Ensemble

by D. B. Goodin

  Who are these freaks?

  He checked the timestamp on the second photo: 12:28 a.m. He had programmed his machine-learning algorithm to gather as many images near his subject—Alice—whenever an alert or her presence appeared. Which gave him the eagle-eyed view that he needed to make the correlations of her movements. Drawing from another camera feed, he noticed that she had boarded a Newark-bound train.

  It would be easy to tap into the cameras on the train, he thought.

  2

  St. Pierre’s Restaurant, Monday morning

  Brian Reynolds pulled up to St. Pierre’s restaurant in the SoHo neighborhood of New York City. Brian didn’t mind this part of the city; various sidewalk cafes, boutique shops, and upscale coffee places gave it a trendy vibe. The people and parked cars looked more affluent than neighborhoods like the East Village.

  He stepped out of his car and a younger man gave him a valet ticket. Brian reached into his pants pocket to find a credit chip, but the man sped off in his car before he could tip him.

  Damn valet, driving my car too fast again! Brian fumed.

  He entered the restaurant.

  “Hello, Mr. Reynolds, is Mrs. Reynolds joining you for lunch?” a maître d’ asked.

  “Afternoon, François. Lindsey will not be dining with us today,” Brian said.

  “Oui, are you expecting someone else?” François asked.

  “Yes, I’m expecting a business associate, Mr. Olaf.”

  “Do you want to wait here, or shall I seat you at your usual table?”

  “The usual is fine,” Brian said.

  François seated Brian at a table overlooking Spring Street; this was his wife Lindsey’s favorite table, and his as well. An old man brought him water and a selection of bread.

  “Hello, Mr. Reynolds,” a man’s voice said.

  Brian looked up. A tall man wearing glasses with an expressionless all-business look approached the table.

  “Are you Mr. Olaf?” Brian asked.

  “Call me Mark, please.” Mark took his seat opposite Brian.

  “Can I get you a drink? The bar is open early, and the bartender is a friend of mine.”

  Mark raised a hand. “Just water, please.”

  Seconds later, the old man was filling a glass for Mark and providing more bread.

  “Mr. Brenton Morris, the president and CEO of MuseFam, is eager to learn of your progress,” Mark said.

  “We’ve sued the government. The AI Copyright Repeal Act is unconstitutional because President Dunbarton’s attorneys forgot one obscure but important law passed in 2044 called the Second Skin Act. This outdated law was supposed to protect a citizen’s rights if they transferred their human consciousness into a cyborg host. They outlawed the process in 2051, but the original act is still on the books,” Brian explained.

  “A loophole,” Mark said.

  “Indeed.”

  A waiter seemed to appear out of nowhere. “I’m Paul,” he said. “Can I take your order, gentlemen?”

  “Do you have sweet crepes?” Brian asked.

  “That is a house specialty. We stop serving them at eleven, but for you I can get them started.”

  “Excellent,” Brian said. “I will have that and some pressed dark roast coffee.”

  “How’s the charcuterie?” Mark asked.

  “Our meat isn’t as spicy as others you might have had, but I assure you it’s excellent. We dry-cure the meat with salt to let the healthy bacteria grow, which forms a protective casing around the meat. I serve the dish with figs, grapes, and apple slices.”

  “Sounds delicious, I will have that,” Mark confirmed.

  “Excellent choice, sir,” Paul said as he gathered the menus and left.

  Mark leaned toward Brian, lowered his voice, and said, “I’m meeting with the mayor tomorrow about banning any club from refusing entry to robotic patrons. Is there anything you can do to help on the legal side? Can we leverage the law you just mentioned?”

  Brian thought about it for a moment.

  “We might, if we can prove that these robots were humans before they outlawed the practice of integration,” Brian said.

  “How could we use that to our advantage?”

  “I will need to research any precedent-setting cases—there’s none that I can think of offhand,” Brian admitted. “The problem is proving that the robots in question ever integrated with human DNA. I need to find evidence before we can prove it.”

  “Well, that’s disappointing. I thought your firm had the best attorneys. I guess I was wrong,” Mark chided.

  “Wait,” said Brian, a light sparking in his eyes, “if the mayor wants to pass a city ordinance that robotic patrons be allowed in all clubs within the New York City limits, then I can make that work.”

  “Can you put together a draft for the mayor to review by tomorrow?”

  “I can fit it in, but what’s the hurry?”

  “Mr. Morris is planning on revitalizing the CityWide Concert in less than two months. We need our bots to beat any human scrutiny. We want the public to think these bots can play music just as good—if not better—than humans.”

  “I will need to work late,” Brian said, “which is triple my current going rate of $1,250 per hour, minimum four hours. Are you still interested?”

  “We are.” Mark nodded.

  The waiter delivered their lunches. The men ate in silence for several minutes.

  “One more thing,” Mark said. “Is there any way you can prevent groups such as the Purists from attending the concert?”

  “I need more than the name of a group—I need identities.”

  Mark opened a folder and produced a picture of Alice Parsons and handed it to Brian, who stopped eating. He stared at the photo for a long moment.

  “Judging from the look on your face, you seem to know her. Who is she?” Mark asked.

  “I know her all right,” Brian said. “Why do you have a picture of my wife’s best friend?”

  Mark raised an eyebrow. “She has been identified by our system as a radical,” he said. “Can you get her to stop her subversive activities?”

  “I don’t think I understand—please elaborate.”

  “This girl is making trouble for us. She’s rallying people against our cause.”

  “As far as I know Alice is a recruiter for a local club, rallying people is part of her job.”

  “I suppose I’m not making myself clear enough,” Mark said. “Mr. Morris wants her detained, at least until the concert is over. She has gathered a group of people who want to harm MuseFam. Mr. Morris has a lot invested in the success of the CityWide Concert. If he pulls that performance off with an all-robot orchestra, with no human involvement, then more concerts could feature MuseFam’s patented AI technology,” Mark said.

  “Aren’t there already clubs with all-robotic performers?” Brian asked.

  The old man came back and topped off each man’s water glass, then busied himself at a nearby table within earshot.

  “There are, but I’m talking about a symphony of robots, not just a few band members. Do you know how many members a full-sized orchestra has?” Mark didn’t wait for an answer. “Anywhere from fifty to one hundred band members—not a few in a club!”

  Brian sighed. “Let me talk with Lindsey,” he said. “She will not be happy if her best friend is arrested on some trumped-up charge that wouldn’t hold up in court.”

  “That’s why we’re paying you,” Mark said.

  Brian said nothing for a long moment. He sighed again, then said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Donato finished serving a round of bread to all the tables. He now had a few minutes to spare before his diners would miss him. In the staff lounge, he took off his white serving coat, put it in his locker, and took out a windbreaker. He glimpsed at his accordion at the bottom of the locker; he had planned to go busking in the park after dinner. He remembered the girl who had danced with him at the park. He’d seen her again just yesterday.

/>   Mr. Reynolds and that strange man in the glasses don’t know that I glimpsed that photo, Donato thought. I’m sure it’s the same girl I met in that park, and the one who sat at their very table just yesterday. Alice, her name was.

  Donato had overheard their conversation, and he didn’t like what they were planning.

  It’s rare that young people care about original music. I will be dammed if I let MuseFam target that girl.

  Although Donato didn’t have a visor—or any modern technology—he had his methods of contacting the Purists. He just needed a little time to get the word out. Donato looked at his watch: 11:55 a.m. He noticed Bill, a twenty-year-old coworker, enter the staff lounge from the alleyway.

  “Bill,” Donato said, “I need a quick break—can you cover the floor for five minutes?”

  Bill glanced at Donato. “Sure, Don, just don’t make it too long. I’m due to make a delivery in ten minutes.”

  Donato thanked the man and left out the back of the restaurant. He headed in the direction of a mid-sized apartment building a few blocks down the street.

  It will be tight.

  A few minutes later, Donato entered the apartment building. He glanced at the elevator, and considered it for a moment. He rarely took the elevator; he wanted to stay as fit as possible, so he took the stairs whenever he could.

  He then ascended the five flights of stairs. After walking down the hallway, he unlocked his apartment door. The place was sparse, but it did the job; he lived alone, so his needs weren’t many. A faded couch, dining table, and bed were on the far side.

  Donato looked for his antique pipe collection. It was mounted on one of the apartment walls. He selected a pipe with a long stem; then he twisted the pipe stem until he heard a cracking sound. The stem separated from the bowl. He pulled a rolled parchment from the stem. The piece of parchment was special, since he would use it—just as he had used others like it—to send discrete messages to his friends.

  He placed the parchment on the table, then fetched a few more items to complete his preparations. From his refrigerator he took a bottle of ketchup, and from his cupboard he took an ancient can of coffee, and he placed them on the table as well. He unrolled the parchment; the following message was written on it, double-spaced:

  * * *

  Dear Friend,

  I hope this communiqué finds you well.

  I’m enjoying the natural sounds of this magnificent city.

  The automations are back at it again.

  Our mutual friend requires help.

  Your Special Friend,

  D—P

  * * *

  Donato examined the ketchup bottle. Just below the cap, a slight indentation was present. He applied pressure on the indentation while turning the bottom half of the ketchup bottle. There was an audible snap, and then a small cylinder popped out of the bottom of the bottle. He opened the cylinder and the faint smell of lemon juice filled the air. Donato closed his eyes and took in the smell of lemons; it reminded him of the lone lemon tree outside his family home in Italy all those years ago. The familiar feeling of anxiety welled up like a knot in his stomach.

  Donato opened the coffee can and fished out a plastic bag containing a fountain pen. He filled the pen with the lemon juice and began writing between the lines of the sentences. He cleaned up, folded the parchment with his altered message into a perfect square, put it into his pocket, then left his apartment.

  Donato checked the time as he descended the stairs.

  Looks like I will be a minute late.

  Meanwhile, in Newark Heights

  Alice followed the smell of bacon, eggs, and coffee and made her way to the kitchen. Lindsey was finishing breakfast and cleaning up the kitchen.

  “Good morning, sleepy,” Lindsey said, “you must have been out late.”

  “Yep. Late,” Alice said as she took a seat.

  Lindsey poured her a fresh cup of coffee. Despite the steaming-hot temperature of the beverage, Alice downed half of it in two gulps.

  “Did you get your account unlocked yet?” Lindsey asked.

  “It’s on my ever-growing list of things to do,” Alice replied drearily. “I’ve called the bank several times, visited a local branch, and my account is still frozen.”

  Lindsey opened her purse, removed a credit chip, and put on her visor. With a few swipes, she added money to the chip. Then she handed it to Alice.

  “I’ve added five hundred dollars to the chip.”

  Alice looked like she’d been punched in the stomach.

  “Thanks, Lindsey, you are my best friend, but . . . I can’t accept money from you,” Alice said, handing the chip back to Lindsey.

  “Why not? If it makes you feel better, let’s call this a loan.”

  Alice paused, then relented, knowing she was out of options. “Thanks, Lindsey. You’re the best.”

  “Want some breakfast?”

  Alice glanced at the clock on the refrigerator; it read 11:43 a.m.

  “No time—I need to get to the city,” Alice said.

  “I can take you. I’m meeting Brian for afternoon coffee,” Lindsey said. “And if you’re not going to eat breakfast, at least take this.”

  Lindsey tossed Alice a Munchie bar.

  “Be right back,” Alice said, running upstairs.

  A few minutes later, Lindsey heard a scream from Alice’s room. Lindsey ran into the room and found Alice in a frantic state. Her arms were moving in all directions.

  “What’s the matter?” Lindsey asked, alarmed.

  “My account’s drained,” Alice said. “I was checking on my account status on my visor, as I do every day . . . and it has no money in it!”

  “How can that happen? I thought they froze it.”

  “It is . . . or was frozen . . . but now all funds are . . . gone,” Alice said between panicked breaths. Her lips quivered.

  “Doris, can you confirm the bank transfer?” Alice asked.

  “Well, hello, Alice, I thought you would never turn me back on, did I displease you?” Doris asked.

  “Wait . . . No . . . stop acting like that, Doris, or I will erase your ass!” Alice yelled at the AI.

  Alice could see Lindsey frown through the transparency of the AR glasses.

  “Can you verify the transfer, please?” Alice insisted.

  “Yes, I can but . . .” Doris trailed off.

  “But what? I need that information, Doris!”

  “After checking the number through a series of authentication mechanisms, I can confirm that the transfer was legitimate, but you’re not going to like it,” Doris said.

  “Just show me,” Alice said.

  Doris displayed the requested information on Alice’s visor.

  “I will kill that bastard!” Alice said when she saw the info.

  Lindsey looked frightened.

  “Who?” Lindsey asked.

  “Simon—all of my money was transferred to him.”

  “Who’s Simon?”

  “A dead man!” Alice spat.

  Lindsey dropped Alice off at a brownstone on Tenth Avenue in the Chelsea neighborhood in the city. Alice pounded on the door until an older man answered. It was Nigel Watson, the man who had helped fix her visor yesterday.

  “Where is he?” Alice said, fuming.

  Nigel gave her a surprised look.

  “I don’t know who you are referring to,” he said.

  “That guy who fixed my visor.”

  “Simon?”

  “Yeah, that is the name of the thief,” Alice said.

  “You should come inside,” Nigel said.

  Alice entered, then faced Nigel, who looked concerned.

  “When I checked my account balance this morning, the balance was zero. Last I checked, just before giving you my visor, I had over three thousand dollars in my account.”

  “What makes you think Simon took it?” Nigel said.

  “There is a money transfer to an ‘SPeters.’ Who do you think that is?” Alice chided.<
br />
  “Send me a copy of the transfer details, including the transfer identification number, and I will track it. There must be an explanation.”

  “There better be,” Alice said as she swiped to complete the wireless transfer to Nigel’s visor.

  As Alice followed Nigel to his lab she received a call from Charlie, the stage manager at Roxy’s club.

  “I have to take this,” Alice said as she headed toward the break room. “What’s up, Charlie?”

  “We might have a potential problem,” Charlie said.

  “What problem?” Alice asked.

  “One of my Purist contacts informs us that you are being targeted by MuseFam.”

  “What? How? That makes no sense!” Alice blurted out as her chest tightened and her heart raced.

  “I’m sure! My contact is solid—I trust him.”

  “Do you know how I’m being tracked?”

  “Not sure how, exactly, but my contact works at a restaurant in SoHo. He overheard a conversation. Your picture was on the table.”

  “Have you seen the picture?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Then how does your contact know it’s me, Alice Parsons?”

  “He said he recognized you from the other day. He said he’s seen you at St. Pierre’s.”

  Who is it? Think, Alice! Not that prick, Paul . . . No, but the old man! I recognized him! What was his name? Donato?

  “Alice, you there?”

  Several moments passed before Alice answered.

  “How did he send you the information? Visor, or old-school communications?” she asked.

  “Old school, he’s old and has his own ways. A courier sent it from a dead drop. We were lucky to have a light bulb strong enough to read the message through the parchment. His message was written in lemon juice, and the light helped decode it,” Charlie said.

  “Lemon juice? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I know, crazy, huh?”

  Yes, Donato—I recognized him at the restaurant, and he’s a musician!

  “Is it Donato?” she asked.

  Now it was Charlie’s turn to be silent.