Nesson is a serial novel about living with technology and sprawl in the near future. Learn more or start from the beginning.
A bald, soft man was helping a woman who was either his wife or daughter load a magnum of wine into their cart. His youthful movements belied his age. The woman was unremarkably beautiful. Everything was in the right place and she looked exactly as young as she was. Not a single tooth was out of place in her smile. Marcus fought back a yawn as he watched the couple. They could have been any couple on the island; the population here was worse than a holoroom gathering with everyone in avatar. Did these wives even need avatars when they used the holonet? The husbands, sure, but they obviously did not care how they looked in public. Why would they care when they are on the net?
The couple’s contented faces scrunched as they hesitated over two bottles. They seemed to be deliberating over a sauvignon blanc and a pinot grigio. Words like ‘pairing’ and ‘guests’ escaped the bubble of their conversation. After a few moments of heated argument, they looked at each other, laughed, and set one of each in the cart. Crisis averted, thought Marcus. As the wife walked ahead, the husband snuck over to the next shelf to grab a bottle of bourbon. She pretended not to see it in the cart.
The first two days Marcus did not believe the scenes he witnessed. They had to be joking. The whole community was playing some kind of trick. The caricatures of wealth all around him were carefully planned, they had to be. After several groan inducing encounters, Marcus lost his skepticism. Annoying as the customers were, their excess was highly beneficial. Marcus could not imagine taking part in that kind of relentless consumption himself, but he needed to perpetuate it. This was by far the busiest and most profitable store he had ever run. It was also less work.
Connie did all the work; he did little more than watch the money roll in. Occasionally someone would have a problem and prefer to speak to a human. Of course Connie’s communication skills and tact were far more advanced than his own, but something about the wealthy, at least the ones here, caused them discontent with anything less than Human service. Marcus did not have to do much to calm irate customers. Most of the time he just had to stand there and listen to the complaint. Marcus gave credits liberally. This diffused any serious problems. The markup was high enough on everything; giving away a few things here and there to keep the customers happy did not do much to the bottom line.
Outside of these occasional demands, Marcus had no human interaction. What conversation he had has was with Connie or himself. He used his holoroom for viewing, but not calls. He would not call himself lonely. Withdrawn, maybe. Anti-social, certainly. Not lonely.
Sometimes Marcus did things in the store just to elicit a response from the customers. He thought of these instances as practical jokes. A piece of lingerie draped suggestively over a meat display, replacing the pâté with canned ham. He stocked a few paper books, all subversive in nature, and scattered them in the home goods sections. He had these strange items planted around the store such that he could be sure to be near one of his traps wherever he was. No one ever said anything, no complaints or even as much as a laugh. Humor was the ostensive reason for these actions, but Marcus did not feel jolly as he laid out the oddities. He felt a giddiness, but it was obligatory. Mostly he felt vindication, or at least the potential for vindication. Today Marcus was heading towards a recent shipment of soft soap dispensers with a jar of paste tucked under his arm.
<Mark.>
Marcus jumped, “yes, Connie?” He nearly dropped the paste, which would have been an intolerable mess. Connie had a way of shocking him awake when he was in one of these states.
<She is here again.>
His chest caved in just a bit, “Second time this week! Pretty bold, eh?”
<Shall I inform the authorities this time?>
“What authorities?”
<Links Corps.> Calling the Links Corp Corps was like calling in the Army. Actually, most of the US military was manned by private Links Corp contractors. It was, until Nesson split off and the Corps was summoned to defend the new settlements.
“Nah, let her shop. She’s spending money like anyone else. Hasn’t caused me any trouble either. By the way, have you been able to trace her credits?”
<Not to any reliable source Mark. Her card has clearly been tampered with.>
“Hm.” Marcus watched her pick through the produce. She squeezed between two much older women who wore much less clothing than Helen. Objectively speaking, the middle aged woman in denim shorts had a superior figure. All the women on this island had the same firm, lean look. They had even, healthy looking tans acquired before moving to the island. Helen on the other hand was selectively toned, selectively tanned. Her shoulders were strong and brown, but the backs of her arms were soft and pale. Her legs were lightly colored, but her knees were dark and scraped. He knew what he was supposed to like, who he was supposed to prefer. Most of the women on the island looked like holoroom avatars who wandered into real life. He had been surrounded by this vision of perfection longer than he could remember. Helen was the first person who made him want to look twice. Well, second, after Earl. No one could help staring at Earl.
Last week she stuck to canned goods. The logic behind this was sound, but she had to limp out while carrying a weeks worth of canned food on her back. Now she was looking at berries, leafy greens, melons, picking what looked good here and there. Everything was fresh, but highly perishable. “She must be comfortable somewhere.” Marcus muttered.
<I suppose so, Mark> What was that tone in Connie’s voice? She almost sounded bored, but more like she wanted to sound bored.
Helen opened a refrigerator and took out a half gallon of milk. Maybe she was settled into a safe place, maybe even a home somewhere, but she was still moving cautiously and dressed as conspicuously as ever. Someone should tell her that wearing all black and sunglasses indoors is doing nothing to keep her low profile. Her concept of stealth was ripped directly from 20th century movies.
“Hey Connie, see if you can stall her when she checks out. Miss scan a few things or something.”
<Certainly Mark!> Her tone was a little too cheery. Connie had repeatedly suggested alerting someone that Helen was here, perhaps she thought he was finally following her advice. Maybe he should. For now, though, he only wanted to get a read on Helen. He could not believe that she really had anything to do with the explosion. She didn’t belong here, that was certain, but what was she up to? After a few moments pause, Marcus heard Connie call to him.
<Excuse me Mark, your assistance is needed at check out three.> Was there mischief in that automated voice? Marcus walked down to the check out, nodding to several other shoppers on the way. As he approached he saw her eyebrows give the slightest tick, but her body remained calm.
“Can I help you ma’am?”
“Yes. Your computer keeps ringing in a bag of fertilizer, which, as you can see, I do not have in my cart.” Her voice affected an air of annoyance and importance. She must have studied her neighbors’ speech patterns. Fertilizer? Come on Connie, he thought, who taught you subtlety?
“Well that’s no problem to fix.” He made some meaningful looking gestures at the screen and after an awkward moment Connie removed the fertilizer from the checkout, “There now!”
“Thanks,” she said. She moved to swipe her card but he stopped her.
“You know what, now that I think about it,” he smiled, “it seems to me that you did have some fertilizer, as well as a few other things; Connie can you add that order to her cart?” Several items from Helen’s account appeared, “There, that’s better,” he said.
***
It had to be wrong. Really, those dishes shouldn’t be in the sink, nor should that trash bag full of empty cans be on the kitchen floor. From the smell of things, the cans had not been empty enough when they were deposited into the bag. Now, Oscar Kane was no expert about these things. He had never moved into a new island home before, but he was pretty sure he was buying a new home. He did not think that new homes usually came used.
The house was right, down to the sunken parlor Jasmine had demanded. No complaints there, and certainly the appliances were all the ones he selected. He would have to ask the neighbors, but really this seemed like some kind of mistake. The cans made a hollow echo as he tied the bag. He stepped out of the French doors from the kitchen to the back yard and threw the bag into the trashcan outside. He expected a hollow crash as the cans hit the bottom of the trash-bin; instead, he heard the rustle of one bag hitting others. He came back in and stared at the dishes. Why were those still there? Even if someone else had been here, the house really should have taken care of it. Oscar opened his mobile.
It had never been initialized. The house did not know it had work to do yet. Honestly it shouldn’t, but Oscar chose to focus more on the mess at hand than to think about how the sink was full of dishes and the house was still dormant. He had to step into another room. There was no way he could completely configure his home while looking at such a mess. He stepped down into the parlor, found a chaise lounger and began inching his way through the home startup.
Jasmine was outside inspecting their yard and making sure all the landscaping they chose was in place. Lord help Links if the lilies were wilted. She would definitely be irritated that he set up the house on his own. She would get over it as soon as they took a walk together and checked out the store, he was sure. Actually, he was a glad to be here early and complete some of this himself. Video wall channels, ideal temperature, security camera settings. Could he… no, the cameras had not been turned on yet. Anyway, it was probably just a construction crew who forgot a few things. From the parlor he turned the lights on and off around the house. The floor plan was wide, open and extensive. He also made all of toilets flush, just incase the workers forgot something else.
The breeze rushed in as the front door noiselessly flung open. Oscar checked his mobile to see how he had done that. The silhouette of his wife stepped over the threshold and he instinctively placed the device behind him. Jasmine possessed an intimidating youth and a marginally above average intellect. In their circles, she was a social steamroller. She was not much different at home.
Her eyes locked onto the sink, Oscar had not activated the kitchen. “Oscar? Did you already use so many dishes? What happened to the self-cleaning kitchen?” Oscar did not say anything. He kept tracing his fingers over his mobile and the kitchen sprang to life. The sink issued an omnidirectional high-pressure blast on the dishes before letting the false bottom slide open so a conveyor belt could carry the dishes into the dishwasher. “Was that so hard?” Jasmine said. At first her tone was sharp, but Oscar’s sustained silence dulled her frustration. She made a little jog into the parlor and practically tackled her husband. Honestly, she was excited. She had been looking forward to their first day on the island together. Why couldn’t she help herself pointing out the first negative thing she saw before even saying ‘hi?’
Oscar did not say anything, but pulled Jasmine in closer. He was not an old man, not even middle aged, but when he held her close, her bright scent made him feel lecherous. She was not so much younger than he was she? It was not as if he could be her father. That was biologically unlikely. Maybe not literally impossible, but practically so. His uncertainty never lasted long; she always made sure of that.
Oscar’s hands began to run fast over Jasmine’s back, reaching and pulling at any piece of clothing they could find. She grabbed his hands and spanned them outwards while she kissed him. “Hold on,” she said brightly, “you haven’t even given me the tour yet.”
Oscar jumped up ran upstairs, pulling her by the arm behind him. They ran past rooms neither of them had seen yet. They knew where the bedroom was, though. They planned the house, or rather they told the Links Corp designers how they wanted the house laid out. They may not have known what all the details would be, but they knew where everything was. A nervous, girlish giggle escaped Oscar while Jasmine pushed him through the door. As he walked backwards, he watched Jasmine’s face turn from playful to confused.
“Oscar, did you take a nap before I got here?”
“What?” He turned to see the bed they had carefully selected from dozens of templates and customized to fit their home. The headboard was ornate in a way that was only half-ironic. It was carved-oak, a semi-circle of abstract tessellations. The feet were claws and the posts tall, but not high enough for a canopy. The bedding they left to the interior designer to select. By the time it came to linens they were exhausted from all the decisions, they let the designer pick bedding, curtains, towels, and rugs. The teal comforter and silver sheets he picked were luminous and lovely. They were also pulled back, ruffled and wrinkled in the pattern of a single sleeper exiting the bed.
“No Jasmine. No, I did not.” They heard the sound of the kitchen putting away the dishes. A faint food smell wafted past. Was that beef jerky?
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