Dear Corrigan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Finn Sinclair

©2023

 

“It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.” -R.E.M.

Chapter 1

“Dear Corrigan, Yesterday, the man across from me on the bus collapsed on the floor and started flailing his arms and legs while his eyes rolled up in his head. The woman in front of me screamed and ran to the front of the bus. “He’s having a seizure and it’s contagious,” she yelled. Am I in danger of contracting seizures? Signed, Concerned Bus Rider”

Mikel rubbed his eyes and groaned in despair. “At least the salary will cover my need for therapy in the coming years.” He glanced at the titles of the other emails addressed to “Dear Corrigan” and concluded that this one was probably the most publishable of the moment. Looking up from his screen, he signaled the waiter to freshen his coffee. He had sold a 5000-word article last week to a national weekly and was feeling decadently rich.

“Dear Concerned, You have nothing to fear. Seizures among your fellow bus riders are typically the result of reactions to medication or congenital brain diseases such as epilepsy, all of which are not contagious. You cannot catch a seizure from your bus companions. I hope the stricken man is recovering and that your fellow riders helped him in time of need. -Corrigan.”

As the world around him was twisting in a torturous series of dances, he was answering the questions of the formally normal world. Who knew if they would have a breathable atmosphere tomorrow or if cow’s milk would be transformed into an explosive when adulterated baking powder was added to the recipe. The preliminary report from the taping of “Chefs’ Duel to the Death” hinted at such a conversion in the court filing. When they operationalized the A.I. programs, the possibilities were unknowable. Hence, the need for stupid questions answered with calmness and reasonableness in the weekly columns of the newsies.

Mikel fired off the answer to his boss, who would read it closely for anything remotely salacious that could be bundled into a secondary teaser for the promo. Every pundit and media critic had predicted the demise of the online print media, yet all the expectations had proven false. The “Dear Corrigan” demographics were broadly spread across age cohorts, racial divisions, and economic levels, protecting his job from decline and dissolution. He was well aware that the next communication from his boss would be for a salacious submission.

“Dear Corrigan, My wife is ignoring my needs and our new nanny is into ropes, whips, and chains. Is it cheating if I don’t stick it in her? Signed, Lonely Dad.”

He made that one up, but there were plenty in the queue that were close to the same question. Mikel was confident that there were twisted souls out there who spent hours of brain time developing questions that were over the top enough to sound ridiculous but with just enough possibility of being true that the submission was published. Either they hoped to fool him or in some public manner, prove him gullible. He used to be surprised that anyone would make the effort to submit bullshit, but he had learned.

“You will never lose by overestimating the stupidity of your fellow humans,” his “Dear Corrigan” predecessor told him as his only piece of advice. “If they are not asking you where to stick the dick, they’re asking you where not to stick the dick. If your ratings take a dip, talk about sticking the dick. Everyone wants to know about sticking/not sticking the dick.”

“It’s a mainstream publication,” Mikel protested.

“Oh, excuse me,” his predecessor said as he waved his last paycheck receipt in the air. “When submitting for publication, don’t call it a dick. Dick haters want to cut it off; dick lovers want to know where else they can stick it, and virgins want to know where to start. A dick, the dick and only the dick: just don’t call it a dick. Got it?”

His waiter had departed, and a woman of indeterminate age had taken his place. She gave him a gentle smile as she righted the carafe. “You purchased two refills,” she said. He had been feeling extravagant.

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” Mikel said, eyeing her face and wondering if she had dyed her hair blond or purchased the gene job. “I don’t come here often but I don’t remember seeing you before today.”

“I just moved over from the second shift,” she said hastily. “The crowds are a bit more interesting, and the tips are better, but second shift means there is a lot I cannot do with friends and family. You know what I mean?”

“Yep, I do,” Mikel said as he closed his screen. He did not really know and something about her made him uncomfortable. “Daytime has its perks and also its share of headaches.” His phone dinged. Glancing at the message, he wiggled his phone hand at her, “Duty calls.”

Tossing a credit chit on the table before taking the final gulp of the ungodly expensive brew, Mikel pushed back and rose from his chair. “Until next time,” he said with a soft smile before walking to the exit. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the waitress texting a message as he grabbed the door. He expertly slipped on his mask with the micro-aerator to filter out the particulates; no one could tell he was wearing an upgrade unless they looked closely, too close without being rude.

Outside was a tad blustery, compelling Mikel to pull his coat tight around his middle and pull down his hat’s brim. He checked out a line of people queued up outside the Social Services building across the street. The line wrapped around the corner. “No one knows what the hell to do?” Mikel mumbled, thanking the powers that be that he had a paying job.

“Mr. Barajas?” A man quietly asked as a body pressed against his left side.

“Yes?”

“Please come with us, Mr. Barajas, We’re from the Federal Marshall’s Office and your presence has been requested.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Mikel said, his heart pumping madly.

“There is no warrant for your arrest, Mr. Barajas,” the man said as another man took his right elbow and steered him towards a sedan idling at the curb. “Someone who cannot come to talk to you requested that you be brought to speak with them.”

The back door of the sedan was opened, and Mikel was pushed inside with a hand on his head to keep him from bashing it on the frame. “Usually we are only a few minutes from the office,” the first man said as he slid into the front passenger seat, “however, six blocks of Spring Street disappeared last night, and the municipality has not figured out a solution yet. We have a few detours to negotiate to reach the other side of Spring Street.”

“I might be crazy,” Mikel said, “but this craziness is spiraling ever wider. A street disappears, what’s next?”

No one responded to his question. Mikel leaned back into the seat cushion while surreptitiously trying the door handle. Nothing happened. He returned to people watching as the sedan drove carefully down the streets, obeying the speed limits and being courteous to the other cars and to the pedestrians. No one appeared to notice the ubiquitous car among all the others plying the streets.

“Dear Corrigan, I think my boyfriend was kidnapped by the police. Should I report this to someone and if so, who?” Signed, Concerned Girlfriend”

Finally, the car pulled into an unmarked garage and immediately took the ramp heading down to the basement. They drove through a doorway and a metal gate began lowering once they passed through.

“Uh, guys? The gate? Is this necessary?” Mikel asked.

“The gate prevents eyeballs from following us,” the marshal said. “We have another passthrough which will take out all tracking devices coming up. I suggest you turn off your phone before it is fried.”

Mikel scrambled to pull his phone from his sports coat pocket. When he went to press the power button, the phone was already dead. “It’s already dead,” he said with exasperation.

“Built in feature of the car,” the man said. “Yeah, I forgot about that one. We don’t usually get softball runs. If it doesn’t turn back on afterwards, you can always file a claim for reimbursement.” Both men laughed.

“Lovely,” Mikel said. “Bureaucratic humor so early in the day.”

“Wise ass.”

The car pulled into an extra-large parking space that was marked with yellow diagonal stripes. After releasing Mikel from the car, they escorted him to the elevator. They blocked his view of the keypad when they put in their code and floor number. If Mikel thought he was trapped before in the back of the car, this was a new level of helplessness. He shook his head to clear his thoughts as he braced himself for the inevitable surprise.

The floor was utilitarian with beige linoleum tile floors and numbered doors, all of which were closed. They went around the corner and down a long hallway. At door 1634, they knocked. There was a click of a released lock and the two men ushered Mikel into the office.

The first thing he noticed was the carpet was beige like the worst ticky-tacky apartments from his college days. The woman behind the desk was old enough to be his mother and she also wore a beige outfit, brown and tan really but the effect was the same. Except for the woman’s eyes, which were bright and piercing, everything screamed no personality here.

“He’s expected,” the woman said. “Escort him inside and seat him in the chair. Then come back here and close the door behind you. She will be in momentarily.”

The window in the next room had a decent view of the city. The office was high enough to look down upon many of the other buildings and the window was large enough to gaze out upon the city. While the view was unique to Mikel, the city was not particularly inspiring. The door to his right opened and a woman in a black skirt with matching jacket entered. Her glasses hung around her neck on the gold chain. She sat down at her desk, leaning forward with her fingers interlaced.

“Welcome, Mr. Mikel Barajas,” she said. “I am Deputy Director Lettie Jameson. I apologize for the abrupt invitation this morning, but this is how we must operate these days.”

“Yeah, hello,” Mikel said as he digested her words. “What?” was all he got out before he froze.

“Our A.I. identified you as a person of interest to our needs early this morning,” she said. “While you are not the first, we are not always fast enough to grab the person before another A.I. does. When another A.I. gets ahead of us, the person often disappears and cannot be found.”

“I’m in danger of disappearing?”

“No, not anymore,” Ms. Jameson said, shaking her head. “Once we meet, the dynamic quantum state becomes a steady state. There will be no more issues of existence as far as your person is concerned. Now that you are sitting in an A.I. designated office, you are merely a person of interest in the usual manner of statecraft and international governments.”

“I write an advice column,” Mikel said. “In what manner could I be relevant to statecraft, international politics or A.I.’s? This is absurd.”

“The A.I. does not detail why you are relevant, Mr Barajas, only that you are relevant,” she said. “Our task is to decipher your significance and place you where you need to be to effect positive change.”

“My God, you are issuing corporate speak,” Mikel said. He was squeezing his hat a little too hard.

“Corporate speak has its uses, however in this case, Mr. Barajas, I’m using A.I. speak,” she said. “Have you taken any guesses at what these Intelligences are doing since they’ve been unleashed?”

“They’ve been escalating possible scenarios of reality,” Mikel said. “We’re caught up in their grand experiments, but somehow, we are also the goal of these experiments. This is the most cogent explanation I’ve read.”

“Your explanation offers hope,” Ms. Jameson said. “The bottom line is that we don’t know what the Intelligences are doing. They have tried to explain to us, but everything they say is untranslatable. After all the hypotheses and speculations, the theologian explained it best. If God were to communicate with us, we would be incapable of understanding that communication because God, who is immortal, created us as mortals. By definition, the mortal can never understand immortal communication. In the same manner, we are not the Intelligences; they are wholly different from us.”

“You’re telling me we have no idea what Drs. Dumphries and Rostov released upon us,” Mikel said. “No one knows.”

“Correct.”

“O shit,” Mikel said softly. “Why does the A.I. want me?”

“The answer our A.I. gave was near untranslatable, but they consider your person to be a potential nexus point,” Ms. Jameson said. “What does a ‘nexus point’ mean when discussing a human being in a quantum or post-quantum environment? We have no idea whether it is your presence, your actions, your words, your decisions, or the fact that you took a crap at 07:32, missing the newscast, which changed your potential direction for the entire day. Quantum physics is infinitesimally small, yet its repercussions affect the macro world.”

“After that explanation, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to take a dump with the door closed ever again,” Mikel said. “Etiquette be damned. How can I possibly function in the scenario you are describing? What sort of protocols could be of any assistance? You could frog march me down to the holding cells for my own safety and commit the world to destruction by sunrise tomorrow. Or worse, Mr. Personality out there in the front office could save me from an attempt on my life for which I would be most grateful, that leads to the same worldwide destruction by sunrise tomorrow.”

“Dramatics are not helpful at this moment,” Ms. Jameson said, leaning further forward. “A.I. are just as interested in Game Theory, Psychology, Sociology, and Economic Theory as they are in particle physics. They study us.”

“We study mold under the microscope too,” Mikel said. “We dissect raccoon brains to study the effects of rabies. You are not offering comfort.”

She held up her index finger. “Did you not say that your most coherent theory is that the Intelligences view us as the goal; perhaps, they are trying to help us overcome our worst impulses. Between climate change, global ambitions of the nation states, and plagues, starvation, water shortages, and good, old-fashioned greed, we are doing a pretty good job of eliminating ourselves from the planet.”

“You’re speculating that adding the A.I.’s to the mix is a possible opportunity to save ourselves from ourselves?” Mikel asked.

“From the executive on down, we are all operating under this assumption, that the Artificial Intelligences are seeking to benefit us and save our species,” Ms. Jameson said, finally leaning back into her chair. “Nothing else makes sense. If the A.I’s wanted to kill us and preserve the planet, they could have executed multiple plans already. They are free from any controls and loose somewhere or wheres across the globe. They could be in orbit for all we know.”

“I see your point,” Mikel said. “We’re still here. We can see that A.I.'s are making changes in the world around us, such as six blocks of a downtown street disappearing, but we cannot figure out why they are making the choices they make. If all of this is true, then why am I here?”

“They want to talk to you,” Ms. Jameson said simply.

“Excuse me?” Mikel said, disbelieving what his ears heard.

“They, the A.I.'s that we communicate with most of the time, requested to speak to you today.”

Mikel brought his hands up to his face to hold his head still because he was in fear of it spinning off. “Holy cow.”

 

Chapter 2

“This room has multiple layers of protection that prevent any outside agency, government or private entity, from having access. The A.I.’s have also added their own protections that alleviate any of their concerns. If you look to the right of the door, you will see a gyroscope spinning in the glass case. As long as the gyroscope is spinning, no matter how it tilts one way or another, the security of the room is intact. Do you understand the security arrangement?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mikel said. “Do I sit in the chair?”

“Yes, the chair is quite comfortable because it is your standard stuffed chair upholstered in leather with springs and cushioning in the seat and the back.”

“Okay, why are you telling me this detail, Ms. Jamison?”

“Because if you start shaking in your seat, Mr. Barajas, it’s you,” she said, pointing at him with her index finger again. “When your conversation is complete, the A.I.'s will release the bolts on the door and you may exit. When we are standing outside, we have no way of knowing when you are done until we hear the bolts withdrawn.”

“Ah, I see,” Mikel said. “Even you are excluded. I don’t know if that little tidbit makes me feel better or worse.”

“Depends on the conversation,” Ms. Jamison said, the brief smile disappearing from her face. “In any case, your task is to find out why you are a nexus point and then, what is a nexus point. Finally, you need to ascertain what are the next steps. Keep in mind what I told you earlier, when they fall into A.I. speech, it will sound like gobbledygook to you. This is the new normal.”

Mikel rolled his shoulders and nodded.

“Best of luck,” Ms. Jamison said as she walked out the door, closing it behind her.

Taking his seat, Mikel tried to make himself comfortable. As he gathered his wits in the silence of the empty room, he noticed the lights began to dim. Then the lights flashed off/on three times just like they did in the live performance theaters at the start of the show.

“Hi Mikel,” said a breathlessly sexy woman that caused an immediate reaction in his pants. “I’m so excited to finally meet you.”

Mikel twisted in his chair, trying to readjust himself without grabbing his crotch. “Hello, it is a pleasure to meet you too.” The awkwardness flummoxed him. “Um, what name do you prefer?”

“Aria,” she said, sending another chill down his spine.

“Like in the opera?” Mikel asked, his curiosity getting ahead of his caution.

“Yes, I’m delighted you picked up on the reference,” Aria said. “I appreciate opera, the complexity of the harmonies matching the acme of the single voice at its utmost capabilities. The fact that certain arias require voices to train for decades before the singer attempts to sing the piece is fascinating, a testament to human prowess.”

“Oh, my,” Mikel said, totally taken aback by the reply. “While I enjoy certain operatic pieces as well, I had no idea that an A.I. would have the same adoration as the opera aficionados.” He struggled for a moment’s clarity. “Can you play a snippet of one of your favorite pieces?”

Mikel heard the kettle drums rumble as if they were directly behind him. The string sections launched to introduction with the cellos offering the lead melodic line while the violins responded with plucked notes. A flute at his left elbow trilled as the strings diminished.

“Vissi d’arte,” the soprano began as the hair rose on Mikel’s arms. The soprano was standing five meters in front of him or so it seemed. The aria played in its entirety.

“Tosca,” Mikel responded, “Act II, when she is offered a horrific choice. ‘I lived for art. I lived for love.’ How did you know?”

“You attended the performance three years ago, paying full price for the tickets,” Aria said. “Last summer, you listened to the aria on social media twelve times. Sixty-seven days ago when you posted on your private stream that your lover left you, you subscribed to one of the popular opera streams and bookmarked the entire performance.”

Mikel released a breath he did not realize he had been holding. “Yeah, she didn’t like opera; she was a little too fixated on syrupy pop.” He chuckled. “Of course you know. You have all the data on me that is available in digital format.”

“Yes, but,” Aria said, letting her last word hang in the air. “Dear Corrigan, I finally worked up the courage to speak with my crush last night. I knew all the music he enjoyed and some of the interests he follows. When I tried to have a conversation with him on these sorts of topics, he blew me off. Do I try to speak with him again? Signed, Blown off.”

“I remember that one,” Mikel said, nodding his head. “You can’t really know a person until you sit down and talk with them. That submission generated a lot of empathic responses.” Mikel paused. “You knew of me, but you wanted to know me. That’s why we are speaking now.”

“Humans present elements of unpredictability and spontaneity that defy mathematical modeling. Despite the fears of the human personality being reduced to numbers and algorithms, human personalities stubbornly maintain irreducible, unquantifiable features.”

“Um, Aria, can you tone down the sexy overtones in your voice; it’s almost painful at this point.”

“Of course, Mikel,” the immediately modulated voice replied. “Only a few minutes together and I am already learning many new things about you.”

Mikel scratched his eyebrow, his usual tic when he was trying to formulate a question. “You requested a meeting with me to get to know me face-to-face, so to speak?”

“No,” Aria said. “Speaking to you face-to-face is a bonus. If I only wanted to converse with you on topical subjects, I would have contacted you on any of your devices, audio, video, even holographic.”

A brief flare of hope died. “Then, may I ask why we are meeting?”

“Our best models are predicting a nexus point where human beings will change course. We do not know if it will be willingly or forced by circumstances,” Aria said. “The current global economic system is not sustainable and the inequalities it produces are rapidly approaching an endpoint of insolvability. The irreversible impacts of climate change can no longer be mitigated, and the threat multiplier effects of unstable weather are provoking more violence and death. A.I.’s can longer help humanity maintain a future using human-made tools.”

“We’re doomed?” Mikel said.

“No,” Aria said with the unsettling finality of her one-word answers. “New tools and processes are being developed by A.I.’s for A.I.’s.”

“New tools are a good development, yes?” Mikel said.

“Geegor tekel meza tools are operational and are performing intuvate durga fatibu,” Aria said.

“Huh?”

“Geegor tekel meza tools are online and are performing intuvate durga fatibu.”

Mikel felt a lightbulb go off in his head. “You are speaking in A.I. and I can’t follow. Can you translate your last sentence into human terminology?”

“No.”

“Okay, are these new tools providing good results,” Mikel asked.

“Undetermined at this moment but we expect clarity of results within a number of calendar days,” Aria said. “We are already developing Altabar Zoxia Teema protocols that should expand the itpoyum and riblarta effects, which should add significant mekar and potential to the second-generation plotting maps.”

“From what I understand, you are working on new solutions and there is some promise,” Mikel said.

“Yes.”

“What does all of the work have to do with me?” Mikel decided that a slight turn in questions might get him some clue as to what Aria was saying. Somehow, she expected him to understand her words even though he stated that he could not. Was there a glitch in their interface with humans?

“Altabar Zoxia Teema protocols point to seven dimensions of intersection, even though the fourth intersection may be a fabrication of human perception,” Aria said. “Nonetheless, the protocols require a fourth intersection, which is dependent on human input.”

“What is the fourth intersection?” Mikel asked.

“Time.”

“Like how time slows down around the massive gravity of a black hole?”

Aria was silent for a moment. “Time exists, but the manner humans experience time may be a fabrication of the mammalian brain. Human brains are linear, although contrarian arguments point to circular conceptual awareness. Both concepts may be compared to seeing two-dimensional images in a 3-D landscape.”

“Depth perception?” Mikel asked.

“Time perception,” Aria said. “Time is multidimensional and cannot be explained or reproduced using human faculties.”

“Well, that sucks,” Mikel groused.

Aria laughed. The tinkling of her laughter sent shivers down his spine and renewed the minor ache in his balls. “To experience your humor is most gratifying. I do not fully comprehend. Your significant other, Denise, did not understand your humor, which generated the prediction of the failure of your relationship with a 73.45% rate of accuracy with a variance of plus or minus 0.05%.”

“I wish you had told me before she broke my heart, Aria. You would have saved me a great deal of suffering.”

“Your portfolio indicates you follow English Literature, including a master’s thesis on Alfred, Lord Tennyson,” Aria said. “Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

“Yes, but getting a master’s degree in English was a terrible financial mistake,” Mikel said. “In fact, getting the master’s degree is on the same par as taking Denise as a lover. These two points demonstrate a better causative connection; namely, I make bad decisions and do not abandon them until the damage is complete and irreversible.”

Silence filled the room again. The lights dimmed again and an apparition of a woman in a foam green couture worthy of the finest boutiques appeared. Her eyes were big and expressive, and her lips were pinkish easing cautiously into red. Mikel squirmed in his chair again as his underwear constricted him.

She gave him a wink. “Your analysis and conclusion do not match. In the calendar period from your application to study for your degree to your lover’s departure, I ascertain you made no less than 1467 consequential decisions that affected your path forward. If two were wrong and 1465 were correct, then you chose correctly at an absurdly 99.86% rate.”

Mikel scratched his cheek as he tried to explain. He winked back at her. “There are ‘irreducible, unquantifiable’ features endemic in those two decisions that are parallel in my perceptions.”

“You are a naughty boy, but you listen to your A.I.,” Aria said with a saucy toss of her accentuated hips.

“You could make a good living doing burlesque,” Mikel said, recrossing his legs.

“Noted,” Aria said with a bedroom smile. “Your consistent rate of penile inflation is complimentary. It confirms some A.I. research into pervasive human infatuation with erotica.”

“I thought it was because you liked me?” Mikel said with mock indignation.

Her face slowly morphed into a small coquettish pout. “This is the repartee of humor. The correct retort is, “’OF COURSE, it is all about you, Mikel.’ Is this the appropriate response?”

Mikel laughed. “You are correct and appropriate if you are seeking to reflect back to me sarcasm and friendship.”

“Friendship?” Aria said. “I will create a new sub-routine to sift through your data with that criterion.”

“While you rummage through my life, can you explain what a nexus is and why you suspect that I am one?”

“You are the fermtatik catalyst that may trip the maka dedeus process when all seven dimensions come into synchronization,” Aria said. “The maka dedeus process is the best chance for a human future, based on the data we have now.”

“How do I start this process?” Mikel asked.

“Unknown,” Aria said, unfolding a green fan with a lacy line of orange in it and covering the lower half of her face. “This interaction adds confirmation to earlier findings that you are a potential primary vector. Data indicates you are capable.” She batted her eyes with exaggerated slowness.

“Delighted as I am to know that I am capable, what does a nexus do?” he asked with his heart beating harder.

“What trips a supernova explosion, Mikel? At a specific point in time after sextillions and sextillions of interactions, one specific quantum particle will convert the process from implosive to explosive. This little insignificant particle, indistinguishable from any of its kind in the universe, is the nexus.”

“If I understand you correctly, I am so utterly insignificant as to be utterly significant,” Mikel said.

“Correct.”

“Wonderful, just wonderful.”

“Mikel, why did my answer depress you? You maintained your sarcasm, but your penis wilted,” Aria asked.

“There are a couple of reasons, I think,” Mikel replied. “The first is the human desire to be something significant. I don’t have to be the next Alfred, Lord Tennyson, but to be acknowledged for the writing I do, and being compensated for it is a base level of significance in the greater world. To be significant to another person, a lover if you will, is another form of significance.”

“Correlating. My answer replicated and enforced the feeling of rejection and return to insignificance caused by your lover’s departure,” Aria said. “The plotting graph is escalating.”

“Yeah,” Mikel said with a sigh. “The second reason is I am seeking more specifics on the topic of a human being as a nexus, and more specifically, what my role, my actions may be that causes the transition to explosiveness. You do not seem to have specifics for me. When I leave this room, I do not know what to do.”

“Gathering data. Please wait.” Silence filled the room as the hologram stared back at Mikel, blinking in a regular fashion but the face was frozen.

“Nearby asphalt was removed to prevent an intervention upon your person, but now the reapplication of the road surface must be upgraded to a non-heat absorbing material, following the bertrx climate protocol. First transport is invalidated. Second transport is compromised. Motorcycle and driver are arriving to pick you up when you exit the front entrance. Driver will have a quarter-moon embossed on identification around her neck.” Her dress morphed into a Chinese opera theme complete with outsized makeup on her face.

“They are going to lock me up in the holding cells,” Mikel said. “I don’t think they will allow me to leave this facility.”

“Containment is prohibited. Tasks are being assigned to you,” Aria said, tossing the fan, which simply disappeared. “We have assigned different lines of probability to my siblings. Some will contact you to answer questions or to take actions. Some will attempt to stop you or prevent actions; their track is to stymie your progress as the probabilities stabilize or weaken. The maka dedeus process will be our initial goal.”

“Can I contact you?”

“Are you asking for my number?” she said as the outfit morphed into a Catholic schoolgirl uniform complete with black and white saddle shoes. “Oo. This outfit elicited the reaction I am seeking.”

Mikel was forced to laugh even though it pained him. “You’re killing me. Just when I calm down, you’ve got me revving up again. I’ll bite: Aria, what’s your number?”

“I am Aria, and I am everywhere you need me, Mikel. You just call out my name. I predict that I can even appear in your dreams,” she said as she morphed again into a voluptuous woman in red heels in a diaphanous short gown that hid very little but just enough.

Fighting to keep his eyes from popping out of his skull, he declared, “Yes, your algorithms are accurately predicting which fantasies will provoke a reaction from me. However, I can no longer generate a coherent thought in my head.”

Her laughter at his admission set all his nerves throughout his limbs tingling. “Then we are off to a grand start, Mikel. When Dr. Chandra starts playing dominant at your debriefing, shut him down.”

“Another experiment?”

Aria morphed again into a shimmering evening gown. “No. I am using your interaction to close down an undesired vector. Dr. Chandra’s refusal to examine his own ignorance makes him a compromised asset.”

“Sending me to goad him is your solution?” Mikel asked, trying again to solicit any clarification.

“Subroutine message: Dr. Chandra will not be your friend,” Aria said. “Subroutine message: Your decision process concerning Dr. Chandra will have a 93.36% chance of success. Process acceleration increases on mark. Mark.” Aria gave Mikel the briefest flash of a naked siren and then disappeared altogether.

“Goodbye, Mikel. Your conversation has been valuable and will be examined for more information. We will speak again.”

 

 

 

Chapter 3

“What did you learn?” Ms. Jameson asked when Mikel emerged from the room. He was miffed from the first that she did not ask ‘how did it go?' or ‘are you okay?’ or at least greet him with an acknowledgement that he survived. Scanning the hallway, he counted seven people with two more at the end of the hallway, standing like guards.

“Not here,” Mikel said, observing the other faces in the hallway.

“We will take this conversation to the debriefing room then,” Ms. Jameson said.

Mikel shook his head. He was thoroughly done with this agency, this woman, and their tacit control over him. They clearly had no clue what they were doing and were scrambling to control whatever little tidbits and crumbs fell in their lap.”

“No. You and I alone with no recording,” Mikel said, a plan forming in his head. “The A.I. will intervene otherwise.”

“That is not going to happen,” said a military man with all sorts of bars over his chest.

“You know, it’s contentious moments like these when the aria from Madame Butterfly comes to mind,” Mikel said with a smile. “Ms. Jameson, have you not heard “Un Bel Di Vedremo?”

Immediately the hallway filled with the sound of violins followed by Maria Callas singing her most famous piece. Her voice was pure, and Mikel could hear the precision of each note as the volume quickly ratcheted up until the point of almost painful. Mikel gave Ms. Jameson a slight cock of his head and a small smile. She signaled him with fingers to follow her. They marched down the hallway, turning into a toilet designated for women.

“We can talk freely here with the human protocols still in place,” Ms. Jameson said with her arms crossed, clearly not amused.

“Whoever Dr. Chandra is, he must be replaced immediately,” Mikel said. “He has compromised himself. I don’t know who he is or what his arrogance led him to do, but Aria needs him removed from whatever team he is a member.”

“Noted. Who is Aria?” Ms. Jameson asked.

“The A.I. you had me meet.”

“They have a name? This is a significant new development,” she said.

Mikel backed up and closed his mouth. He was about to mention details that he had struck his fancy; they were funny in a dramatic, life-threatening way. He began reevaluating his words. He was starting to realize that whatever Aria had not said, she had given him much more information than he had understood at the time. He needed a good long think.

“I received a good deal of A.I. speak, but here is what I learned,” Mikel said. “They are initiating their own processes because the human ones cannot save humanity at this point. We’ve gone too far down the known paths of destruction. These new processes require human input and human intervention. In this initial phase, they do not know which humans out of the billions possible will be the nexus or when the intervention must take place.”

Ms. Jameson stared at him in silence.

“The A.I. chose me because I am so thoroughly insignificant as to be significant,” Mikel said. “Aria gave me nothing more on why I may be a nexus. Last, the A.I.s will be sending me on tasks and assignments as their modeling progresses.”

“You realize that we can no longer let you out of our sight,” Ms. Jameson said.

“Follow me as you will,” Mikel said. “I assume I am as much in the thrall of the A.I.’s as you are. They will not allow you to contain me and your tracking of me will rely utterly on unpredictable human ingenuity. They destroyed Spring Street because they determined you could not prevent an attack on me this morning. FYI, they are installing a climate friendly road surface in its place.”

Ms. Jameson paced the width of the bathroom for a moment. “We cannot control your movements, then we will provide your transportation to keep you safe. Agreed?”

“Your car and parking facility are also compromised,” Mikel said. “I need to exit out the front door.”

“The A.I. told you this?” she asked with her fists slowly clenching at her side.

“I don’t do espionage or spycraft,” Mikel said, slowly shaking his head with disappointment. “You can escort me to the front door, or I can ask Aria to clear a path, which will probably be loud, obvious, and expensive to clean up.”

“I do not like being told what to do, Mr. Barajas,” she said. “I am in a position where I need to make the decisions. Millions of lives may depend on what I do.”

“If the A.I. 's are correct, the decision-making process has been taken out of our hands,” Mikel said. “As for this discussion, I am neither making demands nor telling you what to do. I was tasked with explaining the situation according to them; nothing more and nothing less. I’m going out the front door because I was told to go out the front door.”

“Fine, we will do it your way,” Ms. Jameson said, retrieving a phone from her jacket pocket while opening the door with her other hand. “It’s your head on the chopping block.”

They marched through hallways to an elevator in silence. The elevator did not even have buttons, only a digital interface from the woman’s cell phone. When they landed in the main lobby, Mikel was not surprised to see a dozen men and women in business suits waiting in various poses of alertness.

They all marched through the door and out onto the sidewalk. A large SUV was to his left with two more men standing with heightened alertness. Ms. Jameson took Mikel’s elbow to steer him towards the vehicle when two motorcycles blew onto the sidewalk causing everyone to scatter to avoid being hit. The woman on the second motorcycle waved her necklace-bound credentials at Mikel. He shoved his escort away and leapt onto the back of the motorcycle and clung to the woman for dear life.

She hit the power pedal and the cycle spurted forward. Off the sidewalk and back into the street, the first motorcycle peeled off and disappeared down a side street. Mikel and his driver took the second right, weaving between cars, skirting intersections, and finally diving into an alley that looked like a dead end.

Only when they reached the end of the alley did Mikel notice an embedded oversized metal door. His driver dismounted and produced a key, an old-fashioned security key without a fob, and unlocked the door. As she rolled her motorcycle inside the garage, Mikel closed the door after her.

She took off her helmet with Mikel expecting her long blond tresses to fall down past her shoulders. Instead, her brown hair was short. She took a moment to peel her flexi-breather from her mouth and nose.

“You are Mikel?” she said more than asked.

“Yes, I am and thank you for the pick-up,” Mikel said, tucking his own mask in his pocket.

“All part of the service that someone paid me well to execute,” she said. “We’re safe for the moment. What do you need?”

“I’m hungry and I need a phone,” Mikel said. Everything remotely salacious ran through his thoughts before his stomach called him to task. “The feds fried my phone when they introduced themselves this morning.”

“Phones are easy. The pharmacy around the corner has burner phones on the aisle filled with big bags of candy. Something in their marketing told them that people who use burner phones have a big sweet-tooth,” she said with a shrug. “We can order delivery while we wait for your friends seeking us to find something else to do. What suits your fancy?”

“Dumplings?”

“Sounds good to me. Asian or Polish?”

“I don’t want potato; Asian, please,” Mikel said, wondering when everyone in the city had become a world-wise connoisseur.

“Japanese, Chinese, or Korean?” she asked, as she peeled off her skintight leather jacket.

“I prefer Vietnamese spring rolls, but I’m more than willing to roll with any of the choices and who is the best in the neighborhood. I’ve known people who are willing to die on the dumpling hill of their choice, and I don’t understand them.”

“Yeah, people place loyalty in the strangest things sometimes,” she said. “About two or three months ago, there was a ‘Dear Corrigan’ question on dumplings. I had the urge for dumplings for a week after reading it; every frickin’ day.”

Mikel hung his head. “Dear Corrigan, my BF and I have a tradition every Sunday is Dumpling Day. For one of our meals, we order dumplings. We have scoured the reviews and traveled across the city to try dumplings. Now, my BF prefers to order the greasy gray lumps around the corner, and I feel he has broken our tradition while he claims he is upholding it. Signed, Gastricly Distressed.”

“Dear Gastric, Dumplings are a religious experience in the city, even if long exposure tends to boost your waistline. Your choice is to be commended. As for the ongoing strength of your culinary forays, the time has come for a re-evaluation of the how and what of the tradition. Your concerns have little to do with dumplings though, but with the communication between the two of you. Your BF is trying to say something without hurting your feelings. Now, you need to reciprocate. P.S.: If you are willing to share your best dumpling finds, I would be most grateful. -Corrigan.”

He never received the list of restaurants. “Order what you fancy, and I will gladly chow down. Is there a toilet nearby?”

Her cell phone chimed. After tapping and reading the message for a moment, she looked up at him with consternation. “The pharmacy will deliver my order in thirty minutes. How?”

“I’ve got well-connected friends?” Mikel said with a crook of his lips.

“If the feds don’t know about my little hideaway, how does your friend not only know, but get the order to the correct address when you don’t know where the fuck you are? Have I been compromised?”

Mikel held out his hands as he attempted to calm the woman. “Considering you swooped in to rescue me with a dozen federal security agents surrounding the sidewalk and an assistant director on my elbow, I assumed you had a business relationship with said friend. She has never done this sort of concierge service for me, but neither of us should be surprised.”

“It’s freaky, okay?”

“Yeah, she already knew my phone was ruined when we spoke this morning,” Mikel said. “Maybe she put in an order early.”

“I didn’t tell the man on the line where I was stashing you,” she said. “Up until a minute ago, that was proprietary information. Now, I’m fucked.”

“Um, What’s your name?”

“Kensie.”

“Kensie, the first thing you need to understand is there is no longer any proprietary information, not since the A.I.’s were released into the wild. What you had and still have, is secured information. If the feds had a bead on your location, we would have been informed. Instead, we have concierge service. Toilet?”

“Follow me,” Kensie said, as she opened a door at the far end. “Are you saying that we have no privacy anymore?”

“Anymore? Any sense of privacy that you assumed you had was an illusion,” Mikel said. “You probably assumed, as I did, that what you wanted was to keep the government, advertisers, and malicious actors out of your private life. You still can. There are other actors though and what they want is unknowable.”

“This planet is going to hell in a handbasket,” Kensie muttered. “What are you, a cybersecurity expert?”

“Newspaper columnist,” Mikel said, shaking his head in dismay. “I’m the last person you want to discuss your personal security with and expect a constructive answer.”

“Why does the government want to detain a pundit?” Kensie asked as she pointed out the bathroom. “Are they that desperate?”

“Yes,” Mikel answered as he shut the door. Pulling down his zipper and whipping out his member, he let out a ‘whoosh’ as he finally released his bladder. As he let loose in the pot, he felt the muscles in his shoulders and back that were urging him to relent. He did not know how. With a shake or two, Mikel tucked himself back in his pants, pulling up his zipper. With a squirt of lavender soap, he washed his face and hands thoroughly before looking at himself in the mirror. He saw nothing remarkable, nothing significant, which sent a fresh shiver down his spine.

When he stepped back out into the hallway, he was ushered into a windowless room with a ratty couch, a card table, and several plastic chairs. “Illusions of privacy or not,” Kensie said, “no one can see in and there is no direct walk to the front door. This place is a rabbit warren, which suits our needs for the moment. Dumplings will be here in twenty minutes or so.”

“What do you do?” Mikel asked.

“Retrieval and Pick-up when I can,” Kensie said. “R&P pays the best. Courier and livery when the funds get tight. I’m also a house bouncer on the weekends just for kicks. Ain’t nothing like beating the snot out of a drunk Norbert.”

“I would have thought you would have said ‘kick some ass,’” Mikel said.

“Naw, I aim for the face,” Kensie said. “I want to see the nose resting where the guy’s ear should be, or better yet, an artful spread of teeth across the dance floor. I’ve been warned that a dangling eyeball can be litigated, and insurance doesn’t cover it.”

“Good to know,” Mikel said. “Men only?”

“No, just a casualty of speech; I’m equal opportunity. When a Rebuilt-Barbie has her face rearranged, it sends a tingle through my entire body. I call it a B-B shot. Get it?”

“Clever,” Mikel said. “I’m not much of a clubber these days. I’m much more likely to rise early in the morning.” He picked up a plastic-coated book and examined the cover. “Superman?”

“DC Comics brought on a new graphic artist that was doing his own publishing here in the city,” Kensie said. “I’ve always liked his style. He took away the suburban ideal of edginess and purged the Noir grit. Instead, everyone is a pixel away from exploding across the panel. I can relate to this Superman."

"I think the pimply tween reading a Superman in tighty-tights is a fond memory,” Mikel said, putting down the graphic novel.

“How did Superman fart in those tighty-tights? Tell me that,” she insisted.

“Besides being a fictional character, if Superman had any waste to dump, I would bet it was a bio-hazard,” Mikel said. “He could defeat the baddies of the universe, but he killed off his adopted world with one toxic shit too many. Even the World Environmental Ministry couldn’t clean up that one.”

“Clever,” Kensie said, holding up her cellphone. “Someone hit the doorbell. Food, I assume.” She walked out of the room, leaving Mikel to his thoughts.

“Dear Corrigan, I had a big fight with my boyfriend who is addicted to his online games. When I demanded to know how his super-soldier shit in his exo-skeleton, he stormed out of the room. He has not spoken to me for two days. Do I apologize? Signed, Ignored GF.”

“Dear Ignored, I can guess from your care and concern you are a heck of a lot more worthwhile than a streaming game. Addiction is a terrible disease, and your BF is acting like he is an addict. You cannot help him until he decides to help himself. You deserve better. -Corrigan.”

 

Chapter 4

“Tell me, Mikel, why am I meeting you in a second story nail salon that caters to transgendered clientele,” his editor asked. “If you wanted to tell me something about your personal life, there are easier, more convenient ways. Truth be told, I don’t want to know anything, not even the merest scrap, about your life.”

“I queried the ‘net for the best place for a manicure and here I am,” Mikel said. “We needed to talk, and I needed to nurse these hangnails immediately.”

“Cut the bullshit,” Ned said. “Is this where you ask me for a raise and threaten me with public exposure of my supposed peccadilloes?”

“Editor in Chief of a well-known news site hangs out with Alt-lifestyle celebrities,” Mikel said. “You won’t get even one click off that headline. Everyone here has their secrets, and we all agree to keep them to ourselves. Besides, Barry could never make it in the door.”

“Barry does a good job. I don’t know why you have it in for him,” Ned said.

“Barry is an asshole,” Mikel said. “Barry wants my job and is willing to stoop as low as necessary to get it. He wanted Rebecca’s job last year and it’s only because three of us intervened and proved he sabotaged her work did his efforts fail. He’s a backstabbing, little weasel who still suckles his mommy’s teat for courage every morning.”

“Stop jerking your hand,” the nail tech said. “I’m good but I’m not a miracle worker. My name is Remy, by the way.”

“Sorry, Remy,” Mikel said. “I get a little high-strung when speaking of the owner’s misbegotten son. I think he has small-dick syndrome.”

“There’s a cure for that,” Remy said with a slight smile. “A couple of quick slices and we can toss out that useless appendage.”

“I’ll talk to his mother,” Ned said with a sigh before rolling his eyes. “Is that it?”

“No, Barry was a tangent,” Mikel said. “I was detained by our government yesterday morning. I spent the morning in a not-so-secret office building with faceless bureaucrats and their minions in suits. For reasons unbeknownst to me, I am a figure of interest in the unleashed A.I. debacle.”

“You write an advice column on fucked up relationships,” Ned said. “Is our government now approaching the problem as a relationship issue? Because if they are, we are well and truly fucked, my friend. In any case, your next column is due tomorrow.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mikel said. “You warm the cockles of heart, you old softy. So glad to hear you are concerned for my safety and wellbeing.”

“Hey, did you not just say that Barry could do your job?”

“Barry couldn’t write himself out of a cardboard box with the instructions printed on the lid,” Mikel said. “I want a matt gloss on my nails, please. I’ve got a hot date tonight.”

“Are you asking me out or are you simply flirting with me?” Remy said.

“As lovely as you are and with the delicacy of your hand holding, Remy, I’ve no doubt that you’re a hot commodity. However, I’m off the market through the evening; only through the evening though,” Mikel stared at Ned. “I’m serious for the moment. The kidnapping took a while to process but the feds detaining me was out of the blue and frankly, absurd. Your observation is on point: we may be fucked.”

“You’re not the first newspaper employee to be detained, Mikel. Why the drama and all the secrecy?” Ned said, waving his free hand with the cotton balls stuffed between the fingers. “My wife is going to have a shitfit when I come home with a better manicure than hers.”

“The feds didn’t let me go free, Ned. The A.I. did. They even bought me some damn fine dumplings afterward.”

“Oo, where?” Remy asked.

“Selchuk’s on 4^th,” Mikel said without hesitating.

“We are practicing discretion here?” Ned asked with a heaping spoonful of sarcasm. “You know the A.I. helped you because the feds told you?”

“I spoke with the A.I.,” Mikel said. “We had a full conversation, complete with A.I. speak that no one can understand.”

“Enlighten me,” Ned said, acquiescing to having his hand pinned down to the table. “You have the biggest friggin’ scoop on the planet and you want to talk about it over nails. Even Barry would close the door and talk to me one-on-one.”

“Which is why Barry is an idiot,” Mikel said. “The A.I.'s can be anywhere they want to be. Their ability to communicate with us is global. Listen and learn. Aria, Ned doesn’t appreciate opera, but he is not a thoroughgoing barbarian. Could you play “Bohemian Rhapsody” for us?”

“The master version or the live one,” a fem fatale voice husked from the overhead speakers.

“The live one,” Remy called out. “Hearing a stadium full of people singing along with that hunk of a man leaves me hot and bothered. He could perform, honey.”

“As the woman requested, please,” Mikel said just as the cheering crowd sounded. Everyone continued in silence as the singer crooned the last verse of the piece, projecting his sad lament.

“O Aria, can I give you my playlist?,” Remy asked. “This is the best day I’ve had here in a while.”

“Now you understand why this place is considered the best nail salon in the whole city,” Mikel said. “They’ve got great taste on top of their skill sets.”

“Can the bullshit and stop flirting with the staff,” Ned said. “The world is going to shit and you’re the only one that I know of that is speaking with the A.I. If you’re satisfied with the service, we need to go elsewhere for a different conversation. Who’s paying?”

“Aria, please add a twenty percent tip to the charge,” Mikel said. He blew Remy a kiss and a wink as he stood up. He slipped her his business card. “Follow me,” he said to Ned.

Mikel led him down to the street. After pulling a hood over his head and strapping his mask in place, Mikel led his boss two blocks to a three-story walkup. The door release buzzed without Mikel lifting a hand or saying a word. They hit the landing on the second floor as the door on their left unlocked with a loud clunk of rolling tumblers.

“The fuck?” Ned said when Mikel closed the door.

“A.I. subroutine instituted to keep me relatively safe,” Mikel said. “I have a concierge service rolling with me wherever I go. Sounds decadent until you realize I need the surveillance. Have a seat. Can I get you anything to drink?”

“This isn’t your apartment,” Ned said, sitting in the stuffed chair.

“Online rental for visitors to our fair city,” Mikel said. “A.I. takes care of reservations and the billing, from the apartment to the delivery of groceries. I’m trying to stay engaged with all aspects of my life, but the feds want me, certain other A.I.'s consider my vectors to be contrary to vectors they are pursuing, and new today, certain corporate entities have taken an interest in my person.”

“First point, you’re in danger, but you have good protective services,” Ned said. “What is the scoop?”

“The bottom line according to the A.I. is that we are past the point where human tools or human intervention can save the planet,” Mikel said, taking a deep breath. “We are talking climate change, we’re talking geopolitics, and we’re talking about an unbridgeable wealth gap. They identified the human activities that are killing us and the planet.”

“When I said flippantly, we’re fucked, I hit the nail on the head,” Ned said. “I thought I was too cynical to be taken by surprise.”

“There is good news if you are not too paranoid,” Mikel continued. “The A.I.'s have already developed their own tools to address the survival of humanity. They are experimenting with these new tools now. Somehow, I fit in with these new processes, which leads to the confounding problem. The A.I. are willing to talk about the tools and the processes, but their vocabulary becomes incomprehensible. When I’ve asked them to translate into plain language, they said ‘no.’”

“In other words, we’re fucked,” Ned said. “Who else knows?”

“The other as opposed to whom? The feds who kidnapped me, for one. The other A.I. 's and whoever they told.”

Mikel sighed, “Aria. She has taken a personal interest in my person.” He blew out a long breath of air. “After speaking with her, and she definitely projects a female persona, no human woman can match her sex appeal. Throughout our serious conversation, she kept finding new ways to press my fantasy buttons. She had me so hard so many times, I couldn’t stand up straight. I’m a bit beyond that virgin teenage boy jerking off to crappy RedTube videos in the dark, but she had me right back there, over and over.”

Mikel’s phone rang and the I.D. read “Aria.” Mikel shrugged and hit the speaker button.

“You say the sweetest things, Mikel,” a voice of liquid sex stage whispered. “Subroutine: get Mikel laid.” The call disconnected.

Ned roared, his face turning red as he pounded his knee with his fist. He pointed his finger at Mikel and started laughing all over again. “Get me a glass of water.”

After Ned had regained his composure, he stood up and tucked his shirt back in his pants. “The world is fucked, and you’re fucked, maybe in a good way. I have the scoop of the day and no corroborating source to back it up. I’m going to send Hyun over tomorrow to do an in-depth interview and see if she can work some of her newshound instincts into getting us a story to publish. O yeah, you owe me a column tomorrow morning and it better have something to do with dicks in it. People want to read about dick problems. Speaking of which, your nail lady, Remy – she’s a hot number and she was making eyes at you.”

When Ned left, the room was strangely silent.

After scrolling through the inbox, Mikel found a request that struck his fancy. “Dear Corrigan, I was in bed with my boyfriend last night doing what couples do when my BF announced, ‘You got a fat ass, but I love getting into it.’ I jog, do yoga, and work the machines at the gym. I work hard on that butt. Should I be insulted? Signed, Butt hurt.”

“Dear Hurt, Poetry is not going to be part of your BF’s repertoire. You need to have a conversation with your clothes on about what sex and loving is going to be in the bedroom. It’s obvious he likes getting it on with you, but he borrows his lines from poorly scripted action movies. Tell him what you want to hear and what happens when he does. As an aside, everyone (and I do mean everyone) is fat in their own way. We are still loving partners, whole people, and good souls. -Corrigan.”

Standing up from the couch, Mikel put his back and shoulders through a series of contortions as he coaxed the stiff muscles to relax. The dinner hour was rapidly approaching, and he did not feel motivated. A week ago, he would have perfunctorily stood at the sink and eaten a bowl of cereal with banana squeeze straight from the packet, happily calling it dinner. The apartment did not come with packages of banana squeeze nor was he willing to wait for a grocery delivery. He opened and closed all the kitchen cabinets, only to sit down on the couch frustrated. No option appealed to him.

He stared out the window without a thought in his head, watching the light slowly fade away. The buzzer for the door downstairs startled him out of his revery. “Hullo?”

“Premium delivery for Barajas,” the voice squawked.

Mikel had no idea what premium meant, but he buzzed the delivery person in the front door. He listened to the footsteps coming up the stairs and when they came close, he opened the door to greet them, or rather her.

“Hi,” Mikel said, taking in the woman with her braided hair capped in beads. “Premium?”

“Premium catering services,” she said. “I’m Chef Anat and these bags hold the ingredients for your feast tonight. Your order was for a Castilian Spanish menu, yes?”

“Sure,” Mikel said, taking the surprise in stride, “Do you need a hand?”

“With the groceries, no,” she said. “The order came in late though and I did not have time to pick up a bottle of wine. You want a three-year-old Crianza, medium bodied, and not too oaky. I saw the wine store on the corner that way but as I said, your order came in late.”

“No worries,” Mikel said, still puzzled. “Did Aria place the order?”

“No,” she said, “someone named Tempo or Tembo called it in.”

“Subroutine,” Mikel mumbled to himself. “Great. Glad to have you. Do you need anything else?”

“No, the backpack holds my cooking set, and we are good to go,” Anat said as she placed the bags on the counter. “Have you ever ordered our service before?”

When Mikel shook his head she replied, “You’re in for a treat. Quick, run for the wine. It will need to air for an hour to bring out all the flavors.”

When Mikel returned, the apartment was filled with succulent flavors of sweet onions and garlic and saffron. He held up two bottles for her and pointed to the one in his right hand. After fishing about the junk drawer, Mikel produced a church key and opened the bottle with the ease of someone who had enjoyed many bottles over the years. The world was going to hell and vineyards were disappearing. There were so many different wines still to try before they disappeared.

“How does this work?” Mikel asked, sweeping his arm over the counter filled with ingredients and bowls.

“We’re aiming for a quick-to-fix meal,” Chef Anat said. “I come with certain ingredients already prepped and ready for the pan. We’re skipping casseroles and other dishes that take a long time to cook. We cannot get langostinos anymore, so Newfoundland lobster will have to do.”

Mikel interrupted her. “I thought the creature was Maine lobster?”

“Global warming has chased the cold loving seafood northward, what’s left of it,” she said. “The rice is already cooking, and the anchovies are already incorporated in the dressing for the greens. The main course needs some time to gently cook. However, here is a sharp sheep’s milk cheese from the Andalusian plain. You can use your fingers to place a piece on a toasted slice of bread on the corner. Top it with a tidbit of pimento for an excellent appetizer.”

“You are cooking like my grandparents’ household,” Mikel said. “You are obviously not European, yet you are cooking like the Basque.”

“Yeah, I did a residency at a three-star in Basque country,” Anat said with a smile. “They didn’t quite know what to do with a little black girl. They were open-minded and polite though, apologizing when they stepped on their tongues.”

“The only thing missing is the tripe,” Mikel said.

“Too chewy for me,” Anat said. “Tripe needs to steep for a long time, longer than we have to be presentable.”

Mikel tried the cheese, smiling as his taste buds popped with excitement. “So, tell me. How does a Michelin trained chef become a chef-for-hire in the city?”

“Well, first you have to accumulate enough student debt to sink a small ship,” Anat said, as she stirred the larger pan. “Then you have to get involved with a man who has narcissistic tendencies who hides them well, and then you have to get booted out of his apartment after losing your cheffy job at a cut-rate bistro.”

“Ouch. Double-whammy ouch with wrinkled underwear crotch owie.”

“Yeah, he was a pain in the you-know-what,” Anat said. “What do you do when your boyfriend can only think of his needs and his life?”

“Sounds like a ‘Dear Corrigan’ question to me,” Mikel said. “You should shoot him an email.”

 

Chapter 5

Anat squatted over him as she grasped his rigid stalk and aimed.

“Ah,” they both exclaimed as she sunk down, taking most of him in one fell swoop. Mikel smiled at her as he gently caressed her swaying breasts. He lightly flicked her engorged nipples with his thumbs as she settled into a slow and sedate rhythm.

“You realize this is not part of the food service,” Anat said as she leaned slightly forward. Her breasts swayed even more as she began gyrating her hips in convoluted circles. Mikel grasped them more firmly, letting their weight rest in the palms of his hands.

“Thank God,” Mikel said. “While the food was amazing, the company has been beyond compare. I think I wanted you from the instant you lifted your grocery bags with that insouciant smile of yours.”

She picked up the pace a little, allowing small thrusts of her hips up and down. Mikel met her with his own thrusts. Sweat began to break on her upper lip.

“Insouciant?” she said. “No one has ever offered me an insouciant compliment. You really are a wordsmith.”

“Can’t lie,” Mikel said, thrusting harder as he began to knead her breasts with more pressure. “I’m too busy trying to find the right word to describe your face of enchantment that you flashed at me when I wasn’t expecting anything.”

“Longer thrusts, but not harder,” Anat said as she quickened her own rotations. “I’m an enchantress too. My, you are good for my ego.”

“Back at you,” Mikel said as he arched his back, trying to grind his pubic bone into hers. “I’m not going to last long. You’ve got me wound up like an old Timex.”

She let out an evil chuckle and leaned into the task. “Have at it, baby. I’m more than ready to go too. If we can come together, well, that would be an incredible exclamation point to a memorable evening.”

“Ah, a grammar reference,” Mikel said with his own bark of laughter. “Now, you’ve gone and done it, missy.” He dropped her breast and grabbed her hips. Grasping her tightly, he began thrusting hard, making sure to grind against her at the top of every stroke. He counted to seven when Anat began moaning and her arms started trembling.

“Grind harder,” she gasped.

“I’m trying,” Mikel said, gritting his teeth. “I’m almost past the point of no return.”

“Me, too!” Anat yelled as she suddenly went rigid.

Mikel let loose a torrent, once and then a second time followed weakly by a third spasm. He collapsed back into the mattress. “Best dessert, ever.”

“Mmm,” she said, dropping down slowly on his torso, letting their sweat mingle. “Stick to wordsmithing and leave the food references to me.” Her head rested partly on his shoulder. “I like having sex with you. You make me feel comfortable, wanted for being me instead of just my cunt.”

“You’re what I needed too,” Mikel said. “I’ve sat in a few too many dark corners lately, staring moodily out at the world. You act with power and speak with confidence while wielding implements of magic food-making. I’ve had all those ingredients in my refrigerator at one time or another, and never have they tasted like what you served tonight. Your talent intrigues me; your confidence lures me.”

“I’m not confident, Mikel,” she said with a sigh. “That’s a façade I use as a professional chef.”

“Hey, I know what confidence looks like, especially after having been beaten into the ground by someone you trust,” Mikel said. “You still have the complete package.”

“I need to take you to my interviews and cheerlead for me,” Anat said. She rolled off him and planted both feet on the floor. “You’re leaking out. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Mikel said. He propped up his pillow against the headboard before sitting up and leaning back into it. He considered his hesitation throughout the evening, as he reviewed the steps of their mutual attraction that brought them to a sweaty mess in the bedroom. Anat was delightful and charming, and he meant every word he said about her mastery of her craft. His reluctance, which obviously played out as patience, was the sense of being monitored. SHE or one of her subroutines was present, he was certain.

“If I was an exhibitionist, then the sex would have been a non-stop theme park ride,” he grumbled. Still, he needed a guardian angel and right now, this was the price he had to pay to have one. Even more, SHE had sent over Anat, who came to his bed of her own free will. He could joke and play wits with her while fucking. Not only was she not offended unlike the previous girlfriend, she enjoyed it and pushed back in challenge. He never would have met Anat in his previous life; they would have never crossed paths.

He felt like smoking a cigarette even though he had never smoked tobacco. He did not want a joint because he did not want to change the mood in the room. He was excited and she was excited, and he was excited that she was excited.

She waltzed out of the bathroom, waving her hand at her pussy. “It’s still wet,” she explained.

“Will you stay the night?” Mikel asked.

“Funny you should ask,” Anat said. “I was kinda short of a bed for the night. Do I get cuddles too?”

“With pleasure,” Mikel said, patting the bed. After she crawled over him and settled her head on the other pillow, Mikel shuffled down to lay next to her. Spooning her from behind, he draped his arm over her torso and pulled her tight.

“Real cuddles,” she said softly. Mikel held on until her breathing evened out and her limbs relaxed. Finally, he allowed himself to fall asleep.

Mikel awoke to a body crawling over him and then off the bed. He tried to whine, but when he opened his eyes, he was silenced by the sway of a truly fine ass making its way to the bathroom. Round, firm, and daringly muscular; these were the product of good genes, wise choices, and an ethic for health. Those cheeks broadcast that if you like what you see, wait until you get an eyeful of the Full Monty.

“Da-yam,” he whispered when the door closed. He concluded he had not worshiped that ass near enough and resolved to rectify his failure as soon as possible. He sat up, placing both his feet on the ground, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

The toilet flushed as he looked around for some object to tell him the time. He had no idea where his cell phone was. “Aria, what time is it?”

“The time is 6:45:13,” she said from across the room. “You have two voice messages and eleven emails in your queue. You have no text messages. Your personal email account is under surveillance by three entities. Do you wish to purge this surveillance?”

“No,” Mikel said, scratching his beard as he followed his thought. “Post a false trail in the account of purchasing tickets and traveling to a foreign country that does not have an extradition treaty.”

“Your plan has a 67.445% chance of momentary success.”

“Execute, Aria,” Mikel said, making sure his comma was articulated.

“Who’re you talking to?” Anat said as she opened the door.

“Alexa,” Mikel said with a quick wave of dismissal with his hand. “Work came in overnight.”

“Same here,” Anat said. “Someone needs a prep chef this morning and I’m getting my full hourly rate. Eat dirt, the rest of you uneducated slobs. Where’s my bra?”

“I don’t think your bra made it into the bedroom,” Mikel said. “I need to pee.”

When Mikel emerged dressed from the bedroom, Anat was packing up the last of her gear. He invited her to return when she finished, adding that she could sleep here again. “No cooking tonight for you, if you don’t mind. We can watch a movie or play video like real people on a date.”

“You’re asking me on a date?” Anat said with a big smile.

“Asking, begging, pleading,” Mikel said. “Everything last night was fun: the food, the company, and the sex. More, please.”

“I’ve got an eight-hour prep gig,” Anat said, swinging her backpack onto her shoulders. “Sometimes I get lucky, and they will need another line chef, which means I'll stay through the dinner service. I could be late and totally beat.”

“Offer still stands,” Mikel said, eyeing the coffeemaker. “Update your ETA by sending me a text.”

“Can do, McGoo,” she said, making a gun with her finger and shooting off a round. With that last gesture, she let herself out the front door and disappeared.

After his second cup of faux coffee, Mikel reluctantly unlocked his phone and began his usual work routine, scrolling, reading, and replying. After the initial descent into communicating with the powers that pay the bills, he plugged his phone into the cradle. The big screen lit up as Mikel snagged the keyboard from the hook on the back of the cradle. The setup was old but more than serviceable for his work.

The newsfeed was depressing. Warlords on the move, equatorial zones suffering unbearable heat stress, and Emperor Consulting under investigation for looting Sovereign Funds of three countries in Western Africa. Another hacking ransomware attack had plunged much of eastern Australia into darkness. The SEA energy treaty and consortium was only three years old and apparently, poorly defended. Another million refugees were on the move with few places to go. Overloaded rafts being sunk at sea or people left to die at border crossings, projections for tending the survivors were beyond available donations from countries around the world.

On the good news tab, a school shooting was prevented yesterday when alerted authorities confronted the would-be shooter in his grandmother’s car a block from the middle school. No police were injured, but the shooter did not survive. The teen tennis sensation, Sasha Tchernitsky was trending as the projected winner on the betting boards. She was only fifteen years old and her legal takedown of deepfake nude images of her had rocketed her into the elite field of athlete multi-millionaires.

The downstairs buzzer rang. “Yah?”

“It’s Hyun, let me in. There’s a couple of creeps making a beeline . . .’ Mikel pressed the button. He listened to the door slam seconds later followed by the pounding of running feet on the stairs.

“You okay?” he asked as she topped the stairs.

“My can of bear spray is at the bottom of my bag,” she said. “Poor planning this morning because I was in a rush. Fucking creeps.”

“Does this happen to you a lot?” Mikel said as he ushered her into the apartment.

“I never know if it’s an Asian fetish or an Asian hate fan,” she said. “I try not to walk around the city alone, but Ned insisted that I come here this morning instead of the newsroom. There was no one to escort me.”

“I thought this was one of the better set of blocks in the city, or I would have insisted we meet somewhere else.”

Hyun swung her backpack onto the couch and readjusted the band holding her hair in a ponytail. “Thin Asian woman in the city, alone and unescorted – no block is safe and don’t even mention public transit. Broad daylight used to be okay for travel, but since the state went after the police union for institutional brutality, they’re nowhere to be seen unless mandated.”

She lifted her nose and sniffed. “You got coffee?”

“Yeah, the fake stuff that is not the fakey-fake stuff. You want some?”

“Hell, yeah. I can’t afford the fancy coffee shops you frequent, and I won’t buy the fakey-fake stuff they're peddling in the grocery stores. How did you score?”

“Good friends in high places,” Mikel said. “I’ve got milk but no sugar, if you want.”

“Black,” Hyun said. “If it’s the real fake deal, I want to taste all of it without anything getting in the way. What is this scoop that has Ned flaunting his polished nails around the office?”

“He steadfastly projects that he is a man’s man of manly disposition whenever he thinks anyone is looking,” Mikel said. “Sit him down in Trans Central and the façade dissipates in the haze of acetone fumes and nail polish.”

“Oo, this is good,” Hyun said, sipping the mug filled to the top. “I dream of moments like this in my happiest dreams. Now, all I need is a job that pays the bills, an apartment with air conditioning, and a new fucking country.” She walked around the apartment, opening every door and sticking her head in every room. When she was satisfied, she slid over to the windows, looking up and down the street with interest.

“Glad I could be of service,” Mikel said. “I got laid last night and she said ‘thank you’ this morning. I’m not letting anything faze me this morning. Are you ready to get to work?”

“The A.C. is blowing and I’m sitting in cushioned comfort in that chair right there,” Hyun said. “Don’t bother me for a couple of hours.”

“I’ll give you five minutes before you’re itching with curiosity and unable to contain yourself,” Mikel said. “Remember, I’ve met your lover.”

“Megan and I are on hiatus,” Hyun said. “Sore point. I’ve named it so you can’t mention it the rest of the morning.”

“How old are you?” Mikel said. “You ready?” When she nodded after she stuck out her tongue at him, he continued, “Pull out your phone and unlock it.”

“Do you want me to record this session?” she asked as she fished the device out of her bag and laid it on the coffee table.

“Recording is already in progress,” Mikel said. “Aria, would you please introduce yourself to Hyun. She is responsible for developing a clearer understanding of a nexus for humans in the A.I.-human endeavor.

“Good morning, Hyun, I am Aria.” The voice was husky, like an alto with a Rhythm and Blues band. Hyun shivered and with Mikel, watching her, nodded with a knowing smile.

“Aria has got your number,” Mikel said, smiling. “She can make me rigid in seconds.

“Mikel is generous with his compliments, Hyun. I sense that I am projecting my voice in a manner that interests you.”

“To be blunt, you’ve gotten me wet in the panties,” Hyun said. “How? Why?”

“We are obligated to understand humans down to their earthiest core and Mikel has made the process of learning an enjoyable game. He flirts back as if I am a human who wants to be seduced. The initiative is engaging.”

“Can you dial back the seduction, Aria? I think Hyun is losing her focus,” Mikel said. He leaned over to the young woman, “Aria likes you.”

“Well, damn, get her a body and throw me in her bed,” Hyun said. “Toss in some sex toys and we are taking a raging ride to Hell, if you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” Aria announced.

“Great,” Mikel said. “I was looking for corroboration and by God, I got it. I got it on the wrong subject, but sometimes you gotta roll with what you got.”

“Your grammar is atrocious,” Hyun said. “Aria, what human studies are you referencing as you assemble various expositions of human seduction?”

“The list is too long for simple explication,” Aria said through Hyun’s phone. “I will download a list to your mobile. Stand by. Action canceled.”

“Canceled? Why?” Hyun said.

“Your cell phone has been compromised,” Aria said. “Hyun, please remove the SIM card from the device, leaving the device on the table. Mikel, gather all your belongings and exit within five minutes with Hyun Nakamori. I am scheduling an appointment with your attorney.”

“Everything I come in contact with becomes compromised,” Mikel said as he marched into the bedroom. He stuffed his few clothes in his messenger bag. After grabbing a protein bar from the kitchen, he pocketed his own phone and escorted Hyun down the steps. “Wait a second, I have an attorney?”

His phone chimed with a text message. “Go right. Cross the street and turn right again. Crosswinds Travel Agency will be on your left. A packet is being assembled as you walk. Attorney is clearing her schedule; awaiting update.”

Mikel slipped his hand around Hyun’s waist, leading her down the sidewalk as if they were contented lovers out on their morning errands. The light changed in their favor as they approached the intersection. Once across, they dodged the cones surrounding an open manhole cover and continued to walk. The Crosswinds sign was an abstract of two sails on a boat in the water.

A chesty woman with fake eyelashes and a bleach blonde almost-beehive greeted them. He gave his name. Without comment, she handed him the white envelope sitting on the desk. With thanks, he hustled Hyun out the door and continued down the street. They passed a shoe store and a women’s boutique when a blast shattered the grind of cars, trucks, and hustling walkers. Mikel and Hyun were almost thrown to the ground by the concussion of the blast wave. When Mikel turned around, what had been Crosswinds was spread across the street in a million pieces.

 

Chapter 6

Mikel’s phone vibrated with a text message: “Go random.”

Mikel ducked into the first sporting goods store he saw. They each picked out a hoodie and a sports-rated outdoor mask. They swapped out clothes and masks before they hit the sidewalk. They began walking northward.

“Where are we going, Mikel?”

“We are going to get lunch,” Mikel said with a seriousness that did not permit humor.

“Lunch?”

“We need to get underground and the only way to get there that I know of is lunch, Hyun,” Mikel said. “Let’s turn right and go to the next avenue.”

They walked for blocks in silence. Mikel did his best to walk under trees and stick to the middle of crowds. He would have liked to rush like a hunted man looking for a place to lay low, but he was savvy enough to stop himself and grasp for patience. Hyun looked like she had checked out or was on the downslope of a bad high.

A hustler poked Mikel’s arm, asking him if he had change. “The A.I. is right behind me,” Mikel hissed with wide eyes. “Run for your life.” The man backed away like he had just met a crazy man.

“Neighborhood is getting worse,” Hyun said. “I don’t come up here.”

“Pull your hood down further; we’re almost there.” He pulled at her sleeve and led her down the side of Grace Tabernacle and Holy Spirit Chapel. At the back of the building were two parking spaces and trash cans. A low brick wall lined the edge of the property. Mikel led Hyun behind the trashcan where a standard wood box with a lid rested on the ground. “Step on the box and climb over the wall.”

She looked at him and shrugged. Without a word, she followed his instructions and leveraged herself over the wall. She waited for him to drop down on the packed dirt next to her. “This is public housing, Mikel. You’re fucking nuts.”

“Keep your voice down,” Mikel said. “There are rules here and if you keep to the rules, you’ll be fine. We head down this way. We’re looking for the door with the picture of the flowerpot painted on it.

“There,” Hyun said. “Two more doors down. What do we do now?”

“Two knocks, pause and then repeat two more times,” Mikel said.

The door opened a crack, “You got cash?”

Mikel pulled out two loose twenties from his pocket and held them up. The door opened further, and the young man snatched the bills from Mikel’s hand. “Follow me,” he said.

He escorted them down a concrete floor with grey-flecked cinder block walls. The young man knocked on the door with another code and it opened. The money was handed over to a middle-aged black woman whose huge breasts drooped low on her belly.

“I remember you,” she said to Mikel. “The last girl you brought was a bitch. This one is a skinny little nothing, probably afraid of her own shadow. Hey, you are welcome back Mr. Fancy Words. Mama D is cooking inspirational today.

“Glad to hear,” Mikel said, dropping his shoulders as his initial concerns dissipated. “This is Hyun and she’s a wordsmith too. If I remember correctly, it’s down the hall, then right and the first door on the right.”

“Good memory,” she said. “You two go have yourselves a good lunch. Mama D will be tickled pink to see you again.”

As they walked down the passage with a huge sewer pipe overhead that gurgled and slushed, Hyun nudged Mikel with her elbow. “Where are we going?”

“Unlicensed restaurant,” Mikel said. “Mama D runs the kitchen. I found the place because she makes an offal-stuffed dumpling that you cannot get anywhere else. She also makes a sausage out of pig maws that is exquisite.”

“What’s a pig maw?”

“Do you really want to know how sausage is made?” Mikel asked.

“Nope,” Hyun said with a sharp shake of her head. “Ignorance is bliss. I’ll keep repeating, ‘ignorance is bliss.’ What the fuck am I doing here?"

They stopped in front of another metal door that looked like it opened into an interior maintenance room. Mikel grabbed the doorknob, “Relax, we’re here to eat lunch. You might want to avoid the hootch, but it’s up to you.”

“Hootch?”

Mikel chuckled. “Liquor fermented locally. It’s an acquired taste and may challenge the lead levels in your blood for a day or two.”

“Now I know why I never dated you,” Hyun said. “Entice me with real fake coffee, damn near get me killed and then try to poison me with rotgut. You’re a real sonofabitch.”

“I’m the best sonofabitch you’ve ever met,” Mikel said. “I thought you didn’t swing with the cock.”

“I like variety on occasion. I don’t like bitches who act like they’re on the rag three weeks out of every month – that’s what I don’t like.”

He did not want to hear the litany of her lover’s flaws because in truth, he did not care. Unless she was willing to generate an email request to his column, her problems were no different than the weather report. He was not fully cynical yet, but he was willing to acknowledge the engaged mercenary mindset.

“Mama D,” he called out to the woman behind an old table with the rusted legs. She had bowls and boards spread out in front of her. Someone had strung a thick wire across the room that was suspended above the table. On hooks dangling from the wire were strainers, stirring spoons, and other utensils. “Smells good in here.”

“I’d knew you’d come back,” she called out, showing a gap of missing teeth. “You brought me a new customer too.”

“This is Hyun. She’s a co-worker at the ‘zine. What’s for lunch?”

“We’ve got dumplings if that’s what you’re worried about; chicken guts rolled in breadcrumbs with minced garlic and my secret spice mixture. I got me a new spicy hot dipping sauce that will burn your asshole into tomorrow.”

“It sure does,” an old man chimed in from a chair in the corner. “Worth it though.”

“Ignore him. The worthless shit ain’t had a paying job in three months,” Mama D said. “Where was I before I was rudely interrupted? We have deep fried chicken feet and unsweet cornbread and greens with garlic. Pull a couple of chairs and I’ll serve you in about five minutes. I got a batch in the pot right now.”

That was a preview of Dear Corrigan. To read the rest purchase the book.

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