Nobody's Watching

By Valentino Mori

It is the year 2106. Seven of the world's most elite "Executives" have escaped Earth's economic turmoil and harsh climate with a week-long vacation aboard the Polyphemos, an orbital cruiser that offers all the aristocratic luxuries of the past: fancy dress parties, cocktails and parlor games. The crew, drawn from the oppressed "Consumer" class, are on board to provide white-glove service and satisfy the Executives' every need.But someone on board has sinister plans, and soon the parlor games give way to murder and terror. Who is the mysterious killer? Why are they eliminating passengers one at a time? And do they intend to keep killing until nobody remains?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Valentino Mori
• Release date: Mar 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393251101

Valentino Mori

I've been writing fantasy and science fiction novels since the age of eleven and I have no intention of stopping. My weaknesses are black teas, compelling podcasts, and the smell of caramelized onions.

Book preview

NOBODY'S

WATCHING

by Valentino Mori

ISBN 13: 979-8621825300

Cover Design by Les Solot

All Rights Reserved.

For Colleen,

A good editor edits; a great editor patiently explains basic plumbing to the author.

Dramatis Personae

Consumers

Fuchsia Rosenberg

Cinematographic Director at Fling Studios

MunchMunch Guo

Security Technician for Panopticon Solutions

Karthik Chakrabarti

Majordomo employed by Project Ithaca

Lucien Michelet-Nishimura

Secretary to Halim Haddad.

In a relationship with Halim Haddad.

AquaSilk Emilio Trejo

Chef employed by Project Ithaca.

Executives

Taurus Kumalo

Former President of Namibia

Founder of Project Ithaca

Married to Nozuko Mzeki.

Nozuko Mzeki

Captain of the Polyphemos

Married to Taurus Kumalo

Halim Haddad

Prime Minister of Belgium

In a relationship with Lucien-Michelet Nishimura

Geraldine Sigil

Ambassador for the CRG

Mother of Piper Sigil

Piper Sigil

A genetically enhanced ten-year-old

Daughter of Geraldine Sigil

Azalea Cortes

Former CEO of BetterSpace

Married to Quentin Lotus.

Quentin Lotus

CEO of Panopticon Solutions.

Married to Azalea Cortes.

Prologue

Fuchsia Rosenberg was swiping listlessly through a mediocre script when AdSpawn flashed across her left eyeball: Seeking old-fashioned luxury and escape terrestrial tedium?  Take a vacation on an Ithaca Cruise!

Fuchsia scowled around the waiting room, as if one of the other prospective patients was to blame for the invasive advertisement.  Typically, the AdSpawn implant only peppered her with commercials relevant to her budget, and Ithaca Cruises were vastly beyond her price range.  Having already robbed her of privacy and sanity, AdSpawn was now taunting her for her paltry income as a studio film director.  Sure, it was just software, but Fuchsia couldn’t help feeling like AdSpawn was spiting her while it still could. After the surgery, it would never do so again.

Fuchsia Rosenberg?

The droning voice issued from the automatized nurse at the front desk.  Fuchsia scrambled to her feet, her tablet slipping from her fingers.  She scooped it up, pushed past the people huddled on the carpet, and got to the front.

Is it time? she asked the faceless automaton.  Hospitals still employed embodied AI, perhaps to give patients the semblance of human interaction, or perhaps just because old technology was cheaper; Fuchsia didn’t know. Can I go through to the surgery ward?

I’m very sorry, Ms. Rosenberg, said the automatized nurse, reducing its volume to simulate intimate whispering. Your scheduled operation has been cancelled due to insufficient funds.  Please have a nice day.

Almost immediately, advertisements scrolled across Fuchsia’s left eye: ads for medical financing, alternate health insurance companies, and bionic optical replacements.  Fuchsia clenched her eyelid shut as she tried to control her anger.

The surgery can’t be declined for lack of funds because my insurance is paying for it.  It’s been approved.  Double check your records.

The nurse bowed its head apologetically. Your insurance provider PerfectMedical does not cover cosmetic surgery.

Fuchsia’s fingers gripped the counter and AdSpawn flashed PerfectMedical’s logo into her left eye. Cut the bullshit.  You think I didn’t consult with PerfectMedical before this?  AdSpawn removal isn’t on their list of cosmetic surgeries.  Send me through and stop wasting my time.

The automatized nurse paused tactfully. At 15:12 today, PerfectMedical updated their list of cosmetic surgeries to include AdSpawn removal and have withdrawn their approval.  Our hospital therefore cannot operate on you.  Please have a nice day.

I was covered when I made this appointment, I was covered, Fuchsia hissed at the automaton. If you hadn’t kept me waiting for three hours here, this would be moot.  Maybe the hospital should foot the bill, huh?

I regret to inform you that St. Clemency Hospital is unable to—

That was fucking sarcasm—your dialogue software needs an update, huh?

I can see you’re frustrated, said the automated nurse. Would you like to speak to a human agent?  The next human agent for basic patients will be available at 18:25, but sign up as a premium patient and your agent will be available at 17:33.

But Fuchsia knew how pointless it would be to explain, even to another human, just how much she hated AdSpawn.  In elementary school, she had worn an eye patch out of protest, until AdSpawn representatives threatened legal action against her parents.  Others didn’t share her same visceral hatred for the implant.  Her mother always reminded Fuchsia that AdSpawn offset the costs of childbirth, and the implant in the newborn was both safe and painless.  Most people considered it annoying rather than loathsome.  Fuchsia had thought she would finally be free of its curse, only to be disappointed yet again.

How much would the surgery cost without PerfectMedical? she asked, dully.

Eight million, four hundred thousand, nine hundred and ninety units, reported the nurse. Please consult your AdSpawn for exciting financing options.  If you act quickly, you can get interest rates as low as twenty percent.

Forget it, muttered Fuchsia. Just return my copay and I’ll work this out with PerfectMedical.

The copay is nonrefundable, responded the nurse AI. St. Clemency Hospital appreciates your investment in the medical health of your community.

Fuchsia clenched a fist in her pocket.  A message flashed across her eyeball: Complimentary tip from your friends at AdSpawn – expressing anger with words is healthy, but damage property and you'll have to pay for it!

Disgusted, she stalked out of the waiting room, tightening her extendable scarf and shoving her tablet into the pocket of her capris.  The corridor smelled of sterile medical equipment and rosewater.  Claustrophobia rose within her, constricting Fuchsia’s breathing and making her sweat.  She reached the window at the end of the corridor and steadied herself against it, trying to calm down.

Quite the view, isn’t it?

Fuchsia started.  She hadn’t heard the man approach, despite the whirring of his bionic leg.  He was large, dark-skinned, and clad in cotton robes.  Fuchsia’s AdSpawn suggested watching three advertisements in exchange for identifying this stranger.  She blinked the suggestion away.

The view is a hellscape, said Fuchsia, gesturing at the blunt, storm-resistant architecture of Missoula.  Lightning flashed over the domed structures and flood levees, followed by the crackle of thunder. The underground walkways won't even be drained by the time I get down there.

Not taking the shuttle?

Fuchsia snorted. The hospital shuttle reserved for executives?  Great suggestion, pal, I’ll hop right on and find out what shape the Lockheeds will beat me into.

A smile spread across the stranger’s face. "You'll have to excuse me, Ms. Rosenberg, but I am an admirer of your work.  Your Whistleblower series is thrilling, especially Pit of Vipers.  What marvelous intrigue."

Fuchsia shrugged with measured carelessness. Just a little fiction, imagining a where Executives are held accountable for their actions just like us consumers.

The man’s smile widened. What a bold thing to say, Ms. Rosenberg.

Not really.  Most executives have no problem with movies that criticize them, as long as they make plenty of money for the studio.

Lightning flashed again across the man’s face. You really don’t know who I am, do you?

Should I?

His teeth gleamed and he extended his hand. Taurus Kumalo: former president of Namibia, and founder of Project Ithaca.

She stared. Project Ithaca…my AdSpawn just shat out a commercial about Ithaca Cruises.

Chalk it up to an overly optimistic algorithm, grinned the man. When I purchased your data, it must have assumed that you're about to turn a tidy profit.

And you’re the former president of Namibia?  Wait. Fuchsia eyes widened as she recalled a particular news bulletin. You’re the executive who almost died in the 2099 Fishhoek Bombings!  Your people tried to kill you.

The smile lost some of its luster and Kumalo glanced down at his bionic leg. Not my people: rioters and hired thugs.  My people are not terrorists.

Fuchsia knew she should bite her tongue in the presence of an executive, but she couldn’t quite manage it. Those crowds protesting you in the plaza until you resigned…all hired agents too?

Kumalo laughed. It’s refreshing to hear such honest thoughts from a consumer-class citizen.  No doubt your unique perspective is what makes you so talented behind the lens.

Fuchsia frowned as she refocused on the situation at hand. Why are you here, Taurus Kumalo?

He shrugged affably. There’s an executive suite in this hospital, I was testing out a few upgrades for this leg of mine.

But this isn’t the executive suite, said Fuchsia. This is the consumer wing.  Why did you purchase my data?  Why are you here, talking to me?

He turned to the window, surveying the city lights. Fuchsia Rosenberg, diagnosed bipolar at age six, underwent an abortion in 2097, and very recently failing to remove personal AdSpawn via surgery. He smiled, noticing her clenched jaw. I like to know someone before I hire them.

Then you’re wasting your time. Fuchsia stepped past Kumalo and headed for the elevator. If you want a movie, work out a deal with my studio to override my non-compete agreement.  I’m going home.

Going home without having your AdSpawn removed? asked Kumalo. Giving up so easily?

You just said you saw my records. muttered Fuchsia, jabbing the elevator call button. You know I’ve been denied.

Declined for insufficient funds, I believe, said Kumalo. Agree to my offer and you can have your surgery done in the next ten minutes.

She turned back to him, annoyed with herself for feeling tempted. Again, I signed a non-compete agreement.  You could offer me ownership of Project Ithaca and I still couldn’t film a movie for you.

Not a movie, said Kumalo, robes swishing as he approached her. Something more...analog.

Analog how?

He grinned. Do you know what Project Ithaca does?

Yeah, Fuchsia said, You take executives into orbit so they can party at the edge of space and watch us suffer down here in the shit.

That’s the idea, said Kumalo, good-naturedly. But we’re still completing our trial runs, just to make sure everything is safe for our valued clients.  I’d like your help organizing the entertainment on our final trial flight.

Entertainment?  I'm a film director, not a fucking performer.

You would join the cruise, free of charge, to make sure the action proceeds according to plan.

I have no interest in Ithaca Cruises.

"Ah, but do you have interest in eight million units and expedited AdSpawn removal surgery?

Fuchsia scrutinized the disgraced Ex-President with his perfect smile.  Fuchsia despised Project Ithaca, how it allowed Executives to escape a planet made virtually uninhabitable by corporate greed.  But Kumalo was correct: Fuchsia was desperate to be free of AdSpawn.  Principles only took you so far.

Fine, she said. What exactly do you want me to do?

Kumalo’s smile grew even wider.

Chapter 1 - Sunday, 14:22

Sergeant MunchMunch Guo emerged from her rideshare outside of Düsseldorf Shuttleport, paused for two security Lockheeds to confirm her identity, then entered the hall.  Cargo automatons transported fuel cells, compact satellites, and personal luggage, while more Lockheeds scanned the area, in the unlikely event of sabotage.  After watching the robotic activity for a minute, Guo proceeded to Gate 22.

You’re late, Sergeant Guo, said Karthik Chakrabarti, the majordomo for the Polyphemos.  He was tapping away at his tablet and dabbing sweat off his forehead.

Nice to meet you too, Mr. Chakrabarti, yawned Guo. I finally get to put a face to all those frantic messages.

Chakrabarti’s second chin wobbling with irritation. It’s 14:28 and I told you to be here at 14:00 sharp.  I’m not authorized to do the security checks.  Those must be done by you.  If we’re not ready when Mr. Kumalo’s party arrives—

Oh, we will be. Guo opened her own tablet and scanned the report on Ithaca Shuttle 09. Not expecting too many attacks in orbit on a bunch of executives reenacting twentieth century deprivation.

Sergeant… warned Chakrabarti, glancing toward the surveillance nodes all around the hall, monitoring their every word and action.  Recorded actions and words could easily be used against a consumer, but Guo wasn’t saying anything her AdSpawn hadn’t logged before and didn’t care if the majordomo got nervous.

So, Project Ithaca is really just a nostalgia fetish? she mused. I guess it’s working.  Clearly executives are investing if Project Ithaca has five functioning cruisers.  Why not just modernize the ships and have automatons do the work, rather than paying chumps like us?  They must get a thrill out of making you serve drinks and shine their shoes.

A muscle twitched in Chakrabarti’s neck. I see no point in such speculation.  My only objective is to make the guests feel comfortable during their stay.

What a tedious little man you are. Guo scrolled through the checklist on her tablet. Did you vet the autopilot for malware?  You have clearance to run that program.

Yes, it’s clean, said Chakrabarti.  There were sweat patches on his white uniform, and he kept twisting his fingers in his curly hair. Perform the exterior inspection while I check the fuel cells.

Exterior inspection? demanded Guo. In this weather?  Come on, man.  You wouldn’t do that to me.

Sergeant Guo, call me Mr. Chakrabarti or majordomo while on duty, said Chakrabarti. After all, you report to me.

Oh please, said Guo, rolling her eyes. We're both consumers, do we really have to pretend if there aren't any executives around?

It's not about pretense.  A certain formality must be observed now that you work for Project Ithaca.  Go inspect the shuttle before Mr. Kumalo’s party arrives.

She heaved a sigh, unfurled her poncho, and headed through Gate 22, and out into the rain.

The majordomo was wrong.  She did not report directly to Chakrabarti, but rather to Panopticon Solutions, the security agency hired by Project Ithaca.  Guo had joined Panopticon Solutions two years ago anticipating excitement; surely crime prevention would offer a challenge, maybe even danger.  She had been mistaken.  Despite the title of sergeant, she was a technician, maintaining the security AI and more insultingly, maintaining the AI that maintained the security AI.  It was tedious work that paid abysmally, but at least she wasn’t working in the Turbines.