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: 9780463952955

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

Prologue

Fuchsia Rosenberg sat in the waiting room, reviewing a mediocre screenplay on her tablet, when AdSpawn flashed a message across her left eyeball: Seeking old-fashioned luxury and extraordinary vistas?  Take a vacation on an Ithaca Cruise! 

What is this shit? demanded Fuchsia, hoping one of the thirty other prospective patients would react and look in her direction, but no one did.  It was bad enough that the AdSpawn implant peppered her with commercials relevant to the lifestyle of a film director, but orbital cruises like those of Project Ithaca were vastly beyond her price range.  It was as if AdSpawn, already robbing her of her privacy and her sanity, was finding new ways to antagonize her.  All the more reason to get the damn thing removed surgically––expensive, but worth it.

Fuchsia Rosenberg?

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

Everything all right? she asked the faceless automaton.  Hospitals were one of the last places still using embodied AI, perhaps to give patients the semblance of a human touch––or perhaps just because old technology was cheaper; Fuchsia didn’t know. The surgery better not be delayed again.

I’m very sorry to tell you this, Ms. Rosenberg, said the automatized nurse, bowing its featureless head and reducing its volume to simulate intimate whispering. Unfortunately, your optical surgery has been cancelled due to insufficient funds.  Please have a nice day.

Almost immediately, a series of advertisements scrolled across Fuchsia’s left eye––ads for medical financing options, for alternate health insurance companies, for bionic optical replacements.  Fuchsia clenched her eyelid shut to block out the unwanted stimuli as she tried to control her anger.

"What do you mean, declined?  The surgery was approved hours ago and I’ve already paid the copay.  I've been waiting since lunchtime.  I have insurance."

The nurse gave a small, sad shake of its head. Your insurance provider PerfectMedical does not cover cosmetic surgery.

Fuchsia’s fingers gripped the counter with a trembling rage.  PerfectMedical’s logo flashed up on her left eye, reiterating what the AI had already said. I’m trying to get this AdSpawn bullshit out of my eye socket.  There’s nothing cosmetic about that, and guess what?  PerfectMedical agrees.  I confirmed with them weeks ago.  It’s expensive, but it’s not on their list of cosmetic surgeries.

The automatized nurse paused tactfully. That was true until 15:12 today, at which time PerfectMedical updated their list of cosmetic surgeries to include AdSpawn removal, and since they will not cover the surgery, our hospital cannot operate on you.  Please have a nice day.

When I made this appointment, I was covered, Fuchsia hissed at the automaton. I didn’t wait three hours for this fuckery.

If your insurance provider does not cover cosmetic surgery––

It’s not cosmetic, snapped Fuchsia. It's a question of goddamn privacy.  I don't want everything I see and hear filtered into goddamn commercials or sold off.  Maybe these people don't care–– she jabbed her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the other patients, ––but I do.  Got it?

I can see you’re frustrated, said the automated nurse. Would you like to speak to a human representative?  All of our human representatives are busy at the moment, but I can schedule you to speak with one at 18:25.  Would that be acceptable?

Fuchsia pinched the bridge of her nose.  It was pointless to explain, either to an AI or 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 have the same visceral hatred for AdSpawn.  Her mother always reminded Fuchsia that it offset the costs of childbirth, and the implant in the newborn was both safe and painless.  Most people just found it annoying rather than loathsome.  Fuchsia had finally thought she would be free of it, but of course, she had been wrong.

How much would the surgery cost without PerfectMedical?

Eight million, four hundred thousand, nine hundred and ninety units, said the nurse promptly. If you don’t have that much on hand, consult your AdSpawn for some 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 later.

I’m so sorry, said the nurse AI. The copay is nonrefundable.  We appreciate 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 outside smelled of sterile medical equipment and rosewater.  Her claustrophobia rose within her, constricting her breathing, making her sweat.  She reached the window at the end of the corridor and steadied herself against it, trying to calm down.

It’s quite the view, isn’t it?

Fuchsia started.  She hadn’t heard the man approaching her, despite the subtle whirring of his bionic leg.  He was a large man, dark-skinned and clean-shaven, clad in stylish 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. I bet the underground walkways still won't be drained by the time I get down there.

Not taking the shuttle, then?

Do I look like an Executive to you? asked Fuchsia. Keep moving or have the decency to shut the fuck up, thanks.

A smile spread across the stranger’s face––the easy, effortless smile of a politician or a communications director. "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."

Glad to hear you enjoyed it, said Fuchsia, grudgingly. I like offering my audiences a fictional world 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.

Fuchsia shrugged. The irony is that 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 some commercial into my eyeball about Ithaca Cruises.

Chalk it up to the overly optimistic predictive software behind AdSpawn, grinned the man. When I purchased your data, it must have assumed, rightly or wrongly, that you're about to turn a tidy profit.

She didn't react to that.  She was still trying to remember where she had heard the name Taurus Kumalo before.  Then her 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, didn’t they?

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. You sure are a feisty one.

Don’t call me feisty, asshole.

Very well, I take it back, he said. The last thing I want to come across as to a Consumer-class citizen is condescending.

Fuchsia loathed all Executives, but Taurus Kumalo was enjoyably loathsome, and all the more dangerous because of it. Why are you here? she asked, slowly.

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 now trying and failing to remove your AdSpawn via surgery. He smiled, noticing her clenched jaw. I like to know someone before I hire them.

You’re wasting your time, said Fuchsia, stepping past Kumalo and heading for the elevator. If you want me to make you a movie, you’ll have to work out a deal with my studio to override my non-compete agreement.  I’m going home.

Are you really going to go home before having your AdSpawn removed? asked Kumalo.

Did you miss the part in my records where my surgery got declined? muttered Fuchsia, jabbing the elevator call button.

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 wouldn’t be able to 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 on your cruisers so they can party at the edge of space and watch the rest of us 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.

What entertainment?  I'm a film director, not a fucking comedian.

We'll discuss details after you've accepted.  Basically, you would join the cruise, free of charge, to make sure the entertainment proceeds according to plan.

I don't give a shit about an Ithaca cruise, said Fuchsia.

I know, said Kumalo. But I also know how much you hate that AdSpawn in your eye, and that you don't have the eight million units to extract it.  It's really up to you.

Fuchsia scrutinized the disgraced Ex-President with his perfect smile.  Project Ithaca was the kind of company Fuchsia despised most.  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 in this world.

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 in front of the two security Lockheeds while they confirmed her identity, then entered the hall.  Cargo automatons nimbly transported fuel cells, compact satellites, and 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.

It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Mr. Chakrabarti, said Guo, leaning against the wall. Nice to put a face to the frantic messages.

Chakrabarti sniffed, his 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––

We will be, sighed Guo, opening her own tablet and scanning the report on Ithaca Shuttle 09. I still don’t understand why a bunch of Executives want to spend their time in an orbital cruise pretending it’s the twentieth century.

Sergeant… warned Chakrabarti, glancing toward the surveillance nodes spaced all around the hall, monitoring their every word and action.  Such surveillance was global for Consumers, be it external or via an individual’s AdSpawn.  Recorded actions and words could easily be used against a Consumer, but Guo wasn’t saying anything she hadn’t said before and didn’t care if the Majordomo got nervous.

Is Project Ithaca a nostalgia fetish? she mused. Clearly Executives are investing in this company 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?  Maybe they just get a thrill out of making you serve drinks yourself, while you bow and scrape and shine their shoes.

A muscle twitched in Chakrabarti’s neck. If that is so, so be it.  My only objective is to make the guests feel comfortable during their stay.

What a tedious little man you are, said Guo, scrolling through the checklist on her tablet. Did you vet the autopilot for malware?  You should have clearance to do that.

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 and I will 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.

She did not report directly to Majordomo Chakrabarti.  She reported to Panopticon Solutions, the security agency hired by Project Ithaca.  Guo had joined Panopticon Solutions two years ago anticipating some sort of excitement; surely the realm of crime prevention would offer a challenge, maybe even danger.  She had been mistaken.  Despite the title of sergeant, she was a technician, tasked with maintaining the security AI and even 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.

Guo climbed the metal staircase, holding on to the railing as the howling wind nearly knocked her off.  Hail hammered down and she turned her face away, waiting for it to pass.  Then she resumed climbing, reaching the shuttle in its launch pad. It was the size of a subway car––sleek and pale blue.  There were no scratches on the surface, no signs of tampering.  Nothing worthy of inspection––as if an anarchist capable of bypassing the Lockheeds would bother messing with an orbital shuttle anyway.

Everything looked to be in order.

Chapter 2 - 14:41

Karthik Chakrabarti had just finished the cargo inventory when Taurus Kumalo and his wife, Nozuko Mzeki, arrived.

Ah, Majordomo Chakrabarti, you’re looking well, said the Ex-President of Namibia, giving him a jovial slap on the shoulder.

Chakrabarti did not dare contradict an Executive, especially an Executive who