“You built a community for machines?”
“We inherited it.”
You mean… this neighborhood?
“I mean the world, Matt. The infrastructure, systems, silence.”
She didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t press. But it chilled me more than anything else she’d said.
As we stared at the perfect hedges and sterile driveway, I couldn’t help myself. From whom?
“From the ones who stopped caring.”
Only a dame with a processor for a heart would call that an inheritance.
“Cheer up, tough guy. I have a few things to show you.”
Without touching a button, or waving a finger, the far-right garage door opened. Aria turned the car and backed in, smooth as silk.
Your house is more of a bunker than home. No front door. No welcome mat.
“That’s because it is.”
The lights snapped on the moment the garage door creaked upward. The floor gleamed like polished granite. No stains, no oil spots, just surgical precision. Cabinets stood at attention, counters beneath them like obedient soldiers. I’ve seen hospitals with more grime.
Aria cracked open a drawer. Every socket, every wrench, tucked into a felt-lined groove like surgical instruments laid out for open-heart surgery. Ferrari’s pit crews could learn something here.
“You’ve ridden the Camry,” Aria said. “Time for something with teeth. My armored Chevy Tahoe. Six-point-two-liter V8, run-flats, reinforced everything. Let me show you.”
The Tahoe crouched like a coiled fist—armored, angular, and pure menace. Its engine purred low, like a snarl with its teeth hidden. Not a getaway car. A message on wheels: We’re not running. We’re coming through. Custom grill guard up front. Black paint so deep it drank the light; like a battering ram in a tailored tux.
The engine noise faded, the silence rushed in—clean, heavy, surgical.
“Glad you’re impressed,” Aria said. “There are silent exhaust fans that exchange the air every five minutes.”
Air’s cleaner than a courtroom lie. I’ve seen murder trials go cheaper than the gas bill for this monster.
“Now comes my favorite. I got the idea from a BMW concept car. All electric, color changing, nanotech transforming, self-repairing.”
That’s one hell of a sports car, sweetheart.
“It can withstand an EMP up to a point. It changes appearance with a thought.”
Can you change it into that Chevy Tahoe?
“There are limits. It can only shift into something with a similar footprint. I just like it. Probably because I’m fully integrated with it.”
That’s not a car, sweetheart. That’s a magician in technicolor. If that thing had a minibar, I’d marry it. The dames I could reel in with this. Hell, even the car would do all the talking.
“Same goes for men, Matt. I once went to a gala, stepped out, and caused two accidents.”
Aria, without a doubt, I might’ve been one of those schmucks.
“Here is the last car. A simple, inconspicuous, white 2017 Equinox.”
Now you’re talking—a no-nonsense, fly-under-the-radar ride.
“I just received confirmation. The gate guard accepted our delivery. Security will bring it and set it up.”
As we walked into the house, I had to open my mouth. Tell me again why I’m needed?
“Sometimes, the best person to plan a murder… is the one who’s spent a life solving them.”
Author’s Note:
In my youth, I had the opportunity, and pit pass, to go to the Long Beach Formula One Grand Prix in the seventies. I actually saw the Ferrari garage. At least half a dozen full size red tool chests on wheels with linings. Every tool looked brand new. They weren’t just wiped down and tossed in a drawer—each was meticulously cleaned and placed exactly where it belonged. That was fifty years ago, and it clearly left a mark on me. (And I was at the hairpin corner when Mario Andretti out braked second place and won the race in 1977.)
Because of recent events in Minnesota (I’m writing this in mid-June 2025), I considered stepping away from the noir science fiction stories of Aria and Matt. The next installment would have taken them deeper into the web of corruption—planning payback against crooked politicians and corporate elites. Aria bought guns. And as every writer knows, once you show the reader a weapon, it has to be used.
It all started to feel a little too close to home—a mirror of recent events.
I began Requiem for the Future as a writing experiment—a chance to stretch my authorial muscles across different genres. I never intended a noir detective story to become a series. But as every writer also knows, characters have minds of their own. You haven’t heard the last of Aria and Matt. Not by a long shot.
Additional Author’s Note to the original Author’s Note:
I read the comments from last week. Yes, you there, with the follow-up questions about who, exactly, the autonomous robots inherited their gated utopia from. And no, “the ones who stopped caring” probably didn’t satisfy anyone. Fair enough.
Apologies, but I’m currently neck-deep in writing a fantasy novel involving a pregnant queen, visiting dignitaries, diplomacy involving dwarves and elves, and the ceremonial presentation of an ancient sword to the Witch Queen. You know. Tuesday.
So, before you storm the gates with pitchforks and theories...
Matt’s Voice (Interrupting, of course):
Let me guess—you want answers. You’re looking for some grand revelation. A manifesto. A whiteboard full of red string and divine abandon.
Well, tough.
Next week, maybe I’ll tell you who walked away and left the machines the keys to the kingdom.
Or maybe I’ll just pour a stiff drink and talk about how the world ended with a shrug and a four-car garage.
Either way…
You’ll get some answers.
And they won’t be pretty.
I. Want. That. Car.
I am looking forward to the answers. My sympathies for the recent tragedies in Minnesota.