The Horrors of the Futuregraph part I

# # #



The Horrors of the Futuregraph

A NaNoWriMo 2011 science fiction project



50,000 words, 30 days, minor corrections. Bound to be mistakes, I make no apologies ;) Revisions to come (much) later!!



# # #



____’s retinal clock blinked 4:00 am. Microscopic nanomachines sent vibrations along her ear lobe – a soundless alarm. She groaned and shifted in bed. The tingling continued until she could no longer tolerate it. She slowly opened her eyes. The dead weight of an arm across her waist told her ______ was still lying in her bed. She pushed his arm away and pivoted from under the heavy blankets.

The room was dark. She reached out and touched her lamp and lit the room with soft purple light. The lamp and bulb were old; her boyfriend would call it a ‘relic.’ The bulb flickered and dimmed as she rose to her closet. ______’s snores made her irritated. She made a mental note to tell him how unhappy she was. Tonight, then. She knew he’d keep sleeping. He had nowhere else to go today. If she was lucky, he’d tidy up the mess he made of her apartment.

Her apartment was cold this morning. She concentrated on her irritation to take her mind off the cold and shuffled through her closet. She couldn’t remember the last time she had done laundry that actually included her own clothes, but she knew she had a pressed shirt. Somewhere. She cursed softly beneath her breath and shimmed in to a black dress shirt and slacks.

The calendar on the wall by her front door read November 11th. Friday. She breathed a sigh of relief. One more day at the office and she’d have the whole weekend to deal with _______’s drama. Was it really 2084? Had she been with _______ for a year now? They had met on New Year’s Eve, so a little less than a year. She shook her head. Eleven months and he still never got that job. He told her – lied to her – month after jobless month. No more.

A small whine came from the darkness and she gave a sad smile. She would miss Princess. ___man___’s two year old Pit bull mix wagged a tail at her.

“Goodbye, Princess. I’ll see you tonight.” She left the dog to an empty apartment and irritating snores. Tonight, it would all change. _______ would change.

She paused before opening the door. A picture illuminated on her apartment wall next to her calendar. The picture was always a little fuzzy, but it was clearly _____ when she was a little older. The number on the birthday cake gave it away, as she was fairly certain a “2” had fallen off the ‘27,’ and not a ‘37.’ She didn’t look that much older. She was sitting in her same living room, laughing. A mirror reflection in the photograph showed ______ was taking the picture. Princess was in her lap with a pink birthday hat eating a piece of birthday cake. The ‘2’ had probably fallen off but the ‘7’ still held on for dear life.

It was a picture from a birthday that hadn’t happened yet. The Futuregraph had displayed that same Future Photograph © since last New Year’s when she had met _______. A few months ago, it would have made her smile. Now, it made her stomach turn. She tapped the screen to dim the predictive image. She’d deal with it later. Sometimes, she thought, technology is too good to be true. She locked the door and left for work.

The walk from her apartment to the vehicle bay was just slightly colder than inside. Outside the reinforced metal doors, she dug a plastic identification badge and swiped it against the surface. The doors responded to her information and opened. She stood, waiting. Like clockwork, her teal colored pod slide to a stop and opened a door for her. She slid in to the heated seat.

“Good morning, ______. Coffee?” She smiled. She had programmed her pod’s voice system to have a British accent.

“Yes, please. Order from Big Dog Coffee. One white chocolate caramel mocha. Hot.” She waited as the pod strapped her in. A happy sounding bell chimed against her ear and the pod responded.

“Ordering now. Your bank card will be debited. Voice password required.”

“Moondancer.” The pod was silent. The inside of her teal Nissan 2,700Z was dark. Soft ambient light lit up the interior as her favorite internet radio station began to play.

“Destination?” The pod knew the answer, and it sounded amused.

“Work.” The system needed no further instructions. ______ relaxed in her chair and double-checked her safety straps. The pod rumbled to a start. As the pod made its way down hundreds of stories of her hive-apartment complex, it passed countless sleeping” vehicle pods slowly waking up. It was pitch black when she started but she knew by the time she made it to the on-ramp the sun would have raised. The pod stopped and a familiar face peered down at her.

“Here’s your fancy coffee, _____. You gonna put a tip in there for me?” The woman smiled. She asked every day; and every day, _____ did.

“As long as you keep making a great cup of coffee.” She returned the smile, though she was still preoccupied. She wrapped her hands around the insulated cup.

“Have a good day at work! See you on Monday.” The pod lurched forward and two years of practice kept _____ from spilling her hot mocha in her lap. The two women had the same basic conversation for the last two years; although, on rough mornings, they’d share some friendly chatter. Encouragement, an extra cookie on the side, or an extra tip. The barista was always in a good mood and sometimes, _____ needed that first cup of coffee more than anything.

#

______ was a bustling metropolis. In the fifty years that Futuregraph LLC., had opened their doors, the city had been transformed. Skyscrapers from the early 2000’s gave way to the hive-cities made possible by the Futuregraph Corporation. The industry made _______ a world landmark. ______ had lived here her entire life. She had traveled outside the hive-city, but either work or home had always eventually returned her to ________.

Technological advancements made the world transform out of necessity. The Identity Theft War (ITW) from 2021 to 2025, which compromised the identities of billions of people across the globe, rewrote what it meant to have an “identity.” _______s own mother was a victim and since her entire, paranoid generation, nothing had ever been the same. So many people’s personal information was stolen, sold and falsified by a series of endless, relentless hacker exploits that the world simply could not recover. Consumer credit and lives were completely destroyed. Social security numbers, birthdays, names and even historic genealogy were compromised.

Newborn babies from ______s generation were “chipped” at birth – implanted with the new identity technology as a foolproof system against theft. Not unlike the same tracking microchips employed in the early 2000’s in millions of pets across America. The babies, at least, had a secured and guaranteed identity.

The entire world’s system of identification was reset and rebuilt. The technology that made the recovery possible came from a private military corporation – Futuregraph LLC. The information did not come without a price, however. The cost of recovery was obtainable by all and, with time, the world recovered. The feeling of utter violation, however, did not.

Some groups went so far as swearing off technology all together. They became the laughing stock of Generation-Theft.

#

The pod moved rapidly through the streets of _____. This early in the morning, she was lucky to miss most of the rush hour traffic, even on a Friday.

Her pod screen displayed a message in blue text across her vision: Three missed transmissions.

“Play transmissions.” Her voice was short; she knew she sounded irritated. Again.

“C’mon, answer. The Futuregraph Photo © in the living room is freaking out. Call me back.” The voice belonged to _____. He sounded worried.

“Delete. Play next transmission.” The vehicle rumbled as it shifted tracks to board the Skyline Track.

“_______, why don’t you ever pick up your pod receiver? I paid good money to have that damn thing installed—“

“Pause.” The message stopped playing. “Delete. Suspend transmissions.” She could not stand when he brought up money. They both knew damn well the only money he brought in was from government assistance, and she knew her pod receiver was an aftermarket rip off. Good money… she scoffed. She decided to ignore the messages. If she needed to get upset later, she’d listen to them.

She tried to take her mind off _____ and listened to the radio. She stared out the darkened window of the pod as it raced along the streets, being driven by the advanced computer system. She was simply a passenger. Her pod drove her to the destination and would park in her registered spot at the parking garage.

One thing that modern technology still could not solve was the walk from the parking garage to the company’s actual offices. It was a brisk morning and she would enjoy the brief time outdoors. The pod arrived at her final destination and parked.

“We have arrived. Safety belts disengaging now.” The straps around her waist and chest slackened and withdrew in to the vehicle. The door swung open and she climbed out, balancing her drink in one hand and her identification badge in the other. Standing on the cement curve, she swiped her badge against the surface of the pod and locked the security system. The pod would not move from the registered spot until she returned at the end of her shift.

She rushed from the parking garage and joined the swarm of other workers who were filling the streets. Her anxiety spiked as she began bumping in to strangers, feeling rushed and helpless. Luckily, she turned down an open side-street and started to relax. The double-doors to her office building were straight ahead. Out of habit, she dusted off her shirt and slacks.

The double doors opened automatically when they detected her approach. The first room was staffed by four security guards who sat staring at computer monitors. On either side were entrance doors with metal detectors, electronic detection devices and the newest machine – something provided by Futuregraph ©. She dug in her purse for her employee identification badge and pressed it against the glass. She began stepping towards the door she expected to open automatically.

A red light put the entire room in a sinister light. A high pitched alarm sounded once and the light disappeared. The four security guards seemed just as startled as she was. She frowned and looked to the nearest man. His name was David; he was close to her age and had started working the front desk just after she was hired on. He shrugged and motioned for her to try again.

The red light lit up the room again.

“What’s going on?” The guards turned and talked amongst themselves. The glass kept any noise from coming through. David turned to her and pressed a button. His voice came over the loud speaker.

“The system doesn’t recognize your I.D.; you know the protocol. We can’t let you enter the building unless you’ve been identified.”

Her frown turned in to raised eyebrows. She looked at David then to the other security guards – all of whom knew her. She’d drank with three of the four, David included, after their shifts and the company Christmas party. David at least knew her by name, but all four had seen her badge in through the front door. She had never heard of an identification badge that didn’t work.

“David, seriously?” She looked at him through the glass, then to the clock display. She had ten minutes to make it upstairs before she was late.

“I’ve got another badge here, it’s my temporary one. Let me try that one.” She searched in her purse and pulled out another badge. The red light flashed again. David turned to talk to the other guards again and they shook their heads.

“I’m sorry, _____. It’s a first for us, too, but the company policy says we can’t let you in. You’ll have to head down to the Identification Bureau and have your badge reissued.”

What the hell? She bit her tongue. She knew it wasn’t their fault, but she didn’t want to be late for work, either. She decided to give it one more try.

“C’mon, David. You saw me, the last four days. I badged in just fine, every day. What else can I use? I’ve got my pod license here, and my Futuregraph © issued badge that should be working just fine. You know me, you know I didn’t get fired or anything. What’s the big deal?” The guard gave a helpless shrug.

“Head down to the Bureau and get this sorted out. I’m sure it’ll be a quick fix.”

She knew company protocol; she had heard rumors of badges being rejected or pod interference wiping out the Futuregraph © information. What a terrible way to start her Friday and weekend, though. She’s was going to be late for work.

#

The mass of people crowding the streets had only increased while _____ was waiting to enter the building. The weather display above the hive-city buildings was just starting to simulate the rising sun. Automated sunlight, regulated by an unseen glass barrier over the city, allowed just enough light to sustain the populace. _____ had only seen the “unregulated sun” when she travelled outside for business or a rare vacation.

The risk of skin cancer and sun related diseases had dropped dramatically since the implementation, so most people didn’t bother to deal with the “real” environment. Compromised identity was the tip of the paranoia iceberg that also extended to not trusting the environment. Over the years it became common place for most American families to stay indoors or inside the perceived safety of the hive-cities.

There were mornings like today when the weather control simulator was a little brisker than she would have liked. Apparently keeping the weather cooler saved the city millions of dollars for a few degrees difference; like removing one olive from airplane drinks and saving airline companies a fortune. _____ wished they’d spend the extra money and raise the temperature a little earlier.

____ was thankful she lived in _____, since she knew cities like Neo-Jersey and Neo-Chicago were covered in actual snow this time of year. Their hive-cities didn’t have the budget to pull off an entire weather simulation program.

The weather system was yet another “miracle” from the Futuregraph Corporation.

_____ took one last look at David and took a deep breath. She stepped out from behind the reinforced double doors and back in to the chaos of the automated city. She reached in to her purse and found her datapad. The transparent blue glass reflected her agitated gaze. She tapped the screen and her Futuregraph © chip activated. Her datapad showed her exact GPS location on the street. With all the extra noise, she knew the voice commands would be useless. She remembered there was an Identification Bureau office close by. She tapped the screen again and typed out her search query: _____ Identification Bureau.

The waited for the screen to load. The screen flashed red with a message: “No records found.” She frowned again. She ignored the message in the top right corner: 4 unread messages. She knew who they were from.

“Guess I’ll have to do this the old fashioned way.” She muttered to herself. She scanned the crowd for someone who looked like they weren’t preoccupied. When everyone appeared busy, she chose her next favorite option: attraction. She spotted two young Japanese women who were leaning over a shared datapad. She estimated their late twenties and took a moment to admire their beauty.

She approached them and bowed awkwardly. This part always made her nervous. She had only made up an excuse to talk to a few women in her life, but this was the first time she honestly needed help. She tried not to blush. One woman wore slim fitting black pants and a glittery top with big hoop earrings. The other, who appeared a little older, wore sensible slacks and a button up blouse. Both had their hair long and bound in the back. They could easily both have been business women.

“Excuse me—“ she spoke slowly and loudly to overcome the noise of the crowd. The young women looked up, then looked at each other. They exchanged words and shook their head apologetically at her.

“Zannen watashi ha rikai shinai..” The woman in the business wear shook her head as she spoke. _____ nodded and held up a hand, indicating for them to wait. She typed some information on her datapad and turned it towards them. The younger woman spoke excitedly as she looked at the screen. She spoke to the other women; they nodded and typed something in to _____’s datapad. The datapad had accessed their personal Futuregraph © implants, with their permission.

The datapad spoke: “Translation software activated.” It spoke again, this time in Japanese: “Honyaku sofutouea katsudouteki.” The women both nodded. _____ couldn’t help but smile. The datapad would now translate anything the three women spoke in to their relevant language.

“Thank you. May I ask you directions?” She waited, listening as the datapad repeated the information to the two women. They nodded again and spoke.

“Yes, of course.” The datapad even gave the English translation a relevant – and, she had to admit, cute – Japanese accent.

“I’m looking for the closest Identification Bureau. My datapad seems to be having some troubles locating it. Can you point me in the right direction?” The three women moved out of the bustling crowd to a quieter spot on the street. They talked amongst themselves.

“I think there is one just down on 51st and Celestine..” The woman with the glittery top remarked. She tapped her cheek with one long fingernail in thought. The business woman seemed to agree.

“Yes, I think Li is right. It should just be a few blocks—“ she turned in mid sentence while the datapad continued to translate. She put her hand up to her eyes, blocking out the simulated sunlight.

“Keep following this street down, it will turn in to Celestine and will be on the right.”

_____ gave them both thankful smiles. She hesitated only for a moment, then reached in to her purse. She found two spare business cards and handed them to each of the women.

“My datapad number is here. Give me a call if you want a drink, I owe you both a favor.” She felt her cheeks flush red and took the opportunity to grin sheepishly and disappear in to the crowd. She didn’t turn around to risk the two women looking at her with confused faces. She hoped the datapad translated her parting words correctly, even if the true meaning was lost. She had a little more skip in her step as she moved down the street towards the Bureau. She finished her mocha and tossed the empty container in a recycling bin. She could see the Identification Bureau sign and realized she was just a block away.

The datapad displayed: 5 unread messages. She felt her mouth twitch slightly in to a smile. She touched the screen just to see a preview of the latest message. The Identification code was local to _____ and included a picture. The first few lines made her blush and she recognized it as the Japanese business woman from earlier. The message indicated that, yes, she would in fact like that drink. A lot, apparently. She closed the message and put her datapad back in her purse. She’d send Miss Li a message after the Identification Bureau visit. Maybe I’ll even have a date for Satur—-her thoughts were disrupted by a loud crash and screaming.

The crowd that lined Celestine Street scattered with surprised screams and shouts. Smoke filled the air and _____ stumbled to a halt. Her ears were ringing from the blast and people started to panic and run in every direction. From the smoke appeared three large figures. The smoke swirled around and stayed close to the group. _____ moved backwards, away from the source of the chaos, trying her best not to get slammed in to by one of the other pedestrians. Her lungs inhaled the smoke and she coughed violently and covered her mouth with her blouse sleeve. The grit made her eyes sting and water.

The figures seemed to turn and look directly at _____. Her heart started to pound in her chest. She clutched her purse for dear life and tried to back away. As they approached, their details became clearer. She realized they were all men – large, very large – and wore business suits that were impeccable aside from the recent debris. Her head whipped around to look at what caused the explosion. She saw a vehicle pod had ran up and over the tracks and the doors had been thrown open. The back door was emitting the smoke that was helping to hide the strangers.

The three continued to move towards her. They effortlessly tossed panicked men and women aside who crossed their paths. A middle aged man in a dusty suit tried to swing his suitcase up after being pushed him aside. The briefcase connected squarely its target but the middle aged man seemed more damaged by the impact. ____ watched as the man seemed to crumple. She thought his wrist might have broken.

The man who had been hit with the briefcase paused only a moment to look down at the man who was now cursing and howling in pain, clutching his wrist. _____ blinked away the tears from the dust and tried to focus on the two men who were approaching her. She could see now they were wearing some type of medical mask, probably to protect themselves from the smoke. The other man, who wore a different colored mask, was sneering down at his victim. The two men approached, flanking her on either side.

The screaming started to die down and she could hear distant sirens. She tried hard to swallow the fear. Her hands were starting to hurt from the strength of gripping her purse. She had backed up enough that she had hit a metal wall – a shop on Celestine Street was against her back.

“______, you’re coming with us.” The two men moved to grab her arms. She twisted out of their grip and dove to the side. She heard one man’s fist slam in to the wall. She hit the ground and tried to get up. As she turned to check on the men, she turned just in time to see one of the men pull back his fist. His hand impacted her jaw and she heard a distinct cracking sound before her vision went red and then black.

#

On the very top floor of the Futuregraph LLC © building, the owner sat rigid in her chair. The years had been kind to her – well, years and mass amounts of biochemical treatments. She looked amazing for 87. She did, in fact, look no older than 47; the age when she received the biochemical implants that stopped her aging process.

The limitations of mortality had, for the time being, been suspended for the people that could afford it. Anne _____ was one such person; it was only logical, since she herself developed the technology.

Anne _____ was an entrepreneur, a philanthropist and a miracle to the scientific world. She was also one of the richest people in the world she literally built from the ground up. She was a college graduate with multiple degrees at the age of 28. She founded Futuregraph LLC © and swooped in to rescue a confused, broken world from the brink of a total meltdown. She made only one rule for providing the technology: her formulas were to be shared with no one.

The world had little choice. Futuregraph © technology was released and people’s identities were re-registered and restored. Families could return to shopping for groceries with a debit card; they could withdraw money from a bank; mortgages could be authorized and people could apply for cell phones without the Credit Bureau asking for validation.

Men and women were returned their homes after being accused of credit fraud; businesses were returned licenses that were lost due to someone stealing their financial information and using it to make authorized purchases. Sanity was restored to the corporate and personal lives of everyone.

To the outside world, lives were returned to business as usual. Humans, however, are opportunists. It was safe to say that during the chaos caused by the attacks between 2021 and 2025, that a lot of otherwise innocent people may have committed crimes they would otherwise not have considered. The opportunity and temptation was just too much.

Bank ATM’s could be accessed without pin #; security systems were offline; security and door systems went haywire. The attack was from all fronts – cyberspace, intranets and even internally. People on the inside were a part of the attack. It was orchestrated by a group that was never identified, and never brought to justice. They claimed to be “liberating the world from technology and limitations.”

Anne _____ had no patience for anarchy and paranoia. She would not be destroyed and would not see everything that America and the rest of the world had worked so hard to create. She would not watch the entire world dissolve in to chaos brought about by computers and technology revolting and destroying everyone’s information. She had been the hero of Generation-Theft.

That was years ago, now. After Futuregraph © secured its place in the business world, Anne began to relax. She still guarded her patented technology for the Futuregraph Identity chips, but she shifted the Corporation’s focus to more mundane technology: the eventual development of the Futuregraph © itself.

Anne had often fielded questions about the namesake of her company. Before the development of the Futuregraph itself, Anne had always responded that it was a word that gave her hope. She liked the progressive nature and nonsensical aspect of it. She had always been inspired to develop something that no one else had ever created. When her company developed the Identity software that restored the world, everyone believed that her company would stop there. That they had already invented the “next big thing,” but Anne was not satisfied.

The name, Futuregraph, still stuck in the back of her mind. Forty years ago, when Anne received the technology that suspended her aging, she also made what the tabloids called another “miraculous” discovery. They had no idea just how true that statement really was.

Futuregraphs © were introduced and, because of their contributions to society, society always trusted them. They became the newest rage; like the smart phone technology explosion of the early 2000’s to the development of the pod vehicles from 2020 – within the first ten years, everyone had a Futuregraph © in their home.

Like cellular phones and expensive cars, the Futuregraph became the iconic symbol for wealth and standing. A-list movie stars, millionaires, artists and authors all spent fortunes on ordering a “custom” Futuregraphs ©. The predictive photographs took up entire building walls, to murals inside their homes, to even small personal pieces to be carried with them at all times.

The Futuregraph, unlike expensive cars, were affordable. Even the poorest family on welfare could eventually save up their government assistance and buy one. Families saved up for Christmas gifts and collected them as a sign of financial wellbeing. Anne herself reviewed every custom order and swore her team of scientists and workers to secrecy. The loyalty between Anne and her closest employees was infallible.

Anne sat rigidly not because she was tense. Anne was never tense. She sat stiffly in her luxury office chair because she was physically unable to move. Sheer willpower forced her hand to her upper desk drawer. Her jaw was clenched from the pain and effort of even the simple gesture. She fumbled open the drawer, thankful she had the sense to keep it unlocked, and found what she was desperate for.

A syringe sat loaded with opaque blue liquid. In the morning light of her office, the glow of the liquid was subdued. She hoped she could reach her left shoulder. She paused to take a breath and blink sweat from her eyes. Just a moment longer and you’ll be just fine.

#

“You.. have no idea what you’ve done. It isn’t safe.. you’ll need..” She coughed, gasping for breath. “Formula.” She coughed, more violent this time, and sent blood spattering in to the air.

“Oh, Miss Anne. You underestimate me.”

#

She slowly lifted the syringe to her mouth and removed the cap with her teeth. She spat it unceremoniously on her desk. Her hand shook with the effort of moving the exposed needle over her chest to drag along the skin of her left arm. When she was certain she found a good location, she pressed the needle through her skin and injected the contents of the syringe.

Within seconds she knew that mobility would return to her stiff limbs. Anne was the very first person to receive the age-suspending chemical treatment – off the company records, of course. Her first batch of serums had minor miscalculations and were never released to the public. She had an unstable treatment which still worked – it just required regular doses to keep her body functioning properly.

Not one to ever admit defeat, she eventually perfected the formula and a stable product was released. However, all attempts to use the new formula on herself ended poorly with unglamorous results. So, she kept taking her self-prescribed medication and lived life as though she had the correct treatment. The world never knew otherwise.

Anne waited patiently. She turned her attention to the collector’s digital clock on her organized desk. She watched one minute then two and felt her muscles begin to relax. She did not like how long this serum took – if it happened during a Press Meeting then her cover would be blown. She scrawled a note to herself to recalculate and double check her serum supply. She stretched out her fingers, moving each one in turn to check their mobility. She was not pleased with the sluggish results.

#

Anne turned her attention from herself to the task at hand. Her digital clock chimed 11AM. She closed her eyes to remember what meeting she had coming up next. Her internal datapad beat her to it and delicate text streamed across her vision: Meeting with Kitsune, 11AM 11/01/2048. She nodded to herself and discarded the empty syringe in a waste bin next to her desk. The bin beeped in acknowledgement and the metal lid snapped closed. The syringe and contents were disposed of in the highly pressurized container. She knew all that would remain would be a dark smoke and that, too, would eventually dissipate.

She began to stand from her desk when a quiet knock came outside her door. She didn’t have to look at the door to know who would be standing there.

“Ohayō gozaimasu,” Anne responded, knowing her assistant would use the invitation to unlock her office door. A tall and slender woman opened and closed the door behind her, wordlessly. She did not acknowledge Anne’s attempt to be polite. Anne’s pronunciation of Japanese was terrible, even after years of practice with her personal assistant. Eventually, the two had given up, and Anne only used it as a courtesy.

Both women understood the simple communication barriers could have been defeated with the use of Translation Software on a datapad, but Anne insisted they try and communicate without it. Five years, and the C.E.O. of Futuregraph © had finally thrown in the towel. It was a small victory for the young Japanese woman, who was fluent in multiple languages without the use of a Datapad, but perhaps not always the best teacher.

“Good morning, Miss Anne,” Kitsune responded with perfect English. Anne bowed her head slightly to her assistant and pressed the “alarm” button on her digital clock to cease its buzzing. She leaned against the front of her desk, taking the opportunity to stretch her legs and arms. Kitsune stood waiting by the door, hands crossed over her portable datapad. Her hair was fire-red today. Last week, it had been orange. Anne arched an eyebrow but knew she couldn’t criticize. How could she reprimand her staff for using Futuregraph © bio-technology? She just wished the woman would choose more subdued colors.

“Remind me what our meeting is about, Kitsune..?” Anne moved her neck in a slow circular motion, listening to the slight ‘pop’ of joints. She still felt stiff.

“Of course. You wanted to review the year’s archive of… distasteful correspondence… before we had the labs incinerate it.”

Anne laughed and pushed herself from leaning against her desk.

“I remember now why I didn’t put a memo in my datapad. I’m not looking forward to it.” She moved towards the door.

“I took the liberty of setting aside some of the more… questionable packages for you.” Anne nodded and exited the door that Kitsune held open for her.

It was going to be a long, long Friday.

#

Anne started to feel her age after a few hours of hunching over. Her vision blurred slightly – out of boredom, or being tired – and she blinked a few times to clear them. By the mass amounts of printed-emails, data-disks, old fashioned letters and datapads that were moving in front of her, she figured she was second in “hate mail” only to P.E.T.A.

And when her products ever approached animal testing, she knew those numbers were even higher. She was looking at eleven months of complaints, death threats and even the occasional, misguided love letter. It was a very small percentage of her actual clients; these files represented 0.05 percent of her actual client base, the last time Kitsune calculated. Still, as slow and meticulous as the task was, it was one that Anne herself had scheduled every year.

Kitsune had set aside three banker boxes, locked and sealed, for Anne to look at later. The past few hours had been spent sifting through files and letters, allowing the business owner to soak in and determine if any of the correspondence was worth responding to. She had pages stacked like manuscripts that were transcripts from the company’s Social Networking site and backlogged email. She turned her attention back to the small pile she had made herself and the three boxes sitting in the corner.

“What time is it, Kitsune?” Her voice was tired. Her assistant blinked, refreshing her internal datapad, and responded.

“3:15. You’ve sorted through most of it. Take the three boxes, and the pile you made, and call it a day. Besides, you still haven’t eaten lunch.” Anne nodded against her better judgment.

“Have someone send them to my pod. I’ll swing through cafeteria and then head home. Thank you for your help, Kitsune.” The woman gave only a small smile and typed commands on her datapad. Her assistant would be sure to have the boxes ready and in Anne’s pod well before she finished lunch.

Anne took the small pile she had made and put them in her suitcase. The “old fashioned” letter on top was her main concern. She wasn’t surprised that Kitsune hadn’t set it aside; her assistant was nearly oblivious to the dangers of “non traditional correspondence.” The data-disks, datapads, even the emails could be forged – but Anne had a personal connection with letters, and the sender knew it. That is to say, Anne’s entire generation had been knocked down to such traditional correspondence, and trusted it more than any other form of communication. The letter sent chills along her skin. She kept it close and on top of the stack. She’d be sure to read that one first when she got home.

#

“..she’s tanking, man.”

“Could you use a medical term, perhaps?”

A pause. The voices sounded distant.

“She’s lost too much blood. Close her up, now, or we’re going to lose her. And if we lose her, that means we’re all dead, man.” The voices faded away.

_____ felt a sharp pain in her chest and a distinct tugging sensation. She couldn’t speak or move. She could only hear, and feel pain.

“Hey, hey, what’s she doing? Did you dope her? Look at her, her fuckin’ fingers are moving!” She heard the sound of metal scraping on metal. She felt pressure on her wrist but was still unable to open her eyes.

“Calm down. Yes, I doped her. Again.” Then, much softer, “…imbecile.” The pain in her chest disappeared and was replaced by a warm feeling. The voices did not return. If she had been conscious before, she knew she was falling asleep now.

#

The ride from the Futuregraph © building to her sky rise penthouse was a blur. Anne had been distracted, and she did not like being distracted. She felt a stiffness in her jaw as her pod guided itself towards her registered parking space. With practiced care, she gave herself one last serum dose before parking her vehicle pod.

The doorman was there to greet her and assisted in carrying the three heavy banker boxes without complaint. Anne was impressed; the man appeared to be straining but he spoke no complaints. She made sure to tip him when he set the three boxes down within the confines of her penthouse. She set her suitcase down and opened it immediately. She took the small stack and set it down, face up, on her small coffee table.

The penthouse was silent and empty, as it had been for the past twenty years. Anne had visitors, and Kitsune had even stepped foot in her private quarters once or twice. Anne kept all her relationships separate, however. Her penthouse was her castle and she would not be disturbed. She turned back towards the front door. Once she was satisfied the doorman was out of sight and sound, she rearmed her personal security system. She listened for the three specific locking sounds and waited until the alarm panel read ‘Active.’

Only then did she walk to the kitchen and pour herself a large glass of wine. She paid little attention to the type or quality. Tonight, any wine would do. She didn’t want to face that pile of papers without the comfort of emotional detachment. She swirled the glass around and inhaled. The wine made her nostrils flare. She double checked the bottle and sighed. Without looking, she had picked up the oldest bottle in her penthouse collection.

Merlot from 1917; she had been saving it. She did not regret the choice, however. The flavor was enjoyable and she felt her body relaxing as she made the small walk from the kitchen to the living room. She sunk down in to her large, overly comfortable recliner. She took one more sip of the wine and noted how close the color was to blood. She taste soured in her mouth and she set the glass down. She had work to do.

She leaned forward and picked up the envelope from the top of the ominous stack. The name made her pause. It was addressed to her full legal name, whom none of her employees even had access to.

Attention: Miss Anne Sidane Tiphyrous

Futuregraph © Corporation, LLC.

Next to her coffee table was her letter opener in the shape of a sword. Before she moved to rip open the letter, she paused. She reached in to her pocket and removed her portable datapad. She tapped the screen and scanned the envelope. A message displayed on the screen: No dangerous substances detected. She set the datapad on the coffee table and opened the envelope.

Two small pieces of paper fell out and then a metal key clamored on to the table. She took another sip from her wine glass before continuing. She picked up the pieces of paper. They were small letters, pasted together on short strips of paper. They reminded her of fortunes from fortune cookies. Except, these were fortunes that would have made anyone lose their appetite.

#

In an empty apartment, _____’s pod receiver rang. It continued to ring until it went through to visual voicemail. _____’s voice came over the line. He sounded tired. His voice fell to a vacant room.

“Listen, _____. I’m sorry about what I said, I shouldn’t have gotten so upset. Your work called and said you didn’t make it on Friday or Monday. What’s going on? Did you just need some space? I’ll keep trying to call. Call me when you get this, thanks..” His voice trailed off. In the background, a dog’s whine could be heard. He cursed before he hung up the receiver.

Later that day, the receiver rang again. Voicemail picked up.

“_____, this is Detective Javid Rain from the F.E.U. [Future Events Unit] Please return my call as soon as you receive this. I have some very important information I need to discuss with you. I’ll transmit my datapad information once I’ve confirmed you’ve received my message.”

_____’s home datapad transcribed and printed both messages. They fell to a small pile near ___’s coffee table. A small stack had accumulated over the weekend.

#

“Miss Anne, I’ve cancelled your appointments for Tuesday and Wednesday, as you requested. When can we expect you back?” Kitsune’s voice, while polite, still held a tinge of unmasked irritation. Anne tried not to smile in to the phone.

“I’m sure you’ll get along just fine without me, Kitsune. Futuregraph © can nearly run itself…” she trailed off, staring out the window of her penthouse apartment. Kitsune cleared her throat.

“I’ll be in on Friday, I just haven’t felt well over the last few days. Sorry for the trouble, but thank you very much for taking care of things. No more phone calls today, please.” Kitsune took her queue and disconnected the call. Anne lingered on the phone for a moment before hanging up, making sure her assistant wasn’t going to mutter any curses in Japanese after the fact.

Anne had, in fact, been sick the past three days. The message she opened and read on Friday evening had shook the business woman to her core. So, instead of going in to work and making a mess of things, she did what she was entitled to do as the Company Owner: she took a vacation and made a few phone calls.

The very first was to her lawyer, who had spent most of Saturday explaining they had no idea who would have had access to Anne’s full legal name. They combed over paperwork, checked employee records and found nothing. The only people who would have known Anne’s full name would have been people close to her – or people close to them. Neither of those choices made Anne very comfortable.

There was a very important reason her penthouse was empty and why Anne herself had never married. Too many secrets; the less she had to share with anyone, the better. It was just safer that way.

After Anne and her lawyer had ruled out the possibilities, she dismissed him on Sunday afternoon and decided to truly take a day to herself. Kitsune had called her close to 5AM on Monday when Anne didn’t make it in to the office. She cringed when she thought about the way she had answered the phone. She made a note to apologize to Kitsune when she returned, but Anne was not accustomed to phone calls while she was still asleep.

Anne sighed and shifted in her comfortable chair again. The notes and key were still sitting on the coffee table. A cold stiffness returned to her limbs and she checked her coffee table drawer: only two serums left. Anne hadn’t been prepared to spend the last three days straight in her penthouse. She’d have to swing by the office to pick up more of her serums. She studied the small key. It looked familiar but she couldn’t quite place it.

She stood up and walked to the bathroom. A hot shower would clear her head, relax her muscles and perhaps jog her memory. She’d ask Kitsune if Anne had any safety security boxes that still required traditional keys. Anne couldn’t think of what the key belonged to and the notes that accompanied it were… less than helpful.

#

_____ opened her eyes. Lights assaulted her senses; she shut them immediately. Too bright. She tried again, slower this time. Her hearing seemed to follow her focus. Sounds became clearer. The room was dark with streams of sunlight coming in from her side. The light held no warmth as it trickled through the air and she felt chilled to the bone. Sounds were subdued but she could make out muffled voices and distant electronic beeps but actual words were still impossible to make out.

She moved her head slightly to get a better view. She was thankful her neck had moved but couldn’t remember why she thought it might not…

She looked around the room. A large mirror took up the wall across from her. Flowers – but just a few nothing that warranted a funeral – sat under the glass. The flowers looked odd, discolored. Dead.

#

Anne parked her vehicle pod in the closest space possible and kept it running. She only needed to pick up a few more serums and ask Kitsune about the key. She walked through the front double doors. They had detected her Identity chip and opened automatically.

“Good Morning, Miss Sidane.” The computerized Secretary chimed as she walked in. Anne dismissed the automated voice and headed for her personal elevator. Some companies found the productivity of a computerized Secretary to be worth the cost; sometimes, Anne found it unnerving. The Secretary who greeted her was nothing more than a projected, programmed image, designed to route traffic and assist clients.

Anne had outsourced the software and took little notice of it. It was state-of-the-art, and as such, Futuregraph © followed suit. She pressed the button for the top floor when her portable datapad range. She intercepted the call to her micro-headset.

“Ohayō gozaimasu,” she greeted Kitsune.

“Good Morning, Miss Anne. I wasn’t aware you were coming in this morning. Do I need to rebook your morning appointments today?” Kitsune would have been alerted on her datapad when Anne entered the building. Anne knew because she had also developed the tracking software for the building. She had found it on countless occasions to be beneficial to locate her staff in an instant.

“No, please. I’m just picking up a few things and then heading back out. Left the pod running. Where are you?” Anne heard muffled shuffling noises on the other line.

“I’m in the cafeteria. I’ll meet you in your office in five minutes.” A message came across Anne’s retinal screen: Call disconnected.

Four minutes later and Kitsune was knocking on Anne’s office door, nutritional shake in one hand and her portable datapad in the other.