. Last week there was the biannual solstice party, these young people, whew! Any dark room they could find. Sometimes not dark. Or even a room. Couches, desks, tables."
"Been there," the Actor said, swaying slightly. "Done all that."
"Latex was finally cleaned out, but it needs a restart. We've got hellfire on requisition."
I shook my head. "You can put an order in for hellfire?"
Marge smiled wickedly. "Anything I ask, I get. Anything."
"So you're this place’s housekeeper?" the Actor asked and laughed.
"Oh, I see everything," she said. "I even know there's a loser on the seventh floor who spends his lunch hours photocopying his junk. Don't know what he does with all that paper after he's done, but—hold on—I've just suspended his photocopy privileges. Investigation to follow."
"You've given up your freedom in the world," I said, "to stop office losers from copying their junk?"
"Oh no. So much more." She sat up and began to grin in a way that made me shiver. "You see, my main function is to control what they call the User Experience. Nerds call that the UX. But really, that's just an inside joke, you see. Play on words, or letters, as it were. It's something, I believe, you recently became familiar with."
"The MX," I said, my teeth grinding. "Misery index. You work for Hell Inc. Do you know what that means?"
>
"What that means, my dear widower," she said and grinned wider, "is that for billions of people, I interface with the network to craft the most addictive bond between user and FriendBook… and without them knowing it, I create the most miserable experience possible. A communion the sad, dreadful people of this world cannot get enough of."
My hands were shaking, and I clasped them together to make them stop. "Why? Why would you do that?"
"As I said, I loathe people," she said. "Either through genetic hardwiring—you should have met my father—or life experience or too much sodium, who knows? I abhor the human race more than anyone. Aside, of course, from psychopaths, despots, and early-childhood educators." She glanced down at her book briefly, turning a page.
However, as she did, I noticed her hand tremble just slightly. She added, "No one despises the human race more than me," then pointed to the Actor. "Except him."
"What?"
My mind echoed what he'd just said.
"Right now, I am the spirit of FriendBook," she said, looking around the room slowly. She then clapped her book closed, making us both jump. Her eyes burned into the Actor. "In about twenty-four minutes? You're next."
The door behind us closed.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Actor spun and hammered on the door with his fists, sending a clanking throughout the room. I looked over at Marge as a smirk pulled at her face.
"You're trapping us in here?" I asked.
She grabbed her magazine again and casually flipped through it, ignoring my question. I turned to watch the Actor searching the door for gaps, his fingers probing, seeking some way to escape.
"You can't get out." She sighed, licked a finger, and turned another page. "I control the door. I control it all."
I took a step forward, and as I did, a pair of panels opened up in the ceiling, and two large gun turrets dropped, spun once, then pointed at me. She hadn't even looked up from her pages.
Desperate, I tried another tactic. "What kind of life is this? You run a building with your mind? How is that—"
"Are you joking?" she asked and finally looked up. "This isn't even one tenth of one percent of what my mind is doing." Her fierce grin returned. "I know that right now a man named Scott Barbero in Colorado is livestreaming on our site as he skies down a mountain. I've just put an error code on the screen, so his attention has been drawn to that and not the tree coming up."