The Doomsday Brunette

by John Zakour

  Yet despite all that, Dr. Thompson is best known for two very monumental creations, the first of which is his family (I’ll get to the second one a little later). And by the way, when I say “family,” I use the word in its broadest and most abstract sense.

  Dr. Thompson created four daughters, who are known today, the world over, as the Thompson Quads (or simply “the Quads”). They are the most famous living creatures on the planet and could quite possibly represent the next stage of human evolution. You’ll note that I said that Thompson “created” his daughters. Not “had,” “raised,” or “fathered.” That’s not a mistake. Dr. Thompson used his brilliant mind and his well-funded laboratory to custom-create his children (and what spectacular children they were).

  He began with his own DNA, brilliant but flawed, and then strand by strand, almost molecule by molecule, altered it, super-charging every ability and repairing every blemish, until he surmised that it was perfect. Then he test-tubed it, added just a touch of super-model and, over the next two years, simultaneously grew four genetically engineered female embryos into viable organisms. The girls were perfect and beautiful when they were birthed from their artificial wombs (although their skin tone, for some reason, turned out slightly purple) and they immediately became media sensations.

  Thompson named them Ona, Twoa, Threa, and Foraa (he was a brilliant man, but unfortunately had no imagination when it came to everyday things) and they grew up in the very bright spotlight of the public eye.

  Through the years they were christened “miracle babies,” “genius toddlers,” “pre-schoolers of perfection” and a host of other pointlessly pithy appellations. When the girls hit puberty (and they hit it in a big way), blossoming into super-powerful, genius-level and stunningly beautiful teenagers, they became full-fledged sex-symbols (Ona especially, who was the oldest and most out-going of the four). The super babies had grown into the purple-hued embodiments of all male fantasies. They could bend steel with their hands, stop traffic with their looks and the public simply couldn’t get enough of them.

  As they grew each Quad developed her own personality and distinctive style and this made them even more sensational to a public that already adored them. Unfortunately, it also made the family a little more dysfunctional but nobody seemed to mention that in the interviews and puff pieces.

  Ona, as I mentioned, became a playgirl, billionaire, dilettante.

  Twoa became a super hero (I’m not joking).

  Threa became a fairy princess (really, I’m not joking).

  And Foraa became a nihilist, goth-punk, anarchist (and you know your family is in trouble when the nihilist is considered the “normal” one).

  So here they were, four identical sisters, world famous since before they were born, universally loved and adored by the public, and exponentially superior to normal humans both physically and intellectually.

  Is it any wonder that they all turned out to be super-brats?

  Short tempers, little patience and egos the size of the Crab Nebula, the Quads had it all. They were adored by the human race but had long since grown weary of humanity and to some extent grew to pity it with its faults, foibles and frailties. They were still celebrities, entertainers in their own distinctive ways, but you couldn’t help feeling sad over the wasted potential. The Quads were meant to be the apex of humanity, the pinnacle of human achievement. They had instead become the poster children for bored-chic, the pop culture icons of purposelessness.

  And, for reasons that will be explained later, they all hated one another, which just made things more interesting.

  I took a few nanos to collect myself before answering the call in my office. I don’t usually get star struck but I was a little edgy at the prospect of talking to the world’s most powerful and egotistical woman with my brain still half asleep so I fidgeted just a bit.

  “You’re not nervous, are you, boss?” HARV asked.

  “Me? No” I said, as I settled into my desk chair, trying to look as casual and professional as possible. “I just want to make a good impression. Do I look awkward here?”

  “You mean sitting at your desk at three in the morning for no good reason? The woman has an IQ that’s off the charts, don’t you think she’s going to know that you were sleeping when she called?”

  “Humor me here, HARV. It’s all in the presentation.” I answered, adjusting my fedora slightly.

  “I think the hat’s a bit much,” HARV said.

  “What do you know? You don’t even have a real head.”

  “True, but unlike you, I have a sense of fashion that is based in the current century.”

  I ignored him and dipped the brim of the hat down ever-so-slightly over my forehead. Then I took a deep breath to gather myself and stabbed the receive-button on the vidnet console.

  Ona Thompson’s face flashed on the wallscreen and her beauty hit me in the first nano of visual contact like a pheromonal tsunami. Her mere appearance was a visual cascade of joyance, entering through my eyes and making my head spin. I’d seen her before, of course, in pictures and on the news and such but never in so vibrant and realistic a form.

  Her face was perfectly sculpted, from the soft lines of her cheeks to the gentle slope of her nose. Her eyes were wide and a deep shade of warm chocolate brown. Her lips were full and luscious, like ripe berries, two shades darker than the creamy purple of her skin.

  I was thankful that Electra wasn’t in the room with me because I’m sure I looked like a lovesick schoolboy. It was embarrassing enough that HARV was there to witness it. Although truthfully, I think he was a bit stunned as well. In retrospect, I should have enjoyed that nano more as it happened because things went downhill very fast from there.

  “Good evening, Ms. Thompson. Zach Johnson here. How can I help you?”

  That’s what I wanted to say.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t get the chance.

  “Well, it’s DOS-well about time,” she spat the nano after contact was initiated. “Is this how you treat your clients? If it is, then I should have my head examined for netting. I could get faster service at the DMV for the clinically comatose.”

  And yet, somehow, coming from Ona Thompson, this diatribe sounded like a compliment (probably because she used the word “client”).

  “Thank you, Ms. Thompson,” I said, without thinking. “What can I do for you?”

  “You can cut the small talk for one. I can’t stand it during regular hours. I have zero tolerance for it at this time of night.”

  “All I said was…”

  “And I need you to come to my mansion right away. Bring your detective stuff. How quickly can you get here?”

  “Excuse me?” Ona’s stunning initial charm was fast beginning to fade.

  “Never mind,” she said. “I’ll send a hoverjet. It will be faster. Unless you have a teleport pad in your home. No, of course you wouldn’t. You’re poor.”

  “She’s not one for foreplay, is she?” HARV whispered inside my head.

  “Ms. Thompson, what’s this about?”

  “I thought we agreed that you’d stop the small talk?” she said. “Do you have a nicer jacket than that one? And for Gates sake take off that hideous hat. You look like a drunken organ grinder.”

  “Uh-oh,” HARV said.

  That did it.

  I stabbed the disconnect button on the console with an angry finger and the screen went blank.

  “No one insults the fedora,” I whispered through gritted teeth.

  “I told you not to wear it.”

  A nano passed. And I stared at the screen on the wall, still a little shell-shocked from Ona’s blitzkrieg of insults.

  “Do you think she’s always like that?” I asked.

  “Define ‘always,’” HARV said with a smirk.

  The console speaker sounded a gentle (yet insistent) tone.

  “That would be Ms. Thompson calling back,” HARV said.

  “Gee, you think?”

  “Shall I answer it
while you attain more suitable cranial attire? Perhaps the beanie with the propeller would be more appropriate.”

  I waved HARV away and put the call on the screen myself (but I took the fedora off before doing so). Ona’s face reappeared, less angry than I expected, almost confused.

  “Did you just hang up on me?”

  I smiled, slightly wide-eyed and did my best sit-com shoulder-shrug.

  “I was just about to ask you the same thing,” I said. “There must be a glitch somewhere in the connection. Computers, can’t live without ‘em, can’t disconnect ‘em.”

  I could tell she wasn’t buying the excuse but luckily she wasn’t comfortable enough yet in our relationship to call me a liar. She took a breath and for the first time inadvertently dropped her imperious veneer. I saw traces of concern in her expression, a tiny bit of confusion, and maybe even a little fear. I knew then that this wasn’t going to be a simple matter.

  “Fine, where were we?”

  “You were politely asking for my help.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” she said. “I need you to come to my mansion immediately. I’ll send a hoverjet and you’ll need a better looking jacket.”

  “Let’s not start that again, Ms. Thompson. What’s going on?”

  “I can’t say. Not over the net. But I’ll hire you. I’ll pay whatever you like. This is an emergency, Mr. Johnson. You must come immediately.”

  I have to admit that the part about paying me whatever I wanted was tempting, as was the idea of working for someone of Ona Thompson’s stature. Having her as a reference would certainly look good on my e-vitae. And Gates knows I needed the credits. Still she had the look of trouble about her; 100%, pure, unfiltered, menthol-flavored trouble. I’d had my share of that stuff in the past and I’d sort of lost my taste for it. After all, it doesn’t matter how exciting or well-paying a job is if it kills you in the end. Also Ona’s penchant for insulting me certainly didn’t make the deal any more enticing.

  So I was about to politely turn her away when she did something that, as I understand it, she almost never did.

  “I don’t know what else to say, Mr. Johnson…please?”

  She asked nicely.

  Pop-culture historians have since told me that Ona had used the word “please” only six times in her life prior to that nano. Twice were when she was two years old and wanted a pony-cloning lab. The other four occurrences were scattered over the intervening years and were made in the context of threats (“say please or I’ll crush your spleen”). I didn’t know all that at the time but I sensed that she wasn’t used to asking politely for anything.

  “It’s very important.”

  Her lower lip trembled ever so slightly and I saw her moisten it gently with her tongue then softly bite it to steady herself. The simple gesture was quite possibly the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.

  I leaned back in my chair and gently squeezed the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger, preparing for the many headaches that I knew would soon follow my next words.

  “I can be there in 30 minutes.”

  She smiled, grateful, and the computer screen had to compensate for the brightness of her expression.

  “Excellent. I’m sending the hoverjet right now.”

  “Don’t bother,” I said. “I’ll take my personal hovercraft. My computer has your address.”

  “I thought you didn’t fly hovers.”

  “I don’t. But my computer does.”

  “I’ll alert security to expect your arrival, Mr. Johnson.”

  “Call me Zach.”

  “Fine,” she said. “Call me Ona. And again, I’m very grateful for your help.”

  The screen went dark and I sat motionless in the office for a few nanos, contemplating what I’d just done.

  “I must say,” said HARV, “you make some interesting decisions when you’re sleep-deprived.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  I went back to the bedroom and dressed quickly, trying hard not to wake Electra before I absolutely had to. I kissed her gently on the forehead before I left and she stirred slightly.

  “Que pasa?” she asked, still half asleep.

  “I’m going out to see a client,” I whispered. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She groaned and wrapped herself back up in the covers.

  “Saving the world again?” she asked.

  “Let’s hope not.” I replied as I left.

  3

  Ona’s mansion was an other-worldly compound in the northern outskirts of New Frisco. It was ultra-chic in every conceivable manner, which in this case meant that it wasn’t really there. At least not to the naked eye.

  “What’s going on?” I asked HARV as he lowered the hovercraft toward a lonely plastic guard post.

  “We’ve arrived.”

  I looked through the rain and saw nothing but rocks and foreboding wooded hills around us. The guard post sat by a large outcropping of rock, where the roadway and hovercraft skyway ended. Beyond this checkpoint was an uninviting mixture of mountain and forest.

  “Arrived where?” I asked. “Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I thought that when Ona said ‘come to my mansion’ there would be an actual building.”

  “That would have been safe to assume, although it doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re not old-fashioned,” HARV said. “These are the coordinates that Ms. Thompson’s computer gave me and I think you’ll find the answer to your questions at the guard post.”

  I looked at the dilapidated plastic shack as we landed beside it. It looked as though it would collapse any nano just from the force of us looking at it. At first I saw nothing but darkness through its glass-less windows but, as I stared, for the briefest of nanos I saw a tiny red flash, like the lightning fast wink of a Chernobyl cat and I recognized it at once.

  “We’ve been scanned.”

  “It would appear so,” HARV said.

  “Greetings, Mr. Johnson.” A warm computer voice said through the hovercraft interface. “Thank you for coming so promptly.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “Although it would have been nice for Ms. Thompson to have had a house built for my arrival.”

  “You’re humor is acknowledged,” the computer responded, “although, I admit, not fully appreciated.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” I said. “Does this mean that I’ll be ‘porting to another location? I have to tell you now that I don’t ‘port well.”

  “Not at all, sir,” the computer responded. “Your identity has been verified by security. You may now enter. I’ve programmed the pattern for entrance to the grounds into your craft’s guidance computer. You may proceed at your leisure.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Let Ms. Thompson know that we’ll see her shortly.”

  I closed the interface and let HARV security-check the programmed coordinates as we lifted gently off the ground again. This time we rose only two meters high and smoothly eased around the huge rock outcropping. A fissure in the rocks appeared and we went through it.

  “How come I didn’t see the fissure before?” I asked.

  “Because it wasn’t there when we arrived.” HARV said. “The entire area is artificial. A conglomeration of simulacra and holograms. It’s the latest in stealth security.”

  “And you were going to tell me this when?”

  “Either when you asked about it or when you needed to know.”

  “That’s comforting,” I said as I sat back in the seat. “It looks like Ona Thompson’s computer is quite intelligent.”

  “I'm not surprised,” HARV said. “She can afford it.”

  “You don't feel threatened, do you?”

  “Would you feel threatened if she had a pet ape?”

  “Only if it dressed like me.”

  “Besides,” HARV harrumphed. “’It's clearly heavily programmed for subservience. 'Your humor is acknowledged.’ What a kiss-ass interface.”

  “At least it’s advanced enough to recognize tha
t my remark was humorous.”

  “Which proves right there that it has no real concept of humor.”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “Oh, please.”

  In most parts of the world today everyone, save for a few radical techno-anarchists, has a computer to handle their households; one central operating system that monitors the home (appliances, security and climate control systems), the transport (daily travel, fueling and regular maintenance), and entertainment. Some computers handle financial matters including household budgets and long-term investments but most people don't entirely trust the operating systems to handle all their financial matters just yet.

  Historically, most people have shied away from truly intelligent independent thinking computers complete with their own personality. The technology has been there to make them for a long time, but the demand hasn’t caught up with it yet. Most people just don’t want machines around that are smarter than they are. We call it the Forbin Complex.

  However, in the last few years, some super intelligent super computers have popped up here and there. I'm not talking about the limited decision-making that you see in servant droids but actual free-thinking computers. These have become in vogue amongst the super-rich because they can handle more complicated households and estates (and because they are wildly expensive). Not everyone likes them, of course, and not everyone trusts them but, as mentioned, their use is growing amongst the elite.

  It's worth noting, however, just in case you're keeping score, that HARV is several generations removed from most super-intelligent computers and, as he is quick to remind me, is in a class by himself. That’s not entirely true, as some recent experiences have shown, but I don’t quibble).

  We continued our guided trip through the faux-terrain toward Ona's mansion but I could tell that we were nearing our destination.

  “Is it getting brighter?” I asked.

  “Yes it is,” HARV said.

  “And, it’s stopped raining.”

  “No, it hasn’t,” HARV replied in that I-know-something-you-don’t voice. “It’s still raining. Just not in here.”

  “In where?”

  As if in answer to my question, the last of the simulated forest melted away before us and the hovercraft entered Ona Thompson’s compound.