by D. B. Goodin
Resonance
Cyber Overture 3
D. B. Goodin
Copyright © 2020 by D. B. Goodin
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction; any references to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.
* * *
www.cyberoverture.com
ISBN: 978-1-7334202-8-0 (Paperback)
For my family, and all the fans that love the world of Cyberpunk and live music.
Contents
Exclusive Bonus Offer
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Continue the Adventure
A Favor
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also By D. B. Goodin
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Preface
Thanks for sticking around for the third episode in the Cyber Overture series. As you may have noticed, I’m calling these short-form fiction books episodes now. This one is action packed and includes some more of my favorite locations in Manhattan such as Tribeca and Battery Park. Several years ago a friend took me to a club in the lower east side. We had an enjoyable steak dinner and got to see several live bands. I wanted to capture the essence of that feeling in this episode. There is nothing like watching your favorite band play live. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it.
1
Alice looked out the window of the Manhattan-bound train as it departed from Newark Station. She was thankful for the window seat. It was midday.
With any luck, I should be at Penn Station in less than an hour, Alice thought.
Her phone chirped.
“You have a call from an ‘M & D’—what a strange name,” Doris, her AI personal assistant, said.
Sometimes I wonder why I upgraded my visor to Doris . . . but she has been helpful.
Alice’s visor was resting on her forehead. It wasn’t the latest model, but it got the job done. Technology wasn’t a priority for Alice, but she reasoned that she needed to at least keep up with it on a base level, anyway. She put on her heads-up display (HUD) and saw a photo of an older couple attached to the ‘M’ and ‘D’ contact info in the “visor recent communications” area. They looked happy. Alice’s heart beat rapidly as she examined the photo.
“Do you wish to answer, madam?” Doris said in a British-sounding voice.
Why is Doris’s voice changing so much? Alice wondered.
“Yeah, put it through,” she said.
“Alice, honey, is that you?” an older, annoyed-sounding woman’s voice asked.
“Yes, Mother, it’s me.”
“What’s going on with you? You haven’t returned my calls in weeks. Don’t you want to talk with your mother?”
That’s just like Mother, rubbing the salt in the wound for maximum pain!
“Why are you calling now?” Alice asked.
“A man called me to collect on an overdue rent payment. By the time I called back, he said his men had already thrown you out of the apartment. Imagine, my daughter, thrown away like a common gutter rat! When you didn’t answer earlier, I called Lindsey.”
“Well, that’s what happens when you get fired. You can’t pay your rent.”
“Jonny fired you? You should have called me. I have your room—”
“No, Mother,” Alice interrupted. “I’m not living at home anymore.”
“I’m not suggesting that you stay here permanently.”
“Then what are you suggesting? I already have a new job, and I’m staying at Lindsey’s temporarily until I get a few paychecks.”
“It’s not right. Family needs to stick together.”
Alice rolled her eyes. I knew I shouldn’t have accepted the call!
“Stop it. You always do this,” Alice said.
“Well, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Alice’s mother said.
“Ever since Dad . . .” Alice trailed off.
“I miss him too, dear. We should meet for brunch at St. Pierre’s this Sunday. I will make all of the arrangements. That is your favorite restaurant, if I’m not mistaken.”
Alice didn’t say anything for a long time.
“Okay, if we have brunch this Sunday, will you promise not to bring up the apartment, or me moving in with you again?”
“I know you want to live that exciting life in the city despite not being able to afford it. I will support your decision.”
“Thanks, Mother . . . I need to go now,” Alice said as she ended the connection.
A sharp pain started from behind her left eye and seemed to work its way to the back of her head.
No—not the headaches again!
Alice held her head with one hand, gently massaging around her eye and then behind her head with the other.
Why are they coming back? It’s been years since I had one—must be the stress.
Alice tapped her visor and asked impatiently, “Doris, can you get me the information for Watson Security Services again?”
“Certainly, but you could ask a little nicer next time.”
Why is she being so sensitive?
Alice opened her mouth to say something, but Doris called Watson Security Services before she could.
Alice’s train arrived at Penn Station late. She had called Watson Security Services and made a 1:00 p.m. appointment while traveling. She looked at her watch; it was 12:38. Her train was more than thirty minutes late.
Aargh—I’m going to be late.
Watson Security Services was more than an eight-block trek through the streets of New York from Penn Station. Alice estimated it would take her twenty to thirty minutes to navigate the train station and city blocks to get there.
“Might I suggest the 8th Avenue exit?” Doris said as Alice deboarded the train.
She sounds way different this time—too formal. Has Doris undergone a personality change since I last checked?
“Thanks, Doris,” Alice said.
A few minutes later, Alice was leaving the station. She immediately noticed the pedestrian traffic at the corner of 34th Street and 8th Avenue was busier than normal; however, there weren’t any cars blocking the crosswalk like there usually were. She stepped onto the crosswalk, determined to make the light. A loud buzzing sound from above snapped her out of her thoughts. She looked up . . .
Is that a—
Someone pulled her back just in time.
“Stay out of the loading zone if you don’t want to get flattened,” a man’s voice said.
Alice turned and saw a cop in his late thirties or early forties. He and the crowd around her were gaping at the vehicle descending from the sky.
“I . . . thought flying cars are banned in the city,” Alice said to no one in particular. She had heard they were coming back to New York, but she was still confused. I guess they got all of those life-threatening defects out of the way.
“They are making a comeback. I just found out about this one five minutes ago. I’m here to prevent any mishaps,” the cop said.
“As long as this one doesn’t fall on us, I’m okay with it,” Alice said.
“I’m not!” the cop huffed. “I didn’t see any of the accidents that these . . . flying machines caused, but my watch commander did, and from what I understand, it wasn’t a
pretty sight. Sometimes the old ways are best—four wheels and a steering wheel.”
Upon landing, the doors of the flying car opened vertically. A man and a woman stepped out. The man looked like he was going to a cocktail party; he was tall—just short of six feet—and had black hair and an athletic build. The woman seemed unnatural to Alice; it looked like she was a robot with skin stretched over a metal frame.
Her body is a little too . . . perfect.
The next thing Alice knew, a short man with a white top hat, a large waxed mustache, and a bullhorn was announcing the couple. He was dressed as if he had just walked out of a circus. His red jacket with gold trim assaulted Alice’s eyes.
Where did this guy come from? She wondered, confused. I suppose they could have stashed him in a suitcase!
“Hello, everyone! May I introduce Brenton Morris and Ms. Augustine of MuseFam,” the announcer said.
“Who’s Ms. Augustine?” Alice said—again, to no one in particular.
“She’s MuseFam’s latest sensation,” a man’s voice said. It sounded familiar.
Alice turned and looked; the person who’d answered was the younger man from the Museum of Music—the synth junkie she had disagreed with.
I guess he doesn’t recognize me.
“She’s a robot?” Alice asked.
“No, dude, she’s a synthetic sensation,” the man answered in an annoyed tone.
“Okay, I see. She’s fake.”
The man just glared at her.
“Ms. Augustine, will you sing us a song?” someone in the crowd yelled.
These people are brainwashed, Alice thought bitterly.
“I suggest that you get a move on, partner,” Doris said in a cowgirl-emulated voice.
What’s up with Doris’s voice? It keeps changing. Alice checked her watch. Oh, dammit! I’m late.
Alice tried escaping the crowds of onlookers, but they were all pushing toward Ms. Augustine. Alice was getting crushed—then the “synthetic sensation” began singing. To Alice, it sounded like a shrill cat that had gotten its tail stepped on one too many times.
I can’t even understand the lyrics.
Alice continued to push her way out of the crowd toward the closest street. It seemed like for every step she took, two more people would crowd in front of her. She eventually made it to 31st Street.
“I suggest you take 7th Avenue as an alternate route,” Doris said in her normal voice.
Alice turned to look behind her at the impromptu concert as hundreds of people reacted to Ms. Augustine’s performance. She noticed that Brenton Morris was tapping his visor with one hand, then waving at the crowd with another. He turned his head to scan the crowd. A second later, he pointed at her. Several men in suits hurried in her direction.
No way they’ll catch me! I’m at least three hundred feet away.
“Time to get the hell out of here, Alice,” Doris urged.
Alice walked toward 7th Avenue at a brisk pace. She darted behind a group of tourists, then some parked cars. Alice looked back as she crossed the street abruptly. She saw lots of people, but not the men.
Did I lose them?
A loud honking noise blasted Alice out of her thoughts; she almost got hit by a truck. She bolted, running as fast as she could. She stole another quick glance behind her as she rounded the corner to 7th Avenue. At least three men were following her, and they were catching up.
Nowhere to hide! Alice panicked.
Alice noticed a small restaurant called “Mac ’n’ Cheese.” She entered at a running pace, and then jumped the counter and hid behind the lone, startled cashier. Alice looked at the kid, then placed a finger over her lips to communicate silence. The cashier nodded.
“These three guys in suits, they want to hurt me—tell me when they go by,” Alice whispered.
Seconds later, the cashier confirmed that the three men in suits had passed the restaurant and run down 7th Avenue. She was about to get up when the kid said, “No, wait—they are entering!”
Alice didn’t need to hear anything else. She ran to the back of the restaurant and opened the back door. She looked back in time to see two of the men scaling the counter. A few seconds later, she found herself in an empty alley. She started running toward 30th Street.
Damn—I’m still several more blocks out of my way from WSS!
“How did they know I was here, Doris?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, Alice.” Doris’s voice sounded strange again.
“You don’t sound the same—someone has hacked you!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Alice tried turning off her visor. The interface was frozen. She stopped, then hid behind a dumpster just long enough to manually shut off the visor. She stuck it in her backpack and ran toward 30th Street as fast as her feet would carry her. A black wrought-iron gate blocked her path.
I hope that gate is open!
Alice pushed on the gate, and breathed a sigh of relief as it opened; she pushed it hard enough that it smashed against a building next to the gate. Suddenly, a black sedan swerved and then pulled up on the sidewalk off 30th Street, blocking her.
That jackass almost hit me! Alice turned; two men in suits were running toward her.
Holy shit! I don’t know what these guys want, but they are up to no good.
Alice screamed and tried to flee, but the men grabbed her.
Joey Leonine ran a hot dog stand a few days a week. His favorite and most profitable location was near Penn Station.
No one is getting my primo spot, he told himself every day. I worked too hard to have someone steal it.
Joey worked multiple jobs, and he hoped that this hot dog cart would end all financial struggles, but he found that owning a business—even one as small as this cart—was harder than anything he’d experienced so far. His concessions license allowed him to sell his tasty treats on almost any street in New York; however, certain areas were off limits. The areas nearest Madison Square Park, or Penn Station, were forbidden because the unions operated their own— and, in Joey’s opinion, poorer quality—vendors. He usually operated his hot dog cart on the south side of 31st Street. Bart, the manager of Bruno’s—an all-night coffee shop—sometimes let him serve his delicious dogs just outside. One day I will get a permanent cart location, like those falafel guys on 28th, Joey often thought.
Today he was stationed outside Bruno’s.
“Hey,” a man said, coming out of the shop, “you can’t set up your cart here, pal.”
Joey looked up. He recognized the man; he worked at Bruno’s.
“Bart usually lets me,” Joey said.
“Bart’s not here no more, I’m the boss now. Now get lost, pal.”
Joey didn’t want to have a confrontation here; he remembered the unfortunate consequences the last time that had happened. He started pushing the heavy cart toward 30th Street.
An hour later, Joey heard a bloodcurdling scream come from the center of the block. Was that a woman’s voice?
“Help! I’m being kidnapped,” the woman’s voice cried.
Joey ran toward the voice as fast as he could, his old-school flip phone in hand.
Three men wearing suits and sunglasses were trying to put an uncooperative woman in a car that looked like a limo. She seemed to be flailing, biting, kicking, and screaming all at once. She reminded Joey of an uncooperative cat being shoved into a bag. Joey ran into the fray and decked one man in the face. He went down. Joey then noticed a man walking his dog on the other side of the street, heading toward their position. The man’s pace quickened, avoiding the scene altogether; he just kept walking. Joey turned back to the scene and kicked another man in the groin. The woman kept on fighting, still not free. She scratched the other man hard enough to draw blood. He recoiled, and finally loose, she climbed over the car and ran toward the Hudson.
“Break it up,” Joey heard someone say; then he heard the familiar clang of a police horn.
“Whe
re were you pigs a minute ago?” Joey said.
“Shut up,” said one officer, pushing Joey to the sidewalk.
“You have the right to remain silent—”
“What?” Joey said, gasping for breath. “You’re arresting me?”
Then Joey glimpsed something upsetting as he was being cuffed and thrown into the back seat of the police cruiser: a few bums had assaulted his hot dog cart, and one of them was stuffing a hot dog down his throat. They were helping themselves to his earnings. Joey just stared as he was hauled away. One bum waved.
Nigel Watson, the owner of WSS, sat alone in his basement workshop below his apartment near Hudson Yards in New York City. The workshop contained the latest in visors, frequency scanners, various hand tools, and other gadgets.
Mr. Robbins keeps dropping off his visor, Nigel thought as he worked. It seems like that man gets his visor infected every other week.
Nigel examined the “haunted” AI that was giving his client so much trouble. He had noticed an upward trend in phantom software on devices, especially visor technology. Most complaints from his customers were often phishing messages. If these messages were interacted with, even minimally, spyware was usually installed on the visor. The senders of these messages often appeared as people his customers knew; the problem was, they weren’t. Once the spyware was installed, the attacker could monitor anything the visor’s owner was doing. The AIs built into most augmented reality glasses often got hacked daily. Nigel had a night drop for devices, and Mr. Robbins’s visor was in that drop several times a month.
Nigel looked around for the antique clock he kept near his workbench. He rarely wore a visor; he didn’t trust them. Nigel glanced at a box featuring numerical flaps with numbers: a flip clock from the 1970s. It was 1:58 p.m.
