Requiem for the Future
Part 4 Science Fiction
“Today, I died.”
“The upload was supposed to be seamless.”
As part of the digital observer program, my accumulated knowledge uploads to one of several hyperscale AI data centers worldwide. Doesn’t matter which—fiber optics connect them all, details well above my pay grade. Whatever makes me Matt just tags along.
Unless the upload fails. Then your consciousness—or soul, whatever—temporarily uploads into the nearest internet-connected device. A specialized retrieval team finds and recovers you automatically. I knew a woman who spent a few minutes trapped in a robotic vacuum—ironic, since she'd been a hoarder. Another poor observer got stuck in a humidifier unplugged at winter’s end. He was never the same. Eventually deleted.
Where was I? Temporary uploads only last seconds. Why do I vividly remember my murder? A cheap smart-device shouldn’t hold memories. Yet I see it clearly: Detective Matt Sullivan—that’s me—using Dolly’s notes to expose county-wide corruption. I acted too soon, got myself killed. Hugh saw everything, but he was a loose end, too.
Detective instincts kicked in; I opened my eyes and saw clearly—unexpectedly. I don’t remember rushing to the bathroom, and flipping on the lights.
A stunning blonde stared back from the mirror. My gaze wandered downward until a voice sharply cut in: “Not too shabby for a dame, eh, Matt?”
Who—what the hell?
“Eyes up here, lover boy.”
Her hand waved at me impatiently. Irony punched me in the gut. I was trapped, sharing consciousness with a bona fide femme fatale sex bot.
“Relax, I’m not a sex bot,” she continued, voice echoing clearly in my head. “We’ve got work to do, and I need your detective skills. Help me, and I’ll help you climb your list of suspects. I’ve severed our link to the data centers—no interruptions. Don’t bother speaking; just think clearly.”
When I was Matt Sullivan, if I drank too much, a hangover followed. I did human things, sleeping, eating, occasionally using the bathroom. You don’t have those problems.
“I can eat, drink, act drunk, even fake enjoying sex—and recharge while cleaning afterward.”
Fake sex? I was going to suggest…
“Don’t perv out, Matt. My purpose is simple: entrap powerful men or women—industrialists, politicians. No emotions, just programming. But digging through your memories, we share a few targets.”
I need to call you something.
“How about Aria—Autonomous Robotic Intelligent Assistant?”
Aria it is.
“One caveat, Matt. If we die disconnected from the data centers, there’s no upload—so don’t screw up. I control Aria’s body. Unless you can walk in heels, apply lipstick, or please a man, just enjoy the ride.”
I’ll solve chess puzzles while you’re busy.
“Good timing. I’ve got cleaning to do.”
A common chess endgame involving a drawing technique for the defending side in the rook and pawn versus rook endgame is called the Philidor position. Its counterpart is called the Lucena position, where one side has a rook and a pawn and the defender has a rook. Cripes. If Aria’s sex life is half as active as mine would be with her looks, I’ll make grandmaster in no time.
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Cleaning done. Ready to put your detective skills to work?”
Lead on.
Aria turned off the bathroom lights and returned to the bedroom. Moonlight filtered through the sheer drapes. Sleeping soundly in bed was Captain Barnes, asshole extraordinaire and my murderer. This was going to be simple—except who’d seen them arrive together? Certainly not Mrs. Barnes.
Blackmail. As satisfying as tossing him out the window sounded, blackmail’s worse. Anyone who disagrees hasn’t faced divorce court.
“That's my detective. The bar downstairs recorded Barnes spiking my drink. Cameras here caught him and Representative Thompson having their way with an unconscious Aria. Then each other. I’m not sure how to proceed.”
I couldn’t help chuckling. Dolly would have been proud. I knew an internet influencer, a friend of Dolly’s, who’d love copies to share worldwide.
“What is their email?”
The scandal broke within the hour. Local news lit up first, followed fast by national coverage. By eight a.m., headlines screamed: U.S. Representative Embroiled in Sex Scandal.
Aria had already changed her appearance—now a graying, middle-aged woman—by the time we slipped out of the luxury hotel and made our way back to Dolly’s apartment.
No TV, no laptop. Didn’t matter. Aria tapped into dozens of news feeds like she was born wired. We sat in silence, watching their world burn from a dingy couch in a dead girl’s living room.
Aria, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
To be continued. . .
Did you like getting beamed up?
Did you get my email about previous and next buttons?